#spotify wrapped prompt
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13!
Shut Up by Stormzy.
Hob is a literature professor. Dream is an underground electronic music artist who goes by Morpheus. They never would've met. Never would've even known about each other.
Except. Hob is bit addicted to Twitter. Except. Hob has a bit shit taste in music. Except. A student cancels her presentation because she got last-minute tickets to a Morpheus show and Hob looks him up and gets irrationally mad at a stupid skinny little goth that doesn't even play any real instruments or sing and whose photo of a sneaker drop, whatever that is, got a thousand retweets within hours.
This is the story of how Hob sends a petty tweet and then sort-of-accidentally starts iconic Twitter beef with Dream.
Death, acclaimed hip-hop artist and meddling older sister, is delighted by a random man in a sweater-vest rudely insulting her brilliant baby brother, and insists on catching up with Dream so they can collab on a diss track, because it'll be very interesting. Hob finds out about it at a lecture and plays it in front of his whole class. It's clever and funny and absurdly referential. He falls a little bit in love with the wrong person, because he thinks the lyrics are Death's.
He slides into Dream's DMs to tease him about his older sister to protecting him (and maybe ask for her number), and Dream cops to writing it. Hob reacts with so much earnest wonder that he has to swiftly follow it with calling Dream a pretentious cunt, just to balance things out. They continue talking, under the flimsy auspices of being mean to each other.
One day, Dream video calls him while stuck at an airport, wearing stupid glasses and a stupid hat like a some kind of celebrity traveling incognito - because he sort of is, Hob belatedly realizes - and that's when he sees Dream laugh for the first time. It's because of him. He realizes he wants to kiss the stupid skinny little goth. Wants Dream to be his stupid skinny little goth. Has no idea how to do that. He pines. Dream pines.
When there's a show playing near Hob, Dream sends him a VIP ticket, day-of, with no other message or context. Hob goes, of course, feeling tremendously uncool at the venue. But during the show he finally understands, in a way he didn't before, how Dream pulls whole worlds to life with his music, how he weaves something new and incredible from samples alone. How he tells stories without words.
After, awed, he goes backstage, and almost regrets it when he has to face half of Dream's entourage, whose ruthless teasing is absolutely secret screening to see if he's Good Enough For Our Morpheus, but he gives as good as he gets, and, unable to bear it any longer, Dream tells them all to fuck off. Then it's just them, and Dream makes some vulnerable little joke about whether Hob still thinks it's not real music, but Hob is just standing there, bluescreened before the sight of this man, who he wants to be his, who he's spent hours with online, who he's never even touched, so human and real suddenly. Dream is flushed and sweaty and a bit of his hair is plastered to his forehead. The energy of the crowd is still glowing underneath his skin. Hob is hapless. Hob can only think to ask to kiss him. So he asks, and that's how their first time ends up being in a shitty little greenroom in Manchester. And their second. The third, at least, is in Dream's hotel.
#asks#the sandman#dreamling#dream of the endless#hob gadling#mutual pining#enemies to idiots to lovers#my writing#actually obsessed with this sad to say#AUs i have secretly trained for#talking about sneaker drop drama and streetwear and loop pedals and the ivory tower#teasing as a love language!#making each other laugh as a love language!!#the dialogue for this#the mean tweets#the DMs#the banter#oh my pals i did not expect this of my friday but here we are#we’re 2K deep already#spotify wrapped prompt
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Second Child, Restless Child by The Oh Hellos
(No edits, we die like Antauri)
--
Jinmay felt the wind up toy in her chest buzz. It was comforting as it was nervous. A reminder of the boy that loved her, and a reminder of how they met.
She hated to remember how she had been turned into a weapon. Skeleton King had removed everything that could've led her back to her home and lied to her until she was destroying Shuggazoom. For a brief moment, she had believed him enough to attack the monkey team.
In the end, Chiro wouldn't let her do anything she'd truly regret. He had known exactly what to say to her to get through. He was wonderful.
He also wasn't what she needed.
As soon as they had repaired what Skeleton King tried to break, Jinmay was leaving. She knew Chiro was sad about it, but she also knew staying wasn't good for her. Not when she had so many blanks to fill in. She could feel all her missing history pressing on the edges of her mind and it was driving her mad! She had to find something to sate it if she was ever going to move on.
So she left the only home she knew to look for the one she forgot, an act that would've broken her heart.
Which would be why she left her heart with the boy she loved and put a buzzing toy monkey in its place.
--
Took me hours to figure out what on earth I was going to do. Was very happy when Jinmay popped into my mind.
#srmthfg#srmthfg!#super robot monkey team hyperforce go#super robot monkey team hyper force go!#super robot monkey team hyper force go#super robot monkey team hyperforce go!#fanfic#writing#spotify wrapped prompt
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No one asked me, but here’s a thought for a fic I would theoretically write for each song on my spotify wrapped starting with #1.
music festival/concert au. A and B are dating in high school. A runs from B to get as close as possible to the stage. B loses A. B gets worried. B asks if the singers would let them find A using the microphone. B works out a deal that B can use the microphone as long as B sings something. B sings the song above. A runs on stage and hugs B. B is discovered as a promising young artist and becomes a singer but at the cost of their relationship with A. B hits a wall and falls into obscurity as the music industry tends to do with one-hit/several-hit idols. B meets A 6 months later and they reconnect over a nice cup of cocoa in a cat café. Before long, they’re falling into being friends, falling into a routine with each other, falling into each other once again as adults. very slow burn from “Hey, it’s you” to “WAIT, have we been dating???” Low-angst, not much paparazzi drama.
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Using Spotify Wrapped
Your #1 and #10 songs represent your next OC.
Your #25 and #50 songs represent their lover.
Your #75 song represents how they meet.
Your #100 song represents what happens in the end.
What are the song titles?
(If you don't want to make new OCs or plots, what OCs are all of the song titles for?)
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All my little sins, gather to me now
#my ocs#2023#fletch newman#dec 2023#this was a 'spotify wrapped song + character' prompt that worked so well#killing him btw
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Spotify Wrapped Prompts !
Sorry it took me a week!! 😅 But here they are, for those of you who requested in the comments section ^^ (Those of you who requested in the ask box, I will answer you individually cuz its just easier ^^ )
Some are much longer then others. Some are just sentences. Its just whatever came to mind regarding to song! And no, I'm not giving you the song XD Just a line or two. If you wanna do sleuthing that's your prerogative but its mostly country and I know that's not everyone's cuppa tea 😅😅😅 Without further ado- here we go!
Included down below; Professor Ratigan (3), Judge Claude Frollo (6+7), Bill Sykes (13), Percival C McLeach (14), Wheezy Weasel (39), Hades (66) and Jafar (77).
3. Professor Ratigan Prompt
🎶'If you go down, I'm goin' down too'🎶
"You are my husband. If you go down, I go down with you. There are no if's and's or but's about it."
"My dear... That's not going to happen."
"I know- I know." Do you? You should, because he's so smart and you trust him, but still there's a nagging itch in the back of your mind telling you that one of these days one of these things is gonna fail. Taking a deep breath, you squeeze his hands in yours. "I just... want you to know."
With one of those dark and sinister smirks on his face, Ratigan gives you a kiss on the forehead; speaking lowly only to you. "Then we'll go down together, hmm? Two burial plots side-by-side~ "
6. Judge Claude Frollo Prompt (Fem Reader)
🎶'Jezebel, you're bound for Hell.'🎶
You're a woman who murdered her father's lover (You couldn't bear for your mothers heart to be broken) and find yourself under the judgment of one Judge Claude Frollo.
Will he send you to the gallows for your crime? Maybe not, if you keep flirting with him from across the courtroom.
Bat your eyelashes, Smirk those pretty lips, Make sure he gets a good look at your legs when you shift in your chair, do all these things in order to survive. Maybe you're only doing it to survive, maybe you actually like it. The way he looks at you.
7. Judge Claude Frollo Prompt
🎶 'Don't lie, I know you think about it in the back of your mind' 🎶
You're just a secretary in the office and the judge has made it quite clear what he wants from you. You refused him steadfast, of course, because you have dignity. And you're saving yourself.
But you cant stop thinking about it. What it might be like to say yes.
You know perfectly well that you shouldn't but with every day that goes by, your resolve grows thinner and thinner.
13. Bill Sykes Prompt
🎶'Thirty-one, waiting tables. She has They have a voice of an angel. Out of money and power. She only sings in the shower'🎶
You were working a dead-end job, living a dead-end unloved life until Bill Sykes walked into the diner you wait at. He walked in at the stroke of 4 in the afternoon, when you were supposed to leave- so, you weren't happy about it that day but had to go help him.
It was a curse at the time but now he has you singing at beautiful clubs and you have a penthouse and you don't have to wait anymore. People love you.
And yes he scares you sometimes- but the terrible man can be undone by your voice.
14. Percival C McLeach Prompt
🎶'I like em unavailable; guess that's just me.'🎶
You have a long history of going for the Wrong Guy. They're wrong because they're always taken already, a fact you only discover after the fact.
Now here's this guy- a rugged Australian guy from the middle of the outback. He's older and kindof uneducated and kind of brash but he always takes his hat off when he talks to you and opens doors for you, and... you're developing feelings for him.
He's completely not your type- you don't think he's ever dated before, and he definitely wouldn't have the sense of subtlety to pull off cheating. He wants you to be his one and only.
He thinks you're amazing. He thinks you're smart, funny, interesting, and beautiful. You feel kind of... greedy... finally having someone who just wants you.
But you're gonna make the jump. Whatever happens, happens. But at least this one truly wants you.
39. Wheezy Weasel Prompt
🎶'It's genius
It's gonna be awfully rough on those children'🎶
This one's a little different! You got a Newsies Song, The Bottom Line (My favourite) so I- obviously- had to do something sticking with that theme XD
NewsiesAU!
Imagine you're in the position of Joseph Pulitzer's secretary (Hannah's character). You only got this job to be a help to the Toon Patrol (Wheezy, especially ^^). In this position you could easily sway the writing in the papers in the patrols favour, striking out any bad press. Yes, they would still get a bad reputation via word of mouth but it would be unofficial. Good notoriety in the papers would at least offer them some mystique.
This is hard enough on you. You hate deceiving people. You hate what the Toon Patrol do! But you love Wheezy, and you have to help him.
When Joseph bumps up the price of the papers, making life so so much more difficult for the newsies- the poor children, - to do their jobs and earn enough money to even feed themselves- you go home overwhelmed and in tears.
Wheezy's there to gather you in his arms and glare at Smartass when he sighs at you (How silly you are (Its just business)). He never wanted you to do this job! He never wanted you to be apart of this crap.
And now here you are sobbing because you're so stressed out and so sad- and- he's gotta get you out of this. He will get you out of this.
66. Hades Prompt
🎶'Dressed to kill'🎶
Imagine being a indebted servant to Hades along with Meg except you don't do a whole lot of the... communications work, that Meg does. So you don't have to look as nice all the time. You're often in the underworld with Hades helping him strategize and doing paperwork-type stuffs. You're closer with Hades then Meg is but it has never been a flirty thing, with you two. Just friendly. He's grown to actually like you- he's happy when you're around- you can calm him down when he's starting to lose his temper.
And honestly you like him, too. Despite the indenture. Somehow.
One day by some miracle Hades is in such a good mood, he lets you and Meg go for the day. You can do whatever you like but be back by sunset or he'll be pissed.
So you take the opportunity to wear something prettier then usual! Why not??
... When Hades sees you both leaving, that's when the penny finally drops.
He loves you.
How the hell did this happen!??-
77. Jafar Prompt (Fem Reader)
🎶'He don't know it 'cause I sure don't show it. When I kiss him goodbye and I wish him good luck'🎶
You try so hard to hide it; pretend like you're the perfect wife and you have no secrets. When you kiss your husband goodbye before you separate for the day, him going to the kitchens to work and you to laundry rooms, you look like the perfect young couple.
No one expects a thing.
Except you're truly being courted by a tall, dark, devastatingly handsome man you cant tell a soul about. And your husband, likewise, has a gentleman of his own to hide.
At night Jafar will meet you in the gardens where no one but the princess and the Sultan are allowed to roam, except they're asleep when you slip by. You're all his then and, truly, you're all his all the other hours in a day.
And he's all yours ^^
-But you cant tell a soul.
These are all Free to Use if you want ^^ Please tag me if you do use them! I so so wanna read them! ^^
Thank you so much for participating! ^^
#Spotify Wrapped Prompt Event#Spotify Wrapped x Reader#Spotify Wrapped x Fanfiction#Jafar x reader#Disney Jafar x reader#Hades x reader#Disney Hades x reader#Wheezy Weasel x reader#Percival C McLeach x reader#Bill Sykes x reader#Sykes x reader#Judge Claude Frollo x reader#Frollo x readeer#Professor Ratigan x reader
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Send 🎁 to receive a starter based off a random song from my Spotify Wrapped
Remember to state who the meme is for/or from for multimuses.
Add a number (1-100) for the starter to be based off the corresponding song.
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How about 47 for the spotify wrapped drabbles? :) Only if it sparks joy, of course!
Hi, thank you so much for the prompt 🥰 #47 is Blue Dahlia by the Gaslight Anthem
not another soul could love you (like my rotten bones do) | 1.3k
He peppers kisses along Eddie’s jaw, stopping to nibble lightly just under his ear before trailing wet kisses down his neck. Eddie tils his head to give him better access, letting out a pleased sigh which serves to spur Buck on. He presses his tongue into the dip of Eddie’s collar bone, appreciating the soft moan it elicits. He follows the slope of Eddie’s collar bone until he reaches his shoulder. He’s about to press another kiss into Eddie’s skin, but freezes.
His heart skips a beat at the sight of a scar, thinking back to the taste of Eddie’s blood in his mouth, splattered across his face. But then he realizes this is the opposite shoulder, not the one that a bullet tore through in the middle of the day in the streets of Los Angeles. No, this scar is from another time.
He brushes his fingers over the scar reverently, knowing it’s a mirror of Eddie’s other shoulder. It hits him, not for the first time, how many times he’s come close to losing Eddie. That there was a chance that Eddie could’ve been taken from him before they even met.
Read the rest on ao3
Send me a number 1-100 and I will try to write a short drabble based off whatever song that corresponds to in my spotify wrapped
#buddie#buddie fic#911#911 fic#911 on abc#eddie diaz#evan buck buckley#spotify wrapped#911abc#prompt#thegaslightanthem#the gaslight anthem#my writing#emwrites
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song 25 + sambucky if you're still taking spotify wrapped prompts ☺️
25. Accidentally In Love by Counting Crows
When Sam’s phone goes off, he’s half asleep on his couch, buried under a small mountain of blankets and too congested to even really hear it that well. He only notices because it’s face-up on the coffee table and the screen catches his eye when it lights up.
He extends a hand out from his blanket nest and picks up the phone, wincing at the bright light of the display.
It takes a second of squinting at the screen, but he finally manages to see that the notification is a text from Foggy: ‘any tips on how to handle your honors lit class? no subs available this morning so Hill has me covering’
‘Try not to show any weakness. They smell fear,’ Sam texts back. Then he adds, ‘There’s a Princess Bride DVD in the cupboard, you can get a key from Bucky.’
Foggy’s reply is predictably annoying: ‘does loverboy still think that you and me are dating? do I need to worry about him sabotaging my teaching in a fit of jealousy?’
Sam glares at the screen of his phone but it doesn’t do much, given that Foggy can’t see him. ‘Just for that you I’m not telling you where I put the Luhrmann Romeo + Juliet. You’ll just have to teach the ninth graders about iambic meter yourself next period.’
Foggy doesn’t get back to him for a while, which isn’t all that surprising. The beginning of the school day is hectic enough for a guidance counselor without having to unexpectedly cover another teacher’s class.
He stumbles to the kitchen to make himself tea, a blanket around his shoulders and his phone in his hand, but Foggy doesn’t reply for another twenty minutes. Sam’s head hurts too much for him to remember how neat the supply cupboard was, but he’s hoping it’s not so bad that Foggy’s just elbows deep in useless stuff.
After giving it another few minutes while he takes his next dose of cold medicine, he sends a text to check whether Foggy found what he was looking for.
The reply is immediate: ‘didn’t end up needing the dvd! I asked Bucky for the key and when he heard you were sick he said he’d handle it.’
‘Doesn’t he teach first period journalism?’
‘You’re sick so I won’t make fun of you for memorizing his schedule,’ Foggy writes, magnanimous as ever. Then: ‘there’s like five journalism students so he said he’d just combine them. said he could take your kids for the rest of the day too.’
Sam feels his jaw drop. Covering just one class is more than enough, but the entire day? When Bucky has almost a full slate of classes to teach, too? His face is suddenly all warm, and he’s at least fifty percent sure it’s not the fever.
His head is getting heavy again, and the screen is starting to hurt his eyes, but he manages to get a text out thanking Bucky for covering for him and assuring him that he can just put on movies for every single class.
He doesn’t have to wait long at all for the reply. ‘You’re welcome, Wilson. Now get some rest and stop worrying about your classes; they’ll be fine.’
Yawning widely, Sam types out a quick reply and takes Bucky’s advice, pulling the covers over his head and quickly falling back asleep.
Not having to field questions for subs or keep an eye on his email for questions from concerned students means that Sam isn’t repeatedly getting up when he’s supposed to be resting, and when he emerges from his blanket cocoon that afternoon, he can stand without getting dizzy for the first time in two days.
He celebrates by dragging himself into the shower, where the steam and the decongestant make it so that he regains his sense of smell, however briefly, and he feels more like a person than he has since Friday.
There’s probably an argument to be made for going back to bed, but Sam has never been great at being still, so he throws in a load of laundry and cleans up a bit while he’s on his feet. He’s about to make dinner, too, but then Sarah gives him a talking-to and makes him promise to order food instead, and Sam understands that she will instinctively know if he crosses her.
Sam already has the app open, scrolling through his options when his doorbell rings. For a second, he thinks that Sarah figured she couldn’t trust him to follow through and just ordered the food herself. Normally, he wouldn’t put it past her, but she’s getting the boat ready for a charter tomorrow, so he can’t imagine that she had the time or the cell service.
A peek through the curtains answers the question, though: there’s a familiar sedan parked in Sam’s driveway, a peeling Rutgers decal on the rear windshield.
“If you’re bringing me work to grade, I’m going to sneeze on you,” he declares, as he opens his front door to find Bucky waiting outside.
“I’m not a monster,” says Bucky, looking mildly offended at the thought. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” says Sam. “I can probably be back in tomorrow.”
Bucky narrows his eyes. “Or you could take a second sick day and actually get better instead of running yourself down again.”
“We’re supposed to be working on that stupid archival project tomorrow,” says Sam. “If I get another sanctimonious email from John about prioritizing my tasks, I’m gonna have an operatic meltdown in the middle of his classroom.”
“Entertaining as that would be, there’s probably another way,” Bucky says. “I’ll handle Walker for now. You just worry about getting better.”
Sam could probably push back if he really wanted to, but he can’t bring himself to be mad about Bucky looking out for him. “Okay,” he says, and Bucky’s eyebrows go up in surprise.
“Really? It’s that easy?”
“I blame the cold medicine,” says Sam. “I’ll be a pain in the ass again on Wednesday, I promise.”
Bucky smiles. “I look forward to it.”
“Well,” says Sam, after they’ve both been silent for a moment. “Thanks for coming to check on me; I really–”
“Wait!” says Bucky, and Sam stops in his tracks, eyebrows raised in question. “I didn’t just come to ask how you were doing. I, um– I wanted to bring you this, too.”
He holds out what Sam now realizes is a bag from the Thai place near the school.
“I would’ve made you soup myself, but I had to stay late with the yearbook kids, and my Ma would kill me if I half-assed her chicken soup recipe, but I know you like this place, so…”
Sam looks from Bucky to the bag of food and back, his eyes wide. “Thank you,” he says, and he can feel how soft his voice has gone around the edges. He probably should make some kind of joke to restore the natural order of things, but he can’t bring himself to do it. “You didn’t have to, Bucky, seriously.”
“I know,” he says, with a little shrug. “I wanted to.”
“Oh,” is all that Sam can manage to get out. “Okay.”
“It’s cold,” says Bucky, once Sam takes the bag of food out of his hands. “I should let you get back inside.”
He starts down the steps and Sam only belatedly remembers to call out, “I’ll see you on Wednesday!”
“See you then,” says Bucky, turning to face Sam and taking the last few steps to his car backwards. “Oh, and thanks for calling me cute!”
Sam feels his eyebrows lift in surprise. He wracks his brain to go over the last five minutes of conversation, but he comes up empty. “Wait, what?”
But all that Bucky does is hold up his cell phone before opening the door to his car. “Night, Sam!”
Suddenly, Sam remembers sending a text earlier today, clouded by the haze of exhaustion and cold medicine. His eyes go wide.
He didn’t, did he?
It’s only Sam’s dignity that keeps him from sprinting for his phone, staying in the doorway until Bucky’s car pulls away.
The second his headlights disappear, Sam throws the door shut and hurries to where his phone is charging on the kitchen counter. It takes two tries for him to unlock it with his face, and then he’s swiping over to his texts, opening up his conversation with Bucky and reading back the last few messages.
His eyes go wide as he reads his own words back.
‘It’s so cute that you use semicolons in your texts,’ he’d said to Bucky. ‘You know I’m not grading these for punctuation right?’
‘Maybe I just want to impress you,’ Bucky had replied.
And then, because that wasn’t enough, apparently Sam had replied, ‘Maybe you already do.’
He’s pretty sure that he’s never recovering from this, but just to make sure he learns his lesson, he texts a screenshot to Foggy with the message, ‘COLD MEDICINE SAM CANNOT BE TRUSTED!!!’
Foggy just sends him back a bunch of cry laughing emojis in response.
#lest you think this is punctual...this prompt is from LAST YEAR#sambucky#the teachers AU is BACK y'all#zainab does ask meme things#hope this anon is still around. sorry it took literally a year.#my fic#spotify wrapped prompts#sambucky and co teachers au
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spotify wrapped prompt. heavily referenced from Serge Lutens
Darling, you can't walk away
Your feelings come & go
There is nothing I won't do
"Darling, You Can't Walk Away" - Ark Patrol
#this is on my taraprowl playlist i never finished#windblade#arturer art#well i did one spotify wrapped prompt; nice job @me
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Aragorn/Arwen, 63
#63 -- tujhe dekha toh from dilwale dulhania le jeyenge
ok so the soulmatism of it all had me going completely nuts (simrans waking dreams.....i need to lie down) & before i knew it i'd re-read their appendix had 3 literary analysis epiphanies and was neck deep in the wiki page on love death and meaning and the paradox of religion and nonreligion in tolkein
i say all that like i didnt just write movie verse kidfic lol.
ellie is a shortened version of "nethel" which means sister in sindarin. in a different time in my life i would have named every single one of canon girldad aragorns "many daughters" & also included 5 of them but alas, at this time i am Busy. so we'll pretend that the other 3 havent come along yet. arwen has magic powers she will be fine.
enjoy!
“My lady Luthien!”
The words come into Arwen's dream in the common tongue, whispered and full of a child’s awe. He is speaking as if to himself — the text has surprised him, or perhaps absorbed him so that he does not realize his mouth is moving, disrupting the Sindarin read privately in his thoughts with an impulsive, delighted exclamation.
To Arwen it is just as mesmerizing. She cannot know why her dream has brought her here, to this garden of her father’s House she has sought refuge in so many a time. She knows him very little, this child, not ten in the years of Men and so very human about it, with lanky limbs folded up against himself to cradle the book and a mop of dark hair that falls down over his eyes and the very beginning of spots on his chin (of endless intrigue to Arwen, who has only ever seen skin unblemished).
She has not met him, but knows of him from her brothers’ letters: her father’s ward, sweet and grave and beloved amongst the Rivendell kindred as any novelty in the shape of a child might be. But Estel earns it, too. He is earning his presence in her dream in the same way, sat in the exact spot she always chooses, under bows of trees she has long considered friends. He earns it, though Arwen doesn’t quite know why he’s here.
Don’t you? ask her thoughts of her self, and she does not answer.
Years pass, and she is home again.
“My lady Luthien,” he says, as she comes toward him, and within his voice is a gentle embarrassment that still manages to tease.
Arwen, firm in her earlier, gentle rejection (he is far too young), cannot help but find this terribly charming anyway. It is just after dinner, and she has found him behind a pillar to the side of where they dine. He holds his cup in both hands. Until her appearance he was studying the carvings on one stone edifice to their side, and seems in every way his mortal age save one: there is a new and convoluted weight in his eyes that was not there in the early afternoon, when he called so clearly and sincerely to her. It seems to have entered like the broken branches of a sapling swept into a fast-moving stream after a storm.
“I should be greatly flattered, Estel, to be compared thus,” Arwen says, offering that weight a smile. Estel drops his eyes back to the pillar. He seems to start and stop a few times before actually opening his mouth, and when he does,
“I should like to still be called Estel, for a while yet,” and there is great vulnerability there, in his young man’s eyes. It sneaks into her breast and cups a hand over the breath she draws, and despite the glade, and his youth, and the Truth her father has now shared with him, she is compelled: Arwen’s own hand slides over his knuckles, and they are holding the cup together.
“I will,” she promises. “I do.”
On the edge of the last word do his eyes flick up to hers, canny in a way that sparks beneath her skin. He lives up to his name, she thinks then (not quite knowing why), and when she writes this to him after they have parted, in the letters they now share, he writes back: so do you.
Before Estel, her experience of Death was altogether different. She knew it first in abstraction and then in keen loss. Now she feels its imminance and urgency, in both grand and mundane ways.
For example, earlier this evening, Arwen thought she might die if she did not kiss him. It was a thought that crept over her swiftly, silent and keen as a fresh ice water brook spilling into open hands, very different from the thundering roar of the river spirits she had summoned to herself – until it was suddenly quite the same, roaring, and it must have shown in her eyes. In the late quiet of the night she came to her rooms and found him, there.
(She has long since known why.)
The employment of her tongue is not new, but pulls a murmur out of him regardless. “My lady Luthien,” he starts, speaking almost directly against her mouth, with a wry amusement that is not so unburdened as to be playful and not yet a warning, either, and then he is properly startled into, “Arwen —!” when her next kiss includes a bite. The rasp of beard against her chin is uncomfortable and delightful. She can feel the rumble of her small victory in his chest. Aragorn has always done so much with just the two syllables of her name.
When she has lost all breath she pulls away, and does not pant — sweet air made salty by urgency comes in and out of her lungs in discordant sighs — but her lips stay hot against his ear and she feels every press of his fingers against the slope of her waist, burning. She thinks of death again; she has fought it off. Twice in one week now, in very different ways.
Aragorn does pant, in his own way. He lets out a quiet gasp and drops his head against the side of hers, not trembling but finding some stronghold deep within himself that begets composure.
Slowly she begins to comb her fingers through the hair at his temple. In the dark alcove of her rooms (safe), they sway together.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, and she knows: tomorrow the council is held.
“I meant it, earlier,” says Arwen softly, into his hair. It has begun to grey, the strands too hidden yet to shimmer in the moonlight but there nonetheless. Every so often she will catch a glimpse of them and it will leave her wordless, and desperate to touch him. “Your fears are not the truth you think them to be.”
“Arwen.” She can hear the desperation that threatens to choke his own voice. Duty turns the peaceful twilight of her home into a foreboding shadow. There are two large warm hands on her face before she has noticed them move, and then she feels the wetness of her own cheeks: she had not realized she was crying.
“I did not know it would be so momentous to love,” she says, while he wipes at her tears with war-roughened, gentle fingers. So many things about Men are a paradox. So many things about this man.
“Meleth,” he says.
“I meant it.” She repeats herself. “I know who you are in my heart, Estel.”
“You do,” he allows her, and she is not certain he believes it to be enough. No matter, Arwen thinks: her own belief will sustain them. It must, long enough that he has hope for himself as well as for Men, and then they might cross through the door, to the other side of the Dark.
The Queen finds her husband in Faramir’s study, reading.
“My lady Luthien,” she is greeted, words threaded full of the subtle humour that has turned her head for over sixty years.
Arwen clasps her hands over the laden basket she packed without needing any kind of foresight and sighs thinly.
“I did expect, mel nin, that you had gone the whole day without food, but I had thought you would be found holding grave council, or visiting the head healer, or even – forgivably – in the stables. Instead, you are here, nose-deep in an ancient poem.”
“It did not come to you in a vision?” he asks, and raises his eyes just enough to catch hers from beneath his lashes. This does nothing to diminish the focus etched into his dark brow, nor the way he holds himself (always it calls to her – it does not matter the shape), nor the deep blue of his mantle sweeping against the floor; he has not paused to change since returning from the Southern Wall. Whatever peace he thinks his feigned innocence will win him, she cannot know.
“Your Steward told on you, my love.”
“Aaah,” his face falls, so dramatically it is amusing.
She holds up her basket. “I have lunch.”
“My beloved wife has developed the sensibilities of a Hobbit,” Aragorn says, in her people’s language.
“Hobbits are good and noble creatures,” she retorts. She always argues better with him in Sindarin anyhow, “and have traditions from which we might learn.” She arches a brow: “Estel.”
“I am eating,” protests Aragorn, somewhat weakly. “I mean – I will.”
“You might do so now. With me – there is no one else here.”
It is a potent suggestion, she does acknowledge. She watches him think about it, proud to note all the little tells which she has known since he was a barefaced and impulsive young man. The same canny look sparks under Arwen’s skin. Once, decades ago, she had met him in the wild woods beyond her father’s borders in a stolen moment between darkness and duty, and convinced him to bathe with her in the river. She remembers her joy at seeing his wet dark hair plastered all over his forehead. She remembers his own joy, and how it fought off the lonesome blanket of the gathering shadow.
“Your thoughts are of something I know,” Aragorn says now, suspicion arching his tone and narrowing his bright eyes, no longer that of a young man but still full of a life that thrills her. “Some joyful mischief that you’re going to coax me into again, no doubt.”
“There is sadly no river in the palace.”
“Aaah,” uttered in a very different tone from before. His eyebrows twitch out of their focused furrow and his face warms with the memory. He lowers his book a little. “Arwen …”
But he does not move from his spot behind the desk, so Arwen places her basket down and sweeps forward, intent. The silver in his hair streaks liberally now, and lines furrow down his cheeks when he laughs – often – but otherwise Aragorn remains mostly unchanged from the presence filling so little yet so much of the many years of Arwen’s memory. Affection rushes through her, swelling like the river, growing like the trees in Lorien. That glade, too, is a memory full of joy. He is much better suited to a beard, though. Arwen tells him this.
“So you have said many many times,” Aragorn says, chuckling. “I have no plans of removing it from my face, beloved.”
“I know,” Arwen hums. “I am only observing.”
Slowly she comes around the desk, on even steps, until they are very nearly touching and she can fold her hands over the top of his book. She takes a long moment to look at him, and though she in her chosen mortality no longer carries the same potency of power that Tinuviel’s blood held before, she conducts her habitual scan of his spirit, the truth of it ebbing through her fingers where they touch. Beyond her duties as Queen (of which there are many, and she both capable and willing) this is what Arwen knows most deeply in her heart how to do.
Finding Aragorn no more burdened than usual (though perhaps a little distracted) she leans in to whisper in his ear.
“Ah –” he clears his throat and touches two long brown fingers to her arm. Unexpectedly, then, Aragorn stage whispers, “We are not … as alone as it seems.”
“What exactly do you mean?” Arwen, paused very close to his mouth, is compelled to whisper back.
And then,
“It’s alright!” comes a familiar little voice from seemingly nowhere, and all at once Arwen looks down to see the outside shape of the King’s voluminous cloak wriggle. Her mouth parts in surprise. The whisperer continues importantly, “You may kiss Ada if you like, Naneth. We are not looking!”
“Ssssshhh!” materializes a second, equally familiar little voice.
Arwen tilts her head, mystified, as her husband sets his expression into something communicating exclusively the secrets and patient indulgences of fatherhood. Then he jerks his chin towards the door, eyebrows raised and everything, not a moment before there sounds the sharp cadence of what can only be a young boy’s footsteps (and Arwen would know this boy’s as she knows her own heart) and into the library bursts their only son.
At the sight of his parents, Eldarion comes to an abrupt halt, and tries very hard to compose himself.
“Ahem,” he says, straightening. She sees the way his body moves to mimic his father, and also the grass stains on his knees, and the disheveled mop of his curls that means he has definitely spent the last hour running around in the gardens. Arwen is unbothered by this. “Hello Ada, hello Naneth. Have you – have you seen my sisters?”
The front of Aragorn stays conspicuously still.
“Your sisters?” asks Arwen, clasping her hands demurely before her.
“I am afraid my attention has been elsewhere,” says Aragorn gravely, holding aloft his book.
“Indeed,” adds Arwen. “So much so that he has forgotten to eat.”
Minutely, the cloak quivers.
“Hmmmm,” says Eldarion, lost in focus. “I must find them to create an alliance with the brave rangers in the North,” he speaks, almost as though to himself – he is really giving this quite a bit of thought. He is so absorbed that she could be in Rivendell again, drawn by a dream into her beloved, occupied glade … “For we must defend the townspeople but I cannot do it alone.”
Arwen blinks. Her heart is filled with tenderness.
“They have assigned you the role of orc again?” Aragorn is guessing, sympathetic.
Eldarion droops only a little before springing back up with full confidence. “Yes! But I am determined that we will create an alliance. I am a good orc, you see.”
With hasty goodbyes, he rushes away, taking the excitable sound of his footsteps with him.
A moment of quiet passes. Aragorn’s cloak begins giggling, so he spreads open his arms and herds them out one by one.
“You must go quietly now, down the hall and into the gardens,” whispers their father.
“Naneth,” begins their youngest, halfway out the room, “Naneth, do you think if we formed a nalliance –”
“An alliance,” corrects Aragorn, still whispering.
“Shhh,” interrupts the other, “or Eldarion will find us!”
“But he must be getting lonely!”
“Oh, ellie …”
Their little voices trail out of the door.
“I believe an alliance would work,” Aragorn offers Faramir’s many inert books, speaking at a normal register once more. The study now empty, Arwen turns back to her husband. His eyes are twinkling. She does not say anything, but moves toward him, as she has done so many times before, and lays her head to rest against his shoulder. In moments the book is tucked away, and the warm hands she knows so well are cradling her arms.
After a moment he says, “You are well? Arwen?” a gentle question in her ear. Arwen nods. She can now say what she knows, and why they are here:
She sustained them, and there was hope to be found.
Aragorn’s fingers rub over the gauzy sleeve of her dress. “Did you have your heart set on lunch?” he asks quietly.
“I did,” Arwen says, and turns to hold his eye. “I do.”
#i rewrote the ending 3 times to procrastinate posting this bc i am so Nervous#ive literally written them before but never like Seriously you know?#Thee Blueprint from when i was 8 years old....#my writing#spotify wrapped prompt meme#aragorn#arwen undomiel#aragorn x arwen#the lord of the rings#the tale of aragorn and arwen#lotr#lotrweek
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2!
Hounds of Love by The Futureheads. Oh! What a gem!! I first loved this song when I was a wee bab and rediscovered it this past summer. It, along with all my top songs, was on a summer driving playlist which is why it is so insanely high haha. There's a sort of lovely pastoral wildness to this and I think that suits our lads so well.
An outdoorsy AU with competence kink out the wazoo, where Dream is a bird specialist at a wildlife rehabilitative centre, who becomes a minor TikTok celebrity (much to his enormous apathy) when the centre starts doing interpretive meet-birds events and the internet falls in love with this dour hottie who only smiles when he's talking about birds (Matthew, naturally, runs the account). Hob is a hunter - bow, mostly - who is regrettably very on TikTok, very on all social media - he hates the term but he is unquestionably an 'influencer'. He just likes sharing his knowledge and passion, alright? And the gear sponsorships are nice.
He sees Dream, and sees, mostly, a really great collab opportunity, so he messages him, and Dream (who is Matthew, and just shouted HOB FUCKING GADLING? IN MY DMs? at his phone when he got the message, immediately sets up a meeting at the centre. Then he breaks the news to Dream, specifically when Dream is holding Jessamy, so he can't be murdered.)
Dream, of course, expects Hob to be some like, swaggering font of red-blooded machismo talking points, and suspects Hob is only popular because he looks like an advertisement in Outdoor Living. (Matthew showed him pictures.) He disregards Matthew, who says Hob is actually super cool, because Matthew has terrible taste and would be the first to admit it. But his interest is piqued when Lucienne also knows who Hob is. It turns out Hob is deeply involved in nature and wildlife conservancy. Gives talks at schools. Gets involved with land protection initiatives. Teaches orienteering to youth. But everyone seems to expect him to hate Hob, which he would find faintly insulting except that he also expects himself to hate Hob. He doesn't. Not that much. Even when he shows up in a plaid shirt that is made of 'technical' fabric, because he's smart and excited to talk to Dream about birds, has an encyclopedic knowledge of the history of falconry, and most importantly, Jessamy takes to him immediately.
They run into each other again at a renaissance fair, another thing Dream hates but has been strong-armed into doing, and so they are both dressed in very silly clothes when it happens: the first time Hob watches Dream demonstrate falconry, the first time Dream watches Hob use a longbow made from a yew tree he fell himself, the first time they go from a wary sort of respect for one another to a wanting.
Dream, who has a recurring fantasy about running away from it all, listens to Hob tell tracking stories and thinks, If I went into the woods, you would find me. But he doesn't want to run from Hob - except sometimes, when he sees Hob chew on his lip consideringly before giving a thoughtful answer about the guiding industry, or when Hob grins wildly at the crowd after his archery demonstration, and most of all, when Hob phones him out of the blue one day - he doesn't text, he phones - sounding a little breathless with excitement, and asks Dream if he wants to come with him for a week in the mountains, on "probably a wild goose chase" and promises "all sorts of birds if nothing else." (Hob had meant to only share the news with Dream. Fuck, he thinks. I am so fucked.)
He says yes, for the birds, of course, and tells Matthew the next time he's at the centre.
"So what's the wild goose chase?" asks Matthew.
Dream plumbs his memory of the phone call and says, "Hob told me he received a bighorn sheep tag." Matthew gapes at him.
"Holy shit," says Matthew. "He's in love with you."
"He is certainly not."
"Uh, no, respectfully boss, he 'certainly' is. Lucienne!" he shouts, "Hob invited Dream to come out on his Dall sheep tag. What the fuck, right?"
Lucienne comes in and raises her eyebrows. "Oh dear," she says. She's smiling.
"What," says Dream. "It's a sheep. I don't understand."
Lucienne and Matthew exchange a glance.
"Him. I cannot believe Hob chose him," says Matthew.
"Love works in mysterious ways," says Lucienne.
"I am right here," says Dream.
Matthew turns to him, "Have fun in Alberta," he says.
this would ft. nights of wild stars, rugged terrain, type ii fun, sexual tension around a campfire, homoerotic form checks, tent sharing, dream glassing beautiful birds with hob's $3000 binoculars while hob stares at him in abject adoration, dream watching hob strip off his clothes and jump into an alpine lake, and refusing to join him out of pretended prudishness when it's really because he's suddenly so hard it hurts, camp coffee, confessions about themselves instead of confessions about their feelings for each other, sore muscles for a VARIETY of reasons, and lots of allegories about wildness and taming and running away from things, and SO MUCH COMPETENCE KINK, friends. so much. i would probably write it like - act one them leading their separate lives, their desires and aches etc., act two - meetcute and circling one another, act three - The Trip. this one has a very happy ending i can tell
#the sandman#dreamling#'this one won't be more than a few paragraphs' i say#stopping myself NOW ha ha#another AU I Would Write for suuuure#luring you in with the promise brokeback mountain style pastoral yearning#then leaping onto my soapbox and waxing poetic abt our relationship with meat and nature and nonhuman life#about hunting trips and multiday outdoor trips in general as a way of enriching relationships with others#about connecting in profound ways that feel only accessible in a place where humans are exceptions and not the rule#where our endemically lonely society and all the guardedness is stripped away before the beauty and the ache of the suck#wild spaces making room for wild emotions#for humanity#in a way cities and towns do not#ANYWAYS#shout out to the person reading this who understands the significance of a bighorn sheep tag as a feelings confession lol#(hucks this post onto my teetering want-to-make-this-a-WIP pile)#spotify wrapped prompt#my writing
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For the wrapped meme: 11 & Steddie, if you please!
Thank you for the prompt, I really needed this to get my brain working.
You know until your ask I didn't realise I hadn't even specified a fandom! Stranger Things, people! (in case anyone else wants to send me a prompt)
---
#11 - Refugee by Tom Petty And The Heartbreakers
Steve is vibrating with anger.
They’re sitting in Eddie’s van in the parking lot outside Bradley’s Big Buy. Eddie’s looking in the rear view mirror wiping someone else’s spit off the side of his face with some grubby napkin he found in the glove box. He’s acting like he’s wiping some girls lipstick off his cheek.
“Stop staring at me.”
Steve turns away, looks out the passenger window to see the prick from the store packing his groceries. The temptation to run over there and kick the shit out of him is so intense he ends up staring at his hands instead. He’s not sure why he suddenly feels like the bad guy in all of this.
“I feel like a drive, how about you, Steve?” Eddie’s voice is clipped, his tone all pinched and stiff. Steve just nods, there’s no point saying anything right now, he’ll get shot down and it will start a fight and he’s not in the fucking mood.
They drive for close to an hour, Steve taking surreptitious glances at Eddie from time to time. Over the hour he watches as Eddie’s shoulders relax, the tension in his arms loosens. Watches the transformation from an angry alley cat back to Eddie.
It’s not fair, but he learned a while ago nothing in Hawkins is fair. But what annoys him, what really incenses him, is how Eddie reacts to these bastards. He doesn’t fight back. He just grins, throws up those stupid horns, sticks his tongue out. He pokes the bear, and he looks like he’s enjoying it too, unless you really know him. Then you see the flash of hurt in his eyes, the way he stiffens slightly. The way he hunkers down for hours afterwards while he works through whatever the fuck is going on in his head. Which Steve can’t help might be faster and easier if Eddie would just talk to him. Or anyone. Just fucking talk.
The van slows and pulls off the road, stopping at the edge of a cornfield. Eddie shuts off the engine, killing the music. Steve sneaks a glance, watches as Eddie tips his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. The engine tick tick ticks, the birds caw. An occasional car whooshes by. Eddie and Steve just sit.
A warm breeze flows through the windows, and Eddie pushes stray hairs off his face. He caught colour on his cheeks over the summer, the scar on his left one no longer looking so stark against his skin. Eddie took great delight in showing that off to the townsfolk of Hawkins. Sometimes Steve just wants to scream at him.
“I know you don’t get it,” Eddie says on a sigh, finally cutting through the last of the tension in the van.
“Yeah, I don’t. Sorry.”
“I don’t need you fighting my battles. I can do that myself.”
Steve shakes his head, “Didn’t see you putting up much of a fight.”
“That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?”
Eddie pats himself down, and Steve knows he’s looking for cigarettes. He also knows he doesn’t have any. He only has gas in the van because Steve gives him the money for it. No one will give him a job, Wayne gets less hours at the plant, and they all know why that is. So he gives Eddie gas money because he drives Steve around even though Steve has a perfectly nice car, and they both know what this really is. Just another thing they don’t talk about.
Steve lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag before passing it to Eddie.
“I don’t know how you put up with it, that’s all.”
“And what else am I supposed to do, exactly?” Eddie takes a drag, and ashes the cigarette out the window. Doesn’t hand it back to Steve. He wasn’t expecting him to. “You can’t fight everyone, Steve.” And he draws his name out, in that way that makes Steve want to slap him. Like he’s being mocked. Like this is school, and he’s the mean boy.
“Then— Then leave.” Don’t leave.
Eddie rounds on him, eyes blazing. “Why should I fucking leave?”
“You always wanted to go, you said—”
“On my terms. My terms! Not because some hick cunt wants me gone. This is my fucking home, Wayne’s home. My family and friends are here. I nearly died for this place, Steve! I have more fucking right to be here than them.” He runs out of steam, stabs the cigarette into the ashtray likes its ablaze. “I’ll go when I’m good and ready.”
The sun creeps lower in the sky, and the light hits Eddie’s hair and it’s like a halo. He gets these moments, when he’s still, when he’s sleeping, when he thinks he’s not being watched, and his face relaxes and he looks like a boy. Just a kid. It’s not fair.
Eddie scrubs his hands down his face, sucks in a lungful of sticky summer air, and then turns the key in the ignition. Music roars, and Steve jumps, it gets him every time. Eddie huffs, a ghost of a laugh, and reaches over to punch him lightly on the thigh.
“Come on, let’s go home.”
The van turns in the road, heads back towards Hawkins, and despite the afternoon of worry and anger, all Steve feels right now is relief.
#Spotify wrapped writing prompt#steddie ficlet#dreamy writes#steve harrington#eddie munson#Spotify Top 100 Fic Meme#steddie fanfiction#steddie fanfic
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It took HR three hours to acknowledge my resignation 😌 but it is done.
I am not doing anything for the rest of the day and I'm about to reblog a prompt meme for kissing in five seconds (so I stop clawing my eyes out in Canva and do something less crazymaking - to be clear I was not doing anything prior to confirmation that my resignation was received either) and later I am seeing a friend for dinner whom I ghosted for two months because I was so miserable. She's excited to hear how I found a nonprofit that is a bigger shitshow than a public library. I will ask her for a work (or??? grad school?????) reference.
Last night at dinner, while I was doing a dramatic and humorous verbal reenactment of something deeply stupid, my mom said, "I haven't seen you smile in months." Guy who weaves joy into the fiber of his being not smiling for months around family he lives with? Lmao.
#i have a PEN and my NOTEBOOKS i'm ready to THINK ABOUT MY FUTURE. after i chill out with some people kissing#i may not write all of the prompts (as usual lol) but i will try!!#also i'm so sorry to everyone who sent in something when i was doing the end of year spotify meme#i got so embarrassed because you all managed to randomly hit every single cringe megachurch praise band on my wrapped 😭#also every time you guys send something for another prompt meme but mars in gatorade and i don't do it. i am also sorry for that too#anyway. are things scary yes. are things looking up also yes. did ko give me recommendations for tailgating table and chairs YES#one last blowout purchase before unemployement!!#fresno oilers.txt
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Matt/Foggy, 36
From this Spotify Wrapped Prompt Game:
#36. Made You Look - Meghan Trainor (🫣 I am not immune to a viral tiktok audio earworm…)
“Are you capable of exercising any self-control at all?” Foggy asks, voice dripping with annoyance as it carries across the room.
“I—” Matt pauses, as he tries to figure out the right response to that question. “I’m literally just sitting here,” he finally offers, weakly, because it definitely sounds like he’s in trouble, he’s just not sure why.
“I know that,” Foggy says, coming back to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m talking about what happened last night.”
“I was under the impression that you enjoyed what happened last night.”
“Matt…”
“In fact, I distinctly remember asking if you were enjoying yourself and you said—”
“You don’t need to quote me,” Foggy says, evidently excited or embarrassed by the memory—or both. “I remember.”
“Well, then, I’m confused by your sudden change of heart.”
“Not a change of heart,” Foggy clarifies and Matt is very often thankful that Foggy can’t hear his heartbeat and now is one such moment, because the way it immediately calms down from relief is genuinely a little embarrassing and he’s glad no one else has to know about it. “Just confronting the very frustrating reality that I’m going to have to do the walk of shame in a shirt open to my navel because someone tore half the buttons off of it in his haste to get me undressed. Again.”
Matt shrugs, very deliberately casual now that he knows this isn’t a real argument. “It felt like an urgent matter at the time.”
“Matt, I don’t even know where any of the buttons ended up!”
“Thank God. It’d be really embarrassing if you’d had the presence of mind to keep track of that while I was…well, you know.”
“I don’t know why you can’t just unbutton my shirt patiently like a grownup,” Foggy complains, which is the exact opposite of what he was doing last night, but Matt doesn’t bring that up.
“I don’t know why you insist on wearing those fancy suits with like eighteen layers I have to go through,” Matt says, instead. “Getting you naked is like breaking into a Swiss bank.”
“They’re three piece suits, you infant,” Foggy retorts, laughing. “And I’ve been told by everyone on Earth except you that I look great in them.”
“I’m sure you do. But for my purposes, they’re a nuisance.”
“You’re a philistine, Matthew. And I’m going to tell Luke that you don’t appreciate well made clothing and get you on his bad side for all eternity.”
“Please don’t,” Matt says, grabbing Foggy’s wrist like he might go for his phone right away. The downside of meeting Luke through Foggy is that he always has this extremely viable threat in his back pocket. “You have no idea how hard it is to find a good tailor these days.”
“Oh, I’m intimately aware,” Foggy cries, and there’s a shuffling noise as he (Matt’s guessing) shakes his injured shirt at him. “And speaking of Luke, you can’t claim my clothes are a nuisance to get out of when you run around in your leather daddy body armor all the time. There’s just no comparison!”
Matt doesn’t point out that he rarely shows up to see Foggy in the suit because it usually ends in them arguing rather than fucking—or, at least, arguing for a while before they get around to fucking. That’s not going to win him any points at the moment, he imagines.
“Leather daddy?” he asks, incredulously, instead.
“God, shut up,” Foggy says, still embarrassed and excited about it.
Matt takes the shirt out of Foggy’s hands, gently, and then, not so gently, shucks it to the other side of the room. “Maybe I just like who you are under your clothes more,” he says, carefully. “Did you ever think of that?”
“You’re so full of shit,” Foggy says, and, Matt’s not really sure how, but his voice fully gives away that he’s blushing.
“You could borrow something of mine…”
Foggy snorts. “Yeah, I don’t think you have anything in my size here, sweetheart.”
Matt lets his hand trail up Foggy’s side. “Oh, well. Hot guy in a tight t-shirt. What a sad fate for all of us to endure.”
“That gimmick only works when it’s guys like you. On me, it’ll just look delusional.”
Matt frowns, not liking the sound of that one bit. He slips his hand around the back of Foggy’s neck and pulls him close until their foreheads are pressed together, relieved by how easily Foggy complies despite his purported annoyance.
“Then it looks like your only option is to stay here forever,” Matt says, solemnly. “Completely naked, of course.”
“Of course,” Foggy says, laughing softly. “It’s the only plan that makes sense.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement,” Matt replies, leaning in to kiss him. He conveniently doesn’t mention that he has one sweater, three sweatshirts, and no less than five t-shirts that he’s stolen from Foggy that he could just as easily return to him and solve his current predicament. He likes his solution better.
#WHATEVER#I know it was a huge pop song this year but this is genuinely a tune okay???#meghan trainor knows what she’s doing!!#prompt fill#spotify wrapped fic prompts#prompt game#ask game#WHAT DO I TAG THESE AS???#URGHHGGGG#anyway#mattfoggy#daredevil#matt murdock#foggy nelson#ask#firstelevens#homelywenchsociety#that’s my writing tag! don’t worry about it!#[chanting softly to myself] finished is better than perfect! finished is better than perfect!
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35! 🪩
talking slow to someone who isn't listening
summary: a sleepover. some wine. a secret.
prompt: spotify wrapped #35, willow by taylor swift
pairings: tamaki suoh/kyoya ootori
words: 765
warnings: none
Kyoya is not a person who talks without meaning. He is not a person who speaks for the sake of it or weaves empty words to empty ears just to hear the sound of his own voice. He is not a person who strings together sentences unless he is wrapping them around something like a ribbon on a present or a noose around a neck.
Tamaki, on the other hand. Tamaki talks like words are a gift that he wants to give the world without ever asking for anything in return. Tamaki talks like words do not have a price. Like words are just that: words. As if there is no weight on his shoulders every time he opens his mouth, words flow from his lips as easily as the wine they steal and drink in the middle of the night at a sleepover.
Words come easier, with the wine wetting his tongue. But still: Tamaki talks like he is giving Kyoya his heart and expecting him not to flinch when their fingers brush, and Kyoya talks like he is feeding Tamaki riddles he wants him to swallow down like the red wine. Still: Tamaki talks with honesty and vulnerability, and Kyoya does not know how to answer that.
He does not know how to give his heart back to Tamaki. He does not know how to open up and let Tamaki see his insides, all glittering black and gold and red and bitter.
Because here is the thing: Tamaki was never supposed to mean anything to him. They were never supposed to become real friends, not like this. They were never supposed to get close like this. They were never supposed to learn about each other to the point of knowing each other. There was never supposed to be understanding. Kyoya was never supposed to fall in love.
But Tamaki worked his way into Kyoya’s life anyways, with no regard for Kyoya’s family or his own family or the expectations that lie on both of them or the way Kyoya kept himself so tightly wound around his father’s finger, so tightly compressed into the box of his future. Tamaki worked his way into Kyoya’s heart, wrecked any plan to be nothing more and made Kyoya want to be something. Made Kyoya want to matter: to his family, to the world, to himself, to Tamaki.
So Kyoya would give him anything and follow him anywhere—to the ends of the earth, to a host club, to the wooden floorboards in his bedroom watching the ceiling spin—but he does not know how to be vulnerable. He does not know how to speak the truth aloud, in a place where ears can hear it: I love you, I love you, I love you.
Tamaki falls asleep first. The wine stains his lips, parted ever so slightly as he breathes deep and easy. Kyoya wonders if he would be able to taste it if they were to kiss. He wonders if Tamaki would wake up, something like in a fairy tale. He looks like art, like a statue of marble or stone, like a painting of acrylic and gold leaf. He looks so easily loveable. So gentle, so soft.
Kyoya reaches a hand out, hovering just over Tamaki’s hand on his stomach. He wonders what it would be like to hold him.
He does not let himself find out.
Tamaki shifts where he lays on the floor, just slightly. He looks comfortable there, though Kyoya knows he’s going to wake up and complain about a headache and a crook in his neck.
“I love you,” Kyoya says softly. It’s perhaps the first honest thing he has said all night. If no one is listening, if Tamaki isn’t listening, though, does it even matter? Did he ever confess, ever make a sound?
He decides he doesn’t matter. Says it again. And again. The wine is sweet on his tongue and bitter in his throat. He can feel his eyes closing, sleepy with the weight of the alcohol. He says it again, watching Tamaki and whispering a litany of desire.
Tamaki hums, low in his throat, eyes still closed. He’s asleep, he must be. He must be. Kyoya lays down next to him, closing his eyes. The wine must weaken his usual insomnia because he’s asleep in moments.
Tamaki hums again. Murmurs it, soft and quiet and to an otherwise soundless room, “Love you too.”
And here’s the thing, again and again and again, as they whisper to sleeping ears: if no one is listening, did they ever make a sound?
#my writing#spotify wrapped prompts 2023#short but sweet!!#ohshc#tamakyo#tamaki suoh#kyoya ootori#kyotama#ouran high school host club#ohshc fanfic#suoh tamaki#ootori kyoya
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