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mire1li · 3 months

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Reader as Alastor's Mother part 2

Part 1!, Part 3!

𓋼 You would absolutely decorate his microphone with a bunch of ribbons you found!

And he would absolutely allow it in fear of upsetting you, although he began to take them off later on when he had to leave, but seeing you get sad at his actions changed his mind… It did not help that the ribbons were glittery.

“Oh look, Sparkles got sparklier!” Angel had said when Alastor was passing by.

𓋼 He wants you to be happy but don't even try having feelings for anyone in hell, they'll most likely 'disappear under mysterious circumstances' and then you'll just so happen to hear their screams on Alastor's radio broadcast <3

Lucifer tries to flirt everytime he sees you outside (or once he comes back to see the hotel which… would be 'some' time later…) But it's not long before Alastor shows up bcs he has a shadow follow you everywhere

“My mother certainly would not want someone so… ancient…”

“are you trying to make me sound like a fossil?”

“Maybe~ I can’t say for sure though!”

"Y'know, I've stolen wives before… maybe it's time to steal a mother instead!"

"I'm going to fucking kill you"

𓋼 Lucifer would play silly games with you and bring you gifts by leaving them at the hotel’s doorstep, although you never received any (like he thought you did) because Alastor would always take them before you saw them. Or he would make them his own to give to you if you were having a worse day than usual!

“Mother, I had noticed that you weren’t feeling all too great so I brought you a wonderful gift!”

“Oh, thank you, darling!”

Your mood always brightened when he gave you these gifts. 𓋼 One time when Lucifer visited the hotel, he went straight to you to ask you about how you liked the gifts.

"[Name]! Hello, deer, how are you? Did you like the gifts that I left you?"

"Hello Luci, I'm fine, thank you! … Gifts? what gifts?"

"The ones… that I left on the doorstep of the hotel!"

"I dont recall seeing any gifts there… but Alastor recently started leaving the hotel more often! Not for very long though…"

And then Lucifer realised. You never received his gifts because Alastor got to them first! After that, he made sure to put a note with his signature on them. Though, that still didn't deter Alastor, to Lucifer's dismay.

𓋼 One time, Angel returned to the hotel at an unreasonably late hour, so you went to make sure everything was alright.

"Are you alright, Angel?"

"Huh? No, I'm totally fucked!"

"Why? What happened?"

"You know Valentino right? My boss?"

"Of course I do, everyone hates him quite a bit here and you always talk about him"

"Right, well, fuckin' Val made me work an extra 10 hours!"

"He what?!"

"Yeah! Absolute bitch move."

Naturally, Alastor was watching and listening to you two so you turned to him, with quite the menacing look in your eyes.

"Oh Alastor, prepare your radio broadcast!~"

𓋼 You noticed that most of the residents of the hotel all came to you for advice quite often (except Niffty, she's just an entirely different entity)

"It seems they have become quite fond of you, Mother"

"They have, haven't they?"

Alastor's expression was always one of annoyance whenever someone came to you for help. He wouldn't dare admit it, but he was most certainly jealous of anyone who even stood too close to you, let alone talked to you.

𓋼 Because of that one time that Alastor stood right next to Charlie to spite Lucifer, Lucifer decided to stand just that close to you to get back at him.

"An eye for an eye, Mr Radio!"

"I recommend you watch yourself."

𓋼 One time, when you were out of the hotel and walking around Hell with Alastor, Vox just so happened to see you on one of his tv screens, Valentino sitting by him, messaging someone.

"Hey Val, who the fuck is that with that old-timey prick?"

"Hm? No clue."

"You didn't even look, fuckhead"

"How would you know? You're too busy eyefucking Alastor."

"I am not"

"She's probably just another one of those redemption hotel idiots. It doesn't matter"

But Vox still just glared at the screen.

𓋼 Vox continued to keep an eye on you, seeing just how wonderful you are and so when you were outside the hotel alone (or so he thought) he went up to you. Somehow he didn't catch onto the fact that you're Alastor's mother.

"Hello-"

"What do you think you're doing?" Alastor, of course, suddenly appeared out of thin air, standing in between you and Vox, with an even more annoyed smile than usual.

"Alastor, is this another one of your friends?"

"No-"

"Yes, absolutely, ma'am. Great friends, in fact!"

"Ha! Well, you see, this is my Mother."

"Your what?"

Yeah, Alastor simply walked away with you whilst Vox was buffering.

𓋼 Vox constantly tried to talk to you alone but Alastor was always there to stop him, so unfortunate.

"Would you stay away from my Mother, you-! Ahem, my apologies, Mother."

"Hah! Your mother? I think you meant our mother!"

𓋼 Alastor would absolutely cover your ears when swearing at, or insulting, anyone.

𓋼 When you first met Valentino, you were so mad at him on Angel's behalf that you knocked him out and brought him back to the hotel with you. Of course, Vox was there with Val but he was like a lost duckling, just slowly trailing behind you, unsure what to do.

"I'm back!"

"What the fuck did you do??" Angel was lying down on the couch when you entered, dragging the unconcious Valentino behind you.

"A favour to you and hell!"

"No, but how?!"

"That's a secret~"

"Ok… so why'd ya bring him here?"

"Redemption"

𓋼 Back to Lucifer! He would tell you random animal facts to try and impress you! He would also unironically ask around, and search up (if necessary), how to impress a woman.

𓋼 Lucifer would suddenly start playing the violin for everyone in the hotel 'for everyones' entertainment' as he called it. (It was meant for you though). Each time Lucifer did this, Alastor told you that something important happened that required your attention. You always stayed for the beginning though.

𓋼 One day, you were baking cookies and you and Alastor left the kitchen for a while whilst they were in the oven, however, you both somehow managed to forget about them… so when the smoke alarm suddenly rang, you ran into the kitchen, everyone wondering what happened.

"Fuck!"

"Language, Mother."

"Don't you 'language' me, young man!"

𓋼 You redecorated his room. He wasn't a fan of all the new colours, but he still appreciated the gesture. (There was a lot of glitter involved)

𓋼 After a while of you staying there, everyone definitely sees you as a mother figure (Alastor didn't appreciate this much either but he's willing to look past it for his friends)

𓋼 As small gifts, you made everyone items that resemble them and filled them with different colours of glitter and paper that remind you of them. Bonus: Behind the scenes! 1. Yuri's bad timing:

2. Vox and Val:

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littlespoonevan · 19 days

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This Old Love Has Me Bound

Pairing: Evan Buckley/Eddie Diaz, Evan Buckley/Tommy Kinard Rating: Teen and up Word Count: 3516 Summary: “Okay so, a high school crush,” Tommy starts, ticking the examples off on his fingers. “A maybe set up from your sister and one guy who thought you were flirting like, three years ago. Is that it?” Buck frowns, trying to think, because he knows there has to be more. Unbidden, a memory flashes in his head and he huffs a laugh. “There was one time this, uh, Christmas elf? Thought Eddie and I were married. Like we took Christopher to see Santa and she told me we had a beautiful family.” Something inscrutable passes across Tommy’s face but it’s gone in an instant. “Yeah? What’d you say?” “I-“ “Here we are!” the perky waiter interrupts Buck’s answer, looking expectantly between the two of them. “Who ordered the steak?” * In an attempt to better understand his newfound bisexuality, Buck tries to figure out if he ever missed any signs with guys before. The universe keeps interrupting every time he's about to think about Eddie.

Read here on ao3

#buddie #my fics #911 fic #OOP #i may write a part 2 bc this started getting way more emotional than i planned #so uh yeah let me know!!!!#but also enjoy 💙💙💙

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bongo-clash · 2 years

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Peacock Au Part 1

Okay so Big Huge credit to @stealingyourbones for letting me do my own take on their amazing eldritch Danny idea!!!! This started out as me just doing a drawing but then I ended up with a whole DPxDC fic that I'll be posting the part two for at some point!!! Anyway, here's the vague designs:

And here's the part one of the fic under the cut!!! :D (Edit: Part 2 is Here!!)

There’s a Lazarus Pit forming underneath Gotham. Normally, this would not concern John Constantine at all, because it’s Gotham, therefore Bat territory therefore not his problem, and honestly he has his own things to worry about. Unfortunately for him, however, the infamous Dark Knight has somehow gotten it into his head that he can do something about it and, Hell, he’d said it would be a ‘big favour’, which meant the man really must be desperate; had to have been in the first place, he supposed, to have even bothered with John in the first place.

Still, he’d almost kind of forgotten what a huge mess any kind of favour for Batman could be, and thus, he now holds possession of a book that is probably going to get him killed.

Whether the actual book itself wants to kill him is up for debate, but Constantine has read the contents of this particular Book of Summonings and nothing in here seems remotely safe. He’s absolutely going to be hiding this away somewhere deep in the archives of the archives of the Justice League watchtower with an incredibly pointed ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ on it once he’s done with this, but for now, it’s the only thing he’s got in the way of sorting out this Pit problem.

There’s an entity that exists, this book claims, that keeps the balance between realms. ‘Closes doors’, apparently, and the doors the pages depict certainly look like a Lazarus Pit. This is brilliant news, obviously, but the book doesn’t describe the entity itself at all beyond that; barely any of the other entries are as vague as this, and that plus some of the frankly bizarre sigils he’s having to draw to summon the damn thing are giving him no comfort. The only remotely comforting thing about it is that the ritual doesn’t require any blood- which either means the entity is benign, or it wants something more valuable than blood.

…Okay, maybe not that comforting, actually.

But, before he can consider that maybe this wasn’t his best idea and backing out would be for the best, the sigils flare with light, and Constantine squints to keep track of the way they activate, desperate for any indication of what he’s managed to summon with that stupid book.

His feet feel feathery against the ground, like they’re barely tethered by gravity and just waiting to float away, and perhaps the seeming lack of atmosphere is fitting with how dust like stars lift from the summoning circle, bringing with them intercepting layers of purple-blue-pink-white, galaxies and nebulae being peeled off the floor. It comes with a sound- something whistling, almost. Seeming hollow, between a shriek and a bell ringing, or maybe more musical than that. It seems to change every moment he tries to focus on it, as if it’s something his ears can’t really hear but his brain is desperate to process, painful to try.

And then, the entity begins to form.

Unnoticeably at first, a white glow drifts forming in the centre. It congeals as Constantine’s gaze finally fixates on it, layers forming like jellyfish trails, or flowers, or peacock feathers with runic circles at the tips, fading smaller and smaller as they reach the centre, and a thing akin to a body unfolds into view at the front, a centrepiece. A child’s image of a shadow in opalescence, a strange curving feature where a neck might be, and searing-green spots of varying sizes scattered along the space where cheeks and eyes could’ve been, fading up and down across the lower-half of the ‘face’ and into the ‘hair’. He barely understands what he’s looking at, but maybe that’s the point.

The sound of a thunderstorm rings across the room, and the curve of the neck unfolds, and it’s an eye, and the tips of a thousand twisted, cosmic peacock feathers become eyes as well, if they weren’t always. They move, wavering, either lashing or flickering from visibility.

“And what is this?” The voice is a kaleidoscope, echoing off and from every corner of the room, and when they speak, infinite eyes become infinite mouths, too many teeth barely contained by the edges of what seem vaguely like frostbitten lips. To have something even remotely human suddenly etch itself onto the entity is somehow worse than the parts he can’t comprehend. “Who are you, to have summoned me, and seem so afraid?”

Constantine wishes, maybe for the first time, that it hadn’t been an obligation to do this alone; he’s never wanted Batman or one of the Light members with him more than now. It’s a difficult thing, almost impossible, to shake off the speechlessness. It’s a wonder that it’s possible at all, with how the room seems to have been twisted into a vacuum. “I was told you could- you could help with the pits?”

“The pits. There are many pits.”

God, this is creepy. “The Lazarus pits to, uh, to be specific. There’s a huge one cropping up under Gotham that’s not supposed to be there, and the local- I mean, the locals are getting antsy about it. …I heard you can take care of them.”

“I can smell its blood between the gaps of atmosphere, encircling. You, whose soul is bound in so many directions, who may be pulled apart like meat in time- can you sense it? Does it draw you?” John doesn’t know how this- this thing knows that, but he’s scared asking will invoke some kind of consequence, and more and more he’s wondering why the Hell he decided to do Batman this favour. He feels exposed.

“Uh… no, I don’t think so. But can you fix it?”

“Yes.”

“…Will you fix it?”

The chill is getting to him. Goosebumps are running across his arms like a livewire, and he’s never doing anyone a favour ever again. The entity makes an approximation of a hum, his ears shriek with whale song and stars, and after a pause, everything switching up and down on itself, the peacock eyes form into huge, reaching hands. For a second, Constantine’s whole body freezes with terror, because he’s petrified the thing’s going to grab him, but then the arms tumble phasing into the ground, and the green spots on their ‘face’ flare with a supernova glow and they make another piercing noise, chiming or trilling.

A long moment later, the hands slowly return to the entity’s back, and fade into the peacock feathers or jellyfish bells or whatever they were before, blinking at him. “It is gone.”

“Uh… cheers?”

“It will not return, but this place shall see its dead for some time. Try not to look.”

This is maybe the worst day of Constantine’s life. “Can I- uh, yeah, great advice. ‘Appreciate it. But, can I ask just, y’know, what you are? Or not.”

“That is up to you.” They say, and though the eyes that appear briefly between sentences bely or reveal no expression, it feels scrutinising. “What is it that closes doors? Is it alive?”

He hates riddles. He hates riddles and he hates cosmic horrors and he hates eldritch entities and he hates Batman for getting him to agree to this horrible favour. He wants to go back to the House of Mystery and pass out for long enough that this whole thing becomes a dream. “Fair enough! Forget I asked- cheers for sorting out that pit, though. Uh, don’t suppose you’ll just let me go on my way or anything now.”

“I know of your Bat.”

Oh dear. Constantine’s stomach sinks like a shipwreck into the Mariana Trench, but the entity moves on like they’d never even said it. “I will recede, and find you in time, perhaps both. You will know when I am coming, and I will find my recompense.”

And just like that, their whole form shimmers into clouds and pearls and smoke and mirrors, and they fade back into the runes that summoned them like tap water down the drain. The galaxies they’d formulated within the confines of the room fold back in on themselves and turn to whispers and then nothing, but the feeling persists on his skin long after weight has settled back onto his bones. He hadn’t known a thing like that existed until now. He doesn’t know what it can do, doesn’t know how all-encompassing it truly is.

And he owes it a favour.

Crap.

#I'll be posting the part two at some point soon since it's already written out so prepare for that lmao!!#Warning that there might be some mistakes in here since I literally just wrote this and the second part a couple hours ago #This is a Little bit of a thing about my hc on the Ghost Monarchy and how it isn't Actually a monarchy #It's just that the 'king' keeps the actual physical balance of the GZ (ie natural portal stuff) & the title originally had a different name #But when Pariah Dark took the mantle he decided it made him the ruler of the GZ and that's why the Ancients took him down #But I'll talk more abt that if I ever get around to finishing that GZ culture/history/evolution post thing I had planned lmao!!!!#Either way I Love Eldritch Danny sm and writing this was so so fun!!!#Part two will be from Danny's perspective!!!#I might colour those drawings and stuff at some point but for now I like them as they are!!!#Also before I forget I Am still thinking about that pizza delivery guy pt. 2 I just got stuck a bit!!! It'll hopefully appear at some point #dp au #danny phantom au #dpxdc #john constantine #danny phantom fanart #dp fanart #danny phantom #Bongo's Aus!!!#Bongo's Writing!!!#Bongo's Art!!!#tw body horror #peacock au

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flowercrowngods · 1 year

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Suggesting/Requesting Eddie having a crush on the valiant knight Steve Dustin goes on about, not realizing it's Steve "the Hair" Harrington and the way he reacts when he realizes they're the same dude. Cue adjustment period.

hi! first of all thank you for the prompt 🥰 i slipped and kinda decided to take your ‘valiant knight Steve’ quite literally and made this a medieval/regency au with knight steve and bard eddie, kinda enemies to lovers. it totally got out of hand, so this is part 1, with all my apologies to your original prompt 🤍🌷

Eddie smiles as the fields and forest that surround Hawkins come into view, kissed by the early afternoon sun with more affection and richness than the city probably deserves. It looks different this time of year, the green seems deeper than he left it, and nostalgia paints him a picture of glory and welcome that would make any traveller linger at the sight.

He knows it’s only the magic of coming home, the thrill of having been gone so long that he needs to learn his town a-new, and the curiosity of a poet that makes his heart beat faster; but it’s his life’s blood to embrace all of that. So he spurs on his trusty horse to make it home even just a minute sooner.

The people’s reactions to his arrival come in multitudes, though Eddie can respect the healthy dose of mistrust with which they regard him. He has made a name for himself after all, a bard more than a jester these days, but most people don’t tend to forget the pretty face they chased out of the city on multiple occasions.

He lifts his head in greeting as he passes the elderly Wheelers as they’re tending to the flowers lining their windows, and grins with glee at both the disapproving scoff and the wary nod he gets in return.

He’s in good spirits. Great spirits, in fact, the sun shining down on him, welcoming him and lighting familiar paths for him to tread again after years of absence. Hawkins will see his glory, his success, his victory, and it will pale in jealousy and regret. They cannot chase him away this time, not with the title of royal bard and winner of the bardic competition three years in a row.

If his travels have taught him anything, it’s that he is pettiness acts as a wonderful motivation.

Of course, he shall also see his friends again. One of his saddlebags is half full with their letters that have accumulated over the years, all of which Eddie has kept for reasons of muse and a heart entirely too soft for his own good.

Most of all, though, even more than proving his worth and success to his city and its people, it is curiosity that brings him home.

Dustin and his friends have been mentioning a most valiant knight, waxing poetic about his glorious deeds and his kinder heart — or, as poetic as they get, which is hardly at all. Which consequently made Eddie write no less than five ballads about the stories they told him, three of which have made it into songs yet, one of which he was made to play in every tavern on his long journey back to Hawkins and to Princess Nancy herself on more than one occasion.

The Knightmærs, as he calls his little collection of poeterey, his pride and joy about a man he has yet to meet. Tales about maidens saved and brothers defeated, hearts stolen and retrieved with the gentlest gestures, and children protected against the evils of night, expecting naught but friendship. And friendship he got.

If Eddie’s heart picks up yet another notch at the thought of meeting this knight as the familiar city walls tower before him, he allows it for a second before announcing himself to the guards. They looked wary upon his approach and blanch now as they hear his name; Eddie does not hide his laughter this time and preens as he is told to ride on.

“Oh, Hawkins, old friend,” he mutters under his breath, not even bothering to hide his smile. “You and I shall have so much fun, shan’t we?”

~*~

He barely makes it to the home he has been sharing with his uncle since the ripe age of twelve with minimal fuss, unsaddling his horse and guiding her to the trough, when he hears it.

“Eddie!”

Halting in his motions the currycomb, he looks up from the rusty brown that shines red like embers in the sun and spots Dustin racing down the street towards him.

He lowers the comb and steps around his horse, grinning at his rapidly approaching friend.

“Why, good day to you, young traveller, what brings you to my humble abode?”

Dustin doesn’t falter in his approach, doesn’t even slow down, and Eddie braces himself for impact. Years of experience have made him quite practiced in handling tackle-hugs, but Dustin has grown quite a bit since he last saw him, and they both stumble backwards when Dustin’s arms wrap around Eddie in a way that seems to press all air out of his lungs. Eddie laughs as he hugs his friend back with as much ferocity.

“I’ve missed you! I was writing to you this morning when I remembered you said you’d come this week. I didn’t think it would be today!”

“I came as soon as I could. Such is the Munson way, or did you forget?”

Dustin shakes his head and finally lets go, though Eddie yearns for another hug. It’s been too long. The boy has grown. He’s hardly a boy anymore, though he shall always remain as such in Eddie’s heart. He smiles and ruffles Dustin’s locks, realising with a pang that they’re almost of a height now.

An ache like homesickness settles in his gut and wears on his heart heavily.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, smoothing out the curls he’s put in disarray. “It’s just been too long. And I’ve missed you, too. You’ve grown quite a bit since last we talked.”

“I have!” And he looks so proud of it, too, preening a little under Eddie’s faux scrutiny, and it’s what makes him pull Dustin against his chest again.

Eddie continues taking care of his horse, feeding her, combing through her mane, making sure she has as much comfort as he can provide after their long days of travel. Dustin sits on the fence and watches him tend to her, feeding her the occasional apple when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. He hides his smile and pretends not to see.

God, but he has missed his friend.

Their twosomeness is rudely and entirely too quickly interrupted by Lord Harrington of all people, who hurries down the street in search of Dustin.

Eddie never did like the lord and his pompous appearance coupled with his rude personality. He always acted like a prince among men, subject to many a jest in Eddie’s younger days. On one memorable occasion, Eddie managed to steal the lord’s clothes and swap them with his own, making him walk about in linen rags and torn-up trousers.

Days later, all of his lute strings ripped just as he was getting ready to play at the tavern, and he never messed with Harrington again — even though there was a parcel three days later with new lute strings and his old clothes he had made the lord wear. No note attached to it, because Lords didn’t stoop down to converse with lowly peasants even for revenge.

So, seeing Harrington now on the very first day of his being back, it sours Eddie’s face and his humour.

“Why, Lord Harrington,” he speaks before the man can get a word in. “To what do I owe the displeasure of seeing you here? Have you suffered a fall from grace yet, or was it a hit in the head that left you disoriented, bringing you to my humble abode?”

Harrington frowns at him, though Eddie deems to detect confusion more than distaste.

And then he has the audacity of not even answering to Eddie’s ruse, simply ignoring him and instead turning around to Dustin.

“Dustin, Master Clarke is expecting you. I will not cover for you once more.”

“But—“

“Spare me,” Harrington says, hands on his hips now, and Eddie is starting to feel defensive over Dustin. How dare his lordship come and steal his best friend away when he hasn’t even been home for an hour yet?

Before he can get so much as a word in, however, Dustin is already jumping from his perch on the fence and trudging towards Harrington, rounding the man and leading the way up the hill towards the castle.

“I’ll come back later, Eddie,” Dustin says over his shoulder, and then he is gone, rounded the corner, out of his sight.

Harrington, however, lingers. Eddie raises his eyebrows in question and challenge, and the Lord scoffs a little. It’s like he wants to say something — but what could it be? What could Lord Harrington have to say to him, years after they last saw each other?

He does look stunning, Eddie has to admit with a grudge against his self and his integrity. The golden light of the afternoon sun catches in his hair, likening it to strands of gold that kings and queens pay alchemists across the world to procure. Eddie, for a moment, feels like he has found it in Lord Harrington’s hair and the skin of his face, but he quickly snaps out of it, cutting off that particular train of thought before it can run away form him.

“I hear you are a bard of great renown these days.”

The words catch him off his guard, for Eddie was sure that the Lord would not attempt to converse. Yet it seems that propriety still has a tight grip on him.

Does Harrington like his ballads, his plays, his poetry and sonnets? Has he heard them? Or has he heard of them? Has word travelled across the countries, telling of Eddie the Bard and his brave-hearted muse his soul yearns for and his quill bleeds for?

Eddie is not sure which option thrills him more, but whichever one it is, it makes him smile, feeling quite bashful and yet proud.

“So you hear,” he says, approaching the stiff Lord. “What exactly is it that you hear, my Lord?”

He swallows, following Eddie’s steps with his eyes, turning his head when the bard circles him slowly. “I hear you sing of beasts slain and brothers banished, a knight at the heart of your ballads.” Eddie smiles at that, knowing that Harrington has at least heard of two of his Knightmærs. I hear it sounds like mockery, the knight but an object of your hyperbolic fascination and flowery imagination, his pain and bravery nothing to you.”

He stops dead in his tracks, his feet planted right before Harrington. The Lord looks like he is taking personal offence to his works, and it irritates the bard.

“And what, Lord Harrington, would you know of fascination, pain and bravery? I cannot imagine you have faced a lot of hardship in your life, and the only acts of bravery you had to chance upon were mislead in the name of false honour.”

“False honour,” Harrington repeats, his words like poison, sharp and dangerous as the sword’s blade at his hip. “You would know something about that, I imagine, telling stories of which you have no idea. Immortalising glory where there should be sympathy.”

Eddie studies him, the frown between his brows, the hard line of his jaw, set and calmed to keep more words from spilling. Imposing, this Lord is. A sight for sore eyes even in his purely misplaced anger.

Eddie huffs, his eyes travelling between the Lord’s where they are standing so impossibly close.

“Sympathy,” he repeats. “Nobody, my Lord, wants a ballad of sympathy. It is glory that the people seek!” He steps back from Harrington, gesturing with his arms as he dramatically recounts the lessons he has learned over the years, passionate for his craft. “Glory, heroism, heartbreak and love! Yearning and longing and deeds of an aching heart, that is what the people want to hear. That is what deserves to be immortalised in art, in poetry, in song! I shall forgive you for being so painfully unaware of this, my Lord, but I shall not stand to be in your company much longer, calling my work lacking or a mockery when it is borne out of nothing but loyalty, fascination and love.”

They are close again, because Harrington did not step back when Eddie approached him once more, his feet planted like a tree, fierce and strong and unbudging.

It is intoxicating, though Eddie blames half of it on the passion and the rage, on the bravery that possessed him to send the Lord away, or the fierceness with which he came to his muse’s defence.

Harrington swallows again, his eyes wandering over Eddie’s face once more, lingering at his lips, both their jaws set in determination and perhaps a sudden tension.

“Forgive me for insulting you with my company,” he speaks at last, his voice nothing but a rasp. “You will find there is an irony to your words soon. I shall not rob you of that discovery. I ask you do not take it out on our mutual friends when you do, Munson.”

And with one last glance, Harrington turns on his heel and hurries up the hill, too, leaving Eddie puzzled and quite dazed upon the lingering warmth of their close proximity.

When did Harrington become so handsome? There was a fire in his eyes that Eddie got to witness for just the blink of an eye, but he wonders where that comes from, what it means, and what other secrets he holds.

Perhaps, if he cannot meet his muse, the knight Dustin has only ever referred to as Steve, Harrington might serve to inspire a ballad or two himself.

~*~

Harrington catches his eyes on more than one occasion over the next days. Eddie is invited to the castle to play for Princess Chrissy, though she greets him like an old friend and makes him sit close to her at the banquet. Right beside Harrington, who merely nods at Eddie, his fists clenched as Chrissy asks the bard about one of his ballads — the one about the valiant knight slaying a horde of monsters to keep the kingdom’s children safe.

The Lord must really hate Eddie’s work. It fills him with spiteful glee, for some reason, and he makes sure to play and recite all of his Knightmærs that night. Harrington excuses himself when Eddie hasn’t even made it halfway through his songs, and he doesn’t return that night.

He takes personal offence now and vows to make the Lord’s life as difficult as he can.

But still there is no sign of Steve.

Eddie is starting to get frustrated.

He was supposed to be here, stand tall and proud with a smile on his face upon seeing Eddie, sweep him off his feet, make him swoon, dare Eddie to fall in love with the face long after the name.

His mood is sour, and only sours further when Harrington rounds the corner and stumbles upon Eddie who is tuning his lute for tonight’s banquet. The annual royal tournament is set for the next morning, so everyone is in a good mood.

Well, everyone except Eddie. And Lord Harrington, by the look on his face.

“Munson,” he says, straightening before he bows his head in greeting. “Forgive me, I was looking for some quiet. I shall look somewhere else.”

And, somehow, that is enough to snap his patience that was already wearing thin. “Why can you not stand being in my presence, sir?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Does it disgust you so to be around mere peasants?”

Harrington looks taken aback, shock and confusion clear on his face before a frown takes its place and washes away all further emotions.

“It is not your presence that bothers me, nor the nature of your birth.”

“And yet you leave every time I so much as strum a tune, Lord Harrington, ready to throw both caution and propriety to the winds. Leaving me to wonder what it is that I have done to deserve such treatment.”

Eddie finds himself walking closer and closer to the Lord, coming to a stop not one foot before him. He is drawn in by his presence, his charm as alluring as his cold silence. Everything about Lord Harrington intrigues him, horrified as he is to admit it. But with Steve not around to catch his eye and captivate his heart and mind alike, he simply has to find inspiration elsewhere.

And the way Harrington’s face is taken over by a dangerous expression is the most inspiring, alluring thing he has seen in a while, even though it is directed at him.

“How can you have the audacity to feign confusion over my disdain, bard,” he hisses, and Eddie shivers slightly. Harrington does not even have the sense to step back, staying right where he is, so close, so improper. “How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own, singing songs and telling stories, making into nothing but a jaunty tale recited by drunkards with no regard to the blood it was written in.”

Eddie blinks, not quite catching up with the point Harrington is making.

“What—“

“You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. Making a mockery of me, stealing from me every chance to tell my tale in my own voice, in my own tempo. Entire kingdoms will know before I will have had the chance to wake up from a nightmare, and they sing about it, sing about pain they did not have the misfortune to suffer, sing with a smile, with booming voices because you make them. And yet the only one without a voice remains the one who slew the beast.”

Lord Harrington speaks to him as though he takes offence at the content of Eddie’s ballads, offence at the reality of their background. But what right does he have to take offence when his songs are based on heroic deeds, recounted to him first hand by his very best friend. What right does Harrington have to question the truth behind them?

“If it is a matter of truth that concerns you, let me reassure you, my Lord, that all of my ballads are based on true events. I ask that you do not call me a liar, no matter how great your dislike of my craft.”

“It is not a liar that I call you, but rather a thief.”

Eddie gasps, offended now. “What do you suggest I have stolen, then?”

“A person’s right to their own story. To their own nightmares. A man's right to flee from the horrors he lived through, acquainting every tavern in this kingdom and the next with his horrific and desperate deeds.”

“How dare you call his deeds horrific,” Eddie hisses now, feeling protective over his knight. “How dare you accuse me of ill intent when every word out of my quill is written with nothing but love and admiration.”

“For whom?” Harrington challenges, disdainful and cold. “Only for yourself, your vanity, your overgrown sense of artistic ambition.”

“No,” he shakes his head, hands clenched into fists as he finds himself incredibly close to Lord Harrington, their faces only inches apart now. “It is love for this person I have never met, whom my dear friend has told me about. A man who has kept me awake at night as I was pouring over letter after letter, hoping he should be well. It is a love so strong it has to be turned into art, into song, love that should be sung in every voice of the kingdom.” He scoffs, stepping back to catch his breath. “I do not expect you to know such a love when all you have in your cold heart is disdain for all things beautiful. You would never know bravery if it looked you in the face, you would never know love if it was the very fabric that makes this world. It would slip through your fingers, my Lord, for you would be busy yearning for the day your life found its meaning.”

He is seething, heaving breaths, out of control over the words tumbling out of his mouth. Insulted in his pride and his muse, offended, hurt. Confused, still, as to why the Lord hates his songs with such vigour.

“Is that your opinion of me?” Harrington whispers, though even in that toneless voice of his lies so much that Eddie cannot begin to decipher.

“Yes,” he whispers back, the fight leaving him now, the very air sucked out of the room they share. “I believe I made that clear just now.”

Harrington takes one step closer once more, but Eddie does not budge.

“Then I suggest you forget that knight of yours,” he says, quiet and final. “And forget the idea you have of love. To love someone is not to turn his nightmares into song. To love someone is not to look him in the eye and insult his very existence even further. You love yourself, your craft, your mind. But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.”

Eddie huffs, just barely able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And what makes you so sure of that, Lord Harrington?”

A smile twitches his lips, though there is no mirth, no glee. “You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.” He takes a step back and evades Eddie’s eyes. “I believe you should return to the fest now. Good night.”

And with that, he turns around and leaves.

Eddie finds himself rooted to the ground, air returning to the room now but still he is unable to catch his breath, staring ahead as he is.

Words echo in his mind as the picture paints itself and a horrible, horrible realisation dawns on him.

You will find there is an irony to your words soon.

How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own?

But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.

You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.

But… There is no way. There is no way that Dustin’s friend, Dustin’s knight and protector, his saviour, Steve, should be the same as Lord Harrington with his careful, quiet, disdainfully quirked eyebrow.

Except, Lord Harrington collected Dustin from Eddie’s home, speaking with him in a tone filled with such familiarity, they cannot be mistaken as anything but friends.

And Lord Harrington had listened with such rapt attention when Eddie played his jaunty tunes and the well-known classics at the banquet days ago, looking like he enjoyed Eddie’s play. His face had only soured when people started requesting his newer original songs, his fists clenched upon the opening chords of The Knight and His Nightmare, leaving the hall altogether when people requested more.

You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean.

Eddie’s heart falls when he realises what he has done. How blind he was to the frowns and the tension, how deaf to the hints and insinuations, how ignorant he was of the pain he inflicted on Lord Harrington. Lord Steven Harrington. Steve.

His Steve. And yet not his at all.

He falls back onto the bench, dazed, as the weight of his realisation settles inside his chest.

onwards to part 2

#steddie #steddie fic #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #honey i’m so sorry you gave me a rather clear prompt and i went and disrespected it but i hope this is fine too??#this is also the part where we remember i’m german and am using this language like lego bricks on a playmobil set #dio words #this wasnt meant to be so dramatic but uh. apparently i write miscommunication tropes now. pride&prejudice made me do it #i am planning on a part 2 but i do not control the brain #knight!steve harrington #bard!eddie munson #bard/knight

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echo-rambles · 2 months

Text

use my body against me

summary: when a drunk text to your ex gets answered in a way you never expected, it leads to falling right back into old habits. tags: past established relationship, ex-boyfriend chan, suggestive content but nothing explicit, mention of recreational alcohol use, swearing. notes: title from the way you miss me by all time low. mostly a rewrite of my very first reader insert fic, because I loved the concept but I wasn't a fan of my own writing, and I think I've vastly improved since. I might write a continuation, but no promises.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

The situation you currently find yourself in is truly one of your own making. There’s really no one else to blame, no matter how much you would love to point the finger at literally anyone besides yourself.

There’s a text message from Bang Christopher Chan sitting there, on your phone. Staring up at you almost accusatory and chilling you to the bone.

-Good morning, I hope you’re drinking water to combat all of that vodka you consumed last night! hahaha

At first, the text means nothing to you. It leaves you in a state of mild confusion only exacerbated by your incredible hangover. How would he know you drank your weight in liquor? The only answer you can even try to think up isn’t a good one. Feeling brave and a little nauseous, you decide to scroll up, farther into this conversation between you and your ex.

The confusion melts away into horror as you locate the beginning of this conversation. One glance at the selfie you sent has the memory coming back to you, causing your headache to flare. Oh no.

It was late last night, and you had already drank one too many shots of whatever fruity flavored vodka was available. Shut away in Felix’s bathroom, the light overhead far too harsh and fluorescent, pulling your shirt down enough to show off your cleavage. Snapping a picture in the mirror above the sink, leaning into the counter and trying your best to look some approximation of sexy.

Fumbling fingers sent it to Chan. The first text between the two of you in months.

Looking at the selfie now has your stomach twisting into knots. Oh no. The texts that followed aren’t any better. Actually, they somehow make the entire situation worse.

-the fact that i wore this shirt hoping you’d be at this party only to learn you went home EARLY?

-i wasted such an amazing outfit and for nothing

-i bet you looked good too. bastard

-sometimes i can’t tell if i miss you or just the weight of you on top of me

-i miss how good you were -i know fora fact i miss your mouth -i miss your mouth on MY MOUTH -omg i miss my mouth on your

You swipe away from those messages. Knowing for a fact you’ll have to read them eventually, to get a proper understanding of the things you said to him. But not right now. Right now you continue to scroll, your texts devolving into a mix of incomprehensible emojis and bitching at Chan about things he very obviously can’t control. You were a mess, holy shit. Who even let you text? Why wasn’t your phone confiscated the moment vodka hit your lips?

The only things that Chan has replied with since your terrible wall of drunk texts is an initial Oh wow lol, and his aforementioned good morning text.

It could be worse, right? He could’ve blocked you or typed out an excruciatingly long lecture about drinking responsibly. It honestly could’ve been so much worse.

Crawling your way out of bed, still vaguely nauseous and trying to fight the urge to lay face down on the floor and never get up again, you shuffle your way into the bathroom. First thing’s first before you tackle whatever the fuck is on your phone, you decide to wash up to feel human again.

The world can fall apart around you for all you care. All you want is a shower and some toothpaste.

Wrapped in a towel and your toothbrush sticking out of your mouth, you finally decide to reply. You probably shouldn’t, especially now that you’re sober and know better, but you have to apologize. That feels like the polite thing to do.

Well, the only way to begin is by beginning.

-lol hey good afternoon

-I ended up demolishing an entire water bottle when I got home last night but sadly it wasn’t enough to save me

How do you even apologize for last night? Sorry I was so angry and horny and I made it your problem? Sorry that the first time I've texted you since we broke up was a drunk thirst trap? So sorry, and hey by the way how have you been since we had the messiest breakup because you’re bad at prioritizing and I’m bad at communication?

Yeah, definitely none of that.

You’re still standing there in your bathroom, staring into the mirror and brushing your teeth on autopilot as your mind spins into itself, when your phone lights up. One notification followed swiftly by a second, making your phone buzz on the counter.

Chan’s contact stares back at you, both messages fading off into ellipses.

-Ah, RIP. You should’ve drank three…

-Hey, I know this is last minute, but I was wondering if we could…

Oh, you don’t think this is the sort of message you can read by yourself while still combating the aching nausea of a hangover. Absolutely not, whatever he has to say can be answered once you have a sufficient amount of caffeine and the right company.

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

“I need a second opinion.” It’s the first thing you say, after sitting down across from Felix and shoving your phone at him. Showing off the string of text messages you experienced after waking up. You still haven’t read the newest text.

Felix barely even moves his head from where it’s resting against the table. He’s clearly just as hungover as you are, but you feel like you’re in the middle of making a very bad decision and you need a second opinion. You shimmy your phone under the seam where his forehead meets the wood.

With a little pout and deep groan, he’s shifting around and unlocking your phone. The silence stretches on as he swipes through the text thread and stares, blinks, and blinks some more. With a start, he’s sitting up straight, pulling the phone closer.

“Wait, he wants to meet up with you?”

“He wants to what?” You snatch the phone from his hands, finally reading the text yourself.

-Hey, I know this is last minute, but I was wondering if we could maybe grab lunch? Or, if you’re still too hungover for lunch, maybe something later?

Just the idea of seeing him again has something hot and electric buzzing through your veins. Your immediate instinct is to say yes. You want to say yes so badly, yes a thousand times over. Instead you very deliberately place your phone onto the table.

Felix has slumped back into his seat, eyeing you warily. “I thought you weren’t talking to him?”

“I mean- I wasn’t. But now I am, kind of? It’s not that big of a deal-”

“It felt like you two went through a divorce, I don’t know if I’d say it’s ‘not a big deal’-”

“I’m over it!” You proclaim, a little loudly. A little desperately. “And he is too if he’s talking to me.”

All you get in response is Felix’s eyebrows pitching inwards and his mouth molding into a little frown. The type of frown that is trying very hard to not be a frown. He’s giving you the most pitying look you’ve probably ever seen on his angelic face.

You should say no. Scoop up your phone and tell him that you can’t make it. Conjure up some far flung excuse so that you won’t reopen old wounds. But you want to see him again, desperately.

You tap your fingers along the edge of the table. “Is this a bad idea?”

“Do you want my truthful answer?” Felix replies from the depths of his hoodie. Your phone sits between you, dark screen facing the ceiling.

You think for a moment. “Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

The thing is, you know he has a point. It doesn’t feel very good but it’s true. Sure, you and Chan can be amicable over text, but that’s over text. Who knows what will happen if you’re face to face. Would it be awkward and stilted? Or maybe everything you say to each other will be filled with vitriolic anger. Things didn’t exactly end on the best terms, and that might just leak into an otherwise pleasant meeting.

But you are nothing if not a professional at both denial and deflections, so you push all of those thoughts very far away.

Maybe this could be a new start. Maybe you and Chan could be the incredibly rare type of people who are friends with their ex. You’d like that, actually, to have Chan back in your life beyond some tertiary character you hear about from other people. Texting him reminded you how much you actually miss your best friend.

Snatching your phone up, you just barely restrain yourself from checking to see if you somehow managed to miss any new messages.

“It’s a friend thing! Friend’s hang out all the time. We're going to go get coffee or something equally platonic and we're going to ignore all of the drunk texts I sent him!” Your voice raises in pitch towards the end, and it sounds like you're trying to convince yourself more than anything else.

Felix gives you a very unimpressed look. “You told him that you miss the feel of his-”

“I know what I said!"

"In your mouth-"

"Thank you!”

Those texts are burned into your brain, you're well aware of the things you sent Chan. How they got more detailed the more you sent. Just remembering some of them has you flushing.

“I mean," Felix hums, oblivious to the direction your thoughts are taking. "I guess it could be a thing friends do.” There's too much sarcasm in his words for your liking.

“As if you haven’t said something similar to any of your friends.”

One of his eyebrows arch, and the gesture is so very pointed. “Any friend that I’ve gotten on my knees for was never at any point an extremely complicated ex.”

"Shut the fuck up." He's right and you hate it.

But still. You want to see Chan so badly. Finally you give in to the all consuming urge to reply. Opening up Chan’s contact, your fingers work quickly.

-I mean, if you’re paying…

-Of course I’ll pay haha

-then count me in!

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone cave so quickly.” Felix sighs, but there’s something all tangled into his words. Some emotion you can’t really identify right now. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it sounds hopeful.

“Seriously, shut up.”

“You came here asking for my opinion!”

“Well!” You huff, trying not to glance at the little typing bubble that appears under your fingers. Signaling that Chan is in the middle of replying to you. He wants to continue your stupid little conversation. Your heart does a funny little wiggle at the sight. “I’ll take what you said into consideration, I guess.”

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

Felix was probably right, and that was such a complicated thought to have while Chan’s hand was currently palming you through your shirt.

See, it really had started out with grabbing coffee together. Something extremely casual with no pressure, the conversation just a little awkward at the start. Both of you trying to remember how to be civil towards each other, how to smile and laugh at jokes. It came a lot easier to Chan, as always. But you missed this. You missed being in the same space as him and hearing his voice and fucking hell, Felix was right; you’re so incredibly weak.

You tried so hard to keep things on track, really you did. The possibility of being friends was right there, laid out in front of you. But then Chan smiled- that small little smile where he ducks his head and bites at his lip and looks up at you from under those fucking eyelashes of his, and oh. You were gone.

He makes it almost disgustingly easy to be around him. It makes your head buzz.

Somehow the touch of your fingers against the inside of his wrist lead you to his apartment. Where he pins you to the wall and kisses you so deeply you can feel it in your toes. You almost forgot what it felt like when Chan put his full strength into holding you in place. It’s heady.

He still tastes the same. Somehow, in the midst of his hands gripping and tugging you closer, pressing your hips flush together, that’s the thought that floats its way to the forefront. Chan tastes the same, even after all this time where you never got to taste him. He feels the same too, a little wider, mostly in his shoulders, but still familiar. He makes the same little noise in the back of his throat when you run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

It’s all so familiar and you could choke on it.

You should probably talk about this. The making out, yes, absolutely, but also the last few months and the texts and him asking to see you out of the blue. It should be talked about, right? Except what would you even say? You’ll just rehash the same things you’ve been saying. You felt ignored and he felt suffocated and you could never find a way to meet in the middle because you’re both stubborn.

You should say something though, right? Right?

The press of his hand against the dip of your waist, pulling you closer, has you losing any semblance of what language even is. Words? Who needs them? He’s hooking his other hand behind your knee and hiking it up, guiding you to wrap your leg around him, and really all you can think about is how you aren’t close enough.

You sneak your fingers up under the hem of his shirt, feeling the expanse of his skin, and the sound of the breathiest gasp leaving his lips settles along the curve of your spine.

This doesn’t feel like a particularly good idea, but then he’s grinding against you, fingers digging into the meat of your thigh, and it doesn’t really matter all that much.

“Is this a terrible idea?” He asks, practically breathing the words directly into your mouth, and you find it a little funny. Not only are you both having the same sort of thought, but it feels incredibly belated.

“Honestly Chris? I don’t really give a fuck.”

That gets him to laugh. Just the quietest little giggle into the skin of your jaw. His hand moves, until he’s grabbing at your ass and angling your hips higher, and it’s really such an inspired thing. The feeling of him, hard through his denim, pressing into you has a moan tripping out of you.

You definitely need to talk about this.

Chan keeps touching you, kissing you, undressing you. Little by little, constantly asking 'is this ok? Yeah? We can stop whenever you want-' because he's still a gentleman. You haven't been this close to him in months, but he's still so fucking considerate. It'd be more maddening if it wasn't so familiar. If anything it’s reassuring, filling you with a stupid amount of confidence. You know how to deal with this.

You repeat yes over and over, hands at his shoulders and licking the word into his mouth, no matter how much he asks.

He peels your shirt away, careful with the fabric, mouth already trailing down your neck, your chest, landing on the swell of your cleavage. Hands so wide, palms easily fitting to your bare waist.

"Just tell me to stop, and I will-"

Finally you snap. Like a live wire pulled too taut, reaching out to grab at his face. Pressing your fingers into the hollows of his cheeks, his chin resting in the curve of your palm. "Christopher, I'm so horny I feel like I might cry. So while I really appreciate what you're trying to do- if you don't rail me stupid in the next five minutes, I can't be held accountable for my actions."

"Oh, sorry." He blinks at you, a little slowly as he leans more of his weight into your hand. Your fingers dig into the meat of his face and you can feel something tense in his jaw.

"Don't apologize baby, just get on with it." This feels familiar too. Like slipping into a pair of beloved jeans. The fit so perfect.

His eyes light up in the next instant, sparkling and bright, and holy shit you're in for it now. "Say less, boss."

You don't know if you still love him, but you do know that you'll always love the feeling of his mouth on you. His hands. Leaving wet trails as he kisses your skin messily, sloppy. Clever fingers following in the wake of his tongue.

#stray kids #skz #bang chan x reader #skz x reader #echo writes #if I missed any warnings/tags just let me know!#anyway uhh please enjoy.#I do have plans for a part 2 but nothing concrete #we'll see if I want to continue this lol

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sagesolsticewrites · 1 month

Text

Better Kind of Best Friend

Anthony, your friend-with-benefits, stops by for an impromptu visit after an interview.

a/n: Alexa, play Style (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift 😏 And once again hugest of shoutouts to my darling Winnie for another fantastic playlist!!

Warnings: mature content (oral (f receiving), PinV penetration, Anto being a tease), swearing

Word count: 2.1k

Masterlist

“Stupid—” You grumble, shoving the closet door closed.

You had just finished your fight with the broom, who simply refused to fit in the tiny storage closet where you kept all of your cleaning supplies, when your doorbell rang.

Sending up a silent thanks that whoever decided to call on you had done so after you had finished your fairly productive cleaning day, you moved to answer it.

And you couldn’t stop your jaw dropping when you saw who was behind it.

“Anto?”

“Hey,” he breathes, scanning you up and down, and it’s at that moment you realize just how little you’re wearing, having opted for a simple tank and your comfiest pair of shorts.

You step aside to let him in, taking in his appearance as he does so.

Messy hair, but messy in a way that lets you know it was styled that way. A simple, well-fitting white t-shirt, and what you had to admit were the best-looking jeans you’d ever seen in your life.

As he turns to you, you note his face looks smoother, almost matte— makeup.

“I— did you just come from an interview or something?”

“Yeah,” he says distractedly, “It finished, and I realized how close I was to your place, and I just… I wanted to see you.”

You both know he means something other than “see”, there.

“Is it, uh…” He glances around, seemingly realizing that he’s dropped in on you with zero warning, “not a good time?”

You shake your head.

“No, it’s fine.”

It could be 3am on a Wednesday, and you’d still be happy to see him.

“You want a coffee— or, sorry, tea?” You ask, nodding towards your now-spotless kitchen.

A minute later, he’s leaning against your counter as you rummage through the cabinets, though you know the mugs will likely be left to go cold sooner or later.

As you go through the motions of tea preparation, your mind drifts back to how this… arrangement started.

You had met on set several years back, and there was an instant connection between you two. Neither of you were looking for a relationship at that time, but what was supposed to be a one night stand turned into two. Then three. And now when he was in town every so often, he’d stop by. No matter how many times you swore to yourself that this is the last time… when he showed up with those damn puppy eyes practically begging to take you to bed, you couldn’t find it within yourself to say no. Even if it hurt every time he left again, because somewhere along the way you’d started wanting to be more than friends. And you’d kept that wish tucked close to your heart, because it had been a while since the last time he stopped by, and doing so right after an interview? You were sure he just wanted to… destress after a long day.

You hand him his mug, moving to lean against the kitchen island across from him.

After several minutes of silence, you speak, hyperaware of his gaze pinning you in place.

“So how’d the interview go?”

“I don’t think I wanna talk about the interview right now,” he replies in a low voice, and the way he scans you up and down has you squeezing your thighs together as if your life depends on it.

You try to think of something, anything to say in response, but your mind goes blank as he moves towards you — mug abandoned like you knew it would be — pinning you against the counter as his hands trail up your sides.

Your body goes loose and pliant under his touch, your head falling to the side to expose your neck as he noses at your jawline.

“Been too fucking long,” he breathes against your skin, and you barely have time to sigh his name before his lips are on your neck.

You arch into him as he scatters kisses all along your skin, making liberal use of his teeth to leave deep purple marks all over your neck. Your hand finds its way into his hair, fisting his curls as his mouth trails along your collarbone.

“Wanna taste you,” he murmurs against your skin, your spine tingling at the heat of his tone and the utterly molten look in his eyes as he looks up to meet your gaze, “Can I? Please?”

You nod furiously, your “yes” escaping as a soft moan.

He grips your hips firmly, lifting you onto the counter with an effortlessness that has heat pooling between your thighs — an effect heightened by the way his mouth remains on your skin as he steps between your legs and begins fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

You lift your arms to allow him to peel it off of you, your nipples pebbling in the cool air of the kitchen.

Anto swears softly as he drinks you in, eyes darkening, and you draw your bottom lip between your teeth as you wait for him to do something.

His mouth returns with a vengeance to attack your collarbone, quickly moving south to skim along the tops of your breasts.

“God, you’re fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs in a tone that has you letting out a moan even before his mouth moves to capture your nipple, the hand that isn’t still firmly attached to your hip moving up to toy with your other breast.

You whine his name as his tongue swirls expertly around you, his hand quickly replacing his mouth as he pulls away to repeat the action where his hand just was.

His ministrations soon have you grinding against nothing, hips bucking desperately against the air, and you can feel the teasing bastard chuckle against your skin as he mouths his way down your stomach.

“Impatient, are we?” He hums, something sparking in his eyes at the yelp that escapes you when he digs his teeth teasingly into the soft flesh just above the waistband of your shorts.

“You said yourself it’s been too fucking long,” you pant, sighing out a “finally” and lifting your hips as he makes quick work of removal your shorts and panties.

Your relief is soon replaced once again by impatience as he kneels between your legs, fingertips lightly dragging through your slick folds, and then putting his mouth…

On your fucking thigh, nibbling and sucking his way almost to your core before repeating the motions on your other thigh.

“Anto, you fucking…”

You can’t even finish your complaint, words escaping you as you whine at the feeling of his teeth grazing against your skin.

“What was that?” He hums, a teasing glint in his eyes as he looks up to meet your gaze, “Something you wanna say?”

“Quit being a teas— oh my god.”

Your plea is cut off with a cry as his mouth finally reaches your core, licking deep into your folds.

He lets out a groan, the vibrations of which send delicious shivers throughout your body as he drags his tongue through your core.

You moan, long and loud as your hand finds its way into his messy waves, pulling him closer. One of his hands remains on your thigh, keeping your legs spread, while the other moves upwards, his thumb expertly circling your clit.

“Fuck, Anto,” you whine, your head falling back as his mouth and fingers work overtime on your core, tightening the growing tension just below your belly.

He hums in satisfaction against you, recognizing the signs of you reaching your peak, and it takes no time at all for him to guide you through your climax as you release with a cry of his name.

Legs shaking, your eyes flutter open in time to see him mouthing his way back up your body, lips dragging deliciously against your skin.

He sucks at the tender skin of your neck, and you can feel him grinning against you at your shaky exhale.

“Oh Y/N, you didn’t think I’d forgotten what you liked, did you?”

Fucking tease.

“Oh Anto, you're not done already, are you?” You manage to quip back, squeezing his hips between your thighs.

“Definitely not,” he says lowly, pulling away to shuck off his shirt as your hands move to fumble with his belt.

You lean forward to drag your mouth along his neck, lips gliding up the hollow of his throat and along his jawline as he retrieves something from his pocket before his remaining clothes join the pile on your kitchen floor.

A huff of a laugh escapes you as you see the familiar foil packet in his hand.

“You came prepared, huh?”

“Don’t I always?” He says, mouth twitching up into the smallest of smiles.

You expertly tear it open and roll the latex onto him, unable to hide your smirk at the way his breath hitches when you drag your fingers teasingly back up his shaft.

He swears under his breath at your touch before planting his hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in. He leans in, his breath hot on your skin as he lines himself up at your entrance with a whisper of “I’m gonna fuck you now, yeah?”

You just barely bite back a ragged moan, settling for a shaky “yes, please” as he slowly presses into you.

“Look at you, getting your manners back as soon as I’m inside you,” he teases once he’s fully entered you, hips pressed flush to yours, “You missed me that badly?”

I did, I really did, is what you long to say, but you can’t bring yourself to say the words that could ruin the delicate balance of your relationship, so you settle for stammering: “Shut up and fuck me already.”

A wicked grin crosses his face, and he slowly pulls out and thrusts back into you, your breath hitching as his hips snap into yours repeatedly.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he pants against you.

“Fuck, you feel so good.”

Your only response is a desperate whine, your fingers tugging at the curls at the nape of his neck.

He mumbles praise against your skin, the tension within you building with every thrust.

Your ankles lock behind his back, pulling him closer as he drives deeper into you, your nails grazing down his back as you let out a loud moan.

“Anto— Anto, fuck, ‘m gonna—”

“Oh, yes,” he growls into your ear, continuing the punishingly fast pace, “C’mon, Y/N, come for me—”

His thumb moving to circle your clit as he continues to pound into you is the thing that sends you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave.

With a muffled groan, Anto quickly follows suit, spilling into the condom after two more erratic thrusts before slumping against you, utterly spent.

He presses sloppy kisses up your neck as the two of you attempt to catch your breath, swearing softly as he pulls out of you and huffing out a laugh as you whine at the sudden emptiness.

“You alright?” He asks softly once you’ve both got your breath back, wriggling back into his boxers and t-shirt after he’s discarded the condom.

You nod, slipping back into your tank and shorts.

“Wanna hang out for a bit? I’m on a bit of a Bake-Off binge right now…”

Your heart soars at the way his eyes light up at the chance to watch something mindless after a day of answering endless questions about his career— he loves it, you know he does, but you also know the toll it takes.

“I’d love that,” he grins, making quick work of wriggling back into his jeans and following you to the living room.

You find yourself curled up next to him, his arm around your shoulders as you both point out the clear mistakes each contestant is making (mistakes that you both would definitely make, but that’s not important right now).

— — —

You groan, eyes fluttering open against the bright sunlight streaming through your windows, a blanket that you didn’t remember pulling over you falling to the floor as you sit up. Blearily, you glance around, feeling like something’s missing…

Your heart sinks the tiniest bit as you realize he must have left at some point in the middle of the night.

It would’ve been awkward if he stayed, you scold yourself, it’s better this way.

That logic doesn’t stop a smile growing on your face as you notice a thermos of tea on the coffee table, next to a scrap of paper with Anto’s signature scrawl.

Y/N,

Thanks for letting me barge in yesterday. Sorry I couldn’t stay, but I promise I’ll drop by again soon. Thanks for the tea and… everything else ;)

Yours,

Anto

You take a sip of the tea— just the way you liked it, of course— relishing the ache between your legs. If this was all you could have of him for now, well…

You’d take it, happily.

#don’t worry i do have a part 2 planned y’all <3 #anthony boyle x reader #anthony boyle smut #anthony boyle #anthony boyle imagine #anthony boyle fic #my writing #anthony boyle rpf

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kazumist · 11 months

Text

FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT .ᐟ

✩ — in which you get into a situation where you end up having to fake date with him.

✩ — includes: childe, scaramouche, thoma x gn!reader. fluff/crack. no cws. wc: 497. please do reblog !! it helps me a lot :D

childe — !

he was stupid for saying that you two were dating in front of your friends. you swore he could’ve just said, "oh hello! we’re just two friends hanging out, nothing special." but instead he said, "oh hey, i’m her boyfriend. how are you all?" which is something that you hadn’t expected. now the two of you are trapped in this play of "pretend to be each other’s lover until god knows when". you still have no idea why childe said it that day—even so, you and he are still stuck in this game of pretend. but maybe, just maybe, the idea of going out on little dates isn’t that bad. even if it were to be pretend, how could you possibly miss a chance to have fun?

scaramouche — !

peer pressure is what caused this, sadly. you and scaramouche were known to not be on good terms on a daily basis, always bickering your heads off. it was really dumb for your colleagues to just randomly start shipping you with him. they claimed that you two were the "enemies to lovers" trope and all that nonsense, while scaramouche tries not to lose his composure over the whole thing. but on one supposedly ordinary day, with your colleagues teasing the two of you again as you and him (scaramouche) debate on whoever ate the last box of pocky, there was a lot going on during that time. with you and him arguing and your annoying colleagues asking when you were both (finally) going to kiss. it’s a bit easy to say that scaramouche had lost his composure by then. grabbing your chin rather suddenly, he quickly pressed a kiss onto your lips as he could taste the remaining flavor of the pocky. it all happened so quickly; surely his actions actually made the whole room silent. but now you’re both stuck explaining what the hell just happened.

thoma — !

you had made the suggestion of him pretending to be your boyfriend because you didn’t want your parents to set you up on a blind date. he agreed to it of course, thoma always tries to help the best way he can. but the thing is, your act of pretending to be with him is far too plausible, and people thought you were actually dating. even if you were to say that it was just an act, people wouldn’t believe you because it doesn’t seem like an act to them at all. you should be happy about that, right? how come there's this weird, stingy feeling that creeps up on you whenever you remember that this is all an act?

#( writings )#astronetwrk #favoniuslibrary #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #childe x reader #scaramouche x reader #thoma x reader #childe #scaramouche #thoma #x reader #i want to write a part 2 with more characters ...#i just finished this draft on a whim HELP #hopefully in a few weeks time i can write the planned part 2s that ive been thinking and planning abt lol #we are not going to talk about how long scara's part is. good night

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yeraskier · 2 years

Text

There's something almost calming about watching Jaskier when he orgasms. It's always so loud, and intense, and powerful; it leaves no room for anything else.

It's as if his body is absorbing every bit of chaos that surrounds him until he can't take it anymore, and then he simply... releases.

Geralt's had the pleasure of experiencing it many, many times now, and it always has the same impact on him, if not stronger each time. It's addictive, makes him wish that he could spend all of his days, every day, his only purpose in life being to bring Jaskier to orgasm.

And it's possibly making the person in the room next to them homicidal because this would be the seventh time tonight that they’ve banged on the wall, and shouted insults at Geralt and Jaskier for being too loud.

Jaskier’s chuckle turns into a gasp when Geralt slips out of him— the slide slippery, the sound lewd.

Geralt grunts as his body hits the mattress, finding that he's aching in the way he always does after several rounds with the bard. Very few people can tire him out, but it is no surprise that Jaskier manages to be on that short list.

"Outstanding as always, dear witcher."

"Hm."

"And verbal as ever," Jaskier teases as he sits up. "Your ability to be so nonchalant and quiet after sex with me is becoming quite offensive, I must say."

"This is how I normally am."

"You had a lot to say an hour ago when I had my lips wrapped around your cock."

Geralt shrugs, "I was inspired."

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes as he sits up and begins searching for his pants.

Geralt admires his back (and his backside) as he moves, eyes trailing over the—

Wait…

Wait.

Geralt doesn't panic, okay? Living the life he lives, he doesn't have that privilege, but right now, laying in this bed as he watches Jaskier get ready to leave— fuck, he might be panicking.

Because Jaskier never leaves after sex, not since after the first few times, at least. And yes, he isn't necessarily obligated to stay, but he always does, and so does Geralt, and now he isn't.

Why?

Why is Jaskier not talking him into cuddling right now?

Why is Jaskier not attempting to get him into the now-cold bath in the corner of the room?

Why is Jaskier not going on one of his very detailed post-sex rants that Geralt pretends to despise, even though they both know he gets invested each time?

Why is Jaskier not falling asleep right now? Hogging up all the bed space and stealing the blanket while using Geralt's chest as a pillow?

Geralt remains as still as possible, barely twitching out of place as Jaskier pulls on his doublet. He may not feel normal about this, but he can sure as shit act normal, even if it isn't normal.

"Alright, darling, I'm going to go fetch us some water. Be back before you can miss my presence too much," the bard announces, throwing a wink over his shoulder before practically skipping out the door.

The words settle him, but only for a few moments before he's ready to panic over something completely different because why did he care so much about Jaskier possibly leaving?

Sure, Geralt has become almost as fond of the after-sex things as he is of the sex-sex things, but he doesn't need them. He won't break down into tears without them.

Except...

That's sort of exactly what he was ready to do just now.

Okay, maybe Geralt wouldn’t have cried, but he definitely would’ve bothered… upset, even.

And he knows this because even with the knowledge that Jaskier is coming back, even knowing that Jaskier only left so he could make sure they both stay hydrated, Geralt is, in this very moment, bothered.

Which isn’t good. At all.

Because the last time he got bothered by someone leaving, it was Yennefer. And he was only bothered because.

Well.

But that wouldn’t make sense, would it? Because Jaskier leaves all the time. He leaves Jaskier all the time. They part for months on end, and Geralt lives.

So what if Geralt has begun to notice that it gets a little harder to willingly go every time they part ways?

So what if his mood during the months where Jaskier isn’t around is shittier than usual?

So what if his mood when Jaskier is around is better than usual?

That doesn’t mean anything. Sex puts most men in better moods, that doesn’t mean he’s in love with the bard.

Not that feelings would mean love. Because a little crush doesn’t equate to love.

Not that Geralt has a little crush, or any crush of any sort. Because he doesn’t. Because he can’t.

Because what they have now, friendship and lust and comfort, is the best thing that has happened to him in a while, and he will not ruin that over catching feelings, of all things.

He doesn’t have feelings for Jaskier, so he can’t ruin anything.

“I don’t have feelings for Jaskier,” he says aloud, into the empty room, but the words feel heavy on his tongue.

I can’t have feelings for Jaskier.

“I don’t have feelings for Jaskier,” Geralt says again, but this time, it comes out as a growl.

Please, don’t let me have feelings for Jaskier.

“I do not have feelings for Jask—”

The door opens, and Jaskier walks in with a wide smile, and that spark of electricity that follows the bard wherever he goes bursts in behind him.

Jaskier takes easy steps towards the bed, and it’s like he’s moving in slow motion.

Geralt desperately wants to run. He doesn’t.

He remains still as Jaskier sets down the pitcher of water, and the cup in hand, and fills it up to the brim before turning to Geralt with a disarming gaze.

The rim of the glass in Jaskier’s hand is pressed to Geralt’s lips, and the witcher takes in the sight before him.

Those wide blue eyes, and that disheveled hair, and those pouty lips— he realizes that he could probably draw every single feature of this man’s face perfectly without even looking, and he’s never drawn a day in his life.

I can’t.

“Well?” Jaskier says, “drink up.”

Geralt parts his lips, and Jaskier’s eyes drop, and Geralt’s heart thuds so loud, it seems to echo throughout his entire body, and Jaskier smiles wide, as if he heard it.

I do.

Fuck.

#i hate this so fucking much #like the idea was there and thats the only reason its being posted but the execution is making me gag #writing really is like a muscle or whatever the saying is #clearly ive lost some of my pizazz but i will work to get it back #sorry :(#but i might make a part 2 #idk like i already had more planned out but it got too long and this was supposed to be a ficlet soooooooo haha.... haha #i just ended it right there with geralt realizing bc i love to torture you guys clearly ....#jk the part 2 really will come this time since i already know what i wanted to do (if you guys want it)#this was mostly to just write something just to Write because ive missed writing sm #the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #my writing #geraskier

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puhpandas · 6 months

Text

Rabbit Burrow

(3,785 words) Part 1 (part 2 found here)

Tony Becker, one year after surviving the attack from GGY, tracks down Gregory post-SB. But he has to get through Vanessa before he can get to Gregory.

Tony likes to think his detective skills are pretty good. So when he swings a leg over the seat of his bike and wheels it near the entrance, he hopes it's the right place.

He'd tracked down Gregory to this apartment complex somewhere in Gale county. It's still in Hurricane, and Tony had been able to reach it with just a bus ride. The apartment is somewhat run-down, but clean enough to where you can tell it's well kept, just old. The air conditioning units he passes on the way to the front door are brand new.

He'd taken the closest bus to Gale county right after school let out. He'd been restless all day up until finally acting on his findings. Tony has been searching for Gregory for a year. Finally finding something and having to wait for his middle school day to end was agonizing. He just hopes his Mom and Grandma wont be too mad at him.

He'd wrestled his bike he'd ridden to school that day discreetly onto the bus and wedged it in-between his legs and the seat in front of him. The air had been humid and thick all day with the signs of a storm, and Tony had seen the dark clouds and heard the thunder peeking over the treeline outside the bus window on the way here. He ducks inside the front door and beats the rain by seconds.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist asks him, giving him a weird look when he steps inside. Shes a lady with long, styled black hair and covered in jewelry. Tony tries not to look too suspicious as he sends her a polite smile, heading to the elevator on the wall to the left. He would also be wary if someone he'd never seen walked into a resident building.

"Just seeing an old friend." He tells her. He presses the button to the third floor and tries to break her gaze by stepping behind the closing doors. The elevator shakes a bit before moving up.

He tries to take a deep breath. Theres some kind of excitement floating around in his chest at the fact that he's done it, but he pushes it down, lowering his expectations.

Despite his theories, he really has no clue what to expect. Theres some sort of worry mixing with the excitement, and all he decides is that if he escaped once, he can do it again.

It both took too long and not fast enough when he finally reaches the third floor. He double checks his crumpled sheet of notebook paper in his hand once, then a second time, something nervous but anticipating thrumming in his veins.

He steps onto the beige carpet of the long hallway, fresh vacuum marks in it, and follows the number plates by each door before coming to a stop near the middle of the hall.

3-05 The plate reads back to him. He quadruple checks his paper again. Its right.

He sighs out deeply, not even realizing he was holding his breath. Despite himself, his brows crease ever so slightly.

He shakes it away, pushing past it. Maybe digging too deep is what got him into trouble before, but its different now. Tony... Tony's learned things during his search for Gregorys location. If there was any point during his investigation that he would call digging too deep, it would have been months earlier from now.

Besides. Tony has always been bad at staving off his curiosity.

He thunks his knuckles on the white wood of the door quickly after that, three times in succession. He kind of bluescreens for a second when he realizes what he just did, then shakes it off. Waiting with wide eyes at the door, watching for a rattling of a doorknob or listening for incoming footsteps.

Nothing. He waits a few more minutes before knocking again, this time a little louder and harder.

Tony perks up when footsteps finally near the door, and his lips part prematurely when the doorknob rattles, not even put-together words yet on his tongue. They fall away immediately when a woman with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail opens the door, one of those chain locks keeping it open maximum of three inches. "Hello?"

He stutters for a moment, words lost on his tongue, before he clears his throat, putting on a polite smile. "Hi, there." He says. "Um. Who are you?"

"I should be asking you that, kid." The woman raises a brow at him, never opening the door more than the chain lock allows it. She peers at him through the gap, and Tony tries as discreetly as possible to look past her head and shoulder into the apartment itself. "What are you doing here?"

When he looks back, shes still looking at him in a way Tony can only describe as cautious. The light in the hallway on the ceiling is flickering, and it casts split second shadows on the womans face that makes the bags under her eyes that much more prominent and her face that much more intimidating. "Well?"

Tony realizes he hasnt answered, and coughs slighty. "Oh. Sorry." He says, reluctant to continue. "I'm... I'm looking for Gregory."

Tony watches intensely to see if the name rings a bell or catches her attention. Just as he expects, her face twists ever so slightly in recognition. Tony catches something adjacent to panic or fear in her eyes until it's gone not half a second later.

"Who's asking?" She asks eventually, voice carefully even after a what appeared to Tony to be a mini conundrum in her head.

"His friend." He answers honestly. He ducks his head when the woman scrutinizes him, looking almost angry, but restrained enough to not show it. "I mean it," He says earnestly. "he and I... we were best friends. Last year. I came here to look for him."

Her eyes widen ever so slightly at that, and she studies him, eyes flicking back and forth over his face and his clothes and his hair. Tony doesnt miss the way her eyes linger for a millisecond on his scars. Its silent in the hall save for the two looking at eachother, and the buzzing of the flickering light on the ceiling is enough to save him from hearing his own heartbeat.

"Okay." She says eventually, and Tony subconsciously feels himself sag a bit at the relief that he won't turned away right as he was this close. She shuts the door without a word, and all Tony can do is stare at the peeling landlord white paint on the door as the sounds of the woman unlatching the multiple locks on the other side reach his ears. He waits patiently, until she cracks the door open not much wider than it had been with the lock, but just enough to fit his body in. "Come in. But no word to anyone. Got it?"

About what? Tony's about to ask, but then he steps through the door and the words die on his tongue.

"Oh." He says outwardly when Glamrock Freddy Fazbear sits on the couch. His body is adjacent to the patchwork quilt Tony has on his bed that his Grandma made him, and any of the makeup he had been painted with has long since scratched off.

His eyes are shut, and theres two jump cables attached to his ears that are plugged into a portable something. He doesn't so much as twitch when Tony enters the room.

The woman gives him a look after she re-locks only the deadbolt behind him and passes him into the apartment. "Oh." He repeats. "Not a word."

She nods at him, and it's only now that Tony can see the rest of her that isnt just her face. Shes in her twenties, if he had to guess, and she has a white tank top on with some sort of stain near the collar along with Hello Kitty fleece pajama pants. Her socks are mismatched and her nails are painted a purple color that could rival the deep bags under her eyes.

She collapses into an armchair (which hes pretty sure has a mismatched leg attached to it half-hazardously) and only looks at him silently as he steps further into the house, not so discreetly angling his body to get a peek past walls and open doors across the house.

Shes about to speak when Tony does first, "Wheres Greg?" He asks straight up. "Can I see him?"

Her lips twitch, and she just leans further back into the chair. The TV is playing some sort of Spring baking show, and the droning of the host mixes with the pattering of the rain on the window on the wall by the TV.

Anticipation and impatient-ness buzzes under his skin at being right here, and this woman undoubtedly knowing Gregory certainly doesnt help.

She only hesitates for a moment, but Tony can see the influx of thoughts that undoubtedly ran through her mind. She opens her mouth, taking a slow breath, before, "At school."

"He goes to school?" Tony gasps slightly, eyes widening. He moves to the couch, toeing past Freddy Fazbear as to not touch him even with just a brush of his jeans before sitting down, facing her. "What school?"

"He goes to Raindrop." The woman tells him, seemingly not hesitating this time.

It doesn't ring a bell, but it must be a middle school in Gale county. "...I go to Hailstorm." Tony says. "We both did. Or used to."

She stares at him after that, fingers drumming on the arm of her chair. She says nothing, just scrutinizing him, before, "You sure have a lot of cryptic ways of telling me how you used to know Gregory."

He wants to apologize, because it seems like what to do in response to that statement, but for some reason, that feeling in his gut he's learned to trust as his Detective sense tells him that he shouldn't.

Shes still looking at him intensely, and the rain outside pattering on the window somehow feels louder. There's some thunder outside that rumbles the floor, and the lighting casts a shadow on the living room. A few white lines across the coffee table caused by the blinds covering the window.

Her face doesnt so much as twitch, he notices, and she doesn't blink when she looks at him. Her green eyes bore into him, almost glowing in the shadow cast beneath her bangs. It reminds him of how he'd done to her not minutes ago. What he does to people he wants to analyze. To see how they react to something.

That's what shes waiting for, he realizes. He has a feeling that if he doesnt match her cryptic bluntness and instead apologizes and caves that easily, that it will somehow result in her turning him away.

Theres a glint in her eye when he becomes aware of reality again enough to look, and he thinks she somehow just came to the conclusion that Tony figured it out.

Then, he tries to sit up a bit straighter, and muster up that same glint mirroring back at him. "You sure have a cryptic way of letting me know you dont trust me."

Her mouth twitches slightly, but its all Tony needs to know he'd guessed correctly.

Its silent for a moment, and the woman grabs the remote on the next arm over and pauses the baking show she'd been watching. She shifts in the red velvet seat, as if getting comfortable, before, "Tell me how you know Gregory, and I'll tell you how I know him."

He has a feeling he isnt getting to Gregory unless he gets through this woman first, so he clears his throat, leaning his forearms on his knees.

"Me and Gregory met early last year at the beginning of the school year." He begins. "Right after summer ended in August. He was the new kid, and he sat at our table at lunch since it was mostly empty. Me and my friend arent the most popular, so there was room to spare."

She waves a hand, signaling him to stop. "Your friend?" She asks. He nods. "How many of there were you?"

"...Just me and E-- my friend." He says. "There were two of us, and when Greg sat at our table, we remembered how he looked a little lost earlier in class and we introduced ourselves. Then we just... clicked, I guess. He would partner with us in creative writing."

"Writing, huh?" She smiles slightly.

"Yeah." He replies. "Then, it was just business as usual for the months afterwards." He pauses, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket he loves so much that reminds him of the trenchcoats big city investigators wear. "Then... I had gotten wrapped up in this mystery."

She shifts, crossing a leg over the over and holding her hands together. "A mystery?"

Tony nods, remembering it like it was yesterday. He thumbs the part of arm where a scar is on his arm that his jacket covers. "The three of us would always go to the arcade in the Pizzaplex." He tells her. "And one day, I noticed high scores that seemed impossible to reach, and I became obsessed with solving who it was who had gotten there."

Tony thinks hes very good at reading people. So he doesn't think it's just his imagination when the woman in front of him goes a little rigid in her seat.

Theres some sort of creases under her eyes, Tony notices, that weren't there before.

"What did you do?" She asks.

Tony has a feeling that she somehow knows already. So he doesnt beat around the bush.

"I solved the mystery, eventually." Tony says. "Because GGY had been Gregory, and he'd invited me to the Pizzaplex and tried to kill me."

She sags a bit, looking somehow infinitely more tired, but no surprise detected. "But you survived."

"Not..." He shakes his head, picking at the skin by his fingernails. "I wouldn't have. If not for Greg saving me."

"Huh?"

"He--" Tony searches for the words, looking at the carpet between his knees and remembering that afternoon in every vivid detail he'd looked over countless times before. "He'd tried to kill me, yeah, but... he was almost fighting himself as he did it. He was like having a fistfight with himself."

He doesn't look up at her, he just keeps remembering how Gregory had gone rigid right before plunging the knife into Tony's gut a second time and stopped himself. How it had looked like somebody yanked Gregory backwards, but it had been his own self throwing his body. Just so he didnt hurt Tony again.

"He looked like he was a malfunctioning robot." He recalls. "He was like, hitting himself, and was making noises like he was fighting something. I was too frozen to move at the time, but then he threw me a really high security pass for the Pizzaplex and told me to run."

Then he had collapsed in front of him, like he was holding himself down. He doesn't tell the woman, though.

He looks back up to see her staring, eyes wide in suprise. She looks deep in thought for all but a few moments before shaking herself out of it. "So what did you do?"

"I ran." Tony says. "He had got me already. He stabbed me in the back, the first time. That was how I knew he was attacking me in the first place. But I ran away with the pass, and I went to a room with a ton of monitors and erased the security footage."

Her eyes blow wide as saucers, that time. "You got stabbed," she begins. "and instead of getting help, you erase the security footage?"

"Yeah." Tony nods. "Greg would have gotten in trouble if I didnt."

She's silent, after that. Tony just keeps picking at the skin on his fingers. "I somehow knew that Gregory didnt deserve to be. He just..." Tony trails off. "He didnt seem..."

"Seem like himself?" She suddenly cuts in, and Tony's eyes widen.

He nods, a small tilt of his head, and the woman sighs. "That's what being mind controlled will do to you."

A year ago, probably longer by now, Tony would have never believed that. He would have never thought something so outlandish that is only ever shown in fiction could be a possibility.

Not that he was wrong, to. Really, anyone in their right mind wouldnt think so. But things have changed since then.

And Tony has seen a lot of things during his search that probably nobody else has. Plus, This woman has been so cryptic up to this point. If she told him this straight up, and it's clear that she knows Gregory...

Suddenly, everything that day seems to make perfect sense. And everything he'd found that he'd filed away into his little mental Gregory crazy wall.

(He'd used to call it evidence wall, like normal people do. But, well, at some point, maybe Tony had thought the things he'd been finding were a bit too crazy to deem as normal.)

Theres been a stretch of silence while Tony had been taking that in, and he only breaks it to say, "Is mind control a topic you're familiar with in this house?"

Her eye twitches, a bit. And now that Tony is looking for it, he notices that same strange sheen on her eyes that Gregory had during their friendship. That weird red tinted film that makes their eyes turn a completely different color when the light hits them right.

Tony doesnt yet understand how the mind control Gregory had been under works, but all he can hope is that there are some side effects.

She stares at him, eyes narrow, and theres another roar of thunder outside the window.

"Who are you?"

"Tony." He answers. "Tony Becker. Ring a bell?"

She hums, and she looks at him in a way where he feels like he's being dissected.

"He didnt remember anything for a while." She says eventually. "But hes been having dreams, lately. Sometimes he talks about two kids he used to be friends with."

"Me and Ellis." Tony's eyes widen. It doesn't even occur to him that he shouldn't share Ellis's name.

"He worries about you." She says. "I've heard him say he hopes you're okay. You and that other kid. You must have been close if he remembers being that good of friends with the two of you."

"We were." Tony replies. Memories of him, Ellis, and Greg going to the Pizzaplex and trying to get the most dunks in the basketball hoops flash in his mind. He thinks about when Gregory would come over to Tony's little run down house that he shares with his Grandma, and they write graphic novels together for the fun of it.

Gregory liked to call them comics before he'd suddenly decided that stuff wasnt cool anymore and stopped coming over. It had been like everything Tony saw him enjoy that wasnt painfully average for a child suddenly didn't mean anything to him anymore.

And then Gregory tried to kill him in a dusty back room.

Everything hed given up seems to make more sense now. It wasnt willingly at all.

"He doesn't remember your names." She speaks up suddenly, ripping Tony out of his thoughts. "But he remembers more and more every time he has a dream. Something reminded him of you one day, I guess. That must have been when it started."

Tony opens his mouth, but the beeping of a digital clock interrupts him. He follows the womans arm as it reaches across the seat to turn it off.

The time reads 5:00pm.

He watches as she looks over at him, and nods to the door. "After school activity." She informs him, getting up out of the seat. His eyes follow her as she moves towards the front door. "I'm his ride."

Tony's eyes widen at the implications. "So I just--"

"Stay here." She tells him. She grabs a flannel off of the small coat rack by the front door and slips it on, sliding some Adidas sandals on top of her socks and reaching in the pocket of the coat to grab car keys. She pulls them out, and Tony notices that theres a keychain of a white rabbit dangling from the key ring.

The breath is suddenly stolen from his lungs, and he bolts off of the couch, a buzzing under his skin. "You're bringing him?"

She nods to Freddy Fazbear. "If you can wait." She smiles at him, and it's the first time Tony has seen her smile, instead of the carefully kept nonchalant-ness. "He'll wake up pretty soon once he's done charging. So you won't be completely alone."

Tony doesnt know what to say to that. Thousands of words spawned from the thousands of thoughts hes had about finding and tracking down Gregory are on the tip of his tongue, but he only gets any out when the woman begins to leave the house.

"Wait!" Tony reaches out a hand. She turns around, a brow raised. The door is still slightly ajar, and the sound of heavy rain reaches his ears. "What's your name?"

She smiles a bit at the question. "Vanessa."

"Vanessa," He asks, oddly desperate. "Dont tell him I'm here." He swallows. "I want to see him remember me."

Vanessa tilts her head, but nods after a moment. "Sure, kid."

She smiles one last time on her way out, and says, "Tony Becker."

The sound of the rain outside disperses when the door shuts and locks, and Tony doesnt move for a long while. He just stares at the landlord white door, electricity under his skin and something floaty in his stomach.

Greg. He thinks in his mind when he finally rips himself away and looks around some more, seeing a door propped slightly open down the hall with a bed and a desk with pencils and paper strewn all about. He doesn't dare go in, but stares at what he can see. Its been a while.

The silence is numbing, when he can only hear the faint whirring of Freddy Fazbear on the couch next to him and the rain on the window, he plants himself on the couch cushion next to the animatronic, grabbing the remote and resuming the baking show Vanessa had been watching.

He doesn't listen to a word. He just trembles with anticipation and bobs his leg up and down as he stares at a random corner of the screen.

ao3 link

#i had a lot of fun with this one. if you need help understanding the strange interactions between tony and vanessa #its supposed to be a right of passage i guess. vanessa doesnt want anybody else to get involved #or to drag back any of the vanny & ggy stuff.#not if theyre not serious. so if tony had apologized #it would have shown vanessa that she shouldnt humor him and to just turn him away so he doesnt get involved #because he'd just be a scared kid looking for his friend.#but tony matching her and showing that he understood the test and is still serious about it #& he also matches with gregorys descriptions #shes like alright you can know.#theres meant to be a part 2 to this little oneshot thing where gregory and tony actually reunite #but i still need to plan it out. ive been obsessed with detective rabbit reuniting for a bit now and wanting to write it so #it shouldnt take too long. but no promises lol #just wanted to write tony and experiment with something new and this happened :) it was fun #my fics #pandas writes #tony becker #fnaf gregory #detective rabbit #ggy #tales from the pizzaplex #twoshot #gregory #tony #ellis #vanessa #3 star fam #freddy #also rabbit burrow is a reference to the saying rabbit hole #but i made it burrow because like tony said #he crossed the line a long time ago

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buttercupshands · 20 days

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Chapter 419 Analysis or "How to completely break Tenko Shimura" a manipulative guide from All For One (part 1)

This is mainly a character analysis of Shigaraki Tomura or Shimura Tenko, any other character present is there to help.

Chapter 419 was hard to comprehend even with just summaries right on April 4th. Some things need at least fan translation to fully make sense. Or just hurt more in that matter.

Warning of spoilers to the whole manga to the point of chapter 419! All of the warnings from the respective Tomura chapters are applicable.

So like... mentions of death, killing other people, manipulation, emotional abuse and many more!

This is Part 1 - See Part 2 for something less depressing

This is going to be long! So let's start, shall we?

First of all we'll need to take into understanding ALL the chapters that we'll need to remember/reread just make this chapter worse (skip if already familiar with them):

Chapter 222 - Tomura Shigaraki: Distortion

Chapter 234 - Destruction Sense

Chapter 235 - Tenko Shimura: Origins

Chapter 236 - Tenko Shimura Origins, Part 2

Chapter 237 - Tomura Shigaraki: Origins

This is your "Tenko and Tomura understanding" starter pack, basically. Without them it's harder to even start unpacking what just happened with Tomura's perspective in mind

Well then.

The chapter starts and we are immediately greeted by AFO semi-agreeing without wanting to, that Tomura was strong enough before Izuku started trying "saving" him in his own way and even succeeded making Tenko's will all the more fragile than it was when he returned using his hate to his advantage.

Even after Izuku holding Tenko's hands for the whole chapter he was still stubborn enough to continue even without that hate in his heart

And the thing that initial summaries missed was the fact that Tomura actually reacted to AFO reapperance.

Still not understanding why AFO was even saying that.

Tenko was literally taught by AFO to follow "what he wants" in ch 237 with Tenko making his first decision to kill someone himself. And never actually hiding that Tomura just needed to never forget that hatred and those bad emotions that Tomura never really understood. And it took Izuku seconds to decipher them.

With AFO reassuring Tomura that he has no need in following morals of society and just should follow whatever he wants - his want to destroy everything that hurts him. And only AFO would accept and help him. He was constantly reminded of that.

Even if Tenko was feeling sick from killing at first, even if hands that he wore were still making him sick 15 years later without him understanding anything. Decisions made while person is emotional are usually the ones that the person might regret the most and Tomura lived with those unstable emotions for years. Knowing that they hurt him and make him feel sick.

But Sensei said that it's okay to follow those emotions. That's it's actually great that he does it.

Everything was for his sake, everything was for Tomura Shigaraki and Tomura Shigaraki only. He was his Sensei's successor and no one should argue with it. He's the only one to be next ruler of the underground and the next king. And Tomura gladly accepted that as truth.

Since it was easier than facing his guilt.

Because AFO just needed Tomura to have enough willpower to get OFA when the plan is ready. To make Gigantomachia to follow him while Garaki was watching knowing full well how the plan is going. Both knowing full well that Tomura is still holding himself back.

In this chapter however we finally see how all of the things AFO told and taught Tenko were just to make him so sure that HE was in control and allowed to do whatever he wants to completely break his worldview in the end "after he gets OFA" which is an unreachable goal now since OFA is gone for good.

By just saying that Tenko never had any choice to begin with.

Tomura already knew that AFO manipulated him and he was just a pawn, needed only to get OFA and piss off All-Might he accepted and embraced it as something unimportant. It was his choice and he was free to do it and not feel bad about it. Since he's born to destroy.

Until suddenly it wasn't just his life after Decay that was manipulated.

But his whole life from birth. Just because AFO didn't get his hands on Hana sooner and she was happy while AFO needed someone hurt and broken. And Shimura's household wasn't as bad as he needed it to be at first with Kotaro loving his children, wife, in-laws and even his mother.

And AFO destroyed it by creating so much conflict and even going out of his way to make sure Tenko's father knew that he was playing heroes with some kids. And even saved them by putting his own quirkless life in danger.

In some sense narrator-Tomura's words at the end of ch 236 still might hold true. AFO didn't just create his hate out of nowhere, to make it feel like even if Tenko remembers everything it's still he's doing not a villain appearing, not just some accident that it actually was.

Although AFO doesn't say anything about people who didn't help Tenko even though he he knew that it happened so he most probably was watching it happen until Tenko lost all hope entirely to finaly make him dependent on his help.

And he succeeded for the most part.

Tomura was making an assumption after he remembered everything that he "must've been yearning for that" and from that point onwards explains everything that happened as "I wanted it - I did it" and was clinging to it like a lifeline to explain everything.

He accepted that if Re-Destro is talking about his Decay quirk affecting him he exists only to destroy.

And now it seems he found a false motivation for himself that AFO created by cruely manipulating everything from his quirk to his family. Making him believe he had a hand in it. Breaking one of "safe" truths that Tomura never doubted. They only made his decisions feel right.

Which makes that a hopeless loop of broken memories being staged just to let Tenko become Tomura who hates and destroys everything believing that it's his choice. Only choice at that.

And if destroying is him only choice because of his quirk... then what can a quirkless person do while having so many people dead from his own hands? Hands that were literally cursed to have destruction quirk in them not because he was born to do it. But because his own Sensei wanted that.

And he's "unwavering heart" is now nothing but an illusion that was destroyed by both Izuku and AFO together.

There's no "Can I be a Hero?", because can he even be a Villain if most of the choices that were from Decay and the hatred in his heart weren't actually his own?

#bnha #shigaraki tomura #tenko shimura #all for one #bnha analysis #character analysis #character study #bnha manga spoilers #bnha spoilers #my hero academia #phew that's a lot of normal tags!#honestly I think it's a mess of a post (the first draft)#and this part 1 is depressing as hell #that's what you get when LoV is not here #thankfully part 2 exists #bnha 419 #rewrote most of the thing and it got even more depressing oh no #part 2 is still existing #somewhere #also I didn't add that but AFO is never talking about the people that didn't help Tenko again #like... they just rejected him and it's still true #he's still living with a 'did they reject me because I killed my family?'#the more I rewrite this the more depressing it becomes #I really like Tenko's arc so this chapter broke me for couple of days at least #and the more I was writing this more horrified I became with what exactly it all meant #we either need a whol OFA team again or at least Izuku returning into that hell that is AFOmura's mind #but once again I plan on a part 2 since even if Tomura's life is depressing LoV existed and some of them even are still alive #god this post is a nightmare of this blog

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sunshades · 20 days

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Obviously a complicated subject to navigate but the theme of "a person's worth" in the canto is a very interesting adaptation of the book and I'm enjoying it very much.

Heathcliff's attitude towards and understanding of his own upbringing shapes how he acts with the second generation- it's a sort of experiment for him, as he sometimes likes describing it in scientific terms. Talking about the boys with Nelly he draws this distinction between Hareton and lil Linton, that Hareton is an incredibly smart child and very aware of his own situation and degradation- especially as he meets other people his age, namely the younger Cathy, for whom he quickly develops feelings for, and love becomes yet another thing he cannot be allowed to participate in.

While in game it's someone else who ends up saying these lines, what they're actually referring to + what they represent in the book is actually shown through Hindley, the degradation, relegation to servant and denial of education as well as the condemnation that to Hindley is the most cruel and most important: losing the worth "necessary" to be loved.

In the end book!Hindley's efforts go through in making Heathcliff a horrible person just like him, though neither his nor game!Hindley's plan ever manages to actually deprive Heathcliff of his sister's love (though they certainly work in making him believe that!), but book!Hindley's plans are further defied by Heathcliff becoming rich and educated, and book!Heathcliff's plans go off the rails even further as Hareton is not only smart, but also manages to become a legitimately good person- which is where I think it's very clear how game!Hindley is inspired by Heathcliff's book self. This line describes game!Hindley's behavior towards Heathcliff and Catherine just as much as it describes book!Heathcliff's towards Hareton and young Cathy.

But in the end the point is there's this awareness of being hurting and turning a person into something they're not, something worse.

I think it's also very important to note those first rate qualities he talks about are very heavily referencing Hareton's ability to learn. While Heathcliff doesn't talk about this when referring to himself by this point it's obvious his own learning abilities are something he's quite proud of, all through the book he's adapting and changing to what he's faced with (from his first appearance as a child, where he doesn't even speak the same language as the family, but learns soon after, to his final plan for his own burial) and by comparing himself to Hareton he's recognizing those same qualities in him. And I feel like with what we've seen of game!Heathcliff ever since the first chapter, and what we see of him in the different identities and mirror worlds, this is gonna be quite important in part 3- all the abuse has never deprived him of his ability to improve, to learn new things, to trust in new people, just as it's never deprived him of the love he no longer feels worthy of. So! Hope we'll get to see you realize that soon, Heathcliff!!!

#bell.txt #limbus company #canto vi spoilers #canto 6 spoilers #I WAS LIKE IM GONNA TYPE A SMALL THING REALLY FAST AND INTEAD I BURNED MY HAMBURGERS WHILE WRITING THIS #this is also part of why heathcliff? is not book!h and specifically he isnt part 2!h.#his revenge is turned completely inwards instead of being outwards which makes them completely different characters #heathcliff? is specifically a deviation of timeskip!h: i was planning on doing justice on myself; until i heard your voice #it is a version of him thats never heard cathys voice again- it is the version of him whos never realized he was loved #that voice changes him! it is the reminder that she (and her love! and a future happiness!) existed- and that i have lost her!#that is a very important point in all his further behavior: all that rage is because he KNOWS they couldve lived a life together if they #hadnt been separated by circumstances and injustice. he KNOWS that was injustice that was done to him. okay im done. THANK U FOR LISTENING #edit: added alt thumbsupemoji. made me remember the extra Cycle moment in cathy mentioning the cudgel #while heaths log mentions earnshaw presumably beating hindley w/his cane. i believe hindley also fights w/one in the rabbit fight doesnt he

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radioactivepeasant · 5 months

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Oops the Free Day Thursday got Long, so you get multiple parts

Part 1

Part Two Here

(Warnings for Angst and brief description of injuries)

To be the king of Spargus was to all but ensure a violent death eventually. Whether by the hands of a challenger, a metalhead, or simply the desert herself turning her back on one who previously had her favor, all kings met their end one way or another. Most took a blasé approach to their own mortality, so long as they could ensure they died in battle like any Spargan worth remembering.

Damas son of Arez was no different.

All things considered, there were far worse deaths -- not that this one was very pleasant. He'd successfully defended his city against corrupted minor deities, and he'd taken out so many in the rescue of the boys that the Dark Makers had resorted to a missile to ultimately kill him. That was the kind of thing that made it into songs and legends. Especially when the most important reason to fight walked away from the crash unharmed.

Having followed his gut, and subsequently having had the opportunity to watch Jak blossom into one of the most formidable Wastelanders the continent had ever seen, Damas felt he could die with fewer regrets than most.

What father worth his water wouldn't be at peace knowing he got to see his son surpass him before he died?

Even if they'd never acknowledged it aloud.

Jak knew, in his heart. He knew what the armor meant, and he'd accepted it without reservation. Damas had seen in his eyes that Jak understood, he understood what he'd left unsaid, but he feared saying it out loud lest it all vanish like a broken spell. And to think the boy had worried about not having a gift for him! As if it was not gift enough that he accepted the bond between them!

Damas heard Jak shout his name, even as he knew his time was growing short. But here, in the razor-sharp margin between life and death, something had changed. Perhaps it was their proximity to the catacombs. Or perhaps it was because he carried the blood of Mar. Perhaps there was no reason at all, mere happenstance. But as he lay crushed beneath the Slam Dozer, Damas felt eco tug at his body with a strength he had never experienced before. Ironic that he should find the power his ancestors wielded at the moment of death.

Light swirled through the earth beneath him, far below the blighted soil. Pure time, stretched into thread and unspooled into the wells of the earth to bring life and healing to whatever it touched.

"I'm...very proud to have been by your side, in the end. Proud of you." Damas pushed the words out of lungs that could barely expand. He took his previous assessment back: this was one of the most irritating ways to go he could think of.

Jak started to get up, promising help -- he was panicking. Damas had never seen Jak panic before. But he didn't blame him. Instead, he caught Jak's hand and pulled him back down. Jak hissed in pain, and Damas realized the boy wasn't as unscathed as he'd thought. He was favoring his left arm and his ribs, and blood ran down his face.

The eco of the planet hummed in Damas’s ears, deafeningly loud. Waiting, just within reach.

The choice was almost too easy to make.

"Promise me one thing, please," he said, tightening his grip on Jak’s hand even as his trapped fingers dug deep into the soil. "Promise me you'll find your brother."

He ignored Jak's sharp intake of breath. "Find my son, Mar. You'll know him when you s- see this-"

For just one moment, Damas released his adopted son's hand to retrieve his old amulet from his belt, doing his best to push through the sharp agony that shot through his chest and torso at even that much movement. He placed the amulet in Jak’s hand, but did not let go.

Just five seconds. That's all I need.

"He's wearing an amulet just like this. A symbol of our family: the House of Mar."

Through the gray stealing across the corners of his vision, Damas saw Jak's face twist, first in confusion, then recognition. He recognized the amulet! But Damas never wore it publicly. Then-

Hope spread through the wreck of Damas’s body, shuttling the pain away to a distant corner of his mind. He knows something! He's seen Mar!

In that moment of elation, the light eco at last responded to his call. In a flood, it poured from the earth and into his body. It could have healed him, it would have been simple. But Damas’s focus was elsewhere. He poured the pocket of life through the amulet and into Jak. It burned through their veins like fever, but once it passed there was vacuum. Void. And Damas could feel it tugging greedily at his mind.

"Stop! You- you don't have a focus ring, it's too much!" Jak gripped his hand, skin steadily darkening to match the sky as he tried to diffuse the eco.

Around them, tiny blades of grass began to push up through the polluted dirt as the damage to the soil began to rewind. Daxter let out a panicked yell that sounded a little deeper than normal.

"What are you doing?!"

"When you find your little brother, tell him we never gave up looking for him."

Damas’s voice buzzed oddly as the raw energy seeped into his throat.

He smiled softly.

"He's...going to love you. And Daxter."

Even that many words were a struggle. He could barely make out anything around him. He couldn't feel his body. He couldn't see. He barely made out one word before the world splintered into starlight.

"Father!"

_____________<><><><><><>______________

Being dead, Damas decided, was very disorienting. If he was dead. He didn't see any ancestors yelling at him for losing Haven city, or Precursors, anyway. He followed the twisting, glittering lights -- not through any will of his own, but drawn along in their wake. Time, if it existed in this plane, was fully out of joint. He saw islands floating in a sickly green sky, just beyond the flickering vortex he seemed to be inside. He would have shuddered if he'd had a body.

Now and then he heard voices -- mostly unintelligible, and none he recognized. But he drifted towards them nonetheless. The light eco seemed to have set him on a predetermined path like a cart on a rail, and his consciousness would not settle into place until it had stopped rewinding...whatever was left to undo when he was no more than a disembodied spirit.

"Damas? Come on, speak to me! Damas!"

Hm. That wasn't Jak. In fact, it almost sounded like-

"Don't you do this to me, boss. I'm not losing both of you in the same month! Snap out of it!"

The ghost of a sensation -- Daxter would have appreciated the pun that crossed his mind -- brushed against where Damas’s shoulders ought to have been. As the light drew him inexorably further down the vortex, the voice grew clearer, and the pressure on his spirit more tangible.

"Seem, get over here! He just- he just flatlined! Don't you dare, Damas, don't you dare die on me-!"

"But I'm already dead?" Damas murmured in confusion. Somehow, this one-sided conversation seemed familiar. A memory, something he'd been half conscious for.

Something struck him in the chest.

He had a chest now?

Damas coughed, and stars burst into his eyes, blinding him again.

The world rushed back like a whirlwind, ripping away the vortex without pity or pause. He was cold, and in pain -- not as much as when the Dozer landed on him, at least -- and one of his shoulders felt wrong.

He coughed again and felt his lungs expand for the first time in -- in what? Minutes? Days? Eons?

Damas opened his eyes and regretted it. Light stabbed into them as he gasped for air, greedily sucking in lungful after lungful. He heard beeping, and smelled antiseptic. A hospital ward?

"My lord!" Seem breathed, obviously relieved, "We feared the concentrated eco would be too strong for your body to handle. Thank the Precursors you live!"

Reaching up slowly to clutch his head, Damas was confused to feel bandages. He'd had his torso crushed, not his head! Slowly, he turned his head to squint up at Sig.

"Ja- Jak," he rasped, "Where's...Jak?"

He knew the answer before Sig opened his mouth. Shock doused him like ice water as he took in the medicated eco patch plastered over Sig’s right eye socket. It had only just been changed, and the smell of antibiotic lingered. The scars on his brow weren't scars, they were raw, red, furrows. Not reopened wounds, wounds that had not yet been given enough time to heal.

Sig tried to raise his brows, then cursed hotly as the movement sent him curling inward with pain.

"Uh...who's Jak?"

It was the Summer of the Long Fog.

Mar had just been kidnapped. Damas had given chase, and nearly been killed for his efforts. Sig had lost an eye, Korah an arm. Several more lost their lives.

That had happened three years ago.

This was impossible! Surely light eco couldn't-

And what do you know of light eco? You've seen it transform Jak into a kind of Precursor himself! Who's to say it cannot transport the mind through time?

But if he was simply reliving this memory, wouldn't Sig have ignored his query? And why would he feel, and breathe, if this was merely an echo?

"What...what day is it?" he wheezed.

Concerned, Sig frowned, stretching his facial muscles as little as possible.

"Sol eleventh, Se'enday," he answered.

Sol eleventh. A week and a half after the kidnapping.

And six days before -- if Daxter's math was correct -- Jak was kidnapped by Praxis.

One of his sons was either on his way to, or already within Haven's forbidding walls, and the other would arrive in mere days to a nightmare he could not escape. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

It wasn't set in stone. Not if he could help it.

Slowly, painfully, Damas pushed himself into a sitting position. The heart monitor shrieked scoldingly at him, and he conceded as he rested against the headboard, dizzy.

"We have to get to Haven," he said between pauses for breath. "L- low profile. If anyone has information..." He let it hang in the air.

"...it's Krew," Sig finished slowly.

He sighed and hung his head.

"I hate that you're right. Who you gonna send? Kleiver isn't exactly "low profile"."

Damas barely twitched his head to the side. "Not Kleiver. Someone Mar would recognize and feel safe with."

Sig leaned forward. "Then send me."

Damas remembered this. Hearing the desperation in Sig’s voice a second time still hurt. It hadn't been Sig’s fault, he understood that better now. It was no one's fault but the soothsayer who betrayed them. Sig did not need to "redeem himself" as he seemed to believe. Damas just needed him to be his eyes and ears.

"No risks," he said. "I'm not losing you too."

Anguish filled Sig’s remaining eye. He reached out to grip Damas’s hand.

"Please! I can do this, Damas. I won't fail you again!"

He reminded Damas of Jak, blaming himself for someone else's betrayal. Damas tightened his fingers around Sig’s and barely shook his head again.

"Fail me? You survived a shot to the eye, Sig. How is that failure?"

"But I-"

"Sig, I trust you." Damas caught his breath. Being temporarily dead had done his lung capacity no favors. "Just- heal first. Mar is alive, and he's- he's so smart-"

Don't break down, keep it together!

"Time is of the essence, I know. But until you've been fitted with the new eye, you're not to take any risks. Just insinuate yourself into Krew's circle. The old shark makes enough enemies to be in the market for a bodyguard. I'll go with you-"

Sig jolted upright. "Hey! No!" He pointed at the king sternly. "You almost died, man! What happens to Spargus if we lose you? You want Kleiver in charge?"

Seem blanched beneath their face paint. "Don't do that to us, sire," they begged, "We can't have committed a sin bad enough to warrant that!"

And Damas laughed. He couldn't help it, it sounded like something Daxter would've said.

Will I find Daxter too? He said they were separated when they landed...

"I told you, we're not taking any risks," he lied, "I'm pursuing a lead, that's all."

Seem frowned. "A lead on Mar? What information can you have gleaned from an eco coma, sire?"

Oh you would be surprised, young one, Damas thought, but kept it to himself. The jury was still out on whether any of this was real, after all. But if it was all some hallucination of a wandering spirit, what could be the harm?

"Not Mar." Damas leaned back and closed his eyes. "Something Praxis is working on. He's laid a trap for-" he paused. "...for someone else. Perhaps a rival gambit to whoever took my son."

He knew it was obvious that he knew more than he was saying. But no matter. This time, he would hobble Praxis's Dark Warrior Program before it ever had its first success. This time, Jak would never know the night terrors that so often drove him to avoid sleep. And if he found Mar while he was sabotaging the machinations of Precursors and Seers, so much the better.

"We foil this trap, snatch the intended victim from the jaws of the Krimzon Guard, and Praxis will flounder. We have five days to foil his ambush."

Damas opened his eyes.

"Prepare accordingly. If you are not ready in five days, I leave without you and you will meet me in Haven's forest. Understood?"

The monk and the warrior stared at him as if he was speaking complete gibberish.

"You're needed in Spargus-!" Seem began to protest, but Sig just groaned.

"Oh no. He's doing The Face. I don't think we can stop him, kid."

"But-! But if Praxis learns that the Heir of Mar is in the city-!"

"Then it would mean Onin betrayed me again and won't live to do so a third time," Damas answered smoothly.

"She was chosen by the Precursors!" the young monk cried, appalled.

"So was I. Yet I have consigned no children to unconscionable suffering for the "greater good". Even prophets can fall."

Damas felt strength beginning to return to his limbs. His body was finally processing the massive dose of eco properly. If this was a dream, it was a satisfyingly vivid one.

"Go. I have much to prepare."

Soon, Jak. You're coming home soon. I'll be waiting.

#fic prompts #writing prompts #jak and daxter #dadmas #king damas #jak and daxter au #jnd Wednesday?#dark jak wednesday #except that its Avoiding Dark Jak so that Jak Can Unlock Him On His Own Time #Damas is on the loose #this au doesn't have a name yet lol #part one #part two tomorrow #typical radio: plans crack and gets angst instead #shenanigans in part 2 i promise #fragile things au

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ariesdiary · 1 year

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lucerys isn't surprised to see aemond at the storm's end. that doesn't mean it hurts less.

luke speaks to lord borros, but looks only at aemond. he smells his husband’s thick scent, examines familiar grin and every fold of his clothes. omega is mesmerized in his presence, and everything feels like a nightmare. a week ago, he lay in alpha’s arms, planning his visit to dragonstone, and now they’re on opposite sides of war.

to hear about aemond’s and cassandra’s political betrothal is hard. aemond betrays him and their marriage in the tradition of old valyria, and all omega can do is to reply nervously, “i am already married”. “to aemond” remains unvoiced.

moments later, lucerys leaves the castle. he runs away from alpha, from fragile happiness they only started to feel, from dreams of happy future together.

even through rain and wind, luke feels that aemond follows him. omega turns around, standing at a distance. and still, he asks with so much hope, “please, aemond. come with me. you don’t have to do this.”

aemond clenches his jaw and keeps silent. luke no longer waits to hear an answer, when alpha finally says, tiredly and angry, “stop being delusional. you knew aegon’ll take the throne. you knew i won’t leave my family.”

cold of the storm's end suddenly becomes unrealistically hot. luke feels everything and nothing at the same time.

“am i not your family?”

aemond’s silence speaks louder than his love confessions, kisses and touches. lucerys suggests that “they” matters only to him.

#i’m back with so much angst #i also plan to write part 2 to this #and to revenge game au ;)#lucemond #aemond x lucerys #lucemond au

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hella1975 · 3 months

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wondering why old ladies aren’t smiling at me around town as much this morning then remember im wearing hoops and a puffer jacket and generally look like a bitchy year 9 girl who’s about to punch someone

#state school fit jumped out today I must say #smiling first at the old ladies like IM NICE I SWEARRRRR. SMILE BACK #anyway i made it to my coffee shop that’s what matters 🫶🏼 im doing the plot outline for dog teeth part 3 #bc FUN FACT I’ve approached the writing of that super different to how i normally do #like normally as we know I’ll plan out EVERY STUPID DETAIL of each chapter before i even start writing #whereas this time around I’ve written the whole of part 1 and some of 2 #with NO set plot outline for part 3 like all I’ve got is bullet points of where i need to take it and Key Events #but nothing in between and im just gonna let myself figure that out as i go #WHICH IS SO SCARYYY I DONT /DO/ THISSSS #and im sat here now like ‘i WONT make an outline im just gonna hash it out more…’#who wants to bet i make an outline 😐#it’s not MY fault the plot got away from me (it’s entirely my fault)#like part 3 is getting INTENSE i have so many insane ideas for it it’s rlly looking to be a banger fic icl #SO SURELY I NEED A DETAILED OBSESSIVE PLAN FOR EVERY SINGLE PART OF IT. RIGHT #fuck sake 😭 oh well it’s my staff party tonight 😋#hella goes home

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sparring-spirals · 1 year

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My most important takeaway from my post-episode dash summary is that the Mighty Nein do end up initiating regular get togethers in Caleb's tower which means literally nothing can ruin the M9 epilogue for me. Like. Cmon. REGULAR TOWER MEET UPS. :'D Its about growing and healing and better futures! And the optimism of planned futures together and the effort to make it happen! Having a home, multiple homes, both in place and in people, having people to fall back on!

and its also about the Mighty Nein all having communal meals together and the resulting chaos. Someone is going to end up with a tureen of soup poured on them. (Its Fjord. Technically Luc does it but we all know whose idea it was.)

#once again losing my shit over the mighty nein and their starting place of hopelessness that manifested as not being able to see #futures for themselves. not being able.to cocneptualize it.#planning get togethers is good for all the regular reasons but also just. they plan these! they HAVE that future and they trust in it #enough to plan for it.#critical role #cr spoilers #the mighty nein reunited #the mighty nein reunited part 2 #found family #caleb widogast #the mighty nein #character meta #hA we all thought me not watching meant i wouldnt write meta but NOPE.#narrative meta #?

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suddencolds · 1 year

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Fool Me Twice [3/?]

I had a stressful week and was sort of considering dropping/discontinuing this fic, but then I ended up having fun writing this part last night :’) So here’s part 3—definitely a little different from what I usually write (and I was a little bold with certain decisions, haha). Enjoy!

Part 3 ft. fake dating, a New Year’s celebration, drunken decisions, implied/referenced contagion (maybe)

You can read Part 1 [here]! (No additional context is needed aside from the previous 2 parts).

—

Margot’s decorated the bathroom nicely— a glass soap dispenser, tied with a singular golden ribbon that seems—intentionally or not—in theme with the decorations outside; a small, fluffy blue rug; a shower curtain lined with silhouettes of raindrops, and one of those scented reed diffusers, scented like bamboo and lemongrass. Neither of which he’s allergic to, to his knowledge, but with this cold, any small push is enough to send him over the—

“hhEH… hehh’IIZSCHEEW!”

The sneeze does nothing—or close to nothing—to relieve the tickle in his nose. Yves desperately hopes that the walls are more soundproof than they appear to be. He reaches blindly for the roll of toilet paper, if only to have something to cover the resounding—

“hEHh… hEH-hHEh-! hhhEH’iTSSCH-Eew! Snf-! hEHH… HEHh’iIZSCHEEw!”

The sneezes scrape unpleasantly against his throat, enough that he coughs a little, after. He blows his nose into the handful of toilet paper and finds, even after, that his nose is still practically dripping. His excuse to Erika had been nothing more than that—an excuse—but he’s starting to feel as if this bathroom excursion was necessary in more ways than one.

The cold medicine from earlier is certainly starting to wear off, if the congestion settling in his sinuses is anything to go by. He’s tired, even though it isn’t especially late, and his throat is undoubtedly sorer than it had been before he got here. On top of everything with Erika, it feels like insult to injury.

Erika. Where would he even begin with her? Now—knowing that she wants to be friends with him still—what can he do? Has anything she’s said tonight merited his forgiveness? Even if she hadn’t meant to cheat on him—even if she’d been planning to break up with him formally, even if she’d only made out with Brendon because she was drunk—does that make any of this permissible? She still lied to him. That night, when she’d gone to the party, she’d told him that she was just visiting a relative. The only reason why Yves had found her there with Brendon—the only reason why he’d shown up at the party at all—was because he’d been dropping something off for a friend.

She might not have chosen to cheat on him. But she’d still chosen to get drunk with someone she knew she had feelings for. Is that really any better?

And there’s this, too—part of Yves wants to forgive her. Part of him wants to move past everything, if only it means he’ll get to keep her as a friend. There was a point where she was everything to him, and maybe a friendship would be second best to everything if it meant he’d get to keep talking to her. That version of her that he remembers, walking with him through the 5am dark to crew practice, leaning into his shoulder.

Yves turns on the sink, lets the cold water wash over his hands for a few seconds before he cups his hands together to splash some water on his face. For reasons other than the cold water, his eyes sting. He shouldn’t have come here, he thinks. Seeing Erika again, after everything, feels like reopening a wound that had only started to close up.

Or maybe that isn’t right. Maybe he’s not over her at all.

From the other side of the door, he hears a sharp knock.

“I’ll - snf-! - be out in a sec,” he says. “I thidk Margot has adother bathroom if you need to go.” One that he hasn’t just sneezed in, notably.

“Do you need anything?”

It’s Vincent.

It occurs to Yves, all of a sudden, what an asshole he’s been. He’s the entire reason why Vincent is here in the first place, and here he is, locked in the bathroom, leaving Vincent alone at a party he wouldn’t enjoy to socialize with people he doesn’t know.

But what can he say? He’s far from presentable, right now—with the large, glossy bathroom mirror in front of him to confirm it—his face flushed, his hair a mess. There’s no way he can open the door, as it stands, and let Vincent see him like this.

“I could… hEHh… hEHh’iIIZSCHEEW! snf-! Ugh, I could use a dridk right ndow,” he says instead, which is more honest than he intends, except then he remembers he’s not supposed to be drinking. “Wait, fuck. I still have to drive.”

“I can do it,” Vincent says, “If you trust me with your car. I wasn’t planning on drinking.”

“I do trust you with my car,” Yves says.

“What do you want? Champagne? A beer?”

“Whatever you find that will get mbe idtoxicated the fastest.” It’s half a joke.

“So you can wake up tomorrow with a hangover to go with your cold?”

“Hodestly? I can’t think of a better start to the ndew year,” Yves says.

A pause. “If it’s what you want.” It’s an easier victory than he’d expected—he supposes he can’t complain. He listens as Vincent’s footsteps recede.

He shuts the water off. Runs a hand through his hair, fixes some of the strands back in place. Blows his nose again, for good measure. His face is a little flushed—probably a telltale sign that he has a fever—but if he drinks, who will notice?

Vincent is back a couple minutes later. He knocks with the same, curt knock as before, and this time, Yves opens the door.

He’s standing there, looking no less charming than before, holding a cocktail glass. There’s an orange slice on the edge, and an elegantly placed sprig of rosemary—Margot’s doing, probably.

“Vodka and orange juice,” he says, by way of explanation. “Margot said it’s called a screwdriver.”

“She’s really committed to the orange juice,” Yves says, and takes the glass from him. “Thadks, snf! I’m sorry for disappearing on you.”

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something more. Yves braces himself for the questioning, but instead, Vincent turns away. “It’s fine.”

“And sorry about Erika,” Yves says. He thinks he sounds a little less congested now that he’s blown his nose—at least, for the time being. “It’s just—it’s been awhile since I’ve seen her. But that doesn’t mbean—i mean, I don’t wadt you to have to worry about all of this.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” “I just want you to edjoy the party,” Yves says. “Well, as much as you can, adyways. I can handle myself.”

“I never doubted that,” Vincent says.

“That’s why you’re the perfect pretend boyfriend.” Yves tips his drink back, takes a couple large, indulgent sips. He doesn’t catch Vincent’s expression as they take their seats again at the dinner table.

“You’re back,” Erika says. “I was starting to think you were planning on camping out in the bathroom for the rest of the night.”

“Yeah, it’s quite the complicated bathroom,” Yves says. “Thankfully Vincent was there to show me the way out.”

The rest of dinner is surprisingly uneventful—or maybe Yves is too tipsy to pick up on Erika’s passive aggression. Either way, he finds himself actually enjoying himself through the haze of the screwdriver and a few glasses of champagne. It helps that Erika hasn’t brought up the whole friend thing again, and it helps that Margot stops by a few times, whenever the conversation lulls, to change the subject to something utterly unrelated to his breakup. Yves isn’t sure how much of a role Vincent has to play in that. At some point—halfway through another sneezing fit—Vincent wordlessly gets him a stack of napkins, and Yves is not embarrassed enough to pretend he doesn’t need them at all.

After dinner and dessert (which Yves would usually help with, on the many occasions when he doesn’t have a cold, but which Margot does a perfectly impressive job with), everyone disperses again. Yves catches up with everyone he knows from college, introduces Vincent to them (“Don’t tell Vincent I said this,” he says, “But I think he’s way too smart to be on our team,” and Vincent laughs and modestly denies this), and wonders what he’ll tell them all when, inevitably, Vincent doesn’t show up to any of their future meetups. At some point in the future, Vincent will find someone, presumably, who he’ll spend every subsequent New Year’s with. Yves is a little too drunk to think about the slight pang in his stomach when he considers this.

It’s only when it’s nearing midnight that he finds himself out on Margot’s balcony with Vincent.

It’s a nice view of the city, with its rows and rows of glittering skyscrapers. Yves leans out on the railing.

The alcohol has done its job of making him feel pleasantly warm indoors, but it’s too cold outside for it to have the same effect. He doesn’t realize he’s shivering until Vincent says, “Are you too cold?”

“No,” Yves says, crossing his arms in an attempt to keep himself from shivering. “It’s… ndot that… cold out—hh-! hHehh’IIZSCHh-EEW!” Ugh. Very convincing.“That was bad timing, snf-!, I swear.”

“Bad timing, I’m sure,” Vincent says, his tone soft. “We can go inside if you want.”

“No,” Yves says, rubbing his nose. “It’s nicer out here, snf-! Also, I’m sure there will be fireworks at mbidnight. Which is soon.”

“So you’re taking the best vantage point all for yourself,” Vincent says.

“Yes, I— hHh-hHEH-!” He thinks it might culminate in another sneeze, but the tickle in his nose dissipates, very frustratingly, at last possible moment. “I got here first,” Yves says, sniffling. “Finders, keepers.”

“In that case,” Vincent says. Then—in lieu of finishing that sentence—he unbuttons his blazer and drapes it over Yves’s shoulders.

Yves stares at him, disbelieving. The blazer is still warm—indulgently, comfortably warm—from Vincent’s shoulders. “There’s no way you’re not cold wearing that,” he says, gesturing to Vincent’s button-down shirt. It’s long-sleeved—a small consolation—but with fabric that thin, there’s really no chance he’s dressed warmly enough for this weather.

It’s starting to snow again—lightly enough that the snow melts into water when it hits the ground.

Vincent shrugs. “I grew up here. I’m used to it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Yves says, pulling the jacket closer. “Thadks.”

Inside, almost everyone who hasn’t left has gathered in the living room. Someone—Mikhail, maybe—is telling a story to the crowd, to raucous laughter. Then, after a bit, Margot says something, lifting her glass of champagne, and everyone joins her in counting down. Ten. Nine.

“Erika’s watching,” Vincent says, after a beat. Eight. Yves turns and sees that he’s right—he spots her somewhere in the crowd, in her sleek blue dress. When she catches him looking, she waves. Seven. Six. “She’ll probably be expecting us to kiss.”

Yves looks away from her to look at Vincent. Vincent, who’s here just because Yves asked him to be, who looks unfairly attractive even in something as forgettable as a white button-down shirt, who Yves will probably never have another chance to spend a night with again. The question is out of his mouth before he can think twice about it.

“Can we?”

He almost bites his tongue after. What is he thinking? It’s a ludicrous request—something absolutely unfitting to ask from a coworker, especially when he has a cold—and he’s certain he would never have asked it if he were sober. He opens his mouth to apologize, to explain himself, but—

Two. One.

Vincent leans in, briefly, and kisses him.

Beyond them, fireworks shatter into the sky. There’s the sound of cheering in the living room.

The kiss lasts only a moment before Yves is wrenching himself away, taking a couple hurried steps back before his head snaps forward with a sudden, spraying—

“Hhehh’IIDSCHiiEW!”

—which, despite his efforts, almost certainly mists Vincent’s collar. It’s enough of a warning for him to lift his hand to his face and twist away to cover the subsequent—

“hHEH… Hheh’yISSCHEew! Snf-! Heh… hheh-!! Hheh… HEHh’iiDDZSChiEw!”

He feels heat creep up into his cheeks. “I’mb so sorry,” he says, and means it for everything—for the untimely sneeze, for the kiss, for inviting Vincent to the party in the first place. “That was… I’mb really sorry. Oh, god, I really hope you don’t catch this. I would feel awful if you caught this.” His head swims, and he finds himself grabbing the railing to steady himself, muffling a fit of harsh, grating coughs into his hand. Usually, it would be his sleeve, but given that the sleeve he has on now belongs to Vincent’s very nice blazer, his options are limited.

Yves leans his weight onto the railing, sniffling, and shuts his eyes against the dizziness. He might be drunker than he’d given himself credit for.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Vincent says. Yves doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see what he might be thinking. He really, really owes Vincent for all of this. “Are you tired?”

“Just a little drunk,” Yves answers. “We should probably head home soon.”

“Okay,” Vincent says.

The apartment is indulgently warm when they step back inside. Yves hands Vincent back his jacket and lingers in the living room to say goodbye to Margot (he has the pleasure of watching her hug Vincent for the second time tonight) and to the handful of college friends that he recognizes. It’s a short walk to the car through the snow—just a few minutes, except he finds it to be more of a tedious walk than expected, and Vincent has to grab his arm a couple times to keep him from stumbling.

“Careful,” he says sternly, the first time.

Yves stares at him, tries to think about what sober Yves would say. He’s always been a little too honest when drunk.

“You are a godsend,” he says. “Thanks for coming todight. I kdow you hate parties.”

“I don’t hate parties. Are you always like this when you’re drunk?”

“Like what?”

Vincent laughs—a short, soft laugh which Yves wishes he could hear more of. “This is the fifth time you’ve thanked me.”

Is it really? “Ndo, I just am… hEH-!” Yves twists away from Vincent, just in time to let out a barely covered—

“hehh’IZZSCHH-iIEW! Snf!” The sneeze jerks him forward, harsh—and loud—enough that he feels a twinge of pain in his throat. Luckily, Vincent won’t be here tomorrow to see him lose his voice.

“Bless you,” Vincent says, reflexively.

“That’s definitely ndot the fifth time you’ve blessed me,” Yves says. “It’s more than that for sure. So I’mb allowed to thadk you more than once.”

“If you put it that way.”

Vincent drives him home. Yves directs the GPS to his address and tries to stay awake so he can talk to him, until Vincent says, “If you’re tired, you should sleep,” which Yves wants to protest. It seems rude to fall asleep in his own car when he’s supposed to be the one driving in the first place. But maybe Vincent is tired, too, from having had to socialize with strangers all night, and maybe silence would be preferable to him now. So Yves leans his head against the passenger seat window and shuts his eyes.

It feels like he’s only been asleep for a minute before Vincent taps him on the shoulder.

“We’re here,” he says, pulling the keys from the ignition.

“That was fast,” Yves says. He muffles a small cough into his sleeve. “Thadks again for driving me. I’mb sorry we stayed out so late.” He checks his watch—it’s close to 1am. It occurs to him that he has no idea if Vincent is a morning person, if this is considered late by his standards. If he’s tired, too.

“It’s no problem,” Vincent says, stifling a yawn into his hand. Well, that answers his question.

Yves unbuckles his seatbelt, opens the passenger door, and gets out. It’s brutally cold out, cold enough that he has to fight back a shiver. “At least wait inside as I call you an Uber?” “You don’t have to do that.”

But Yves is already pulling out his phone, scrolling through their messages for Vincent’s address. It’s the least he can do, after everything.

Vincent waits inside with him for a few minutes. It’s a bit of a wait for his ride—probably everyone’s trying to get back home from their New Year’s parties at this time—so Yves makes them both some hot chocolate (nothing fancy, given the time constraints—just hot cocoa mix with some cinnamon and steamed milk—but Yves says “You should come again some time, I promise I can actually cook when I have more than three minutes”) and sits with him in the living room. He finds himself almost disappointed when the cab finally arrives.

“Get home safe,” Yves says.

“Thanks,” Vincent says. “I will.”

“And Vincent?” Vincent turns.

There’s a hundred things Yves wants to say to him. He wants to say, you didn’t have to do this. He wants to say, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. He wants to say, how can I make it up to you?

“Happy New Year,” he says, instead, and Vincent smiles.

[ Part 4 ]

#snz fic #sneeze fic #sneeze kink #snz kink #snz #also thank you to anyone who took the time to leave nice tags on the first 2 parts 😭❤️#it really means a lot to me #and i really really love seeing people's thoughts #my fic #i was planning to be so much meaner to yves but this chapter happened instead #(yves's 'hypothetically i'd be fine with kissing' line from part 2 was there to set this chapter up)#'what is there left to write now that the party's over?' vincent's tur- 🔫#yvverse

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