#this is more like a shitty written fic than a prompt

[merlinpotterandtherandom]

Morgana knows that it's dangerous, but she thinks that it's worth it, since it's more dangerous to keep this with her. She knows she has enough power, since she's the last High Priestess of the Old Religion, and the only person more powerful than her is Emrys. Or so her sister, Morgause, says.

Morgana starts the ritual, she isn't sure if it's going to work, but it's the best solution. She needs to protect this at all costs, even if it means she has to send it to the future. A baby starts to cry, she kisses his forehead and says "My sweet Hadrian, I hope I'll be able to join you in the future soon, but if not, I hope that someone will take good care of you, son. Mommy loves you, baby. Good luck". Now, she isn't happy about that, but she'll be damned if she lets Morgause or Cenred be around her baby. Her baby that Cenred and Morgause insisted that she should be the one to carry for Cenred. Morgause hated the idea of being pregnant and Cenred needed a heir and he wanted a magical one, so with Morgana there it was a win-win situation for Cenred and Morgause. Morgana accepted this with the condition that she would help raise the baby, no matter what.

Harry is not having a good summer, at all. 1- He can't send his boyfriend any letters 'cause it would be suspicious for both of them to be recieving letters and notes every hour 'cause they're that kind of couple that can talk about everything and anything to each other, thus they would be sending owls like crazy, so they decided it was for the best if they didn't write to each other. 2- His friends are not even bothering on replying his letters and when they do, the letters are more like notes than letters. 3- It's his 15th birthday and he just recieved a letter from his dead mother as a gift, the joy! 4- The letter explains how she isn't his mother, at least not biologically and says he should go to Gringotts to make an inheritance test to see who his biological parents are.

Harry manages to sneak out to go to Gringotts, there he talks to a Goblin and asks for an inheritance test. The Goblin takes him to a private office and asks for 3 drops of blood. Harry does that and when the results are shown, he drops the parchment in shock. The parchment reads:

Name: Hadrian Cenred Morgan Essetir Pendragon Alias: Harry James Potter, Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived Blood status: Half-blood Mother: Morgana Pendragon Father: King Cenred of Essetir Adoptive mother: Lily Jasmine Potter née Evans Adoptive father: James Fleamont Potter Birthday: 31 July 1405 (Quick note: Merlin is set sometime in the middle age-medieval times, so loosely 500-1500, I just chose a random year between these and put here, if you'd like to write a fic based on that, then you can change it, no problem.) Harry just stopped reading, he didn't want to know the other surprises this test might reveal. If he was originally born in 1405, how the fuck he got to 1980? He knows time travel is a thing, but that far? Harry doesn't think it's possible. He decides he wants to take a look around the Pendragon vault, maybe his biological mother left something to help him out there? So the Goblin takes him there and he finds a diary there, Harry picks it up and takes it to the Dursleys with him. He starts reading it. Harry at least now knows that he was sent to the future using a ritual, and that his mother had all the intention to join him. Harry is still trying to process that he isn't really James and Lily's son and that his biological mother is some historical figure that they learn about in the History of Magic class. After reading Morga- his mother's, diary, he finds out that she used the ritual to send Harry forward in time, 'cause she thought it would be the best place to hide him from his own father and from his aunt, since, by what Harry read, they would only use him for his powers or something like that.

So the Order chooses to come and pick Harry up when he's having an existential crisis. Typical. As soon Harry sees Sirius and Remus he asks them "Did you guys know?", not minding that they have a few members of the Order there with them, he just wants answers and the fact that Sirius and Remus just can't look at Harry...Well, it says a lot. So Harry asks "Why you didn't tell me? Why did you have to let me find out about it through a letter that she left me?". The rest of the Order is really confused on what Harry is talking about, but the entertainment is so good that they don't want to risk interrupting it to ask what the fuck is going on. When Sirius and Remus don't answer, Harry just sighs and says "Fine, when you're ready to be adults and talk to me about it, I suppose you know where to find me." and leaves to his room, that he's apparently sharing with Ron. Harry ignores Hermione, Ron and Ginny following him and asking what he was talking about; Harry doesn't think he's ready to talk to them about it. But he wants to talk to his boyfriend, though, so he sends a note to said boyfriend.

Harry doesn't use Hedwig to send the note, obviously, he sneaks out and uses an Owl Post. He doesn't have to wait much for an answer, though. And after a bit of conversation, they agreed to meet the next day, so Harry went to sleep with a smile on his face, knowing he would see his boyfriend the next day.

Harry finally manages to escape the Weasleys and Hermione and goes to meet his boyfriend. Harry smiled when he saw his boyfriend, and even though said boyfriend had a glamour on, Harry could recognize Draco anywhere. They go to Muggle London and find a adorable Cafe, they find a table and after they order something to drink, they start talking and Harry shows Draco the letter + the test, Draco is worried with something that he read in the test and asks Harry "Did you read the entire test?" to which Harry replies "No, I didn't want to have any more surprises, you know?" and Draco nods but says "You should take a look on where says potions, blocks and glamours...It seems like you have a few on you and also you seem to have something called Horcrux in your scar, you should definitely go back to Gringotts and ask for a cleaning ritual or something. You should go right after we finish here, love. I'm honestly worried with how many things you have on you." Harry gently takes his test back from Draco and sees that Draco is right. So they finish their drinks and Harry pays, 'cause he's more used to Muggle money than Draco, and Harry goes to Gringotts.

After Harry removes everything, including the Horcrux, he writes a quick note to let Draco know that he removed everything and is fine. Harry found out what was a Horcrux and that the one he had was just a small part, so Voldemort made more than one. He asks the Goblins if they can track the other ones, which they can, so Harry pays them to do it and destroy them in Harry's name and keep Harry updated, of course. So Harry goes back to Grimmald Place. No one noticed he left the house, 'cause he pretended to lock himself in the room they have Buckbeak in, so everyone just thought Harry was just being moody.

The Goblins did an amazing job and destroyed all of the Horcruxes, so Harry knows that the next time he faces Voldy, he can kill the old snake face for good. So Harry starts training. He reads every book that he can put his hands on of the Grimmald library and sneaks out to buy some more and even asks Draco for a few books that he can send from the Malfoy library that anyone would miss for a few days, which Draco gladly sends his boyfriend. Harry also goes to his vaults to see if there's any books that can be useful there. Sirius and Remus are confused at first when Harry asks them to teach him how to duel, but when Harry explains his logic, Sirius and Remus agree and start teaching Harry how to duel and even show him some spells they create that are supposed to be for pranks, but work really well in a duel as well. Harry works really hard 'cause he knows he has only a few weeks and he pretends to start his 5th year being at least decent on dueling and knowing a bunch of new spells.

5h year begins and Harry finds the Room of Requirement in the first week back and keeps on practicing, with Draco's help, since Draco had dueling classes since he was a kid. Harry finally feels like he's good enough to defeat Voldemort when he has an encounter with the snake face this year.

Harry & Co go to the Ministry 'cause Harry finally figured out that the weapon Voldy is looking for is really a prophecy, so he's curious to know what it says. They go right after they finish their OWLs. Of course it wasn't that simple, of course Moldyvoldy would have his Death Eaters there. Everyone has their shot with a Death Eater. After that Voldemort finally showed up and when Dumbledore + the Ministry employees + the Minister showed up, Harry stopped playing around with Vody and finally managed to defeat him. Now Voldemort is forever defeated. Of course, there's still Death Eaters around and of course Harry & Co still have to deal with the Ministry, but let's do one thing at the time.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles pop-up Spring challenge.

Sprung

Prompt: Spring | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: None | Tags: Future Fic, Established Relationship, Struggling to Make Ends Meet, Light Angst, Sacrifice, Love, Making a Life Together

"Steve, please," Eddie says, and Steve stills.

"I thought you were asleep?" Steve whispers in the dark, and Eddie's not sure why Steve's trying to be quiet at this point. They're both awake now. Steve's made sure of that.

"I was," Eddie huffs out, annoyed, because he had been. But Steve's constant flopping around has ruined that. Steve's become the world's shittest sleeper lately, and that's not exactly ideal in a bed partner.

"Sorry," Steve says, stilling, "I'll try to stop moving around."

Eddie just mutters something that he hopes passes as a thanks, and rolls back over. He has to get up at six, and he fucking needs his four hours. That's not too much to ask for, goddamnit. 

Steve's still for a few minutes, but then rolls over in his sleep, again, and the whole bed shifts and shakes. Again. Eddie's had enough, and snags his pillow off the bed, padding down the hallway to crash on the couch. He's exhausted. He can't do this tonight. He can't.

He still wakes up tired, because it was too cold in the living room. Their shitty radiators either don't work, or boil you. No middle ground. Fucking shithole. But it's the best they can do for now, since they're barely keeping their heads above water, as is. Working just to live. It's been hard. Harder than Eddie expected, and he grew up with fucking hard. 

He'd hoped they'd be past that now, hoped he'd finally catch a goddamn break.

Of course not.

It's the Munson curse. 

And now Eddie's in a bad mood, even as Steve's pouring coffee into Wayne's old thermos for him, packing Eddie's metal lunchbox, to keep him going on the jobsite all day. 

"Thanks," Eddie says, taking it, and Steve just nods silently, clearly aware Eddie's in a mood this morning.

Eddie worries they're circling the drain, from circumstances alone. It's not a love problem, it's a life problem, and that makes it worse.

And before long, Eddie realizes he broke the seal, having introduced a new wedge between them. Now that the couch is in play, they aren't even sleeping in the same bed most nights anymore. Steve will go, or he will, and now they're sleeping apart more nights a week than they sleep together. Maybe they're getting more rest, but they're also growing even further apart. 

Today, Eddie's coffee and lunch are on the counter, but Steve's already in the shower, and their ten minutes together in the morning are gone.

Just like that.

Eddie grabs his work boots from the closet, flopping down on Steve's side of the bed to put them on, and he's suddenly assaulted, poked right in the ass by whatever Steve's left laying on the mattress. 

Standing up, he's sliding his hand over the bed in the dark to see what the fuck he sat on. Nothing. He yanks the sheets back, and there's still nothing, so he strips it further.

It's a spring. 

And it's threatening to fully poke through, probably right where Steve's back rests. Goddammit. No wonder Steve can't fucking hold still at night. He's being tortured, Eddie thinks, as he presses his hand against the spring, feeling it bite into his hand. 

A rogue mattress spring.

That's what's divided them, broke them down. 

Eddie sits back down, lets the spring dig into his ass, and holds his head in hands. He's not gonna cry. He doesn't have time. He has to go to work. But goddamn this. 

He's still sitting there when Steve comes in and is rifling through the closet, "You okay?"

"No," Eddie says.

Steve walks over and puts the back of his hand on Eddie's forehead and Eddie laughs, wetly. 

"You don't feel hot," Steve declares. 

"No, I don't," Eddie mutters, because damn, he fucking doesn't feel hot at all. He feels broken down and worn out. 

He reaches up and catches Steve's hand, bringing it to his mouth, kissing it. 

"I'm sorry about the mattress. I didn't know," Eddie says, looking up at him.

"It's okay, I'm used to it," Steve says, and he rubs his fingers against the top of Eddie's head.

"You shouldn't have to be," Eddie says, dejected. 

Steve Harrington chose him, loves him, and Eddie can't even give him a bed to sleep on that isn't trying to pierce his spleen every night.

They can't afford a new one, not right now, and Eddie hates that he can't fix this. 

"We'll flip it," Eddie offers.

"Then it'll have the crater on your side again," Steve says with a laugh. And yeah, Eddie'd forgotten they flipped it last year, after his side started breaking down. Sucking him inward, like a gate into the Upside Down.

That doesn't matter.

"Well, that's gotta be better than this," Eddie admits, bouncing a little. Anything would be better than this torture device.

Steve kneels between Eddie's open thighs, "It's okay, Eddie."

It's not. 

"I'm sorry I was being a jerk. I didn't know," Eddie says.

"I know you didn't," Steve answers, "I didn't want you to worry."

Eddie brushes Steve's hair off his forehead, "I'm still sorry. I love you. You know that, right?"

Steve grins, and it's blinding, "Always. Work now, worry about the mattress later."

Eddie nods, smiles, and when Steve moves from between his knees, Eddie leans over and laces up his boots. Ready to start another day.

That evening, when Eddie pulls into the driveway, Wayne's truck is parked behind Steve's car. Eddie hadn't realized Wayne was coming, and grins. This day just got way better.

Eddie plows into the house, and finds Steve in the bedroom, a pair of needle nose pliers dug into a small hole they've cut in the mattress, trying to bend the spring back into its original position. Wayne's standing there, talking Steve through the temporary fix, until they can afford something better.

It's gonna be okay, Eddie realizes. They're just a little bent out of shape right now. A little sprung. 

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

[heiayen]

gently wipe the sorrow off my life, i dream scaramouche x gn!reader

summary: "you didn’t know what happened, why it happened and that was breaking your heart, cutting it open, leaving burning pain in your chest, where once flowers of love bloomed." you're surprised and completely heartbroken when your lover, kunikuzushi, suddenly disappears without a trace. you think it's the end of the world, with your heart open and bleeding but soon you discover, that there is still happiness waiting for you.

tags: based on the prompt "there’ll be happiness after you but there was happiness because of you", scara's real name used, modern au (from highschool to college), scara basically pulls an irminsul but why? blame dottore angst/bittersweet, [name] is very much going through it </3 title name taken from the honkai star rail song "if i can stop one heart from breaking". not proofread

notes: hi. i come back with angst! written for @thexianzhoujade's personal memoires event and truthfully i kinda hate this fic HAJAHS but this is fine i am not fine blah blah blah yippee. i forgot how to write scara so sorry if this fic is kinda ooc but yeahhh have fun enjoy !! <3 as if anyone is going to enjoy angst LMAO

“Come on, it’s just one photo and besides, we barely have pictures of us…”

“...just one, fine. Get in here.”

A part of you wished you had taken more pictures with him. Pictures from dates in the blooming parks, from hangouts with your friends after school, from spending time together at his place, something to fill up the empty photo album you found hidden in your room. You filled only a few pages, with a few pictures of you and Kunikuzushi, of you taken by your friends, of your family during holidays, pictures of you and your friends, his friends, a picture of him you took when he didn’t see– the one you considered putting in your wallet, laughing how you’d look like a spouse missing their husband. 

(You counted exactly six photos of him in your album, compared to the twenty or so with others. Barely a quarter, not even a half, barely a page and a half of the album.)

You moved your fingers over one of them, the one you took after graduation– laughing with your friends, posing at the camera, tightly holding his hand, and tugging him closer, and wondered.

Did it have to end like this? If you only knew what was happening, would you somehow fix it in time?

Things were… nice, before. Being with him was nice, even if his personality sometimes made you tug at your hair in annoyance. But you found a common language and spoke in it till the very end, sharing your joy and sadness, annoyance and anger, silent tears and gentle fluttering in your chests. 

When you first met Kunikuzushi in school, you had your opinions about him– he wasn’t the nicest, wasn’t talking with many other students, and seemingly valued his time alone more than with someone. You understood it, some people simply weren’t the social butterflies but it became a problem when, by some unlucky charm (at least, you thought it was unlucky then), you ended up together to work on a project. You didn’t know him and your teacher decided to pair you by herself, saying how she wanted her students to interact more with each other. It seemed like a terrible idea at first.

(You rolled your eyes, giving a look to your friend. You really didn’t entertain this idea– to do a big project with someone other than your friend? You dealt with enough shitty groupmates leaving you on read or delivered in your life, and that was for small projects! What if you got someone as shitty as them? You shuddered at the thought alone.)

But, oh, how wrong you were. You didn’t expect to befriend that guy, and yet a few months in, Kunikuzushi became your best friend, and a year later– your lover. 

You remembered that love confession like yesterday; a little awkward, he jumbled over his words and you said something stupid in return, laughing awkwardly at yourself and almost getting up from that bench and marching back home. It was late, the bench in the park illuminated by the streetlight. A part of you was sure he planned for the confession to look different, yet whatever his ideal plan was, you wouldn’t exchange what you got for it. 

He walked you back home, you remembered, holding your hand.

To say you were happy was an understatement. Something bloomed in your chest with every day spent together with him, the little affections between you warming your heart and cheeks, and every morning seemed… a little brighter. It wasn’t wake up, get dressed, go to school, spend majority of your day studying, sleep, anymore.

Wake up, reply to Kunikuzushi’s late night message he sent. Get dressed and don’t forget about that chain necklace with a pendant he gave you for your birthday (you were matching, of course you were matching). Go to school and spend the day with your friends, with Kunikuzushi, with his friends (although you weren’t sure if that ginger guy was really his friend, but…). Spend the rest of your day studying, texting, and sometimes hanging out if you had free time (which turned into weekly hangouts with all your friends and… sometimes, more than once a week, just you and Kunikuzushi). Text him goodnight and smile at his, although short, reply back. Sleep. 

You hoped it would stay like this… for longer. For as long as possible, just living in this bliss, being happy and not alone, with people you loved and who loved you back, some even more than others.

(Selfishly, you wanted that to last forever. Forever the high school student with no worries other than passing exams and doing your homework on time. Forever with your friends, spending weekends with them, having fun and not caring about anything else. Was it selfish to want to be happy forever?)

Kunikuzushi was here with you for all your problems, even if, truthfully, he wasn’t the best at solving them, and neither he was good at words. But he was still here, offering you support and letting you talk about what annoyed you, what made you sad and sometimes, he still would try to comfort you, loudly agreeing with your complaints, (lovingly) threatening to beat someone up if they were an asshole to you, telling you to not worry. It wasn’t the end yet. 

His presence alone helped you manage through harder days– it was better to be with someone after all, rather than spend your days wallowing in sadness alone, with only the walls willing to listen. 

(You offered him help, too. Quietly sitting and listening to his rants about his mother, squeezing his hand and tugging him closer to you– or simply being next to him, when touch was something unwanted.)

When graduation came, in bittersweet tears you promised your friends (and Kunikuzushi, of course) to still be in touch with them, and never leave them alone just because you weren’t students from the same class anymore. That didn’t change anything, no.

The summer vacation you spent mostly with your friends, hanging out and enjoying the warm, summer weather. So many trips, so many walks with Kunikuzushi and dates– oh, that picnic you two went on one day… it started raining at one point (the weather reports lied to you, it seemed) and you only had a blanket to cover yourself from the rain. How funny it was, how much you wished you could get the chance to do it again, with him–

You sighed, closing the album. Sometime before the summer’s end, right before the start of college, you noticed… changes in Kunikuzushi’s behavior. He still was your lover, caring about you in his own ways, he still was the man you loved, but something seemed to always bug him. Something seemed to sit on his shoulders, heavy. You always asked him if he was okay because yes, yes, you noticed his worse mood, noticed all the little things he tried to hide and you were worried, really worried, and–

And yet, you never got a proper answer. Always to not worry, that nothing was wrong, and you were tired of that, maybe if you, at least this once, pressed him for answers, during that summer night you called a date–

Maybe you would know why he suddenly disappeared without a trace.

The many messages you sent, the many unanswered calls– you asked your friends around, his friends, and were greeted with radio silence in answer. You didn’t know what happened, why it happened and that was breaking your heart, cutting it open, leaving burning pain in your chest, where once flowers of love bloomed.

(These flowers would never truly burn, you feared. Some would still leave, polluting your heart and making it harder to breathe.)

What was once beautiful turned into a burden, far too heavy to carry alone. There was so much stress on your plate– because what if something happened to him? What if someone did something to him, what if there was something you could do to change it? Why were you so distracted throughout the day? Why was it hard to get up in the morning, why the only thing you wanted to do was to wait at your phone, with hopes of seeing at least a single message from him? Where went your motivation to study, to do well in college as you promised yourself?

Where was he? What happened? Could you change it?

Were you at fault?

(No, of course you weren’t. You did everything in your power, but it just wasn’t enough. None of this was your fault.)

Were you alone in it?

…no, you weren’t. It felt like you were, especially at first; with new people around you, your friends offering you support but ultimately being busy, you felt alone. Terribly so, loneliness gnawing at your soul all the time, leaving the icy cold feeling in its wake. 

But life forced you to get up from that pit, whether you wanted that or not. You couldn’t fail your major, not when you worked so hard to get into it in the first place. And neither you wanted to completely cut off your friends, so you started replying to their texts more. You’ve met new people, too, and made new friendships.

Things were getting back on track after, you thought that they wouldn’t. You pulled yourself up with your own strength, with your friends cheering for you from the distance, their cheers putting a smile on your face. 

(Younger you thought that if you ever were to break up with Kunikuzushi, the world would simply… end. You ignored that thought creeping into your mind, waved it away, pushed it deep at the bottom of your mind. It wouldn’t happen.)

Now, as you looked at the pictures, you still felt a sharp pang in your chest. You missed him, yes, and you still thought about the days you spent together with him, but they no longer brought you back into that darkness you once experienced.

They were a bittersweet memory now. Ones, you would cherish till the end, gently putting them on the shelf with new, happy memories. 

You hummed to yourself in thought, tapping at the cover of the album with your nail. Maybe instead of pondering how you should take more photos of the past, maybe you should take more of the future? Fill the album up with new photos of yourself, your friends, random things that you found pretty and worth remembering. 

Your phone threw you out of the thinking, the loud noise of the ringtone filling up the room. Right, you were supposed to meet up with your friends in an hour and here you were, going through your old stuff and procrastinating the shower. 

You put the album away and picked up your phone. A smile tugged at your lips hearing the overjoyed voice of your friend, telling you how excited they are to meet with you again (your last hangout was two weeks ago!) and that they already left.

You looked back at the album.

With today, you’d start filling it up with new memories of your happiness.

[mariaofdoranelle]

Lollapal-oops-a: part 1

Written for Rowaelin Month day 6 - Misunderstanding leading to disaster; @rowaelinscourt

Fic masterlist

Rowaelin Month 2024 masterlist

Hey guys!! I have three parts planned for this, all of them due this month <3

Warnings: none other than the prompt itself hehe

Words: 965

Aelin’s internship at Damaris Publishers had been a learning experience in many ways, but one she didn’t see coming is that, sometimes, you meet a scary-looking, highly muscled and tattooed IT guy, and the only bonding experience you’ll have with him is over the favorite drag queen you two have in common.

Or at least that was what got her rooted to the floor as she stared at the computer screen Rowan Whitethorn forgot to lock on his way to the break room. Five tabs open—two of some nerdy stuff she wouldn’t bother with, and three of Edna Thornie: her Vogue Get Ready With Me on YouTube, her special appearance at the Kinky Boots musical for the Doranelle tour, and another about her upcoming Lollapalooza show this weekend.

“Did he forget it again?” Fenrys asked on his way to her, palms rubbing with giddiness to prank his friend once again.

Aelin snorted. “Yep. Are we Ctrl+Alt+Arrowing him again?”

He made a show of stopping, both hands on his hips to think. “I dunno. Too basic, too predictable by now. Lemme think.”

She gave one last look at his screen—a giant picture of Edna Thornie in all her fake-titted glory, breastplate so big it could be a Z cup and unbelievably cunty go-go boots. Aelin really did love the drag queen’s artistry, but not on her office crush’s screen.

Not a crush, she had to correct herself for the first time, a few months after deciding he was too hot for his own good. Aelin had to get over it, and quick. One minute of silence to mourn the dick she’d never bounce on—because no straight man would watch Edna Thornie do her makeup routine on his own volition—then back to work.

She asked Fenrys, “Rowan, he’s a big fan of Edna Thornie, ain’t he?”

“Yep,” Fen said with a small smile. “If you look past that grumpy shell of his, you’ll find that he really loves her.”

That grumpy shell was what got her. One oat milk latte, and she wouldn’t be so confused to see a drag queen on his screen.

“And you don’t find it a little odd?” Aelin inquired while removing the batteries from his mouse. She was going to put a post-it with a winky face underneath it, a little mercy so he wouldn’t spend too long to find out why it isn’t working.

“Why would it be odd?”

“He doesn’t look the type, that’s all.” Aelin shrugged. “I never would’ve guessed.” She tried to conceal the disappointment in her face as much as possible, but it was hard to when she was one conversation away from asking him out.

Her friend unplugged one of the cables. Frowned at it. Took a moment to study Aelin’s expression, and it was a while before he said, “I think Edna’s come a long way as an artist, specially being part of a marginalized group, and I think it’s a good thing that Rowan is that supportive and proud of her.” He said with a finality that was odd for the lively man, Fenrys left no room for discussion. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes!” Aelin blurted, only now realized how shitty it was of her to comment on that. Just because she misplaced Rowan as straight, it didn’t give her the right to talk about him like that. It was no one’s business, and so out of line of her. “Yes, of course. I’m a fan too, I’m going to her show at Lollapalooza, it’s just… um. Nevermind.”

“Okay, then…” he trailed. “Now, how long do you think it’ll take for him to find out if I cover the end of this cable with tape.”

Aelin’s eyes widened, and she easily entertained him, happy to have the weird conversation over. “You evil genius!”

Fenrys grinned, and today’s prank was settled. She wondered if they would get more ruthless with Rowan now that she knew nothing romantic would happen, but Fenrys was pure evil either way, so things would hardly change.

Once the shenanigans were done, Aelin decided to refill her water bottle, only to find Rowan hunched over his half-eaten snack.

“Fancy some coffee?” he asked, then pointed at one of the two coffee cups in front of him.

She grinned. “That’s so sweet, thanks.”

No, not just grinned. Aelin had kind of melted on the spot. Chocolate hazelnut cappuccino from the overpriced cafeteria, no special occasion at all. Family aside, she wasn’t used to get this treatment from guys who didn’t want to get in her pants. Every time he was sweet and thoughtful to her, it was just about him being a good person and nothing about getting Aelin naked. What an unusual realization.

“How’s that…” Aelin squinted her eyes at his prepped lunchbox because Mala forbid Rowan eats a non-muscle-building meal like the common folk. “Kiwi?”

“Very… sweet?” He frowned at it. “Consumable? Functional. Very Thursday snack.”

Aelin tilted her head, endlessly amused by this man’s inability to eat exclusively for pleasure. “You eat fruit every Thursday? As in, a calendar?”

His eyes crinkled with a good kind of intrigue, or so it seemed. “You do know that meal planning is quite common, right? And doctors say it’s best to eat fruit everyday—not just on Thursdays.”

“That’s so very fruity of you to say!” The joke was out before her mind could filter it out.

He laughed. “Well, I do like to eat fruit.”

Aelin shook her head with a small grin. “I bet you do.”

She wanted to ask if he’d be at Edna Thornie’s show this weekend as well, since Aelin was going alone, but it’d would give away that she had just snooped into his computer—why ruin the prank this soon?

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@booksandteaonarainydayislife

@cookiemonsterwholovesbooks

@courtofjurdan

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

@dreamer-133

@elentiyawhitethorn

@elizarikaallen

@emily-gsh

@empress-ofbloodshed

@fangirlprincess09

@fauna-flora11

@goddess-aelin

@gracie-rosee

@leiawritesstories

@lululululululuop

@mis-lil-red

@nayaniasworld

@renxzs

@rowanaelinn

@s-uppertime

@sarahjswift

@staghorn-mountains

@superspiritfestival

@swankii-art-teacher

@thegreyj

@throneofus7

@violet-mermaid7

@wishfulimaginings

[kairiscorner]

hihiii pookie :DD!!

tw// mentions of depression

i'm wondering if you could maybe write a comfort fic about miles 42 with a reader who hates asking for help even when theyre clearly suffering in silence because they were taught to just 'suck it up' and deal with it alone as a kid?

you dont have to write this if you dont feel comfortable with it <33

Thank you pooks :33!!

hi pooks @jrrantss <:DD oh man, okay so i was kind of that kid back then too (though i was a big crybaby) it's like the adults around me didn't fully comprehend why i was feeling the way i was, so in response to that, they basically condemned crying at home or in front of them. i'm sorry if you went through something similar or, hopefully not, something worse ;-; i hope this provides you some comfort, and in a way, might also let you know you aren't the only one going through stuff like this. i'm here for you pookie, all the time <:)

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

you can be honest with me. – miles 42 x reader (angst + comfort)

nothing went your way this week, hell, you couldn't even remember a week in your life when anything felt right, when you didn't feel that you were holding yourself back from letting go of everything that felt wrong, awful, and just... painful. you were too good at keeping secrets, too good at lying about how you really felt; and that was something you hated about yourself, how you found lying as your first nature, not your second. you lied to people when they'd ask you if you were doing okay, if your day was going alright–you always gave them the answers they want to hear, that you were fine, that nothing was wrong.

but when everything just comes crumbling down, and the cracks in your facade begin to show and become more obvious... you get more and more defensive, more and more angry, more and more... scared and worried about these feelings that are hurling themselves at you so quickly that you can't even begin to understand why they're affecting you so badly–why people can see the bare you now if you just turn your face to look at them or open your mouth to speak; and your boyfriend was the first person to see you this way, vulnerable, yet trying all you can to avoid that vulnerability while you're crumbling down.

"hey," miles calls out to you in a soft voice as he sees your back turned to him as you kept working on your assignments, hunched over at your desk with your brows furrowed together and your lips curved into a scowl. you had been avoiding him for a few days now–at least he thinks you might be avoiding him–and have acted very distant, very... out of it recently. you didn't turn your head around to face him, which prompted him to continue talking, hopefully so you could find a reason to face him and his worried eyes. "you've, um... you've been busy lately." "uh-huh." you hummed as you tapped the end of your pencil against your desk impatiently, racking your brain for the answer to the questions written down that all seemed to blur together as the shittiness of the previous days just irritated you even more, and the worst part was... you couldn't hide the fact you can't mask ot anymore.

miles' face contorted as he got more and more worried about you, not knowing why you were acting starkly different than the usual you, or the only you he was familiar with. he extended his hand out to you as he walked over, looking at your cluttered up papers on your desk and the smudged up marks on the paper from your erasures. "...is something wr–" "everything's fine, i'm fine, i'm just peachy!" "you don't sound very convincing." he said, his voice returning to his nonchalant, cool tone as he took a small glimpse at your face before you turned away from his field of vision.

he sat in the chair next to you and wrapped his arm around you in an effort to comfort you. "cielo, sonething's up with you. are you... are you sure you don't wanna let me help?" he asked you with a soft voice, hoping he didn't overstep any boundaries as you slowly turned your head to show him a bit of your face. there were tears in your eyes, though you didn't dare let miles see them fall down your face; there was a sob stuck in your throat, but you didn't dare let miles hear it escape your lips. you had been there before, being severely troubled for more things than just homework–but never had you been advised to do anything than the age old phrases you've heard all your life as a kid: 'get over it.'

you took in a deep breath and tried to tell him what those words you've exhausted yourself from saying all the damn time–that you don't need any help, that you've got this, that you're okay... but your body's betraying you right now. it's betraying you for turning your back on your own feelings, but that... was never your fault, never. as you let out the breath you've been holding in, the hot tears came streaking down the ends of your eyes, your scowl morphing into a sad frown as you felt yourself slowly come undone and all the raging thoughts in your mind boiled down into one thought right then and there: 'fuck no, i am far from okay'.

you had one tear come down, then two, then... a whole waterfall of tears came pouring down your eyes as you finally released that sob you had been desperately keeping in. you had released it out into the air as it mingled with miles' shushing and gentle whispers as he held you while you leaned against him, wailing as you tried telling him how nothing had been right lately. you choked out in broken cries how you desperately wanted a way out of everything horrible that's been happening but you didn't want anyone else to be bothered by your 'stupid, insignificant problems'.

"i just... want to be okay... but i can't even pretend to be okay for at least one damn day." "please, stop pretending, mi vida. it's hurting me how you... how you think it's strength to rake up everything by yourself... when you clearly need help." miles said with a cracked voice as he felt himself choke up at your melancholic state. you cried even more out of guilt that you saddened miles, but he kissed your forehead, cheek–your whole face as he murmured words of reassurance, of love, to you to calm you down and comfort you. "you're not alone, not anymore... i don't care if some idiots in your life want you to deal with alone, never to bother them–you're never a bother to me, got that?" he mutters to you as he holds you close, letting you sob into his shoulder, your sobs getting louder and louder all the while. he shushes you and rubs your back gently, kissing your wet cheeks as he keeps reminding you that no matter what you're going through, what problems you're having, he's always going to be there for you–be the help you'll need, one way or another.

"please, don't be scared, mi vida... you can be honest with me. i promised to love you with all my heart, protect you, and... always be the help you'll need."

he whispered to you as he looked into your eyes and gently wiped your tears away and leaned his forehead against yours, hoping you would be more lenient, more understanding towards yourself and your own needs; and that you wouldn't hesitate to ask him for help. because even if you don't ask him to, he'll be there to help you, be there to guide you, be there to comfort you the best he can. because he loves you, and knows you deserve more than what you think you deserve, that you deserve... the best of the best, and nothing less.

tags !! @ii01vq @luvstarrstruck @maxoloqy @k4tsu3 @solecitoszn @toneystank-3000 @fiannee @popeheywardssecretgf @lovefrominaya @onginlove @meowmoraless @q2ie @zalayni @anikaluv @conitagray

[spaghettiisinmysoul]

Since you asked so nicely: D-Delicate pleasures with Poolverine. uwu

I did it I did it! I finished the fic!!!! 🤩 this is also probably gonna go on my ao3 (skettibiscuit) so go ahead and follow me on there if you like how this one is written!!! Update: IT HAS BEEN POSTED!! I have two other poolverine fics in the works cause I can’t get them out of my brain lmao

Without further ado, Delicate Pleasures, a prompt from this post! (Thank you zaynie ily)

They’d just gotten done infiltrating some Big Bad Guy’s Big Bad Hideout with his little Bad goons all running around trying to kill them. Emphasis on trying. You’d be amazed at the wonders Adamantium blades do on the bones of two hundred or so scrawny guys in matching outfits. There was even an incredibly catchy 80s ballad playing in the background (probably only in Wade’s head, but you get it,) while it happened. You really had to be there…

But now, here they are, having just barely caught their breath and taking a break before heading home to their shitty apartment. At least they’d get to see the dog again once they get there.

Once the stars start to get boring to stare at, Wade turns his head to look at his counterpart. Sitting against the wall with his eyes closed and legs spread wide the fuck open. Wade’s got the best view in the house, and he doesn’t even know if it was on purpose. But Logan looks so peaceful right now, he could very well be asleep for all he knows…

He carefully, quietly gets up. Tiptoeing crouch to get next to Logan. He looks like a baboon trying to steal treats from the bigger baboons at the zoo. It’s wild shit, he’s seen it. If they’re not quick enough the bigger one will just beat the shit out of ‘em.

…That metaphor works a little too well in this situation, doesn’t it?

He gets close enough without a scratch. Logan hasn’t even moved. Now what? He got this close. He didn’t have any plans for what comes next.

…His hair looks soft. The sweat and blood dried from the wind up here on top of this building, and it’s a little poofier than usual. He could try something very funny and very stupid.

He gets up to sit on the ledge, and gently scratches the top of Logan’s head. You know those little metal things on a stick that you push onto your head and it makes your bones rattle? He’s trying to get that kind of effect.

Logan growls a little, but it’s quiet, and maybe a little inviting. Oh, it definitely is, because he tilts his head back and upwards, silently asking for more.

Wade’s eyes go wide and, well, he can’t stop now. So now he’s stuck here, petting his teammate like he’s a dog. He basically is. Sleepy little guy…

They’re sat like this for a while. Wade with his fingers all up in this gorgeous head of hair, and Logan making quiet little noises of approval that almost sound like one wrong move will make Wade lose his fingers. But it’s worth it to hear those noises, and they’ll grow back anyway.

It’s quiet, and soft, and delicate, which isn’t a word often used to describe anything these two do together. Usually it’s manic and violent and utterly batshit insane, the kinds of things they get up to. But no, here they are, peaceful. For once.

He continues for a while, until his hand starts to get tired, and slows to a stop, with his hand just planted on top of Logan’s head. Another growl comes from him in a moment, and he looks up at Wade. Not necessarily mad, but maybe a little annoyed. “Why’d ya stop?”

“Got tired.” He smiles down at him. “I can do it some more at home. We should probably get going, huh big guy?” He scratches his head a little more roughly, but Logan doesn’t seem to mind the difference and closes his eyes again.

“Mm… Yeah, good idea.”

[olderthannetfic]

Hi hi! I have a question and I apologise if it's impertinent but I really didn't have anyone else to ask. I'm new to ao3 and I'm still figuring out how it works. The problem is this- when I look up a character x reader, I'll see the tag included in many works that have oneshots but since it's a side character, more often than not the oneshot for the character hasn't been written and the tag has been there for months. Is it okay to do that or is it tagging something incorrectly? They say they'll write one eventually but they never do, y'know? To me it kind of feels like they're just trying to reach a wider audience but because of this I can't even filter tags and I have to manually search through the book to check if the character is included, especially when the chapters are titled only by numbers :')

Is it okay to tag things in advance like that?

--

Oh boy...

Wattpad refugees do tend to use AO3 "wrong", sometimes in ways that break the rules and sometimes just in ways I find annoying and against typical AO3 culture.

I'm assuming you are coming from Wattpad based on you calling a work or a fic a "book", which is a very, very Wattpad thing to do.

I'm assuming they are coming from Wattpad given the bad behavior you're describing and the fact that they're a x reader writer.

--

So, here's the thing, if you start writing a fic and there's any amount of the actual fic, even if it's pretty short and bad or in a weird format or whatever, it's still a valid fanwork. Most of the time, AO3 leaves it to the author to decide how to tag (aside from a very few things like death threats in the tags or failing to use the required archive warnings).

AO3 won't stop someone from tagging a future pairing that hasn't appeared yet.

--

But "books" of "oneshots" are such an obnoxious Wattpad thing. This is a completely stupid use of AO3 from the "Please send me prompts" part that is usually in there to the way that unrelated fics are smashed together.

It's not against the rules, but it's a crappy use of AO3 befitting of n00bs.

Sadly, old hands at AO3 also make shitty works that are unrelated stories mashed together. They're often a whole set of kinktober fics or something where the trope tags and the ship tags are accurate, but you can't tell which ones go with which ones without searching the whole fic.

We regularly complain about that on here.

--

A much better way to use AO3 is to make a series titled "My x Reader Oneshots" or "All of my kinktober fics" where each separate story is its own work with its own tags.

My assumption is that this person is using the inaccurate tag both to get more eyeballs on their existing work and because they probably take prompts for that ship or something. (I'm basing this on the kinds of things people say on their oneshot books on Wattpad. Maybe they don't actually take prompts since you haven't mentioned it.)

Some people just don't care that they're annoying others and messing up the tags, but I think some actually don't realize how AO3 filtering works and have no idea this behavior is a nuisance.

On a lot of sites, both Wattpad and algorithm-driven social media, unless a post/work is very popular, it disappears out of sight. Even an inaccurate tag doesn't do that much.

On AO3, one is getting a full list of everything with the tag, going back however far. It's a library catalogue for which you should use accurate data. But this writer is probably thinking of tags more as advertising and a way to get their name out there so readers can follow them pre-emptively. They mean to write the ship in the future, so it's not really inaccurate... (And, tbh, if it were a single work and the ship just hadn't appeared yet, I would agree with them even though those are frustrating too.)

--

So no, they should not do this.

But it's not actually against the rules.

I would mute the annoying people who do this.

[garbinge]

Soft Spot

Carmy Berzatto & Platonic!Reader Richie Jerimovich x Reader (Platonic here but pining) Mikey Berzatto & Platonic!Reader

Day 13 from these April Prompts: “I have a soft spot for plants.” 

Summary: Reader gets back home from visiting Carmy in NYC after fleeing her abusive ex. After feeling trauma and just empty and lost, she goes back to The Original Beef. A place that has some of her favorite people, the place she least expected to bring her comfort in the middle of darkness. 

Continuation from this fic. You don’t have to read to understand this but it helps build the character dynamics out!

A/N: This is one of my favorite little universe’s I’ve created in a while.   

Word Count: 3.0k words

Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Angst. Mentions of abuse and bruises. Angst. Threats. Trauma. Death. Guns. 

The Bear Taglist: @drabbles-mc​ @justreblogginfics​ 

Other fics from this universe

Standing outside The Beef in the middle of a Chicago winter brought back a similar memory to you standing outside The French Laundry. Cold. In more ways than one. Physically, sure. Winter months in both states were brutally freezing. But after everything you had just been through, it felt emotionally cold. You had wondered how you could get back to how things used to be when everything was different now. You thought it would be easy, that’s why you went to New York. But Carmy was different. It could’ve been the day he was having, or days, but coming straight off a flight from fleeing your ex’s house in a less than ideal state was making it foggy for you to see that. 

Carmy offered you a smile and a wave, his hug was half assed, one armed and less than a couple seconds. He did seem somewhat excited to see you, though, that healed you a bit. Overall, he was out of it, for someone who was so attentive to detail he was missing every cry for help you were letting out. Now, to be fair, you didn’t exactly come out and say it. You were struggling, but you weren’t stupid. Carmy flipped a switch. As you sat across from each other at 3AM in some shitty cafe after his kitchen shift at Noma sipping the shitty coffee you saw it in his eyes before he said anything. You asked about home, he mentioned something along the lines of not knowing much and not caring much. 

He noticed the bruise on your arm when you took your coat off. There was concern there, but you lied. It wasn’t your initial plan. Originally, you had planned to go out with him, hit the big apple together like you used to terrorize Chicago. If you had written down an itinerary it would have been something like 1. get drunk 2. Find some place that served alcohol into the early morning 3. Get more drunk 4. Have Carmy show you the best cheap food near his place. 5. Drink shitty coffee to attempt to sober up before the sun rose 6. Tell him about what happened. 

Only one of those things happened. And it was half assed. There was no alcohol in your system, so the shitty coffee was extra shitty. It made Carmy asking about the bruise even more painful. You don’t even remember the lie you told him, but you remember he believed it with no questions. That might’ve hurt the most. Not because you wanted him to care or because you needed him to handle it for you but because you saw how disconnected from it all he was. 

That leads you to feel frozen in front of The Beef, 3 days and two flights later. There was a worry that you would be met with the same distance that Carmy met you with earlier this week. If that was the case, you’d push ahead but you couldn’t help but think it’d change something in you permanently. 

You walked in, the intensity of the kitchen hit you immediately, it brought some sort of life to you, chippering you up a bit. 

“What d’ya got?” Richie’s voice was like music to your ears. His head was down as he wrote on the guest check. 

“One beef, hot and sweet, extra sauce. And a cup of your shitty cappuccino, please. 4 extra shots of espresso.” You waited with your hands in your coat pocket, a smile on your face knowing Richie would recognize that.

His head lifted up, his eyes meeting yours. It was that moment that you felt the most nervous. This was the moment that was gonna define how you handled everything moving forward. The pit in your stomach disappeared as the smile grew on his face. 

“One shitty cappuccino, 4 extra shots!” Richie yelled out, still not taking his eyes off you. 

The announcement of your order brought someone through the kitchen door quicker than you could imagine. 

“Tell me that’s not our girl!” Mikey’s voice was loud and exhilarated. If his smile wasn’t bringing out the best parts of your personality, the eagerness in his walk to embrace you was. He was in front of you, arms wide in seconds. His navy blue beef t-shirt smelled like giardiniera, meat, garlic, and week old cologne but it might have been the best thing you’ve ever smelled. It smelt like home. Your body collapsed into his hug, his arms wrapping around you like they were pulling you out from drowning in rapid waters. 

He picked up on it immediately, he tightened his grip on you a little more and placed a light kiss to the top of your head to offer you some sort of comfort. “What’s up, kid?” 

“It’s just really good to be home.” Your head moved in a nod as he cradled it. Mikey was like your own big brother, you had known him since you were 7, you spent a majority of your life at the Berzatto house. He teased you, he yelled at you, he stood up for you, he took you and Carmy to school, he got you both a shared graduation gift, he was a big part of your life. 

After a few seconds, you let go of him, careful to wipe your couple stray tears in a way that was inconspicuous to everyone around. 

“What the fuck are you doin’ back home?” Richie’s voice cut through as he moved to greet you. His cheek moved against yours as he kissed the air, the italian kiss was his go-to welcome, the irony in the fact that he had no drop of italian blood in him. 

“Things just–” you paused thinking of what it is you wanted to say. Even with all the nerves you had built up to just enter the restaurant there wasn’t a single second you spent thinking about what you planned to say. “They, uh–” Your head shook in protest of the sentence you were going to say. “I think I’m gonna be home for a while.” You nodded, finally agreeing with yourself on what to say. “Things just didn’t work out in Minneapolis.” 

“Well, yea, it’s fuckin’ Minneapolis.” Mikey quickly jumped in to save you from whatever the fuck was going on in your head. He wasn’t going to ask you, or pry it out of you. He knew you were an open book and when or if you were ready you’d talk about whatever you wanted. 

Your eyes closed as you laughed, finally letting yourself relax and just be back. 

“You’re tellin’ me, the town population was so fuckin’ small they had no town drunk so I made it my goal to fill that position.” 

The both of them laughed at your joke, “no, but seriously my bowling score is fucking immaculate.” 

Mikey threw his arm over you and brought you over to the counter and tapped on the stool for you to sit. “Ibra! One beef, hot and sweet, drench that shit!” His voice carried through the entire restaurant and kitchen. 

“On it, Mikey!” Ibra walked by the service hatch and yelled your name at the same octave. That’s when you heard Tina’s voice and then soon after her face popped up in the service hatch, followed by Gary, and the entire kitchen, everyone of them thrilled to see you after months away. 

“Bowling score?” Richie frowned as he placed a cup of black coffee in front of you. “I’m not making you that fancy Starbucks shit.” 

A scoff left your mouth as you sipped the black coffee. A face of approval came across your face as you sipped it. “Not bad.” Your eyebrows raised. “And yea, bowling score, it was the only thing to do out there. I’m surprised the population isn’t stupid high because besides bowling the only other option for entertainment is fuckin’.” 

Richie looked like he was waiting for you to finish your sentence, like you were using fuckin’ as a descriptor verse a verb. 

“No Richie, she means intercourse.” Mikey teased as he hopped up on the counter. 

“Sexual relations.” You added another equivalent of the word. 

“Mating!” Mikey pointed at you with the pen he normally kept behind his ear, hype that he had thought of another one. 

Your mouth moved from side to side as you thought quickly to respond back, like it was a new game between the two of you to play. “Oh! Oh!” The stool rattled as you jumped up and down eager to share your word. “Looooovemaaaaakingggg” You enunciated each syllable in the word, rolling your body to mock it even more. 

“Fornication.” Mikey smirked like a teenage boy as his head nodded in approval of the word. 

“Alright, I get it, fuck you.” Richie grabbed your coffee mug and finished off the black liquid in a way to get back at you. 

“Fuck you or like fuuuucccckkkkk you?” Your body rolled again to mock the man. It was hard to hold your laugh in, and the minute Mikey let out a hyena howl at your mockery you burst into the same giggles. 

“You two are children.” He was retreating back to the kitchen, an excuse to stop getting teased but also to grab your food. 

“Hey, I gotta go.” Mikey looked at the clock and jumped down from the counter. He grabbed his jacket that was hanging on the coat rack in the seated part of the restaurant. “You think you could do me a favor?” He stopped for a minute in front of you, jacket half on, like he had just remembered something. “Sugar brought this stupid fuckin’ plant over here for good luck or some shit a while ago, I don’t know. I barely water it, and I was thinkin’” He moved to the window and grabbed the plant with one hand, placing it on the counter before his hands grabbed the corners as he leaned on it. “I was thinkin’ maybe you could take it home.” 

You stared at the plant and then back at Mikey. He knew you were about to argue it. 

“Hey” His hands lifted up. “Just passin’ the fuckin’ luck around.” He placed a kiss on top of your head, similar to the one he greeted you with. “Alright, I’m outtie, but relax, stay here as long as you want, eat whatever you want, hang in the back, hang in the front,” Mikey waved his hand around before bringing it down to grip yours as they rested on the countertop. “I’m serious. You’re home here.” 

“Thanks Mikey.” You nodded, he offered your hand one more squeeze before yelling out his goodbyes and leaving. 

“Here.” Richie slide the foiled wrapped sandwich in front of you. “I had Ibra put french fries on the sandwich cause I know that’s how you like to eat that shit.” Richie was making himself busy with the soda machine, his way of trying to be nonchalant with you. 

Your lips curled slightly in gratitude. “Thanks Richie.” Standing up, you grabbed the plant in one hand, and sandwich in the other and turned to leave. Just 15 minutes here had brought you the comfort you needed. 

And in seconds it was completely gone. 

Frozen. Your feet were stuck, unable to move. The cold air from the open door hit your face and instead of knocking you out of whatever was happening, it just solidified it more. 

“Hey.” His voice was cold but his breath was hot and the fact you could feel it meant he was too close in proximity to you. “Figured you’d come home. Thought I’d drop by to see how you were since you left so suddenly.” 

Your ex being inside The Beef was the last thing you’d expected, but then you felt your reaction to it and that was actually more surprising. Back in Minneanapolis, where you had moved in with him 6 months ago, your responses were the opposite. Never holding out, you yelled, fought back, and then left.

No response. The feeling was comparable to feeling like a kid again, wishing you could just shut your eyes and disappear into a fantasy world. But when you reopened your eyes he was still there. 

“Man, whatever.” He rolled his eyes and as he did so they landed on the two items in your hand. He slammed them both out of your grip, the sound of the foil splattering on the ground happened first, shortly followed by the sound of the planter shattering. You looked down at the mess that unfolded at your feet. The dirt from the greenery buried them but they might as well have been planted into the cement. You caught a look at your hands which were shaking, this wasn’t you. You weren’t scared. You didn’t feel like this. You grew up alone, in Chicago. That should have been scary. Not this. 

“You’re gonna get the fuck outta my restaurant.” Richie was suddenly to your right and slightly in front of you. “I’m not gonna count to 5 like we’re in fuckin elementary school.” This was when you realized he had a gun in his hand. “You’re either gonna get the fuck out or I’m gonna shoot you in your nuts.” He turned his head and his gun when he said that. “It’s your choice, motherfucker. I’m the one with 6 witnesses to testify that you came in here and threatened one of my customers.” 

With a quick glance over your shoulder, you saw the entire kitchen staring through the serving hatch, your stare moved back to Richie, it was a shock that your eyes hadn’t fallen out of your head with how wide they were, but you were grateful because your hands were still shaking and the practicality of all of that was not ideal. The insanity that in this moment, that was the thought in your head currently. The practicality of your eyes falling out of your head. It was a good distraction, thinking about how you’d have to clean them from the dirt, letting your mind take you on this wild ride for what was likely less than a second before you were back in the real time moment in front of you. 

Your ex was moving backwards with his hands up, his steps too nonchalant for your liking but at least he was listening to Richie. He puckered up his lips as he reached the door, throwing you a smooch and a nod. Besides that it was so silent in the restaurant which is why it became immediately known that Richie had pulled the hammer back on the gun, loading the chamber with the bullet. 

In the next second, he was gone. The feeling in your feet came back almost right away and the feeling of being cold was whisked away by feeling intensely hot. You ripped your jacket off and threw it on the stool and bent down in a frantic attempt to clean up the mess. 

“Go back to your shit! We’re all good!” Richie called back to the kitchen before squatting down to help you clean. 

“Ay, ay, it’s okay.” Richie tried his best to calm you down. His towel was now in your hands as you gathered the dirt into a more concise pile ignoring his comments. His hand gripping yours felt like a jolt of lightning to your head. 

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” The grip he had on you was so light which made you yanking your arm back easy and super over exaggerated. 

“Woah,” Richie showed surrender as his eyebrows moved up in shock rather than in a frown. You fell into a sitting position on the floor, having your arms catch the tiny fall which is when Richie saw it. 

The bruise was a little less than a week old and it was a large dark purple splotch with yellow edges as it began to heal. The discolored mark on your skin was burning as Richie stared at it, his thoughts going through the process of understanding pretty much everything. Why you left Minneapolis, who that guy was, what he was doing.

“Did he fuckin’ do that to you?” He asked in a whisper. It was probably the quietest she had ever heard Richie speak. There was also a little grumble in his tone, maybe it was instinctual, maybe it was pure anger just boiling up inside of him. 

“Richie.” You said his name like it was a full sentence. There was so much being said with one word. If he didn’t get the point then, he did after the next word out of your mouth. “Please.” 

He nodded, taking a second before he stood up and was out of your eyesight. You assumed he went to blow off steam, maybe he didn’t listen to you at all and went after the guy, but within seconds, he was back in front of you, holding you a hand broom and more towels. 

He tossed you the towels as he swept up the dirt. Both of you cleaned in silence, throwing out the pieces of broken ceramic. At one point, Richie had thrown the ‘lucky’ plant into a to-go container, letting it sit next to you both as you cleaned. 

“Thanks.” You offered up another one word delivery. Richie paused his movements of mopping the floor with the cloth to look at you. “You know, for pointing the gun and everything.” His stare at you was like he had no idea what you were talking about. “For scaring the dickhead away with the gun, Richie. Thank you.” You repeated in a more obvious manner. 

“Oh yea, well,” There was a brief delay in his words, he was trying to think of what to say, his eyes were no longer on you and he was looking around the floor like he was going to find the answer there. Which ironically, he did. The lucky plant sat straight up in the tall clear to go container as Richie’s eyes fixated on it. 

“What can I say? I have a soft spot for plants.” 

[manofworm]

Pretty Boy

Pairing: Tech x Reader

Words: 3.5k

Prompt: *mumbled* "You look pretty." - "What?" - *panicked* "I said you look shitty" 

Summary: Left alone on the Marauder with Tech, you accidentally let slip just how pretty you think he is. Not knowing your pining is mutual, you say something completely stupid, and end up telling him how you feel in an awkward, soft, and fluffy confession.

Note: This is the first fanfic that I'm posting, and I'm really proud of it. This is a part of the Clone Fic Gift Exchange and has been written for @melliejellybellybean. Hi Mellie! I don't know if this is what you had in mind for this prompt, but I really hope you like the way this turned out. :) @cloneficgiftexchange

The brief clatter of a wrench hitting the durasteel floor of the cockpit shook you from your thoughts, eyes darting back down to the datapad nestled in your lap. The holonovel it displayed had long since been abandoned in favor of staring out the window. Hunter, Echo, Wrecker, and Omega were currently wandering around the marketplace of a nearby village. They were searching for a specific – and seemingly elusive – tool that had been lost during the scramble to leave the planet they had been on for Cid’s last job. The mission had been going exactly as planned, until the very end when Omega scampered up the Marauder’s ramp, urging Tech to prepare for a quick takeoff. Before Tech had the chance to object or ask for clarification, the sound of distant blaster fire made its way into the ship, prompting him into action. You were the first to clamor up the ramp, grabbing onto the hatch’s frame and using it as leverage to kneel just inside the ship and level your blaster at the smugglers still chasing Wrecker, Echo, and Hunter. Wrecker was next inside, being the only one strong enough to carry the crate of maker-knows-what requested by Cid’s client. You had all been assured that it was not carrying any spice, and were led to believe it would be much smaller than it actually was. If it weren’t for the danger of the mission, the view from the Marauder would have been a comical sight. Wrecker was sprinting across the barren landscape surrounding the smugglers' hideout, cradling the impressively sized crate up against his chest. He looked almost as if he were carrying a small child (or his Lula), but with none of his usual gentleness. He was clearly agitated at not being allowed to participate in the fight itself, but was flanked by Echo and Hunter, who were fighting off the group of smugglers that had followed them. Most were armed with blasters, but a few of them carried decorated staffs and pitchforks, gesturing them somewhat menacingly at Wrecker as he ran with their crate back to the ship. With the help of your cover fire, Hunter and Echo were able to make it safely back aboard the Marauder just as she left the ground. At the last moment, however, one of the smugglers leapt up and grabbed onto the edge of the retracting ramp. Wrecker, eager to at least have hit something, grabbed the nearest object and lobbed it at the smuggler’s head. Successfully dislodging them, but accidentally throwing Tech’s nice screwdriver – the one whose grip he had modified to fit into his hand perfectly – clean off the ship just as the Marauder’s hatch closed.

This led to your current situation, left alone on the Marauder with Tech and lounging in the copilot's seat. The rest of the Batch, including Omega, had left about an hour earlier to scour the local trade market of the planet for Tech’s replacement screwdriver, not without Echo giving you a conspiratorial wink. Echo was the only member of the Batch privy to your infatuation with Tech, although you had no doubt that Hunter knew and decidedly left all of the teasing to Echo. The outing shouldn't have taken very long, but knowing how easily Wrecker and Omega can get distracted, you had a few more hours before any of them came back. A low sigh made you shift your focus to Tech, who was still hunched under the console working on the navigation system despite his borderline hatred for his backup screwdriver.

Dappled sunlight streamed down from the viewport, the patterns shifting as the gentle breeze outside blew through the trees that Tech had landed behind. His intention was clearly to obstruct the Marauder from view, but the moment Tech scooted out from under the console, you were grateful for the trees for an entirely different reason. He leaned back on the base of the pilot's seat, taking off his bucket and setting it aside, leaving his face at the perfect angle for the warm glow of the sunshine to paint over his face. The patterns cast in the light adjusted with every gust of wind outside, but consistently highlighted his face in the best of ways. Your eyes trailed over the upper rim of his goggles, across the span of his elegant cheekbones, down the strong bridge of his nose, and over his prominent chin, briefly flitting to his lips before taking in the whole of his visage once again. Maker, he looked like a work of art. Unbeknownst to you, Tech had been carefully studying your apparent awe, tracking your eyes as they moved over his face, convincing himself that the way your gaze hovered over his mouth must have been a trick of the light. It was a thrilling sensation, he thought, being so intensely studied. He wondered whether this was the same look he had while studying the unique flora and fauna of new planets they visited, or whether this was something entirely different, which was why he barely registered your lips falling open before speaking so softly only the remnants of the syllables reached his ears. 

“You look so pretty.” Surely he couldn’t have heard you right. No one had ever called him pretty before, and Tech saw no reason that anyone should have, it just wasn’t a word he’d use to describe himself. You, however, he would describe as pretty. Gorgeous even. Perhaps going as far as to describe the specific smile you seemed to save for when he rambled as angelic. But him? Pretty? He had to be sure. 

“What was that?” You jolted at his response, only then registering how you had leant forwards, elbows resting on your knees to study his face closer, thinking about just how pretty Tech really was, and coming to the horrifying realization that you actually said it aloud. Quickly pulling back to sit up straight, heart racing at the thought of Tech knowing what you thought about him, you panicked, spitting out the first excuse you could think of to cover up the situation,

“I said, you look really shitty.” 

Oh. Oh no, that’s not what you meant at all. You sat there frozen. Kriff, you thought, wishing that you would have just kept your mouth shut. Nothing. All you needed to say was ‘nothing,’ and he probably would have dropped it. Now you’ve dug yourself into an even deeper hole than before, and there's no easy way out of it.

You finally gathered the courage to look down at Tech's seated form, who seemed to be processing your response, looking just to the side of your chair. Still staring at him, you could see the exact moment that Tech had fully understood what you said. The calm look that often appeared on his handsome face when you two spent time in the cockpit together dropped into something stern and analytical, but you knew him well enough to see the thinly-veiled hurt in his stunning eyes. 

“If you sincerely find my looks so displeasing then you are welcome to leave the cockpit and let me work on these repairs in peace.” Shab, this is bad. 

“Oh maker no, that’s not what I meant–”

“What exactly did you mean then?” Tech’s voice was laced with indignation as he cut you off. He tried his best to keep any lilt of hope out of his voice. But with the conviction you had, while telling him just how unsightly he was, Tech couldn’t help but believe that his hope was unfounded, as much as he wished otherwise. 

Much of this exchange had come as a surprise to him. For the better part of the last cycle, you and Tech had begun to grow closer, your relationship shifting from casual but amicable to one of close friends. Tech had found himself enjoying this development, the way you encouraged his often long-winded explanations of the interesting aspects of a planet's flora and fauna, a new system he was installing on the Marauder, or the cultural customs of the civilizations you and the Batch came upon during your travels. Even when you were around his brothers or playing Dejarik with Omega, you still encouraged him to talk and often asked questions so he knew you were listening. He noticed how your eyes lit up every time he began to tell you about the constellations and mythology of the planets you visited, so whenever the Marauder landed somewhere new, he made sure to read up on those subjects so that you two could sit on the roof of the ship after dark while he points out different constellations and tells you everything he learned about them in his rare moments of spare time. After several repetitions of that event, Tech’s brothers began to tease him about possible romantic intent on his part, which he was quick to disregard. It wasn’t until you started spending time with him during repairs that he noticed his romantic feelings toward you. He found your presence soothing, and greatly appreciated how comfortable you were, just sitting with him in silence while doing your own separate activity. He read somewhere on the holonet that this was called quality time, something that romantic partners often engaged in. Tech never brought up this fact with you, for fear of his feelings towards you being unreciprocated. Nonetheless, he found a sense of satisfaction in the knowledge that the two of you were engaging in traditionally romantic and couple-like activities, even if he’d never have the courage to ask you to do these things in a properly amorous nature. 

It was for these reasons that he was so struck by the way you floundered, face flush while you attempted to answer his question. Perhaps he has been reading your relationship wrong after all. 

“In that case, I must again request that you leave me to fix the ship by myself.” By this point, you knew you were going to have to tell him the truth, even though it would mean risking your friendship. You noticed how he was much more open and comfortable around you than he used to be, and the thought of undoing that progress made your stomach sink. But there was no other way to get out of this, and dealing with Tech’s reaction to knowing how you really feel about him is galaxies better than letting him think that he’s anything less than wonderful. You took a deep breath before speaking,

“Dank ferrik. I said you’re pretty, okay?” He pulled his head back slightly as if physically taken aback by your admission, which he very well might have been. 

“You think that I’m … pretty?” The almost fragile tone of his voice hit you hard, as did the hope that shone just behind his eyes. You could hardly believe it, you’d sworn that the way you felt about him wasn’t reciprocated, that the way you adored him would always be a secret. 

Despite the looks Echo and Hunter sent you from time to time while you and Tech were sitting together quietly in the cockpit or returning from stargazing, you still couldn’t bring yourself to hope too much. But now? Maybe he felt this too.

“Kriff. Yes, Tech, I think you’re pretty.” He tilted his head to the side slightly, considering what you just said. But with the way the sunlight continued to grace his face, you couldn’t just stop there. “You’re so pretty, Tech. And I was sitting here just trying to read my book but when you came out from under the console, the sunlight hit you just right and reminded me of all of my favorite things about you. Your goggles and your eyes, your cheekbones, your handsome jaw, and the way your nose fits your face. Your dexterous hands and your smile that makes me feel like I’ve won some kind of prize every time I draw it out of you, just because I get to see it.” You inhale sharply, having practically run out of breath during your confession. There's a moment of silence in the cockpit, and you use it to take his expression in. His face is lightly flushed and his head is still tilted ever-so-slightly to the right. He doesn’t make any suggestion that he wants you to stop talking. Instead, you think there might just be a hint of expectancy in his eyes like he wants you to keep going, so you do. 

“And Maker, you’re so smart. I love listening to you talk, even if I don’t always understand what you're saying, it's worth it to see you get so excited about whatever new thing you've learned.” You’re making eye contact with him now, and a shy smile slowly crept its way onto your face as you were talking. Tech is smiling too, it's subtle but it's there, and you can’t help but feel warm inside at the knowledge that you're the very reason he's smiling. “There are so many incredible things about you, Tech. I admire your loyalty and your wit, and I see the way you care for me, your brothers, and Omega in your own way. I know they don’t always see it, but I do, and it's just another thing I love about you.” It takes you a moment to realize that he’s scooted closer, enough so that he could rest his head on your knee if he so desired, and you want him to. You want him to want to. 

Tech thinks over his next words, and looks up at you earnestly,

“I– I also find you attractive, physically and as a companion.” His smile is bigger now. Certainly not an outright grin, but it shines in his eyes and makes his cheeks push up against the bottom of his goggles. That sentence alone fills your entire body with relief and somehow makes you freeze at the same time. 

Having had enough of being so much higher up than him, you – rather awkwardly – get up out of the chair and sink to the floor next to him. You’re not quite facing him straight on but tilted just enough that you feel your stomach flip when you settle down, knee touching his. Tech continues to look at you curiously, and after a moment of pensive silence, you realize he’s waiting on you to make the next move. Taking a deep breath, you tentatively reach your hand over to him, letting it hover over where his own rests on his thigh until Tech turns his hand over and gently grabs your own. His hand is warm and slightly rough from the calluses on the ridge of his palm. The feeling of his hand in yours brings a smile to your face that you don't even attempt to hide. The position isn’t right to interlace your fingers, so instead, he lets your hand slip into his, lightly squeezing it and running his thumb briefly over your knuckles. Still smiling softly, you look at him again.

“I really like you, Tech. And not just as a friend.” It takes no small amount of confidence to say it, but as your statement hangs in the air you see Tech's eyes light up and it makes you forget why you ever hesitated to tell him how you feel. 

“Do you mean to say that you have romantic feelings toward me?” He asks this mainly as a clarification to be sure he interpreted your words correctly, but is completely caught off guard by the way you nod and eagerly squeeze his hand. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but by the way his brows furrow, you can tell that he’s not quite sure what to say. To be fair though, you didn't either. Wanting to reassure Tech, while still letting him take his time, you shift your grip on his hand so that you can hold it a little tighter and gently caress the back of it. Tech stares at the way your hands are intertwined. And although you can’t tell what he’s thinking exactly, you can tell he likes holding your hand. The two of you sit like this, knees touching and content with quietly holding hands while Tech processes what he’s thinking and feeling. You have these pensive moments with him often, but never touching like the way you are now. It makes the entire situation feel different. Not different in a bad way, but in the way that the tension between you and Tech is both electrifying and soothing, and you know you’d wait for him forever as long as you got to have a moment like this while doing it. 

Lost in thought, you don’t notice the slight shakiness in Tech’s inhale or the way his left hand grips his leg to keep from fidgeting.

“I have found myself romantically attracted to you as well. And although I did not believe these feelings were reciprocated, I am both greatly relieved and ecstatic that this is not the case.” His voice is almost uncharacteristically soft. But knowing just how much he cares about his family and you, along with the presence of the analytical lilt his voice always carries, the tone seems to fit him, however unusual it may be. You know that he’s making sure you hear how he feels about you in just his tone, and it makes you wonder how exactly you managed to find someone as amazing as him. 

You look up to find him gazing at you with admiration and awe in his eyes, and you just know those same emotions are reflected in yours. 

“Maker, Tech. You really are just gorgeous,” you sigh, not willing to break eye contact with him just yet. 

“I– thank you. I have found myself distracted by your beauty on multiple occasions, Cyare.” Tech is still surprised that you find him so attractive but thinks he might be able to get used to the praise as long as he’s allowed to shower you with it as well. You can see something shift in his eyes, barely revealing a look of questioning or perhaps nervousness. You don’t have to think deeper into why that might be, because as soon as you notice the change, Tech’s free hand comes up to gingerly cup your face. He lightly turns you to face him head-on, barely applying any pressure until you press your cheek into his palm, relaxing your gaze and just focusing on the wonderful sensation of Tech holding you.

“Forgive me if this is a bit forward, but as we have confirmed our mutual attraction, would you perhaps…” His voice trails off, clearly hesitant to ask for what he wants. In return, you reach your hand up to the one on your face and press yourself deeper into his grasp, all while giving him a reassuring smile. Tech’s breaths are slightly labored, but with your comforting reaction, he continues. “As we have confirmed our mutual attraction, would you perhaps let me kiss you?” He’s still clearly concerned about your response, but the tension in his shoulders seems to melt away when he sees the grin that spreads over your face and lights up your eyes.

“I would like nothing more, handsome.” You squeeze the hand wrapped around his, and place your right hand on his bicep. Tech lets you pull him towards you so that his face is barely an inch away from yours and shifts his hand from your cheek to your jaw as you close the gap between your mouths. Your noses just barely brush against each other and his goggles lightly press into the tops of your cheeks, but these sensations are quickly drowned out by how soft his lips are and the way they feel pressed to yours. The kiss is sweet and chaste, lingering for a few moments before you break away and rest your forehead against his. You press slow, gentle circles with your thumb into where it rests on his arm and he grips your hand tighter in return. 

You open your eyes to see him looking at you dazedly through the yellowish tint of his lenses and it makes you smile. The way the ridge of his goggles presses into your brow bone isn’t the most comfortable, but getting to be close to him like this is beyond worth it. When he sees your smile he closes his eyes and presses his face closer to yours. You do the same, relaxing against him with your foreheads resting together, holding each other close, and hands intertwined. You take a deep breath, feeling incredibly content just enjoying the moment.

The rest of the galaxy can wait. All that matters right now is you and Tech, quietly curled up in the dappled sunshine of the cockpit. And there's nowhere else either of you would rather be.

[choke-me-joey]

***EVENT CLOSED, ALL PROMPTS HAVE BEEN TAKEN***

What tf is it?

Hoe-vember is basically my excuse to write endless amounts of shameless Eddie Munson and/or Joseph Quinn smut blurbs throughout November! They'll be relatively short but if there is demand for longer or continued fics, I may consider it!

How do I get involved?

Simply send me a number from the prompt list below and specify whether you want it written about our boy Eds, or Mr JQ himself! I have anon turned on so if you're shy, it's totally fine!

The rules

Firstly, absolutely NO MINORS are to interact with this event. This will be smut smut smut and nobody under the age of 18 should be reading.

If you don't like, don't read. I know the subject of smut regarding a real life person is a sensitive one, so if you don't agree with my writing, please don't send me hate as it will be ignored. I've given you adequate warning.

I won't write for Eddie AND JQ in a single request. This means your request should be for Eddie OR Joe, not both. These are also reader inserts, so nothing like "prompt 4 for Eddie with Joe" or anything like that, sorry!

Once a prompt has been requested, it will be taken off the list! But you are more than welcome to resubmit a request for a different prompt if yours has already been taken.

Before anyone says it, yes these are the same (or pretty much the same) prompts from my @choke-me-levi 1k event...I'm unoriginal and there's so much potential for some GOOD EM and JQ smut here, so soz.

Have fun! And if you have any questions please just message me!

The prompts - all are now taken!!

1. Fuck a baby into me/I'm gonna fuck a baby into you.

2. It's not gonna suck itself.

3. Shit, I've never come so hard in my life!

4. You're so tight, fuck!

5. You wanna come on my fingers, my tongue, or my cock? How about all of them?

6. Ride me baby, make me come for you.

7. Open your mouth.

8. This pussy belongs to me.

9. Keep going and I'll fuck that shitty/bratty/fucking attitude right out of you.

10. Beg for me.

11. Look how well you're taking me.

12. Suck.

13. Make a mess on me.

14. Let me ruin that pretty face with my cum.

15. Sit on my face.

16. Touch yourself.

17. You feel that? I'm so hard for you.

18. I love you, fuck, I'm so close!

19. Mm, you're so wet. Did I do this to you, baby? Is this all for me?

20. You taste so good.

21. Do you want my cock? Tell me.

22. Fuck, stop teasing me!

23. I'm gonna fuck you so good the whole damn neighbourhood will know my name by the time I'm done with you.

24. You're close aren't you? I can feel it, your pussy is gripping my cock.

25. You're so sexy, but you'd look even better with your mouth around my dick.

26. Keep those eyes on me, beautiful.

27. I'm going to fucking ruin you.

28. I want to watch you/I want you to watch me

29. Bend over, baby.

30. We have to be quiet, can you do that for me, princess?

31. That's so fucking hot, say it again.

32. Guess I'll just have to do it myself.

33. Fuck, I'm gonna come baby, tell me where you want it.

34. Push that ass up for me.

35. You want my attention? Better earn it, baby.

36. You want me to fuck you?

37. Look at yourself, you're so fucking nasty.

38. Let me show you how a real man does it.

39. Get over here.

40. Good girl. Good fucking girl.

41. Fuck, please!

42. I wanna taste you.

43. You've missed me, haven't you? Pretty little pussy is sucking me in.

44. Just shut up and fuck me.

45. I need you so bad, I can't wait, I've gotta have you now.

46. There's no better way to wake up than with your mouth on me.

47. Make me.

48. Spread your legs and let me see that pretty little pussy.

49. Wanna fuck?

50. Are you sure? If we do this, I won't be able to control myself

[jaebeomsbitch]

Hi! Pls could you write a Roman fic with the following prompt: 36.“i know i said we couldn’t do this anymore, but i need you. please.”? Thank You!

Scotch and Tears

Summary: Comforting Romey and hurting him at the same time or Roman comes to you needing release and the painful reminder that he'll never be loved because he's broken.

Warnings: MINORS DNI, Hurt, Crying, Jerking off Roman...

A/N: Not edited and written at 2 AM like every other fic of mine. I never ever intend to make this one so sad but.... Romey is just a sad little boy trapped in a dog cage :( GN!reader

You don’t know who you expected on your front door but it wasn’t him. Maybe a DoorDash delivery person or another Amazon package but not Roman Roy. His hands intertwined in front of him, that cocky smirk of his face. 

“If it isn’t my favorite whore” he says, a little too boisterous for your liking. 

“Welcome in” you say sarcastically as he bulldozes his way inside your apartment despite his small stature. 

“God if I thought you dressed shitty… this is a fucking rat-infested dying Victorian orphans type of shitty” he says, his hazel eyes analyzing every single detail of your apartment. You roll your eyes, leaning against the doorframe of your small living room. You’d never have the type of money he had but you were comfortable. More than the dozens of New Yorkers that couldn’t heat their apartments through winter or the ones that had eleven roommates. 

“Why are you here Romulus?” You ask in a cool toned manner. His head snapping towards yours, he hadn’t heard that name in a while. Not since… well not since his father died. 

“What, not happy to see an old pal?” He grins, taking off his little leather gloves. He makes a face as he uses the sleeve of his jacket to clean your little side table placing the gloves on it.

“Why are you here?” You ask stalking forward. 

“Don’t make me ask you again Romulus” you say with a bit more force in your tone. Roman gulps, those big doe eyes looking up at you with a mixture of fear and something else. That underlying swirl of emotion you were all too used to seeing many years ago. 

“Don’t-“ he says, trying to act strong but his voice slightly wavers under your watchful gaze. He tried to busy himself by taking his coat off. 

“I saw he died” you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest standing toe to toe with Roman. He grunts in acknowledgment, afraid of opening his mouth. Afraid that the pent up tears will come crashing down the fragile walls he built. Because truthfully Roman hadn’t been coping. He thought it would get better with time. 

Thought a shrink would fix him, but they never did. No matter how expensive, how experienced they didn’t understand Roman, not in the way you do. So he comes crawling back every time. The pain and loss of memory crushing him into a little ball. 

Your fingers reach out to him holding his bicep lightly but he shrugs you off almost violently. He hates himself for being back here, for needing you. 

“Yeah he’s dead, should’ve gone a danced in his chew toy mausoleum when you had the chance” he tries to joke but it comes out slightly strained, at least to your ears. 

You circle him, reaching for the expensive bottle of scotch he gave you as a parting gift all those years ago. Popping in some ice cubes already prepared for his little digs but surprisingly nothing comes out. He gulps it down like he’s hasn’t had a drink in weeks. He quickly pours another glass taking that one back wincing at the burn

“Slow down,” you say sternly

“I’ll- I’ll fucking buy you another one” he immediately fires looking at you with an intensity. You can tell he hates being here. Well, hates that he has to be here again. He’d been okay for the most part but then every single person he loved had died or left him.

You silently take a seat on your couch, sipping on the scotch savoring the complexities on your tongue. Roman grips the glass tightly, hands shaking. 

“I-“ his voice wavers, that first sense of vulnerability sinking deep into Roman’s bones and it fucking disgusts him. It rips him to shreds that he can’t keep his voice steady. 

“I know I said-” he continues, filling up another glass. Watching the little ice cubes swirl in the amber liquid. 

“I couldn’t… we couldn’t… please,” he says looking at you with those big puppy dog eyes, all wet, as he tries to hold back his tears. 

“C’mere” you say softly spreading your legs and downing your scotch. You place the empty glass on the side table over his gloves as Roman shuffles towards you like a scolded child. 

His heart sinks deep into his gut. The vile thoughts filling up his head, screaming at him not to do it but, he sits on your lap with shaky breath. Your fingers find the familiar path towards his knees. 

Just like that the words dim and his breath picks up. The warmth of your palms seeping into his slacks, you knew that if you could see his eyes you’d see the swirl in them. The pink, smokey, tendrils of lust churning in his brain. 

It wasn’t that Roman hated you, he didn’t. In some sick twisted Roman way he loved you. You were the only person who could touch him, the only person who could untuck his fresh pressed dress shirt and undo his slacks. The only one who could slide his zipper down without him immediately going into a manic state. But after the comfort always came the guilt. That’s what he hated, he hated the crashing of sadness and despair pulling him down after your touch was over. 

Hated that he had to imagine it was your hands on him. That he yearned for you but you never sought him out. Not once, not even after he’d wined and dined you. Not after he let you into his fucked up head. 

Of course Roman never knew the truth. It hurt. It hurt seeing him cry, it hurt seeing him broken beyond repair. You take solace in the fact that you were the only one that brought him relief even if it was momentary. So you press your face into the line of his back, fingers taking his leaking cock out. Roman’s practiced spit falling onto his cock, his eyes closed shut not wanting to look at it. Not right now. 

He hated you for abandoning him. Hated the way he instantly moans when your warm hand wraps around his cock. The pool of heat burning deep in his gut.

“Fuck” he moans at your slow strokes. You wanted to prolong it. Smell his clean scent a little longer, feel the flex of his thighs on yours, memorize the hitch of his breath but Roman hasn’t been able to get off in a long time. 

His breath heavy as more profanities leave this pink lips of his. 

“Oh fuck” he groans, fingers digging into his slacks. You swirl your palm over his sensitive head, his toes curling in his dress shoes, jaw slacked. 

“Fuck I’m- so fucking disgusting” he swallows his spit. Your other hand working at his balls, rolling the skin in between your fingers matching your strokes. 

“Oh fuck oh fuck fuck fuck fuck” he whispers hurriedly, fingers clenching the fabric harder, his head hanging in submission. Giving into the pleasure, his stubbled jaw pressing into the pin-striped light-blue dress shirt. 

You missed him. You missed his stupid quips. Missed the way his dumb little grin would show the dimple on his cheek. You missed that stupid idiot even when he was insulting you. 

“G-god” he chokes.

“Just me” you chuckle, stroking him faster knowing his telltale signs like the back of your hand. You could feel his thighs clenching under your forearms, his back tightening, and his hips trying desperately to follow your movements. 

He finally comes as he heaves for breath. A strangled noise leaving his throat as he ruins his slacks. All the pent up cum spilling on his stomach. You stroke his cock until he’s a whimpering mess. The back of his head tilted back pressing into your shoulder. 

You wanted to hug him. You wanted to tell him everything would be okay but you know he’d only push you off. You hold your tongue as he slowly sits up pushing your hands away and tucking himself back into his pants. He swallows hard, trying to busy himself with wiping the cum off with a napkin. 

You keep your lips sealed when you see his face. That anguished look in his eyes, another painful reminder of why you didn’t do this anymore but his little ‘please’ broke you down. He leaves mumbling some stupid line about you being a whore. His heart aching as he tries to straighten out his wrinkled slacks. 

Your heart hurts, it hurts so much but this is what Roman did. He used and abused because he was broken. You could never fix him not even if you tried but what would happen when you found a partner? When you wouldn’t let him into your apartment again?

The next day another bottle of scotch sits at your doorstep, you tuck it away into the same cupboard, holding his glass as a tear slips down your cheek. 

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

🧡 The Past and Pending 🐎

jo & young claire fic - 4.7k - rating: G - canon compliant - read on ao3

Jo watches the family hold hands over her shitty bar food and close their eyes in grace, in prayer. Even when they’re all hungry they take the moment to thank their god for their meal. Claire looks like a little blonde angel as she mouths along to her father’s amen. Jo supposes she once looked like that, too.

16th May, 2004. Nine years to the day since Jo's father's death, she is nineteen and working her usual shift in the Roadhouse bar. The Novak family stop by during a summer storm as they travel through the state, and Jo has the chance to bond with a seven year old Claire over horses, their love for their fathers, and leather jackets.

written for my 2024 jo's joyous birthday celebrations!! prompts were orange, horse girl, and leather jacket, which were fun to weave in. enjoy <3

read below the cut!

16th May 2004.

It’s been a slow day at the Roadhouse, the tepid May heat turning beers warm but the bouts of summer rain keeping Jo from her usual restless walks outside. The bar is gloomy and a little stifling and it’s nine years to the day since the death of her father. 

By the evening Jo is working the bar, in view of the entrance. Every time the door scrapes open and the creaky floorboard goes, she is hit with one of two alternating images. The first is her father, home from his hunt, leather jacket fitted on his solid body with a smile on his face. His arms are spread wide waiting for her hug. Each time it is not him, she is forced to remember how his leather jacket is hanging emptily from a hook behind the bar and that every time she pictures his face she gets it a little more wrong.

The second image is of Uncle Bobby, hunched and sad, his grief silhouetted in the doorway light as he brings the sorry news. Her dad’s leather jacket in his hands, all that was left of him. What news does he bring this time? How many dead? The first image fills her with sorrow, the second with fear, both memories rising to the surface on the anniversary like crumbs in beer.

Jo mindlessly wipes down the bar, any tears that land on the countertop instantly disappearing beneath the cloth. It’s just one of those days. Ellen is in the back, unpacking the delivery that came in the morning, also quieter than usual. At least they’re not screaming at each other. That’s something. 

The front door scrapes the floor as it swings open and Jo is called back to the present. She brushes her eyes once with the back of her hand, the one holding the rag, as if she’s only wiping sweat from her forehead. When she turns to face the new customers Jo knows no one will be able to tell she was crying. She’s good at things like that. 

“Heya, what can I get for you?” she calls over the bar, and then instantly sighs as she sees the newcomers. Neither of the images in her head have materialized, but a third, more frustrating one has: civilians. 

A man and a woman, married, but still fairly young, hover uncertainly in the doorway. The wife’s hair is that uninteresting midway between blonde and brunette, cut sensibly to her shoulders but clearly styled. The husband’s hair is much darker and would probably curl if not for his serious and slick side parting. The first thing Jo notices about them is their hair because this is the most immediately interesting thing about them; other than that, they look incredibly boring. Normal. 

Then, from behind the man’s legs, peers a young girl. A child with a sweet tangerine gingham dress and curious eyes, maybe seven or so. Jo watches the girl take in the Roadhouse, with its burly, surly hunters hunched uninvitingly over tables marked with the questionable stains from fights and alcohol which make every surface slightly sticky. 

The husband is shaking his head, gesturing round at the bar with a displeased hand. “We should go,” Jo catches him saying, “this isn’t our kind of establishment.”

Jo is too used to this happening to be offended. Besides, she always thinks why cater to civilians anyway, when they’re a hunter bar first and foremost?

But the wife stands her ground. “She needs to eat, Jimmy. We all need a break, we’ve been driving for so long. And the sooner we get home, the sooner we outrun that storm.” 

Jimmy sighs, then nods. The trio shuffle awkwardly towards the bar, the child nervous at her father’s heels. She’s very blonde, as blonde as Jo. 

“I know we look like it, but we don’t bite,” Jo says, mainly to the girl. She earns the trace of a smile for her troubles.

Jimmy has the decency to look a little regretful. “I’m sorry, it’s been a… long drive. We haven’t had to travel quite this far before.”

“Well, that’s what the Roadhouse is here for. What can I get you?”

The options are limited, so it doesn’t take long for the family to decide on burgers, fries, and juices all round. Jo manages to keep her face straight at the drinks order. Most of the Roadhouse clientele would drink the rainwater outside rather than order fruit juice. If it wasn’t obvious enough already, the glimmer of evening light making its way through the window catches on the cross pendant visible through the open top button of Jimmy’s collar, and confirms the family’s faith. 

They go and find a table, choosing one by the window, to sit and drink their juices at. Jo sets about sorting the rest of their order, pottering about between the kitchen and the bar to serve it all up. 

She’s halfway through plating the fries when movement catches the corner of her eye and she spins to see the young girl clambering up one of the high stools at the bar, the seat teetering a little under her weight.

“Hey,” Jo says, maybe a little meanly. Mostly caught by surprise. “What are you doing?”

The girl’s face falls into a round, guilty oh as she finally settles, kneeling, on the seat. “I just wanted to see what was behind.”

Jo nods, calming now that her initial panic at the girl’s movement has subsided. “That’s fine, just make sure you’re careful up there, alright? It’s a tall seat and you’re a—a small little body.”

“One day I’m going to be bigger and every seat in my house is going to be a tall seat,” the girl decides with a jut of her chin. 

The comment hits Jo at such an angle it cracks her, and she barks out a laugh. “Sounds like a plan, kiddo. What’s your name?”

“Claire,” she answers. Then, with the precision of a child who has had politeness strongly instilled in her, asks, “and what’s yours?”

“Jo.”

“I thought that was a boy’s name.”

“It is,” Jo says. She gets a familiar burst of pride with it, but it feels awkwardly shallow with Claire looking up at her, so she follows with, “but it’s a girl’s name too. My full name is Joanna-Beth.”

Claire breathes a little woah . “That’s such a pretty name.”

“Huh. Um, thanks,” Jo manages. She’s never liked it, the way her mom only uses it in anger, the way her dad never used it. Joanna-Beth is someone else. Joanna-Beth is a bad daughter. Claire, though, doesn’t know any of that. 

As Jo’s cheeks tinge pink, Claire’s mom comes hastening over, ready to lift Claire down from the bar stool and back to the table. 

“Is she distracting you? I’m so sorry. Claire, love, come on—”

“No, it’s fine, really,” Jo placates earnestly. “I really don’t mind it. I was enjoying our chat.”

Claire beams at her. “So was I, mommy.”

Claire’s mom looks between the two of them—Jo wonders what goes on in her head as she does, two such naive-looking girls set against the backdrop of the Roadhouse—and then nods. “Well, you just give me or Jimmy a shout if you need a hand.”

“Thanks. I’m not great with kids, so I might need to,” Jo answers with a smile. It’s the truth; she’s never had much practice.

The woman raises a doubtful eyebrow. “Well, you seem to be doing a good job so far.”

Jo nods, unsure what to do with the praise. 

“I’m Amelia, if you need me,” supplies Amelia instead.

“I’m Jo.”

“It’s short for Joanna-Beth,” Claire pipes up, the awe still palpable in her voice. 

Amelia laughs, nodding, and runs a hand through Claire’s sleek pigtails. “Pretty name,” she tells Jo, before heading back to her husband at the table. 

It’s the complement of the hour, it seems. Jo nods again, head bobbing unassuredly like one of the lame figures in Ash’s room, as she gets back to plating up the meals under Claire’s careful surveillance. 

“You’ve got horses on your butt,” Claire says after ten full seconds of silence. 

“What? Oh,” Jo laughs, turning in vain to glance at the horses embroidered over the back pockets of her jeans. She found them in the thrift store in town. They weren’t cheap, the horses stitched in mid-gallop over the pockets boosting the price considerably. But it’d felt wrong to leave the horses trapped in the sterile light of the thrift store. They deserve some warm lighting, Jo’d thought, where they can complete their run for freedom when no one is looking. The jeans are just a tad too small, so the plushy middle of her stomach bulges over them slightly, but she tries not to mind it. Anything for the horses.

“Do you like them?” she asks, wiggling her butt a little, much to Claire’s delight. 

Jo normally keeps her movements minimal, behind the bar, knowing how hunters’ eyes glue grossly to all the places she’d least like them look. She often feels like somewhat of a dancing monkey because of it, but here it’s an innocent movement with no repercussions other than Claire’s laughter.

“They’re so fun. I wish my dress had horses on like yours,” Claire says with a plaintive sigh which sounds amusingly beyond her years. 

“You like horses?” 

Claire nods eagerly. “For my next birthday mommy says I can have a riding lesson.”

“Woah! That’s so cool!” Jo says, and she’s genuinely quite excited at the idea. “I’m jealous, I wish I could ride. Then I could saddle up and go wherever I wanted all by myself.” California, she’d decided sometime long ago. Or maybe Arizona. Just somewhere west of this wasteland.

“I’ll come back and teach you once I know,” Claire answers, so earnestly Jo knows she fully believes it. 

Somehow, she can see it: Claire with her little arms crossed staring up at Jo perched precariously on a horse, calling instructions up to her. “I’d like that,” she says with a grin. “Where will you ride to, once you can ride absolutely anywhere?”

Claire considers the question deeply, the cogs whirring away visibly behind her eyes. “Well, I’d have to teach daddy and mommy how to ride too. I don’t want to go anywhere without them. But then I don’t mind.”

Jo hums. It’s a cute image, the three of them as one family riding off into the sunset. Not lost, because they’re together. It feels distant, familiar in the way the memories of a dream are; foreign. Whenever she has those fantasies of riding away now, she’s alone. She supposes that wasn’t always the case.  

“That sounds real lovely,” she finally gets out, staring down at the burger she has started stacking. She hadn’t really realized she was doing it, just running on automatic. Thinking of her father and running on automatic, the story of her life since she lost what Claire still has. 

But Claire’s concentration has dwindled and she wriggles in her seat. “Are you going to be done soon? I’m starving .” 

“Hey, you’re the one distracting me!” Jo rebuts, shaking her head clear with an exaggerated sigh for Claire’s benefit. “But tell you what, I have an idea to help you grow bigger so you can always sit on the tall seats.”

“What?” Claire asks, perking back up with excitement. 

Jo hunkers down to Claire’s level on the bar, resting her chin on her arms so they’re completely eye to eye. “If you help me carry the food to your table it’ll be like lifting weights and then you’ll get big and strong,” she says, voice low like she’s letting Claire in on a secret.

“You mean it’s ready?”

Jo pulls away with a roll of her eyes and fishes the basket of burger and fries from the countertop to present them on the bar. Impatiently, Claire reaches out to grab one, but Jo bats gently her hands away. 

“Hey, kiddo, gotta get down from the seat first.”

“I can do it myself!” Claire protests. 

But still, she doesn’t struggle as Jo comes around from behind the bar and helps lift her to the floor, Claire steadying herself against Jo’s arms. Once her feet have touched the floor, she prods at Jo’s toned tricep again with a podgy finger. 

“Your arm isn’t soft,” she points out, rather frankly. 

Jo gives her arm a squeeze in the same place Claire just did, to feel for herself. She always thinks she is too soft, too willowy; china doll in a bull farm. So although she trains as much as she can, shooting with her bow and arrow in the yard and sparring with the other hunters when they pass through, it never feels like enough. At least Claire thinks differently. 

“It’s because it’s all muscles,” she explains. She give the smooth, plushy skin of Claire’s arm a gentle poke in return. “See, you just haven’t got any yet.”

Claire frowns as she squints down at the difference between them. “I didn’t think girls could have muscles.”

Sometimes Jo looks at herself in the mirror and wishes she’d never trained at all. That she looked like all the other girls her age. Even like Claire. Here she is, jealous of a seven year old, yet knowing that this world of comparison is what Claire will inevitably grow into. Distantly and regrettably, she reminds herself of her mother.

“All girls can have muscle if they want to, and train enough,” she says, trying to keep her words on an even keel. It feels important. But she attempts to imagine little Claire in her gingham dress with muscly arms and fails. 

Claire giggles, gorgeously oblivious as she jabs at Jo’s arm again. “None of the girls at school or Sunday school are like you, Jo.”

Her throat gets a little dry. “Is that a bad thing?”

“Just a thing,” Claire notes absently, before taking the basket of greasy food from Jo’s distracted hand and sauntering over to her family with it clutched tightly in her fists. She hands it straight to her dad, who runs an affectionate hand over his daughter’s head.

“Thank you, sweetheart, this looks very lovely,” he says patiently, as she scrambles over him and onto her own seat. “Have you been kind to the nice lady?”

Jo doesn’t like that word but doesn’t have time to deal with that, recovering as she is from Claire’s rapid-fire insights. She follows the kid to the table and slides Amelia and Claire their portions, receiving grateful smiles from both Amelia and Jimmy. 

“Thank you,” the family chorus, their voices naturally falling in a pleasant harmony. 

Jo’s voice is lonely in comparison as she asks if she can get them more drinks. They turn down the offer and thank her again, Claire’s eyes glued to her food now that it’s properly in front of her. Slowly, Jo returns to her spot behind the bar, unabashedly gazing at the family from across the room.

She watches them hold hands over her shitty bar food and close their eyes in grace, in prayer. Even when they’re all hungry, when Claire has confessed dramatically to starvation, they take the moment to thank their god for their meal. Jo doesn’t think any food prepared by her hands is really worth it, but the prayer comes out in a low and sincere murmur from Jimmy’s mouth. Claire looks like a little blonde angel as she mouths along to her father’s amen . Jo supposes she once looked like that, too. 

**

The next half hour passes with little incident, aside from a repeat round of whiskey for Shawn, Jake and Caleb in the far corner. Jo mainly watches Claire and her family eat their blessed dinner and chat, the flow easy between them. They don’t talk like most people in the Roadhouse do. They sound posher, somehow, their sentences free from apostrophes and curses. Jimmy eats his burger with a knife and fork. 

Another shower of summer rain falls, the noise heavy on the Roadhouse roof. Jo expects it to pass, but instead the weather settles like that, a consistent rumble over the bar. The storm she heard Amelia mention earlier must have caught up with them, despite their desire to outrun it. 

Jimmy and Amela must notice this too. They peer out of the window by their table into the ever-murkier evening, resignation growing on their faces.

“We need to make a move,” Jimmy says. “Get ahead of this before we get stuck.”

As if to emphasize the point, a crack of thunder echoes out around the Roadhouse. The sound travels potently over the flat Nebraska plains and the din of the first clap gives even the hunters in the corner a start. Claire lets out a small yelp and buries herself into her father’s side. 

“It’s just thunder, sweetie,” Jimmy pacifies.

Claire mumbles something into his middle in return, but Jo can’t make it out. 

“You guys finishing up?” she asks, walking over and clearing the baskets. “I’d head out before it gets worse.”

“Yes, we’d like to,” Amelia agrees, “but someone here is a little bit scared of the thunder.”

“I’m not scared,” Claire grouches, lifting a protesting head from her dad’s chest. Jo knows a liar when she sees one, knows it as she knows herself. “I just don’t want to get wet.”

Jo choses bravado and Claire choses nonchalance, but it looks like they both bury their fear. She remembers the performances she used to put on for her father to show she was capable enough to keep up with him, how loved it made her feel when he believed in her. An idea, easily shattered, starts growing in her mind, and she surges forward with it before it can break. 

“So we gotta get you out to the car without getting wet, hmm?” Jo poses quizzically. Claire looks at her suspiciously, but nods along. “I have an idea,” Jo draws out, hands on hips. “We’ll have to go behind the bar to make it work…”

Claire leaps up from her seat, curiosity winning out over anything else. Jo hasn’t even got to ask Amelia and Jimmy’s permission, their looks of gratitude are already enough. They start gathering their jackets as Jo leads Claire around, to the tantalizing world behind the bar.

“Cool,” Claire whispers. It’s the closest thing to slang she’s said all day.

Jo smiles despite herself, then readies to go through with her idea. She’s sharing the one thing of her father’s which is truly hers. If it were anyone but Claire, she wouldn’t be doing it, but something about Claire makes it feel different—makes sharing feel more like a gift which grows rather than diminishes. 

“This,” Jo says, gently lifting the supple material from where it hangs dutifully on its hook, “is my daddy’s leather jacket.”

She takes a deep breath and kneels beside Claire, offering the leather up to her for her little hands to touch. Despite the warmth of the day, the leather is still cool, and Claire’s smile grows as she slides her chestnut-sized palms along the smooth material. 

The leather is brown and worn, but still in pretty pristine condition for a jacket now going on thirty years old. Jo doubts Claire even notices the small set of hand stitches around the collar from when she stupidly tore it and needed to fix it up. It had taken her a whole afternoon tucked away in her bedroom to stitch it back together, but she’d played her dad’s vinyls the whole while and the time had spun away quickly. Even her mom was impressed by Jo’s handiwork, in the end. This jacket is the one thing of her dad that Ellen lets Jo keep, and Jo keeps it well. 

Claire’s blue eyes are wide and wondrous in her head. “It’s very nice,” she says shyly.

Jo smiles. “I know. And it’s really special to me, because my daddy isn’t around any more, so we’re going to take good care of it together.”

“Why isn’t your daddy around?” Claire asks, her forehead wrinkling with the question. She’s a kid clearly trained in courtesy, but the constant frankness to her questions give her a harder edge. If the questions didn’t sting so much, Jo would love it about her. Claire continues, “my daddy loves me so much I think he’ll be around forever.”

“Well,” Jo says carefully, slowly, stringing her words along the tightrope of her taut throat. “Sometimes it’s not a choice. My daddy died nine years ago.” She swallows the ‘today’ she could add onto the end of that sentence, feeling that detail might be a little too much for both of them in this conversation. “Here’s something I find very important to remember: just because someone leaves, doesn’t mean they stop loving you. And it doesn’t mean you stop loving them.”

Claire looks as if she might start chuckling, but then catches onto the sincerity in Jo’s tone. Her mouth falls open slightly and her plump fingers squeeze tighter at the leather jacket. “I don’t want my daddy to leave me.”

“I bet he won’t,” Jo says, placing her hands over Claire’s. They’re so small beneath her own. Warm too, like holding a little heart between her hands. 

Jo looks up at Claire, at her sandy blonde hair tied neatly into pigtails and the pretty orange gingham of her summer dress. Seven years old and so sure her daddy will never leave her. It is only the crystal blue of Claire’s irises that differ from the umber of her own, but even then, Jo supposes that they both have their father’s eyes. 

“I think we’ve got the best daddys in the world,” Jo whispers. “They love us all the time. When they’re out at the shops, when they’re away with work, when they’re up in heaven. They love us right now.” 

She swallows, hard, blinking away the tears that are refracting rainbows in her eyes. There’s a burning in her throat but she’s glad she managed to say those words, to finally get them out into the precious ears of a young girl. She smiles. Her vision is still slightly watery but clearing when she realizes Claire is giggling, a sweet blush on her cheeks. Her laughter is light and bubbly, like a stream tumbling over rocks in the sun. Like if Jo bathed in it, she would feel clean.

“Come on, we can use my daddy’s leather jacket as an umbrella to run out to the car,” she says, the idea finally coming to fruition as she stands back up again and dusts the Roadhouse floor muck from her knees. “I’ll hold it over your head so you don’t get wet.”

Claire rolls her eyes, something Jo wasn’t sure seven year olds knew enough to do, but apparently so. “But then you’re going to get wet!”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m big and strong! I can take some rain.” Jo makes a performance of flexing her arms, the odd proportions of her wide-muscled shoulders and lean frame suddenly a cause for celebration rather than insecurity when looked at through Claire’s eyes. 

“Hmm.” Claire ponders hard at Jo’s words, those cogs visibly turning again in her brain. “Okay. But you’ll have to be fast to keep up with me!” 

The kid makes a dash for the door and is surprisingly speedy on her little legs, her gingham dress swishing behind her. Jo starts after her, pitching both arms upwards so the jacket hangs from them like a tent over Claire’s head. They dash out the front door and into the delicious rain, giggling all the way until it turns into full belly laughter. The lights of the car flash when Jimmy unlocks it, and Claire kicks up water as she runs to fling open the backseat door. Jo’s jeans are splattered with it, but the rain is coming down in sheets so her whole body is soon soaked through anyway. 

Another roar of thunder booms across the open space but Claire doesn’t even notice, too busy sheltering under Jo’s jacket as she scrambles up into the car. Jo slides the leather jacket on to free up her hands and help Claire wriggle into the backseat. The girl is a step ahead of her, and clicks her seatbelt into place with a smug little grin at Jo.

“See, I am faster than you!” 

Jo laughs, feeling rainwater pool in the corners of her mouth as she does so. “Okay, you win. But I did help keep you safe from all the horrible rain and thunder.”

“Yes, you did,” Claire concedes graciously. She clearly has a self-righteous streak. Smiling, she opens her arms wide for Jo to hug her, but Jo backs away.

“I’m very wet still, I don’t want to make you damp after all this.”

“Oh, okay,” Claire says, looking crestfallen. “But I want to hug you anyway.”

Jo pauses. “You sure?”

“Of course!” Claire says, the words come on, silly, evident in her tone. 

Jo grins, and wraps her drenched, leathery arms around Claire. Squeezes her tight. With her face buried in Claire’s hair, she inhales the strong and familiar scent of strawberry shampoo, the kind she used to use when she was small. She’s got a young girl’s warm body in her arms, and the scent of her dad’s leather and her childhood shampoo mix in the May evening air. 

“I want to be just like you when I grow up,” Claire’s voice whispers in her ear. 

Jo wants to sob, but doesn’t. She instead gives Claire one last, big, humongous squeeze and untangles herself, her arms leaving damp patches across Claire’s dress. Claire doesn’t seem to mind, she’s only seven. 

“I was just like you when I was small,” Jo manages to reply. She doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing anymore, or if it’s just—as Claire said—a thing. Some small part of her feels like she’s damning Claire as she says this, to a life like her’s. But then again—maybe it’s just a thing, and her life is neutral. There does not have to be a curse to pass on. She smiles. “It’s been really nice to meet you, Claire.”

“And it was nice to meet you too, Jo!”

They do a final high-five (Claire’s hands only spanning Jo’s palm) before Jo steps back into the rain proper, closing the car door in front of her with a wet thunk. 

The driver’s door opens and shuts beside her, Jimmy having climbed behind the wheel. Amelia’s footsteps splash around to the far side of the concrete and then the whole family is sheltered in the car, safely stowed together behind the windows.

In the low lighting of the Roadhouse sign, for a moment Jo looks into Claire’s window and only sees herself, rain pouring down her face and shoulders wide enough to fill her father’s jacket. Then the driver’s window rolls down and Jo steps to meet it. 

“Thank you,” Jimmy says. He has dark hair and a face she will meet again. “You were very good with her. Your parents should be proud.”

Jo goes to shake her head but then allows herself the nod, to tentatively agree. Her wet hair is plastered to her scalp, but the rain isn’t cold; it’s just right. 

“Have a safe journey,” she calls. Then repeats herself as the man revs the engine so Claire, winding the window down too, can still hear her. “Have a safe journey!” 

To where, Jo realizes she isn’t quite sure. 

Both her and Claire wave like wild things as the car turns back out onto the road, Jo chasing the car for a few meters, to Claire’s growing grin. As the car pulls away Claire’s blonde pigtails are the last thing Jo can make out of her.

She stands there, in the parking lot outside the Roadhouse where the dust is being beaten into the road by the summer rain. The taillights of the car rumble out of view and Jo still stands, waving, unsure if she’s just met the past or future, until her mother comes and beckons her inside. 

[miradelletarot]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love 💕

Thank you so much @senualothbrok for the ask!! let's see what I can come up with here...

Now, I am gonna preface this by saying that I LOVE The Weave and the Vines, but I don't feel super cozy about sharing it in the state it's currently in as it's going through a lot of edits and adjustments currently. That being said, It's a project I am so deeply proud of and passionate about. It has had a huge impact on me as a person and writer. If you would like to explore it, please do. I am working on changing how I posted it so parts 1-2 are here while the rest are listed as individual works which can be found on my ao3! So, if you explore this one, please be gentle and know that it's in a transition phase, and is in the process of getting a lot of love. It's based on my main OC, Sagora and her journey since being captured by the Ilithids, and how her and Gale fell in love. Two broken souls finding each other in their darkest times, and shining their light on one another.

Somewhere - Written for @sorceresssundries! This was a prompt based on the song "Somewhere Only We Know," sung by Lily Allen. Gale is in his advanced years, and lonely after Tav's passing some time ago. He returns to the Astral Sea that he once took Tav, and has created a version of them within the illusion for him to visit. He takes comfort in the illusion, but one day, it becomes more than a small visit.

Lies in the Mirror - This little treato is a soft, tender, SFW piece where reader-insert Tav is dealing with some body dysphoria, and Gale is there to comfort them. A bit raw, real, and comforting piece. It's small, but has a huge impact on me personally.

I Wanted to be Angry - This is a Sagora x Gale AU where Gale ascends to Godhood. If you have read The Weave and the Vines, you will know that him doing so would absolutely break her. This is a painful one-shot that explores how she succumbs to her heartbreak, and how Astarion and the other companions break the news to God!Gale during their gathering in the months following the defeat of the Netherbrain. This one made *me* cry so...have a tissue handly. Just in case.

An Unexpected Valentine - This was written for a Discord Galentine's event back in February! It's a one-shot Isekai fic that follows Ilarah, a depressed and divorced woman who works for a shitty boss, and self-soothes by playing BG3 and drinking too much whiskey. One stormy night, a portal appears, and a strange man appears in her apartment...but he's certainly no stranger. I hope you like these!! I will let you know that in light of the recent AI theft issues, I have my fics set to RESTRICTED. If this is an issue for you, and you genuinely want to read them but can't, please message me. I'll be happy to assist you. <3

[qprpbj]

do you have any tips on how to start writing fics?

the outsiders brainrot actually has me coming up with ideas and i have a desire to start writing them into actual stories but i've never written outside of class papers/assignments and i don't really know where/how to start since it's all just my own prompts and ideas and there's no grading rubric lmaoooo

like do you plan out each fic with a list first or do you just start writing about the main plot point of the chapter and fill in out of order or do you just start writing and see where it takes you... do you do any research while you're planning or pull from other authors/fics/posts or write from experience...

how do you decide when to stop writing or decide on which endings/paths/plot points to go with... the deadly combo of indecisiveness and perfectionism along with having no guidelines or due dates is crippling me so im asking some of my fav authors (who have also been inspiring me to write and be creative)

wait hi this is so sweet thank you!!! 🥹🥹 i will preface All This (sorry i yapped so much lol) by. i’ve been writing fic for like ten years and i think a lot of my old fic, while deeply cringe and awful, was all very important to getting me where i am today where i feel i can accurately get across what im trying to say!!!

first. hone your ideas!!! try to find a good niche you feel comfortable in (but also. don’t limit your creativity!!!). idk for me it’s easier to start specific and small rather than super general bc then i have Tooooo much freedom u know. i think my niche sorta across fandoms is generally softer dialogue, exploring close siblings or familial or friendship bonds an dynamics through situation, a lot of fluff, maybe a lil hurt comfort

i basically exclusively write in order! unless i get a really cool line/paragraph in my head that i write out and save for later to fit in somewhere. i usually have a like one-line idea that just Comes to me (ex. this was my entire line idea that turned into that pony getting jumped fic!)

then i’ll expand it a little more into a shitty little paragraph (ex. here’s a few!!!)

and then tbh after that i just kinda write everything in order from top to bottom from there. i wish i were more organized tbh and writing long fic/chaptered stuff is still sooo hard for me (which is why i don’t do it much yet lol) but im really trying to break out of it!! slowly we are learning!!! retaining the inspo and drive necessary to write that much is harddddd lmfao

before writing i always do have a solid idea where i want it to start and go and end though. like that ponyboy jumping fic i Knew i wanted to have pony get jumped in the opening scene, then go home, try to break down cutting his own hair, brothers come in and talk him down and it ends with talking abt johnny, even if i didn’t like. List that all out in words in a document.

definitely do research!!! espppp for outsiders bc it was like 60 years ago!!! well researched fics are soooo obviously tonally different and it’s always super obvious imo when that sort of care is put into ur writing. that fic i wrote about darry getting a panic attack was important researching bc panic attacks weren’t well known or researched or even Called panic attacks back then, so it’d be hella jarring seeing like 1967 13y/o pony whip out “you’re having a panic attack darry 🤓👆” yk lmfaoo

i SOO get the perfectionism and having no due dates thing btw. i have literally like 5 fics i’ve started and not finished in my docs rn with like 15 more ideas i wanna write someday. tbh! try to enter that Hyperfixation Zone and be really excited about what you’re making!!! helps it go by easier bc i swear sometimes i’ll write fic and it feels like pulling teeth even though it’s supposed to be fun!!!

last thing. try and find friends to bounce ideas off of and go crazy with you <3 or ppl to beta read!!! makes writing SO much easier and sm more fun having a your own lil personal cheerleader!!! if you ever need a beta id be soooo happy to read whatever you’ve got and hype u up!!! <3 i hope this helped at least a little bit LOL my writing process is kinda chaotic ngl

[doggernaut]

Role reversal AU?

This AU, unfortunately, is very far down the list of things I'm likely to finish, mainly because it's a much bigger fic than I have time to write at the moment. It was originally a prompt I chose for last year's @omgauplease fest, but between school work and marathon training I just didn't have enough time to devote to it. 

The gist of the prompt was a role reversal fic where Bitty is a cocky, closeted figure skater who's about to spin out of control and Jack, having gone through something similar, is the only one who recognizes what's happening to Bitty.

To make it more of a role reversal, after Jack's overdose he took up baking and started taking hockey a lot less seriously. So while he is still captain of SMH in this AU, and professional hockey is still a goal he's working toward at the beginning of the fic, baking professionally becomes his primary ambition as the fic progresses.

Looking at what I've already written and what I have planned, I really would like to finish this fic someday; I just can't give it the attention it requires at the moment. But here is a fun (I think) interaction involving Ransom and Holster:

The muffins are cooling on a rack by the time Ransom and Holster finally make it down an hour later, dressed in their khaki shorts and polo shirts emblazoned with the name of the golf course they work at. “Dude, Shitty said there are new muffins?” Ransom asks while Holster pulls two Gatorades from the fridge.  Jack grabs two egg and spinach muffins off the cooling rack and hands them over. “Something new.” Holster eyes the muffin skeptically. “Fucking hell, Jack, what’s the deal with these muffins? They look like the Incredible Hulk took a shit.” “That’s spinach.” And Holster’s not exactly wrong about their visual description, but Jack isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. “What happened to the cinnamon streusel?” Ransom asks. “Those were fucking incredible.” “I’m trying something new. We don’t need to have dessert for breakfast every day, especially with morning practices starting soon. These will give you energy for the day.” “They taste like ass and make me want to die,” Holster says dramatically. That’s actually good feedback. Jack had thought they were a little bland. Next batch, he’ll add some Tabasco. Despite Holster’s less-than-stellar review, Ransom and Holster each take a second muffin. “Hey,” Jack says, taking advantage of the fact that the guys’ mouths are full and they can’t interrupt him, “there’s this guy who keeps rushing me off the ice every morning. Figure skater. You have any idea who he is?” “Like, a student?” Holster asks. “Or just somebody using the rink?” Jack shrugs. “I get the feeling he goes here, but I’ve never asked.” “You could, you know. Ask. Like a normal person. Unless … Jack, do you have a crush?” “No,” Jack says emphatically. Why do people keep thinking that? “I just want to know who he is and why he’s using the rink. I don’t want problems when practices start up.” “Fine, we’ll do some recon.” Holster sighs, as if it’s a huge chore and not one of their favorite pastimes. Somehow, despite only being rising sophomores, Ransom and Holster are Facebook friends with half the college students in the entire state of Massachusetts. Or, at least the athletes. Jack’s positive that somebody in their vast network will know who this guy is. “But you know you could just ask him,” Ransom reminds Jack. “Like a normal person.” 

It’s three days before the guys get back to Jack. Three days in which he does not talk to the guy “like a normal person” because Jack has been getting up even earlier to make sure he’s out of the rink before the guy arrives. He knows this isn’t sustainable; once regular classes and practices start up he’ll no longer have the luxury of a mid-day nap. But it works for now. “Yo, Jack!” Ransom calls as they clatter into the Haus, sweaty and disheveled after work. “We got the deets on your figure skater.” Jack sighs. “He’s not my figure skater.” Ransom waves away Jack’s correction. “Whatever, you know who I mean. Do we have any Gatorade?” he asks, sticking his head in the fridge. “It’s Eric Bittle,” Holster says, as if the name is supposed to be of significance. “And?” “Eric. Bittle,” Holster repeats. He pauses to take a swig of the blue Gatorade Ransom’s just passed off to him. “Figure skater, took third at Junior Nationals a few years ago and surprised everyone when he moved up to the men’s division and took thirteenth last year.” “But he’s better known for his social media presence,” Ransom adds. “He’s all over Twitter and Insta, and he’s got this YouTube vlog where he talks about behind the scenes skating stuff and does routines to popular songs. At Nationals he got a couple of guys to do the Single Ladies dance with him and it went viral. I don’t know how you missed it, it was everywhere for like … a week.” “Was it during the season?” Jack barely pays attention to the latest viral trends as it is. Ransom rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Do you want the deets or not?” “Are there more ‘deets?’” “He got dropped by his coach after that video went viral. She said he could have placed in the top five at Nationals if he took skating as seriously as his YouTube career.” “Ouch.” Ransom nods. “Well, yeah. And then he made a rebuttal video accusing his coach of not preparing him well enough for the competition, and that that was the reason he scored so low. Now he can’t find a coach willing to work with him.” “He said that?” Jacks interrupts. “Not in so many words, but this guy at work who plays for BC dates this girl who skates and she heard through the grapevine—” “Okay, okay.” Jack motions for Ransom to continue.  “So he’s here at Samwell. He was supposed to start here last year—“ “There’s an episode of his vlog where he opens his acceptance letter—”  “—but he deferred for a year to focus on skating.” If Ransom and Holster devoted half as much time to working on plays as they apparently have to watching some random figure skater’s YouTube archives, Jack thinks, SMH might have gone a little further in last year’s post-season.  “Our point is, you really should know who he is because he’s the biggest celebrity to attend Samwell since that girl who won a Tony when she was fourteen a few years back,” Holster says. “Way more famous than you,” Ransom adds unnecessarily. Every year Samwell gets one or two high profile students who are famous for one thing or another. Jack didn’t win a Nobel Peace Prize as a teenager or star in a long-running Disney Channel show. But his dad won a few Stanley Cups as a professional hockey player and his mom was a supermodel before becoming an actress, so … he’s not the average college student, either. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have been selected as one of “Samwell’s Most Beautiful” if his parents weren’t who they are. “So he’s not competing anymore?” Jack asks. Ransom shrugs. “The last video he posted was right before he left to come here. He said he’s going to focus on school for a while and coach himself.” “Huh.” None of this is what Jack expected to learn, but he can’t deny he’s intrigued. “Thanks.” Holster downs the last of the Gatorade in one gulp and belches. “This one was a freebie. Next time you require our shit excavation services, we’re gonna need you to pay us in muffins.”

[awaitinganorphanera]

Who was going to tell me that in order to produce a fic I actually have to write it >:((((( ??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE WORDS DONT JUST APPEAR IN THIN AIR IF I STARE AT THE BLINKING CURSOR LONG ENOUGH WITH MY BRAIN FILLED WITH SO MUCH IDEAS RAHHHH !!!!

Anyway, I just wanted to share a small tidbit of a Hanahaki au CobyMeppo fic/draft/idea/prompt/shitty compilation of words that barely make sense that I've been working on since FEBRUARY but never fucking finished and am currently still struggling to even continue as embarrassing as that sounds because idk whether its cohesive or good enough to even share on Ao3 Its just the idea of Helmeppo developing and struggling through Hanahaki disease would be so neat imo due to how most CobyMeppo shippers head cannon Helmeppo's feelings being unrequited at first (or not at all) and how he just adores Koby so fucking much that he becomes so ruined. I cant. Apologies if the structured and the way it's told is messy and incoherent, I've added the lil space in the indent thingy to depict a different part of the fic since im not very good at transitioning. I haven't written anything in so long and I wanted to pump so much bits that I didn't even weave anything properly so, HERE IT IS: (a lot of it IS corny and a bit cheesy so be forewarned akjsjasjsa)

Koby always liked flowers. Surely then, Helmeppo thought, Koby would like him too. Helmeppo, who dwelled within his prickly walls, each barbed with Rose thorns. Helmeppo, with his muddled virtues, swelling and desiccated like stains from Poppy sap. Helmeppo, with a chest riddled with budding blossoms, all watered by his desolate, weeping heart. Could such qualities appeal to the man he grew to love? Perhaps, Helmeppo thought, and perhaps too, he should have known better.  Known when his feelings had begun to develop into something more than simple tolerance, more than respect, more than adoration and even more than intense attachment to the pink-haired boy. At least then, he would have prepared for the worst. Or at least… That's what he assumed when the worst began. It was a blur, how it started. Helmeppo was always self-aware, extremely conscious of his feelings. He knew of jealousy, anger, longing, all traits that contributed and resulted from his desperate and gnawing want to appease his father. His father, of course. His own blood and bones, the same person who probably caused the beginning of all– this. Was it really a surprise? Helmeppo couldn't think of any fucked up thing in his life that hadn't ultimately been caused by Morgan. He grew to learn how to read the room, read the faces, read the tones, he grew to know his father's thoughts without actually knowing anything about his father's feelings. Did he even feel? Feel for his son? No. Of course not. The only thing Morgan could feel for him was apathy.  Sometimes, Helmeppo wished his father hate him instead, wished that he was worth hitting. At least then, he would have experienced treatment that came with passion and effort, treatment that resulted from feeling, treatment that made him feel at the barest, like he meant something.  The lack of care and lack of anything that Morgan bothered to show to his son was barely even the surface of reasons why Helmeppo is even suffering through this. The cause that made Helmeppos brain chemistry rewire and for his damn neuromodulators to rearrange. To see something as small as a single act of genuine care be perceived as a trick, a lie, a dream that he’d so desperately want to fall into and relive despite the possible consequences. He should have recognized how unhealthy and apparently not normal these thoughts were, should have known that his emotions are unstable and too much, should have seen how horrific he grew to be. But even then, Helmeppo thought, would that have done anything to prevent the illness he'd eventually succumb to?

Of all the horrors in Helmeppo’s life, he would have thought that seeds growing inside his lungs would have been the most and hopefully (though doubtedly, considering his luck in life) last traumatic event that would truly, bring him to ruin. But of course, the world, just like how Helmeppo always found himself to be, would never have enough, and just like the breaths he was left to breathe, would leave him dwindling in the years to come. It started as a blur, again, just like any day in the ship he found himself settled in. A gift. He thought, better than what life offered him when he woke up back in shells town. Or at least that's what he’s been telling himself.  Morgan was cruel, sure, but at least he was familiar. He was easier to navigate, easier to chart and read and hide from.  He couldn’t do this here, when things still felt new. He knew of Garp and his capabilities, but he didn’t know the limits of his patience, he had no clue what and how many things would warrant the usage of his fist. He knew of the shady business of the Navy and the World Government, knew of its structure and how it works; the tutors paid by his father made sure of that much, but he never got to live through it.

SOMEONE PLEASE GIVE ME TIPS ON HOW TO TRANSITION PARTS IN WRITING, I SUCK ASS AND AM OPEN TO CRITIQUES AHJSJAS