#*gets up on an overturned crate*

[writersdrug]

Bartender Simon when a customer yells at reader for a mistake?

I love the way you guys think LOVE keep em comin!!

It starts when he's restocking his bar, carrying crates with fruit, bitters, coasters, and straws. He comes down from the pantry upstairs to a decently relaxed lunch crowd, when he hears the second half of the customer's tantrum.

"You expect me to eat this?! It's bloody raw!"

"I'm so sorry, I can take it back aga-"

"You already did that - went to the kitchen and stuck it under the warmer for a few seconds and thought I wouldn't notice, huh?"

"No sir, I gave it to the che-"

"I don't want to hear fucking excuses, just go fix my damn burger. I'm paying for this shit, aren't I? And you're working for my tip. So fucking work, cunt."

Humiliation isn't enough to describe what you feel - there isn't a strong enough word for it. Claiming you're a liar, saying you grovel for tips, yelling at you in front of your other tables, calling you a cunt - it makes your eyes sting with oncoming tears, staring at him and using every muscle in your jaw to keep from spitting insults back at him. You want to throw the food in his face, but instead, you grab his plate and storm off to the kitchen before he can see you cry.

The man scoffs, looking at his watch. "Fuckin' great..."

Simon's still standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding his crates and staring daggers at the man. He knows what it's like, being berated by customers. He says "that's customer service for ya" and moves on. But for this wanker to berate you - he sees red. He sees his next target.

He swiftly crosses the restaurant floor, boots thudding against the old wood as he drops his crate behind the bar. Soap's already yelling about the asshole when he pushes his way into the kitchen.

"Order it fuckin' rare and ye get fuckin' rare, bloody clipe- talkin' mince, bawface bastard-" he slams the burger back onto the grill with a tense arm, continuing to grumble as it sizzles. "Cookin' ye a nice strip o' shoe leather-"

You're sitting on an overturned crate, sobbing into your hands, pen and notepad on the ground beside you. Price is on one knee, one arm around your shoulder and the other on your leg - you'd never officially met the owner of the pub, but now was as good a time as any, you suppose.

"Wot happened?" Is all that Ghost could say without going off on a rampage. He's saving that for later.

"He fucking embarrassed me, that's what happened!!" You snap, looking up at Simon. Your eyes are red and puffy after only crying for a minute or two, cheeks wet from your tears. You hug your arms around your middle and choke on a sob. "Told me his fucking burger wasn't cooked, so I sent it back- then he tries to say I never even gave it to Soap?! Calls m-me a cunt in front of my tables?! Make me fucking work for his money - I don't want his goddamn money!!"

Price shushes you, worrying your anger might be leaking through the kitchen door - he doesn't want the same customer to hear you bad-mouthing him, although it's rightfully deserved. He rubs your back gently as you drop your head into your hands again, shoulders shaking as you cry.

Simon's seething - he's already moving before his brain can catch up, still stuck on the picture of your teary face. He marches behind the line and reaches across Soap, picking the burger right off the grill.

Soap makes a shocked sound. "Ye gone mad, LT?!"

"Table six?" Ghost asks, holding the sizzling burger patty in his hand, grease dripping onto his forearm.

You stare between his face and the patty - your crying stopped, your face now replaced with a stupefied expression. "Uh- yeah."

And like that, he's off; he shoves himself back out onto the floor and makes his way towards the customer who yelled at you. The burger burns his hand, but he doesn't even notice the pain. He drops it onto the table in front of the man, who yelps in disgust. "What the fuck-"

"Better?" Ghost says, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he looked down at the man, now stuttering and blubbering in shock. Specks of grease are freckling his white dress shirt.

"Are you- is this a fucking joke?"

"It's your fuckin' burger."

"I can't believe this-"

"Then get the fuck out my pub." Ghost growls; he grabs the man by his arm, ripping his blazer off the back of his chair, and drags him to the front door. The other customers look with wide eyes as he busts the door open with his shoulder and throws the man onto the sidewalk. He wheezes as he hits the ground, and Ghost throws his blazer at him next.

"If I ever see your face in 'ere after this, 'm throwin' you out again and keepin' your bullocks as a fuckin' souvenir."

The man stares at him, flabbergasted, as Ghost walks back inside. People are focused on their meals now, heads down and pretending they didn't see Simon body a man to the ground - the guy deserved it, after all.

Simon huffs, picking up the burger from the now-empty table. His hand stings a bit, but he has years of callouses built up to keep any real burns from settling in. He gently kicks the chair back into place and starts heading back to the kitchen, when he sees you.

You're staring at him with wide, wet eyes, standing in the entryway to the kitchen and mouth slightly ajar in awe. You've fully stopped crying, but there are still tears on your face from before. Eyeliner and mascara are smudged a bit, but it only makes Simon's fondness for you blossom.

He gently nudges your shoulder with his elbow as he pushes past you. "Take a fifteen. I'll watch your tables."

You stare after him as he throws the burger into the trash, grabbing a fresh towel and wrapping his hand. Wide back facing you as he looks at Soap, who stares at him with a frustrated sigh.

You're horny now. Horny for Simon - and you're definitely relaying this entire shebang to your friends tonight.

[ellecdc]

Forbidden love, has to hide it from everyone around them, likes doing the nasty in places they could get caught (quite the thrill) and they end up getting caught

Could this be a prompt for any of the ones you are currently writing or future ? 🫡🙏

mhm, mhm, mhm, loved it - give me 14 of them. [I knew I wanted to do this pairing for it, and finally got around to it!] also, since we're obviously fluff-city and happy-ending central over here, it's low on angst

Remus the Sibling Stealer

poly!moonwater x Potter!sister who need to find better hiding spots [1.2k words]

CW: first part is mature/18+, NSFW, oral (m receiving), professing love, sibling dynamics

You felt vindicated in your efforts when you chanced a look up at the boys above you and were gifted with the most beautiful image. 

It seemed Regulus was only still upright thanks to Remus’ grasp around his middle; scarred hands resting languidly at Regulus’ bare hips thanks to the fact that his trousers were currently situated around his ankles. 

Regulus was wrecked; his head thrown back and resting on Remus’ shoulder and his mouth hanging open in a silent moan as Remus worked another love bite into his neck.

“You’re missing quite the show, Reg; our girl looks gorgeous from up here.” He murmured into Regulus’ shoulder, earning him a pitiful whimper as Regulus’ neck appeared incapable of lifting the weight of his head.

“Come on, pretty boy; look at her.” He encouraged, placing his palm at the back of Regulus’ head and positioning it so that his face was pointed resolutely at you.

The sight was almost too much for you; Remus looking down at you like you looked good enough to devour whole from above Regulus’ shoulder, his hand roving the expanse of Regulus’ waist, and Regulus’ red and teary face looking down at you like you were both his salvation and damnation. 

“Fuck, fuck, I can’t. I’m- I can’t, I’m gonna-”

You responded simply by taking his cock further into your throat and humming in acknowledgement as you felt him tense.

“Fuck baby, I’m-”

And you swallowed; your throat constricting around him as he fell over the edge, coming with a cry.

You fell back onto your heels as you caught your breath and looked up at the pair; Remus petting Regulus’ hair down from its rather rumpled state as he, too, caught his breath. 

“Merlin, you’re bloody good at that.” Regulus breathed at last, causing Remus to bark a surprised laugh.

“Is that how you say thank you, Black? We’ll have to work on your manners.” Remus taunted as he patted his hip.

“I thought you Sacred 28 children were raised to be gentlemen.” You teased as well.

Regulus grumbled miserably as he bent down to retrieve his pants. “I’d appreciate it if you refrained from speaking about my parents while my dick is out, amour.”

“Did Reggie just say dick!?” You squealed in laughter. “How terribly uncouth.”

“Would you lower your voice.” He hissed at you then; tone harsh but face dutifully lovestruck. “Lest you wish our brothers to hear.”

“Lest.” You snorted as you went to stand; Remus quickly at your side to help you up. 

“We really need to tell your brothers soon, you two.” Remus added solemnly, causing both you and Regulus to groan in unison.

“Listen, if they find out, it’s me they’re going to castrate.”

“And?” Regulus asked as he buttoned his trousers. 

Remus glared at him. 

“But they’re so dramatic, Rem.” You whined as you sat on an overturned crate.

Was the secret passageway between Honeydukes and the castle an ideal place for canoodling with your brother's best friend and your brother’s best friend’s brother?

No.

But when you had brothers like Sirius and James, who had a charmed map of the entire castle that told them exactly where everyone was at any given time (thanks to your horribly stupid boyfriend [boyfriend? Could you call Remus that when the three of you only ever met in private? You’d have to ask him] who helped create said map), options were limited. 

“I don’t like lying to them.” Remus argued then.

“You think we do?” Regulus asked, to which you and Remus answered ‘yes’ quickly. “Yeah I do.” He relented. 

“I really don’t feel good about it guys and…I, I don’t know, I love you guys and I want to be able to love you all of the time, not just some of the time.” Remus admitted softly then.

You and Regulus each seemed completely dumbfounded by both the admission of love and the vulnerability of your [yup, you were definitely going to start calling him your] boyfriend.

“Well how the hells am I supposed to argue with that?” Regulus spat with no ire as he pulled Remus in for a kiss. 

“What do you say, dove?” He asked you as he and Regulus pulled apart. “Do you have an argument for that?” 

Yes.

You had plenty.

First of all, you didn’t want to share this with your brother because he would react in one of two ways: he could either a) be horrified and try to forbid the three of you from seeing one another or [and perhaps more disturbingly] b) be so overjoyed at the idea of love that he becomes a unwelcome quasi-fourth in your relationship.

But Remus loves you. Loves.

And perhaps more importantly, you love Remus, and this was important to Remus.

Son of a bitch, “Fine.” You harrumphed. 

“Yeah?” He asked hopefully around a laugh, Regulus smiling at you as they came to stand above you.

“Yeah.” You breathed out as Remus took both sides of your face in his hands and brought his lips to yours.

“My sweet girl.” He murmured reverently.

You smiled up at him as Regulus pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“So are we really doing this? Are we actually going to tell them?”

“Tell who what?” James’ voice echoed through the passageway; the three of you whipping your heads towards the sound to see James and Sirius coming around a corner. 

And it appeared that, despite your best intentions, none of you were quite willing to actually share the news with your brothers/best friends.

But apparently, you didn’t have to.

Apparently, your well rumpled hair from Regulus’ hands, your swollen lips and smudged mascara, Regulus’ belt hanging loose and his uniform shirt still untucked from his trousers, and Remus’ awkward shift in an attempt to hide his bulge which was still at half mast (though falling quickly now) said it all.

“Wha-” Sirius started, though the question died on his lips as he continued scrutinising the three of you. 

“I…I don’t- I don’t understa- I….” James tried then, also to no avail. 

Peter - the bastard - took that moment to appear around the corner then, lifting his head from fiddling with his wand to see the three of you standing there being stared down by James and Sirius like you were in some off-brand western standoff. 

“Oh? Oh! Oh… are you guys shagging?” He asked ineloquently. 

That seemed to restart your brothers’ brains as they both shouted “my brother!?” and “my sister!?” in unison. 

“Rem, it’s been nice knowing you and your bollocks.” You murmured solemnly. 

“Seconded.” Regulus agreed before the two of you took off in a sprint down the passageway and away from your brothers, boyfriend, and Peter.

“Merlin, Moony; you really know how to pick ‘em…leaving you to the wolves like that.” Peter laughed as he carried on ahead; slapping a hand on Remus’ back as he passed whilst Sirius and James continued standing there with their mouths agape. 

“Does it make it any better to know that I’m absolutely head-over-heels in love with them?” Remus asked cautiously then.

“Minutely.” James gritted out then, earning him an elbow in the gut from Sirius. 

“I expect to be allowed two weeks of moping and muttering.” Sirius bargained.

“One week.” Remus countered.

“Nine days.” James tried then.

"Eight?"

"Eleven." Sirius countered.

"Nine." Remus backtracked.

James and Sirius shared a look before James turned his gaze back to Remus. "Deal."

“Fuckin’ hells.” Sirius griped as he ran a heavy hand down his face. “This was not on my bingo card this year.”

“Sorry mate.” Remus offered then, earning him a glare from his best friend.

“No you’re not, you brother-fucker.”

This was going to be a long nine days.

[tropes-and-tales]

You Talk Too Much

(From the "Shut Up" kiss starter prompts, found here)

CW:  Richie being Richie, swearing.

Word Count:  1740

AN:  Requested by @winchestershiresauce

You don’t smoke, but it doesn’t stop you from escaping out the back door of The Beef near the end of shift to catch your breath and relax.  There’s only a few lingering customers out front, and  you are exhausted and frazzled.

It’s quiet out back.  You love your job—really, you do—but it can be a lot.  A lot.  It’s loud and hectic and a million things happen at once.  Sometimes the chaos of the day is just limited to the customers flowing through for classic Chicago fare.  Sometimes the chaos is more, well, chaotic:  a burst pipe, a failed health inspection, an impromptu Ball-Breaker tournament to help breakeven for the week.

You love your job.  You love The Beef, and you love your coworkers, but sometimes you need quiet.

The neighborhood mellows out at night, at least in the little nook behind the restaurant.  The noise of the city—the traffic, the sirens, the wind off the river and lake—falls away to a murmur, background noise that builds and then breaks over you in gentle waves.  You sit on an overturned milk crate and pull your knees up, wrap your arms around your knees.  You lean back against the brick wall and shut your eyes.  You breathe deep, steadying breaths and feel your heartbeat calm.  Hours and hours of chaos, and now you can throttle down a bit.

It lasts all of a minute.

You hear the door squeal open on its hinges, then hear it slam shut a moment later.  You don’t bother to open your eyes; you can guess who it is.

A beat later, someone settles onto another milk crate beside you with a grunt.  You hear the ritual sounds of a veteran smoker:  the shaking of a soft pack, the quiet snick of the lighter, the first harsh inhale, the pleased sigh as the nicotine hits the bloodstream.

Richie.  The Beef’s resident asshole.  The utter bane of your existence when you started months ago.  He had bullied you relentlessly, a hazing that extended beyond gentle workplace pranking.  Richie, you came to find out, hates change, and you came into his life in the midst of immense change.

The loss of his best friend who was more like a brother.

The loss of his family when his wife divorced him.

The loss of his restaurant, his beloved dysfunctional sandwich shop as Carmy slowly started to change the system.

But as the months passed, Richie softened towards you.  You proved too stubborn to give in to his bullying, and at some point, you became part of the landscape of The Beef.  You became part of the family, and Richie eased off the bullying. 

His teasing turned sweeter, almost:  he calls you sweetheart now, sometimes babe, and when he needs to get past you in the tight quarters of the restaurant, he lays a light hand on your shoulder or your back as he squeezes past you.

Then came the stories.  When it’s quiet, when the doors aren’t open yet and you’re just prepping for the day, Richie regales you with stories.  So many stories.  Stories about his time at West Lawrence Avenue.  Stories about tearing up the town with Mikey.  Stories about the Goddess of Agriculture and Bill Murray.  Richie always leans in close and tells you these stories, often repeating tales you’ve already heard, but just as you never confronted him about the bullying, you never confront him about his repetitious storytelling.

Richie, you guess, is a complicated man.  A man with a lot of feelings who perhaps doesn’t know how to express them.  From the caustic bully sneering at you about disrupting the “delicate ecosystem” of The Beef… to the smiling charmer as he regales you with his Bill Murray story.

You open your eyes enough to squint and confirm that it’s Richie sitting beside you, as if the scent of his cologne isn’t confirmation enough.  But it’s him.  Visual confirmation obtained.  You take in his lanky form neatly folded to fit on the milk crate, one leg kicked out straight and the other folded up near his chest.  His profile illuminated by the flickering light near the dumpsters. 

The man isn’t entirely unappealing.  Once you get past the crusty layers of asshole behavior, the sarcasm and inferiority complex and refusal to feel his feelings, he’s actually a good man.  Loyal to a fault.  Loving father.  The sort of man to assemble his own family of friends and misfits, who then defends that family to the death.

But too chatty sometimes.  Like now.

Because after the first deep drag of his cigarette, he starts talking.  “I ever tell you about the time me and Mikey were at Ceres?”

You bite the inside of your mouth to stop from smiling.  “Yeah, you did.”

“Place was packed with Blackhawk fans—”

“Because Denis Savard just got inducted into the hockey hall of fame,” you fill in for him.

“Chelios was there,” he continues, like he hasn’t even heard you.  “I mean, the place was fucking packed—”

On he goes.  On and on and on.  The quiet lull of the city noise falls away and all you can focus on is Richie’s voice, the cigarette husky quality of it, and you like his voice, you love his stories because he loves telling them, but you just want quiet right now.

“Richie—”

“And I feel this tap on my shoulder—”

“Rich—”

“And it’s Bill fucking Murray!  And he’s like—”

“Richie, c’mon—”

“He’s like, ‘what are you doing?’  And I tell him, I say—”

You don’t know why you snap.  The man literally made your life a living hell when you started at the restaurant, but you never once snapped.  Never fought back, only shrugged and let the insults roll of your back.  You don’t know why you snap now, and you don’t know quite why you snap the way you do.

Because you don’t yell at him or smack him.  Richie goes on and on with his story, his face lit up at the happy memory he shared with Mikey, and he’s gesturing with his hands, his half-burnt cigarette forgotten as he talks and glances at you to see if you’re listening, if you’re impressed with his story, and maybe that’s what makes you snap.  Maybe you have a sudden revelation, like a lightning bolt out of the sky.

Maybe Richie keeps telling you these stories because he wants to impress you.  Maybe his close-talking, his mild pet names for you, his light touches as he walks past you…maybe you understand it all in a split second.  Maybe it took a mild Chicago night, a quiet moment out back broken by this man who glances at you shyly to see how his story is landing.

So you snap.  You reach out one hand and gather a fistful of his navy blue t-shirt, and you haul him halfway to you.  You meet him the rest of the way, and the man is still talking when you kiss him.  It happens that fast.

Which makes the kiss awkward for a split second.  You’ve caught him unawares, mid-sentence, and your mouth stills his words.  He freezes for the split second it takes him to catch up to what’s happening, but then he kisses you back.  He tastes like cigarettes, and beneath that you can taste vanilla, and you smile because you can guess that he’d been sneaking into Marcus’s area and helping himself to the cakes Marcus had been working on all day.

But it’s quiet again.  You’ve stoppered Richie’s words, and the earlier calm would fall over you if your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest at what you’ve done.

It’s Richie who breaks the kiss.  After a long beat of silence, a long moment of your mouth on his, the shyest bit of deepening the kiss—opening your mouth against his, breathing him in, but not any further than that.  He breaks the kiss but doesn’t move very far from you, and when you look at him, you can see his bright blue eyes staring at you.

“What, uh…”  He clears his throat in that embarrassed way he has.  “What was that for?”

“You talk too much,” you tell him.

“Thought you liked my stories.”

“I do.  Ninety percent of the time, I love your stories.”

“And the other ten percent?”

“I just wanted a bit of quiet.  It was a long day.”

You release your grip on his shirt, and you see where you’ve stretched the fabric.  You try to smooth it out, run your hand over his upper chest where you grabbed him, and the gesture makes him huff out a heavy breath.  The realization of what you’ve done washes over you, and suddenly you feel horrified.  It would have been less embarrassing to have snapped at him all those months ago, slapped him or yelled in his face.  Instead, you kissed him, and now he’s staring at you with those blue eyes…

“Sorry,” you mutter.  “I shouldn’t have—”

He’s gentler when he stills your words with his mouth.  He doesn’t haul you to him by your shirt; instead, he wraps a gentle hand around the back of your neck and steadies you as he leans in.  As he kisses you.  His lips are soft against yours—it’s the softest kiss you’ve ever received in your life, and from someone like Richie Jerimovich who stumbles through his own life like a bull in a china shop.  Who knew he could be so careful? 

You break the second kiss, and you try to find some words—to finish your apology to him, to say something cool or funny to break the spell of the moment—but Richie hushes you.  He doesn’t let you get any more words out, and he pulls you closer to him.  He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you against him, and then you feel him press a kiss against the top of your head as he tucks you against him.

“Don’t say anything,” he tells you in his low voice.  “Let’s just have a bit of quiet, then.”

The two of you sit in silence, letting the sounds of the city fill in the quiet between you.  Except for your own heart, hammering in your ears.  And except for Richie’s heart, beating right under your ear in the same, excited cadence.

[glorious-spoon]

hiiii 🥰 buddie and 🤍? - @team-118 <3

hiiii @team-118 and sorry this took FOREVER to get to, lol. have a bit of Buck and Eddie, just before their wedding.

🤍 kiss at the wedding / milestone

The closet door clicks open, and Eddie takes a deep breath and tries to compose himself so that he looks like he was doing something productive, like looking for the missing place cards or maybe the wet vac to deal with the flower vase that tipped over in the entry hall, which probably isn't his job in any case right now, but—just. Something.

"Eddie?" Buck asks, because of course it's Buck. Of course it is. Normally, Buck would be the person he'd like to see most, in pretty much any situation, but not right now. Hen, that'd be okay. Chim. Bobby. Even Maddie—Eddie's got an idea that she might know a little something about the kind of panicky jitters he's experiencing right now.

Not Buck. Not Buck, who's worked so hard to make everything perfect for today, who still sometimes looks at Eddie with big wondering eyes like he thinks this is all going to disappear. Who'll almost definitely think the worst if he catches Eddie hyperventilating in a coat closet twenty minutes before their wedding is supposed to start.

"Yeah," he says anyway, because the closet isn't that deep and he's got maybe five seconds before Buck turns the light on and sees him anyway. "I was looking for… uh. Something."

"Uh huh," Buck says. He steps into the closet, pulling the door shut behind him, enclosing them in darkness. 

"We're not supposed to see each other before the ceremony starts," Eddie points out, but the darkness makes him feel a little better.

"I can't see anything," Buck says. Eddie can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes him smile automatically too, just like it always does. Buck bumps something, stumbles, swears under his breath. "Okay, but seriously, I can't see anything. Where are you?"

Eddie laughs shakily under his breath and reaches out, grasping in the darkness until his hand catches at one of Buck's elbows. "Right here."

"Oh! Hi." Buck shifts into his space, stumbles again, then finds a seat on the overturned crate against the back wall next to Eddie. He smells like fruit-flavored gum and his good cologne, and his body is warm through the faintly rough fabric of his tux. He leans into Eddie's side a little, and Eddie leans back. "So, am I allowed to ask what you're doing back here?"

Eddie groans. "If I told you I was looking for the place cards, would you believe me?"

"No," Buck says, still smiling a little by the sound. His hand finds Eddie's knee, squeezes. "But we can go with that if you want."

"I might be freaking out a little bit," Eddie admits.

"Yeah, I, uh, I kinda guessed that, Eddie."

"It's not because I'm having second thoughts," Eddie says, because that much, at least, he needs Buck to know. "I want to marry you. I can't wait to marry you."

Buck makes a little noise, soft and pleased. His cheek presses against Eddie's for a moment, and Eddie feels his body move as he takes a breath. "But?"

"But I'm afraid I'm going to fuck it up. I don't have a great track record. Or—I don't know. I walked into the garden earlier and it was…"

Beautiful, it was beautiful, the flower-decked arch and the rows of chairs and the sign with both their names on it entwined, it was beautiful, and it was perfect, and it's what Eddie wants more than anything, so it makes no sense that his throat closed up and he scurried away to hide here before anyone could come up and congratulate him.

"I called Maddie last night to freak out on her about how we should just call it all off and stay common law married forever," Buck offers, after Eddie has been silent for a moment.

Eddie laughs, startled. "You did not."

"Oh, I so did."

"Do you want to call it all off?"

"No," Buck says. He's still smiling a little, Eddie can tell. "I'm just scared I'm going to fuck it up."

Abruptly, Eddie starts laughing. He curls in on himself, heaving with it, and feels Buck shake with laughter too. In the darkness, Buck reaches for his hand; in the darkness, Eddie leans into him and feels the tension drain away.

"We could always elope," he offers, after it's finally passed.

"Yeah."

"Your parents would kill you. After what happened with Maddie and Chim's wedding? They'd kill you."

"I don't give a shit about them," Buck says. He presses his mouth to Eddie's hairline. "I'd elope with you. I'd skip our wedding to hide out in a closet with you."

"I love you," Eddie says, and it's at least the thousandth time he's said those words to Buck, but they still feel like an incredible relief; like saying them has finally given him the space he needs to breathe. "I really, really love you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," Buck says. He kisses Eddie's forehead again. "I love you too."

"I'm being an idiot."

"Nah." Buck pauses. "Well, maybe a little. But it's okay."

"Thanks," Eddie says. He leans a little more into Buck with a deep sigh, the last of the tension easing from his shoulders. "We should probably get back out there before somebody comes looking for us."

"They can wait," Buck says. "It's not like they can start the wedding without us. We can stay here as long as you want."

"They're definitely going to think that we're having a quickie in here."

"Well…" Buck says thoughtfully. Eddie digs his fingers into his ribs, and he squirms, laughing. "Okay, okay!"

"We can save that for the reception," Eddie says, and Buck laughs harder. "Come on. Let's go."

"Okay." Buck shifts against him, straightening up. "Just one thing first."

Eddie opens his mouth to ask, but then Buck's fingers are on his jaw, a careful guide in the darkness as he leans in and kisses the question off of Eddie's lips. It lingers sweetly for a moment, and they part softly.

"Okay," Eddie says, just as soft, and kisses him again before pulling back. "Okay. Let's go get married."

[evilminji]

I Ponder The Humble Blob Ghost!

You think they are what happens when you ALMOST but not quite A Ghost(tm)? Like, you have the ectoplasm and the will to continue... but you didn't really have A Thing in life? No Final Crystalizing Thought that brings focus? Just "ow! Ah! I'm scared. Don't wanna die!" And theeeeen.... *poof!*

Why am I Orb? Am squish? No bones.

Like? Remove any one piece of the Critical Formula and you get Blob instead of Ghost? Different KINDS, mind you, but blobs none the less.

Like Skulker! Not enough Ectoplasm. Ended up Blob. He CLEARLY had the Will, the Obsession, the gory end and unfinished business... buuuut? No green goo to power the creation of a full body. He clearly knows what he's supposed to LOOK like? But it's not something FIXABLE? Even with his now unlimited access to Ectoplasm.

Like in utero damage that permanently stunted his growth. HE is fine. All his facilities are on-line and checking in as they should, for the level of sentience expected of a ghost of his people. He just... smol. Same strength, intelligence, and power as he would have always HAD...

He just got handed a really, REALLY crap "customize your eternal meatsuit" option screen. Like for real guys. Basicly NO options. His salt is eternal and entirely justified. He could have had his tattoos. He paid a LOT of credits for those! Sat for DAYS! Had to track down this One(1) artist on this SHITTY little trading hub, that BARELY QUALIFIED as one, to sit in on uncomfortable overturned crate... IN A GAS MASK because the AIR SUPPORT KEPT KICKING IT... for hoooours!

It was a WORK OF ART. You would have CRIED.

This is BULLSHIT.

But wait, I hear you say, staring at the Blob ghost chewing on a lamp post. The one that has wii music playing behind the eyes. No thoughts, head jello, one might say. What about THEM?

Good point! Remember that formula?

LOT of Ecto! But THAT... might be either an animal or a fungus. We'd have to check. ANYTHING can and DOES die. If it's alive? It can die and potentially leave a ghost. But! Consider the noble Ghost Rabbit! *holds up squirming rabbit that is ABSOLUTELY trying to both bite me and kick me in the face* A noble and friendly creature!

THIS is what happens when an animal: has sufficient Ectoplasm at the death site, a reason to continue living (fairly common. It's usually their offspring, escape, the instinctual drive to survive itself or other understandable base drives. Like love, loyalty, or hunger.), and that all important High Emotions End.

Miss any of these? You get Blobbertson over there! He's clearly a hungry boy! But! Not very DRIVEN is he? Just floating along, chewing on whatever seems interesting, looking for a snack. He's food motivated. But not MOTIVATED motivated.

Blobbertson over there? A peaceful death. Too much Ectoplasm too leave, too food motivated in life NOT to carry over, but? No DRIVE. To DEFINE and DEMAND the Ectoplasm in his little body become sharp and active. No highly emotional state to stir it into action.

Is Blobbertson INCAPABLE of higher emotions? No. He is every bit as capable as the Ghost Rabbit that has savaged my hands and escaped while you were reading. It was, in fact, NOT as friendly as originally assumed. I may be bleeding. Unimportant. Blobbertson is PERFECTLY capable of getting attached. Being trained.

Whatever level of intelligence Blobbertson had in life, still remains. And WITH that? Comes the ability to improve and grow in death! IF (and this is the big one) he ever finds MOTIVATION to do so.

Because you see, Blobbertson is quite happy. No thoughts, brain jello. Drifting along in a happy green ocean like a jellyfish. Only concerned about his next snack. It's comforting. His food obsession filled, his tiny motivation barely enough to move him place to place.

He would GLADLY sit in one place and eat for the rest of eternity. Head blissfully silent.

And that's OKAY! It truly, honestly, is. Not everyone has to be conquers and kings, crafters and cosmonauts. Sometimes you just want to spend the rest of time playing in the sand. Resting on a sunshine-y hill. Not EVERY soul is a loud one.

This is the INFINITE Realms.

And there are places like Amity Park out there. THICK as cold honey with Ectoplasm in the air, gently infusing all the life that grows there with greater and greater chance of Ghost-hood. Even the peaceful blinking awake after that final rest to look down and... little nubby green paws.

Congratulations on becoming a Blob, grandma! Yes, I imagine you ARE furious it is inordinately difficult to knit like this. No, I don't think complaining to the king will help, MeMa.

That said? I can not tell you if Blob Ghost all belong to the same Family or the same Order, but they are NOT the same species! The WAY in which you fuck up that ever vital Fomula results in WILDLY different Blobs! Was it an animal? A sentient species? A sentient PLANET? A complexe interlocking colony of fungi? What was the EXACT Ectoplasm concentration at the death site? Was that the historical levels or the At Death levels? Was the individual under sedation?

Yes! All of this IS in fact, VERY relevant!

And you think it ends THERE? HA! The SKIES are FILLED with Fighty Mother Fuckers! Ghosts LOVE to fight! It's built into their social dynamics and hierarchy! Good ol brawls to get the Ecto pumping!

......Local Blob Farmer would like to take this moment to say "GET OF HIS GHOST PEONIES, YOU HEATHENS."

No they would NOT like to join your 24/7 thunder dome in the sky, THANKS! Martha here is trying to compose some Atlantian Shell Poetry. Blobby Jr of Blobbington and Blobbington Incorporated is TRYING to study! You've DESTROYED THE COMMUNAL ZEN GARDEN!!

Get! GET!!! *swings broom*

And THEN you look not even a mile east? And it's the floating island of Blobs. They LIKE that rock. It's just an ever shifting, accidentally rolling off the edge, falling slightly, making an offended squeek, and floating back to the top of the pile to repeate the process, MOOSH of thousands of blobs. No one's certain if they used to be seals or some sort of cat.

Apparently THAT island is Warm(tm).

So there they sit. Making contented noises, chirping and shoving for the best spots. They never leave. You can literally just... float up and sit on them. It's amazing. You gotta be careful not to get buried, but it's So Soft and bouncy? And they are ALL making that soft happy Blob vibrate noise. It's like a giant, island sized, warm and almost fuzzy but not, water bed that massages you.

Just DON'T start anything there! Holy SHIT are they territorial. You Will Die. They SWARM.

And THATS not even getting into the Blobs that are? Literally brainless. Some people eat those. Which? I guess? They ARE basicly Ectoplasm jello. But SOME of them are NOT? Like... it's a debate. Hot button issue, ya know?

Some fungus turns into Ecto Jello with negative IQ and delicious insides. Is this food? But OTHER fungus was SENTIENT in life and become a whole RANGE of Fungus ghosts, from Blob right on up to complexe dryad like ghosts! Clearly NOT food unless you are a MONSTER. But THEY argue the FIRST group are ALSO not food?

Plant Ghosts have strong opinions and are willing to Gruesome Violence about it.

Which brings us back to the Humble Blob Ghost! Check before you pet! That might be grandma! Or planning to eat your hand! Just as Mammal tells you little to nothing about what animal you are looking at, so too does Blob and Ghost! Stay safe out there! And if anyone sees a glowing green rabbit? I want my blood back! That's supposed to be in MY body! Rude!

This has been, the daily ghost!

@hdgnj @stealingyourbones

[actuallysaiyan]

My Cinnamon Girl

warnings: smoking, general fluff pairings: Older!Salaryman!Nanami Kento x Fem!Barista!Reader summary: Kento is your regular customer and one night when he really needs you, he ends up finding you outside smoking and you offer him some pastries. a/n: For the amazing JJK writing Event, Foodies and Goodies created by the wonderful @tsukimefuku! This fic is very inspired by Smoking Behind The Supermarket With You and I was very much encouraged lovingly by April(@kentocalls) to write this and I'm so pleased with it!

taglist: @beneathstarryskies @an-ever-angry-bi @seireiteihellbutterfly

@namikyento @adharadotcom @heyitsd1yaa

@darkstarlight82 @melisuh123. @galactict3a

@erebus-et-eigengrau. @aomi04 @isabelzoldyck

@strawberry1042 @darkfaerietails @jay220a

@fattybattysblog @suguru-nugget @senseifupa

@aleigant @gigiculona. @rahuratna

He always took this route to get home. It was his favorite way to get home. Not only that, but it made it so he’d always pass by his favorite bakery. The coffee was exquisite and the pastries brought him straight to heaven. 

Kento Nanami didn’t regret never going back to the sorcerer’s life, but sometimes he wondered if working in stocks was really the best for him. Too late to change his mind, as his 45th birthday was nearing and he knew that he didn’t have too long to work now before he could fully retire.

The little bakery was his relief. Kento looks forward to it every single day. Even on his days off, he goes to that bakery. He loves to eat breakfast there. He enjoys sipping on coffee while looking over paperwork. And the thing he enjoys the most there…it’s you.

You with your sweet smile, your soft voice and calm demeanor. You’re the person who always makes his days brighter. Even when his boss is on his ass, he knows that seeing you will be the bandaid his soul needs. So every day, he walks to and fro work and passes by the bakery where you work.

One day, he makes his way there after a long day at work. He’s completely exhausted. The only thing that makes him feel good in this world today will be to see you. He wants to see your smile before he heads home for the evening. After this long day, it’s the only thing he can truly say would heal him.

And yet, when he enters the bakery, he notices you’re not at the counter. He sighs and loosens his tie, approaching the counter to greet the older woman who works there.

“Good evening, okyaku-sama!” she calls to him, beckoning him over.

“Good evening, can I get a loaf of sourdough bread and a cup of green tea?”

She nods and gets started on his order. He already knows how much it’s going to cost him, so he pulls out a few bills and some coins and places them on the counter. He’s disappointed that you aren’t here tonight, but he thinks he’ll be able to survive. 

“Here you are! Do you have your points card?” the elderly barista asks him.

“Oh, yes, here you are.”

Kento hands her the points card, and she’s not privy to the sad look on his face. He comes every day, sometimes multiple times a day and it’s mostly to see the young barista who is her favorite coworker.

“She just got off,” the elderly barista explains. “If you hurry out now, she’s probably outside having a smoke.”

Kento’s cheeks and tops of his ears burn, “W-what…?”

The elderly woman laughs, “The young woman you come here to chat up. My coworker? She’s probably outside smoking in the smoking section.”

Kento’s heart flutters and skips a beat. He takes the cup of tea and loaf of bread from her, thanking her for her service. The elderly barista laughs softly, ushering him outside.

He makes his way out, finding you exactly where your coworker said you’d be. You’re sitting on an overturned crate, a tired look on your features. Something about this warms Kento’s heart. He knows he’s not the only tired person in this world. You work hard; he has seen it first hand.

An unlit cigarette balances on your bottom lip. You seem to be spaced out, not really paying attention to anything. Kento notices a few pastry boxes near where you sit. He comes closer to you, smiling down at you. A lit lighter appears in your view.

“Could I light that for you?” he asks.

You gasp softly, the cigarette nearly falling out of your mouth. Kento gently cups your chin to steady you and he lights the cigarette.

“Thank you,” you whisper before exhaling.

Kento procures his own cigarette and lights it up. “My pleasure.”

Neither of you know what to say for a bit. He takes a sip of his green tea, sitting next to you and he smiles. It’s a comfortable silence.

“You’re my regular, aren’t you?” you ask him, smiling at the older man.

He blushes once more, “Am I this obvious? Even your coworker knew who I was…and she made sure to tell me where you were.”

You mutter a curse under your breath. Damn that older woman…putting her nose in your love life.

You chuckle softly, taking a deep drag from your cigarette. “I mean,” you blow out the smoke. “You come here multiple times a day.”

Kento’s eyes widen, “I like the coffee! And the pastries!”

You can’t help but laugh even more now. He was so cute. Quite a bit older than you, but you always liked that in a relationship. You move a bit closer to him, opening up one of the pastry boxes.

“Since you love the pastries so much, why not try this? IT’s a new pastry I’m working on for the cafe.”

Kento’s hands shake as he reaches into the box and pulls out a flaky little pie looking thing from the box. It’s tiny and has a gooey looking center. He puts out his cigarette, bringing the small pastry to his lips. The first bite is exquisite. He unknowingly lets out a moan of joy at the flavor. Gooey cinnamon and butter and nutmeg and…

“That good huh?” you ask, flicking your cigarette.

Kento nods, mouth still full of pastry. “Amazing! Please tell me you’ll be selling these in store!”

You smile. “Well I might just because my favorite customer just complimented me.”

Kento swallows the last bite, his cheeks still red. He never knew just how nervous and shy you made him feel. He looks at you seriously, his mind whirling with a million thoughts. You put out your cigarette, leaning in to kiss his cheek softly.

“If you liked that, why don’t you come to my place sometime and I can bake for you?”

Kento’s at a loss for words, but he manages to say one thing. “S-sure!”

You take out your phone, thrusting it into his hands. “Put your number in my contacts.”

Kento’s hands feel so shaky as he puts his number into your phone. You can’t help but smile at him. Both of you have the biggest crushes on each other and it’s only now that you finally get to make your move.

“Great! So if you’re not busy now…” you suggest, a grin on your face. “Why don’t you walk me home? I can pay you with pastries.”

How could Kento say no to that?

[ak319]

Heyy! Omg I love your Arthur Morgan series so much I’ve reread it so many times alr haha

Here’s an idea/request if your interested 🫶🏽 so this takes place right after part three and reader is getting sick of j doing chores all day and wants to study again to achieve her dreams so tries studying in secret and gets caught? Feel free to alter/add whatever u like 🫶🏽

💌TYSM Ritaa! *HUGGIES*, loved to hear that! Hope you enjoy reading this one too!

Warnings/ MDNI: not incest, strictly platonic, abuse, restrictions// I don't condone such behaviour

Wiping the sweat from your brow after chopping vegetables for Pearson, you decided to slip away for a moment’s rest and a quick drink of water. As you sat down, your mind raced through the endless list of chores left to tackle: sorting supplies, feeding the horses-

“(Y/n)! Get your ass here for a minute!”

A sigh escaped before you could stop it. What does he want now?

“Yes… Arthur?”

Without looking up from his journal, he handed you a shirt. “Button’s broken.”

Great. Again?.

“Right.” You mumbled, taking and inspecting it. Unluckily, your disinterest was too evident for him to miss.

Arthur’s gaze lifted from his journal, confusion mixing with mild irritation. “Right what? Fix it.”

“Do you... have to wear it today?”

“It doesn’t matter. Fix it. And wash it too.” He didn’t wait for your answer as you nodded, already bracing for yet another chore.

At this rate, my hands are going to look ancient by the time I’m 30 from all this washing.

You turned to leave, only for his voice to follow you. “Also, bring some coffee.”

“Arthur, don’t drink so much coffee all the time. It’s bad.”

From his cot, he glared, unamused. “What, you a doctor now? It’s only my second cup today.” Before you could respond, Dutch called him over, and he stood, striding off with a parting command, “It should be on the table when I get back.”

Grumbling, you turned to make the damn coffee.

He’ll get it, alright.

These were the times when you found yourself fervently wishing for your brother to get married just so you could be free from the burden of being his maid. But then again, would he even find a woman willing to endure a life like this? God, no, please, give him a wife. ASAP. But then again, you couldn’t help but pray for that unfortunate woman, too, because living here was no piece of cake. Do people even marry outlaws?

"...."

You shook your head and decided it was best to start on the coffee instead of rambling in your head.

⋆⋆⋆

Finally done with the day's work and free from Susan's watchful eye, you made your way to your tent and collapsed, face-first, into the pillow with a satisfied groan. You lay there, savoring the brief solitude, until a gentle throat-clearing sounded just outside your tent. The voice that followed caught you off guard. It was unmistakably Hosea’s soft, friendly tone.

You quickly composed yourself and stepped out to greet him.

"I wanna show you something. Come," he said with a smile, gesturing for you to follow. As he led you around the camp, you couldn't help but notice Arthur's horse was gone.

Thank God.

When you reached a quiet spot, he motioned for you to sit on an overturned crate beside him. "So, I gathered a few books here,” he said, a small stack beside him. “Annabelle mentioned you like reading, hm?"

"I--well..." Your voice faltered. How could you explain that after everything, your heart had shut itself off, wrapped tightly in a cocoon of cynicism? Arthur’s words echoed in your mind,

'Walking with empty dreams is useless. Lazy.'

The books felt like a window to something lost. They reminded you or maybe haunted you, of a past drenched in hope, of that rainy night when it all started to unravel.

"Well? Look, I'm gonna be honest with you," Hosea continued, his voice a comforting blend of seriousness and warmth. "You're a sharp girl, with a damn keen mind and a thirst for knowledge. So why waste your free time when you could read? I’ve got plenty of books you can borrow anytime you like."

You shifted, fiddling with your fingers. "No--I mean...thank you, really, but...it’s just..." The words caught in your throat, but you pushed on reluctantly. "Y'know...Arthur just...doesn’t… I don’t know how he’ll--"

"React?" Hosea let out a knowing chuckle. "Who says he has to know? Read when he's not around, it’s simple. And what’s his deal with you reading, anyway?"

"It’s not like he’s ever said anything specific, but..." You sighed. "I think he worries...that somehow the books will make me cling to the past. And honestly, what’s even the point of reading, really, when this is all I have to look forward to? Living here… forever."

"Now, don’t talk like that." Hosea’s tone softened, his eyes filled with an almost fatherly concern. "We all have different lives and paths, our thoughts and dreams that’ll shape our futures. And I’d like to see you have a life outside of all this, one with more than just survival, you hear me? You think I don’t want that for you? Sometimes I even think about it myself when Dutch is... well, being Dutch." He grinned, and you couldn’t help but giggle at the shared understanding.

"Also, don’t go thinking that being a girl can stop you," he added with a wink. "So… whaddaya say?" He waved the book enticingly in front of you, and any resistance you had left melted away.

"Sure. Thanks a lot, Hosea."

"No problem. And don’t you worry about Arthur, okay?" You nodded, cradling the book close as you slipped back to your tent. The weight of its worn pages in your hands felt like a secret gift. Maybe today wasn’t such a bad day after all.

⋆⋆⋆

It was just another day when you finished your chores and when you were sure Arthur had gone hunting, you settled into a secluded spot on the edge of the camp, your book propped on your lap, and lost yourself in the words, the outside world fading away.

That is, until someone snatched the book from your hands.

"Hey!" you shouted, startled.

"What’s this, oh, these damn boring books!" John, who was a year younger than you and had a knack for finding you when you least wanted to be found, held the book out of reach with a mischievous grin.

"Can’t you just play with me instead sometimes? I swear I’m so bored these days!" His voice was grating, and you could feel your irritation rising.

You lunged forward to snatch the book back, but he leapt backwards, a teasing spark in his eyes.

“John! This isn’t funny! I’m not free like you all day, alright? I do actual work around here, not out there trying to shoot a rabbit and missing every time, and now I’m relaxing, so stop being a jerk! Hosea would be mad if he found out you messed with his book!”

“Of course, the oldie is your tutor,” he laughed, clearly unfazed. “How about we do something that makes both of us happy? I get to play, and you get your book back.”

Gritting your teeth, you feigned a serious demeanor. With a quick breath, you lunged at him again, your frustration bubbling over. John’s playful stance told you he was ready for a chase, and before you knew it, you were darting after him, laughter bubbling up despite your annoyance.

As much as you wanted to giggle and enjoy the thrill of the moment, there was a lingering fear at the back of your mind, what if Arthur returned early? The last thing you wanted was to be caught in a childish game when he expected you to be responsible.

"JOHN! COME BACK! DON’T GO TOO FAR!" you shouted, but he ignored you, running toward the small lake that fringed the camp. You had no choice but to follow him, anxiety bubbling up inside you, not just from the chase, but from the thought of losing that book. It wasn’t just some random novel, it belonged to Hosea, and you couldn’t let him down.

“Here, take it!” John taunted, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he threw the book into the lake.

“JOHN, WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”, your frustration boiling over as you watched the book sink beneath the surface.

“GO GET IT! HURRY!” You shouted, while John stood reveling in his victory.

“I don’t know how to swim!” He shot back.

“FUCK YOU!” But you knew you couldn’t let Hosea down. You couldn’t let that book be lost.

With a determined breath, you dove into the lake, plunging into the cold water. Your heart raced as you fought against the initial shock, remembering the few basics your dad had taught you when you were ten. You focused on the glimmering book sinking just out of reach and swam deeper, stretching your fingers to grab it. That's when John realized that maybe he went too far and kept calling your name.

Finally, you managed to wrap your hand around the damp cover. Kicking off the bottom, you propelled yourself upward, gasping for air as you broke the surface, the book clutched tightly to your chest.

"(Y/N)...I am sorry..." He stammered when he saw the look of absolute rage on your face. He knew he was going to be dead if he got in your hands.

The moment John took off toward camp, you bolted after him, fury blazing in your chest. He’s going to pay for this, you clutched the soaked book tightly in one hand and narrowed the gap between you. You could hear his frantic apologies as he dodged between trees and crates, but you weren’t letting him off so easily. This time, he had gone too far.

As the camp came into view, you spotted Arthur’s towering figure near the fire. He was leaning against a post, arms crossed, a dark look already on his face as his eyes landed on John racing toward him with you close behind.

“Oh, shit…” you murmured under your breath, your heart pounding even faster. You slowed your pace, watching as Arthur’s expression shifted from mild irritation to intense, unfiltered anger. John stopped short, nearly tripping over himself as he came to a halt in front of Arthur, his face pale.

“Arthur--uh-- I was just--we....” Arthur cut him off, his voice low and deadly calm. "What? Messin’ around, huh?”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, shifting to you, drenched and clutching the wet book. His voice dropped into a growl. He directed a sharp glare at John. “Looks like more’n that to me.

John’s face drained of colour. “Um-we were just--playin'” he started backing away under Arthur’s icy stare, but Arthur grabbed him by his ear and pulled him closer, making John let out a burning wince.

“Listen here, you little idiot,” Arthur snapped, taking a step closer until John practically shrank under his gaze. “You ever pull somethin’ like this again, you’re gonna find yourself missin’ a few teeth, you understand me? Stay away from her.”

John nodded frantically, too scared to speak, and when Arthur jerked his head in a silent order to leave, John took off like his life depended on it.

Arthur’s eyes turned to you, his face darkening. His gaze swept over your soaked clothes, the way you clutched the dripping book like it was something precious, and his jaw clenched.

“Care to explain why you’re drenched head to toe?” he asked, his voice low but laced with irritation.

You swallowed, choosing your words carefully. “I…just wanted to get the book back.”

Arthur raised a brow, unimpressed. “And what the hell were you doin’ with it in the first place?”

You stammered, caught off guard, and Arthur’s eyes narrowed. He reached out, grabbing your arm firmly, pulling you closer. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sneakin’ around to read like a fuckin princess,” he muttered, his tone a mix of anger and disbelief. “That why you’re makin’ trouble?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already fuming. Before you could get a word out, his grip tightened, and he gave you a hard, reprimanding shake. “You think jumpin’ in the damn lake’s a smart idea? Riskin’ yourself over some dumb book!? Are you fucking serious?”

“Arthur, it’s not-” you tried to explain, but he cut you off with a sharp slap across the cheek, the force of it blurring your mind for a few seconds, sending a shock through your whole body. You touch your cheek, trying to keep the hurt off your face and shield yourself from another one.

“You’re makin’ my life harder with this reckless nonsense, thought' I made it clear that there ain’t no use for fillin’ your head with fantasies out here. You need to learn what’s important here. Don’t forget your place. Also told you to not wander off! There are all sorts of dangers out there!”

Your voice was broken but you still managed to retort, "It's...not just fantasies...why can't you get it-" He threw the book from your hands, irked.

“Watch it,” he snarled, gripping your chin with bruising force, his face close, dark eyes simmering with anger. “You think I got time for this nonsense? Next time you got free time, you spend it doin' somethin’ useful, not messin’ around in places you don’t belong.”

But before he could go any further, Hosea’s voice sliced through the tension like a whip. “Arthur! Enough!” Hosea’s tone was sharp, urgent, as he stepped forward, grabbing Arthur’s arm and prying him back. “Have you lost your damn mind? Let her be!”

Arthur jerked back, breathing heavily as he let go, his jaw tight with frustration. He shot you a look that still held that smouldering fury but kept silent under Hosea’s watchful gaze. The older man placed a protective hand on your shoulder, guiding you behind him, his face set in a firm, disappointed scowl as he looked at Arthur.

“This isn’t how we treat our own,” Hosea said quietly, the warning clear in his voice.

"I will treat her however I want, so shut it, old man! She jumped in the fucking lake for a damn book!" He turned back to you. "If I ever catch you slackin’ off with one of these again, or doin' such stupid stunts, there’ll be hell to pay. You hear me?" You nod quickly, too scared to even meet his gaze, swallowing back any retort.

He muttered under his breath and turned sharply, stalking off into the woods, leaving you standing there, shaken but grateful for Hosea’s intervention.

“You alright?” Hosea’s voice softened, his eyes filled with concern as he watched Arthur disappear.

Though your throat felt tight, you nodded as your hands still clung to his coat. “Hm.”

“Don’t let him get to you, you do a lot more around here anyway, more than anyone I would say,” he murmured. “He...he's just afraid. But you...don't have to be."

You tried to smile through your tears, though the sting of Arthur’s slap still lingered, and you knew it would for days to come.

Hosea gave you a gentle pat on the shoulder, noticing the way your gaze lingered on the soaked book. “I see the book’s wet, but it’s alright. There are plenty. I’ll buy this one again for you.” His tone was warm, reassuring. “Now, go change before you get sick.”

You managed a small nod, before hurrying to the privacy of your tent. As soon as you stepped inside, the weight of the day finally crashed down on you. You sank onto the cot, clutching the damp fabric of your clothes, and let the tears fall, the frustration and anger pouring out in muffled sobs.

Everything, Arthur’s fury, John’s reckless prank, the guilt over Hosea’s book, hit you all at once. The tent felt like the only safe space at that moment, the only place where you didn’t have to hold back. Perhaps, it's better if you don't read, maybe Arthur is right...but Hosea's hopeful words rang in your mind. You buried your face in the pillow, letting out everything, all the confusion, anger and pain that was clawing you from inside, draining yourself.

[serpentarii]

M O R D L U S T ; september 22nd, 2024

finally getting around to doing these more often now that i'm making money moves in the draft (this is a lie, i am making moves into my friends' dms to scream) so that means i have an excuse to make self-indulgent WIP edits.

my primary protagonist vératre, formerly known as voir, has been made sufficiently weird, and i think i've found a way to smoothly integrate all of the new scenes i added when i reformatted her half of the plot.

i've also been in my overthinking era to make sure that everything from color symbolism, animal motifs, to the specific variations of words characters use has a purpose. 90% of it will not be apparent in the actual draft so, to paraphrase myself, i'm like gay sisyphus opening and closing notion.

but, i do plan on making some character aesthetic intros, tv show edits, and finally getting around to that animal symbolism post 🐯

transcript below the cut:

Pale blue light flooded into the crate as the lid was pried off, then abruptly overturned, sending Aleksander tumbling out between a set of familiar armchairs. His attention traveled up the front of a familiar desk and landed at an unsmiling familiar face.  Sitting quietly on the other side of the desk was Lady Kos, regal as a queen and ten times wealthier, with pearl droplets woven into her dark braids, dressed in chiffon and lace from trailing hem to high, starched collar.  She was melting wax, her movements swift and assured as she poured a small pool onto the folds of an envelope and stamped it with a sigil Aleksander knew to dread. She took a sip of riesling, soundlessly replacing her glass onto the wood, before setting her sights on him.  “Herr Aleksander Fox,” she said at last. 

and since i haven't done this in like 4 years, surprise bitch. i'm doing a novel prep tag in here now.

first look ;

describe your novel in 1-2 sentences (elevator pitch) ;

a businessman-turned-thief finds himself entangled with a pair of opposing assassins and the roles they unknowingly play in a much grander conspiracy.

how long do you plan for your novel to be (novella, standalone, series, etc.)? ;

a standalone, thank god. the technically term would be roman fleuve, since i am planning future standalone works that take place within the same universe.

what is your novel’s aesthetic? ;

ancient buildings overtaken by nature, cemeteries at midnight, poisonous flowers, venomous snakes, whispering in shadowy alcoves, masquerade balls, bloodstained feathers, veiled truths

what other stories inspire your novel? ;

the his dark materials series by philip pullman, uprooted by naomi novik, classic gothic lit, fairy tales in general, and uh,,,,,,,exodus.

share 3+ images that give a feel for your novel ;

main character ;

who is your protagonist? ;

my two main protagonists/POVs are liferuiner and wannabe businessman aleksander fox, and vératre, a notorious poisoner struggling her way through a quarter-life crisis.

who is their closest ally? ;

aleksander's closest ally, at least in the beginning, is his friend heidi, an information broker with a secret :) and vératre begrudgingly accepts the help of salicaire, another assassin, since they are both nosy and want answers.

who is their enemy? ;

aleksander vs. the ospirin family (a fight he is nawt winning) and the church

what do they want more than anything? ;

so, to be cryptic, 3/4 of the leads in mordlust are all reflections of each other, what they could have been and what they want to be. the last of them is the mirror. they see in him what they want to see. and what they want, shockingly, is prestige, power, belonging, etc. they've always felt like strangers in their own skin and will go to terrible lengths to fit themselves into a society that was not made for them.

why can’t they have it? ;

dirty dirty politics for which they are mere pawns ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

what do they wrongly believe about themselves? ;

that because they've been hurt, they are justified in hurting others in pursuit of their goals.

draw your protagonist! (or share a description) ;

aleksander is a classic dandy with a hyperfixation on his vintage fox fur coat, which he wears even when it's wildly out of season and out of fashion because it's the nicest thing he owns. he's also usually seen wearing kid leather gloves and a golden cravat pin he received from his patroness. he's got green eyes, short auburn hair, lots of freckles, and more people would find him handsome if he didn't smile like he knew your fly was down and was refusing to tell you.

vératre's lips are stained purple due to. reasons. and so she wears a veil, which is not uncommon for particularly devout women. she has medium length brown hair she keeps pinned up into tight plaits and a notably long neck. also, she has pretty privilege because shits fucked and having attractive lay servants representing the house/church is common practice. since she works as a kitchen maid most of the week, she's often wearing her uniform w/ an apron. and sometimes she wears isme's black feathered cloak.

drawing wise, i do have this chart, courtesy of alex @bitethebard:

plot points ;

what is the internal conflict? ;

aleksander and vératre, being parallels of each other, have somewhat similar internal conflicts. they both came from nameless villages out in the countryside and share a burning desire to be more. in vératre's case it's v much a "be careful what you wish for" situation, because in receiving everything she thought she wanted she's no longer herself and unhappier than ever. aleksander is younger and earlier along in his journey, but barreling down the same path. except the choices he makes fucks shit up for the people around him more than they effect himself.

what is the external conflict? ;

again, cutthroat politics (literally). everyone has something they'd kill for.

what is the worst thing that could happen to your protagonist? ;

other than dying horribly, probably being tethered to an uncaring master, praying to uncaring gods, and trying to find comfort in an uncaring church for the rest of their miserable lives.

what secret will be revealed that changes the course of the story? ;

aleksander is entangled in a pseudo-liar revealed plot, which i kinda hate, but as an extremely unreliable narrator his priorities are not in proper order... vératre is witnessing the horrors.

do you know how it ends? ;

yeah

bits & bobs ;

what is the theme? ;

blind faith is dangerous. you must learn to take responsibility for both the good and the bad actions you take, and attaching yourself to someone or something at random to validate your own existence isn't healthy. holiness exists not only in gods but in small moments of happiness and in the people we love. and lastly don't fucking steal someone's skin and sell it on the black market.

what is a recurring symbol? ;

thorns.

where is the story set? (share a description!) ;

niederbrinn, the capital city of falkenreik, which is loosely inspired by pre-german empire prussia. it's filled with tons of gothic™ architecture and fun locations like cathedrals, catacombs, and creature shops. it's situated closer to the malevolent eldritch forest than most would like.

do you have any images or scenes in your mind already? ;

hell yeah

what excited you about this story? ;

mostly isme. and then the other 3 protags ig 🙄

tell us about your usual writing method! ;

these days, i usually write a rough outline and expand it using the snowflake method, incorporating ideas, themes, and worldbuilding along the way. then i make a proper outline where i figure out chapters, acts, the dreaded midpoint, etc. i don't write in chronological order so this helps a ton with out-of-context lines since i have a reference for where i want them based on the location/emotional state of the characters. getting myself to actually sit down and WRITE the damn thing is the problem, shout out to my fellow procrastinating perfectionists <33

if you made it to this point you are sexy and i love you, byeeee !!

[runaway-dreamers]

Could I ask a Wally x Reader reunion request? Like reader found a way to leave Home and go back to their world, but they learn they can’t return for at least a month or two.

And they do eventually come back apologizing to Wally and then to everybody else. Some angst ending with fluff?

I may have gotten a tad bit excited by this ask.

[Part 1 ◇ 2 ◇ 3]

🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

At the end of all I knew, I find the beginning of you and I.

The Everyday Life of Wally Darling

Word count: 2,070

🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Demands piled high, and you were only so fast to fill them. You were tucked in a corner by the espresso machine. The revolving door of needy customers never slowed, their unspoken requests needing tending to. The jaded opening baristas were already planning what to get from the bar a few stores down . One coworker was taking orders and making small talk at the register, another was next to you pulling shots. Your feet remained in two squares, turning to and from the machine grabbing milk for the sweating ice cups and hissing steam wands.

A whisper from a passing shadow, "Smile more, you're scaring the customers."

You duck your head pulling your cap low. With shaking hands you attempt to pour milk into a pitcher only to have it spill, split by the edge. Rag in hand you wipe away the mess, but the blurring of your vision makes it difficult. The room threatens to spin as if wanting you tossed off your feet. Your stomach twists pushing your heart into your throat. Your body steels for the expected impact. Nothing changes, and the line keeps moving. Standing there inside your head allowed orders to pile.

Idling there disrupted the flow, "Y/N, this one needs regular milk, did you grab the right one?"

"Mhm, yes, yes. Regular." You barely finished your sentence, your voice fading. The cup had been placed on the counter where a hand extending from the growing mass snapped it up. You watched it until it was out of view, absorbed by the bustling chaos.

Turning back to the machine, something red glints off of it. Your single dangling earring taps against your jaw, but the weight of it soothes you. You sigh softly and the side of your lip lifts into a quick smile. It was a bright red apple cut in half with two little black seeds on it. When you touch it you can feel the smooth rise and fall of its shape.

A tap on your shoulder caused you to jump in surprise, "Take your break, Y/N, you're distracted."

With a nod you stepped away. The smile on your face flattened to a thin line as you grabbed your bag. For a moment you thought about leaving and heading straight home. The comfort of your couch called to you, but you knew leaving would cost your coworkers their break. Instead you slipped out of the store and walked to the gas station a few blocks away.

Reddish-brown leaves were falling from twisted branches high above you. The breeze rattled them, shaking them loose until they fluttered down, settling on the ground. Life felt like it slowed to a crawl with the colder months rounding the corner. You briefly thought about what sort of soups Poppy would be making, and if Howdy was stocking caramel apples. The gas station came into view.

Inside the parking lot, tucked behind the old building, was a dumpster. Around it were old buckets, crates, and wood in various stages of rot. Reaching tree branches from the other side of the fence formed a canopy overhead. There was a touch of coziness here as the sound of busy life faded into the distance.

Your favorite overturned crate was still here just as you had left it. Before sitting down you removed a carefully wrapped container from your bag. Half of this morning's blunt rested inside along with your lighter. Held between your lips, you attempted to light it. The flint struck once, twice, three times before a strong enough flame was lit. You held it to the snubbed blunt letting it take hold. The embers burned a bright red as you inhaled. On the exhale you let yourself comfortably slump against the fence, shutting your eyes.

This passing summer had been unbearable, but in the autumn chill you found yourself asking for its return. The cold ran deep soaking into your bones and mixing with your blood. You pulled your scarf up over your ears. Each puff untethered you. Smoke drifted out from your nose caressing your skin as it drifted up, the wispy tendrils passed easily between the strands of your hair.

Your hand trailed over the earring feeling along the shape of it. It was originally part of a set, but the other side had been lost in a pocket between here and there. It had been a gift, one made specially for you. Lovingly shaped by careful hands. If the other side remained in Home, you imagined he kept it close to him at all times. This gave you comfort as you remembered the time spent there.

When you first arrived in Home, you were greeted by a whole cast of friendly faces. Julie created games for you to play. Frank and Eddie would take you bug watching. Howdy always found ways to indulge your sweet tooth. Barnaby invited you out on strolls, imparting wisdom and bad jokes. Poppy taught you how to bake. And Wally was there every step of the way. Life back in your reality wasn't as grand, as you came to remember, but it hadn't been your choice to go. Just like it hadn't been your choice to leave. You were ripped away from all you knew and fell through a hole in the universe.

On an outing you brought up your confusing feelings while bug watching. Eddie had suggested that you at least keep it an open idea, and Frank agreed. There were no clear paths and not many options. Choices weren't a choice unless they were found to be possible. Everyone stressed that should the time come, the final decision was up to you.

You weren't fully convinced to stay or go, but at the time you couldn't rule out any foreseeable options. Despite how close you all had grown, you had felt that you couldn't fully belong. They all knew how homesick you were, especially Wally, and his words were still clear in your mind.

"Hmm, that is a tough one," Wally spoke slowly, his eyes looking thoughtful, "If you found a way home, you could properly answer that question. It would be undeniable, neighbor, whatever your deepest desires are."

You tried to remember things as clearly as possible, but every memory led back to the end. His laughter turned to screams, his hopeful eyes brimming with terror, hands struggled to hold on. The pull of the void was too great, and you fell into the endless darkness. All you remembered was his face laced with regret. He was shouting frantically as you were swallowed whole. All you could do was watch as the darkness consumed your vision. Twice you had fallen, twice you had to confront your mounting losses.

That day played on repeat in your head. You tried to scrub the fading fragments in search of subtle meanings. Were those little glances something more? The softening of his eyes, the pink of his cheeks, was that something you only imagined? Your bag was crumpled on the ground near you. With a rough shake you undid the partially closed zipper and pulled out a beaten up notebook.

Page after page were filled with grainy crayons and smooth colored pencils. Splatters of smudged paint obscured the already warped images and words. Those scribbles had been notes you kept while living in Home. You smiled fondly as your thumb rubbed the coarse texture. It ended up a collective journal meant to be shared. Everyone had pitched in and wrote something about their day.

It looked like the pages had been stained with a painter's used water cup. Over these stained pages you had tried drawing each of them from memory. It became harder to remember what they looked like, but eyes remained. Each one detailed and alive, but lacking familiarity.

Drops of rain fell onto the page popping your bubble of solitude. Your break was over all too soon. As you put everything back in your bag the thought of walking away returned, nagging and incessant. It coiled around your stomach and squeezed itself into a ball. Nothing about this was right. You left the gas station without a word heading towards the bus stop. They managed without you for five months, they'll survive one shift.

—------------------------------------------------

"Howdy has some caramel coated apples all neatly packaged at the bodega." Frank was at the kitchen sink washing a pumpkin. They were scrubbing in particular circular motions, dunking it into clean water every now and again.

"Hm? Oh, yeah. Howdy said he got them specially ordered." Eddie was at the table sorting through some letters.

"I know it's just you at the post office, but I wish you wouldn't bring work home." Frank dumped the brownish water down the sink. They took a clean rag and patted the pumpkin dry.

"You're right, there's always tomorrow." Eddie chuckled as he packed the partially sorted mail up and slid the box under the table. He leaned back in his seat with a loud sigh. The sound of a knife splitting the gourd filled the kitchen.

Frank spoke up, "So.. Have you noticed Wally around lately?"

"I see him walkin' often. More so than usual, and very slowly, too." He drawled, waiting for Frank to share what was on their mind.

"Earlier today, he declined another invite from Julie." Frank's words dripped with growing concern. Their frown was even more pronounced than usual. Eddie could read the tension on his husband's body.

"I noticed that change in him, yes, but it's to be expected. Loss can-"

"It's our fault." They spoke harsher than expected.

Frank left the knife in the flesh of the pumpkin. The piece flopped to the side as it was let go. They leaned against the edge of the sink. Each passing second marked by the dripping faucet.

Eddie started, "Now, Frank, don't think that way. It won't help nothin'."

"No, Eddie, no. We both told Y/N to keep it an open option," Their eyes filled with tears, "And now look, they've gone! Vanished!"

Another long silence. Eddie was staring at the table. Though he wanted to remain strong for Frank he knew that he couldn't deny those feelings any longer.

Eddie spoke with emotion thick in his voice, "Wally leaves letters addressed to Y/N."

"Yeah?" Frank turned away, pain evident on their face, "And what does he say?"

"He says he wants to find a way to get these letters to 'em. I told him I'd find a way," Eddie chuckled at this, but his eyes were wet with unshed tears, "There's no impossible task for a guy like me."

They eyed Eddie's profile, "I think we could make that a reality," Frank spoke quietly.

Eddie narrowed his eyes as he sat up straighter, "How so, darling?"

"Dear, and don't be mad," Stepping away from the sink, a flicker of fear crossed Frank's face, "I was looking around the area Y/N was last seen, uh, for the void Wally keeps talking about."

"And why would you go and do something dangerous like that?" Eddie was trying his best to remain calm, he stood up from his seat and walked closer to his husband, "What if you went and got dragged down, too? Who knows what's on the other end of that thing!"

"I get it! I really, really do!"

"Is that so, Frank?" Eddie responded.

"Hear me out, please?" Frank stepped closer to Eddie, arms crossed and eyes searching.

Eddie softened as he looked into Frank's eyes, "Please be careful, that's all I'm asking of you," Eddie spoke softly as he embraced Frank.

Frank sighed, relaxing into the hug, "I think I found the hole."

"What? What do you mean?" Eddie looked down at Frank. He was holding him by his shoulders squeezing ever so slightly.

"I.. dropped a note through it not too long ago. It's right next to a field of wild pumpkins." Frank shifted on his feet.

"Was the note for Y/N?" Eddie asked. His hands rubbed along Frank's arms.

"Yes, and, well, see this is where it gets strange."

Frank stepped away from Eddie. Their bag was resting by the kitchen doorway. They picked it up and brought it over to the table where they dug around for something. Eventually Frank removed a notebook, and inside the notebook was a neatly folded note.

Frank looked at Eddie, "I got a response."

[neon-kazoo]

You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid (Sequel to Spy?)

(Inspired by the song ‘You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid’ by The Offspring)

A kick, a slap, a left hook, too many punches to count.

At first, the attacks were directed at Hero. They were surrounded by enemies that were bonding over the shared betrayal and, naturally, they had felt the need to release their frustrations. The hero had a black eye and a bloody nose to prove it. After all, there wasn’t much they could do to avoid the blows while tied to a chair in a second safe house.

Well, they could talk.

“I was having a great hair day, and you all had to go and ruin, it didn’t you?”

They all hit a little harder after that.

Beating up on the revealed spy only united the group for so long, though. Soon the blaming started, lots of ‘you should have known’ and ‘maybe you were in on it too.’

Hero may have…egged them on a bit.

A little suggestion here, a pinch of eye contact there, and paranoia took root like a weed.

The infighting grew, and Hero now sat largely forgotten in the center of the room. No eyes were on them, and no ears would be able to pick out sounds they made.

It was an opening, and Hero was not one to waste an opportunity.

They surveyed the group, determining none were so experienced as to know never to leave a captive to their own devices. The leader was nowhere to be seen. He disappeared after Speedy and Blueprint had helped haul them from the bus and was replaced by Mover, which was the best news Hero had had all day. A beatdown was one thing, but the villain’s ominous comment had left them unnerved.

It was too bad no one had bothered to sweep the floor of the safe house. Beneath the dust and paint chips littering the ground, Hero spotted a chip of broken glass. It took some shuffling and some straining, but Hero was able to get it securely wedged under their foot.

Now, for the hard part.

Listening once again for any lull in the fighting, and hearing none, Hero gritted their teeth then rocked hard to the left. They shifted to the right, repeating the process. On their third tip, they went crashing to the floor, just as they had intended.

They narrowly avoided smacking their head on the concrete as the wooden chair splintered with the impact. One seat leg snapped, allowing them to slide the glass up to their bound hands against the floor with their foot.

One hand, then two were free, and they headed quickly for the back of the room. When the door closed behind them, they allowed themselves to feel a little victorious. This new room was darker, and they took a moment to take it in before making a move. Empty crates and overturned pallets made it difficult to scan the walls. There was the door they came out of, but they struggled to find an exit.

“What was that we said about running?”

Fuck.

Villain stepped out of the shadows and Hero waited for the others to materialize around him. Only, the silence stretched, and the others didn’t appear.

He was alone.

Somehow, that seemed worse.

He was infuriatingly confident, looking like a man that had never entered a situation he couldn’t control. He was comfortable, too comfortable for someone whose prisoner was in the process of escaping.

A thundering of footsteps alerted the hero that their headstart had expired. They whipped their head to the door, bracing to run again the second the crew busted into the room.

“It’s locked.”

Hero looked back to find Villain swinging a key carelessly around his finger.

Oh, so this encounter was no coincidence.

Finally, Hero saw it. There, on the right-hand wall was a door, its window glass boarded up. Freedom was only a few steps away.

The only problem was the man standing in front of it.

“The way I see it, we have two options here. I can let the rest of the crew in here, with you in a locked room, or…”

He paused dramatically while dread pooled in the Hero’s stomach. He continued his offer lightly, like it was of little consequence to him either way.

“You can come with me. Just me. Willingly, of course.”

A thousand questions ran through their mind—‘Why would I?’ ‘Why would you offer?’—And Hero fought to not voice them all.

Instead, they compromised, simply asking, “Why?”

“Last I checked, you’re low on moves, spy. Consider this me, throwing you a bone.”

The words ignited a helpless rage within the hero. He wasn’t wrong per se, but it was the way he chose to insinuate that they were a pitiful dog.

Though, they supposed, that was one step up from ‘rat’.

Hero kept their face carefully blank, trying hard to conceal the gears of decision turning in their brain.

They spoke, stalling for time, “And I suppose I have your word on this?”

The word of a criminal meant little to nothing to the hero. For that matter, no one’s word meant anything to Hero right now. Certainly not the word of a certain police chief.

“You can trust that I prefer to handle these things myself.”

Self interest. That, Hero could count on.

They sighed, barely audible.

“For the record, I don’t think this is the definition of willing.”

That seemed to be an answer in and of itself, but the hero still took no steps forward.

Villain’s smirk was barely visible in the dim light.

“What’s wrong? Not feeling particularly ‘eager’, Hero?” He mocked.

Hero scowled.

Saving them the embarrassment of walking towards their enemy, Villain strode over to them himself.

“How about ‘obediently’? Is that better?”

Worse. That was so much worse.

Hero could agree to being amendable, but their compliance would wear thin if he continued using language best suited to referring to animals.

Figuring a protest would only encourage him, Hero sealed their mouth shut. They expected him to grab their arm to lead them out of there, or to issue a series of commands. Instead, he pushed past them, heading towards the shouts and sounds of the scrambling crew.

Hero turned cold as he slid the key into the lock.

Their fearful confusion must have been written clear on their face, because the villain asked, “What? Gotta make it look good.”

There wasn’t enough time for Hero to process before the knob turned and enemies were pouring into the room. Angry faces fueled by the rage of a second chase barreled towards the hero.

“Don’t let them get away again!”

Now that Villain was no longer blocking the way, Hero headed for the door previously shrouded in shadow. With a click and a shove they burst out into the light of day.

Their eyes struggled with the drastic change, and they slowed to ensure they weren’t running into traffic. With a few blinks they were clear, and they spotted an alley to dart down that seemed to connect to a cross street.

Deja Vu hit them as they spotted a fire escape, and they decided not to try their luck more than once. Instead, they dodged behind a dumpster to double back behind their closest pursuer.

Hero had to assume they had, at some point, all split up, considering that only one criminal was within their sights.

He fell for the fake out, and Hero hopped over a garbage bag and took off in the other direction. They followed the street from which they came for only a block before they veered off in a new direction. Parked cars lined this avenue, and Hero picked up the pace as they passed the row next to the sidewalk. Their heart thundered against sore ribs.

Too many places to hide and strike.

In a crude justification of their paranoia, a figure leapt out from behind a tinted van, grabbing for the hero and catching their shirt in an iron grip. Hero kicked out and suddenly they were both tumbling to the ground. Their bodies smacked the pavement, but neither intended to stop their attacks.

Their shirt twisted them closer and another hand grabbed one of their arms, taking the limb out of play.

Only one arm, though.

Knuckles flew and landed right between the eyes. His body crumpled and Hero scrambled back, right into the waiting arms of the villain.

“Nice punch,” he commented, hauling them back up to their feet with a vice-like grip.

Well, at least they got to break an eye socket.

Hero’s knuckles ached as they were led around the corner. An SUV and another building awaited them, which they entered with fatigued muscles and throbbing bruises. They couldn’t help but think that tiring them out was part of the strategy at play here. ‘Willing’ was definitely a stretch, if the hand clamped around their arm was any indication.

Another safe house, another chair. This rope looked despairingly thicker, however, and the floor had been wiped clean by a more experienced captor.

Hero was not excited when said captor entered the room, leaning against the door with crossed arms and a look strangely akin to admiration on his face.

“You’re a pretty good liar, Hero,” he spoke, and it actually sounded like a compliment. “I’d like to put those skills to use.”

“You want me to work for you?” Hero laughed, despite their precarious position. A job offer was a far cry from what they imagined they’d be walking into after being discovered.

“In exchange, you’ll be protected,” the villain continued

Future tense, not conditional. Arrogant bastard.

Hero scoffed, “From who? You?”

“Among others,” Villain answered simply, evenly.

‘Others.’ Like the party hunting them down as they speak.

“I’m not the only liar here,” Hero pointed out, “you said letting the crew in was part of option one.”

“I believe I said letting them into ‘a locked room.’ It wasn’t locked, you got out.”

The confidence in his voice gave away that his phrasing was purely for show. He knew exactly what he had said.

A technically, and a boring one at that.

Well, they were already here, stuck in this impossible situation. Maybe there was a deal to be made.

Maybe, it could be sweeter than they thought.

Tags:

@atlaserine

[roe-and-memory]

Hello!

Here is an ask about the three musketeers ( Bobby, Cal and Lightning).

What do you think was the first prank they all pulled on each other?

OOOHHHH thats a hard one..

i feel like they were all super awkward around one another (lightning and his goofy ass never having friends, cal just being Cal, and bobby not really knowing how interact with either of these goofs)

but, bobby is 100% the first person to make a move.

its what begins his tradition of pouring water on the other two after races.

its sunny, hot, the race is over and all the drivers who didnt make it to victory lane are catching their breaths — hell, even the driver who DID make it to victory lane is struggling to stay upright. of course, its lightning.

bobby squeezes through the crowd — he himself is already soaked, a mixture of sweat, water, gatorade, maybe tears (joke) making him insanely uncomfortable — and unfortunately for lightning? he made the mistake of sitting down on the ground, back against his car, his hair is brushed out of his eyes and greasy with sweat, and hes too distracted by a kori with a mic and a cameraman to notice bobby sneaking his way into victory lane with a full bottle of freezing cold water in his hand.

its a miracle he could get in there as easily as he did, and he walks around to the far side of the car, uncapping the bottle as he does so.

and, as quickly as possible, he leans over the hood of the car and overturns the bottle right on top of him, emptying the contents and ditching the plastic bottle there to make a run for the crowd.

lightning kind of sits there Stunned for a minute before he quickly tells kori he has something to do, and promptly stands up and chases after him (hes now shivering, because all the sweat inside his firesuit, trapped to his undershirt, has turned Cold and his hat is Soaking wet and his hair is Wet Cold and its TERRIBLE.

he catches bobby in the pits where he playfully tackles him (although it doesnt do much considering lightning is 5’6 and scrawny, and bobby is 6’1 and built Relatively nicely). lightning swears hes gonna get him back, and sure enough, that next weekend while bobby is in the middle of an interview? lightning does a pie-by, slamming a pie into bobbys face and ditching the stage as fast as humanly possible .

it kind of crates a little circle of the trio doing this Specific type of prank on each other, and bobbys by far lasts the longest

[milfprentiss]

Title: Confessions Under Moonlight

The prison yard was eerily quiet, the faint rustling of leaves in the distance the only sound cutting through the stillness. The moon hung low in the sky, casting silver light over the fenced-in yard where Maggie sat on an overturned crate, keeping watch.

You approached cautiously, your heart racing, knowing tonight was the night. It had been weeks, months even, of working side by side, surviving in a world that had fallen apart. But in Maggie, you’d found something more than just a survivor. You found someone worth fighting for, someone who made the world a little less dark.

Maggie heard your footsteps and looked up, her eyes catching yours in the dim light. She gave you that soft smile—the one that always made your chest tighten. "You couldn't sleep either?"

You shook your head, coming to sit beside her, the cool night air brushing against your skin. "Nah, just... couldn't stop thinking."

Her brow furrowed slightly, concern flashing in her eyes. “Everything okay?”

You nodded, though the knot in your stomach said otherwise. “Yeah, it’s just—Maggie, there’s something I need to tell you.”

She shifted slightly, her attention fully on you now, her gaze steady and reassuring like it always was. “You can tell me anything.”

The words were caught in your throat, a tangle of emotions you hadn’t quite figured out how to say until now. For weeks, every stolen glance, every shared smile, every quiet moment in the chaos of the prison had been leading to this.

“I... I love you.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and for a second, you thought maybe you should’ve kept them to yourself. But it was too late now. You watched Maggie’s face carefully, her expression unreadable for a moment as she processed what you said.

The silence stretched between you both, and you suddenly felt like the air had been sucked out of the night. Just as you were about to speak again, to apologize, to take it all back, Maggie reached out and gently placed her hand on yours.

Her touch was warm, grounding. “I love you too,” she whispered, her voice steady but soft, almost as if she had been holding those words in for just as long.

Your heart skipped a beat, the weight of her words sinking in. She leaned closer, her green eyes searching yours for a moment before she smiled—small, but real, full of something deeper than words could express.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say it,” she admitted with a quiet laugh, breaking the tension in the air.

You blinked in surprise. "You... you knew?"

Maggie shrugged, her smile widening. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. The way you look at me… I was just waiting to see when you’d finally say it out loud.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, laughing with her, the relief and joy mixing together into something that felt almost impossible in this world. But here, in this moment, it was real.

She leaned in, resting her forehead against yours, the space between you gone. “We’ll get through this,” she whispered, her breath warm against your skin. “Together.”

You closed your eyes, the weight of the world falling away as you sat there under the moonlight, Maggie’s hand in yours. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring—whether the walls of the prison would hold, or if the threats from outside would ever stop.

But right now, in this moment, it didn’t matter. You loved her, and she loved you. And for now, that was enough.

[ellecdc]

Come Back, Be Here (part 5)

Sirius Black x fem!reader - First Wizarding War Order of the Phoenix - 3.5k p1 // p2 // p3 // p4 // p5 // p6 // p7 // p8

⚠️CW: graphic descriptions of injury, blood & gore, combat (people die), painful goodbyes, swearing (I wrote it so there's swearing, but I think you all know that by now)

Synopsis: The story of how you sacrificed yourself to save your friend and Order partner James months before. And what the fuck is Kreacher up to?

👋AN: I have never written (well anything TBF) combat/action before and I was very uncomfortable the entire time so I'm 1) glad it's over (for now) and 2) very sorry if it's awkward or painful to read. I'd love feedback or suggestions as I believe this story may involve more. xx

The spring-time sun meant you had an easier time staying comfortable during the day, but as the sun dipped below the top of the building across from you, it was becoming increasingly harder to stay warm. You sat on an overturned crate in an abandoned building watching the alleyway below you as you nibbled on a granola bar. It tasted like ash.

“Should we check in again?” James asked, leaning in front of you to peek out the partially broken window.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. “We checked in only minutes ago, Prongs.”

He hummed in disgruntled acknowledgment. 

“Do you ever think about just like jumping when you look out a window?” James asked as he leaned a little too close to the jagged edge of the window for your liking.

“Pardon me?”

“You know, like when you’re on a bridge and you think ‘I could totally just launch myself off of this right now’, or when you’re holding something really expensive or delicate and you just want to throw it at a wall.”

You stared at your friend for a moment.

“Those are called intrusive thoughts, Jamie.”

“Are they bad?”

“Only when they stop being thoughts and turn into actions.”

“Got it.” He said with a nod.

“Hey, James?”

“Yeah.”

“Step away from the window please.”

He sighed and plopped down unceremoniously beside you. You offered him the rest of your granola bar which he only accepted once you assured him you were finished. 

You moved to sit on the floor so the two of you could play tic-tac-toe in the dust. James complained about breaking a nail and you agreed to check in with Emmeline and Benjy twice more over the following few hours.

“Okay; fuck, marry, avada: Helga Hufflepuff, the Minister of Magic, Merlin.” James asked.

You blew out a breath and leaned back onto your hands. “Hmmmm, how many times do I have to fuck them?”

“Just once.”

“Okay, and do I have to stay married forever and ever?”

“Uh, duh. Till death do you part.” He answered incredulously. 

“Will I die soon?”

James gave you an unimpressed look.

“Okay, uhm, ugh, I hate politicians, James.”

“I don’t want your life story, just answer the question.” 

“Fine. Fuck Merlin, marry Helga, avada the Minister.” You said, though you couldn’t help but cautiously look over your shoulder lest the Minister himself hear your treasonous answer. 

“Explain.”

“I just think Helga would treat me right.”

James nodded solemnly. “And the others?”

“You just said you didn’t want my life story.” 

“You’re right. Do me next.”

“In your dreams, Potter.”

James rolled his eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter.” 

You chuckled and looked down at the street again.

“I don’t know James; it’s been pretty quiet. How long have we been here?” 

James shifted his weight to one hand in order to check his watch. “Well, we got here at, what, eight this morning? It’s been about twelve hours of nothing.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “What do you think? Do you want to get home to Lily and Haz, or keep watch?” 

James groaned. “I always want to go home to Lily and Haz, but Benjy and Em were on this stake out yesterday too.”

You nodded and stood. You conjured your patronus and told Benjy and Emmeline that it was quiet enough for them to leave, and that James and you would stay for a little bit longer just in case. The silvery fox jumped once before it disappeared through the walls of the building, sending your message to the other team.

James chuckled. “Do you remember how pissed off Sirius was when he found out you had become an animagus?”

You smirked at the memory. “That was back when he hated me.”

James guffawed. “He never hated you.”

“Yes, he did!”

“Nuh uh, he thought he was playing it cool, but he fell just as hard for you as I did with my Lily flower.”

You shook your head. “No one fell as hard as you did, Jamie.”

“Too true.” He agreed. “I’m the best at everything I do.”

“I think he was mostly mad that I’d managed to do it by myself, whilst the three of you bumbled your way through it together.”

“Yeah. You started after us and managed to finish before Pete did.”

You chuckled at the memory.

(Hogwarts boat-house, 4th year)

“I don’t understand why you’re getting so worked up about this.”

Sirius looked at you incredulously. “Uhm, how about because it’s dangerous? What even compelled you to do something like this?”

“Uhm, you guys were doing it?”

“So?”

“So? If you can do it, why can’t I?” 

“Do you know how much trouble you could get into for this?” He asked while pinching the space between his brows.

“Why? Are you going to rat me out?”

Sirius guffawed. “I’m not a snitch, Dollface.”

You smiled wickedly at him. “Good, then shut up about it.”

You stood and stretched your limbs, stiff from the day of waiting for nothing to happen.

“I’m confused, James.” You said, poking your head into the window again. “Didn’t the tip suggest that this was a major meeting spot for Death Eaters and allies?”

James hummed in acknowledgement. 

“Then why haven’t we seen anything all day?”

He looked at you curiously. “I don’t know...isn’t no news good news?”

You groaned. “I don’t know. Not if we’re to believe the tip.”

“You think it was false?” 

You made a non-committal sound as you started to pace the room. 

“I mean, I guess it is weird for nothing to happen two days in a row.”

You stopped dead in your tracks. “Two days?”

James nodded at you. “Yeah, Emmeline and Benjy were here yesterday.”

“They were here yesterday?”

“Are you feeling okay? I literally just said that.” 

“Fuck, James, where did this tip come from?”

James scrunched his eyebrows. “I don’t know, Vix.”

You both stared at each other for a few moments. “I think we should leave.” You said.

“Apparate to location seven?” James asked as you helped him stand.

“Yep.”

You both pulled your wands and spun to apparate.

You looked at each other in confusion. 

After a quick nod, you both spun again.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” You muttered before moving back to the window; neither teams had any problems apparating in or out earlier today.

“Vix, this isn’t good.” 

“Alright,” you breathed out, squaring your shoulders, “alright. Let’s scout the area. We’ll find out where this anti-apparition ward ends and get the hell out of here.”

James, looking far paler than he had moments ago, offered you one nod before getting into stance and following you to the door. 

You grabbed the handle and heard an awful searing sound before you realized it was the sound of your hand against the metal doorknob. 

“FUCK!” You shouted as you pulled your hand away, blisters already littering the palm of your hand. James quickly cast an auguamenti over your hand followed by a glacius. The stinging slowly subsided but you could still feel your heartbeat in your palm, and tears threatened to spill from your eyes. 

James leaned his ear closer to the door. “I...I feel like I hear a dragon?”

You paled. 

“Fiendfyre.”

You moved over to the window and cast a despulso, shattering the remaining glass and leaning out of it. 

“This way.” You said to James over your shoulder before changing into Vixen and jumping down two storeys. Your paws stumbled beneath you as you landed awkwardly, but you fared better than you would have in your human form.

James looked down at you from the window as you changed back to your human form before giving him a quick nod. He jumped and you cast an arresto momentum, slowly lowering him to the ground. 

You both tried to apparate again to no prevail. James cast a revelio which illuminated the shimmery grid lock of the ward around you. 

“It doesn’t look like it goes far. We just need to make it to the street.” James said as he nodded his head down the alleyway. 

You began in that direction when two shadowy, masked figures stepped into the alley from the street. You huffed and figured you’d fare better on the other end, save having to climb over the barbed wire. When you turned again to run, another set of masked figures stepped out on that end too.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” One of them sing-songed. 

“Through the building.” James commanded and the two of you moved to the door of the building across the alleyway.

James cast a despulso to open the door as you threw a bombarda at the second set of Death Eaters. You narrowly dodged a confringo as more bolts of light shot your way.

You ran down the hall, looking around corners for signs of an exit. You passed a hallway and felt a hand grab your arm before you were slammed into the wall.

A wand was pressed to your throat when you heard James cast a flipendo. The wizard pinning you was sent flying, so you righted yourself and grabbed James’s hand before sprinting down the hallway again. 

You shot a hex at a fire extinguisher as you passed it which fogged up the hallway behind you. 

“Confringo!” A voice suddenly shouted from ahead. A ball of fire hit James’s square in the chest as he moved to block you from it. He fell to the ground with a thud as you cast a protego around the two of you. 

Three more casts bounced off of your shield before you shot an incendio at them, watching the robes and masks melt away before the wizards turned to ash. 

“You idiot!” You gritted through your teeth as you cast healing charms over James’ burn. 

“Wake up James, get your arse up.” You insisted, gripping his chin and shaking his head back and forth. 

You looked up at the sound of running and shot another bombarda behind you. The sickening sound of a body hitting a wall and sliding to the ground let you know you hit your mark as you continued to rouse James.

“You need to get up James. Come on, let’s go.” You said as you hauled him into a sitting position. You mentally cursed him and his dedication to the gym as you tried to manhandle his 183cm (six-foot) pure muscle figure. The movement caused him to groan.

“Yes, come on Prongs, get up, we need to go.” You insisted, giving him another shake. The burning in your hand was starting to return and you felt the beginnings of a wicked headache coming on. You could hear shouting from the floor above you – you had company. 

The wall behind you exploded suddenly and threw you both across the hall. Your head made a sickening crack as it met the brick wall and James was covered with rubble.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” You moaned as you felt heat spread down your neck. You ripped a large piece of glass from your right thigh as you stood, which began to bleed far too quickly for your liking. Wobbly as all hell, you moved over to James and pulled the cinderblocks from his body.

“Come on Potter,” you muttered. “You’ve got a wife and kid at home.”

He groaned in agony as you pulled him into a crouch.

“And you’ve got a Sirius.” He slurred.

“Exactly,” you grunted as you used your wand to throw a piece of wall at some assailants to your left. “And if I go home to my boyfriend without his boyfriend, he will have my head.”

Both of you hissed in pain as you stood, but you trudged through the rubble and moved to the end of the hall. You pushed through a door which brought you out into an alleyway parallel to the one you guys had just been in. You cast a revelioand saw that the anti-apparition ward ended at the sidewalk about ten yards away. 

The sound of an explosion followed by screaming made you turn. The building you and James had been in for your stake out had been completely consumed by the fiendfyre and was spreading to the building you just exited. 

“The fiendfyre caused friendly fire.” James muttered. 

You pushed at his shoulder and directed him toward the street. “James, this way, we’re almost-” 

“BOMBARDA.”

“No!”

The wind was knocked clean out of you and your senses vanished. You saw bright white and couldn’t hear anything past the ringing in your ears. You tried to stay calm as you willed your lungs to take in more air. 

You were aware of someone standing above you, or in front of you, but you couldn’t see or hear them. There were hands, warm hands, you were being shaken. 

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” 

Choking.

You could hear choking.

You could hear!

You hear yourself choking. 

You sucked in a deep breath that caused an unbelievable amount of pain in your stomach; the breath shuddered as it left your body. 

“No, no, no. Vix please.”

You opened your eyes. Though your eyesight was still white around the edges you could see James’ face in front of yours.

“Y/N, we’re almost there.” James whimpered, tilting his head toward the sidewalk where the ward line ended. You lifted your hand to your head even though it felt like it weighed a thousand pounds and when you pulled your hand back it was red. 

“James.” You choked out. “Go, I’ll find you.”

“Y/N.”

You attempted to sit up straighter, but it elicited a strangled sob from you. You felt a strange pressure in the left of your stomach, and when you looked down you could see why.

Your head, also feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds, lolled as you lifted your shirt to expose a metal rod that had impaled you from behind. Your view of the injury quickly became obscured as blood flowed from the wound. Between the wound to your thigh, and now your stomach, the gravel below you was quickly becoming drenched in your blood. You knew then. This injury was well beyond either of your wheelhouse.

“Jamie.”

“No.”

“James.” You whined quietly, lolling your head back against the fence behind you. “You have to go.” 

“Y/N, I won’t. I cannot leave without you.” 

“You have to.” 

“No.” He cried miserably. 

You took a few breaths, heart hurting both from blood loss and for your partner.

“What about Sirius? Hm?” He shot at you.

You smiled at the thought of your sweet boy. You felt like you could smell him now; worn leather, caramel, and his cigarettes. You knew he tried to spell the smell away, but it never really worked; you’d learned to associate the scent with him though, so you mostly didn’t mind. 

“You’ll take care of him for me, won’t you?” You asked your friend, offering him a tired smile. Tears fell from his eyes; he was too pretty to cry, you thought. 

“Vix, please, he needs you.”

“Thank him for me?”

James sobbed.

“I’m so-” you grunted and fought the urge to gag. “I’m so thankful for him. For all of you.”

“Y/N.”

“Tell him I’d do it all again. Every moment of it. If it meant I got to love him.” You breathed in deeply. “It was worth every minute of it.” 

A portion of the building behind James collapsed in on itself under the flames, but neither of you moved your gaze from the other. 

“Tell him for me?” You asked again.

James’s face was scrunched in pain as he nodded.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He cried.

“I’m not.” You said as you shook your head. “I don’t re-I don’t-” You tried to take a deep breath but found yourself unable to.

“I don’t regret anything.” You finished on an exhale. 

The building behind James continued to fall as smoke and debris fell around the two of you. You shakily lifted one of your hands to his face and wiped at the tear tracks lining his cheeks. You lifted your wand in the other and cast a diffindo at the death eaters approaching behind him. You were thankful your vision was going, knowing the sight behind James would be unbelievably gruesome. 

“I-” you started, your breathing becoming erratic. “I love you. All of you.”

James nodded as he leaned down to kiss your forehead. 

“I am so lucky to have known you, Vix.”

“Go now.” You said quietly.

James held your head to his shoulder.

“You - you have to go.” 

James kissed your head again.

“Go.”

You rested your head against your own shoulder as you watched James hobble to the end of the alleyway. You did it, you thought to yourself, you saved him.

James made it to the sidewalk when he turned to face you. You tried to offer him one last smile as he spun and apparated away.

A sob tore through you, and it felt as though it emptied your lungs of any remaining air. 

No matter, you wouldn’t need air anymore anyway.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it home, Siri.” You thought. “I’ll find you in our next life, and I’ll love you there too.” 

With a shuddering sigh, you fell asleep. 

It was dark. It made sense. Death would be dark. Should it be cold? Perhaps. You only wished it wasn’t also painful. It was quiet, but you could hear.

“Why waste your energy on a pathetic mudblood?”

“Information. Knowledge is power, after all.”

“Couldn’t you have found a mudblood that wasn’t so close to death then?”

“We would’ve had more to choose from had someone not thought to fight with fiendfyre instead of a good old incendio.”

“Incendio was boring, I wanted to spice things up a little.”

“Your penchant for spice lost us numbers, Junior. The Dark Lord will not be pleased.”

“Then we’ll get the mudblood talking. Once we get information, the numbers won’t matter.” 

“You ignorant-”

“Enough! What’s done is done. Someone will have to take responsibility for the repercussions when the time comes.”

“Severus is right. For now, the mudblood comes with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The last prisoner did not even survive the night under your watch.”

“Pfft. You should have heard the mouth on that nasty witch. I did the world a favour.”

“Foulness tends to be a common trait of the Order. Please do keep up, Goyle.”

“I do not see how you are in any position to be barking orders around here. You are barely out of Hogwarts yourself, child.”

“Yes, and this child received their dark mark before they even graduated. In fact, Mulciber, I have had my mark longer than you.”

“What do you even want with the mudblood anyway?”

“Trying to keep it in the family, baby Black?”

“Yes, Purebloods tend to do that. I can see that your ancestors kept it a little too close to home, however.”

“You don’t know what to do with a prisoner; let the rest of us enjoy her a little.”

“I am not concerned about enjoying, you imbecile. I work for the Dark Lord, that is my only concern. I am one of the most skilled legillimens and occlumens here, I will not let my dick get in the way of getting information for the Dark Lord, unlike the rest of you, so I will take the mudblood.” 

“Hmph, well, we’ll see how long this lasts.”

You listen: Doors. Floorboards. Parchment. Fireplace.

...

...

“You’re awake.”

...

...

...

“Squeezing your eyes shut will not change the fact that I know you are awake.”

Are they talking to me?

“Yes, I am talking to you.”

Shit.

“Very elegant.”

I’m fucking alive?!

“Indeed, you are.”

You peeled your eyes open and blinked against the light above you. The room was dark, with dark-grained wood on the ceiling and walls, and little light save from the gaudy chandelier above you and a tiny window letting in a minuscule amount of light which seemed to dissipate by the time it reached one foot from the source.  

Your neck cracked loudly as you turned your head to the voice, and you swore you felt your heart fall out of your feet.

“You can’t be serious?” You rasped disbelievingly. 

“Close, but no.” The man smirked as he stood and moved toward the table you were lying on. “The name is Regulus. Regulus Arcturus Black.”

You felt your heart rate pick up as you stared at the face of a man who held an uncanny similarity to your boyfriend. 

“I don’t suppose you happen to know occlumency, do you?”

You shook your head; unsure you could voice anything more than a horrified whimper.

“Shame. Well, for your sake, I hope you are a quick learner.” 

And he stupefied you. 

(Present)

“Kreacher, what have you done?” You spat angrily, twisting your arm in his grasp. He appeared wholly unimpressed with the situation and less than inclined to respond to you.

“Let go.” You muttered as you tried to tear your arm from the house-elf. For looking so small, thin, and well, decrepit, he was surprisingly strong. You considered pulling your wand when someone spoke.

“Release her.”

Your head shot up at the sound. You were met with a scarily familiar smirk that left you feeling weightless.

The elf obeyed, though you wish he hadn’t as you suddenly felt weak in the knees. 

“Welcome back, Y/N.” He smirked as he stood from his perch on the edge of an ornate desk. “Ready to finish this?” 

Continue to part six here.

[godihatethiswebsite]

Desert Oasis

✽ Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x f!reader (The Mummy AU)

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part 3 - A chance discovery and a bit of mischief

These little drabbles keep getting longer and longer...

Life had been slower since your parents passed from sickness a few years back. One of your father's business associates now handled company matters, but was kind enough to keep you informed of the goings on regarding shipments to the museum. It felt like there wasn't much to do nowadays after a few unsuccessful seasons in society, spending most of your time either upkeeping the estate left to you or in the company of your cousin who practically lived in the house with you the last few months.

Passing by familiar friendly faces weathered and old from years in service, you weaved through various wooden containers packed full of priceless relics, getting a first look as they were unloaded before any of the public could get their sights on them.

A noise drew your attention from the delicate Nubian bracelet you'd been admiring. There was a slight commotion when one of the smaller crates overturned onto the warehouse floor, a very flustered new hand getting chewed out by a man three times his age as the surrounding workers started gathering everything up. To his luck there was nothing fragile in the container, but you'd seen something small roll under one of the carts and had quickly hiked your skirts up to grab whatever it was.

Sitting back on your heels, you stared at the dark little metal contraption in your hands, educated mind picking apart every hieroglyph as you rose from your spot on the floor and walked back over to one of the unloaders. Scanning the manifest for the crate in question, you found nothing indicating towards the little box's presence even after having one of the others turn their eye to the paperwork to double check you weren't missing something. None of them had seen anything like it before, nor you to be sure.

You decided to take it up to Dr. Price for his insight, mind a little too curious to wait for the other museum curators to get their hands on it first to give you an answer. You hoped he wasn't indisposed with other matters, glad to find him alone in his study peering over the dreary headache inducing paperwork that kept most of his attention during the day.

He allowed you to interrupt his work, rounding his desk to place the item down in front of him with buzzing excitement. At first he stared at it with furrowed brows, turning it this way and that with analytical intrigue, happy for the brief distraction from the mundane. He must have caught something you missed as his eyes flashed, positioning his fingers just so to press down on something, surprising the two of you with the way the device snapped open into an almost star shape at the bottom.

Price's interest suddenly turned to that of indifference once he turned it over, revealing the hollowed out interior that at some point must've housed something you think.

But... there! What is that marking on the inside?

Gently removing the box from his grasp, you angle the interior of it towards the light to inspect the writing you'd glimpsed. Where the markings on the outside seemed to have been purposely stamped in during the initial creation, the symbols within looked to have been added with something sharp after the fact in the ancient Egyptian equivalent of chicken scratch.

It wasn't a word you were overly familiar with - your brain taking a moment to pull from long ago knowledge - but you couldn't help the gasp that followed as you whispered the name, "Hamunaptra."

The scoff that followed from Price had you feeling very much like the little girl the adults had chuckled at when you'd first shown them the book you'd found full of myths and legends, softly chided for believing in such nonsense and corrected on the differences between fact and fiction.

"Got more important things to do than go huntin' down ghost stories, love." Price spoke up at you from his spot reclining back in his chair, hands folded casually over his abdomen as he gave you the look usually reserved for long suffering parents.

It didn't matter what you tried to say afterwards to convince him to maybe consider the possibility the tales were even partially based on some element of truth. He dismissed you away with a wave of his hand, brushing off your words before instructing you to take it back down to the warehouse so one of the employees could put it away with all the other knick knacks in storage.

You left his office with your head down from your scolding, a bad taste in your mouth at not being taken seriously even if the rational part of your mind told you what you'd always known: the lost city of the dead was just a myth invented by ancient Arab storytellers to amuse Greek and Roman tourists. This was a topic of interest for the occassional treasure hunter, not scholars.

You quickly deposited it right back where you'd found it before taking your leave of the museum, having had enough excitement for one day and needing some time to cool off from your disappointment.

It was only a few days later when you'd found yourself sitting out on the balcony with your dearest cousin Kyle (freshly back from a months long trip to Tanta and mostly sober), recanting him with the circumstances and conversation surrounding the artifact. Even now it was a subject that seemed to plague your mind, having done your best to try and ignore the way it scratched an itch you hadn't felt in many a year. You wouldn't admit outloud to the various drawings you had in your sketchbook of the item in question shoved beneath your pillowcase.

Kyle listened intently to your ramblings, slouched forward in his wicker chair idly swirling two fingers worth of whiskey in his glass before suddenly speaking up after a moments contemplative silence. "Want to find out if it's real?"

Now it was your turn to scoff, rolling your eyes as you tucked your legs up under yourself in a decidedly rare unladylike fashion. Typical Kyle trying to lure you in with fresh bait to go off and do something deemed irresponsible and imbolic by normal society. You casually reminded him it was just an old wives tale, but he shrugged unbothered as he raised the glass of amber liquid to his lips, one side raised in a slight smirk.

"You just leave that part to me, dolly. I'll get your answer for you."

He'd practically disappeared after that, only coming home late into the evenings well after the staff had gone to bed and leaving early in the mornings before the sun had barely risen. If it wasn't for the pantry being pillaged no one would have ever suspected him of hanging around the estate in the first place. At least it gave him something to think about other than the memories you knew still haunted him. And Kyle had always loved sinking his teeth into a challenge.

It wasn't even a week later that you'd come back from a promenade along the river to discover your cousin lounging in your bed as if he owned the place, hands behind his head staring at you with a Cheshire cat grin that you knew could only spell trouble.

Imagine your surprise when he told you he'd managed to track down info about a man who'd claimed to have seen the fabled city with his own two eyes.

Your first instinct was to call nonsense on the idea. Preposterous. Ridiculous. Absurd. You didn't know how your cousin came to that conclusion, but surely he had been swindled by cheap honeyed words half drunk at a bar. He stood behind you in the mirror as you sat at your vanity, pulling the pin keeping your hat in place to take your hair down, his hands on your shoulders and expression adamant as he held your gaze in the reflection.

You could see the mischievous youth from yesteryear in the sparkle of his eyes, ever ready to take on the world and the challenges brought forth by it. But it was overshadowed by the man he'd become, molded by hard work and dedication to king and country. He rarely spoke of the horrors he'd seen in the British Army, but they were evident in the lines of his face. Kyle had always been a handsome lad who'd chased plenty of skirts in his time, capable of charming the stripes off a zebra if you let him. But you knew he had experience well beyond the comprehension of your comparably simple life.

If he was looking at you with such surety, then you knew better than to keep spouting words of disbelief.

What you did object to however was the part where he was trying to convince you to sneak into the museum and steal back the little metal box 'for insurance purposes'.

"Who said anything about stealin', dolly? We're merely borrowin'." Yeah, right. As if the terminology would matter to the authorities should you happen to get caught.

You cursed his sly mouth and persuasive personality as you found yourself wandering down aisles and aisles of unsorted artifacts, scanning shelves and half empty crates for the item in question. The collection in the storage rooms was large enough that you could spend hours inside and hardly make a dent, but you were keeping your eyes out for the more recent additions towards the front. It had been hardly anything to walk in there past the loading bay crew with a pleasant demure smile on your face as if you belonged there just as much as them.

You'd almost given up in frustration when you spotted it hidden behind an elaborate stone bust of Sekhmet, easily glanced over as if hidden in plain sight. No one was the wiser when you whisked it away into one of your pockets, strolling back out past the men with the same carefree attitude you always carried yourself with. They didn't pay attention to the way your hands shook in the folds of your skirts from barely restrained nerves nor the way you slouched against the nearest building to calm your racing heart. Mark your words, you were going to whip Kyle for this.

Now all there was left to do was to go meet back up with him to hunt down the man he had assured you about. You wondered where you might go about even finding such a person...

<< ✿ Previous ✿ << ✽ >> ✿ Next ✿ >>

[Edited 5/8/24: changed formatting, title, tags, and numbering system]

[writtenonreceipts]

Rowaelin Month Day Twenty Two: Magic/Shifting Lessons with the Kids @rowaelinscourt

Month Masterlist

~1k words, another day of poor editing

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

Father and Son

The screams were what drew Rowan’s attention first.

He couldn’t scent any blood so he knew it wasn’t terribly urgent.  Nor could he scent any pain either.  But when his children were involved, it was best to put an end to screaming as soon as possible.  The last time he and Aelin had tried to let them scream it out the entire west wing of the palace had nearly been destroyed.

So, Rowan picked up his pace as he rounded the corner down to the practice yard where he knew his two oldest should have been working on their sword formations.  He came face to face with a young soldier instead, likely on his way to find him or Aelin.

“Ah, your highness,” the young fae said.  He bowed shortly, refusing to meet Rowan’s gaze. “The children--”

“Are causing problems again, aren’t they?” Rowan finished.  The soldier’s eyes only widened to a comical size. “I’ll see to them.”

Without saying anything else, he swept past the soldier and out to the yard.  It indeed was chaos.

Two of the practice dummies had been obliterated.  Hay streaked in every direction, barrels overturned, and Meiri stood center of it all.  Her blonde hair was, as always, in disarray, and her tunic mussed up.  She pointed her wooden practice sword at a crate where Rowan could just make out Finlay hiding behind.

Oh good.  They were getting along swimmingly.

“Come out, Finlay!” Meiri shouted. She was sixteen and well on her way to taking over the world. “You can’t hide behind that.”

“You’re cheating.”  Finlay, nearly fifteen, kept his position with his own practice sword clutched in his hands.  

Rowan could at least pride himself on the fact he insisted they not use real weapons on each other unless he, Lorcan, or Aedion were present.

“I’m not cheating!”

“Are too!”

“You can use magic too, if you actually tried!”

Meiri’s words were not meant to be cruel exactly, but she was young and confident and could be rather arrogant in her own abilities.  Exactly like her mother.  And Rowan knew how Finlay would take the words all the same.

He waited until Meiri finally noticed him.

“Da!” she exclaimed. “Would you please tell Fin this isn’t how you fight.  He’s embarrassing himself, really.”

“Stand down, Meir,” Rowan said.  He dipped his chin at his daughter who frowned, but lowered the wooden sword all the same.

Rowan nodded in approval before going to the crate where Fin was still hiding behind.  It wasn’t often that the lad acted like this.  He was indeed proud and hated displaying weakness of any sort.  But he was also still young and barely coming into maturity.  Rowan could only guess what was going on in his son’s head.  So he eased himself onto the ground right beside Fin, crossing his arms over his knees in a relaxed position.

Finlay groaned. “Oh, would you just leave me alone?”

He squeezed his eyes shut and banged his head against the crate.

“I’m the only one equipped to handle the two of you when you get like this,” Rowan reminded his son.

“Meiri’s insane,” Fin hissed.

“I heard that!” Meiri shouted from behind them.

Rowan rolled his eyes. “Not now, Meiri.”

His words were followed by a huff and stomping feet.  Rowan waited a bit longer until he knew Meiri had fully retreated to the weapons room.  He looked at his son.

Finlay was a near replica of Rowan himself.  Silver hair, tan skin, and green eyes.  Though…Rowan would swear Fin’s eyes changed on occasion.  No matter.  It was still a bit disconcerting at times to remember the fact that he, Rowan Whitethorn, had a son.  Even if he’d had over a decade to get used to the fact.  

“What happened?” Rowan asked. “Couldn’t summon ice or couldn’t aim?”

Fin said nothing as she stretched his long legs out before him.

“By the looks of it, you got a bit out of control?” Rowan pressed.

Fin banged his head against the crate again.

“It’s hard to control early on,” Rowan said, he tried to channel the way his own father trained him and not what he had learned trapped in Maeve’s oath. “Even harder when you’re still growing into yourself, maturing--”

“Stop talking da,” Fin said, finally looking at him.  It was more like a glare but Rowan would take it.

He smothered a grin and knocked his shoulder with Fin’s. “It’s alright to struggle with your magic.  But you can’t let your temper control you.”

Fin scowled. “I don’t let it control me.”

“Then why will we need to have the servants make new practice dummies?” Rowan asked.  He didn’t want to embarrass his son or make this situation worse than it could potentially be.  But sometimes you had to press and dig to get the answers you wanted. “Seems like something happened.”

Fin kept his eyes trained forward to an alcove across the practice yard.  It was left in afternoon shadows but was as innocuous a place as any to train your attention when avoiding confrontation.

For a moment, Rowan wondered if he should call Aelin here.  She’d struggled with controlling her magic and it hadn’t been centuries since that happened.  Unlike with Rowan.  He could still remember the vague sense of frustration, but it truly had been an age since he’d struggled so much.

“Finlay,” Rowan began as she stretched his legs out before him.  “Sometimes, getting better at something takes longer than we think it will, but that doesn’t mean we give up on it.”

Fin continued scowling. “Meiri teases me for losing control.  I’m trying, I’m trying really hard, da.”

It was true that Meiri’s magic had always come easily to her, that she didn’t struggle with it, that it was simply a natural extension of her being.  And even though Fin had displayed his magic early on--he’d always had a difficult time reigning it in.

“That’s just Meiri,” Rowan sighed.  “But she is your sister, and you do actually have to talk to her about things.  Or we can have one big family dinner and talk about what it’s like to grow up and change.”

“No!” Fin shouted, grabbing the front of Rowan’s shirt. “That’ll just make it worse.”

Rowan chuckled, unable to help it.  He stood and offered a hand to Fin.

“C’mon then,” he said. “I helped train your mother.  I can help train you too.”

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

not ready to try tagging again... but as always, thanks for reading friends

[erythromanc3r]

Crash!

Oh, hi! @pearlypairings came up with an awesome little prompt (party crashing) and naturally I took that and ran with it — right for The Grammys! This ficlet takes place in the It Ain’t Fiction-verse, circa ‘93!

💥 🪩 👠

He’d heard it a million times before – ‘they don’t feed you at those things!’ – and figured it was one of those bad anti-jokes decrying the absolute excess of the industry, the kind of bourgeois bullshit all the friends he’d made playing the smaller clubs used to scoff at when a bigger act would come around, shrieking over unmet demands in their riders.

Like, of course they wine and dine you. It’s The Grammys.

It turns out, they really don’t. Combine an empty stomach with being seated for no less than five hours for what amounted to a broadcast taping of a self-aggrandizing, industry-wide circlejerk sprinkled with the occasional live performance, surrounded by the kinds of people that made him rue the day he ever thought of picking up a guitar…and you’d begin to understand why he was determined to salvage the experience for his beautiful Plus One, who sat so politely and clapped when the signs said ‘applause’ and smiled with far too much kindness while she listened to agents and producers and hangers-on try to one-up each other through name-drops and net worths.

His label reps had mentioned an afterparty at the Beverly Hilton, and it seemed like a natural enough way for the night to progress – you go to the stuffy ceremony, then you hit the afterparty as a reward for your good behavior, right? Like some kind of marshmallow test performed en masse?

Wrong!

Eddie wouldn’t exactly call his behavior a tantrum, but he’s not particularly proud of how he handled the doorman’s inability to locate ‘Munson, party of two’ on the guest list. It was tantrum-adjacent, at worst, nothing an apology and a generous tip couldn’t fix, and he did genuinely believe this snub was initially a mere misunderstanding, that his name was missing on this particular document (the true and complete form tucked away in some back office, naturally) but Eddie’s persistence eventually resulted in a FIRM and DIRECT request for him to step aside…because he was, according to security, ‘holding up the line for the individuals on the guest list’.

Fucking ouch!

Chrissy, meandering behind him in a seashell dress and her shiniest, clackiest pair of heels, folded her arms and made her way to the valet with her head down. That’s when the plan first came into his mind – she looked way too good, was far too patient with her time for him to let her not enjoy the fruits of their labor tonight.

This particular ballroom couldn’t be any harder to get into than the Shrine Auditorium, could it?

“Not so fast, baby,” he murmured beside her as she dug through her clutch for the valet ticket. “I have an idea.”

There was worry in her eyes, sure! But there was also that glint of mischief that made his heart sing. “You don’t want to go home?”

“Fuck no, not yet at least. I want you to have the night I promised you.”

“But what if we get caught?!” She whispered.

“We leave the way we came. C’mon, you think you’re the only one who wants to rub elbows with Ms. Jackson? Besides, I could use the kinda cred that comes with crashing an industry party.” His small come-hither gestures lead them sauntering around the corner, where a gaggle of young men in black-tie adjacent catering uniforms leaned against the fence, already fatigued, already on their second or third smoke break of what would be an unbearably long evening.

And opposite them, the kitchen door was propped open with an overturned milk crate. Easy peasy lemon-fuckin’-squeezy.

“The doorman might not want to let me in, but you know who will? You know who's gonna be happy to see us? The guys who have to wash these rich asshole’s dishes. That’s who.”

(Chrissy’s dress is from the Versace s/s ‘92 collection btw ✨)