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steddiehyperfixation · 1 year

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accidental eavesdropping (steddie ficlet)

based on this post by @imjust-that-shy. i hope i did this vision justice <3

The doors to the bathroom burst open, and - on some pure, inexplicable instinct and with nearly inhuman speed - Eddie darts back into the stall he'd just been about to come out of and leaps to perch on top of the toilet seat, crouched there like some sort of creature.

He hears the sound of retching and the stench of vomit fills the air. He holds his breath, wrinkling his nose and trying to imagine what possible context could be behind Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley bursting in here together to puke their guts out. Eddie knows the two of them work together, he’s seen them sharing shifts at Scoops Ahoy when he's walked by. (Not that he often intentionally passes by the ice cream parlor and slows down just to catch a glimpse of Steve or anything… Although who could really blame him if he did? Like, come on, Steve in that uniform? Hello, sailor.) His mind is busy spinning stories of possible explanations, ranging from spoiled ice cream to sneaking alcohol and getting too drunk during their break.

Eddie's leaning towards the 'drinking on the job' explanation, especially when the retching finally ceases and Robin says something about the room no longer spinning. Those little rebels, Eddie thinks approvingly.

“When’s the last time you, uh…peed your pants,” Steve is asking Robin now, in response to her telling him in a Russian accent to interrogate her.

Eddie curls over his knees, tilting his head to try to peer through the gap between the stalls and the floor to put an image to his eavesdropping. Might as well, he’s kind of stuck here and there’s really not much else he can do right now. He can see Steve’s legs, one bent and the other stretched out in front of him, and Robin in the stall past him laying on the floor with her legs up against the stall wall as she answers, “Today…”

“What?” Steve questions.

“When the Russian doctor took out the bone saw!” Robin says.

Okay…what? Russian doctors and bone saws? Eddie’s now thoroughly intrigued, if a little (okay, a lot) confused. Maybe they’re talking about a movie they watched or something.

Steve’s legs shake with his laughter. “Oh my god.”

“It was just a little bit, though.” Robin pinches her fingers together as she twists her body in Steve’s direction while he laughs again and mutters that whatever it is they took is still in her system. She pushes her feet off the stall and slides to sit against the opposite wall. Eddie can only see her legs now. “Okay, my turn. Have you…ever been in love?”

Steve answers that he has, with Nancy, and makes a sound mimicking an explosion. Eddie remembers that, remembers seeing Steve and Nancy being all touchy and cute in the hallways at school while he was trying his damndest to convince himself that he absolutely definitely did not wish he was in Nancy’s place. It didn’t work very well. And it’s not working very well now either as Steve starts to go on about some new girl he likes now instead - some girl who’s funny and smart and can crack secret Russian codes (okay, seriously, what is it with these two and Russians?) and oh shit, he’s talking about Robin.

Eddie very suddenly feels like he should not be here listening to this, eavesdropping on Steve confessing his feelings for someone. Not only is that, like, a private and personal thing, but also what if Robin likes him back and they start kissing or something right here in this bathroom where Eddie has to sit here and listen to it and that would just be horrible for him for so many reasons and- Eddie’s getting ahead of himself. Robin hasn’t even said anything yet, and her knees are pulled up to her chest and her voice shakes when she confirms she’s still alive after Steve asks if she’s OD’d there in the silence and she uncurls with a deep sigh. All signs that she doesn’t actually like Steve back.

Eddie watches as Steve shifts and slides under the stall into Robin’s, and catches sight of the nasty bruise marring nearly half of Steve’s otherwise beautiful face as he does so. Now concern has been added to the list of emotions this eavesdropping experience has rollercoastered him through so far. The bruise looks fairly fresh and Eddie can’t help but wonder what the hell gave Steve a black eye like that and if he’s okay.

After a brief spiral of concern for Steve’s face, Eddie tunes back into reality to find himself staring at Steve’s ass as Steve now sits with his back against the stall wall opposite Robin. Eddie blinks, expands his tunnel vision to include Steve’s lower back and Robin’s legs which are also visible beneath the gap in the stalls.

“It’s not because I had a crush on you,” Robin is saying. “It’s because…she wouldn’t stop staring at you.”

“Mrs. Click?” Steve sounds confused.

“Tammy Thompson,” Robin clarifies. “I wanted her to look at me.”

Oh. Eddie should really not be listening to this. Robin is trying to come out to Steve, trying to share something deeply personal and vulnerable with him and only him, not knowing that she’s outing herself to an eavesdropping near-stranger as well. Eddie feels violating and intruding. He can’t imagine how he would feel if he found out someone he barely knew had been secretly listening in on him coming out - probably not great, probably terrified. This is something he shouldn’t know, not like this.

“But Tammy Thompson’s a girl,” Steve says, his tone unreadable, and Eddie’s heart nearly stops, sure his own anticipatory anxiety is likely only just a fraction of what Robin must be feeling right now.

“Steve…”

“Yeah?” A pause. “Oh,” Steve’s voice goes soft. “Oh… Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Robin sighs. Eddie can see her hands nervously rubbing at her shins. “Holy shit.”

Steve is silent for a few painfully long moments. Eddie’s hands curl nervously around his own shins. Is Steve going to be homophobic? Should Eddie be worried for Robin now?

“Steve, did you OD over there?” Robin asks, trying to be light but Eddie can hear the anxiety in her voice.

“No, I just, uh- just thinking,” Steve responds.

“Okay…” Robin’s voice is barely audible. Eddie is holding his breath.

“I mean, yeah,” Steve says finally, “Tammy Thompson’s cute and all, but the only reason I never gave her the time of day was because I was too busy staring at Eddie Munson.”

The aforementioned Eddie Munson releases the breath he’d been holding with an involuntary squeak and claps a hand over his mouth. Thankfully, neither of them heard him over the sound of Robin shouting. “What?! Eddie Munson?! You liked Eddie Munson?” she squawks, voicing Eddie’s own stunned thoughts perfectly.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms casually, completely unaware that he's throwing an eavesdropping Eddie into an absolute crisis right now. There's a soft thudding sound like Steve's hitting the back of his head against the stall wall. His voice gets kind of wistful, almost dreamy, as he says, “His rings, man. Rings and tattoos…and that long hair and those chains he'd wear… Honestly just his whole punk aesthetic thing had me mesmerized.”

“Pretty sure he's metal, not punk,” Robin corrects him.

Thanks, Robin. Also, what the fuck is happening right now?

“Whatever. Still hot as hell,” Steve says.

Eddie squeaks again and practically shoves his whole fist in his mouth to keep himself from making any more noise, his teeth knocking against his rings. The rings Steve likes, apparently. He feels like he's going to pass out, his heart beating so erratically it's making him lightheaded. King Steve - the popular, preppy, stupid, gorgeous, dumb jock Eddie's been crushing on since forever - just called him hot????

“Did you hear that?” Robin asks suddenly, voice low and cautious.

Shit.

“Is anyone else in here?” Steve calls out.

Fuck.

Eddie bites down hard on his knuckles and holds his breath, going impossibly still. If they get up and search the bathroom, then he’s about to be caught red handed, crouched on top of a toilet seat with his fist in his mouth and his face flushed scarlet, eavesdropping on their private conversation about secret Russians and gay crushes. Eddie contemplates falling into the toilet and attempting to flush himself down it. Every god imaginable is receiving a silent prayer from him right now as he watches apprehensively through the gaps in the stall. One of those gods must've heard and taken pity on this poor gay disaster of a man crouched like a goblin in a bathroom stall, because after a few horrible seconds of silence, all Steve does is lean down to peer beneath the stalls for a moment before sitting back up and saying, “Looks empty. I think the drugs are making us hear things.”

“Yeah, probably,” Robin says. Then she giggles, knocking her leg against Steve’s. “I still can’t believe you were into Eddie.”

Steve flicks Robin’s knee. “I can’t believe you were into Tammy.”

“What’s wrong with Tammy?!” Robin protests.

“What’s wrong with Eddie?” Steve counters. “At least he’s actually got talent. Tammy’s a total dud - she wants to be a singer and shit but she can’t even hold a tune.”

Eddie is going to die. He is actually going to die right here, right now, because Steve Harrington thinks he’s hot and talented. And then Steve starts mimicking Tammy, singing Total Eclipse of the Heart in a ridiculously goofy voice, and now Eddie is going to die because he finds that so stupidly endearing and adorable. Maybe he should just flush himself down the toilet, save himself from this hopelessly pathetic crush of his. Instead, he’s saved by the bathroom doors bursting open again and a new voice shouting at them, “Okay. What the hell?!”

Steve and Robin collapse into a fit of giggles before being dragged to their feet by the newcomers and led out of the bathroom, leaving Eddie alone and reeling and struggling to process literally everything he’s just overheard. He finally hops down from his toilet perch and exits the stall like he’s in a daze. He’s not sure how long he had been camped out in there - probably only about ten minutes - but it felt like hours, so long that the world outside of that single bathroom stall almost feels foreign and unfamiliar now.

Eddie grips the bathroom sink and stares at his flustered reflection in the mirror and whispers to himself, “What the actual fuck?”

---

Later, years later, only after he and Steve are already dating, Eddie tells him all about this experience, and Steve laughs so hard he nearly cries.

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astraystayyh · 8 months

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hyunjin is your friend except you're making out in his car backseat. very suggestive so mdni. inspired by the song strangers.

"you want me to tell you how this will go between us?" you whisper, as hyunjin's nose brushes against yours softly.

"please," he says just as quietly, his thumb grazing your bottom lip in an agonizingly slow manner.

"we get in your car..." you begin, fingers reaching up to trace the contour of his face. so pretty for you. "and you'll lean to kiss me..." you let out breathlessly, and a curious smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"like this, you mean?" he says, before pressing your lips onto his softly. you sigh, as goosebumps rise upon your skin. he tastes so sweet, so addicting. you missed this little game you both had on.

"what next?" he questions, eyes still closed, chest heaving from the emotion coursing through him.

"we'll talk for hours..." you gently wipe the corners of his mouth, now tainted with your cherry lipstick. "and we'll lay on the backseat."

"oh, yeah?" he smiles, his dimple peeking on his right cheek. adorable, if not for the fact that he's lowering you on the said backseat now, before hovering over you. his arms are on either side of your body, caging you in, not that you'd ever dream of escaping.

"and then one random night, when everything changes, you won't reply..." you pout, as you entwine his golden necklace between your fingers, tugging him slowly towards you. "and we'll go back to strangers."

"is that what you think will happen, pretty? that I'd forget you?" he asks, his thumb brushing against your cheek tenderly. then your chin. then the curve of your neck, down to your collarbones. it's a featherlight touch, but the anticipation of what it might turn into is killing you.

"won't you? forget me, i mean?" you grin cheekily, as you interlock your hands behind his neck, bringing his face, much, much closer to yours.

"i won't," he says with a sincerity that catches you off guard. "not when you're you."

a newfound emotion tugs at your heartstrings. it's not lust, no, this is... warm and nice and you don't want to dive into it, into the consequences of what it might change between you both.

"well, i don't know. maybe i will be the one forgetting you," you smile teasingly, as his necklace dangles over your face.

"then i have to give you something to remember me by, don't i?"

"you do," you sigh dreamily, as his lips suddenly suck on the tender skin of your neck. your hands are tangled in his soft black hair, and you know you're lying. you couldn't ever forget him. not when he's hyunjin and you're in the backseat of his car. and his plump lips are on you alone.

#this song has been stuck in my head #i wrote this in five minutes so not proofread but yeah #my official application to make out with hyunjin #stray kids x reader #skz x reader #hwang hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x reader #skz smut #skz hard thoughts #skz hard hours #me struggling to tag this as always #we need a tag for suggestive stuff #accidentally sexy as anya would describe it #stray kids smut #hyunjin smut #hyunjin hard thoughts #hyunjin hard hours

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separatist-apologist · 6 months

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The Wrong Place At The Right Time

Summary: And if I'm all dressed up, they might as well be looking at us

Read on AO3

Four words were enough to wreck her entire week. Strung together, they ruined her. Separated? Fine.

Lucien will be there.

Feyre had the good sense to warn Elain at the beginning of the week, at least. Give her time to get used to the idea, to decide if she still wanted to go. Elain suspected Feyre had invited Lucien specifically to give Elain an out. Afterall: she hated Hewn City. She hated the way they looked at her, how they leered, their whispered slut and whore comments as she passed, tarring her with the same hateful brush they’d once painted her sisters. Guilty by association, for having the same last name, the same smile.

If Elain hadn’t been such a coward, she might have asked why Lucien needed to be there. What could be happening that required his presence, that somber expression, those clenched hands? Elain had slunk up to her room, unmissed by the general revelry of the night, to pick through familiar letters.

Lucien wrote. Elain read. She didn’t respond—that wasn’t what he wanted, wasn’t what he expected. They had their roles, and Elain was meant to witness him. Perhaps he thought she threw them all straight into the fire and that was what made him pour such vulnerability into the ink and parchment. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care if she saw this part of him.

Elain read them like he was her religion. She’d found him in the spaces of his letters, in the way he looped his words.

Lucien asked her for nothing and so Elain offered him just as much, unwilling to admit she would have given him anything he wanted if he put it to paper. If he spoke the words. And now he’d be in Hewn City, the first time she’d seen him since that first letter had been handed to her by a sheepish Rhysand, clearly embarrassed he had to be the messenger. Now the letters were just there, sitting on her bed untouched and unopened, unexposed to the suspicious eyes and unforgiving minds of the Night Court.

They’d never trust him if they saw the things he said. If they knew the things he wanted, the fears he harbored, the dreams he wouldn’t say to anyone else. And Elain knew it would all be used against him, so she never spoke of them either. This was her secret—something just for her.

Knowing she’d see him soon, Elain did the only reasonable thing. She had a glass of whiskey for breakfast before making her way into the Palace of Threads and Jewels.

She wouldn’t wear black. What a mockery it made of her, how everyone knew by sight that she was an interloper, outsider. No amount of spine would ever make that untrue, and if Lucien was coming, she wanted him fixated on her. She wanted to read about it in his next letter—how wrecked he’d been, how badly he wanted to touch her, where he’d put his fingers, his mouth, his teeth.

If she was all dressed up, after all, he might as well look at her. Rubbing the glittering fabric between her fingers, Elain nodded before handing over more gold than she had the right to carry. “I need it quickly,” she’d said. No problem for the High Lady’s sister, which was perhaps unfair. Elain couldn’t find it in her to care. Not when the gown appeared the morning of their trip, nor when she pulled it out of the pale pink tissue paper to admire the way the beads glittered like starlight beneath the faelights.

She was never going to be the cold abyss of night but maybe, at least in Hewn City, she could be the burning heat of moonlight. Warmed by the sun, an echoing promise of what morning might bring if she only just held on.

Elain didn’t dare go downstairs, even when she heard the commotion of Lucien’s arrival and Feyre’s high pitched delight at seeing her friend. She wanted to. Oh, how her limbs ached and buzzed, aware of him even when she wished she wouldn’t be. No—she needed this moment to be perfect, if only to read it through his eyes. So he couldn’t see her at all, if only to prolong the suspense.

To force him to see her exactly as she wanted to be seen.

The dress was silver, soft against her skin and sharp to anyone who might reach out a hand to touch her unwanted. The gems that glittered doubled as knives, drawing blood if they were too forceful, too cruel. Only the gentlest hands could slide over her waist to pull her in for a dance. She’d picked a ballgown rather than something revealing, something that hid anything a lesser male might find fascinating and forced, instead, the gaze to remain on her face. Her eyes. Her mouth.

The soft neckline exposed her collarbones and her neck, the long sleeves giving a glimpse only of her hands. She left her hair to tumble down her back to hide the exposed skin, leaving her a mystery, a fantasy. Elain could be anyone to whoever looked at her, which was nothing new. Men gazed at her, projecting what they wanted without considering who she might actually be.

Lucien could do the same, if he wanted.

Though she hoped he wouldn’t.

Elain descended the stairs in a fog, the last to arrive just as she’d planned. It looked like petulance—a woman so determined not to see a man that she’d made everyone wait on her. Elain kept her eyes on the wood beneath her feet, fingers skimming the rail as she all but floated down. There was a beat of silence before a murmuring of finally, though she didn’t notice who spoke the words.

When Elain looked up at the gathered group, her eyes fell on Azriel first by virtue of him being largest and closest. She saw that familiar gaze—the projection, the fantasy, the hunger. How she could so easily lose every aspect of herself within it, reshaping every inch of her to be what he saw. It wouldn’t have been the first time—Elain was moldable. There was safety there—Graysen had destroyed her, but Azriel never could. He didn’t know her well enough, didn’t care to. He saw a fantasy and Elain could hide within it.

Even when he’d rejected her, there had been no pain. It wasn’t anything special, after all. He clearly hadn’t thought so, and neither did she. Looking at him evoked nothing but appreciation. He was beautiful—perhaps he employed similar methods. Why bother knowing him when he could be anything and anyone? It wasn’t as if Elain had paid any particular time to finding out what lurked beneath the pretty veneer.

That made her uncomfortable, a mirror held to her face, reflecting herself wholly back. She turned her head, meaning to find a wall to stare at.

She found Lucien instead. His expression was unreadable, his one good russet eye gleaming with indifference. Both gold and brown flicked over her for a moment before he turned his own head, a muscle feathering in the cut of his jaw. Bound, auburn hair trailed behind the silver of his jacket and Elain wondered how he’d known.

If he’d known.

Of course he must have. Right? No one commented on it—why would they—and Elain blinked and they were gone, leaving behind the warmth and safety of Velaris for the horror that was Hewn City. Lucien blinked from the edge of the group, both eyes so round they looked drawn against his otherwise beautiful face. Had he been prepared for this?

No one else seemed affected at all. They were used to the cruelty, to the casual nightmares that infected this place. Elain had long thought it didn’t need to exist the way it did, and it was allowed in some manner of tradition rather than practicality. Surely they weren’t all bad? Surely they put on the same masks Feyre and Rhysand wore? Or was it that even the Court of Dreamers like to indulge in a little cruelty at times, if only to purge it from their systems?

Seeing Lucien react made Elain feel settled—like she wasn’t making it all up in her head. She wondered what his letter would make of all this—the smooth, carved out stone and the vaulted ceilings. The walls adorned with swirling silver and that obsidian pair of thrones that served more as decoration than actual chairs. Rhys and Feyre, dressed in black so crushing it stole the light from around them, casting them as blackholes.

Behind them was Mor, unforgiving as she surveyed the room and flanked by the cold, unyielding brutality of Cassian and Azriel. Even Nesta managed to make the ice in her eyes an art, causing those who dared to look upon her to flinch back as though she’d physically struck them.

Lucien fell back a step, shoulder to shoulder with her despite the difference in their heights. Fingers brushed for only a moment, the warmth fleeting against the cold of the mountain. Elain wanted to grab his hands, to demand he tell her something true. This place is terrible, right? I’m not imagining it—I can’t fake it, can you?

Maybe he heard her thoughts, because those eyes of his slid toward her, eyebrows raised as if to say, what the fuck is this?

Elain couldn’t help offering a silent response in return. Home, I guess.

His eyes widened, not with surprise, but recognition. As if he was saying, Hell is where you make it.

She had to suppress her smile, ducking her head to hide behind thick, long curls. Somehow, though, she thought he caught it anyway. He’d tell her about it in his pretty prose, just as he’d done for the last six months. Every memory he had of her, put to paper for her to read as though he wanted her to know what he saw, what he knew.

Proof, she thought, that he caught the little slip ups—saw the light beneath the cracks, diluting the shadow she felt lost in. He wasted no time describing her physical beauty in conventional terms. Lucien focused on the parts—bright eyes, tapping fingers, swinging feet. A curl caught in the breeze, a beam of light illuminating hues of gold and green. He wrote about her like she was something so far elevated that only the poetry of his words could ever do it justice. And he wrote about himself the way a tree might describe the squirrels beneath. Appreciative for the branches, the shade, worthy to look, to appreciate, but to perhaps not to speak.

Rhysand gave some brutal speech that Elain didn’t absorb, didn’t care to hear. Those words made it hard to look at him in the aftermath, made it difficult to like him at all. Better to pretend he didn’t like any part of this and someone else was continuing this spectacle. Elain, instead, took her seat, the furthest from the High Lord and Lady. Lucien whispered something to Nesta, who, with raised eyebrows, nodded her head and stood so they could swap.

And just like that, he was seated beside her rather than at Feyre’s elbow. Wasn’t he the emissary to this court for the evening? Surely he wanted to converse with the ruling monarchs rather than the woman who never spoke to him at all. But Lucien’s broad shoulders relaxed, his hand resting against the thigh of his white pants. Feyre crawled into Rhys’s lap, touching his neck, his face, his chest, while Nesta immediately jumped to her feet to join Cassian on the floor.

So maybe it didn’t matter where they sat, Elain rationalized. Nesta’s chair would have remained empty regardless, and Feyre could simply slide into it if she wanted. Elain dared a look at Lucien and his glazed expression before balling her hands in her lap to suppress the overwhelming urge to touch him. One of them would have to end the stalemate between them, would have to break. She’d known it ever since she’d imposed the silence in the first place.

And Lucien did what he’d always done—he spoke first.

“I’ve been here before,” he said, his voice deeper than she remembered. Hoarser, too. She couldn’t help the incline of her neck, the way her body shifted in her chair to look at him. “In a manner of speaking.”

“When?” she heard herself reply, so quiet she might have whispered it in his ear.

Lucien didn’t look at her at all, expression set with a grimness that betrayed his own nightmares. “Under the Mountain,” he said. “I didn’t think…I suppose I see where Amarantha took her inspiration.”

There it was again—that urge to touch him. Elain suppressed it, though she didn’t quite know why. She didn’t need to be his mate to know he would have welcomed it. Allowed it, without the expectation of anything else.

Elain lapsed back into silence, not because it was demanded but because she had no idea what to say to him. This wasn’t polite conversation. He hadn’t told her he liked her dress, that she was beautiful—she’d told him something personal. Something vulnerable. And when Lucien spoke like that, Elain merely listened, read, remembered. He didn’t seem upset, though in truth how would she know?

And when he stood to be closer to Feyre, their foreheads nearly touching as they conspired, Elain felt a little jealous, unfairly. She could have him like that, if she wanted. Could have been the Archeron he whispered his secrets to with his mouth rather than his fingers. She knew before he ever stood to look at her, that Lucien was going to leave with only a faint goodbye. That he’d seen whatever it was he needed to say, had the information he needed and that was all the time Elain would be allotted.

He’d be relegated back to fantasy until Feyre summoned him again, and Elain would try and be what he wanted without letting him have any of it at all. Every part of her was screaming when he turned his attention to her, that mask slipping for only a moment so she could see the truth of them both laid bare in this terrible place. His yearning, a match for her own, stared back at her. His eyes, screaming too—ask me to stay.

The resignation as he bricked that wall back up to offer her a polite half bow. “I’ll take my leave of you—” “Dance with me.” Elain hadn’t meant to say it. The words had forced themselves out of her with such a rush the consonants tripped over one another, slurring together until they were practically unintelligible. Lucien’s spine straightened, betraying no evidence of the shock Elain was certain graced her own features.

“It would be my pleasure,” he assured her as flame ignited in his one good eye. Sunlight seemed to burn against the other, and when he extended his hand, Elain found familiar golden warmth ribboning along her bones. They so rarely touched that it felt indecent right then with so many eyes on them.

It felt like they were doing something they shouldn’t, that was better reserved for a bedroom than a dance floor, and all they were doing was holding hands. Elain let him guide her out of her chair, wondering if her dress would slice apart his skin or if Lucien knew the right way to avoid injury. If he knew exactly how to touch her, missing the thorns for the blooming petals instead.

Elain hated the music of Hewn City—it was too strange, impossible to dance well to. Perhaps the fae preferred the grinding displays, the sweating bodies, the declaration of obvious intentions. But Elain missed the subtlety of human dances—the careful, precise touches, glances that lingered, bodies that never quite touched. Foolish, she thought, to think Lucien would know the steps or would even want it.

And yet…and yet he didn’t take her to the dance floor where Nesta was holding court. Lucien, with his fingers warm and reassuring, walked her through the archway and back into the night. Only then, with the thudding music a half-distant memory, did he exhale a shaking breath. “I assumed you meant somewhere…else.” “Where—” she bit her bottom lip, because maybe she’d misread this situation. Or maybe he had, too. The dance had to happen before anything else could, and if he skipped it, his letters would have to keep vigil in her fireplace.

“Trust me,” was his only reply, with an earnestness she’d read before. Many times, even. Elain decided she would, that she would give him this one opportunity to prove the man in the letters was the same standing in the entryway to the mountain, rejecting cruelty for something sweeter, something unmasked and real.

He tugged gently, and before she took a step, Elain said, “I hate it in there, too.” Lucien regarded her, a tendril of hair sweeping over her cheek. Those eyes of his softened at the edges, just enough to silently proclaim, I know you do.

They walked out of the ward, the cold air a rebuke of Lucien’s inherent warmth. Was that Autumn, then? Or something else, some innate magic he seemed to carry with him. Gold shimmered from the bronze of his skin and too late, Elain realized Lucien, too, was offering the same amount of skin she was. His hands, his throat, his face—look at my eyes, my lips, my hair. No half unbuttoned shirts revealing swirling tattoos, no armor showing off bulging muscles, or weapons strapped menacingly against his legs. Had he planned it?

Or did he know?

Warmth blazed around them in a bubble as the smell of salt and coconut swept over them. Lucien’s winnow was less snow and cold, and more sand and sea water, and when it faded, Elain didn’t feel so off balance. Looking around, she found herself on a terrace overlooking a violet hued ocean comprised of glittering diamonds and white shores. White marble curved along the balcony, while a little table held a carafe of wine or water—she wasn’t sure, didn’t care—for some unknown guest.

“Where…are we?” she managed, so taken in by this small scene she could hardly breathe. It was warm. Hot, even, despite the night sky. She regretted her sleeves, the heaviness of her skirts, the length of her hair curling gently against the back of her neck.

“Day,” Lucien replied, coming to stand just behind her without touching. Close enough she could feel his heat, too. Elain was tempted to lean back against him, to let him strengthen her with his solid build.

“Why Day?” she asked him.

“It’s my home,” was his simple reply.

Unthinkingly, Elain said, “You didn’t tell me that.”

There was a pause, a sweeping realization that oh. She read my letters. Elain didn’t dare look back, didn’t want to see whatever it was he was thinking so loudly. Lucien cleared his throat.

“I ah…wasn’t sure…how I felt about it. If I wanted to say anything…even to you.”

“What are you leaving out?” Elain dared to ask, thinking she was the only person in the world who could demand honesty from the famed liar.

Lucien chuckled. “Too much, I think. But I brought you here for a dance, not to overburden you with my problems. Come. I want to show you something else.”

Tearing her gaze from this new, warm world, Elain followed Lucien into blazing light. Of course Day would glow golden, some magic causing sunbeams to filter through the faelights hanging overhead. He looked alive here, a rainbow of colors draped across his skin. The silver seemed brighter, and she wondered if hers was just as iridescent as his own. If she looked happy, alive, warm, in the same way.

Shaking off the cold, the cruelty, Elain tried to map and memorize their route through winding halls of high, open windows, draping ivy flowers, and pretty artwork. Down sweeping steps she could have floated toward him like a cloud rather than plodding as she’d done just an hour or so before, until they were alone in the grandest ballroom she’d ever seen in her life. Big enough to fit a thousand people, with a dais that obviously belonged to the High Lord. Lucien wasn’t touching her, though she wished he would. Instead, he left her to make her way inside while he strode toward that throne, jogging the three steps to the top to fiddle with something she couldn’t see.

Another balcony, wide enough to fit her entire bedroom back home, curved on both ends of the room, separated only by sheer curtains caught in a friendly breeze. Elain might have gone to see what kind of view they both offered had music not filled the space so completely, conforming to the grooves of the smooth walls, the domed ceiling overhead. It blanketed her like a breath of air, causing her to turn for its source.

Lucien drank in her delight. “Allow me some secrets, hm?”

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” Elain protested, standing in place as she waited for him to come closer.

“You were going to ask me how I managed this, right? Magic,” he added before bowing with a flourish. “I have to make the most of this dance.”

Because there might not be another. Still, she was grinning and thought that she wouldn’t mind a second, or even a third, depending on how the first one went. Lucien offered her his hand the way a human man might, offering her the chance to reject him if she wished. Elain took it, inkling her head, and then her other hand was on his shoulder, his sliding along her waist so smoothly, so fluidly it was like the beads were made of the smoothest pearl.

“I’ll do my best not to step on your feet,” Lucien said, holding her gaze. His body was inches from her own, intimate and still polite, his steps in time with the music that wasn’t familiar, and yet not at odds with what she’d had growing up.

“Have you been practicing?” Elain dared to ask. Another thing he’d kept from his letters. Color bloomed over his cheeks and how did anyone call him a fox? His every emotion, every secret, was laid bare before her.

“I thought, since you were human…well. I figured I might need to adapt.”

The thought that Lucien might have done something she’d never had another man do—try and change pieces of himself for her, rather than demand she change shape to fit in his puzzle-piece world—astounded Elain. Something so small, that might never matter to anyone other than her. Elain loved to dance, loved the social gatherings that facilitated it, loved the push and pull, the will-they-wont-they, the eroticism of a fleeting touch, the promise in a glance.

“What else did you adapt?” Elain dared to ask him. Because it was allowed, here. She could drop her guard a little, make her intentions more plain.

“The letters,” he admitted, spinning away from him. Had there been other dancers, Elain would have been swept away by another man, forced to watch Lucien while held by a stranger, hoping he, too, would be searching for her across the crowded room. “I ah…well. It occurred to me that I could court you like a human man and maybe you’d like that. But I’m not a human…or a man, really. And after some reading, I found a familiar set of scripts that seemed to begin with letters, and then house calls, a conversation with your father and…anyway, you never responded, but I kept writing. And you were reading them.”

It was a question masquerading as a statement. “Yes,” she agreed, not looking away from him. There was no space to lie within their dance. “Many times.” Lucien took a breath, pulling his hand from hers so he could lift her in the air while Elain gripped his shoulders. Oh, but she wanted him—she wanted him so much it made her knees buckle when she was back on the ground. Of course he’d been courting her. She hadn’t realized, thinking he was merely using her as an outlet to say all the things he couldn’t normally.

He was telling her who he really was. Beyond the facade, beyond the masks. Lucien the fox, the High Lords son, emissary to Spring or Night or Day—all titles, all meaningless. The letters were the man beneath—the male, she supposed—and Elain, too used to playing a fantasy, too, didn’t realize what he was doing until he told her plainly.

“Is it working?” Lucien asked, pulling her back just a little closer than before. His steps were flawless. Or maybe they only seemed that way because she liked him, and could see nothing else but pretty perfection.

“What if it was?” she asked coyly, just to see how he’d respond.

“I’d ask you to dance again. And another after that. And I might pretend there was a queue of other men anxiously waiting for us to part ways so they might have a chance with you, thwarted by my charming manners and my fluid dancing.”

“And what then?” Elain pressed, if only because she was having fun.

Lucien arched a brow, and she wondered how difficult this all was for him. To pretend to be something he wasn’t, to play her games rather than waiting for her to just give in.

“Well…I think I’d take you to the balcony and I’d thank you for humoring me. And I might kiss you, if you seemed like you’d allow it. And you’d remind me I’m impolite and I’d smile—but it would be charming, so you’d forgive me. And then I’d take you home and hope that the next time I wrote you a letter, you invite me to call on you.”

“Is that how a fae male would court a female?” she dared to ask him.

Heat flared in eyes of both flesh and metal. No. It was a dangerous question…but one she wanted to know, anyway. Maybe, she rationalized, there was some middle ground between them. Or maybe she didn’t want him to take her home just yet. Maybe she wanted to stay, to wake up beside him, and pretend she was wholly fae and see what happened when the sun replaced the moon.

“No,” he admitted, their steps slowing to fit the shifting music. Lucien’s grip on her waist tightened, bringing with it the smell of warm salt. He wanted her—she’d known it, of course. But to see it, while he held her, while he admitted he’d been trying to court her, was a different thing entirely.

“How would you?”

“I’d take you upstairs to my bedroom and I’d peel your dress off your body with your teeth. I’d make you see my devotion with my tongue rather than my fingers, and hope you understood what I was trying to say.”

“I’m just a stranger to you,” she managed, the words tumbling out of her gracelessly. Aren’t I?

Lucien pressed his lips together, leashing whatever it was he felt. “Then why do I feel like I’ve known you my entire life?”

The song ended so abruptly Elain nearly pitched forward. Lucien, too, stumbled back, caught off guard by the silence. Neither moved, her hand still clasped in his, him holding her waist, their breath mingling in the space between their bodies. It wasn’t the balcony, like he’d said, but it was still a moment, wasn’t it? A human one, even. Elain inclined her head, drinking in the sight of his delirious relief.

Kiss me.

Lucien lowered his head, his mouth touching hers for the briefest of moments. If they’d both been human, that was all that would have been allowed. Elain felt the familiar flare of heat in her stomach before it spiraled into an inferno, reminding her that she might have been human once.

But now she was fae, with all the instincts that came with it. Separated, Elain could pretend otherwise, but together, tied on two ends by that unbreakable golden cord, all the need she’d been denying suddenly broke through ivy coated lattices.

Were those here hands on his neck, pulling his closer? Her feet surging onto tiptoes, trying to close the distance between them? Her teeth sinking into his bottom lip, earning that echoing groan from Lucien?

Yes.

He tasted sweet, heady and warm, like he’d been napping in the summer sun and when her lips parted so he could taste her, Elain thought it might ruin her entirely. Every possible thought that would have stopped her flew out the window and instead, Elain wound her arms tighter, pressing herself against him.

It was Lucien who pulled back, chest heaving, tendrils of hair loose from the leather band. He looked wild. Like an animal.

“I—” he took a breath, like it pained him to speak at all. “I should take you home before…”

Before he tried to take her to bed. Elain didn’t want to go home. It wasn’t home, besides, some small voice in her head screamed furiously, reminding her that it belonged to Feyre, and Elain was, functionally, just a guest. Out of place. Alone.

“I don’t want to go home,” Elain told him, sliding her hands down his chest to fist them against the fabric of his jacket. “Don’t take me home.”

Lucien was shaking, holding himself still. Roughly, he asked, “Where would you like me to take you, then?”

She didn’t know if she could say the words. She shouldn’t, right? It was impolite. Unbecoming. Lucien was the embodiment of a courtly knight so many human women dreamt of. She could have told him to take her to another room, after all.

And maybe…maybe it was okay, just this once, to be fae. To meet him in the middle, like she’d thought she wanted. Swallowing, Elain squared her shoulders and reminded herself she could do hard things. She would do hard things.

“To your bed.”

Relief washed over his features and still, he asked, “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

Her feet were off the ground, body swept against his chest before she’d finished the consonants. “Faster, if I walk,” Lucien ground out, and she wondered how he figured. Unless he didn’t think he could walk beside her, which was valid—Elain’s hands seemed to have a mind of their own, interested in careful exploration of the man—male—before her. What would it be like? Would he be quick about it, venting his pent-up need like Graysen had? Or would it be like their dance? Fluid and careful, betraying the immortality stretching between them. He had lifetimes to learn every inch of her—it didn’t have to happen in a night.

Elain blinked when Lucien got the double doors to his bedchamber open, kicking them closed again with his foot.

“You left out some information about your new home, I think,” she murmured, grazing her mouth against his exposed neck. Why was it so erotic to touch him here? The only think she could see, the few bits of flesh she was allowed.

Lucien had her through the adjoining chambers for sitting and hosting, all but slamming his bedroom door closed with a finality that thrilled her. It, too, was absurdly massive. Too big for an emissary—and built, she thought as she took walls edged in gold and a ceiling made nothing of windows—of a bed large enough for six and a canopy of gauzy white.

“Helion is my father,” was all Lucien said before he was over her, back pressed against soft, satin sheets. It was a revelation on top of revelations—Lucien, a different High Lord's son, a prince of this realm, just as his mouth drew forth the realization that she’d never really been kissed before. Not truly. Not like this. It was both secrets told and secrets broken, a promise unspoken.

She’d make him tell her everything in the morning. So what, she decided? It changed nothing, other than Elain could stay here if she wanted and Lucien’s permission would be explicit. Even Feyre couldn’t argue, though Elain doubted her sister would. Besides, asking him the details risked the removal of his solid musculature and Elain didn’t think she’d ever felt safer than she did blanketed beneath his body.

Lucien kissed her like a dying man, like he had only a few seconds left and this was all he wished to do. Desperation clung to madness, drawing them together like crashing waves against unyielding rocks. His hands stayed at her shoulders, tangling through her hair, touching her face, her neck, her collarbone. And Elain did the same, pulling that long, thick curtain of auburn hair free, letting Lucien be wild.

In the middle between the human woman and the fae male was this. The taste of him, his tongue against her own, the rise and fall of his chest. It was all too much, building and building with nowhere to go until release was all Elain could think of. Words bubbled in her throat, the same she knew were echoing in his skull because when Lucien pulled back, one hand holding the entire side of her face, he spoke them first like he always did.

“I’m yours,” he swore, the oath ribboning between them. “And you are mine.”

Elain undid the top button of his jacket in response. It wasn’t the time to repeat them, to make that same vow. She’d know it when it was, wouldn’t sully his promise by rushing what was promising to be a perfect night. Forehead pressed against her own, Lucien closed his eyes and just breathed while Elain made her way down each glossy button, pushing them through the fabric until it was tossed gracelessly to the floor. There was, of course, another shirt beneath which irked her.

He smiled when she yanked a little too hard, pulling it from his breeches. When it was gone, too, she was left to admire a broad expanse of flawless skin, glimmering with that inner, golden light she’d never noticed before.

Elain kissed his bare shoulder. Lucien shuddered. “Do that again,” he whispered, bracing this body weight on his elbows. With a gentle push, she had him on his back, herself on her side so she could look at him.

“Where else do you like to be kissed?” she wondered, doing exactly as she asked.

“I like everything you do,” he said, eyes fluttering shut. That made her smile. Lucien seemed so new here, so inexperienced that any insecurities Elain might have had were washed away beneath his labored breathing and his hands skimming down her lace covered spine. If he liked everything she did, she could do no wrong, she reasoned. And so she took her time with him, mapping out the grooves and contours of his chest with her mouth, kissing to see which little patch of skin drew a shaky sigh or caused his fingers to fist in the sheets.

The further she got to his belt, the more Lucien’s hips arched into the air. This was more restraint, she decided with some glee. She doubted a fae female would make him wait so long, would spend time touching him when there were surely more pleasurable things they would be doing.

She asked, “Do you like this?”

“Yes,” he gasped, eyes opening to look at her. “Yes.”

The problem, of course, was once Elain reached his mouth again, she wasn’t quite sure what came next. Her only experience was with Graysen, who had been perfectly polite, if not a little underwhelming. She’d assumed with time, and experience, they’d get better. Now, though, Elain’s memories of kissing in the dark before Graysen was pushing inside her seemed to do her a disservice. Should she remove his pants? Demure politely? Caught between fae and human, Elain didn’t notice Lucien rolling them over, laying her out even as clever, experienced fingers made quick work of her own buttons.

She was thinking too loudly, she supposed. Lucien looked down at her with such heart aching softness that Elain was the one to push the dress off her shoulders, pulling her hands through the sleeves before shimming out entirely. No corset—those weren’t a thing in Prythian—which left the thin, white slip and her undergarments.

“Would you like me to go first?” Lucien offered, misreading her excitement for nerves. She wasn’t going to tell him no. Elain nodded, rising up on her elbows as Lucien half tripped out of the bed in his urgency. He watched her while she watched his hands, practically holding her breath.

Show me, show me, show me.

It wasn’t voyeurism, so why did it feel like it? Like she was seeing something forbidden to her, that she had no right to look upon? She did try, in her defense, to look at his legs first—but truly, all Elain was interested in was what lay between. The thick, long length of him, jutting outward, betraying just how badly he wanted her in a visceral, undeniable way.

Vulnerable, she thought with no small amount of affection. It was what convinced her to sit up, swinging her legs over the bed so he could be the one to watch. Swallowing hard, certain he’d like whatever he found, she pulled the nightdress over her head. Lucien’s little groan, stifled as he clenched his fingers to keep from reaching for her, was all the encouragement Elain needed.

She took the rest off quickly before meeting his gaze. There was no turning back, now. Even if she told him to stop, they’d always have this memory.

She’d always know what came next. Lucien took two shaky steps before he fell to the ground, knees crashing against marble so roughly the unlit chandelier overhead clinked with displeasure. Elain squealed when he caught her ankles, fingers wrapping around the bone, and hauled her forward.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh.

“Why would I do that?” Was her whispered reply. “I like everything you do.”

She was also far too curious as to what he was going to do to tell him to stop. Her usual embarrassment didn’t exist here, nor did her sense of propriety. Do whatever you like, she wanted to scream at him as he inched closer and closer to the space between her legs.

Pressing an open mouth kiss to her cunt, Lucien’s eyes found hers in the fading dark. Waiting, she realized, for her to tell him to stop. Elain wasn’t going to—she wanted him to keep going. To end the teasing, the finish what they’d begun and give her a reason to see him again.

She felt his relief swirling around the bond between them, his shoulders relaxing as he drew her closer. Was this what he liked? Elain certainly enjoyed seeing him kneel before her, his face half obscured by red hair, the other half obscured by her leg. And oh, Elain liked the sight almost as much as she liked his tongue, teasing at first, unaware of how desperately aroused she was.

He figured it out, perhaps tasting the wetness, or realizing Elain was in danger of falling off the bed in a bid to draw him closer. Lucien buried his face between her legs, lapping like an unrestrained, wild animal. He was starving and she was a meal, his tongue gliding tirelessly over her clit until Elain was panting through parted lips, nonsensically begging.

That wildfire raged, was an inferno nothing would ever be able to quell. The best she could hope for was his fingers digging into her thighs, holding her against him so she knew she wasn’t alone in this. The flames would consume them—together.

Elain came with a scream so undignified it was unbefitting anything she was trying to pretend to be. It was honest, though—the pleasure coiling through her stripping her of all other pretense before laying her utterly bare. This is what I am, Elain might have said had she any capacity for speech at all. I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t like it.

They fell to the floor in a graceless heap, dragging the duvet with them not out of necessity but by accident. It was merely collateral damage in her desperation to kiss him, to be fully beneath him again. Lucien didn’t bother trying to lay it out or make things comfortable on his knees. The cold marble was a shock against her overheated skin, the blanket drowning out the world as it thudded over their heads.

Elain kissed him, eyes open so she could look, could see him staring back with delirious wonder. The head of his cocked nudged between her legs, one last question with one last obvious answer. She didn’t have to say a word, her tongue in his mouth when he pushed himself inside. Lucien likely didn’t mean to bite down on her lip so hard it flooded their mouths with blood. Nor did Elain mean to scratch her nails so violently down his back he arched against the pain. The response to sharing a body was visceral, overwhelming, incandescent.

Something in the world seemed to sing with approval, watching for just a fleeting second before vanishing, leaving them to their own devices. Lucien held himself still for a moment, adjusting to the feel of her body and letting her decide if she’d rather call it all a night.

Everything was perfect.

This was right.

Holding his gaze, her fingers brushing the scars that decorated one side of his face, Elain made her vow. “I’m yours. And you are mine.”

Lucien shifted his hips, pulling himself out as far as he could bare before thrusting back in. He shuddered at her words, forehead pressed against her own with all the unspoken things hanging between them. There was time, she thought, pulling him by the shoulders so no light or air could penetrate between their bodies. She was still coming down from the high of her first orgasm and learned quickly there would be no reprieve. Not for the male writhing above her, a feral gleam in his eye.

He was going to wring every inch of pleasure he could get from her, and then a little more if he thought he could get away with it. Elain sank her teeth into the flesh of his shoulder, biting hard. Maybe she didn’t want to be so nice—not right now, anyway. And maybe there was room for every created version of her. The lady who smiled and the woman beneath who wanted to scream, and maybe even the female that liked her first time with her mate happening on the floor. All these versions, coalescing into one person that Lucien wanted.

Ruinous wreck and all.

They were, at least, matched on that front. There was no pretending Lucien wasn’t a wreck, that he hadn’t told her as much in every letter he’d sent her. And here they were.

Together.

There was no sound but their combined breaths or the occasional whimpering groan from Lucien, his forehead buried in her neck, fingers bruising her hips as he drove them higher and higher toward a mutual climax. Elain came mere seconds before, shattering with a cry he swallowed before offering one of his own. It wasn’t enough, even as she was devoured by the rising flames, swallowed whole by heat and light. She wanted more—wanted all of it, all over again.

Lucien, too, if his frantic kissing was any indication. Long after he was spent, he kept kissing her, catching his breath and settling his hips. He never pulled himself out, though. And Elain didn’t ask him to, long after they both just laid there, his head on her chest, eyes half closed.

“Can I stay until morning?” she asked him.

“It is morning,” Lucien replied, pulling at the corner of the blanket shrouding them so she could see the blinding pinks and oranges of a newborn sunrise. “And you can stay forever, if you like.”

Elain pressed a kiss beneath his jaw.

Maybe she would.

#elucien #dont call it a comeback etc etc #anyway i wrote this in five hours so you cant be mean to me about it

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bloo-the-dragon · 10 months

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i'm sick but thats not gonna stop me drawing cat memes

#fnaf security breach #five nights at freddy's security breach #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf sun #fnaf sundrop #fnaf moon #fnaf moondrop #fnaf bloodmoon #bloodmoon #sona #cracksona #not tsams bloodmoon #celestial merfolk #bloo's art #i went sicko mode and drew and wrote for 12 hours yesterday #unfortunately that made me actually sick but my creativity will not be stopped #memes upon ye #*throws the fish at you*

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lovvecherrymotion · 2 months

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i literally can't stop thinking about the new songs they're both so good

#this is not meant to be a “don't wrote in english" post i'm just having a lot of feelings #bojan i am literally in your walls #i have so many thoughts but i only slept five hours and i don't think i'm coherent enough #but they're just. so good #joker out

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mishapen-dear · 2 years

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There’s a little green something in the cracks of the road. Grian stares at it, and then he looks at Scar, who is humming cheerfully while he rummages in his bag, and then Grian looks back to the little plant.

Grian looks at Scar again. He takes a step closer to the plant. Scar, blissfully, does not notice.

Something fungal bubbles at the back of Grian’s throat.

He crouches, inconspicuous, next to the plant. He knows it isn’t grass, that it’s probably a weed, but he doesn’t know anything more. He doesn’t care to know anything more, really, and it won’t matter in a moment anyway. He reaches and-

A dull pain pings bright on his arm. He startles upright, wings flaring out, and Scar shoots him several more times with the Nerf gun. The little foam darts bounce harmlessly off of Grian’s chest.

“Bad Grian!” Scar scolds him cheerfully. “No plant killing! Bad!”

“But it’s a small one!” Grian protests immediately, startled and indignant at the embarrassment of being caught. Another foam dart hits him.

“Nuh-uh!”

“Ow- Scar, come on, it’s itsy bitsy,” Grian tries, wheedling now. “It won’t hurt anything.”

“Well, you know that’s not true. It’ll hurt the plant,” Scar answers reasonably. He waves his toy gun threateningly at Grian. “You know the deal, G. No pestulating in the Hoe-ly Spaces.” He uses his dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. He always uses the dramatic voice to say Hoe-ly Spaces. Grian wants to punt Hoe-ly Spaces and all associated dramatisms into the sun.

“That’s not a word, Scar,” Grian says petulantly. He ruffles his wings and sits on the larger half of a broken concrete barrier. The vines that had been wrapped around the barrier writhe away from the spores that fall from his wings, so Grian vindictively shakes his wings more. This, at least, Scar does not scold him for.

“What? Sure it is.” Scar has gone back to rifling through his bag again. He keeps pulling out strangely shaped bottles of bright colours with baffling smells. Grian would be more alarmed, but he knows Scar has a weird thing with taking labels off of bottles. How the man ever remembers what goes where, though, he has no idea.

(He has some idea. Scar’s tongue is too many different colours, always, and he’s been almost poisoned thrice. By Grian’s count, the man should be dead.)

“Pestulate is not a word,” Grian says, doubling down.

“Then what is it?” Scar asks innocently. He pulls out a jug of blood and lugs it into the centre of the clearing.

“A nonsense.” Grian shakes his wings again. There’s now a full circle of empty asphalt and concrete around him, free of plant matter. His spores won’t root without living tissue, but he feels a little vindicated by every twitch of the green things moving away from him. “Are you done yet?”

“Grian, Grian, Grian, you can’t rush a good blood ritual” Scar exclaims. “Do you know what happened to the last guy to rush a blood ritual?”

“He di-”

“He died!” Scar presses a hand against his heart. “The plants swooped up and ate him! I found his bones, Grian! His bones!”

“We could just leave,” Grian suggests. “This is- what, the fifth blood ritual? We’re fine without them, Scar. I bet the Kingmaker doesn’t even notice.”

“Oh, pish-posh.” Scar holds out the jug and pours the blood straight down over the smallest unbloomed flower in the clearing. The jug makes awful noises as the blood chugs and glugs out of it, because Scar doesn’t care for any silly thing like fluid dynamics. The jug convulses like its gasping for air and it makes sounds that Grian thinks Scar would make if he were ever simultaneously choked and drowned. The red blood splashes across the green, seeps through the cracks in the asphalt, and gets all over Scar’s shoes. Grian draws his own feet up in distaste, but he’s far enough that no blood touches him. “You know that’s not his name.”

“He doesn’t get a name,” Grian says. “I’m mad at him.”

“Careful, Grian!” Scar says cheerfully. “That almost sounds like rebellion.”

Grian scoffs, loud, but he doesn’t say anything. Scar continues with his stupid blood ritual. Which is to say that Scar goes back to his bag, grabs a canteen, and returns to the plant. Without ceremony, Scar upends that jug over the plant too.

“Scar!” Grian squawks, scrabbling to his feet. “Scar, that’s all our water! Scar!”

“Oops!” Scar says cheerful.

“You only used a few drops for the other rituals!” Grian wails. “We just got that!”

“Oops!” Scar says again. He has no remorse. Grian snatches the nerf gun from where Scar had left it on the ground and shoots him with it. “Ow!”

“You’re the worst,” Grian says.

“Love you, too, G,” Scar says. He shakes the canteen to get the last few drops of water out. Grian watches them fall with despair. The water washes away the blood, dilutes it across the asphalt and towards the ring of vines and green things that surround them. Scar gives the little twice-baptised bloom a loving pat, and it opens in his palm. The petals are a different colour in each Hoe-ly Space, and the same holds true for here. These petals are unnaturally white, unsettlingly perfect, and-

“Is there another flower in there?” Grian demands.

Scar doesn’t lift his gaze. “Yeah,” he says. He touches a scarred hand gently to the second bloom, which shivers at the contact but doesn’t open. “Huh.”

“...Huh?” Grian echoes. “Scar?”

“It’s okay, G,” Scar says too fast. “Let’s just go shopping, yeah? All done here.” He steps back from the plant. He sees the look Grian is giving him and tries to give a bright smile in return. “Seriously, Grian, it’s fine.”

Grian has always had a knack for knowing when Scar is lying.

“...If you say so.” Grian watches Scar pack up his bag, holster the nerf gun, and throw the plant a two-fingered salute. He’s too quick. They haven’t been here for even twenty minutes, maybe, and normally Scar stretches the ritual to last an hour. Grian guesses that he’s not surprised that the blood-jug and the water are the only necessary components. The steps for the other rituals had been sporadically changed each time. “Ready to go?”

“Can we get ice cream on the way?” Scar asks, even though he knows that all the ice cream in the world has already melted.

“Sure,” Grian says, even though he knows that the corpses of the ice cream shop workers are ripe in their rot.

Scar steps up onto the concrete barrier, almost loses his balance then helps Grian up and almost sends them both toppling over. Grian doesn’t comment on it. Scar keeps casting glances to the weird plants, but stops when Grian opens his arms. Scar grabs onto him, tightly, and Grian holds tight in return. Grain’s wings start to flap (Scar sneezes at the spraying spores) and they step off the concrete barrier together. Soon, they’re in the air.

(Scar has cracked a Superman joke at least once every time Grian has flown him somewhere. This time he’s nothing but silent, and he keeps trying to peek back at the plant-filled bridge they’d left behind. Grian flies a little faster.)

—---

Scar lets Grian kill whatever he wants, most days. He doesn’t like mushrooms, or fungus, or mycelia-filled goo, but he doesn’t complain too much. It’s a good deal for both of them, Grian figures. Scar helps Grian with his whole ending-an-apocalypse-by-causing-a-different-apocalypse deal, and he’s good company in a world full of decomposing things that used to be people, and he lets Grian know when he’s getting too close to the rebellion line. The plants destroy anything that oppose them, and the last thing Grian wants is to openly oppose them.

Mushrooms are better. They’re kinder. Almost plant, almost animal, and there’s so much for them to eat. Much better than the violence of true plants.

Honestly? Grian shouldn’t even be alive. It’s pure luck that he found the mycelia before the plants could burrow into him, it’s luck that it Chose him, and it’s luck that it wants the world to end again.

(Sometimes, late at night, he wonders if he’d be happier if he’d been the first harbinger of end-times rather than the second. But, then again, mushrooms are components of decay. Scavengers rather than hunters- it makes sense, maybe, that the fungal spread occurs after the flora’s feast.)

Grian thinks he’s almost done. He used to be human, but now mushrooms sprout around him when he sleeps, and spores spread on the wind from his wings. He leaves large fields of fungus in his wake. Soon enough, he’ll have to actively hunt for the green and force it to recede. Soon enough, the old apocalypse will be ended, and the new ending can truly begin. That’s why Grian doesn’t mind carting Scar around to the last green places so much- Scar gets a free travelling companion, and Grian gets lead right to the green sources that Scar doesn’t want him to hurt. Grian doesn’t hurt them because then Scar will stop showing him where they are, and Grian is smart enough to bide his time. One day, maybe, Scar will die, and Grian will be free to kill as many green spaces as he wants.

(Grian shouldn’t have to kill him. The plants should have killed him. The fungus should have rotted him. Grian sometimes wonders what it means that he’s still alive. He licks poison and blood and shiny things that should give him tetanus, but he’s still alive.)

(Grian thinks about leaving, sometimes, but he never does. He’s always been too curious for his own good.)

“What’s that for?” Grian asks.

Scar freezes like a statue, weedkiller clutched tight in his hands. Slowly, as if Grian is a predator with poor eyesight, he hides it behind his back. Grian tries, unsuccessfully, to stifle his laughter.

“Scar. You know I can see you, don’t you?”

Scar deflates, shoulders slumping forwards as he pulls the weedkiller out again. “Okay, okay, you caught me, G,” he says. “I’m just… looking for a drink.”

“That’s weedkiller.”

“So?”

“...Okay, you’re not even trying now,” Grian says. “What’s with the weedkiller, Scar?”

Scar shuffles his feet and bites his lip, then huffs out a breath. “Are we alone?”

Grian, still smiling, raises his brows and looks around the store. Most of the shelves have been raided, several of them knocked over, and the only people in the vicinity haven’t been people in a long time.

“The plants, G,” Scar says impatiently.

“Oh, no, those are gone,” Grian says. “The mycelium works fast, you know that.”

“Right,” Scar says, and he goes quiet.

Grian eyes him, then gestures to a currently-indoor outdoor furniture set that doesn’t even have any blood on it. “Do you want to sit down?” he offers.

Scar makes a beeline for the furniture set, weedkiller still clutched tight in his grasp. Grian has barely figured out how to sit without crushing his wings when Scar blurts out, “The King’s called a meeting.”

Grian almost falls out of his seat. “What?”

“Yeah,” Scar says. “And I have to go, or, you know.” He jerks his head towards the nearest corpse. There are vines wrapped around its neck. “I was hoping you could give me a ride?”

Grian gapes at him. He feels his mental gears spinning frantically, completely tractionless. “Okay- wait.” He runs his hand through his hair and ignores the mushrooms that brush against his hand. “The King called a meeting- why? He hasn’t done that before- do you think he knows you’re working with me? This is probably a trap, Scar. You know this is probably a trap.”

Scar looks at the weedkiller on his lap. “Yeah.”

Grian stares. “Oh.”

Scar grimace-smiles. “I figured- you’ve been a good friend, Grian. I have… loyalty, to the crown, but I won’t let them kill you.”

“Oh.”

Scar shrugs a little self-consciously. “It’s the least I can do, you know?”

Grian doesn’t want to say it. He likes Scar, though, and he would feel guilty if he didn’t point out, “What’s stopping me from killing them, then? You know what my goals are.”

“Rebellion, Grian,” Scar says automatically. Grian winces and raises his hands in apology, and Scar continues. “I figured- well, maybe you won’t if I ask you really nicely?”

“That can’t be it.”

Scar shrugs. “You haven’t touched the spaces,” he explains. “And all I did there is ask you nicely.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Grian fumbles for a second. “That’s- it’s- like- chopping off a head will kill a body?” he tries. “Like- the spaces are the hands, and the King is the head, so that’s- yeah.”

“Are you going to chop his head off?”

Grian is quiet.

“Please, Grian, don’t kill him,” Scar says. He holds the weedkiller carefully, and his fingers keep nervously tapping at its sides. “Neither of them. None of them. Just- keep being your mushroomy, birdy self, okay? You don’t even have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

Grian is silent.

“Please?”

Grian caves. Mournfully, he thinks of the Hoe-ly Spaces, and he thinks of the quiet rule he has to kill those whenever Scar dies. It feels wrong to delegate something like killing the King to that same rule, but- Scar is right. Beheading the King sounds like it comes too close to rebelling, anyway. “Okay.”

Scar lets out a breath, then gives Grian a winning smile. “Okay!” he says. “Okay, perfect! Hey, I think I saw some chocolate earlier, maybe it won’t be expired.”

“It’s definitely expired,” Grian says, but he stands and offers Scar a hand to help him up.

Scar takes the hand and pulls himself up to his feet. “It’s always good to have hope, G,” he says brightly, and they continue to ravage the store.

—---

The place Scar takes him to isn’t green at all. It’s white and red and brown, like old and new blood on white petals. Well, Grian shouldn’t be thinking in similes here- there is literally old and new blood staining old petals almost everywhere he looks.

The border of the Tree’s territory is made of wood, or whatever it is that roots are made of. They drip red onto the white flowers that make up the groundcover. It had been relatively easy to get past the border- it opened up when Scar approached, peacefully allowing him through. The roots shuddered furiously when Grian approached, but they didn’t kill him when he tucked his wings in and pretended to be demure, so he thinks that means he’s basically Scar’s unwelcomely welcomed plus one. He’s not sure if court people even get to have plus ones, but he’s not skewered by evil plant matter so he thinks that he gets to count as a plus one.

He’s maybe a little nervous.

The interior of the Tree’s territory doesn’t make him feel any more at ease, either. This, too, is a place that is blindingly white. The Tree itself sits in the very centre, painfully pale and looming. The King’s Spire sits to its right, a building of previously-white colours that has now been overgrown with green. Moss and vines, Grian thinks, but he can’t distinguish anything else. Beneath the Tree are several small figures that cause something fungal to gurgle in his throat when he looks at them too hard. Grian stays close to Scar and tries to turn his eyes to the ground.

It’s hard not to acknowledge the Tree, though. They approach it together, slowly engulfed by the leaf cover overhead and hidden from the sun. It’s almost dark. Grian feels very small. The last time he’d felt so small was when his human self had accepted the blessings of the mycelium. He’d been welcome, then, but there is no welcome for him here.

Scar, of course, seems unaffected.

“You’re late.” Grian chances a glance upwards to see a woman with dead eyes and red flowers sprouting from her hair. The fungal thing tries to crawl out of his mouth. He swallows hard and ducks his head. He’s suddenly questioning the might of Scar’s weedkiller against all of this. He understands a little, maybe, the might that would have been needed to bring the first apocalypse.

“I’m right on time,” Scar disagrees. “You’re just early.”

“Everyone else has gone.” The woman sounds unimpressed. “And who do you have with you? You know he wants these audiences to be one-on-one.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Scar dismisses. “Sym- synergy. We’re really synergetic. I couldn’t have gotten here at all without Grian.”

“Your funeral.”

“Ha,” Scar says. “As if.”

Grian is startled enough by this statement to look up at Scar, but Scar grabs him by the arm and ushers him towards the trunk of the Tree. “Hey, wait- what do you mean?” Grian hisses. It occurs to him for the first time that this could be a trap for him.

“Not now, G,” Scar mumbles to him. “Ask me later.”

Grian, ruffled, unruffles a little bit at that. After all, there wouldn’t be a “later” if Scar was going to kill him now, right? Grian is beginning to realize that Scar is wrapped up tighter in whatever- whatever this is a lot more than Grian had first assumed, and he does not like it. Not one bit. He hates this, actually, and he hates it more when Scar knocks on the trunk and the wood creaks as it twists and bends out of their way.

A voice from within calls, “Welcome, Goodtimes, to my most private of areas.” And Grian hates that most of all.

They enter the Tree. The Tree creaks and groans and it closes behind them. Trapping them inside. And Grian hates this so much.

He finds even more to hate as they delve deeper into the almost-room that’s waiting for them. The King sits on a throne in the centre, drooping like a wilted flower. He’s dead. Grian can tell that immediately- he wants to spread his wings and spread the spores, but Scar asked him not to, and-

Wait. What?

Grian looks again. The King continues to be dead. The crown sits golden on his head, shining and perfect. The King is undecayed, unblemished, but his eyes are flat, and he isn’t breathing, and Grian can almost hear the creaking as he scowls.

“What have you brought me?”

“Presents,” Scar promises. “Just as you’ve asked. They’re for you, too, Bdubs.”

Grian again begins to wonder if this is a trap. Before he can continue that train of thought, however, there’s more creaking as the Tree shudders around them. The walls shiver, and lichen sloughs downwards until there’s just a human-shaped lump of green left against the wall. The human lump turns around and looks right at Grian with its impossibly large eyes.

Grian almost bares his teeth. He knows that look. This is competition.

(Competiton for what? There’s so much to fight over, probably, if he really thinks hard about it.)

“Why is the bed made of dirt?” Grian asks.

Scar balks, the King pauses, and the lichen-man stares.

“I mean, not to ruffle any feathers,” Grian rushes, valiantly not ruffling any of his. “I guess I was just expecting…”

“What?” The dead King asks.

“More?” Grian says. “Pillows? Blankets? Uh. More gold, I guess, but I know people don’t really carry that around these days. Didn’t.”

“The crown is gold,” the lichen man says.

“Aye, but tis a tiny crown,” the King concedes.

“And the bed is made of dirt,” Grian says.

“It’s a plant apocalypse,” the lichen-man -Bdubs- says. “Of course the bed is made of dirt. It’s not like he actually needs any sleep.”

“I like to nap,” the dead King protests. “Royal naps are very important, Bdubs.”

“Of course, your highness, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “But the dirt is fine, right?”

“I mean,” the King says. “A dirt nap is mighty thematic, all considering, but… You there, Goodtimes! Have you brought your king a pillow?”

“Uh- no, no.” Scar laughs a little, startled. “No, I didn’t.”

“Shame,” the King says. The Tree rumbles. “Then you have failed me. Goodbye, Goodtimes. You served me well.”

“Whuh-” Grian starts.

“Woahwoahwoa-” Scar babbles.

“WAIT!” Bdubs shouts.

The Tree stops rumbling.

“Yes?” the King asks.

Bdubs looks at the King, then he looks at Scar, then he looks to Grian, then he looks back to the King. “Scar - Goodtimes has displeased you mightily, my liege,” he hazards. The dead King nods wisely. “Right-right- but he has displayed his loyalty quite mightily, too! The blood sacrifices are always pleasing, aren’t they?”

“You would have me grant mercy?” The King sounds displeased. Grian shuffles. He wonders if it’s even possible to kill a dead guy. He wonders if his mushrooms can kill. He hasn’t had much practice spreading them on purpose, but maybe if he can get them in the eyes?

“No, no, no, no mercy,” Bdubs amends hastily. “Just- inconvenience.” He leans in and whispers loudly. “My lord, he has a friend with him. The oncoming rot? I’m just saying- two birds with one stone here.”

“Oh?” The King looks closer at Grian. Grian lifts his wings a little in a threat display. The King nods slowly. “I see, I see… Goodtimes, I offer you a choice.”

“I don’t want to make a choice,” Scar says, more weakly than Grian has ever heard him.

“Nonetheless you have it!” the King booms. “Goodtimes- you may spare your own life, or the life of the oncoming rot. You have-”

“To give you your gifts first,” Scar says loudly.

The King pauses. “You interrupt me?”

“For presents,” Scar says quickly. He pulls of his bag and rifles through it quickly. Bdubs shuffles over and Scar hands over several unlabelled bottles. Salvation. Hope rises within Grian until, alarmingly, he realizes that none of the jugs are the weedkiller.

“Scar,” Grian says quietly.

“It’s okay, G,” Scar replies quickly.

Bdubs opens each jug and sniffs it in turn, then brings them to the King and pours them at the base of the throne. With each bottle the King’s body twitches, making noises like an ancient rocking chair, and- it takes Grian a moment to notice, but each bottle emptied at his feet brings life back to the King’s features. He grins, wide and sharp-toothed, and Grian wonders if he’s lost his chance to escape.

“Now, the choice,” the King begins.

“No,” Grian says, and he lets loose.

He’s on the ground three seconds later.

Lichen fills his mouth, vines around his wrist and wings, bark already growing quickly over his legs to trap him in place. Bdubs wipes a stray mushroom off of his sleeve in disgust, and Scar stares with wide, despairing eyes.

Do something! Grian tries to yell back with his own eyes. Scar doesn’t do anything except let out a breath, and then start to smile.

Scar says, “Phew! That took you forever, Bdubs.”

“Huh?” Bdubs says.

“I started thinking you weren’t going to stop him at all,” Scar remarks, and Grian’s heart drops into his stomach.

“OH,” Bdubs says loudly. His eyes sparkle. “Oh, so this- oh, phew! You got me worried there, Scar! Really worried! ‘Why is he hanging out with the oncoming rot,’ I said.”

“I said that,” the King argues.

“Of course, of course,” Bdubs says quickly. “Anyway, I said ‘wow, I wonder why Scar is hanging out with the oncoming rot!’ But you just needed a bit of help with this one, didn’t you?”

Scar smiles widely. He rummages through his bag again. “Right on, Bdubs,” he says. “Can’t kill a fungus surrounded by fungus, right? It’ll just grow right back!” The two of them chortle together and Scar brings another jug out of his backpack.

In fragile hope, Grian’s heart begins to beat again because he recognizes that jug. It’s the weedkiller. Label torn off. Scar opens it, takes a sip, and doesn’t flinch.

Grian feels several emotions all at once.

Scar hands the weedkiller over to Bdubs just as the King says, “What are you waiting for, Goodtimes?”

“You still have my bow, King,” Scar says.

“I thought we gave that back…?” The King looks questioningly to Bdubs.

“You took it away again after Scar failed to provide appropriate subservience, my lord.”

“Oh, well have it back, then, Goodtimes.” The King waves his hand and more of the tree creaks and moans. A real and true bow and quiver are revealed when the floor pulls back. Grian wriggles frantically, fear spiking again. Scar still hasn’t wavered. Grian is starting to doubt the contents of the weedkiller jug. He tries to flap his wings but the bark has grown over the edges. He tries to let the fungus out but his throat is clogged by lichen. The wood around him dies and tries to rot but it’s just grown over and living again in less than a second.

Scar strides over, playing with the quiver. He kneels next to Grian, then pulls out an arrow. Grian stares up at him, making his eyes as wide and pleading as he can. Scar doesn’t look at him. “Long live the King,” Scar says, raising his arrow. Bdubs raises the jug to him, but doesn’t drink.

Consternation flashes over Scar’s face, and Grian feels another rush of emotion he doesn’t know how to parse. Then Scar’s expression hardens and he brings the arrow down.

It hurts. Grian yells against the lichen in his mouth. There isn’t any blood- Grian isn’t human anymore. Of course there isn’t blood. There is an arrow in him and there isn’t any blood and Scar raises his fist with a cheer, and the King raises both arms with a cheer, and Bdubs drinks the weedkiller.

The Tree shudders.

The King collapses like a puppet with its strings cut.

Bdubs shrieks. The weedkiller drops. It sprays over the floor. The Tree screams. Grian thinks he’s also screaming. Scar isn’t screaming. Scar is frozen, false smile plastered across his face, and Grian realizes with dizzying clarity that he has no fucking clue when Scar is or isn’t lying. That’s a weird thing to realize in the worst moment of Grian’s after-apocalypse life and it’s so silly he just starts to laugh. He stops laughing when a branch spears through Scar’s chest.

“Traitor!” Bdubs yells. Three more branches strike Scar through. He gasps at each one, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t try to get away. He doesn’t stop smiling. He doesn’t start bleeding. “The King trusted you!”

“The King is dead, Bdubs,” Scar says. “And your apocalypse has been ending. The oncoming rot hasn’t been oncoming for a long time- it’s been here-” he gestures wildly to Grian, who has yet another flurry of unregistered emotions “-the whole time, and you’ve let it!”

“The plants-”

“Kill those who oppose,” Scar says. “But your court has been opposing you since the moment you raised them. You failed your own apocalypse.”

Grian feels dizzy. He isn’t bleeding, but he is dying.

Why isn’t Scar bleeding?

“...What are you?” Bdubs asks. He’s breathing heavily. Grian’s vision is swimming, but he thinks Bdubs has sunk down to the floor. “Why-“ another branch spears Scar through “- aren’t-” another “-you-” another “-dead?”

“I’unno,” Scar says. “It never sticks.” The Tree rumbles overhead. Grain can feel it through the floor. “How about you? Are you dead yet, Bdubs?”

There’s silence. “Bdubs?”

The Tree stops rumbling.

“I don’t think poision is supposed to work like that,” Scar says. Or he says something like it. Grian isn’t sure. He’s really tired.

There’s something warm pressed against his face. “I didn’t lie to you,” Scar says quietly. Grian makes a little noise. “I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t let them kill you. I didn’t say anything about me. Doesn’t that mean something, G?” Grian doesn’t answer. “Yeah, yeah…”

Grian breathes out, slow, through his nose.

“You’d hate it the other way around,” Scar promises quietly. “But you did it, Grian. Bdubs wouldn’t have drank that without you. That was you, alright? You did it, you won. New apocalypse, new you. That’s the way it goes. The King died, and now it’s you, and- and it won’t be like this. It’ll be better. I don’t like mushrooms, but I’ll learn to like them when they’re you, okay?”

Grian can’t reply.

“I’ll see you soon, Grian,” Scar mumbles, and he sounds so far away.

And Grian goes to sleep.

And Mother Spore wakes up.

---

written for the @pinchhitsfromthevoid event and for the @ghastspidergwen person! this got. wildly out of hand basically the second i started to write it. unfortunately i suffer from "cannot write a normal apocalypse au" disease but eyyy that just means its a two-apocalypse package deal, which was really fun to write. hopefully it's just as fun to read!

(also on ao3)

#i wrote this in like four or five hours and posted On the deadline #this is almost pure stream of consciousness babeyyyyy #mishapen words #grian #goodtimeswithscar #hermitcraft fic #<- lemme know if i need to add any more trigger tags #hello tag readers. i want you all to know how genuinely little i planned this fic going into it #i do not understand how there's several moments of foreshadowing #i cannot comprehend the fact that the consistencies outnumber the inconsistencies #this fic wrote itself and i was merely its possessed vessel for four-five-however-many-hours #anyway spoilers in the next few tags you have been Warned #look away now #have you looked away #it's okay i read ahead when i shouldn't too #these are the trigger tags for filtering purposes theyve got to be spoilery sorry about that #death tw #blood tw #body horror tw #<- im not sure the body horror really Applies but there you have it anyway #lemme know if i missed any

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mafufuu · 2 months

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i compare childrens literature to pd pcs

!! spoiler for like, so many episodes of prime defenders god knows how many, but def s2 finale, if youre not done scroll away at rapid speeds !!

Childhood

Peter Pan is a tale of growing up. Dakota Cole is someone who might have done that too fast. The story follows the Darling children, primarily Wendy and their adventures into Neverland. Wendy seemingly wants to stay a child forever, though when faced with Peter Pan, the embodiment of childishness, her mind is changed. Dakota can be considered childish, with his intellect, black and white sense of good and evil, and extremely kind heart. Yet, it might be that, as opposed to Wendy, he is clinging to whatever remains of his childhood.

As a kid, Dakota was quite reckless, skipping school, climbing roofs, and whatnot. He’s like Peter Pan, filled with childish whimsy and a lack of care. He befriends a girl, who joins him in the shenanigans. It’s like the early bond of Wendy and Peter. But soon, the consequences of this immaturity become evident. Like how Wendy comes to see Neverland’s flaws. One day, when climbing a roof, the girl falls. Dakota tries to pull her back up, but soon his grip gives out and he goes down too.

Couple this with the death of his parents, and likely other factors, Dakota has gone through the kind of stuff that would kill off a childhood. But this is “his” fault, he wasn’t able to save her. Dakota wakes up after the fall, and he runs from wherever he was. He holds this notion that a hero, like the ones he sees in the media, saves everyone. A lofty childish ideal, but one worth admiring. Dakota has grown from where he started, he no longer sees good and evil as two separate entities, holding the idea that the ‘villains’ deserve to be saved too, and that they can be met with forgiveness as opposed to punishment.

Peter & Wendy says in the end childishness must be let go of. I reckon that it’s okay to have maturity, yet still hold the whimsy and joy of a child.

Belonging

Pinocchio is a story that has been warped over time. In this case, I will base this off of the basic sanitized version most people know. It focuses on a wooden boy, the titular Pinocchio, who desires to become a boy of flesh and bone. Vyncent is someone who (as of the beginning) felt a lack of belonging in the world of Prime, and wanted to be accepted. What lies in both is a desire to change.

Pinocchio starts out as a wooden boy crafted in a woodcarver’s shop, a fit for what he is made of, surrounded by similar things. Vyncent starts out in the world of Fauna, where magic is something everyone has, where people can just have pointy ears and no one questions it, where adventuring parties slaying dragons are usual, where he is normal. Where they belong and are accepted.

Though, they both leave those places of comfort, intentionally or not. Pinocchio ventures out to become a ‘real’ boy, and Vyncent falls through a portal. Soon after, he somehow ends up in jail, then gets recruited to join the Prime Defenders. He does not know the customs of Prime, but he goes with how things are, while using some of his knowledge from Fauna, to attempt to fit in. The heroes are beloved by many, they belong.

Vyncent embarks on his journey with William and Dakota, forging friends and foes, and maybe, a home, along the way. He finds a place where he can belong. Vyncent goes to visit Fauna, and he is beckoned to stay, in the place where he is from. Yet, with how he would be separated from the Prime Defenders, and how The Greats’ power remains in his sword, he chooses to leave. The Blue Fairy fulfills her promise of acceptance to Pinocchio.

Interpretations say Pinocchio holds the message of ‘disobedience is bad and being good will be rewarded’ which in some scenarios isn’t untrue. But, to me (and Guillermo Del Toro), it is an anecdote saying if you stay true to yourself, you can be loved, you were always what you wanted to be, realizing it or not.

Curiosity

Alice in Wonderland is about a girl falling into a strange and foreign world. William Wisp is a boy that got thrown into a hectic journey nonconsensually. For Alice, it is Wonderland she journeys into, for William it is the side effects of dying and getting revived.

It begins with being out in nature, seeing something strange, and deciding to follow it, then falling, be it being out on the river bank, seeing a white rabbit running late diving into its rabbit hole, or going on a late night hike in the woods, and spotting a will-o-wisp, and chasing it off a cliff. Then, Alice is in Wonderland, and William is falling with strange sights surrounding him. He looks around, seeing bright colorful lights, floating islands, be they holding fountains, a field of greenery with a mother and child walking together, a man on a throne of paperwork, you name it, all things to write home about.

Both William and Alice leave their places of wonder, though they do return. (Admittedly I’m not sure how well the events of the sequel lines up with William’s character development.) William’s adventures outside of the spirit world do not halt, however I am not focusing on those. When the base burns down, Mallard Conway whisks William away to show him his domain, being an endless graveyard housing everyone he cares for, and himself. Wonderland is certainly described to be a weird place, meaning it is also likely not devoid of horrors.

Both of the two are out of knowledge, attempting to solve the mysteries of these strange places they wound up in. They both can be mean at times, though are generally decent people, and they want a way out.

William’s journey through the spirit world and as the Wisperer continues. Ranging from forcing Dakota to fight a smoke samurai, then being forced to eat the soul of aforementioned samurai, to dying again, to learning he is decaying and bloodless after punching a wall and seeing strange imagery, a lot of things, and not necessarily good ones. Like how Alice continues traversing Wonderland.

Eventually, he dies a third time. He is faced with his final challenge, his trial. He stays with his old ways and runs, and runs, though eventually faces the fight head on, with all the growth he's gone through. The battle is simply happening when Clarence retrieves William to give the latter a second chance at being alive, though more in between alive and dead, as would Alice’s sister wake her up from the dream, and she leaves Wonderland.

There isn’t really a clear moral to this one, though it may have various themes and interpretations. This is but a tale made up to amuse youth. Though Wonderland may be fun, it has its downsides and things can go south, but the only constant is change, so things will be okay.

Home

The Wizard of Oz explores the narrative of Dorothy, a girl who lives in Kansas who’s life is turned upside down in a cyclone, Ashe Winters is someone who was just living in suburban New Haven, who’s life was turned upside down by the metaphorical cyclone that is the Prime Defenders (and eventually becomes one himself).

Dorothy soon becomes part of a group, making a quartet, one with three others who doubt their possession of certain characteristics. A tinman who treats all life with the greatest of care. A scarecrow who doubts his wit and overanalyzes. A lion, one who houses bravery but chooses to run, until told otherwise. Though Dakota, Vyncent, and William might not be the best embodiment of their trait I assigned among the group, they all have it for certain. Then there’s Ashe, who desires the comfort of family, in these scenarios, not necessarily blood relation, more companionship, familiarity, and support.

After many trials and tribulations, the Prime Defenders make it where they need to be, fighting Overlord. They won, however their victory came with a sacrifice, Ashe gave himself up to the Trickster so they’d win. Despite how little time they spent together, Vycnent, Dakota, and William are determined to get their friend back. They fight, and they fight, and they fight, until they’ve won.

All Dorothy desired was to go home, and Ashe wanted connection. These two things are quite similar, Dorothy was not seeking a building, but her aunt and uncle, and home is people, the kind you can connect with. That is what the Prime Defenders are to Ashe. He is one of them. Dorothy and Ashe return to their places of comfort, Kansas, and the Prime Defenders. After all, at the end of the day, there’s no place like home.

#i bring a kind of milgrammie analysis brain to the jrwiblr im unsure is good or bad or #know i proofread this the day after i wrote it on five hours of sleep and eight espresso beans #hope its coherent #ive had them for one or two months im not okay #saw this post talking abt how vynce isnt necesarily stupid #he can be competent but isnt given the tools to do so man im not saying hes like a five year old but man i remember when i was younger i fe #--t the same #i use he/him for ashe in this but just know i hc ashe as genderfluid #just roll with it prime defenders #jrwi pd #jrwi show #prime defenders #jrwi prime defenders #jrwi #dakota cole #jrwi dakota #dakota jrwi #vyncent sol #jrwi vyncent #vyncent jrwi #william wisp #jrwi william #william jrwi #ashe winters #jrwi ashe #jrwi ashe winters #ashe jrwi #jrwi pd spoilers #prime defenders spoilers

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c-e-d-dreamer · 5 months

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Shout-out to @secret-third-thing for making this super fun template! It was very fun (and interesting) to look back at all my fics for this year and to make this 🥰

#in an unsurprising twist #it's basically all Nessian for me #I am surprised that drummer Cassian is so high since that's a newer fic I wrote #and that Gargoyle Cassian did not make the top five #but alas #spent like an hour calculating my word count too #my fic

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theonethatyaks93 · 3 months

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Just One Kiss (PaTB/Brinky Fic)

Hello everyone!! It's kinda been a little while since you've heard from me but I'm back here with a little warmup I did so I could get myself ready to work on other things!! I honestly wasn't feeling too good about this one but I still wanna post it for all of you!! Thanks to @therealhayyhay for the confidence boost and the prompt this fic was based on! I hope you enjoy!!

Plot: All Pinky wants is kiss from Brain. Just one before they execute the plan. But Brain is focused on his work and doesn’t want to be disturbed. So, Pinky will have to get a kiss the hard way.

Pinky paced rapidly around the cage, the boredom and anticipation starting to affect his usually cheery mood. While instances like this weren’t unusual, for some reason, this time, he could barely sit still for a single second. All he could think about was the fun couple-y things he could be doing right now with his bestest and sweetest boyfriend in the world. Oh, how he wanted to kiss him and hold him tight, never letting go. The thought alone made him feel dizzy.

But Brain had been working on this plan for surely many hours! And he still wasn’t finished!

He was beginning to believe Brain would never complete his blueprint, especially since he hadn’t moved his oversized pencil in a few minutes. All he was doing was staring at the paper, eyes scanning the writing on it repeatedly. The only other motions from his face were the slight turning of his head from side to side and the occasional way his lips upturned into a slight scowl. He looked so focused.

And it was driving Pinky crazy.

The small shifts of his body made the lanky mouse antsy; he tried standing still to watch but he fidgeted in his spot instead. Every time Pinky noticed Brain’s mouth lift, he felt a sensational feeling in his stomach very much akin to butterflies. He bit his lower lip in an attempt to prevent his romantic thoughts from spilling out. That bite forced him to let out a light squeak, barely silencing him.

He really wanted a kiss from Brain. Right now. It only had to be one! He’d do anything to satisfy the ticklies in his tummy!

Taking in a deep breath, Pinky strolled a little bit closer to where Brain was seated, being able to make out the sketches on the paper. He hovered over his partner with slight curiosity and eagerness, hoping with all his heart that he’d agree to just one little smooch. He placed his paws on Brain’s shoulders, taking note of how his boyfriend stopped moving and how he seemed to relax. “Narf! Oh Brain! Are you almost done with your plan-thingy? It’s been hours and hours! I’m getting tired and you’re not doing anything!”

Brain took his eyes off his blueprints and glanced and Pinky, slightly groaning. He placed the oversized pencil on the ground before responding. “Pinky, it’s only been twenty minutes since I began. If you’re so bored, then you can go read a magazine or watch T.V. But I’m working on tonight’s plan, and I don’t want to be disturbed by your inane comments or temper tantrums.” He returned his focus to the paper in front of him without saying anything else.

It had only been twenty minutes? Egad, it felt like a million-billion hours!

Pinky was slightly relieved that it hadn’t been too long, but he still felt those lovey-dovey-magical-fluttery feelings swirling inside. He needed a kiss, so he could respect Brain’s wishes and not bother him for much longer. Then he’d go do something else. He promised Brain that.

“But Brain, I just wanted to ask for a…mhmmm…” His hold on Brain shifted from his shoulders to the sides of his face. Yet he kept on stuttering. Those words he wanted to say wouldn’t come out, though he was really trying.

Brain looked at him again, a quizzical expression shown prominently on his face. “Ask for what exactly, Pinky?”

“Can I just have one little kiss before I go? Zort. Please, Brainy?”

Whew! He’d said it. That wasn’t so hard!

Pinky felt a blush creeping onto his face, a sheepish smile forming rapidly. Asking for kisses wasn’t exactly the simplest task. It was always a guess with what Brain would say about kissing during a plan. Sometimes it was a yes, sometimes it was a no. That’s just how it worked. But he really wanted it to be yes this time.

However, the previous excitement faded away a little when Brain’s face contorted into a sharp frown, his eyebrows turned downward.

“Pinky, not now. I’m working on my plan still and I need to concentrate. You know the rules for world domination plans. I can’t have any distractions, even ones from you. We can do that after tonight.” Brain moved from Pinky and turned around, back facing his companion as he returned to his musings.

His ears drooped and his heart sank like the Titanic. After tonight was such a long time to wait for a kiss! He couldn’t not think about kisses until that point. He needed Brain’s love now! He’d been so patient already!

Without a moment’s hesitation, Pinky wrapped his arms around his lover and held him firmly, whimpering and whining. “Please, Brain? I only want one before the you do the plan. Just one! Is that too much to ask for? We’re boyfriends! We’re supposed to do that! Please?”

A growl was elicited from Brain. He removed Pinky’s paws from him and stood up, an annoyed expression on his face, despite the slight reddish glow on his cheeks. “No, Pinky! Affection and kissing can wait until later. Plans come first! Now, go and leave me be! You’ve already distracted me enough.”

The taller mouse backed off from Brain, giving the shorter mouse enough room to settle back down in front of his blueprints as he went back to pondering some more. While Pinky felt a little bad about making his bestest friend so angry with his pleas, he knew that Brain probably wanted kisses as much as he did.

Suddenly, a rezvelation popped into his head, causing him to perk up.

Brain was playing tough to get! Like in those movies with the teens and the popular kids trying to go after the athlete boys! He was so smart!

Pinky grinned at this, fondly snickering at the fact that Brain might have been attempting to flirt with him. But he couldn’t get away without a fight! Pinky needed a kiss from him. But Brain wasn’t playing fair. Pinky supposed that it was his turn to give it a try.

If Brain wanted to play a game, he would happily join in. It was a competition to see who could last the longest without kissing the other! What fun! Brain was already doing such a remarkable job! But it was time for Pinky to even the score!

Sighing contently with his happiness restored and a newfound confidence present, Pinky sauntered back over to Brain, adjusting his posture to appear more seductive and sultrier. He stuck out a hip, placed one paw on his shoulder, and moved the other one to cup Brain’s cheek. He chuckled quietly before starting his round in the game. Before he began, he made sure to change his voice a little so that Brain would notice.

“Hello, Brain. Fancy meeting you here at this hour. Poit!”

The megalomaniac grumbled, clear irritation lingering in his body language. “Pinky if you ask for an insipid kiss one more time, I swear I shall…”

Before he could finish, Pinky used his paw to turn Brain’s head to look at him, where he batted his eyelashes fervently and pursed out his lips in a pout.

He nearly dropped his suave composure when he saw Brain’s face change from displeasure into a flustered stare, his face turning a light red and eyes widening. Brain was doing a fine job of holding his ground! But he couldn’t lose the challenge! He wanted Brain to be the one to kiss him!

“Like what you see huh?” Pinky moved his body around, tail swishing. Carefully and slowly, he moved his paw from his hip to Brain’s shoulder, kneeling as he pulled himself closer to his boyfriend. “I’d say I’m quite a catch if I do say so meself. Which I just did.”

Brain swallowed heavily, his blush darkening in shade. He tried to regain his words, but they invaded him; he was practically tongue-tied. “Pinky…t-this i-is highly inappropriate for…the current…”

Pinky pressed a finger to Brain’s mouth, preventing him from saying anything further. “Shhh, no more talking. You’ll only ruin this for yourself. Troz. Your big words will only keep you from me longer.” He kept his tone low as he began toying with Brain’s ear, biting back a laugh when it twitched in response.

“A big, handsome, strong mouse such as you deserves all the love in the world. And I wanna give it to you. In more ways than one. Just let me have you, babe. I care about you, and I want you to be so very happy. I’ll make you happy, trust me, Brain.” He was nailing this. Brain was basically gasping for air, and he was as red as a tomato! Pinky stroked the fur on Brain’s chest, humming in approval at the soft moan Brain made in reply.

“W-what are you d-do-”

“Hush, hush, honey,” Pinky briefly moved a paw so his fingers could trace along the curvature of Brain’s face. When he touched Brain’s nose, the megalomaniac froze. “Let me do the talking for you. Your face is marvelous and absolutely gorgeous. Your eyes shine like the night sky. Well, more like a pretty sunrise but it’s not too far off. Someone could get lost in them if they stared too long. I know I have.”

“Y-you…h-have?”

His grasp on Brain increased as he advanced closer so their faces could be at level. “I’ve gotten lost many times in your eyes, Brain. They make me feel so special. And your nose is so perfect and round. What more could you want? Zort.”

As he continued to trace his fingers the fur on Brain chest, Pinky took his other paw and rested it on Brain’s cheek, using his thumb to rub it. “Are you a marshmallow, Brainy? Hard on the outside but melty and gooey and soft on the inside? It sure seems that way. I bet I can make that soft side come out and stay. If I try hard enough.”

Pinky nearly kissed Brain after he’d said that, especially after the whine Brain made, so high and stunned. He needed to keep going though, he needed the kiss.

Before returning his attention to his face, Pinky buried his face into Brain’s shoulder, lightly nipping at his collarbone. A small bite didn’t count as breaking rules according to Pinky. It wasn’t a kiss so he thought it would work enough! Brain made a quiet yelp after the nip, nearly causing Pinky to lose again.

But he would not give up.

Brain tried speaking up, but he could only muster a funny sound. Pinky took this is a sign to move onto something new, so he placed one paw on Brain’s while moving the other to tease Brain’s lips.

This would surely make Brain kiss him!

“Your lips are like clouds Brain. Has anyone ever told you that? They’re stunning and warm and gentle, like pillows almost. I would definitely like to put my lips against yours for a long time. Poit! It would be a magical experience for me. And hopefully for you too.” Pinky kept his hand lightly gliding across Brain’s lips for a while until he moved his paws back to Brain’s chest.

Brain was finally able to speak after Pinky’s touch left his face. “P-Pinky…what…did I s-say about a-asking f-for…kisses.”

“I know what you said, Brain. You said I couldn’t ask you about a kiss right now.” Pinky inched closer to his partner, sliding his fingers along Brain’s spine as their chests made contact. He could hear Brain’s breath hitch and his heartbeat was erratic, which caused him to smirk a little at what he’d done. “But you never said that I couldn’t do this stuff. The kind words, the touching, the teeny bites. I didn’t hear you say no to those. Narf! I know you love them.” He traced a finger under Brain’s chin and nuzzled his nose against Brain’s.

Brain shuddered, sweat forming on his forehead so quickly it was somewhat startling. “I-I guess…y-you make a… valid point.” He gave in a little, moving his paws to hold Pinky by the waist.

Oh, he was winning the game! Brain wasn’t playing tough! In fact, Pinky didn’t know what Brain was playing anymore, but he liked where it was going.

Pinky purred, moving both hands to rest on Brain’s cheeks again. He continued to keep his face close to Brain, feeling his partner’s quick breaths against his fur. “You’re so beautiful, darling. You sparkle like one of those pretty flowers. You smell like one too. Poit! If only you’d realize how special and important you are. But I can help with that.”

“Pinky…” Brain muttered, though his voice waivered as soon as he started. He unknowingly tugged the other mouse closer to him, their noses touching again.

Oooh Brain was about to break! Just a few more attempts to woo and the game would be over!

Pinky rested his forehead against Brain’s. He smiled a little before speaking in a flirty whisper. “I love you, Brain. I hope you know that. I love you more than life itself. I wanna hold you and squeeze you forever and ev-”

He was cut short when he felt a pair of lips crash into his own abruptly, leaving him in shock. The kiss was aggressive and needy, yet it still felt tender. Pinky sighed and moaned softly, reciprocating Brain’s affections with ease. He felt Brain’s paws travel from his waist to his chest as he deepened the kiss. It was utter bliss and a welcomed finish to Pinky’s intense seduction.

Brain pulled out to breathe, his face a pleasant crimson shade. Pinky was breathless, though he was also excited because he had finally gotten a kiss out of his grumpy bestest boyfriend. He gazed lovingly at Brain, who was smiling quite a bit.

“Was that enough to please you, my dear?” Brain spoke quietly, grabbing Pinky by the shoulders and holding him.

Pinky began to giggle, returning to his normal high-pitched voice. “Oh, it was amazing, Brain! I’m sooo happy! Poit!” He quickly kissed Brain’s cheek before adjusting his posture. “You can go back to working on your plan now. I promised I’d leave you alone after I got a kiss.”

He was prepared to get up and leave when his arms got firmly grasped. He was surprised when he saw Brain restraining him from moving, holding him in place. “Uhm, Brain? What are you doing?

The pink-eyed mouse looked super lovestuck. “I did say that before, yes. But I might have been mistaken in my priorities. I believe that you are certainly more important than the plan. So, uh…”

“What is it, Brain?”

Brain inhaled sharply. “So, I think we can hold off tonight’s escapade for a… few hours. It wouldn’t hurt me that much.”

Pinky gasped. “Naaaarf! Egad! Do you mean that you want to kiss some more? Not just because I asked?”

He nodded. “I believe that it will be an effective way for me to replenish my energy and also so I may spend some quality time with you. You only asked for one kiss, but I don’t want to give just one. You don’t deserve that. You are far too alluring currently, Pinky.”

“Braaaaain!” Pinky squealed, his face turning red as he pulled his boyfriend close. “You are just the sweetest and nicest and lovingest mouse alive! Troz! I would love more kisses. I always love that!”

“I’m glad you love me, Pinky. Even though you’re an imbecile, I suppose you are in fact my imbecile.” Brain pulled Pinky to him, and their noses became squished together. He held Pinky’s paws in his, intertwining their fingers. “And by Ptolemy’s sake, I am madly in love with you.”

Pinky swooned. “I’m madly in love with you too,” he murmured delicately so that only Brain would hear him.

Before either one could say anything more, Pinky and Brain’s lips met again for a longer and far more passionate kiss. Pinky felt all fluttery as he felt Brain’s body press against his. Pinky also melted inside when Brain was the one to produce a gentle noise. When they parted for a quick breath, Pinky wasted no time in placing his mouth against Brain’s again.

As they kissed and kissed, Pinky felt victorious. Mainly because he was getting kisses from his sweet and lovey-dovey Brain, but also because he’d won the game. Brain had kissed first! But he supposed that the feeling of a win came second to the real prize: having Brain truly love him so much. While Pinky knew that Brain was sometimes a tough and rough cookie, he also knew that Brain would always love him no matter what happened.

He was positive that Brain realized how much he loved him too.

Ao3 link:

#pinky and the brain #animaniacs #patb #brinky #gay mice #i wrote this on five hours of sleep and at 10:00 pm at night #im mostly pleased with this because the original draft was complete crap #hope you guys like the fic!!

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queer-in-a-cornfield · 10 days

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Some of us on the discord were discussing what Dewey would be like as an adult yesterday, prompting this little fic (1325 words) based on my hc that Dewey would become a stage actor

Dewey walks down the busy streets of New York, humming some vocal warmups. While he appears as calm and collected as he ever does, his mind is racing a mile a minute.

Today was his Broadway debut, and he was equal parts excited and nervous. He’d done many a show in the past but those were different. This was BROADWAY, the gold standard of theatre. Sure, this wasn’t a principal role or anything, he was just replacing a departing ensemble member, but still! A Broadway debut is a Broadway debut. It’s a big day, and he’s freaking out a little.

He rounds the corner of the theatre and opens the stage door, making a pit stop to check in for the day and readjust his bag. He nearly drops his coffee but manages to set it down to adjust his grip before continuing on to his dressing room.

He swings the door open and finds that Rico and Alex, the castmates who share the room with him had already arrived.

“Hey, guys!” Dewey says as he walks over to his designated area. He pauses suddenly before he can put his things down. “What’s all this?”

Surrounding his mirror were a pair of blue balloons, some confetti, and a handwritten banner on top that read “Congrats on your debut!”

Rico speaks up, “It’s your first show tonight, Dewey! If that isn’t cause for celebration I don’t know what is.” Alex nods in agreement.

“Aw, thanks guys,” Dewey smiles, clearing away some of the confetti to put down his bag.

“So how’re you feeling? Ready to show the world what you’re made of?” Alex asks.

“Yeah, I’m really excited, I’ve been dreaming about this for years,” he says, pulling out his notes to review once he finishes warming up.

He spends the next few minutes stretching, uncharacteristically quiet, before sighing and asking, “Guys, you’ve both done this for a while, so… how did you get over the nerves? It still feels insane that I’m even here, and I’m really worried that something’ll go wrong and ruin my chances of continuing here.”

Rico sighs, “I’m not gonna lie, that fear just takes time to get over. But trust me, you’re gonna do great tonight, and soon enough you won’t be so anxious anymore.”

The trio sit in silence for a moment before Alex pipes up, “Didn’t you mention that one of your brothers had a history with anxiety? Maybe he’ll have some advice for you.”

Dewey nods, then grabs his phone from his pocket, pulls up Huey’s contact, and starts a video call.

“Hey Dewey, what’s up?” Huey’s voice picks up through the phone speakers.

“Hi, Hubert. Did you guys just land or something?” Dewey asks, noticing Huey’s surroundings.

“Yeah, we just landed, oh… fifteen minutes ago? We just got to baggage claim- sorry, one sec,” he says, turning to talk to someone off-screen.

Suddenly Uncle Scrooge appears on screen. “Dewey, lad! Can- can ya see me- how does this thing- curse me kilts, what did Ah just-“ Scrooge says as he confusedly fiddles with the phone.

“Uncle Scrooge, I’ll hold the phone for you,” Huey interjects as he grabs his phone back and centers them both on screen.

“So why’d you want to talk to me, Dew?” Huey asks.

Dewey pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts before explaining. But he pauses a moment too long because more faces suddenly attempt to crowd into the view of Huey’s phone camera, all trying to greet him at once. Dewey snickers a little watching Uncle Donald, the last one to get back from claiming their baggage, trying to squeeze into view with little success.

“Hey guys,” Dewey says. “I love you all, but if I could maybe just talk to Huey for a second? I’ll see you guys tonight.”

Reluctantly the rest of the group backs out of frame, leaving once again only Huey.

Sighing amusedly, Huey asks, “Okay, so what did you want me for, Dew?”

“Okay, so, like, I was wondering, basically, like-,” Dewey pauses for a second. “How do you handle your anxiety? Cause I’m kinda freaking out a little right now.”

Huey thinks for a moment. “Well, different things work for different people, but whenever my nerves are getting to me I usually like to take some deep breaths, or you could do the 5-4-3-2-1 exercise, ummm… yeah, I’d say those are my go-to's. I’d also say that drinking coffee wouldn’t help with nerves at all but I don’t think you’d listen to that one, so…”

Dewey laughs, “Thanks, Huey.”

“Of course, Dew. And also remember, we’re all gonna be there cheering for yo-,” Huey gets cut off by a nearby thud, which he turns to look at.

“Uncle Donald’s suitcase just broke,” Huey explains, walking over to help. “You’re gonna do great tonight and we can’t wait to see you after the show! Break a leg!” Huey signs off.

“Bye Huey, see you guys later,” Dewey replies, ending the call.

“Man, it’s still so weird to me that the richest duck in the world is your uncle,” Alex says.

“I don’t know if that’s more surprising or the fact that he doesn’t have a private plane to get here on,” Rico adds.

“Well, we do have a plane but the pilot can’t make it out here until next week. Aaaaand I’m realizing how much of a spoiled rich kid I sound like right now,” Dewey starts laughing again.

“Nah, if you want a really spoiled rich kid that would be more of a… what’s his name? That creep who got all his money from his grandmeemawmaw or whatever?” Alex retorts.

“Doofus Drake?” Rico supplies.

“Yes, him!”

“Oh, you guys don’t even know the half of it,” Dewey exclaims, getting back into his stretching.

——————————————————————-

Dewey opens up the stage door to exit the building. It was dark out now. He was one of the earlier cast members out of the doors, so there was a pretty good-sized crowd greeting him. As he worms his way through them, some congratulate him for making his Broadway debut, and one woman even asks for a picture, which catches him slightly off guard.

Eventually, he makes his way past the main crowd where he is finally greeted by his family, who all promptly give him a bear hug.

“Dewey!!! That was amazing!” Webby exclaims once they all pull away.

“I knew you’d do great,” Huey concurs, grinning.

“Theatre has never been my thing, so believe me when I say that that absolutely blew me away,” Louie adds.

“I’m so proud of ye, lad,” Scrooge says. “Ye’ve done well for yerself.”

Uncle Donald, at a loss for words, smiles and gives him another bear hug.

Della then pries Donald off of him to give him her own hug.

“You boys never cease to make me proud,” she says as she lets him go.

“Aw, you guys,” Dewey says, laughing a little. “You’re gonna get me emotional.”

“We’ve all been emotional since you came on stage, it’s your turn now,” Huey jokes.

Dewey laughs, “Okay, that’s fair.”

“Not to interrupt a nice family moment, but would you guys like a picture?” Rico says suddenly from behind Dewey, startling him.

“Oh my god, Rico! You can’t scare me like that!”

Dewey recollects himself and turns back to face his family.

“Guys, this is Rico, one of my castmates. Fam, Rico, Rico, fam. And yeah, I think we’d like a picture.”

An obscene amount of pictures later, everyone has their phones back with significantly less storage space than before.

“Thanks, Rico!” Dewey calls out as his castmate departs.

“See you tomorrow,” he yells back.

“Well,” Della says. “I think it’s time for some celebration! What time were those reservations for, Uncle Scrooge?”

“… In ten minutes.”

“Oh. Well, let’s get going then!” She exclaims, prompting the group to hurry off to this restaurant, dragging a confused but happy Dewey along with them.

#this does not have a name yet but the Google doc is called Broa-Dew-ay #because puns #wrote 80% of this on five hours of sleep and the other 20% on 4 hours #ducktales 2017 #ducktales #dewey duck #ducktales fanfiction #also bonus fun fact I named Dewey’s castmates after two of my friends from choir

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azems-familiar · 1 month

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch, implied past Azem/Emet-Selch/Hythlodaeus/Original Character Characters: Emet-Selch (Final Fantasy XIV), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch Additional Tags: Canon Compliant, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers (Final Fantasy XIV), what's gayer: gay sex or whatever these two have going on?, Brief Mentions of Named Azem, POV Emet-Selch (Final Fantasy XIV), Enemies With Benefits (The Benefits Are Tea And Gossip), i genuinely don't know how else to tag this tbh, set during the century before the wol gets summoned to the First, it's canon compliant in that you can't prove it DIDN'T happen Summary:

In truth, though, there is only one question Emet-Selch wants answered by this place, and it is thus: from whence have you come? All other quandaries posed by the Tower, its keeper, his eight-times-Rejoined soul, and what he truly means to accomplish by dragging himself and it across the rift to a doomed shard can, Emet-Selch believes, be explained by that single answer - or if not explained, at least further opined on, and if there is something he is singularly good at doing, it is having opinions. And yet five decades have passed since Hydaelyn’s irritatingly-well-timed interference and the Tower’s appearance and he has gained naught. Not even a hint of the Crystal Exarch’s past.

Thus Emet-Selch’s unannounced materialization in the Umbilical at half past four in the afternoon, when a cursory inspection of the Exarch’s other usual haunts, including his favored sitting room, turned up nothing but scattered papers and a long-cold pot of tea that must have been brewed and summarily forgotten.

#ffxiv #emet selch #g'raha tia #emetexarch #crystal exarch #shadowbringers #ffxiv fic #my fic #i wrote this one in a feverish haze for like five hours after midnight last night #my only goal is to get everyone who reads it to understand this ship that is eating my brain lol #they are so weird.

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zmediaoutlet · 8 months

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Wet tingling heat kicks him out of a light doze and Sam jerks, his left leg drawing up dumb and defensive, only there's solid warmth in the way and he can't pull back. What, he says. Or makes a sound like that.

Humming dumb chuckle down at his crotch. He squirms, sinks his hands into soft sweaty hair. Brain coming back online but checking things off all in the wrong order: good, hurting, Dean. Not a bad combo. What, he says, again, and his dick is cold—warm hot slipping away—his balls in soft fingers, a pressure at his hip, and there blurred against his pelvis, smiling, c'mon, Sammy, get the lead out.

His knee falls open. Dean's shoulders between his legs and a hot hand slipping up his side, thumb over his nipple, fingertips in his armpit. He's tipsy, formerly drunk, events still proceeding well enough that a hangover hasn't started. A fuck happened previously but he doesn’t actually remember the details other than that his dick is sticky-feeling, warm, a lurking heat somewhere between his hipbones that could go either way. His lips tingle and he lifts an arm over his head, stretching, a headboard somewhere up above and the sheets tangled around damp and hot.

Do it again, Dean says. Oh, if wishing made it so. He tips his knee in against the warm shoulder and there's a heavy moving weight over him, damp too, prickly hair against his thigh and then hands against his chest, his shoulders, gripping, total demand and assumption but one that for once he doesn't mind. A drag against his hips and then warm closing heat against his sides, soft-plush over his dick, dragging sticky, sweet. He reaches down and finds—a thigh, a hip. Prickly stubble, like bush trying to grow out, and an image assembles itself: thick endearing cut cock, heavy dark balls underneath. Shaved a lot of the time but buzzed short the rest. Curving up, dark at the tip, pretty, and cute under all that, just this total rush of affection to see it—knowing the salt at the head, the bitter bleach of the slit, the crushing softness there at the base where it's so easy to suckle and make the most insane sounds happen, up above. He fingers there, rough, and gets more sound above—puffed little gasps, like he's putting his fist into a stomach—and then, below, tight hot skin, and then wet—oh, wet—which is all things good, and hot too, and a clutching furl he can slide three fingers in easy as thinking it, and how it grips around his knuckles, and flexes, and he pulls in tight and makes all that hot heaviness above him squirm, and groan, and he thinks only then about the shape of his brother's ear and shoulder and flexing arm, braced on the headboard, his head thrown back, his body shoving down into the feeling.

He licks his lips, curls his fingers. Dean's hand on his pec squeezes hard, his hips rolling back. Sammy, he says, like it's a question. Like whatever the answer is, he doesn't mind. Awkward to have the pinky finger sticking out like an unwanted bit of rebar—he tucks it in with the rest, and pushes, and over the top of him there's this electric lurching spasm, all the weight centered there on his slippery knuckles, on how when his forearm flexes and he pushes up his hand sinks deeper into tight safety and he feels—like if he just kept going, if he pushed harder and focused, he'd get up inside where it's dark and close but nevertheless safe. Like if he was in there no one would be able to see, or know, and it would be okay. Everything would be okay.

It's possible he's more than tipsy.

His thumb braces back behind Dean's balls. Does it hurt, he wants to know. Yeah. Not a complaint. He reaches up and finds a sturdy wrist and tracks it to an elbow to a bicep to a shoulder, flexing, and holds his other hand still and lets Dean churn his hips against it, like if he worked hard enough he could fit the whole thing inside, somehow. Only that's not what he wants, is it? Not the fist. Please. Or is it both? The hand, the dick. A gun or a bottle. Everything? God—God, Sammy, I—

Off the headboard, fingers digging desperate at his dick. Squeezing, familiar, and a thick coiling ache in the pelvis responding. In the moment it's only thing that matters: an interlocking of want and need—a question asked and needing an answer. He's thick now, stiffly urgent, and he tugs out his hand and takes sweaty hips in a firm grip and pulls, and a shift above and a tilt and—encapsulating heat, raw and wild, shivering on oversensitive skin, insane. His hips curl into it and then relax.

Less urgency above, too. Like having gotten what was wanted there's now time enough in the world. He slides his grip and gets a fat double-handful of ass, and tips up his chin, and there's—a kiss, soft. Lips on his and then on his cheek, his temple. Breath against his ear. Missed you, Dean says. It's been half an hour at most but it isn't ridiculous because of course. Even with a hundred thousand miles right at each other's sides, even with knowing each other inside and out, even with confessions spilt and innermost thoughts known it's not enough. How could it ever be.

Sometimes he imagines climbing fully inside. A gross and terrible dream. Pushing in and stretching up and occupying the same space entirely. Skin against skin and bones settling alongside bones, two hearts beating in a solid four-part rhythm. Breath coming into one set of lungs and coming out the other. But—that wouldn't work, either. The best part, the only part that matters, is that immolating instant when one pierces the other—when there's that second, or a fraction of a second, when he breathes in and Dean breathes out—when it matters that they were separate, and now they're not. Have to separate to get that back again.

Dean sighs, against him. Feels good, he says.

Sam opens his eyes and the world settles a little more firmly onto its normal spin. He can't see much because it's dark but there's neon through the curtains and a moon beyond that, and anyway he's spent half his life scouting through the dark and what was it all for, if not this. Dean's face forms out of shadow. Sam, he says, soft.

Promise, Sam says, thick and dumb, and Dean nods fast and immediate like it was what he was expecting Sam to say—he leans forward over Sam's body, elbows either side of his head, like he's shielding him from something—his own dick soft, spent, dragging on Sam's stomach—rocks back and says I promise, says I do, says in some place Sam can't hear but knows it's true: I will, I will, I will.

#wincest #happy wincest wednesday #my writing #i wrote this while definitely drunk #after playing like five hours of d.e.#that explains most of it

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skoulsons · 10 months

Text

Eye To Eye Is All We Can See

• gif by @azertyrobaz

Pairing: Ezra & Cee (Prospect 2018)

Word count: ~2900

Summary: Ezra says something stupid and Cee tries to convince him that he’s wrong

A/N: Nothing except I wrote this until sunrise , so I apologize if it is absolutely terrible, downright ooc, or horribly grammatically. I have not rewatched the movie quite yet 💀 Just a bit of fluff and a tiny hurt/comfort?? Don’t ship them!!

Tagging my favorite people who I get to talk about this movie with: @sotvtaughtmehowtofeel @not-so-mundane-after-all @orangechickenpillow @jessahmewren @alternatewriter @starchild0985

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thank you,” she said.

They’ve been together a few cycles, the Green Moon left far behind them.

The cycles have been nothing short of eventful in a small spacecraft and two strangers in a very complicated relationship. Cee has had to keep an extra keen eye on Ezra. Not because of distrust, but to make sure his arm is healing well. Or, as well as a cut-off limb could heal with limited medical supplies and a kid, though capable, having done the operation.

Also because Ezra keeps forgetting he’s lost an arm and continuously reaches out for support along the walls of the ship when he moved from their sleeping quarters to the cockpit and he has fallen every single time. He fell out of his bed the first night they were in it; Cee spent five minutes trying to pull him back into the bed and then another fifteen having a verbal battle with him to try and convince him to get back in bed.

There have been moments of frustration where things catch up with Cee, her irritations coming out verbally to Ezra. He never fights back. He always sits, patient and understanding as Cee rehashes the things she’s kept bottled up and taped down for years with all the strength of scotch tape that’s lost all its grip.

They were also navigating their route off the Green to somewhere safe and figuring out… what exactly they were. Strangers? Partners? Friends? Family? Ezra has treated Cee as a real person, a girl with agency and deserving of a fruitful life since the second he met her; it’d be difficult to walk away from someone who gave you something you missed out on all your life. In that same way, it’d be hard to walk away from a kid that saved your life—twice.

Cee also had nightmares about the Green. The Saters, the mercs, the music, even her own father. Ones of Ezra, too. Him dying, abandoning her. Him using her, just like Damon seemed to do. On the worst night, the night when Damon and Ezra’s lifeless eyes were all she could see and their cold, torn open skin were all she could feel, she woke up crying.

Ezra was at her side before she even woke, unsure what exactly to do. He waited, and when she finally did wake, with a tear-stained face and a burning throat, Ezra’s compassion was overwhelming. His eyes were gentle, concerned. He kept his only arm hovering over her shoulder, waiting for permission. She let him hold it, for both their sakes, wishing she’d hugged him instead. Wishing she met him on the floor, their legs a conglomeration of limbs as he held her tight against his side. Instead, he stayed beside her until she calmed, quiet and reserved affirmations in It’s okay, little bird and You’re safe, Cee. Damon's cold, almost robotic responses to her harsher dreams were always Quit your crying or It’s a dream, calm down, so when Ezra keeps a firm, reassuring hold on her shoulder, talks her through it, and wears a soft smile Cee thinks she got to see even before Kevva knew of it—one that is only heightened when the stars of the Black shine enough light in to highlight his strands, making him look less intimidating than he makes himself out to be—Cee relaxes. How a stranger, of all people, can sit beside her and walk her through something so small compared to what all the Black has to offer is beyond her. How Ezra, literally, stooped down to her level to comfort her.

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing that has happened the last seven cycles makes sense. The Green and the people, if they could even be called such a thing, that the pair encountered still seemed so far away from Cee. That they were things that seemed only to be written in fictional novels and included in stories of old.

Except for one thing. One thing that makes sense. One thing that Cee is becoming more clear on with each passing cycle. Perhaps the clearest thing to come out of their time together.

He cares.

She cares, too.

And now they were in the Black, and had been for six cycles. The vastness and eternity of the growing darkness offered a strange comfort to both of them. Despite their care for each other, freedom was out there. Freedom awaited the both of them out there. Separate freedom.

Cee was always confined to Damon. She was always just another pair of hands to mine or hold something Damon couldn’t. An extra pair of eyes to search for Aurelac or an extra pair of ears to listen for any harm or to protect him, completely selfishly. Damon never acted selflessly, not even for his own daughter.

She hadn’t much freedom apart from him. She was always tied to him and his work. She was never given opportunities away from him. No chances for her to explore on her own. To see what was so great about this life that Kevva gifted her. She never had the chance to meet other people and form lasting friendships. She wasn’t given time to… live.

The Black offered that to her—Opportunities. Planets to stop at, to lay low on. Places to settle down. A life to live.

Ezra had freedom ever since he was a kid. He was free, encouraged even, to explore. To get to know the world around him. The vastness of the growing creation. He had the freedom, the opportunities, to explore all of it. But as he grew, there was a hunger for earning. A hunger for points and mining. Anything that could offer him a more than satisfactory life. Aurelac, specifically. An attachment to the work, the hunt, also selfishly. He did what he had to to get what he wanted, similar to Damon. Only Ezra, despite being on his own for most of his adulthood and being separated from his family for longer, cared. He cared enough to listen and pay attention to a little girl he didn’t even know.

He cared enough to be fair. Even split.

Being free from his work wasn’t too far-fetched for Ezra, but it happening because of a child was definitely not his expectation.

Especially someone like Cee. She had a fire in her. She was capable, he knew first hand she was. She was strong, threatening when she needed to be. She was skilled, intelligent, able.

But she was just a kid. He saw how scared she was, even with Damon. But in their time on the Green, he’s gotten to know her. Cee was kind, careful. Ezra noticed the way the inflection in her voice changed when she got excited about Streamer Girl. She cared and she protected. Her heart was big, willing to risk her life to go back for him, even after he specifically told her to go.

Cee was good. All she did was help. Love. She wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t selfish. She wasn’t ruthless or hungry for points. She wasn’t bad.

Ezra believed himself to be. He killed. He was willing, ready, to kill. Someone who has that reputation isn’t good, especially when killing a little girl’s dad gets added to the list, despite what he thought of the man.

He doesn’t believe he’s worthy to be thanked. That anything he’s done, especially to her, is any reason for thanks.

“Oh, no, nothing to thank me for, birdie. I have left you barren and deem your gratitude inappropriate for such a time. Ever since you touched down on the Green Moon, your conditions have been less than unacceptable…”

“Ezra…”

“...and I have been present in all the things that have troubled you so greatly these last few cycles. You have been burdened with dragging my weakened bag of bones across the Green.” “Even as we venture into the Black, you have continually endured my long-winded communication and idle, though I believe fascinating, narrative.”

“Ezra-”

“I am a bit crestfallen that you’ve been subjected to a multitude of predicaments in the time we’ve been together and that I have imparted insignificant salutary to your current expedition.”

“Ezra.”

“The Saters, the mercenaries… I’ve only brought you hindrance after hindrance, little bird. Allow me to implement points in to your care so that you may persevere in your journey and-”

“Ezra!” she shouted, grabbing at his face. Her hands reached his neck first, fingers stretching to the back of his neck, tickling his hairline.

She doesn’t know what this is like. Damon was never really gentle with her. Not physically, at least. She thinks, maybe, he was gentle with her when she was born. Holding her in the crook of his arm, her small, fragile head resting in the safety of his hold. Her skin held against his, breathing in tune with his, eyes fluttering open to catch her first glimpse of the world; her father, a tight-lipped smile strung across his face as tears well in his eyes, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth over the blanket she’s wrapped tightly in, occasionally bringing his thumb up to her red cheeks, a quiet hi to greet her.

Something she thinks Ezra could’ve done.

Something she suspects Damon didn’t do.

Something she knows Ezra would’ve done.

Cee pulled her hands away from his neck and brought them to his face instead, her palms too small to hold him the way she wanted to. She tried, letting them rest against his cheeks and feeling the scratch of his beard beneath her fingers. She kept her fingers outstretched, her pointer and middle threading lightly through the hair above his ears as her last two sit beneath his ear. She kept her thumbs in place on both his cheeks.

If there’s something to say, Cee can't say it.

She’s used to apologizing. She’s used to apologizing over taking up too much space. She’s used to apologizing over getting excited over Streamer Girl. She’s used to apologizing for eating too much of their rations, even when it was the amount she and Damon agreed on. She’s used to apologizing over resting, even when there was nothing to do. She’s used to apologizing over… being around him. Her breath was enough to apologize for.

But this wasn’t for apologizing. Ezra said something stupid and she needs to convince him that he’s wrong.

But the words can’t come to her. They don't. A contrast to how Ezra seemingly has an eleven page research paper of words on hand at all times, no matter the situation, Cee comes up short on correcting him. On affirming him that he’s wrong. On reassuring him that he has helped her.

He’s a grown man. A grown man who killed her father doesn’t need affirmation. Doesn’t need reassurance. And he surely does not need his face held because some kid thought he said something stupid.

Definitely not.

She holds his face firmly, the skin of his cheeks forming at her hold. “Don’t… say that, please. You’ve…” she pauses, inhaling and exhaling through her nose, forcing herself to catch his eyes and to make sure he hears her. “You’ve done a lot. You have. I know it’s… it’s only been a few cycles, but…”

You saved me. You protected me. You kept me. You came after me. You encouraged me. You made me feel safe. You tried to sacrifice yourself for me. You killed for me, more than once.

You loved me. You love me.

Her mind races with all of it, every word holding an unimaginable weight she had never experienced prior. Every word holding truth and passion behind them. Honesty covered every single one, Cee knowing in her soul that that was the man Ezra is. Those things he has done for her, how he’s treated her—that is who he is.

She watches him, wondering if, somehow, the look in her eyes could say the words for her. And if the glimmer in his eye is any indication, she thinks the burning it has left in her heart has found its way to his, too.

She could never say any of that about Damon. He wasn’t an encouragement and any dreams she had and wanted to pursue were shut down by him. She didn’t feel safe with him—not the kind of safe where she’d hide behind him if they were approached. There wasn’t any confidence that he’d care to protect her with his life. And if it came down to the Saters, Damon wouldn’t have kept her.

Ezra was different. Ezra was new, fresh. Real. He showed her more in seven cycles than Damon showed her in sixteen years.

That, to Cee, was enough.

She was wanted now. She could tell. Ezra’s attempt at telling her he was no good for her and saying he offered her nothing was the furthest thing from the truth.

Cee has sought connections all her life and was always denied or taken too soon to form a new one. It was always just Damon. Ezra went through so many partners in his life that he became numb to anyone who would stick around permanently. Numb to anyone who would ever be with him—his other half. And when a child entered his life and created and filled the hole in his heart that wasn’t there before, it became something supernatural. A longing he had immediately, and also a resisting. He was dangerous and he managed to put Cee in some of the most risky situations in under a day.

But Cee didn’t focus on that. She saw through that. She saw his passion and interest in the things he talked about. While it has only been with her, she’s seen the way he cares. The way he went to walk her through the operation on his arm. How he smiled at her and had an immediate pet name off hand to call her by, which, surprisingly, has stuck around—not that she would ask for him to stop using it. How he indulged her interest in Streamer Girl, saying he must now read it after hearing her praise it so well. She’s seen his gentleness in how he’s treated her, spoken to her, but also his violence in how he’d protected her from the mercenaries.

He’s done more than enough, as much as he may try and convince her, or himself, that he has not.

She smiles at him, her hands still on the sides of his face. Before she has a moment to really think, she brought her hands around his neck more, tilting his head down and his forehead towards her. She goes to the side a bit, kissing the skin right at the hairline of his blonde section of hair. She takes a moment to breathe in while her lips are still pressed to his forehead and her fingers lay by his ears, gently holding his head in place.

If she can’t find words, she hopes this works in their place.

She pulls away from him, keeping her hands still on his face as she settles their glances back. Ezra smiles as he shyly drops his head, breathing out a light laugh. Cee smiles, too. A wide, happy smile. One almost unfit after all she’s been dealt.

Cee drops her left hand to his shoulder and takes her right hand away from his face and brings it to the blonde section of his hair. “So…” she starts, rubbing some strands back and forth between her thumb and pointer finger, “how did this even happen?”

Ezra lifts his head, trying to move his head out of Cee’s grasp, but she just laughs, continuing to rub the strands together. He stops moving his head and looks back at her, a more serious expression on his face. “Quite the story there, little bird.”

She makes a face. “...And? We’re not in a rush.”

“That we aren’t, birdie. That we aren’t. Still, it’s a bit of a lengthy tale that I don’t believe to be worthwhile taking up any cherished time we have on our trek-”

“Ezra.”

“Yes?”

“Are you avoiding my question because it’s an embarrassing story?”

Ezra looks offended and starts backing up his claim with no’s and some long and winding explanation as to how, after inhaling alarming amounts of Dust in the Green, he was brought to Central to be fixed up. A few cycles in, Ezra, prematurely, got out of bed and tripped over himself, hitting the small guard rail on the other side of the bed, knocking himself unconscious. The incident gave him nine extra cycles at medical bay and, within a few weeks, after his wound had healed, his hair was growing back blonde.

They laugh together in the ship, the joyous noise echoing off the walls as they continue to pile on jokes and more stories as the conversation flows. By the end of it, Cee’s face is red and Ezra is breathing heavily, both of them slumped against separate walls, holding their stomachs.

It’s true, there are opportunities out there in the Black. Places to settle down and figure things out. And with each new passing cycle, their decision becomes more clear: they’re figuring it out together.

~~~~~~~~~

post-fic note: I can’t remember exactly, but Ezra’s hair growing back blonde after an incident I think comes from another prospect fic out there, I think we violent ones, but I’m 100% sure if it was that one or another one. All that to say it is not an original idea and I don’t take credit for using it for Ezra’s character. I liked the idea of it when I first read it and wanted to use it similarly

#this is an absolute dumpster fire #but it’s fine #everything’s FINE #im sorry my WIP is getting very close but #I had to write them last night #I was gonna slam my head through a table if I didn’t #I know only like 5 people will see this #and I love all of you five people #im so sorry if this is bad I haven’t written them in a WHILE #not to mention I wrote for hours straight with no food and little water and sleep deprived 💀#prospect 2018 #prospect fanfic #prospect fic #L writes #fun fact #this was supposed to be cee kissing where Ezra’s blonde hair was #that was it #that was the WHOLE idea #and it is not that anymore

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