#At least their modern version... should I tag

[marmartea]

Aperitivo queens 🍹💅

[fairyysoup]

the devil i know

chapter eight: back in hell at least it's comfortable

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: Rabbit Season Duck Season ft. your demon boyfriend who doesn't want you to google him.

cw: explicit, smut, monsterfucking (no monstery stuff comes up but he is still a demon), blowjob, ball play, facial, making a deal with a demon (eddie's version), lover's spat but in the most hilarious way don't worry, sacrificial computer killed by fire, death mention, trauma, bullying mention, inspired by american and european folklore, sacrilegious themes, horror, witch!reader, reader is 21+ in modern day, eddie is immortal, sex pact, marking, possessive behavior, animal death, trauma, reader is ostracized by her very religious hometown, dark comedy, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

So. You’ve been at war with Eddie for two days now. 

It started as a joke. You got curious– you didn’t really mean anything by it. Maybe you knew you were poking a hornet's nest, but you don’t recall him giving you any specific instructions not to. And what were the odds that this demon, in his wisdom, gave you his real, full name in a moment of crisis? What were the odds that you would actually find something about him?

You googled the name Eddie Munson. 

At first, you did it on your phone, in bed, and your google search was limited to your IP address location. You got a ping for an Eddie Munson from one town over, who apparently bombed a car or something a few years back. The articles were bleak and didn’t include a lot of information. But otherwise, nothing from around Eastwick. 

Then you widened your search parameters. Demons are supernatural, paranormal beings, right? Eddie said he used to be human, so you figured you should treat it like trying to find a ghost. And you didn’t know how old Eddie was– he could have lived at any point, from the last 60 years to the last 6,000 years. Although, for some reason you had a hard time picturing him living in 4,000 BCE. 

You searched Eddie Munson folklore. 

What are you doing? 

You jumped at the sound of Eddie’s voice in your ear, locking your phone and throwing it across the bed. “Uhhh, nothing?”

Riiiight. 

“What’re you– did I call you again?”

Yeah. You do it a lot, you know. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to.”

Mm. Go to sleep, sweetheart. 

And you heard nothing about it. Until the next morning, when you unlocked your phone again and saw Eddie Munson folklore had brought up a few strange results. 

Eddie Munson Serial Killer

Eddie Munson Satanic Panic

Eddie Munson Cult of Hawkins

You stared at the different search results with your morning coffee poised in the air, completely halted in place. You weighed your options, wondering what on earth you were going to find, should you click on any of them. 

Was it really him? Was this even worth the effort and the possible janky links to a Subreddit you didn’t need to be scouring through?

You clicked on Eddie Munson Serial Killer, just to see what would come up, if there was a Wikipedia article with the guy’s face that you could honestly identify as Not Your Eddie. 

And your phone died. 

You scowled, and set down your coffee so that you could try turning it on again, but all you got was a dim low battery notification. Down by your knees, Dante whined and bumped his nose against your leg to get you to pay attention to him.

“Sorry, baby,” you cooed, shoving your phone onto a charger and forgetting about it. You stooped to scratch Dante behind the ears, and kissed him on his little hellhound head. “Let’s get you some food, yeah?”

You didn’t try again until much later, when you sat down with your computer in your living room. Now it was a little bit more serious, less of a joke. Even if this ‘Eddie Munson Serial Killer’ wasn’t your Eddie Munson, you’d never heard of the guy before. And you genuinely thought you were pretty checked out on various serial killers throughout history, with your penchant for true crime podcasts.

You picked at your nails for a moment, your hands hovering over the keyboard as you weighed your options. Then, you typed the words quickly into the search bar, and hit enter.

And your fucking computer glitched, blue screened, and died.

You stared at the black screen in front of you with a feeling of exasperation that bordered on irritation. You looked up, and made eye contact with Dante, laying on your floor in a patch of sunlight. The Rottweiler gazed back at you with eyes that glowed a little bit red in the sunlight, almost knowingly.

“Eddie, what the fuck is this about?” you asked the empty air.

No answer.

“Eddie?”

Radio silence. Dante yawned and rolled onto his side. The clock in the kitchen ticked on ominously. You waited for something– Eddie’s voice in your ear, or a footstep behind you, alerting you of his presence. Nothing came.

You stared into thin air, thinking over your options. You figured you could just be looking too deeply into things. You reached forward, and tried to turn your computer back on.

The screen popped once, like there was a power surge, and then the keyboard started smoking.

“Eddie!” you screeched, flinging the computer away from your lap. Flames burst from it just as it hit the floor. Dante leapt up and barked excitedly at it. “What kind of Looney Tunes bullshit–” 

The burning computer’s screen blinked on, and from behind the crackling flames, a video started playing. Off-key, jazzy fanfare blasted from the burning speakers, sounding a bit screechy and tinny, and then Porky Pig appeared from within a red circle. 

“That’s all, folks!”

“Oh, I see.” You chuckled, slowly nodding in indignation. “This is war, you little shit.” 

So, that brings you here. The Eastwick Public Library is a tiny, one story unit in the town plaza’s main strip mall. Situated at the end of the building, it boasts a row of about fifteen bookshelves, half of which house the ‘religion’ genre, and maybe six computers. Seven, if you count the one behind the librarian’s desk.

You keep your head down as you log into one of the public access computers. It’s been ages since you set foot in the library, and you highly doubt any of your beloved neighbors would like to see you in here, looking up obscure serial killers. You can almost imagine their lack of surprise.

You type in your keyword search for a third time, and wait for the computer to spontaneously combust. It doesn’t. Instead, a few images pop up, followed by a Wikipedia article, followed by a few newspaper links. 

It’s him. It’s your Eddie. 

“Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson was an alleged American serial killer. He is the only known suspect of the Cunningham-Benson-Mckinney murders of Hawkins, Indiana in the Spring of 1986, and was presumed dead after the fatal 1986 Indiana Earthquake.”

The first image that shows up is obviously a yearbook photo– the typical blue background, a close up headshot of the grin that you know and love. The second photo is in black and white, a missing persons poster. And the third photo is yet another yearbook photo, but this time it’s a group shot. A bunch of teenage boys all lined up against a brick wall, under a banner that says Hellfire Club.

“No way,” you mutter incredulously, clicking on the photo and zooming in to find Eddie in the corner, sticking out his tongue and using his fingers to create a pair of devil horns over his head. 

The link for the photo is for a yearbook pdf from Hawkins. The title of it reads HAWKINS HIGH DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS HELLFIRE CLUB, 1985-86.

You press your lips together, feeling yourself gearing up to grin. Quietly, and with the most affectionate tone of voice you have ever used in your life, you croon, “You were in a D&D club?”

One by one, each computer along the row you sit at pops and fizzles with sparks before shorting out. You pull your hands away, giggling and watching the sparks come down the line until they reach your computer, and then it goes dead.

And so does the rest of the power in the building. 

You let out a blast of laughter, clapping your hands over your mouth while a group of teenage girls in the back corner scream bloody murder. The library has gone dark, and the cranky librarian at the front desk is simultaneously shushing the screaming girls and herding them out the door. You’re still giggling when you get up, and you have to hide the smile on your face when you duck past the librarian on your way out. 

“Don’t.” Eddie materializes in your entryway when you get back home. Melting out of the woodwork, a shadow that forms into his pouting visage. He shakes his head at the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t say anything, I’ll–”

“What?” you ask him, tilting your head. You bite your lip to stop yourself from giggling again; it had been so hard to stop your fit on the way home. He looks sheepishly away from you, a bright pink blush coloring his cheeks. “You’ll what, Eddie?”

He tries to look severe, but he can’t hide the smile beginning to wobble its way onto his lips. “I’ll Looney your Tunes so fucking hard–”

“You can’t Looney my Tunes motherfucker, I’ll Looney your Tunes.” You point an accusatory finger at him. “You owe me a goddamn computer!” 

You’re not actually that mad about the computer, it was a piece of shit anyways. But Eddie surprises you by producing a new one from behind his back, and holds it out to you.

You give a placated hum as you take it from him. “So. That was you, huh?”

“No, it’s not– not technically–”

“Did you think I was gonna… gonna judge you, or something?” 

Eddie doesn’t say anything in response, his eyes flicking from yours, to the computer in your hands, and back.

“You’re a demon. I made a deal with you, I sold my soul.” You screw up your face. “You’ve offered to kill someone for me like… what, three times now?”

Eddie sucks on his teeth and looks away.

“I think I’m past the point of judgment, honey.”

“It’s not that simple.” His brow furrows, and he chews on his bottom lip, stripping chapped skin from it with his teeth. “Believe me, I wouldn’t– I wouldn’t care, except that shit… the shit you read, that’s not the truth. I swear.”

“Then what is the truth?” You ask him mildly. “Were you a serial killer?”

“No.”

“But you were in a D&D club.” 

He heaves a sigh, rocking back on his heels and tilting his head up towards the ceiling. You stare at him for a moment, watching him squirm a little bit like he’s looking for a way out of the conversation. Then, he grumbles, “Yeah…”

“You are so fucking cute.” Eddie’s cheeks turn bright red, and he spins away like he’s going to walk back through your bedroom door and disappear. You leap forward and grab his arm, giggling, “Nonono, don’t go. Come back here. So you’re a nerd, it’s okay. I’m a nerd. We’re nerds of a feather.”

“Sure.” Eddie snorts loudly, pulling you into a hug. His smoke surrounds you, as comforting and warm as his embrace. He buries his face in your hair, nuzzling against the side of your head. “M’gonna give you the truth, okay? The whole truth. And you have to promise not to run away.”

“Okay, Eddie.” You sigh and close your eyes as he lifts his hand and cups the side of your face. You lean into his touch. “I’m not running. I promise.”

HAWKINS, 1984

There are a few things Eddie Munson hates in this world. He has an abundance of annoyances, yes, but only a few things that he despises more than anything else. One of them is bullies- no matter where they come from. School, law enforcement, employers, whatever. It’s something he can’t deal with, and oftentimes out of his own propensity for self preservation, he spends his time avoiding them. He’s never been a fighter. He’s never been tough enough to defend himself, but running away is usually just as effective. 

The second thing that he hates is loneliness. He likes to tell himself that, had he known that living in Hawkins would make him lonelier than anything, he’d have chosen to go live in Indianapolis with his Great Aunt Shirley instead of Uncle Wayne. But that’s not true at all– he loves Wayne, whenever he crosses paths with him.

But he’s being held back. Senior year of high school, and he’s not fucking graduating, and he doesn’t know if he can stand another year of bullshit from the assholes in town who can’t fucking stand him. 

“You’re the only student we have who isn’t attending graduation this year,” Principal Higgins had told him, with his nose endearingly turned up in disdain. “You should feel lucky that we even offered to allow you to repeat the grade, considering your… track record.”

And so, thanks to his own irresponsibility and bad habits, he’ll be subjected to more loneliness. More bullying. More of the things he hates.

Unless.

Eddie’s done stupider things. His copper item is a… fucking moscow mule cup. Old and tarnished, but properly made of copper. He’ll get a new one for Wayne at some point, but he hasn’t seen his Uncle touch it in all the years that he’s lived with him. Eddie dirties his hands as he buries it in the wet earth, where the creek that runs through the woods behind Forest Hills trailer park splits in two. Eventually they converge again, somewhere down by Lover’s Lake, but here they create a fork.

He didn’t bother casting a circle. He doesn’t even know how the fuck that’s supposed to work.

His shoes are wet. He stands in ankle deep water, and he splashes around uncomfortably. “Hey, uh. I don’t know what I’m doing, but um. I’m– I’m here to make a deal. I guess.”

“Who’s the genius who uses a river as a crossroads?” says a woman’s voice, startling Eddie out of his wits. 

Eddie jumps and loses his balance turning around in place, toppling down in the water. He looks around, hoping that he isn’t hearing things at the ripe old age of 18.

“Over here,” the voice says again, and Eddie catches a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. When he follows it, he finds a lady waving at him, crouched down beside a tree on the outer bank of the creek. Her dark hair hangs in her face, but she has a vaguely golden aura about her that makes her stand out in the night.

When she gets a good look at him, her sarcastic smile turns into a laugh. “Well, what do you know? It’s Jim Morrison.”

Eddie frowns. “I’m not Jim Morrison.”

“Obviously,” she says blandly. “Could’a fooled me, though.” She pauses, and then looks at him curiously. “What are you doing down there?”

Eddie glances down, at where he sits up to his waist in the water. He throws his hands up in defeat. “My delicates.”

She laughs and raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Yes.” He struggles up, dripping water all the way. “Y’know this is a sacred river? It was the birthplace of a love goddess or something.” He looks over at her again, and motions generally at her. “I can see the myth was true.” 

The lady giggles, standing up from her crouched position. She wears a long green skirt that brushes the ground when she walks, and a crocheted shawl over some kind of halter top-looking doohickey. He tilts his head, being reminded of an old record that migrated to the back of his collection. Woodstock, ‘69. Grace Slick of Jefferson Airplane. 

Grace Slick– or, at least, the demon who looks an awful lot like her, considering Grace Slick is definitely still alive– grins wickedly. “Oh, a charmer. Are you flirting with me?”

Eddie cracks a smile. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

The lady hums, standing directly across the water from him. “You wanted to make a deal. I’m here to make it with you, so if you don’t mind. What is it that you want?”

“How about being the greatest guitarist who ever lived?” Eddie gestures vaguely around at his general being. Ankle deep in water, soggy and probably looking very pathetic. “I figure maybe it’ll make things easier in the meantime. What does school matter to a rockstar, y’know? Maybe it’ll help me get the fuck out of town, for starters.”

The lady tilts her head. “And you’re not Jim Morrison, huh?”

“Was Jim Morrison a guitarist?” He rocks on his feet, nearly losing his balance again as he splashes around a bit. He plods awkwardly across the water, shoes squelching and pocket chains jingling. “What do I have to do, huh? Beg on my hands and knees? I’m already out here, soaking wet, in the middle of the night–” 

“You’ll be a guitarist,” the lady tells him, her voice a bit sterner now. She regards him closely, her dark eyes narrowed at him. “The greatest who ever was and ever will be. I can see why your petition came to me.”

“My… what?” 

“Your request for a demon to make a deal with. It came to me, because I favor musicians and performers.” Shortly, she produces a small, spiraled notepad that has a bunch of messily scrawled words on it. “I’ll give you your greatness. In return, you give me blood each full moon. A few drops on a tissue will do. Burn it in a dish on your window sill.” 

“Is that normal?” Eddie asks, “Y’know, considering you’re also getting my soul, and everything.”

“It’s what I ask of you for veneration. Each demon asks for something different. I just find it easier than asking for a sex rite.”

“Excuse me?”

“After you die, you’ll become one of us,” she continues. “A demon of the crossroads. I don’t keep your soul. But I get power for securing it.” She snatches his arm, as he reaches towards her notebook. “Is that a yes?”

Eddie blinks, flushing pink from the cold and the woman’s grip, burning his skin. Her hand is unbearably hot, almost enough for him to jerk away. “Yes.”

The woman smiles with unnervingly sharp, pointed teeth. “Good.”

It takes a second for the pain to register; when it does, the notebook in the demon’s hand is already splashed with Eddie’s blood. He gives a pained whimper as he recognizes the pain of the wound on his arm, and begins hyperventilating the longer it grows, reaching up his arm, slicing into his muscle. His body tenses up and starts to shake, her grip on his arm disturbingly strong.

When she lets go, he curses and glances down to find a new mark on his arm. A black inked tattoo of a swarm of bats.

“So… you fought the forces of evil by playing Metallica?”  

“Well, it made sense at the time.”

Teeth dug into the plush skin of your bottom lip, you suppress another giggle as you sweep your fingers through Eddie’s hair, pushing his bangs back away from his face and letting them stick up into the air as you release them. He has a tiny scar on his forehead, just shy of his hairline, which you never noticed before now. You want to kiss it.

Instead, you trace it with your fingers. Eddie’s chin rests on your stomach, his eyes dark and wanting as they gaze up at your face. He has the prettiest eyelashes you think you’ve ever seen, and he bats them at you like he means to use them for your demise.

He lays between your legs on the couch. You’d moved there naturally, with his hands coaxing you and yours pulling him like a life raft. It isn’t easy, having the contents of someone’s life– two years’ worth of it– dumped into your head all at once. When he said he was going to give you the truth, he quite literally gave it to you. Directly. Into your brain.

He gave you everything, from the time that he made his deal, all the way up to his death. You saw him forming the Hellfire Club only a few months after the deal was initially made, and watched as it evolved into a gaggle of friends that he cared for and loved. And you saw the way that he protected them until the very end, when he played the greatest rock concert ever given. 

“You were so sweet, baby,” you whisper, with a tightness in your throat that tries to constrict the flow of air from getting out. 

“Wonder what happened.” You bop him on the shoulder with your palm and watch his lips quirk up into a smirk. “Hey, I mean. You don’t sit through torture seminars in Hell without getting a little bit screwy on your way out.”

“They have seminars there?”

“Are you kidding?” Eddie snorts, his eyes lighting up briefly with a little bit of fire. “There’s a whole circle of Hell that’s just one big long TimeShares seminar. I’ve been to it. Probably the most horrible thing I had to experience before I could go off and start making deals. They use it as training.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It is fucked up. It’s Hell, and I’m a salesman. Arthur Miller should have written something about that.”  

“So… does God exist?”

“Oh, sure. Lots of gods. My favorite one is Hades. Cool guy. He runs Hell– the Underworld. Same thing. Persephone is kind of intimidating, though. Don’t get on her bad side.” Eddie tilts his head at you. “Pretty much any mythological figure you can think of exists on some plane of the Otherworld. Think of… gods and angels as my coworkers, in different departments. Maybe I don’t like all of them, but I work with them.”

“The Otherworld is a department store?”

“Precisely.”

Your fingers fumble with the collar of his shirt and hook around the metal chain he wears around his neck. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

His eyes bore into yours. “Anything you want.”

“How many, um–” Your eyes flutter when he shifts, and your fingers dip beneath the collar of his shirt just enough to feel the burn of his skin there– “how many deals have you made?” 

“Including you,” he says, heaving a sigh that you can feel expand in his chest, “three. There was Charlotte, in ‘91, and then Adrian, in ‘99. Neither of them held up their end of the deal.”

“The… the full moon?” You can’t imagine how it could be that much of a sacrifice, being required to sleep with him once a month. You’re so pent up, so eager to do it already that the notion that someone wouldn’t seems absurd to you.

Eddie nods. “You don’t hold up your end of the deal… the contract is up. And then Hell comes to collect.”

You let that information hang in the air between you. You stare at it, the empty space over his head, as you try to process it in the silence that follows. “Quick way to an early grave?”

“Happened to me,” he mutters. “Forgot to prick my finger and rub it on a napkin during all that mess, fighting for my life. If you can believe it.”

There’s an unspoken air of heaviness in the room– the knowledge that he died far too young, protecting his friends with the talent he sold his soul to have. Far too quickly to make selling his soul even worth it in the long run. It weighs on you, pressing down on your lungs at the same time as Eddie’s weight presses in between your hips.

Your own rite looms over you, just a few days away. Something in your gut tells you that Eddie is giving you this– the honest truth– so you know what you’re in for. You promised him you wouldn’t run away. 

You sold your soul and promised that you’d meet his demands if he met yours; you never expected that it would get to this point. That you’d be lying here, with him curled between your legs, and you’d have to accept that the attraction you feel towards him isn’t just due to the terms of the deal anymore. 

You know him, now. Or, at least, you know him a fair bit better than you did.

You tilt your head, realizing something out of the blue. “You didn’t have to make my deal include the sex.”

“I never claimed to not be a pervert, sweetheart.” He flashes you a sharp grin. “I am your average horny little devil, you know.”

“And you didn’t have to mark me with your name,” you point out, with a note of curiosity in your voice. “Your demon didn’t.”

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, but that’s ‘cause I’m disgustingly obsessed with you and need you to be all mine, so.”

Your heart flutters at that, singing along to the tune of some stupid love song you haven’t heard in a long time. You hum, holding Eddie’s face in your hands. His eyes flick down to your lips, and then back up to meet your gaze. 

“I still think you’re sweet,” you tell him earnestly.

“You think I’m sweet?” He parrots, his hand sliding up the curve of your thigh and over your hip, his fingers curling into the hem of your shirt. He looks incredulous, like he doesn’t really believe you.

“I mean, sweet like a feral dog I have on a leash who’s out for everyone’s blood except mine. Y’know.”

He grins wickedly, a deadly twinkle in his eye as he shifts further down, his head lowering toward where your shirt bunches up around your waist, exposing a sliver of your stomach. You shudder as his hot breath hits your skin. “Is this sweet?” 

Eddie presses a lingering kiss onto the soft skin just above your navel. You sigh, your fingers sliding through his hair and gripping at the roots, and he pauses. His breath hitches in his throat at the feeling of your hands in his hair, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as he hovers there, with his lips pressed softly to your stomach.

He puffs out his cheeks and blows a raspberry.

“Eddie!” you squeal, trying to get away from him as he cackles, holding you hostage to his assault. You kick your legs and manage to squirm until you throw the both of you off of the couch, rolling with him onto the floor. 

Dante gets up from his spot at the end of the couch and disappears through the wall like an apparition. He tends to disappear off into the aether at random times, only to reappear later, whenever he’s hungry or if you call him. You guess that life as a hellhound is busy work. Or, maybe he’s just sick of you and Eddie being revoltingly touchy-feely in front of him.

“I take it back! I take it back, you little fuck–” 

“Can’t take it back!” He rolls with you gripping onto your kicking legs until you come to a stop beside the coffee table, straddling his hips. You sit back on your heels to glare down at him, but he’s still chuckling. His eyes twinkle in the low light of your living room. “No takesies-backsies.”

This position is… too familiar. It’s intimate– it’s like you’re two normal lovers on an autumn afternoon, kicking around and doing stupid shit and just enjoying each other’s company. 

Something is changing. No matter how sexually charged the relationship has been until now, something feels different. It’s in the way he looks up at you like you hung the moon. It’s in the way you lean forward and trace his lower lip with the tip of your finger, humming to yourself all the while.

Eddie stares directly into your eyes as he slowly opens his mouth and takes your finger between his teeth, his lips curving up into a mischievous smile. 

“No,” you sing at him, soft but stern like he’s a misbehaving pet. “Open.” 

He blinks, and releases your finger with a curious expression. You lean further down, nearly nudging your nose with his as your fingertip strokes gently down his extended tongue, his hot breath coming out gift wrapped with a sigh. Eddie snakes his arms around your waist as you replace your finger with your own tongue, sealing your mouth against his.

Handsy. You guess that’s what you can call him– you haven’t kissed him like this before, soft and sensual and unrushed. While his tongue works against yours in a way that has your mind reeling, his hands wander down to cup your ass and squeeze, until you squeak against his mouth and lurch against his touch. 

The thing about this is… well. You’re not entirely sure where you stand with him anymore. Is he your patron demon? Is he your boyfriend? Infernal demon boyfriend with a sweet streak that only you get to see? 

Every nerve in your body is on fire, and he’s seemingly happy to drive you crazy while you try your best not to grind down onto him. It’s all a little bit too much for you to process right now– with the way things are going, you’re wondering if you’re set for life. Who the fuck is going to compare to a demon, now that you have one? What human person will ever match up? 

“I think you’ve ruined me for everyone else,” you whisper conspiratorially, letting your lips drag against his.

“Tell you a secret?” Eddie’s voice is warm in the back of his throat. He peers at you through his lashes, eyes heavy-lidded and twinkling with the barest flicker of a flame in his deep brown irises. “That was my plan all along.”

“You monster.”  

“You got me all figured out.” He snickers once, dimples indenting rosy cheeks that are much too pretty to belong to a demon, but you’re starting to suspend your disbelief. Eddie’s laughter dies in his chest when your mouth attaches to his neck; a hollow noise takes its place, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows it down.

Hands hiking his t-shirt up over his stomach, you’re inching your way down his body like you have a plan, and Eddie’s frozen beneath you like he’s trying to figure out what it is. It takes him just a couple seconds, until your tongue connects with the trail of hair running down his stomach, and then he smirks knowingly.

“Oh, I see,” he hums, his eyebrows raising as you lick your way down toward his belt. “You’re a keen little thing, aren’t you? Don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“Shut up, Eddie.” It doesn’t come out as sharp as you intend for it to, because your hands are fiddling with his belt. You pull it free from his jeans and fling it over the coffee table with more force than necessary.

“Buy my silence,” he mutters sarcastically with a shit-eating grin. A playful glimmer sparkles in his eye as you curl your fingers into his waistband and tear at them, but he doesn’t move to help you at all. “Nine ninety-nine a month, with tax. Quick, before the rates go up.”  

You’re shaking your head, shooting him a caustic glare as your mouth finds the soft skin just beneath his waistline. You just want to get his pants off however you can– if you have to rip them off of him, so be it. 

“Oop– ten ninety-nine a month. Better think fast, baby.”

You yank them down his hips, just low enough that you can nuzzle and lick into the thick patch of hair over his groin. You breathe in the scent of his skin, lingering just beneath all his usual smoke. Warmth and salt, as though he’s real and not just the corporeal manifestation of a spirit. 

“...E-eleven– ninety-ni– hmm.” Eddie’s giddy voice dies as a purr in his throat, his head rocking back against the floor. He gasps when drool rolls off of your parted lips, wetting the skin of his hip just before you suck a hickey there. He squirms. “Fuck it. You get it for free.”

“Just wanna suck you off,” you whisper, a little more slack jawed and unhinged than you were before. You suck in a deep breath and lave your tongue over the base of his cock, as it peeks out over the waist of his jeans. “Wanna taste you everywhere, baby.”

“Christ– M’not gonna stop you. Go ahead, take what you want, sweetheart.” 

Eddie hisses through his teeth, his hips jumping when you lift his cock out of his pants. Warmth settles in the pit of your stomach, pulsing between your legs when you wrap your fingers around it. It’s so much better than in your dream– it’s thicker, massive, the vein along the bottom pulsing in your hand. 

You spit onto it, mixing your saliva with the bead of precum gathered on the head. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Eddie.”

He gasps, kicks his hips up into your fist. “Y–you’re so fucki– hhng–”

You shush him, and look up as you trail your tongue along his shaft, feeling him twitch against you. Mouthing kisses along it, wet and soft, you suck just a bit with each one to watch his chest leap with his breath. “I wanna take you to pieces.”

“Shit–” Eddie lifts his head to gaze down at you, eyes glassy, lips red and parted as he pants. “You’re gorgeous. Oh, honey…”

Eddie moans when you slide his head into your mouth, letting your tongue glide gently over his slit. His hand flies down, tangling into your hair, the metal of his rings digging into your scalp.

You open your mouth and take him in as far as he’ll go, until he hits the back of your throat and you choke. 

“Such a good fucking girl for me,” Eddie breathes, his hand on the back of your head grounding you like an anchor. “Just look at you, baby. So fuckin’ perfect, god.”  

Actually, you feel like a mess, with spit dribbling down your chin and eyes watering when he hits the back of your throat. Sniffling from the tears and the lack of air, gagging on his cock. Drunk on sin and the taste of his flesh.

You imagine that’s probably what he considers perfection, though.

He stiffens when you swallow around him, your hands wrapping around his hips in an attempt to hold him down. Eddie makes a soft sound in his throat– something you might mistake as submissive, if his hand in your hair weren’t pushing you harder down onto his cock, forcing you to gag on him. The tightening of your throat around him is enough to make him twitch in your mouth. 

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck–”  

Lips dripping saliva, your throat flexes just before you pull off with a wet gasping noise that makes Eddie curse and tighten his fist in your hair. You can’t be coy, can’t pretend like you aren’t fucking wrecked; you’re a mess of spit and tears, the salt of his precum on your tongue and in the back of your throat. 

Dipping your head, you nuzzle down to suck at his balls. Slick lips latching onto soft skin, suckling just enough to make him howl and buck his hips up against your hold. You lap at him with your tongue, hearing his moan crackle in his throat with a prideful grin. 

You gaze up at him with glassy eyes when he reaches down with one big hand to fist his swollen cock. Rings glint in the light and catch on his skin with a sharp edge, contrasting your light touch on his balls, making him flex his hips up into his own hand. 

You’re mesmerized, watching his hand work in front of your face, with your spit and his fluids spilling over his knuckles. It kicks up a sticky, wet sound that makes something deep in your gut flutter.

“Open your mouth,” Eddie grits out, in such a commanding tone that you don’t even think to question him. You just do.

The muscles of his stomach tightens when he cums, his breath hitching on the inhale. Ropes of white spurt from his tip while he groans so loud it could rattle the ceiling. Some of it gets in your mouth, but most gets on your face– large drops on your cheeks, clinging to your lips and your chin. You moan when you lick the excess from your lips before you swallow, your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Fuckin– filthy little girl, aren’t you?” Eddie murmurs, and reaches forward to snatch your face with his wet fingers. His rings dig into your messy cheeks, smearing his cum across your skin. 

You gasp, your eyes flying open to meet his, as he grins evilly down at you. It makes you shudder, a moan caught in your throat. Your face burns. The mark on your wrist throbs in the shape of his name.

“Yeah, sweetheart. My dirty girl, all covered in my cum like that.” His thumb pets your cheek, sticky on your skin as he plays with it. “What a pretty fuckin’ painting.”

You whine as he pulls you upwards, clambering over his body. Your cunt throbs between your legs, and it turns worse when he yanks you toward his face. 

Eddie’s tongue drags up your cheek, licking his cum off of your face. It makes the blood rush beneath your skin, makes your body heat up with just how filthy it all truly is. He hums low, licking your mouth and letting the tip of his tongue catch on your teeth, leaving your skin wet and stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Hm,” he grunts after a moment, tilting his head as he looks at you. Your cheeks are pinched between his fingers, your lips puckered in a way that you’re sure isn’t very sexy, but he doesn’t seem deterred by it. Eddie cracks a grin and says, “No, I don’t think I’m very sweet. Tastes more umami.”

“Oh my god.” You bark a laugh, ripping your face away from his grip so you can roll off of him. 

Eddie snatches you before you can get away, pulling you down so that he can playfully bite at your cheek, giggling along with you. “No, don’t go baby, I gotta clean you up–”

“You’re obnoxious,” you cackle at him, letting him roll with you across the floor, feeling a sort of obsessive delight consume your voice. 

He smushes his face against yours, and you can feel his teeth as he grins, scraping your skin. There’s an undertone to your thoughts as he does, which makes your heart pound in your chest when you acknowledge it for what it is.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

[hivemuthur]

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 4.

viktorxfemale!reader mature! (for now, I will mark later chapters as explicit when the time comes)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 5,4K

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary: Plot thickens! From now on, I will be dipping more into Viktor's POV from time to time. Anyways, there is a party, and you know what happens at parties.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

—

“One fucking evening this entire month we have free, and we have to do this,” Sue scoffed, emptying the lab bin into a giant rubbish bag. It was your turn for weekend prep, and unfortunately, there was no malicious intent behind it—the schedule spoke the truth. It just happened to land on the Friday Mel had invited you to a theatre department party.

“Which one do you want? Washing the glassware or laundry?” you asked, your mind elsewhere for the past week. Not that you needed a reminder of the night of your performance, but people greeting you with “Aaron Burr, sir” more often than you wished for certainly didn’t help you forget.

“I’m sorry, is there really not one offended bone in your body? This is gross,” Sue hissed, grimacing at the chewing gum she had to scrape from underneath the workbench.

You shrugged, offering her an apologetic glance. “I think my soul fled my body a long time ago, Sue. Also—if we do this fast, we’ll only be fashionably late.”

Sue grunted in defeat. “Fine. But! Can we at least have a little fun with it?” She dramatically pulled a small speaker out of her handbag and started the Hamilton soundtrack.

You responded with an exaggerated eye roll and a sigh, but you didn’t stop her.

At first, you were determined to focus on the task and finish as quickly as possible. But by the third song, your resolve wavered. Soon enough, you were screaming your lungs out while furiously washing beakers, joined by Sue, who was waving lab coats theatrically before hanging them out to dry.

You were so absorbed in your performance that you didn’t notice Jayce peeking through the little window in the TA’s office.

“Uh… do you think they know we’re here?” Jayce whispered into the quiet space of their tiny room, as if you and Sue could somehow hear him over the clamour you were making.

“I doubt it,” Viktor replied with a subtle smile, not lifting his eyes from the notes he and Jayce were preparing.

“Well, should we tell them?” Jayce asked, glancing at his partner, but he couldn’t suppress a giggle. When their eyes met, they both burst into laughter, snorting at the chaotic spectacle unfolding in front of them—you and Sue wreaking havoc with what had to be the worst version of Hamilton the world had ever seen.

“Definitely not,” Viktor said, shaking his head as he rose from behind the desk. He stepped up to the window beside Jayce, stealing a brief, inquisitive look at the scene before him.

Jayce shot him a questioning glance, an incredulous smile playing on his lips. “Viktor, you’re evil,” he whispered loudly, his tone equal parts amused and scandalized. When Viktor didn’t reply, Jayce hesitated before adding, a little shyly, “Should we… record this?”

“Definitely yes,” Viktor said without missing a beat, nodding a few too many times. An evil smirk spread across his face, his sharp features illuminated with mischief.

Jayce laughed quietly, pulling out his phone. They leaned closer to the window, trying to stifle their giggles as they recorded your exaggerated tap dances and overly dramatic singing. You belted out all the roles at once, seamlessly switching from one caricatured voice to another. Sue, meanwhile, danced around you, waving lab coats like pompoms in a cheerleader’s routine.

“Viktor, we kind of need to leave, though,” Jayce whispered, glancing at the clock on the wall. His expression grew worried. “I promised Mel we wouldn’t be late.”

“Well, we can’t leave now, can we?” Viktor replied, still peeking through the small glass window, the smile never leaving his face. “They would eat us alive if they knew we were here.”

Jayce groaned softly, torn between his promise to Mel and his unwillingness to interrupt the chaos before him.

“Besides,” Viktor added, nudging Jayce lightly with his elbow, “I think this… experience might come in handy one day.”

Jayce turned to him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “What are you planning in that evil head of yours?”

“Ah, nothing too harmful,” Viktor said with an innocent shrug, though his amused tone betrayed him.

You and Sue carried on with your impromptu performance, finishing triumphantly with the last song of the first act. You spun theatrically, slapping the autoclave door shut with a loud clang, while Sue hefted a giant rubbish bag—now roughly the size of an adult human—over her shoulder with an exaggerated grunt.

Still laughing and singing, you exited the room, your voices and footsteps echoing loudly through the corridors.

Viktor let out a satisfied hum as the sound faded. “Well,” he murmured, stepping back from the window, “that was thoroughly entertaining.”

Jayce shook his head, pocketing his phone. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Viktor said with a grin, “it’s your phone that now has the priceless recording on it.”

***

The party was already in full swing when Sue and you arrived. The soft buzz of laughter and conversation drifted out through the open doors of one of the theatre department's scene rooms, spilling into the dimly lit hallway. Inside, strings of fairy lights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow over the modest but well-decorated space. Students from various years and departments milled about, sipping drinks from mismatched glasses and occasionally breaking into animated conversations. The party felt exclusive but relaxed, an invite-only gathering of the social and the curious.

“Okay, this is cute,” Sue said, surveying the scene as she adjusted the strap of her bag.

“Yeah,” you replied absently, your eyes scanning the room. You didn’t exactly feel like you belonged among the artsy crowd, but Sue’s excitement was contagious enough to keep you from bolting. Also, Alice was going to be there.

Before you could venture further, a familiar figure waved at you. Mel. She was stationed near a small bar set up at the far end of the room, looking as effortlessly glamorous as ever in a sleek black dress. Her smile was wide as she approached, holding a glass of wine.

“You made it!” Mel greeted, pulling both of you into a quick hug. “Sue, Y/N—I was starting to think you’d bailed.”

“Not a chance,” Sue said with a grin. “Though you can thank lab duty for making us late.”

You chuckled lightly. “Yeah, but we brought the energy of ‘cleaning under duress.’”

Mel raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to know. Just grab a drink, mingle, and enjoy yourselves. Theatre kids know how to party.”

Before long, another commotion near the entrance caught your attention. Viktor and Jayce had arrived. Viktor looked sharp as ever in his typical understated style, though there was a slight flush to his cheeks, as if the cold night air had left its mark. Jayce, on the other hand, was already waving enthusiastically to familiar faces.

“Speak of the devils,” Mel said with a smirk, watching the pair approach.

Sue elbowed you. “You think they followed us here?”

You snorted. “What, and crash an artsy party? Highly unlikely.”

As Viktor and Jayce joined your group, you couldn’t help but notice how both men exchanged glances and smothered giggles.

“What?” you finally asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” Jayce said, failing spectacularly at looking innocent. His grin widened as he glanced at Viktor, who was suspiciously quiet but equally amused.

“Seriously,” Sue added, crossing her arms. “What’s so funny?”

Viktor tilted his head, the barest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, nothing of importance.”

You and Sue exchanged confused looks but decided to drop it, instead dispersing into the party. Sue quickly made a beeline for the bar, striking up a conversation with Alice and a couple of theatre students. You, however, drifted aimlessly for a while, chatting briefly with a few familiar faces.

It wasn’t long before you spotted Ambrose. He was leaning casually against a wall, his drink in hand, wearing the same easy confidence he’d had when you first met. The warmth in his eyes made it slightly worse. You had completely forgotten about him.

“Y/N!” he called, weaving through the crowd toward you. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

“Hey, Ambrose,” you replied, keeping your tone polite but guarded.

“So,” he said, a small grin playing on his lips, “you never reached out. I thought we had a connection at that party.” He looked at you expectantly, making your stomach twist.

You shifted uncomfortably, your grip tightening slightly on your glass. “Yeah, sorry about that. Things got busy; you know how it is.” You scolded yourself for how weak your response was. You’d once gotten this kind of response from a boy, and it had hurt you deeply. Now, you suddenly understood why people didn’t bother taking that extra step to soften the blow.

Ambrose’s smile faltered for a moment before he recovered. “Sure. Maybe next time, then?”

“Maybe,” you replied, your tone dismissive but still polite.

As soon as Ambrose turned his attention elsewhere, you exhaled deeply, needing a moment to yourself. You were hoping to find Hale, but before that could happen, you slipped away from the main party area and into the adjoining dressing rooms. The lights above the vanities cast a softer, more diffused glow, and the quiet felt like a balm. You scrambled up to sit on top of one of the vanities, stealing a quick glance at your own reflection before turning away from it, letting your gaze wander across the room. Your mind raced, jumping from Ambrose to Sue and her new girlfriend—and, reluctantly, to Viktor. He looked nice today, but the glances you caught from him were, at the very least, unnerving.

“Ah, there you are,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

You turned, startled, to see Viktor leaning casually against the frame. His posture betrayed the alcohol in his system, a slight sway giving him away. His cheeks were flushed, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and—your gaze caught on a detail that immediately soured your mood—a faint lipstick stain marked his cheek.

You raised an eyebrow, a wry smile creeping onto your lips. “Well, well. Someone’s been busy.” The words felt bitter on your tongue, and you forced a smile to stop yourself from hopping off the table and walking out. What was this reaction?

Viktor blinked, momentarily confused, before following your gesture to his cheek. His hand flew to the spot, his fingers brushing the stain as realization dawned. “It’s nothing,” he said dismissively, though the redness in his face deepened.

Your tone was light, but Viktor caught the stiffness in your smile, the way your eyes darted briefly to his cheek and then away. Was it bothering you? The idea made his heart lurch in a way he wasn’t ready to unpack. He didn’t think of himself as someone who inspired jealousy—especially not from you. Yet, the way you teased him now, your words just a shade too sharp to be entirely playful, sent a quiet thrill through him.

“Oh, sure. Just your typical party accessory,” you teased, though you couldn’t entirely mask the twinge of hurt you felt. Your stomach twisted itself into an even tighter knot as the fake smile glued itself painfully to your face.

Viktor stepped closer, his usual sharpness softened by the haze of alcohol. As he leaned in, he couldn’t help but notice how the soft light cast shadows on your face, emphasizing the curve of your lips. Lips he had stolen too many glances at tonight. How many times had he caught himself doing it now? Five? Six? More? It didn’t matter. The alcohol had stripped away the discipline that normally kept his thoughts in line.

“You seem… preoccupied,” he noted, his voice steady despite the warmth in his chest and the growing fog in his thoughts. He took a few wobbly steps toward you, his cane resting inches away from your knees, which dangled from the vanity table.

You quirked an eyebrow, leaning back and crossing your arms. “Do I? Maybe I’m just wondering if you’re collecting lipstick prints as a hobby now.”

The smirk that tugged at Viktor’s lips was faint but maddeningly confident. He could feel your gaze flicker to the stain again. Did it bother you that much? Your discomfort struck a chord in him—half guilt, half triumph. It was petty, but knowing you cared, even in this small way, sent an odd sense of satisfaction curling in his chest.

“Jealous, are we?” he asked, his tone teasing but quieter now, his accent rolling heavier as the alcohol loosened him further.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Please. I’m just concerned about your… hygiene standards.” You waved your hand around him dismissively.

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound lingering between you. His eyes darted back to your lips before he caught himself. He shouldn’t be doing this—thinking like this. Somehow, whatever this was between you had already gone beyond the possibility of remaining casual. But the distance between you felt too small, the air too charged.

“I’ll have you know it was entirely unsolicited,” he said, his smirk growing despite the twinge of nervousness fluttering in his chest.

“Mm-hmm,” you replied, narrowing your eyes playfully. “And yet, you didn’t wipe it off.”

“Perhaps I forgot,” Viktor said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping lower. “Or perhaps it’s a memento.”

Your laugh was light, but Viktor swore he saw a flicker of something else in your expression. Were you embarrassed? Amused? Hurt? He couldn’t tell, and it frustrated him more than he cared to admit.

You shook your head, fighting back a smile. “You’re impossible.” You let your head drop for a second, seeking a brief reprieve from your forced expressions, from his eyes on you. The wine burned in your stomach, and your fingers clutched the edge of the table a bit too tightly.

You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, willing your thoughts to steady. Viktor’s chuckle echoed faintly in your ears. You didn’t register the moment his hands moved to your ribs, pulling you in as he collided with your lips in a clumsy kiss. Instinctively, you spread your knees to let him closer, and he immediately obliged. One hand slid to cradle your waist, while the other kept your face close to his by your neck, his grip tight—on the border of pain.

He was hot beneath your lips, his body uncertain, his mouth greedy as if he expected you to push him away. You felt his urgency, and as your palms travelled to his hips to pull him closer, he took the invitation instantly. When your soft body pressed against his chest, he couldn’t hold back a groan that reverberated down your throat. You gave in to the kiss completely, tangling your fingers into his hair as he held you tightly, his grip on your neck unrelenting.

He wanted the kiss to be rough, rushed, and meaningless. No, he didn’t want the kiss to happen. But as it unfolded, he wanted it more and more, finding himself melting under your touch, gentle and welcoming, as if you wanted it just as much as he did. The jealousy in your eyes made him want to reassure you that the lipstick stain was nothing—just a clumsy, patronising kiss from Mel for finally accepting her invitation to something. His thoughts clattered drunkenly in his head as he poured himself into you, your body rocking underneath him, his trousers tightening, your scent assaulting his senses.

He almost told you how he had wanted to kiss you instead of handing you the phone back in his office, or during the cigarette you shared, how he had taken it from you to place his lips where yours had been seconds ago, how much you pissed him off in class, and how he had no idea what to do about it. Instead, he groaned painfully at the pressure between his legs and muttered only, “Wait,” as he pushed himself away from you.

Viktor's breath was heavy, and his chest rose and fell rapidly with the frantic rhythm of his heart. He felt the warmth of your body still pressed against his, the softness of your touch still lingering on his skin, and yet the moment he pulled back, a cold weight settled in the pit of his stomach. His hands were still trembling slightly, a mixture of desire and something darker, something unsure, gnawing at him.

You looked up at him, confusion clouding your expression. “What’s wrong?”

His mouth went dry. He didn’t have an answer—didn’t know how to explain what was happening inside him and that it was ugly. His mind was a chaotic mess of tangled thoughts that all fought each other, hurting his brain. He had kissed you, wanted you, he felt you, and the feeling was stupid, it was silly, and it was great. But now, in the aftermath, the thrill of the kiss was quickly replaced by the terror of his own compulsion.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly, trying to mask the truth. “I just… sorry, I got carried away.”

Your brow furrowed as you looked at him, almost searching for some kind of explanation. “Um, did I make you feel like I mind?”

“No,” he answered sharply, a little too sharp. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes flickered away from yours. He could still taste you on his lips, the feeling of your hands on his skin, and it made his heart beat harder, faster, but also painfully. He could feel the weight of his own indecision.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the rush of emotions made him feel dizzy. The pull to kiss you again was so strong, but so was the part of him that was terrified of what that meant. You made him feel amazing, and he scowled internally.

“Just don’t think much of it,” he said finally, his voice lower now, trying to make it sound casual, though it only made the moment heavier, dragging him lower and lower. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at you, seeing you still there, still waiting for some kind of explanation. The disappointment flickered in your eyes, and it made him want to reach for you again, to erase the distance he had just created. But fear held him back. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to feeling this… exposed.

Viktor ran a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze. “I shouldn’t have—” He stopped himself, unsure of what to say next, unsure of how to make sense of what was happening inside him. “Forget it, I’m... drunk,” he muttered, almost to himself, trying to regain some semblance of control.

But the damage was done. The warmth that had enveloped you both now felt like a distant memory, replaced by an awkward silence that felt too heavy to bear.

You felt so many things at once. In the span of mere minutes, Viktor had managed to make you realise not only that Hale was right, but that you could accept it—and worse, that you wanted it. But you worked faster than Viktor. In the ten seconds it took for him to pull back and mumble his apologies, you had already played out five different scenarios of how this could end.

You were ready to pick the one where you confronted him immediately, demanded an explanation, but then Hale’s words came back to you: You were a king. And you bowed to no one.

So, you pushed your anger and hurt aside.

Sliding off the table with practised ease, you cleared your throat and left the room with a steady, measured pace, not sparing him a single glance. Back at the party, you slipped effortlessly into your role. You danced with Hale, smiled, and joked with Jayce. You had a heartwarming chat with Mel, kissed Sue goodnight as your friend fled the party with Alice, and laughed at things that, later, you wouldn’t remember.

And then, when you finally returned to your empty room, when the music and the laughter faded into silence—you cried your eyes out.

***

Sue abandoned you for the entire weekend. You didn’t mind—you completely understood the flutters of new love—but being left alone with your thoughts proved disastrous. Your ambitious plans to study for two days straight fell apart under the weight of anger, hurt, and disbelief swirling inside you. Instead of being productive, you did absolutely nothing.

You spent hours pacing up and down your room, practising scathing speeches you imagined delivering to Viktor, each one sharper and more damning than the last.

By the time Sunday evening rolled around, you decided you couldn’t stay cooped up any longer. You snuck into the lab, determined to practise the tedious exercises you’d be running through in class the next day. You were at the awkward stage of university where most students had a vague sense of the direction they wanted to take, but still had to slog through the general science classes to check them off the list.

You slouched over the lab bench, your notes scattered haphazardly under the dim overhead light. You hadn’t even bothered to change properly, opting for sweatpants pulled over your pyjama bottoms and a baggy hoodie that was far too warm for the room. Your hair was tied back messily, strands clinging to your face as you worked through a particularly mind-numbing formula. You scribbled furiously, the dull scratch of your pen filling the otherwise silent space.

When you finally set your pen down, stretching your arms above your head, the sound of the door creaking open startled you. You turned to see Viktor stepping in, his gait uneven, the weight clearly favouring his good leg. His usually composed figure looked gaunt and worn, exhaustion etched into his features.

He stopped when he saw you, his expression briefly flickering with something unreadable before he schooled it into indifference. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here this late,” he said, his voice calm but with a hint of weariness.

You said nothing, your gaze dropping back to your notes as if he hadn’t spoken at all. You ignored him entirely, scribbling a note in the margin of your paper.

Viktor’s lips twitched—whether in irritation or amusement, you couldn’t tell. He crossed the room slowly, setting his cane down carefully with each step. When he leaned against a bench across from you, the faint bruise on his lower lip caught the light, and your stomach twisted.

“I’ve decided not to trust Mel with invitations anymore,” Viktor said, a dry humour lacing his words. He gestured vaguely, his eyes skimming over the room rather than meeting yours. “After that party, I woke up feeling dreadful and can barely remember a thing from the evening.”

You froze mid-scribble. You set your pen down slowly, your head lifting to meet his gaze, your expression icy. “Tell me, Viktor,” you said, your tone sharper than broken glass. “Does Jayce breach some kind of university ethos by being friendly with us, or was it a conscious choice for you to become a wanker?”

Viktor blinked, visibly taken aback, though he quickly masked it. He leaned on his cane, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite your venomous tone. “Do you ever take prisoners?” he asked, his voice low and measured, though his eyes searched your face as though trying to unravel your fury.

“Never, it’s not in my nature,” you replied coldly, your gaze burning into his. “Especially not when someone can’t handle their shit and decides to take it out on me.”

Your words struck like a lash. Viktor’s smirk faltered, his posture stiffening. He stared at you for a moment, his tired features betraying a flicker of something raw—shame, frustration, or perhaps a mix of both. “Is it in your nature to be cruel?” he asked softly, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

He knew you were painfully right. He had completely lost control that night, panicked, and given you no chance to reconcile. He had made the decision for you. But he already knew what your decision would have been, surely. So why were you so angry?

Viktor’s hand tightened around the back of the chair he leaned on, his knuckles turning white. The room was oppressively quiet, so quiet he could hear the gears shifting in his head. You still hadn’t answered him, your jaw set tightly as if refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“Nothing to say?” he asked, his voice quieter now but edged with frustration. “It’s unlike you to hold back, Y/N.”

Your head jerked up at that, your eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m learning restraint.”

Your tone cut sharper than he expected, another small jab that landed too close to home. Viktor drew in a breath and forced himself to stay calm. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to close the gap between you or leave before this conversation spiralled even further out of control.

“Why are you like this?” he asked, almost to himself. He sounded tired, even to his own ears. “You won’t even try to understand—”

“Understand what?” you snapped, your voice rising suddenly. “That you can’t handle it? That you’d rather pretend nothing happened than admit you actually wanted it? Even though you walk around with a fucking bruise on your mouth that I left there?”

Your words hit him like a slap. Viktor stiffened, his brow furrowing as he looked away, searching for some invisible anchor to steady himself. Of course, he remembered everything. He had spent around half an hour staring at himself in the mirror on Saturday morning, ghosting his fingers over the bruise.

“You’re wrong,” he said finally, though the words came out slower, more hesitant than he intended.

“Am I?” you stepped closer, your arms crossed over your chest as though shielding yourself from him. “Then explain it to me, Viktor. Why did you do it?”

The question caught him off guard, your voice cracking just slightly at the end, and he hated how it made his chest tighten. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth was too dangerous and too stupid simultaneously.

He shifted, leaning against the table, his head tilting as if to dismiss the gravity of your question. “Do what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

Your expression darkened. “The kiss,” you said slowly, enunciating each syllable as though daring him to dodge the question again. “Why did you kiss me, Viktor?”

He hesitated, the silence stretching between you like a chasm. His lips parted, a dozen half-truths swirling in his mind before he finally settled on the one that felt safest.

“Because I was drunk,” he said, the words coming out more clipped than he’d intended. “It was a mistake. I let myself get… carried away.”

Your eyes flickered, just for a moment, and he forced himself to look at you, even though guilt burned behind his ribs. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea,” he added, his voice softening.

You stared at him, your jaw tightening as if physically holding back your reaction. For a moment, he thought you might yell at him, hurl something cutting and sharp his way. But you didn’t.

Instead, you shook your head, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Right. Of course. A mistake.” Your voice wavered, just enough for him to catch it, though you quickly composed yourself.

“Y/N—” he started, but you cut him off with a raised hand.

“Don’t,” you said, stepping back from him. “Just don’t. You don’t want to give me the wrong idea? Fine. Message received.”

Your words were laced with venom, but there was something fragile beneath them. You turned away from him, picking up your bag from the desk and slinging it over your shoulder. Viktor watched you, his stomach twisting as you headed for the door.

You paused just before leaving, your hand resting on the frame. “You know,” you said without looking back, “you’re not as good at lying as you think you are.” And with that, you were gone.

The door clicked shut, leaving Viktor alone in the silence of the room. He exhaled shakily, his hand running through his hair as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. None of it. And yet, deep down, he knew he’d only made things worse.

[marsprincess889]

Ok so I'm back to bringing you guys' attention to what's going on in my country.

I don't have the heart to tell it all in detail. In truth we're all so familiar with it that talking about it seems comical. But to keep you up to date, there have been massive protests in Tbilisi, Georgia since late November.

On 26th of October of this year, the Georgian Dream party falsifies yet another election and on the 26th of november elects themselves as the ruling party again, despite EU, most of the other nations and all the other parties recognizing the elections as illegitimate. Recently they chose their new president, who was basically the only option. The photo of the literal bulletin from the parliament leaked.

People demand another election, a fair one. Peaceful protests soon turned into police beating up the protestors, even teens and women. They're still using water cannons mixed with pepper spray, in December btw. You can look up the videos, even on here.

The main thing that is painful to me and my generation in all of this is the fact that this is a completely new, modern and different version of the same damn fight. Right now I'm thinking of young men and even women and others who were severely beaten up, about people struggling to make ends meet who have their loved ones in such situations, young people trying to build their future who see less and less hope every day in their homeland but are desparately trying to hold on to the last tiny bit of it, maybe even goimg to protests in that state. Today I heard two girls around my age talking. "We gotta get out of here right?..." "yeah... but who are we leaving it to?" "The country?..."

Being free and sovereign in your homeland should not be an uphill battle or a luxury.

We have been fighting against Russian influence for centuries. For those who don't know, even when the repression isn't obvious, they still attack bit by bit(killing or kidnapping our citizens near the occupated borders??????), often with an old and tried tactic: trying to erase our culture and history, and with it our spirit and identity. And with all the other horrors, this is a huge insult.

My heart sinks everytime I read a random comment on a map or other type of video saying "Georgia is not Europe", "but Georgia is Asia". Not that there's anything wrong with Asia, but those statements mean something different and much deeper than an average foreigner suspects. Georgia never ever was "not Europe" to me. This isn't even about joining EU immediately as much as it is about us voicing our own wishes, opinions and truth as the vast majority of our country.

One thing I want to say to people who are far away from this is this: please do not fall for propaganda. And by that I mean Russian propaganda. If you just try to keep it clean while posting about us or checking sources while reading about us and calling out misinformation, it is going to mean a lot.

I tried to not write about this cause let's be honest, what can I do here?

I hope this will do at least something.

I do have followers so, I'm also asking them🤍🤍🤍 even those who just know me from astrology. Please consider reading and reblogging. 🤍🤍

reblogging(esp with tags) is still support.

Edit, additional info that you should probably know: Georgian Dream is a pro-russian government, they just banned wearing masks and goggles(those protect you from pepper spray by the way). If you walk by the parliament in Tbilisi your eyes and skin will almost definitely start to "burn" and you'll most likely start coughing.

There have been phone numbers calling and cursing at/insulting/threatening citizens, even pre-teens, believe it or not. And since the government passed "the russian law" earlier this year, we are most likely being tracked😐

Here is my post from this spring, written in an angry and tired state.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiebingo.

Climb You Like a (Christmas) Tree

12 Days of Christmas Prompt: Santa | Word Count: 2806 | Rating: E | CW: Monsterfucking | POV: Steve | Tags: Modern AU, Steve "Santa Claus" Harrington, Krampus Eddie Munson, Size Difference, Banter, Fluff and Smut, Is It Still Monsterfucking If They're Both Kind of Monsters?

This follows: Same Time Next Year?

Also here on ao3.

The same artist that did Krampus did a version of Santa and that had to be what I based Steve off. I wasn't even going to do Steve as Santa, but that made it a necessity. It honestly worked out nicely that I had both Krampus and Santa as bingo prompts.

"I'm getting fat," Steve says, looking in the mirror. None of his clothes fit. His pants won't even close enough to button anymore. Hell, he swears he's fucking getting taller. He can't get taller. He went through puberty a long, long time ago. 

"You're not fat," Eddie says, sharpening his claws in a way that hurts Steve's ears.

"Stop that," he snaps.

"Oh, your hearing is expanding, too?" Eddie asks.

"What about my hearing?" Steve demands, putting his hands on his hips.

"You're changing. Ahead of schedule. This usually takes longer. Immortality lasts a while, you know. Forever."

Eddie snaps his fingers, and suddenly he has a pair of red velvet pants in his hand. He tosses them to Steve. There are two big, solid gold jingle bells right in front.

"Very funny," Steve says, but he puts them on, because at least they fit.

In his hands they looked way too long, but now that they're on his body, they seem to be hitting him right where they should. 

He's fucking taller. 

"Am I seriously getting taller?!" Steve demands, but not really believing it. Because there's no way. He always wanted to be taller, but not like this. This had better not be some sort of delayed wish granting situation.

"By the day, I can hear your bones growing," Eddie says with glee, making a horrible creaking noise. "Music to my ears."

"Stop that," Steve says, it's like nails on a chalkboard, which Eddie would definitely be scratching his claws against if he had a chalkboard handy.

Steve can't believe this, though. Taller? He cannot be getting taller. Eddie never told him he was gonna Hulk Out to be Santa. Eddie didn't tell him a lot of things.

"You're Saint Nick," Eddie says, "that comes with height. And girth. Lots of girth. Everywhere."

Steve whips his head around, and Eddie is smiling, flicking his long tongue in and out of his mouth, like a menace.

Like a goddamn demon. 

And Steve's incredibly fond of him. 

Eddie's changing, too. His vocabulary is growing as fast as Steve's waistline. He's becoming more and more human under that Krampus skinsuit. 

"Well, you seem more human," Steve accuses, trying to dig at him a little bit in return.

Eddie's unbothered by that, apparently, "Well, I was human, once upon a time."

"Then why with all the gruff?" Steve asks. Eddie was barely grinding out single syllable words when they first met.

"Disuse," Eddie says, stroking his long goatee with his knobby fingers, "I didn't like the last Nick. We didn't see eye-to-eye, so I had no reason to speak to him for centuries."

"But me?" Steve asks.

"You I like," Eddie says, and Steve smiles, then frowns, as he looks back at himself in the mirror. He didn't know he was signing up to look like Santa Claus. 

"How big am I gonna get?" Steve asks, and he's a little scared of the answer.

"Big enough for me to climb you like a tree," Eddie says, and Steve isn't sure if he's joking or not.

He'd better be joking.

He wasn't joking.

Steve barely recognizes himself anymore. He feels like himself on the inside, but on the outside? He's definitely changed. 

Without making a single adjustment on his own, he's suddenly built like a brick shithouse. 

Solid muscle over an exaggeratedly large frame. He's not fat. Not really. But he's built as if the biggest NFL O-lineman, met the tallest NBA player, and then had a long-haired, long-bearded baby. All of it, white as the driven snow.

"Did the last Santa look like this?" Steve asks.

"Hell no. He was a feeble old man. Think a fat Dumbledore," Eddie says, and then adds. "The first one."

"You said I wasn't fat!" Steve argues.

"You aren't, he was. Use those big ears and listen," Eddie banters. He's funny. Evil, certainly. But funny. 

Then Steve thinks about what he'd actually said:

"You watch movies?!" Steve squawks, and he can't imagine the Krampus he met in the woods sitting in front of a television set. "Do you have HBO? Netflix?"

"Shut up," Eddie laughs, "it's a long time between Christmases."

Steve smiles.

"So, he looked like that, and I look like this?"

Eddie grins wickedly, "It's certainly been an improvement."

Steve's not the only one changing. 

"Dingus, look at my hair!" Robin yells, and Steve doesn't have to look to know exactly what's happened.

He turns and faces the music.

Oh. It's not that bad. In fact, it's pretty.

She hasn't grown, upward or outward, thank god, or he'd never hear the end of that, but her hair is now a sleek, white bob. 

"Wow, you're beautiful," he says, because she is. She isn't like any Mrs. Claus he's ever seen before. She's not old, or dowdy, in the slightest. 

"Be serious," she says, hands on her hips.

"I am," he says. "I really am."

"Steve," she says, as she runs her hand over her new hair, but she's smiling. Just a little. 

Good. She should. 

Walking over, he towers over her now, but he wraps her up in a hug, his huge biceps swallowing her around the shoulders, "Thanks for agreeing to spend forever with me."

"And me," comes the snarky voice, seemingly appearing behind Steve out of thin air, and Robin groans.

"You're not a selling point, you're literal hellspawn," Robin banters at Eddie, laying her cheek against Steve's soft, white Henley. He's Santa. But modern. So, it kind of makes sense that she'd be a modern Mrs. Claus, too.

Eddie and Robin might bicker, but he knows they like one another. They're both just jealous. He has the magic to know who's naughty, who's nice, and that doesn't exclude either of them. Eddie is naughty by nature, but that doesn't extend to what he feels for Steve, or Robin, because she's a beloved extension of Steve.

Steve doesn't tell either of them he knows all this, and just lets them continue to act like they aren't friends. 

It's easier that way, and more fun. 

"What in the fuck are you wearing?" Steve asks, taking in Eddie's current appearance.

"Tsk, tsk, Santa shouldn't use naughty language like that. Might get himself on a list for a spanking," Eddie says, from under some sort of pelt. 

"Did you skin a reindeer?" Steve asks, "That better not be Rudolph. He gets picked on enough."

"Because they never let him join in any reindeer games?" Eddie asks, then laughs like the demon he is from under his fur cloak.

Steve puts his hands on his hips. That's not an answer.

"Baby, it's cold outside, and I'm meant for a warmer climate," Eddie says, pointing downward. 

Steve grins, just a little. He knows it was a sacrifice — and not the kind Eddie likes — to spend the year in the North Pole instead of in the underworld. But, Eddie wants to be with him, and Steve needs to be here.

It's a compromise. And Steve thinks more humans should be capable of making those, too, if even Krampus can do it.

"I like it, it looks warm," Steve says, but he really does hope it's not one of the reindeer. At least not one of the main nine. Maybe someone from the backup squad could be sacrificed for Eddie's warmth. Maybe. 

Eddie's been a good sport. Well, he's been a sport. Steve needed to learn the ropes, and wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of spending most of the year in hell, either. So, Eddie's here. 

Unfortunately, the elves hate that Eddie's decided to call the North Pole home. They call him Belsnickel behind his back, and it just makes Steve laugh and think of Dwight Schrute. He wonders if Eddie's seen The Office, or if he's just more of a fantasy film kind of creature.

"It's not a reindeer, calm your tits. Your big, burly tits."

Steve gives him a pretend disapproving look, because if he lets him run wild, they all suffer.

But, that's something at least. Steve won't ask any further questions. It is what it is, and it isn't what it isn't, and Steve's moral compass isn't exactly pointing towards true north these days, despite their current location.

Another day in Santa's workshop behind them, with the sign counting down the days to Christmas flipping lower, Steve lays in his big sleigh bed. It's a bit on the nose, with red, satin sheets, but it's sturdy, so he doesn't mind. 

Plus, Eddie's in it.

The first time they did this, Eddie towered over Steve. Now, the tables have turned as Eddie slides up Steve's solid belly, tightening his thighs down against Steve's bare skin.

The fur on them tickles, just a little. Eddie isn't a man, at least not all man, but he's so expressive that Steve sometimes forgets that. 

Now, rutting against his belly, he seems more animal-like.

Steve wraps his large hand around Eddie's cock, and grins wickedly, "Not so big now."

Eddie bares his teeth, sharp points that are all bark, no bite, at least when it comes to Steve.

Steve laughs, "Easy, tiger."

Eddie grabs a hold of his tail, and runs the tuft of hair on the end against Steve's ribs, making Steve twist with laughter, "Okay, okay, uncle!"

Appeased, Eddie lets it go, and gently scratches his claws down Steve's chest. It feels good. Really, really good. 

Steve rolls Eddie's heavy balls in his large palm. He doesn't know where they go. He should look like a squirrel with his nuts always prominently on display, but somehow doesn't. Must be magic. Or, they just retract into his body like his cock does when not in use.

Steve doesn't know. He should ask. He's sure Eddie would give him an explicit demonstration. 

Eddie grinds against Steve's rounded middle, and Steve can't believe this is life. He just went for a run. Now he's Santa Claus and Eddie is his demon companion. Light and dark, good and evil. 

Steve strokes him with a careful fist. 

He's cautious in a way he never had to be until recently. Eddie'd probably enjoy a little pain, but Steve is still getting used to all the changes his physical body has gone through. His hand feels like it's the size of a dinner plate. That might be an exaggeration. But he feels like that. 

Everything he touches feels smaller these days, and he thinks he looks like Shaq always looks holding a can of pop with everything he touches. Including Eddie.

Steve wonders if he's still the monsterfucker or if he's unwittingly became the monsterfuckee. 

He'll ask Robin. 

But Steve knows he still looks like a man, just a scaled-up version, so he'll keep his monsterfucker title. Eddie can be a Santafucker, if that jingles his bells. 

"Oh Satan, split me wide, send me to hell," Eddie says, and Steve laughs. There's dirty talk, and then there's…that. But he gets the sentiment. Everything grew with him proportionally, and that means his already above average dick is still impressive against his large frame. Eddie's bouncing up and down, working himself open on it, and if it wasn't obvious before, it's obvious now, that they aren't mere mortals anymore. 

"You've got it wrong. That's a synonym. I'm Santa not Satan," Steve banters.

Eddie groans, annoyed, "It's an anagram, not a synonym. No. Wait. Santa and Satan do mean the same thing, currently. Carry on."

Steve grins. Eddie talks and talks, but Steve has his number, and presses up into him in just the right way. Eddie howls as he comes all over Steve's belly. Still fisting his deep red cock, thumb pressing against every ridge, still chasing more, and he doesn't give up until he comes again, adding to the mess. 

Only then does Steve let go, coming inside him.

"Hot damn," Eddie says, stretching, arms above his head. 

Then he smiles down at Steve, wickedly. 

"Roll over, my tongue has places to be." 

And Steve's not gonna argue with that. 

Steve thinks Eddie is part demon, part goat. He never tells the truth, though, so he can't be sure. But laying against the red satin sheets, asleep, long hair fanned out, he's beautiful as far as Steve's concerned. He got lucky. Most probably wouldn't say getting fucked in the woods by a monster, and then being chosen to become his immortal companion, would be a win. 

Steve isn't most people. He wasn't before, and he definitely isn't now.

"What?" Eddie asks groggily.

"I see you when you're sleeping," Steve teases. 

"I'm glad your eyes still work, grandpa," Eddie banters back. 

Steve laughs. Yeah, he needs glasses now. And, yeah, his hair has gone long and white. But he's happy. Jolly, even.

He pulls up his velvet pants, the ones with the bells, and straps on his thick leather suspenders.

"Sleep, hellspawn. I have a workshop to run," Steve says, and Eddie closes his eyes again.

The elves are happy to see him, and even happier to not see Eddie at his side. They'll warm up to him. It's inevitable. 

Robin is giving directions, keeping the whole operation running, and he smiles at her.

"About time, old man," she says, and starts giving him the rundown of today's schedule. What they're making, how many, and what's already on the docket for tomorrow. It's a well-oiled machine here in Santa's workshop, he's just the figurehead.

But he still goes around, visiting each station, chatting with the elves that are the backbone of the place. 

When he goes back to his bedroom, Eddie is hunkered down in the corner near the fireplace chattering in a language Steve doesn't speak, probably communing with his minions. 

He finishes up, and Steve has settled near the window. The snow outside always makes everything look so bright. 

"Here, think fast," Steve says, and Eddie looks up just in time to catch the orange. Then he joins him at the table.

Eddie slides a claw through the thick skin, starting to peel it easily. Then he offers segments to Steve, and they share it sitting around the little table. They must look funny together. Steve, an oversized Santa, and Eddie, a still oversized, just less so, demon goatman. Eating an orange. At the North Pole.

Steve has a pile of letters to Santa to answer, and he slides half of them to Eddie, "Be nice. I'll know if you're naughty."

"What if they're naughty?"

"Then their letter isn't in this pile. You know that."

Eddie grumbles, but he'll do it, because Steve asked. Robin will double-check Eddie's work to make sure he didn't go off-script. It's happened before.

"I don't know why you insist on putting an orange in every kid's stocking," Eddie complains, but he keeps eating, so he's kind of answering his own question.

He picks up the pen, and it looks funny in his knobby fingers.

"It's tradition," Steve says. There was a handbook, and Steve read it. Then Robin read it, and made sure he understood it. 

There are different ways he can change things up, if he so chooses, but the oranges in the stockings don't seem to be optional.

"Sixty-nine days till Christmas," Steve says. 

"I'll get my paddling rod shined up." 

"I thought we talked about that," Steve says, a raised eyebrow. 

Eddie bares his teeth. 

Steve chuckles. 

"Maybe Santa will bring me a new one, then, if he's so selfish that he wants mine all to himself." 

"Maybe he will," Steve answers. "You'll just have to wait and see. Maybe write Santa a letter and ask real nice." 

Eddie glowers. 

"Or you could ask the elves." 

Eddie narrows his eyes, but not before they flash red. 

Steve pulls his sack closer, the one he still doesn't understand the bottomless magic on. It's like Hermione's bag, with the undetectable extension charm. 

He reaches in and pulls out something, squeezed in his fist. He turns his hand over, and opens it, offering it to Eddie.

It's a lump of coal. 

Eddie laughs, picks it up and puts it in his mouth, chewing. 

"My favorite," he says through blackened teeth. 

He's something else. 

But then Steve pulls out a brand new birchwood rod. It's carved, and has red ruby on the end of the handle. 

He hands it over, and Eddie smiles. 

"I guess I was a good boy this year." 

Steve laughs, "You were something, for sure." 

"Can I try it on you?" Eddie asks, a glint in his eye. 

"No, that is the whole point!" 

Eddie weighs it in his hand, and meets Steve's eyes, "Maybe there could be a third rod." 

Steve shakes his head, but he's already moving towards the bed, his hands working his belt, the bells on his pants jingling all the way as they hit the ground. 

You can see my updated cards and all my filled bingo prompts right here.

If you want to sign up for a future bingo event or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiebingo and follow along with the fun! 🎅

Notes: I knew so very little about Krampus, that this became a rabbit hole. Man, I had fun, though. As soon as I saw he was a companion to St. Nick, it basically wrote itself.

When I wanted the elves to have a nickname for him, and googled "nicknames for Krampus" and saw that Belsnickel was one, so that had to happen. Like, there's a reference Steve will get, and be tickled by.

[nerdieforpedro]

Front Covers and WIPs

Thank you to amazing @saradika for gifting us all these cool Penguin Classic Book Cover Templates 😘

I was tagged by @604to647 and @morallyinept and their front covers are amazing so here we go!

Most of the series are on Tumblr but one or two might be on AO3 (I’m still trying to figure out what designs I might use for them. 👀)

Presenting: (With my brand of humor 😘)

The above fics are linked here: 🤣

Sard’ika Sessions / AO3 - Din Djarin x fem reader

Only Parts of You Mr. Morales / AO3 - Frankie Morales x fem OC

The Lake Between Us / AO3 - Ezra x fem OC

Honey and Sugarplum (AO3 only) Jack Daniels x fem OC

Fire and Fury / AO3 - Pero Tovar x fem OC

Weddings 101 with Dieter / AO3 - Dieter Bravo x Maya fem OC

This is the Neighborhood Din / AO3 - Din Djarin (modern version and Grogu is human) x fem OC

Green Shop of Memories (AO3 only) Marcus Moreno x fem. OC

Come live with me Angel / AO3 - Benny Miller x fem. OC

Front Office Adjunct (AO3 only) Dave York x fem. OC

I’m combining this with WIP Wednesday since I haven’t done one for a while:

“Now that’s a lie sweetheart and you know it.” His voice is low and makes her laugh. She highly doubts this, she had no idea that things would turn out this way so quickly. Before she can offer a rebuttal, Benny grabs her wrist and kisses the inside of it. “You’ve had me since we sang ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and I wouldn’t let go of your hand. I haven’t let go of you since Angel.”

From chapter four (I’m working on it) of “Come live with me Angel” with Benny Miller and Diana (OC)

Also this:

Rolling his eyes as he watches some older woman in a yellow track suit walking a poodle and eyeing him like he doesn’t belong, he flips her the bird as she stomps away, “Nope. I did give the finger to this old woman looking at me like I’m a round peg in a square in my own damn neighborhood. She’s one of those that would calm the cops for dumb shit.” He pauses a beat, “You finished reading? Anything you wanna ask?” The older woman yells some obscenities while her dog barks at its owner’s behavior. Dieter pays no mind and starts circling the tree he’s standing next to, trying to work off some of his anxiety. “First impression at least, give me something Aisha. Any direction you might be heading with it.”

From chapter six of “A Safe Place for Us” with Dieter and Aisha. Because I can’t help but make things serious as of recently. I need more whimsy. 🥸

Last one, kinda long but, it’s me I’m long winded 🤣:

“I enjoy many a meal. A real man ain’t picky darlin’. However, I know a good brunch place that has good food and good drinks. Think we might make an afternoon of it?”

”Asking for so much of my time already? You think you’ll keep me interested that long?”

”Sugarplum, I think the real question ya should be askin’ yourself,” Jack had the nerve to move his hand from her shoulder to her hip, squeezing it and whistling when he felt how supple her flesh was as he jiggle it, “Are you going to let me dine on a particular meal I’m looking for?” A second kiss was placed on her cheek and he was pulling back his hand, but Maeve placed it back.

”I might. You’ll need to work me into it like you said Jack. Mind if we talk more first?”

This one is from Honey and Sugarplum with Jack Daniels and a fem OC. Their banter in chapter one makes me giggle no matter how many times I read it. I’m going to get it on Tumblr one day. 👀

NPT: @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @soft-girl-musings @lotusbxtch @magpiepills

@syd-djarin @sin-djarin @avastrasposts @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @maggiemayhemnj

@jolapeno @goodwithcheese @secretelephanttattoo @bitchwitch1981 @burntheedges

@kilamonster @fhatbhabiee @inept-the-magnificent @yopossum @yourcoolauntie

@din-cognito @djarins-cyare @alltheglitterandtheroar @for-a-longlongtime @musings-of-a-rose

@tinytinymenace @trulybetty @iamskyereads @schnarfer @baronessvonglitter

@professionalpromqueen @pedroshotwifey @murder-wife @sunshinehaze1 @rosecentaur1916

@chaithetics @perotovar @grogusmum @gwendibleywrites

[finishwhatyoustarted-event]

Tools Tuesday - Tagging - March 18

This Tools Tuesday is all about tagging, for when you’re ready to post your finished work on Archive of Our Own or any other site that uses tags! AO3, as the most popular fic posting site, will be the focus.

To begin: what are tags? And why do we use them?

Tags are keywords used to describe a fic or post. They can serve a variety of functions, but at their core they tell a viewer what to expect when they click in. On some sites (like Tumblr), they are at the bottom of the post or in the body of the post (like bsky). On AO3, they are the third thing seen, after title and author.

As seen in this handy infographic from SummerofSpock on tumblr, tags on A03 fall into 5 rough categories: Canon, Format, Tone, Relationship, Theme.

[full image ID in ALT text. Infographic titled “Tags are Tricky…a quick and dirty guide” with tag example lists in the categories of Canon, Format, Tone, Relationship, Theme. Each box is a different pink, in a gradient. End ID.]

source: https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/698388759652319232/mostlyinthemorning-i-kind-of-suck-at-tagging-so

Not every fic might use every category, and there are certainly tags that overlap categories. There’s also what I consider a 6th category, which is Author Commentary (no beta we die like xx, character needs a hug, why did i do that much research for a single paragraph, etc).

All of that aside, why should you use tags?

They help readers find and enjoy your fic! The two main uses of tags when searching is Seeking and Avoidance.

Seeking is when a reader really wants to read a particular thing, like they want fix-its only or just Modern AUs. Once they narrow it down to fandom, these are the tags they’ll type into the search bar. If your work isn’t properly tagged, it won’t show up, even if it’s the epitome of a Coffee Shop AU and that’s the term they search. Generously tag so readers can find you!

Avoidance is excluding a fic from consideration due to a particular theme or topic. Maybe their pet just died, so any mention of Animal Death is out. Maybe they are really tired of a particular ship, or are narrowing down for a rarepair. On AO3, there’s a section in the filter bar for excluding tags (see below, boxed in blue). Readers can eliminate what they don’t want to see, which is wonderful! They can select exactly what they want; not every fic is for every reader. Generously tag, so readers can be selective!

[ID: the Archive of Our Own filter bar Exclude section. End ID.]

Still unsure how to tag your work? Or stuck on other aspects, like ratings and warnings? The Fanfic Author’s Guide to Metatext (As Used on Ao3) by Eiiri is an incredible, in-depth explanation of everything contained within the metatext (tags+warnings) block on an AO3 fic. I — this event’s mod — use this text as part of my determining for rating guidelines, and I have found it extremely helpful for tagging my own works. View in full on tumblr and AO3 at these links

full text in post:

AO3 version, from which you can download as a pdf, epub, or other format:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30986561/chapters/76535018

Additionally, this event requires certain tags be honored and present as needed, primarily common content warnings or hot topics. See the rules post for more information. These tags at least need to be present in any promo post that are applicable, though tagging the fic itself is always good practice. After all, tags are like the ingredient label of a fic.

Still not sure what to tag and want more inspiration? This post from @/insanitysilver has great links to further help, as well as an example of a tagged fake fic!

~

Have a question not answered above? Is there something important I missed? Want to see a post about tagging for Tumblr, Twitter, or another site specifically? Start a discussion in the replies and reblogs! Thanks for participating, and good luck with your wip!

-

Tools Tuesday is a weekly part of the Finish What You Started event where I share various resources I have found to help everyone complete their WIP. Have a resource you want to share? Send it in a message and I’ll take a look!

[pix-writes]

Thank you so much for answering my question! You always give very thorough and thoughtful answers 🥹🥹 If you don't mind me asking, can I ask the same question about friendships (possible lovers later, just like with Stanley) but with Ford? Thank you so much again, I really love reading your analysis 🥹🙌🏻✨️!!

Aw thank you! ☺️

(answer under cut)

I think I've gone over a little bit about how Ford would be in the beginning of a friendship/relationship in this post. Mainly talking about how his flaws/past wound would hinder him forming relationships, generally.

Though I did mention that I think Ford would be easy to bond with, in terms of connecting over something intellectual or nerdy. If you're someone who is game to tag along on research or adventures and can lend a hand figuratively/physically, then your friendship will start to grow, as quality time is the best way to get to know him (he may be a hero/adventurer, but he's truly an introvert with introvert hobbies). Shared interests are something that seems very important to Ford, having been starved of a lot of affection and deeper connections in the past, especially since he found making friends in school/college; so as long as you share a few passions, he'll open up to you fairly quickly.

However, it will take him more time to form a romantic connection and for him to act on it, it will be very slow burn because firstly, he simply doesn't move fast in a relationship, or at least not as fast as modern dating seems to be, and second of all because he has a little insecurity over whether you're interested in him or not/should be interested in him. It takes Ford a little bit to be convinced you won't get your head turned by someone more 'suitable' in his mind. This is also in part to the trauma from Bill's manipulation and torture, whilst you may have only connected after bill was erased, it still brings up trust issues in him and he needs to feel he could trust a partner - as well as work through anxiety about putting you in potential danger (will be quite protective over you as a partner as a result of this).

Kindness will go a long way in securing his opinion of you as someone trustworthy, not only to him but Ford seeing you be kind to his family, your other friends, even to strangers or just plain altruistic in actions not just in words, means that he can trust that he has evidence to back up what he thinks of you and not fall into a similar trap like he did with bill.

Also will admire you for any show of bravery or doing what is right (especially if it's in a situation where it's against the odds, whether it's something dire or a situation where it would be easy to give into social pressures). He appreciates when people say what they mean and are direct with him, as he'll be the same with them (I'm neurodivergent and I hc Ford is too, so this may be specific to being ND, as it's confusing when neurotypical people talk in circles to me!)

Friendship with Ford would include:

watching nerdy TV/films together, whilst I think Ford has only passingly known of/shown interest in world events even before the portal incident, he still managed to have some semblance of interests/life outside of his research, it may arguably not have been a lot, but considering his interest in dnd (including the intergalactic versions) and how he wanted to drop everything to play it with dipper in that one episode, he is definitely interested in catching up on all the nerdy TV/films he's missed out on, cue watching LOTR, star wars, star trek etc. However his gaps in world events comes up as well at the most random of times, he didn't really ask much on what he's missed out in world news (it's not relevant to his work or so he thinks), which can be both hilarious and sad, as as his friend you have to catch him up or remind him (e.g. 'no sixer, the soviet union doesn't exist any more, remember?' 'oh yeah, there was a war in Afghanistan... What do you mean how did it start?!')

playing board games/video games, like I said above Ford is a long time player of ttrpgs and so you will be persuaded into playing some version of a DND campaign if you're not already into it. Ford's excellent at teaching the mechanics and actually pretty good at roleplay and DMing, he can't do many voices but his storytelling is masterful (he is an author after all, even if he wasn't writing fiction and has lots of past practice from college). Dives straight into 5e, learns it quickly and creates his own homebrew version in no time at all! If you introduce him to the concept of dnd shows, he becomes a critter for sure! Essek and Percy are his favourite characters in Critical Role. Hums the theme song sometimes when he's working in the lab. Dipper gets him into Minecraft and you together construct a large home base and underground lab in the game. A lot of these games can take a long time, definitely have stayed up till 3 or 4 am on a campaign more than once.

research in the lab together or out in the field and debating with Ford about all sorts of topics, including your current research projects and both of your hypotheses. You might not have the same skill set as him but he values a different perspective from his own, you help balance out his hyperfocus. Is protective of you if something might be dangerous, will want him to be the one that gets hit/hurt if anyone has to, though both of you have had to patch up the other.

Getting into debates: Ford loves a mental challenge, he doesn;t realise its good for him (consciously/not until post-weirdmageddon) but having someone who isn't afraid to challenge him or speak their mind with him helps to keep him grounded and for him to really pause and think about his theories/morals. It doesn't have to be too deep though, perhaps you simply disagree on something, this will turn into a full debate, but despite some thinking you're arguing, its more of a passionate conversation, you're both having fun. Plus its even more fun when Ford ends up agreeing with you (its rare but it boosts your ego when it does happen)

related to the adventures a little: expect Ford to praise you/your efforts, (reminds me a bit like the 9th doctor or Sherlock) will just be doing something or figuring out a code or puzzle he'll exclaim "fascinating!" Or brilliant/fantastic/excellent/good, sometimes he's not aware he's saying these hushed phrases! Or he'll follow it up with questions, eyes lit up from being energised in his work, like "fascinating! How did you reach that conclusion?" 🤓

catching him up on technology, he finds it difficult compared to the high tech stuff from other universes but I like to hc he would get over it eventually, he's not the most adept in terms of keeping up with internet culture but is when it comes to tinkering with technology and experimenting/improving it. Still likes to call people instead of text and will have regular phone calls with you if you or him are away from each other.l, eases his worries about you (he's protective and still has nightmares from time to time so he likes to hear your voice so he knows you're ok).

Spending quieter moments together, even if its just stargazing on the stan o war whilst stan fishes, if you're close friends, I can imagine Ford would like hugs, holding hands and on the odd occaision napping cuddled up together (platonically) - the naps happened by accident at first, however its nice and your adventures are exhausting sometimes, so you now get the weighted blanket for you to both lie under for an hour or two (Mabel definitely has a picture of you asleep on her phone because its adorable).

Ford hasn't driven for 30 yrs (well not a regular old car anyway) so you've definitely had to drive him places/collect him before because his attempts at driving are almost as reckless as Stan is behind the wheel 😬 on a boat though? He's the most trustworthy captain 🫡 meticulous on the safety checks, will boss you and stan about a little on what to do, but you know it's for good reason... most of the time

[steddieas-shegoes]

116. “you wrote me a song?” any rating! 💕💕💕

I really thought you'd go with something so obviously smutty just based off of you breaking my brain so often, but this is such a soft prompt. I made it sweet and also a little smutty (barely) 💖

Rated M | tags: modern au, rockstar eddie, making out, light frottage, fade to black sex

🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶

Eddie being holed up in his music room for hours is normal.

That's what Steve's telling himself, at least.

But ever since the boys had been back from their tour, Eddie had been...weird.

It wasn't necessarily bad, at least not at first, but the last few days had seen Eddie being unusually quiet and withdrawn, his mind clearly elsewhere while they ate breakfast together before he disappeared for most of the day. He would appear again by dinner, usually tired, and always a bit snappy, like he didn't want to be around anyone.

Steve recognized it, but didn't quite place it until today.

He was working on a song.

Eddie was like this the last time a song wouldn't translate from his head to the instruments or the paper.

It didn't make it easier to deal with feeling so alone in their home, especially not when he'd spent a lot of the last four months alone while he was on tour.

"That's it," he said to himself as he stood up from the couch.

He walked to Eddie's music room and knocked on the door, three knocks, pause, two knocks, just like always.

Their version of 'I'm checking on you, I'm worried, let me in.'

Eddie opened the door, dark circles under his eyes.

"Break time," Steve said, grabbing Eddie's hand and pulling him from the room, ignoring the sputtering protests.

"Stevie, no. I gotta-"

"No you don't. You can come with me for a bit."

"No. You don't understand, I-"

"No, you don't understand." Steve stopped and turned to look at him, hands on his hips. "I've been mostly alone for months and I thought having you back would mean I have you back. But you've been closing yourself into that room for days now and I miss you. I miss you."

Eddie's face falls, Steve's hands fall, and they both fall into each other.

Eddie's arms are wrapping around his waist as Steve lets out a sob.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean to make you miss me," Eddie whispered into his ear, kissing his temple, his jaw, his cheek. "I'm right here, love. I'm sorry."

Steve nodded, accepting the apologies, the kisses, the love he was being given. He wasn't ashamed about needing it, not anymore. Eddie made sure he never felt like he couldn't ask for the attention he wanted.

"What's got you so stressed in there?" Steve finally asked, voice muffled against Eddie's shoulder.

"C'mon, I should probably just show you," Eddie pulled away, tugging Steve back towards the music room.

Once inside, Steve was led to the couch and given a peck on the lips.

Eddie sat down at his keyboard and cracked his knuckles.

"I've been working on something since we were on tour, but I thought the reason I couldn't get further was because of my environment. But I've been home for days and it's not getting better. Every time I think I'm onto something, I lose it or it doesn't come out right or it doesn't fit with the rest," Eddie explained, gesturing wildly.

Steve watched with wide eyes. He always loved watching Eddie's passion flow through his limbs the same way it flowed through his words. It was one of the things that made him fall in love with him.

"Show me what you've got so far, then," Steve gestured for him to start playing.

Eddie wasn't one to hold back, but he hesitated now.

It only lasted a moment though, his fingers starting to flow over the keyboard and his voice starting to sing.

It was beautiful, and nothing like what Steve had expected, nothing like what Corroded Coffin normally performed.

The words were romantic, hidden behind a yearning, something Steve hadn't heard Eddie write since before they were together.

And then he sang a line that would've knocked Steve to his knees if he'd been standing.

"It's with a curse I leave you, it's with a curse I love you I can't find my way back to you tonight"

Steve immediately flashed back to one night in the middle of the tour, when Eddie had called him right after a show, something he only did when the show didn't go as well as he hoped.

He'd complained about the storms delaying their start time nearly an hour, and how Gareth was offbeat for half of a song, and how the fans didn't seem as into it as usual. And when he went to hang up, he said "I wish I could find my way back to you tonight."

Steve had been almost asleep by that point, but the sung line sparked the memory.

Steve stood and walked over to Eddie, cupping his face in his hands and swiping his thumbs across his cheeks.

"You found your way back to me now, though, baby. You always do," he said.

Eddie pulled his hands from the keyboard and pulled Steve down into his lap.

"I needed you then. I started writing this that night. Sorry it's not finished yet."

"You...you wrote this for me?" Steve asked, realizing now that there was a reason why he used that line.

Steve wasn't stupid, but sometimes he was a little slow.

"Yeah, sweetheart. I know you miss me when I'm gone, but you have no idea how much I miss you."

Steve knew, or thought he knew, that Eddie missed him. They talked every night before shows, and texted on Steve's lunch breaks and when he got off of work. But it always felt like Eddie got to stay busy enough not to think about missing him as much.

But this tour had been the first time Steve couldn't take much time off of work, only being able to attend a handful of shows throughout.

Normally, he spent more than half the tour with him.

Steve kissed him, hard.

Eddie grunted, surprised at the sudden intensity of Steve's lips on his, but didn't pull away. His hands gripped Steve's hips, leaving bruises as a reminder that Steve wouldn't actually need.

Eddie would be home with him for months now, enjoying the holidays together, visiting their friends and family as time allowed. He wouldn't have to leave for another tour until their next album was released the following year.

They had time.

But Steve's lips acted as if they only had tonight, his stomach already fluttering with need and anticipation of having those needs fulfilled.

Because Eddie would. Eddie always would.

He may not always be there, he may have to miss him, but he always got what he needed in the end.

The kissing turned messy, lips wet and spit on the corners of their mouths, desperate to keep sharing and tasting each other.

"Want you," Steve panted, bucking his hips forward so that his hard length finally got friction against Eddie's. "Please."

"Here?" Eddie asked, breathless.

"Anywhere, everywhere, doesn't matter."

"Oh my god. That's perfect!" Eddie pulled away, turning to the notepad on the sheet music stand.

Steve smacked his arm.

"I swear, Munson, if you don't focus on my extremely hard dick soon-"

"You're anywhere, everywhere But not here, not tonight"

Steve melted.

"That's good, Eds. It's really good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Steve kissed his forehead, smiling into it as he felt Eddie's shoulders relax. "Now, will you please fuck me on this bench?"

Eddie laughed and bit his shoulder.

"If you insist."

[nysus-temple]

I saw you mention this twice this week and so I was wondering...what's the thing with Virgil's name being misspelled about?

I never heard of this in class so I'm assuming it has to do with the English version of his name SPECIFICALLY, right? I'm kinda curious

Oh this might get long.

I actually LOVE to talk about this silly little thing !! I had to search for a lot of stuff regarding it back when I had to do an university work about Virgil (and I've never been the same ever since).

A quick clarification first: yes, I only speak for the English, Spanish and "Latin" versions only. I'm not sure how he's called in Italian nowadays. Virgilio, perhaps (that's Spanish).

The whole thing about the name being misspelled is, well, we all know he was called Vergilius in Latin, even if now we refer to him as Virgil and Virgilio respectively, when the actual transcription should have been Vergil and Vergilio, at least if we follow the rules. The reason most languages nowadays keep that <i> in his name instead of an <e> is due to his name having been written as Virgilius instead of Vergilius for quite a LONG while.

At the end of 1484, Angelo Poliziano traveled to Rome for the first time as a member of a Florentine delegation. During that trip, Poliziano had time to look through ancient codices in the Vatican Library. Thanks to that, he had found that Virgil's name was, in fact, Vergilius, not Virgilius, as all the copyists and authors had kept calling him. And well, all the modern research agrees with him nowadays, the name of the mantuan poet has an <e>, not an <i>. It's not certain why Virgilius was the name used instead for so long, BUT we know that by the 5th and 6th centuries this was already the predominant spelling.

And you know to where those centuries belong to? The Middle Ages !! Bear with me, most of the shenanigans regarding poets such as Virgil have to do with that.

Virgilius was associated etymologically with both virgo and virga. It was more metaphorically than an accurate etymology, though. Why do I say this? Well, turns out that back during the Middle Ages, Virgil's Eclogue IV was read as a prediction of the coming of Christ (virgo) and "magic wand" (virga) due to a tradition that made Virgil some sort sorcerer capable of prophesying the birth of Christ.

This is, obviously, not a fact. But given the topic of the Eclogue IV, of course we were going to use that as an excuse to talk about the coming of Christ. (I wonder why the Eclogue II has been ignored for so long, hm).

There's also the traditions of the biographers stating that Virgil had a nickname, parthenias, due to his apparent timid character. And uh, why we do know he didn't like the public gazes much, I'm not so sure if we can take all these biographies as a fact. So take this last bit with a grain of salt.

(Before Poliziano wrote his work explaining why Virgilius was wrong, we DO have one or two examples of the name Vergilius being used instead, but those are odd cases I did not look into.)

You can see how in English this has already been starting to change. People will call the poet either Virgil or Vergil, since both are equally accepted.

My case? While Vergil sounds better, closer to Latin, I use Virgil instead in order to avoid the mantuan poet being confused with *checks notes* the half-demon with family issues. Believe me the DMC fanbase has found some posts of mine in which I tagged the poet as Vergil instead of Virgil, and the misunderstandings were hilarious.

Hilarious, yet understandable. Searching "vergil" shows you the character. If you specify "vergil, poet" it will correct you to "virgil".

In Spanish? Well, if you say Vergilio instead of Virgilio, everyone will give you a side eye. And while, both are accepted like in English, submiting academic work in which he's not being called Virgilio can end up in a bad mark.

I tried that, and the response from my professor was "I don't know, he has always been called like that, I suppose. Vergilio just sounds wrong, correct it."

[hobbitwrangler]

Research rabbit-hole tag game

Rules: As writers, we all end up researching random things for our writing. Share the latest thing you've researched for your fic and tell us something you learned!

Thank you @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras for tagging me! I am finally working on a fic again so have something to share for this tag :)

At the minute I'm working on a, well it's not quite an eothiriel fic, but it's eothiriel-adjacent, sponsored by eothiriel if you will, featuring a minor Rohirrim character and an even more minor Gondorian character. It's involved me doing a fair bit of research into Saxon marriages - from a property and inheritance oriented standpoint because I'm romantic that way.

In early Christian Europe there were two methods used at this time for calculating how closely related people were to check they could get married. There was the Greek method, secundum Graecos, (which was considered more scriptural) which counted the number of generations removed from a specific ancestor for one partner, while the Roman method, secundum Romanos, adds together the number of generations for both partners.

According to the judgements of Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury, 'a girl of sixteen has power over her own body.' Meaning that if her father wants to force her into marriage he has to do it before then. Wheee.

A bride would inherit half of her husband's property if she didn't give him a child and the whole thing if they had at least one. Get your coin, ladies.

I discovered a poem from this time period called The Wife's Lament, which portray's themes which are actually referenced in this fic, like the issue of being isolated from family and the community she's grown up in, in a new family environment which is lonely and potentially hostile. I managed to find a version translated into modern English, which was a really interesting read. If anything this is just reassuring to know that I'm tackling this from the right emotional angle.

Apparently wedding rings were originally a Roman engagement custom, which appears to have later become a thing in Saxon Christian marriages at least to an extent.

I am also currently losing my mind over what the rules should be regarding Gondorian women wearing veils or not. Pray for me.

tagging @emyn-arnens @scyllas-revenge @thebitchkingofangmar and anyone else who'd like to do this!

[shmreduplication]

unsurprisingly, whatever hack hit Lydia's youtube channel also fucked the queued posts :(

fortunately i have v good friends who make delicious food for thanksgiving and are up-to-date on hacks that affect projects that I'm working on and send me a link to a dropbox account with all the vids saved to it, and that has a link to dailymotion which should work with tumblr's video embed code so the posts should be fine once I replace all the urls

here are the blogs if you want to follow now, nothing is going to be posted there at least until 2025 but you can go ahead and follow now. realtime lbd (just going to be the vids), realtime lbd socmed (will have the tweets and tumblr posts)

so here's the updated to-do list:

keep screenshotting tweets and hope they don't delete the accounts before I'm done

group the tweets by day

schedule like 400 posts that are just the tweets from each day. Probably less because I don't think there are tweets from literally every day but I haven't gotten to Lydia yet

Update all the Lydia vids with the dailymotion links

pick profile and header pics for both blogs

make and schedule some posts advertising that this is going to be a thing and put them in the LBD and P&P tags

maybe some countdown posts too? idk

message Hank Green to see if he'll post about it because obviously there's audience overlap

add image descriptions to all the tweets

think about the fact that everyone is making a self portrait of all times with everything they do so that these two blogs are going to be a self portrait of me even tho i'm literally reposting other people's work and if someone else posted the same vids and tweets then they'd pick different ones and it would come out differently

(optional) watch the Colin Firth version and the very pink 2003 modern AU version because I just got those on dvd

(optional) rewatch the Keira Knightly version

(optional) watch Nothing Much To Do, a vlog version of Much Ado About Nothing, which I only found out about recently

???

profit

sit back and enjoy march 2025-2027 as the queues for both blogs run and I don't have to do anything else because they're fully set up

[lazerswordweilder]

What, those aren’t in the same universe- yes they are. <<<the thoughts running through my head when I made a crossover of Marvel, Star Wars, Danny Phantom (Dannys stays in Amity and never leaves though, he literally just happens to become a halfa) and DC.

(Its important to note this was written in 2024)

A fact known to Anakin and Anakin alone is that Obi-Wan was reincarnated to take part in Star Wars. He was born in the year 1849 on earth, it was the earth we exist on today, only the future differs. His name was John Kyle, an archeologist who is a retired medic from a long forgotten war but also had unofficial diplomatic and fighting training from various tight spots. Years ago John found a child lying in the desert.

Anakin however has simple been alive all those years. He was born in a desert to a human mother captured by scientists ahead of their times, the experimented on her, and he was born from it. He lay on the desert dying for years, his unwelcome powers keeping him alive and suffering, this sparked his hatred, of the desert, of the sand, of the scientists. The only thing he remembered were his mother’s dying words “Anakin, you’ll- you’ll be so great, you’ll walk the skies.” as she succumbed to her wounds after giving birth, at least he remembers his name Anakin.

Anakin grew up under John, John becoming the father he never had. By the time he was 20 the war had ended but it scarred him, he never forgot the screams. By the time he was 25 he had stopped aging, blaming the scientists and not explaining his past to John out of fear of rejection. By the time he was 34 and John was 52 John thought he had connected the dots, his apprentice had stolen an artifact they’d both been hunting for and it had carried an ancient plage or power that slowed him down from aging! One day while exploring a volcano it turned active, John saw his chance and pushed the boy in and ran.

Anakin burnt alive, his anger roaring up inside of him the same time a natural portal to the ghost zone opened up in the volcano. Anakins eyes turned fire red, the blood in his veins turned to lava, his rage burnt hotter than the lava ever could. Anakin becomes an oxymoron, even beyond the fact he’s half alive half dead, he died in lava yet his weakness is water (guy never learnt how to swim, after being held underwater and nearly drowned he never really got over it), all ghosts hate what killed them and have weaknesses to it, Anakins death is his power. He takes on an apparence which is basically what he looks like normally but with fangs, sometimes his eyes reflect light or glow though, and when he gets mad his skin heats up, turning charred and what should be exposed flesh turns into lava below the charred skin, also his hair starts to turn to flame. Anakins obsession is revenge and his core is permanently stained with rage.

By the time Anakin gets out a grip on his powers World War 1 starts drafting with the year being 1914, Anakin (despite technically being dead) immediately decides that’s a good idea for blowing off steam and also a way to get actually military experience to murder John with. He hacks a comuptor and signs himself up, putting in his photo, his medical stuff, experience, and everything else on the form, then as he stares at the name box he remembers he’s meant to be dead, he choses a fitting name, Achilles. Achilles wrath matched Anakins rage, Achilles heel matched Anakins weakness to water, and hopefully Anakin will be able to bring the name Achilles some more modern glory.

He gets his dog tag and as sits in a cart heading to war with the rest of his team, Anakin runs his finger over the ingraving in it, careful not to melt it, Achilles. As bordom sets in he remembered other stories of ancient greek, more specifically Aphrodite Areia, Areia was an epithet meaning war like and it seperated Aphrodite Areia from her more commenly known version Aphrodite. He supposes he needs one to if there are to be two great Achilles, in his head he starts referring to himself as Anakin Achilles.

After 4 years at war and another year spent wandering the contry Anakin comes back to where he knows John is just to find out he died of old age around the time the war ended at 68, despite this being quite impressive despite modern medican Anakin promptly decides to go jump into another volcano. It is like a warm bath. But it cheered Anakin up- seriously, who knew volcanos were so nice when you weren’t burning alive?

After this he grabs the blackest clothes he can find and knows will be easy to move in, some fabric which he wraps around his face from nose to chin, tucks his dog tag safely into his clothes, and walked into the nearest bar he knew had shady dealing going on. He promptly intoduced himself as an assasin looking for training and gets pointed to a table full of tough looking people.

Two years later he’s been an assasin apprentice for years, under someone he thinks is called Ra Ah Ghoul. Anakin serves the guy for another 4 years despite thinking he’s kind of an asshole, then runs away. He’s learnt enough to avoid most of Ghouls traps and makes it out with a minor stab wound, he doesn’t really have organs anymore so he’s not worried.

He does take a moment to sit on someones roof top and stare at the stars, he thinks back to his first memories and remembers with a small laugh, the one you give when you’re shocked and in awe and a little breathless but happy, he knows his full name now, his birth name, Anakin Skywalker. He thinks fondly about it and feels like a child for the first time in years, staring up the the stars with the last thing his mother gave him, his name, just for a moment Anakins rage is fully forgotten.

Suddenly he feels to small, he looks down a sees the chubby hands of a baby, he actually physically blinks at that. He can work with this, his life is over due for a bit of normal anyways, he stores his dog tag (the only thing he has attachment to) inside his rib cage using a helpful bit of intangibility and floats down to the door step. He can hear a young, kind, childless couple inside.

Anakin- now named William, danced with his wife, Julia Lotis. He was so truely smitten with her and for the first time in so long he loved the domestic life style, Julia had finally quited the rage always simmering in his core, she was his Angel. He brought Julia in for a kiss and admired her, her long chocolate hair, her warm brown eyes that seemed like cozy fires during the winter rather then his uncontrolled rage. He swung her around in a circle and reached out to catch her when her eyes went wide, he caught her lifeless- pulseless- breathless- body and stared.

He stared at her for a long time, trying to hold back the cracks in his core, but it was like reading a book when the ending was so obvious. He conculded he was going to kill everyone within the city once he got out of shock, Anakin dropped his Angel to the floor, moving to the cupboard on autopilot, he grabbed his darkest clothes and put them on, the knifes he had hidden away just in case were quickly hidden in the folds of his outfit, he pulled out his dog tag, letting it’s reasuring weight lay heavy on his chest.

He walked all the way to Gotham, he didn’t even move as it hailed and stormed, as the ground shook and trees collapses. He walked to Metropolis, it was 1975, anyone who knew anything knew the Justice League was looking for new hires, he wasn’t looking for a job but if he could get to one of the interviews then he’d be immediately be recognised as a threat and subdued.

He stormed into the daily planet building where he knew at least Superman was holding interviews, he scared everyone out of the elevator with a death glare and walked straight into the room he could hear Superman talking in, he pushed open the door “Uh, interviews are over.” Superman abruptly paused, probably taking in Anakins disheveled and disassociating self, Anakin ignored the knife that dropped to the ground “Are you- here for an interview?” Superman asked. Anakin glared at him and jumped Superman as red over took his vision.

Anakin woke up in a cell, a wary Superman stood in front of him dripping his lava “If- you could’ve just said you had fire powers.” Superman said, Anakin sagged down into the chains and Superman looked at him for a second before realisation hit him “You weren’t here to show us your powers, you’re here so we could stop you.” Superman was suddenly no longer hesitant “Sounds like a hero to me, I think we’ve got your powers down, but if you want a spot in the League I only need your name.” It doesn’t take him a second to answer “Achilles.”

By 2002 it was doomsday, for the third time this month. The hero thing certainly wasn’t boring, and various other heros had helped Anakin gain an appreciation for technology, he was a technopath. Any

This is getting way too long, also I accidentally queued it so I’ll just reblog with more.

[realmythsmoved]

I've been thinking lately and I think if they do end up putting Eloise with Philip (in the Bridgerton show), I'll definitely be ignoring it. Not simply because he is A Man, and Eloise is more into women and nonbinary people, but also because:

To end up with him, Eloise's entire personality and worldview has to change. The only thing is, I like her personality and worldview the way it is. She is right and she should say it lol.

Eloise is frightened, no petrified of giving birth. Especially for the time period she's in, that's a fair thing to fear, I think. Heck, I never want to give birth and I live in modern times. And I never have either. I think Eloise is the same.

Furthermore, I don't think Eloise cares for children too much. She doesn't hate them, and if a partner wanted children, she would always be kind to them etc. But I don't see her as a very maternal woman. And that's okay.

Eloise also wants to be with someone who is her intellectual equal. Who challenges her, surprises her, makes her think about the world in a different way. Now, I could be wrong, but I don't see Philip doing any of that.

Eloise (as her face tag 'my rebellion is not a costume' states) is not going through a phase. She has genuine criticisms and notices the problems of the society in which she lives. To end up with a Man, not only a Man but one who doesn't add anything to her life except give her more work, would contradict that, IMO anyway. Not saying that women dating men can't be feminists. Of course not, that's silly. But what I am saying is that Eloise would only be attracted to a man who IS her true equal. Who isn't just more of the same. Who would respect her as she is. And I just don't see Philip doing any of that. Maybe the show will surprise me, but idk. In addition, as I said above, El doesn't ever want to give birth (and in the books she does), isn't largely fond of children (and Philip already has them). For their relationship to work, El would have to sacrifice a lot, while Philip wouldn't. And that is exactly the kind of thing that Eloise has an issue with. If the relationship was more equal, she wouldn't mind. But it wouldn't be. And personally, I don't want that for her.

(Trigger warning: rape) I haven't read the books yet, but I've heard that Philip is kinda rapey towards Marina in the books, and I don't want that for Eloise. Not saying he would ever harm her, idk. But she would never want to be with a man who would harm any woman, no matter her feelings towards them.

TLDR version: Show!Eloise would have to change and sacrifice a lot for her book relationship to still work. And personally, I don't think I would find that a compelling character arc. And I think Eloise deserves one. She also deserves to be with someone who truly challenges her, surprises her, improves her life. Not saying relationships don't require sacrifices, they do, but they do on both sides. Not just one. Eloise and Philip, from what I've heard, is NOT that. It's Eloise sacrificing and Philip gets off easy. It's not fair imo. And it's not the ending I want for such a strong woman. She deserves better.

My Eloise, therefore, will likely not be following canon if that is indeed her endgame in the show. That doesn't mean I won't RP Philip and Eloise, I'm sure RPers can have an interesting take on the character. But I'm much more interested in developing ships with women and nonbinary characters in the Bridgerton universe, for Eloise. Or maybe RPing with a Theo. (I liked him, sue me. At least he's her intellectual equal and challenges her.)

[alasarys]

The lovely @landoisokay tagged me to talk about books I'd read last year, but I confess I'm still a bit broken on the reading-things-that-have-been-published front. I do, however, feel slightly more able to tackle some this year, so let me give you six of the books on my overflowing bookshelf that I'd like to read in the next twelve months ...

I bought Novelist as a Vocation with the explicit hope that it would it make me feel better about books, but it's not going to do that if I don't read it, is it?

Vernon God Little has been on my shelf for y e a r s, in that way that I will either read something the moment I get it, or not for a thousand moons. I saw him talk once and fell a bit in love (for a version of love that's mostly 'I think we'd have fun drinking together'), but it's yet to overcome my hesitation about reading Booker-Prize-winning books.

Will I read the first four books in the '44 Scotland Street' series before attempting The Unbearable Lightness of Scones? Probably not.

Falling into Rarohenga is borrowed, so I should really read it before sending it home again. YA isn't generally my bag, so I've been putting it off, but on the bright side, it should be a quick read.

I have a lot of cocktail/alcohol/drinking books and a good number of them are unread. Whoops. Let's start with Girly Drinks.

Beowulf, specifically Maria Dahvana Headley's modern translation, is a book I've at least started before. I need to sit down and actually finish it, because— actually, let me just give you an extract from the book and the NPR review that sold me on it in the first place:

Bro! Tell me we still know how to talk about kings! In the old days, everyone knew what men were: brave, bold, glory-bound. Only stories now, but I'll sound the Spear-Danes' song, hoarded for hungry times.

Yeah, she starts it all with "Bro." Bro. Bro! I mean, that's ridiculous. And brilliant. And genius-level washed-up barstool-hero trolling all at the same time. "Bro" to take the place of Behold! and Lo! and What ho! because Behold! and Lo! and (especially) What ho! are all silly and stilted and stupid and do not — not a single one of them — have the social heft and emotional dwarfism and Bud Light swagger of "Bro," because "Bro" is the braggart's call, the throat-clearing of someone who wasn't, you know, there, but heard about it from some dude who totally was. And THAT is the emotional level at which Beowulf works. Has always worked, really, but absolutely works in Headley's newest version. It is bragging. It is urban legend. It is that guy who once threw three touchdowns against State telling the story again — five beers deep on a Tuesday night — before hey-buddy-ing the bartender for his sixth. That's what Beowulf always was. An epic poem made to be shouted over the howls of mead-drunk Spear-Danes as they toast the fallen and lovingly punch each other to sleep. It is thousand-year-old slam poetry, Hamilton for the Geats and Skyldings — full of blood and honor, inside jokes and historical digressions.

I'm not tagging anyone specifically, but if you want to talk about or rec books, please do!

[fanaticmorelikefantastic]

Talk Too Much: Leon Fic Part 1

Masterlist

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Synopsis: A freak author/artist with no friends and no life meets this really attractive guy and her first thought is to write him into her new novel

Tags: Leon/reader, leon/fem!reader, leon is very polite and regular, loser-y reader, she's just a rat in a pringles can, we all are, pre re4 leon, this will soon change, (mostly) modern au

It felt like it had been hours. Hell, when I checked the time, it really had been hours. Yet here I am, still staring at an empty Word document. Well, almost empty. I kept writing and rewriting the first few sentences. ‘It was a cold and stormy night.’ No. Who starts with that anymore? ‘It was summer, the summer of my-’ Ugh I hate summer, it makes me think of flies. ‘It’s too bad that every love ends with heartbreak.” I’m not even writing a tragedy what? Well I could, but I’d feel terribly bad about it and would eventually end up writing a messy redemption arc with countless plot holes. Ew. I don’t know how long this cycle continued for until I was entirely fed up with everything. That’s a lie, it lasted for an hour and forty five minutes. I was obsessively checking the clock the entire time as though it held some secret answer to my writing dilemma, or the universe, or something. But it doesn’t and I’m all out of ideas, and motivation, and friends, and real romance, and potatoes, and milk, and hair ties, and- okay let’s stop. I shut down my laptop and put it in its bag. For a moment I thought that I could finish that painting I’ve been working on (the one that was ordered by that pretentious a- be nice), but the tedium deterred me. (It does have to be done in the next ten weeks though. I wish I would’ve just picked a struggle instead of being so ambitious.) Maybe a break is what I needed. That or a change of scenery. Both maybe. After standing up and almost falling right back down, I was reminded to eat, or that I haven’t eaten, or that I should go out somewhere to eat while I write! Genius, absolute. I practically ran to my room to get dressed to go. I could walk around and see if there’s anything to eat nearby, or I could just go to one of my regular spots. I had a hankering for adventure today, so I settled on the former. Cute clothing always boosts morale, so let's put some on. I also make sure that they’re comfortable. It’s important to be comfortable when you’re planning on staring at a computer screen for several (more) hours. 

It must’ve been divine intervention that made me want to go outside, because whilst in this cafe (which I never really noticed before) words have been pouring out of my mind. A hook, an exposition, a main character that I actually don’t hate, it seemed like all the stars were aligning in favor of me and this story. Well, all the stars that aren’t the male lead. I had written all the way up to when we meet him, but there he goes, pulling a disappearing act. Nestled in the corner of a cute and cozy cafe on a late autumn morning seemed like the perfect place to have a meet cute with the fragmented image of a male lead, but strangely, he was nowhere to be found. I scanned around the space for any inspiration. The cozy wooden tables and decorations paired with sleek black accents along the ceiling and other places gave the area a moody and romantic feel. The only problem was that there weren’t any moody or romantic people whose style I could rip off for my character. I gave up on my plan pretty fast. I had made plenty of progress already (or at least I gaslit myself into thinking so), so I chose instead to worry about whether or not I should get another one of those delicious sandwiches. Paninis. The food they served here was stupidly good, and maybe it could magically imbue some new ideas into my head. I decided on getting the chicken version of the sandwich (panini) I just had. While I ordered at the counter, my eyes wandered to a mini key lime tart seated behind the glass. I wondered for a second what their desserts tasted like, nestled all cozy in their display. It's what they specialize and advertise so I’m sure they’re delicious, but I needed an excuse to come back later, right? 

I settled into my seat, a new spot closer to the window this time, thinking that maybe a different view would help me to finally write in this character. His personality was already pretty much decided (it’s written in the notebook I have reserved for this book), but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what he was to look like. While pondering at my meal (sandwich (panini)), I heard the little cowbell on the door jingle and I instinctively looked up. I was joking earlier, but now I’m sure that some higher being brought me here because the man that just walked in was drop dead gorgeous. He was an absolute unit, his arm muscles unmistakably flexing in his short sleeved shirt (not that I was looking or anything (no, really they looked at me first). It was gray, which I usually wouldn’t like, but when it’s tucked into a pair of dark blue jeans fixed by a belt that matched the combat boots peeking from under them (the jeans), I waver just a bit. That’s all well and great, but the real kicker was when he glazed his eyes across the room. Oh my goodness his eyes. It felt like getting hit by a ton of bricks but if the bricks were made of metaphorical blue raspberry jell-o imbued with pure effervescence. It seemed like my fingers were floating when I wrote:

‘His eyes were blue when they met mine. I know it’s terribly cliche, but I couldn’t help but notice the cold, milky blue in his irises that melted away like a glacier when he looked to the floor. With gentle hands, he picked up my wallet, placing it in my hand that was, embarrassingly, frozen in place. I grasped it mindlessly as we both stood up. 

“Be careful not to drop it next time.” Not if you’re around to pick it up for me. 

“Yea.” I sounded pathetic. I felt pathetic. I looked pathetic as I watched him walk away, heart full of hopes, stomach full of butterflies, and head full of dreams.’ 

He walked right by me and I froze, the result of a sort of guilt for using him as a basis for someone in my novel. I tried to steal a discreet glance at him, but it was just my luck that he sat down in a cafe, by himself, with just one coffee, to do nothing. He wasn’t even on his phone. I immediately turned back around, not giving myself any time to see if he saw me or not because of course he did. He didn’t have anything else to look at (Wow, I sound so stuck up). I do my best to wrap up the paragraph I’m on and hide the embarrassment I feel towards this stranger that probably doesn’t even know I’m writing a paragraph about a girl falling in love with a fictitious version of him. I feel gross about it, but it’s not like I’m stalking him or anything, I just appropriated his likeness to write into my novel, which will be published, and people will (hopefully) read. I left before he did and on my way back I wondered why it was that I felt so guilty about it. It surely wasn’t the first time I pilfered a random name called by the barista at Starbucks, or stole the style of somebody I saw out of my window, or even took the words from a conversation I’d overheard for the sake of my writing. This time it felt a little more personal, maybe it’s because he was my type: tall, blonde, and built like a refrigerator. Whatever it was, I put it behind me by the time I got home. After all, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again. Now that chicken panini? That’s a different story.

Enter tomorrow morning, where I wake up refreshed, and early, and equipped with a name for our favorite love interest. Leon. It was a great name to give him, simple and iconic so the readers (and I) will remember it throughout the rest of the story. Also it goes great with the name Audrey. Audrey and Leon, star crossed lovers.  For a moment, the image of the guy from the coffee shop flashed through my mind, but that man’s name could never be Leon. I stretch my limbs, popping almost every joint in my body, before stepping into the shower and thinking about how his (the guy from yesterday’s) name probably starts with a J. He looked like a Jason, or maybe a Jamie. Definitely a Jamie. After I quickly jot down the name (Leon, not Jamie) into my notebook, which has gained more than a few stickers on the cover, I decide that now is the perfect time to go for a walk, maybe even a jog. It’s not often that I wake up feeling so great, so I have to take full advantage of it. Athletic leggings and a sleeveless top, something I don’t usually wear, but today we’re getting out of our box. I give a small thanks to laser hair removal as I put them on. The shirt matches the stripe in the leggings, which matches my shoes. I love how it matches. I also love how my leggings have a pocket on the side, and how it zips closed. I say another thanks to feminist clothing designers as I put my phone in said pocket before checking my ponytail once more in the mirror and leaving from my front door (like I have any other one). I make extra sure to lock it, turns out I hadn’t last time, which was scary, but thankfully inconsequential. 

The elevator to the lobby was filled with bliss. I even said hello to the receptionist on my way out of the building. I logged two miles around the park, half of which I actually jogged for. I sat on a bench, feeling accomplished and wondering if I should do another lap around, or maybe I should reward my excellence with a little treat, a chicken panini perhaps. I remembered those sweets they had on display at that shop (I can’t remember the name of it for the life of me) and decided that I’d rather die than not eat one of those this morning. I just did a run, I already worked off the calories, right? I did my best to perform a discreet smell check before heading that direction. I hummed lightly to myself all the way there, brainstorming ideas for how to progress my novel. It’d be cool if she found out his name by accident, like seeing it on his belongings, or overheating a friend say it, or something. That’s all fine and good, but the trope of saying ‘The name’s Leon’ still has a vice grip on me. I should've brought my notebook along. Then I could have written all this down. The friendly jingle of the door bell greeted me as I walked in the store. When I took my place in line, the focus of my thoughts shifted to which dessert I should get. Something with apples for sure. I love apples. They’re so refreshing and kinda earthy? There are so many kinds of apples, but they all taste similar somehow. I wonder why. I couldn’t pinpoint the reason before it was my turn to enthusiastically order an apple turnover (and a chai latte, I couldn’t help myself when I saw someone order one before me). I received the turnover in a little brown baggie and took a seat nearby to wait for my latte. While waiting, I pondered the second meeting of our (my) favorite protagonists and if Jamie is getting another medium black coffee right now. Wait, Jamie? I snapped myself back into reality as I watched (the man that I secretly dubbed) Jamie walk into the store and towards the ordering counter. I hadn’t expected him to be here again today, or at least that’s what I told myself because I couldn’t admit the possibility of him being a regular here. He probably was. I had (thankfully) barely started my thought spiral when my name was called at the counter. I mindlessly walked up and grabbed my cup. What a coincidence, I walked to the counter just in time to witness Jamie order a medium coffee with cream, but no sugar. I looked at him for a second, one second too long apparently. He looked at me (with those eyes, those infuriatingly gorgeous ones that made me sacrifice my writing morals to make the male lead have ones the exact same color) and smiled. He smiled at me, a knowing one as though he knew something I didn’t. Did he? Probably. I returned it along with a polite nod, then tried my best to exit the store with my dignity intact. Unfortunately, fate had different plans. I had barely taken a couple steps away when I heard a voice call out to me.

“Hey wait up!” It was him. I know it was, I just heard him order his coffee. His voice sounds like coffee, rich and smooth. I turn around, putting on my best I-definitely-didn’t-plan-to-write-a-whole-book-about-you face.

“Yea?” I can’t get over how perfect he looks. It feels illegal for a man to have such flawless skin and- scar? Why would he have a-

“Hey um, I just couldn’t help but notice you at the cafe earlier. Well I was wondering if you’d maybe wanna meet up for a chat there sometime?” I would die for this man. It was something about the way he said it, or maybe he’s just using his evil eye powers to hypnotize me because I feel like I could never say no to him and I have an alarming lack of qualms about it. 

“Yea- Yea, um I think that’d be nice! Well, my name is _ and I’ll look forward to meeting you- uhh…” I gave him that please-tell-me-your-name look that people do when they want to finish their sentence. He laughed a bit. Well, more like a lighthearted exhale, but I say it counts.

“Leon. It���s Leon” Oh. My. God. Oh no. Oh dear.

“Leon, Okay! Do you, uhh” I moved the bag that held my pastry to be precariously secured by the hand that held my latte in order to grab my phone from my pocket. 

“Oh, yeah, let me put my number in.” Leon gently took it from my hand when I held it out to him (he also scrambled my brain by making me try to figure out how his hands could simultaneously feel like clouds and alligators). I watched him type his name, then his number. All my thoughts must’ve gotten scared and hidden away, because my head feels empty as  a helium balloon. I clumsily receive my phone back once he’s done, looking at the name ‘Leon S. Kennedy’, then back at him. He’s so gorgeous and he’s just standing there, smiling, but not like an idiot (I’m the one smiling like that), he’s more like, a reassuring fireman. 

“I’ll see you around then?” I barely registered that he was talking to me. It felt like I was having a semi-lucid dream where once I wake up, I realize my entire life until now was just a figment of my imagination. 

“Yea.” I sounded pathetic. I felt pathetic. I looked pathetic as I watched him walk away, head full with dreams, heart full with hopes, and stomach fluttering with butterflies. 

…

I am so dead.