#even funnier when you’re a system that didn’t discover they were a system until their 20s

[comfortwriting]

A Triwizard Baby Part 1 - F.W

Masterlist, Requesting Rules, Writing Prompt Masterlist,Taglist

Part 1 Fred Weasley x Fem Reader mini series

Requested/About: Best friends, Y/N and Fred Weasley share a night of passion together during the Triwizard Tournament, after that, everything changes and Fred can’t figure out why until the night of the final task. Y/N has the world on her shoulders, and Fred slowly finds himself losing everyone around him. 

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A/N: the ages/school year has been adjusted so everything is legal.

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol, intoxication, drunk and unprotected sex, losing virginity.

It all started when the more outspoken, confident twin crashed into you on the Hogwarts Express in your first year at Hogwarts. Sure, you were upset, embarrassed, and annoyed, but when you looked up and realised who had swept you off your feet, you knew it wasn’t your brain messing with you - from that moment you had fallen for him; Fred Weasley.

After your first train ride, classes, and many more along the way, over the years, you and Fred became best friends, going through thick and thin together, sharing the worlds loudest laughs, best pranks, and even the biggest tears. Your tiny crush on him blossomed into something much more, a love that couldn’t stop growing and spread out of control, but you were sure that Fred didn’t feel the same, and as you became older, reaching the end of your years in the education system, Fred discovered other girls and sex, whilst you drowned yourself in the life of parties and bottles of fire whiskey.

Fred loves the parties, he loves fire whiskey too, but he loves the other girls and the sex in a different way because they feed his ego, and it helped take his mind off you and the fact he didn’t have the guts to pursue you.

You were labelled as the party-girl which every girl wanted to be and wouldn’t challenge to a drinking game if their gold was on the table, and Fred gained the title as the play-boy, who made every lad jealous and watch in envy as he never got rejected and could flirt with any girl he wanted.

You had to hear the stories of your best friend fucking your classmates, and how much they loved it, praising him and gossiping about how skilled he was with his fingers, tongue, and cock. You were jealous, and you didn’t want to admit it, but you couldn't invent your sex life to reach Fred’s rank - you had never had sex - you were a virgin through and through.

Sitting next to Fred on the edge of his bed in the hospital wing you shook your head, laughing at the state of him and his twin, George.

“I’ve got to say, you’ve got a magnificent beard.” You laughed, the sight of George being an old man funnier than you expected.

Fred smirked despite still being pissed off with George “I never knew you were into older men” he winked.

“Well, you never asked.”

George groaned out “get a bloody room, the pair of you!”

You rolled your eyes at him and pulled Fred’s pillow from under his head, causing him to slump down, you bashed George with his pillow, sticking your tongue out at him and pulling a face.

“Y/N, don’t encourage them!” Madame Pomfrey hurried over, retrieving Fred’s pillow “Out! Out!” she shooed you.

Standing up and put your hands up in defence “Alright! I’m going!”

Fred’s smirk turned into a grin, “Watch the first task with us?” he asked.

You nodded “with pleasure, I heard Bill is going to be there.”

And you weren’t wrong, the first task came within the blink of an eye, you were honoured to meet Bill in passing - more like a “Hello!” with an awkward wave, followed by “Goodbye!” and another awkward wave, but the dragons fascinated you, and Fred spent the majority of the task watching you instead of the Hungarian Horntail, Swedish Short-Snout, Chinese Fireball, and the Common Welsh Green. George had to keep reminding Fred that their money and future business was on the line.

During the celebration party as it got later in the evening, you and everyone else surrounded Harry, clapping and cheering as he lifted the golden egg infant of him, parading it around, all of you watching and waiting eagerly, encouraging him to open it in hopes that it could liven up the party - giving everyone an excuse to stay up late and continue drinking.

Fred and George lifted Harry up, propping his legs on either of their shoulders, their arms strapping him in so he was above the large and busy crowd.

“Knew you wouldn’t die, Harry.”

“Lose a leg.”

“Or an arm.”

“Pack it in altogether.”

“Never!”

Fred and George stopped heaving Harry into the air, Seamus begging for a clue, you stared at Fred, your eyes getting lost in the strands of his long golden hair, but you weren’t the only one - the girls behind you were fixating on him, whispering about his good looks and height.

You zoned out completely, the same jealousy and bitterness spreading through your veins, you had to talk to him, tell him you loved him, but how?

Harry opened the egg, bright light of gold broke out followed by loud screeching, breaking you out of your toxic train of thoughts, Fred and George dropping Harry and flinching like you and everyone else, covering your ears and begging Harry to shut it up.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron interrupted.

Fred huffed and shook his head “As if this party couldn’t get any worse.” he turned around and tried to flee to his dorm room, calling it a night and encouraging everyone to get to bed.

The two girls behind you who were salivating over Fred pushed past you and called him over, blushing and batting their eyelashes at him.

“We’re throwing a party of our own” she eyed him up as if he was something to eat “tonight doesn’t have to end on a downer.”

Her plan worked, instantly gaining Fred’s attention, he grinned and nodded “Wicked, can I bring someone along?”

“George is already invited” her friend replied, smirking at George.

“Can I bring someone else too, though?” Fred asked.

The girls exchanged looks with one another cautiously, but they didn’t want to let him down or uninterested him, “Of course! Who?”

Probably his friend Lee or some girl he’s fucking.

“Y/N!” Fred called out, smiling at you “You want to join this party with me?”

The girls glared at one another, muttering and swearing under their breaths to one another.

This is your moment, Y/N, don’t mess this up, shoot your shot.

“Yeah!” You smiled back, feeling honoured and slightly shocked “Yeah, sure!”

Once everyone had cleared off, you and your new group sneaked out of the common room and into Moaning Myrtle's territory, all the professors were either partying or fast asleep, even Mr Filch and Mrs Norris grudgingly had the night off.

The dark and grubby bathroom spun around whilst you got onto your knees, the cold tile floor making you shudder when coming into contact with your warm legs. The two girls smirked and sat down too, the shorter one pulling Fred to sit down next to her, her hand continuously placing itself on his knee, ticking you off.

“Well, since Y/N decided to drink her feelings, we’ve got an empty bottle and we could do with a game to lighten up the mood.” The shorter girl spoke out, causing Fred to give her a dirty look for calling you out.

“What is it then?” George asked “Pretty shit place for a party.”

“Careful” you hiccoughed “Don’t want to make Mrytle cry.”

“We’ve decided truth or dare, but with spinning the bottle. Whoever it lands on has to answer a truth, or accept a dare from the spinner.”

You rolled your eyes “Seems very... tween like of you.”

Fred laughed.

“You weren’t invited, so feel free to leave if this party isn’t good enough for you.”

You ignored her and played along anyway.

“George” she squealed “Truth or dare?”

George hesitated for a moment “Truth”

“Does Fred keep you up at night with all the girls he brings back?”

After what felt like an eternity, the bottle finally landed back and George, and he spun the bottle, causing it to land on you.

“Y/N, truth or dare?”

I swear if you ask me anything stupid -

“D-dare.” you hiccoughed again, trying to act bigger than your boots.

George stared at the two desperate girls and looked back at you “I dare you to snog my brother.”

Okay, I really wish I went for truth, what was I thinking? Bloody hell!

“Okay then” you replied nervously, crawling in the middle of the circle, Fred crawling over to you, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

Fred’s warm, large, gentle hands cupped your face, leaning in, his lips pressed against yours shocking both of you as if a spark had ignited, whilst you kissed back, your hands tangled in his long golden hair and the two of you were suddenly hit with the realisation of how in love with one another you actually were.

More students had caught wind of the lame party and livened it up, playing music and brightening the bathroom up with colourful moving lights, bringing more fire whiskey and encouraging everyone to dance.

Everyone around you watched as you and Fred continued to snog, his tongue dancing with yours, his cock starting to support a semi, everyone cheered aside from the two girls who felt as if they had shot themselves in the foot.

“Okay!” the girl called out again, trying to pull Fred away “Times up!”

but he didn’t want to stop, and neither did you, the memories you shared playing out in front of you.

“I’m sorry for crashing into you” he frowned, sitting next to you on the train “is your head alright? I can try and make the bruising go away.”

You couldn’t stay mad at him, you chuckled and shook your head “It’s okay but thank you for offering” you smiled.

His twin brother entered the carriage, “Fred-” he stared at you “what’s happened to you?”

“I wish you were coming with us” Fred sighed, grumbling to himself.

“Oh don’t be silly, you’re going on holiday!” you beamed “just make sure you take plenty of pictures, I’ve heard Egypt is lovely!”

“I’ll write to you and I’ll send the photos through the owl post if I’ve got enough time.”

“We’re supposed to be studying for our O.W.Ls!” you hissed at Fred, hiding your answers from him as he continued to make your stationary levitate and drop onto your head.

“Please take part in this prank, Y/N” he begged “I promise I won’t ask for anything ever again.”

“But you always do, Freddie!”

He stared at you, pouting and making puppy eyes.

“Fine” you sighed, giving in “Let’s go and do it then.”

Fred punched the air and grabbed you by the hand, pulling you away from your desk, the two of you smirking and giggling with excitement.

“I didn’t realise it would be this cold” you shivered, standing outside of Honey Dukes, snow falling from the sky and sticking to the pavement.

Fred pulled off his knitted jumper “Put this on love, don’t want you freezing now do we?”

The memories snapped away as Fred fell back, his arm in the girl's hand, you were desperate for more and opened your eyes, frowning that he had been dragged away for a dance with her, you watched as she wrapped her arms around his neck and his hands rested on her waist.

Getting off your now red cold knees and standing up, you downed some more fire whiskey from the first bottle you laid eyes on and decided to copy Fred - dancing with anyone who wanted you - grinding against them, having them hold you close and breathing down your neck, you had to admit, for someone who had never done this before, you were doing a pretty good job, almost as if you had done it before.

Fred couldn’t get you, the kiss, the feeling of your lips, tongue, and the replay of memories out of his head. Breaking away from the girl, he approached you as you pulled away from the tall Hufflepuff lad, finally reuniting with the love of your life. Almost instantly, Fred’s lips collided with yours, your hands back to being tangled in his hair and his hand squeezing your behind teasingly, alcohol on your breath and his.

“I want you.” you breathed, pulling away from the kiss “I want you to fuck me like you do everyone else.”

“I want you too” Fred replied, taking your hand and fleeing from the party.

After what seemed like a marathon, you finally burst into Fred’s empty dorm room, he shut the door behind him and locked it before kissing you passionately, lowering you onto the bed and taking your clothes off.

This was it, the moment you were craving for years on end, this was it, this was how you would be losing your virginity, this would be giving yourself to your best friend entirely.

But Fred had no idea that it was your first time, in his head, you were having just as much sex as him.

Fred couldn’t get over the sight of your naked body, your breasts, your tummy, your bum, your inner thighs, your exquisite crotch - you were the definition of perfect, he had forgotten about every girl he had ever seen naked at the sight of you, you were making him feel as if this was his first time all over again.

Fred sucked on your nipples whilst he stimulated your clit with his fingers, warming you up, the sensation of his warm tongue and mouth sent shivers of pleasure down your spine, and as nervous as you were, you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning as he played with your touch starved clit.

“Are you ready, Y/N?” Fred asked, pulling away from your breasts.

“Yes,” you breathed out, slurring slightly “I’m ready Freddie.”

Fred’s head, like yours, was also spinning. He stumbled and reached for the lube, applying it onto his length and then across your tight hole. Fred felt as if he had forgotten something, but the more he wracked his own brain, the more he couldn’t remember what he needed. He laid you on your back and climbed on top, lining himself against your entrance.

Looking at you one last time to make sure, you nodded, and he slowly pushed himself inside of you, stretching you out as your walls tightened around you. You winced as you experienced an entirely new feeling, Fred slowed down and stayed still inside of you so you could adjust to his size when you were ready to continue, Fred started to trust himself inside and out of you gently, holding your hand and kissing your head as you started to feel incredible pleasure, your soft moans spilling from your lips.

Fred couldn’t believe he had gotten so lucky, he was fucking - no - he wasn’t - he was making love to the most perfect girl in the world, someone he actually cared deeply for and had feelings for, you weren't a stranger, you were special, you weren’t temporary, you were soothing his aching heart - your absence was the cause, and your love - the medicine.

You watched as Fred’s hard cock slid inside and out of you, you admired his perfect body, the way he moaned and expressed the pleasure he was feeling through his facial expressions, you gripped onto his hand tighter as he picked up his speed and throbbed inside of you, you didn’t want this to end, you wanted to live inside this moment forever.

“My- My tummy feels tight” you panted, not knowing what was happening.

“Cum for me, Y/N.” Fred panted too “Don’t hold back.”

Oh, so that’s what that feeling means?

The pressure built up until it burst, you felt yourself explode as the pleasure became more intense, you relaxed and released, creaming down Fred’s length, your walls strangling him.

“Fuck!” Fred panted, the beads of sweat spreading across his forehead and back “I’m cumming baby!”

Baby.

“Y/N!”

Fred released his sperm deep inside of you without realising he didn’t have a condom on, you didn’t know whether he had put one on or not either, you didn’t know to ask or mention it, you were on birth control up until last week, you had to come off it due to the side effects and stress you under as your N.E.W.Ts approached.

Fred slowly pulled out and collapsed in your arms, the two of you holding one another, your eyes too heavy to stay open.

As you drifted off to sleep, your life was about to change forever.

Taglist: @amourtentiaa @reeophidian @alwaysnforeverfangirl @inglourious-imagines @horrorxweasley @sebby-staan @onlyfreds @pandaxnienke @xmalfoyweasleyx

[loserslibrary]

pairing: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier [Reddie] written by: Jane rating: Teen word count: 2,306  prompt: “ hello! Could i please request a domestic reddie fic! Anything with kids will make me very happy, thank you ”

Richie’s resigned himself to a lot of things in his life.

Some which are still true—he’s never going to be able to fucking ice skate, giraffe human that he is, but he’s found a workaround in being very good at letting Eddie pull him across the ice—and some which aren’t—namely some thought-to-be hopeless yearnst for Eddie when he was sixteen which culminated in two very dramatic song-writing sessions, proven unnecessary five months later when Eddie captured his lips in a kiss at the quarry.

Still, one thing he hadn’t been expecting to resign himself to was his lack of future as a PTA Dad, and yet, here he is. 35 years old and seeing his brief dream of being the cupcake god of Ms Divega’s class turn to smoke before his very eyes. 

Literal smoke, that is. 

“Daddy,” Gab says, nose scrunched up, tone solemn, “they don’t smell good.”

His daughter is highly critical. Unfortunately, she’s also correct.

Richie reaches to open the oven, before pausing halfway, glancing at the smoke he can already see, and then back at Gab. There’s a teenage Eddie in the back of his head, lecturing him and Bev on all the different types of smoke, and how they’re all bad for you, stop inhaling carcinogens, you fucking nerds—-okay, Richie can’t actually remember the entire lecture, just the way Eddie looked with his hand on his hip and brow furrowed, but he’s pretty sure that the takeaway of it is that he should probably move his daughter well out of range of any smoke that might escape when he opens the oven door.

“C’mon, Gabs,” Richie says, scooping her up in his arms. Her arms settle around his neck obligingly, and he’s overwhelmed with affection. There were legitimately days when Richie had thought he’d never have anything like this—when he thought it would be swallowing his feelings down forever, watching all his friends find something worth holding onto, staying on the sidelines because he couldn’t be brave when it counted. But look at him now: married to the love of his life, getting paid to make people laugh for a living, and baking health hazards with his daughter. He’s always had dreams he’s striven for, but none of his imagined happiness ever came close to how he feels now, burnt cupcakes and all.

He puts her down on the other end of the countertop from the oven, then hands her a tea towel. He leans in close, like he’s about to tell her something Top Secret, and she leans in eagerly. “If the oven explodes, just, like, fan it away,” he says conspiratorially. Her eyes widen, but she nods firmly, her face settling into a resolute expression. For someone with no biological relation to either of them, Richie thinks, it’s astounding how much she looks like Eddie when she does that.

He heads back to the oven and, with a quick exaggeratedly wide-eyed glance at Gab, he opens the door. Smoke immediately emerges, and Richie’s stuck fanning his hand in front of his face and coughing for a few moments until it dissipates enough for him to actually see. Grabbing a tea towel to cover his hand, he reaches in and pulls out the cupcake tray, dropping it on the stove top with a wince and slamming the oven shut.

“Mission success,” Richie says, giving Gab a thumbs up.

She surveys him and the cupcake tray dubiously. “They look bad,” she says bluntly.

“Okay, Operation Survive The Smoke was a success,” Richie relents. “Operation Cupcake God is still in progress.”

“Operation what?” Richie hears, and turns to face Eddie, who’s surveying the kitchen like he can’t decide if he should laugh or groan.

“Operation Cupcake God,” Gab repeats matter-of-factly. “Daddy’s going to take over the PTA like Darth Vader. ‘Cept I think he shouldn’t cut off Mrs Colby’s arm because she needs it to bake brownies and I love her brownies.”

Richie throws Gab a betrayed look. “How am I meant to overthrow her PTA dictatorship if she can still bake brownies to tempt you with?” he asks her.

“Not by serving these, that’s for sure,” Eddie says, prodding one of the cupcakes with a chopstick—where did he even get that?—and sporting the same dubious expression Gab was before. 

Gab clambers across the kitchen bench, peering at the carnage, and Richie swings her off, anchoring her to his hip. “Don’t get too close,” he warns, “the oven’s still hot.”

She throws him a very unimpressed look, and Eddie laughs. “He’s right, Gab,” Eddie says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “It’d hurt.”

“Is it because we acciden’ly made a volcano?” Gab asks frankly, looking at the carnage with a curious expression. She leans over to poke one, forgoing Eddie’s chopstick and simply using her finger, and lets out a distressed huff when she touches it. “It’s hard.”

“Too bad this wasn’t for science fair,” Richie says. “She’s got a point about the volcano thing.”

Eddie laughs. “What’s Operation Cupcake God for anyway?” he asks. “Casual Thursday afternoon world domination strategies?”

“It’s the class party tomorrow,” Gab informs him, “and everyone always wants to sit by El because her mom makes the best brownies and I want them to sit by me.”

Eddie’s expression doesn’t lose its amused undercurrent, but it softens into fondness, and he reaches for her. She obligingly puts her arms around his neck and Richie hands her to Eddie. “I see how it is,” he says dramatically, “I’m the favourite until he’s home, huh?”

“Yep,” Gab says cheekily, before cackling with laughter when Richie squawks in outrage and proceeds to tickle her sides. Eddie, because he’s stronger and has more control of his limbs than Richie could ever hope to, keeps hold of her even through all her wriggling, though he takes mercy after a few more seconds and moves her out of reach of Richie’s hands.

“So, Operation Cupcake God is purely about Gab’s popularity, hmm?” Eddie asks, giving Richie a knowing expression.

“There may have been some newly-discovered dreams of being her class’ Peak PTA Parent,” Richie admits.

“I thought that might be the case,” Eddie says with a grin. “Why didn’t you ask Ben for help? Or Mike? Mike’s good at directions.”

“I’m good at directions!” Richie protests.

Eddie gives him a flat look.

“Well, I’m better than Bill,” he grumbles.

“Not exactly a winning argument, Rich,” Eddie says dryly.

“Ben’s got, like, an actual job,” Richie says. “And Mike—well, I probably should have called Mike, but like, I didn’t realise we could recreate Chernobyl with a cupcake recipe.”

“I’ve learned to never underestimate you two,” Eddie says, pressing a kiss to Gab’s nose, making her giggle.

“Hilarious,” Richie says, but he can’t help but give them a fond smile. God, he’s so fucking happy. He has been for years now, but it still never fails to take his breath away.

“Yeah, Jason called, he’s giving me your next gig instead,” Eddie says.

“You joke, but he definitely thinks you’re funnier than me,” Richie grumbles, before brightening. “Though the idea of you on stage is amazing.”

Eddie visibly shudders, and Gab gives him a concerned look. “Yeah, for you, because you enjoy my suffering,” Eddie mutters. “I’d rather help you stage this PTA mutiny than that.” He notices Gab’s expression, and nudges her forehead gently with his own. “You and I are happy sticking in the garage, right? Daddy can have all the stage he wants.”

Gab giggles. “Yeah,” she allows, before adding, “‘cept when we’re dancing. We’re way better at it than he is. I wanna be on stage then!”

Richie laughs. “Yeah, okay, rugrat, if I get the call for Dancing With The Stars, I’ll send you in my place,” he tells her. “You’ll be half their height and still the best dancer there.”

“Will I get a trophy?” she asks seriously.

“Absolutely,” Richie says. “All of America will vote for you—well, actually, America and voting systems don’t really have a good track record, but I trust the public to make better decisions with pop culture than politics.”

Gab gives him a blank look, and Eddie stifles a chuckle.

“You’ll get a trophy,” Richie promises, “but first, your dad promised to help us with Operation Cupcake God—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Eddie says, “back it up—when did I agree to that?”

“You said you’d help with the mutiny!” Richie says brightly. “Didn’t he, Gabs?”

Gab nods. “You did,” she says clearly. “I heard you. PTA munity then we hang in the garage.”

“Mutiny,” Eddie corrects gently, then sighs. “All right, fine. Let’s clear all this up, then start again.”

“Why do we need to clean it up? It’s just gonna get messy again,” Richie points out, which he feels is a reasonable objection.

Eddie throws him an incredulous look. Richie’s pretty sure Gab has no idea why that’s the expression he’s choosing, but she mimics it anyway. Double trouble, those two.

“A lot of reasons, like it’s going to be harder to clean later if we leave some of this stuff too long, and hygiene reasons for clean workspaces, but mostly that we only have one cupcake tray,” Eddie says, delivering his final point like the closing remarks of some law drama. Which, Richie has to admit, is kind of apt, because it’s a pretty hard point to argue against.

“Yeah, okay,” Richie says, but he swoops down and kisses Eddie on the side of his head, and then Gab on her forehead.

“What was that for?” Eddie asks, but he’s smiling, and the look in his eyes is so soft that Richie thinks he could die of it.

“Just overwhelmed with love for you, Eds,” he says, and it sounds like a joke, but it’s not, it’s not, and it never has been. Eddie’s always been good at seeing the truth behind the laugh—except when it came to him, but they’re well past that now, thank fuck, and now Richie gets to tell Eddie he loves him every day and not only does Eddie know he means it, but he means it back—and Richie’s glad for it every fucking day.

“Sap,” Eddie teases, but his expression is so fond that Richie thinks his chest might actually split from all the love welling up inside.

“Yeah, yeah, stop trying to distract us from the cleaning,” Richie says instead, ignoring Eddie’s huff of indignant laughter. “C’mon, put down the rugrat, she and I can tackle the volcano if you want to find an actual cupcake recipe that works.”

“You managed to cause this much chaos by following a recipe?” Eddie asks incredulously, but obliges.

“I mean, loosely,” Richie says with a shrug.

“This is what I meant about directions,” Eddie says, but he’s laughing. “Show me the recipe you had, I’ll see whether it looks useful.”

Richie nods his head towards his iPad—discarded on the couch in all the chaos—and turns to Gab. “You ready to scrub like our lives depend on it?” he asks, before adding in a stage-whisper that he’s perfectly aware Eddie can hear, “because they probably do.”

Gab starts giggling uncontrollably, and Richie turns his head to see Eddie pulling the finger at him. Richie’s face stretches into a grin even as he puts his hand over Gab’s eyes.

“Why, I never!” Richie says in his best Southern Belle Voice. “The absolute scandal of it—Gabs, I don’t know if you’ll ever be allowed to look at the world again. I’m simply gobsmacked—and from a gentleman, no less!”

Gab’s full-on cackling now, and Eddie’s laughing too, and everything in Richie’s chest feels light. She laughs at his Voices just like Eddie did when they were kids—though Gab actually thinks they’re good. To be fair, they’ve improved a lot, and Eddie probably had a point when they were younger.

It takes them a few minutes after that, mostly because Eddie and Gab would finally stop laughing but then catch each other’s eyes and set each other off again, but they eventually get the kitchen cleaned and a suitable recipe identified. Fixing the cupcake tray is an absolute mission until Gab has the bright idea to pour boiling water on the charred mess—“Like when we have to get blu-tack out of Saffy’s hair in class,” Gab says sagely, to which Eddie looks absolutely horrified—and it makes the burnt cupcakes soggy enough that they can scoop them into the trash with a spoon.

Even making the cupcakes is a lot easier with Eddie. Richie thinks everything is probably easier with Eddie, though he has to admit that following the recipe properly probably has some effect.

“Okay, sweetheart, what colour icing do you want to do?” Eddie asks.

Gab sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth as she thinks.

“She looks like you when she does that,” Eddie says quietly, and Richie starts.

“I didn’t know I did that,” he admits, and Eddie laughs.

“Only when you’re thinking really hard,” he says, then pushes onto his tiptoes to press a kiss against Richie’s lips. “It’s cute.”

“Cute, cute, cute!” Gab says, and Eddie looks at her in amusement.

“Where’d you hear that one, Gab?” he asks with a grin.

“Daddy says all your photos are cute, cute, cute,” Gab informs him.

Richie shrugs. “What can I say, Gabs? He’s always been so cute.”

“You’re cuter, though,” Eddie says to Gab, and she beams.

“Okay,” she agrees happily. “Can we do pink?”

And maybe Richie’s never going to be the Peak PTA Parent of Ms Divega’s class, or even just be allowed to bake anything without supervision ever again, but that’s okay. Watching Gab squeeze the piping bag too hard and Eddie lick his fingers of all the excess she got on him, Richie thinks he’s already got everything he needs right here.

[undead-notunreasonable]

HAPPY DRAC-O-WEEN || PART 8 OF 31 🎃🦇 ||

Damp, towel dried, spiked hair stood on end as Dracula sat on the edge of his now empty bath. Trousers pulled to his hips but no energy to pull on his shirt. Who knew that blood draining would bring about emotions that he tried so desperately to bury. What he would give to sink his fangs into some innocent bystanders throat to bury them deeper. Burying yourself would draw this voice closer. A voice that wanted a destruction to the world you found admirable, the world that you thought you wanted to join even if it was at the side-lines. His grip took hold of the edges of the cast iron bath, gripping tighter & tighter until the metal itself began to creak under it’s cracking. He removed his hands immediately, folding them between his knees. It’s like he’d forgotten entirely what it was like to be a vampire, to be the Prince of vampires, to be Count Dracula, an immortal immortalised by some Irish writer a hundred years ago. This is exactly what Agatha had wondered he could be, if only she were here to see it, how smug she would be at the sight. He hadn’t felt so weak both emotionally & physically in centuries, not since... since he were turned. Dracula shook his head. No, he won’t be so feeble. Eyes searched suddenly & found his goblet on the floor. Quickly he lifted it to his lips, drinking away his thoughts & feelings with the blood of Paul, an underground ticket officer who spent all day helping those with valid tickets through machines that didn’t think them so. A pervert who'd stare at women's chests as they passed. How dull but how filling he became in such a small gap. A shudder as he finished the final droplet from the cup. He was still starving. Was he really that much of a pig as Agatha had once called him? How could you not? When something so small filled you with so much force, so much power, why would you not take it whenever you could?

Something forced him up onto his feet, his time in this room was up, he needed to get out, it didn’t matter where to him, though he was sure it would be somewhere within the building. As he left the room, slipping on a shirt, he noticed it. The birdsong had vanished completely. Was it night time? Had they gone to roost? Or were they nowhere near birdsong at all? Perhaps even somewhere birds didn’t sing, where Death followed like the sun & moon.

The warmth of the bath had loosened his stiffened bones but he realised that they’d loosened far too much and that standing was still proving somewhat difficult. As much as he wanted to prowl whatever town he’d been forced into, his body just couldn’t keep up with it. Small tealights lit the stairs, following down each step until they led toward a bedroom 2 floors down also dimly light with candles. A soft, exhausted laugh escaped him as he took it in. A fireplace, a small wooden bed that was undoubtly filled with hay, you could smell it from a mile off, candles in the darkest corners and the simplest of night clothes. He remembered telling Elizabeth centuries ago what his childhood home had looked like, she obviously done it to make him feel at home. She’d also been through what he’d been through, the draining, and she wanted him to feel like his human self again. Taking a seat on the bed, he felt the familiar itch of the poking strands of hay but the inviting warmth of the fire. It was impossible not to think of his family, and what had... happened to them. 

Stop it. He snarled at himself, sitting upright, and glared at the wall. You are Count Dracula, you were a warlord to Vlad the Impaler, you are stuff of legend, you are not built to be soft. Your name means slaughter & devil. You are the chill that runs down a human spine when they discover that you're real. He stood now, straight a pin, sucking in a breath of renewed courage. He walked out of the room, following the stairs down away from their leading tealights. What kind of childish fancy was that? Voices grew louder the further we went, before bursting into what seemed like a kitchen diner underground, lit simply by a buzzing florescent light. Lucy & Elizabeth were mid laugh when they froze at his sudden arrival. Count Dracula's eyes tell on the vampire "I will not sleep in that room." He growled at her "I am not human any longer. Neither are you. Why try and recreate human experience when we are something more. Even you agreed that we're a higher species."

Elizabeth had remained entirely silent during the Counts tantrum. A result of the lack of blood in his system no doubt. She understood, she merely thought that recreating the comfort of home might help while he recovered but clearly she was wrong about him. "Omor, I misjudged. I will have another room set up for you."

A sudden cackle & snort of laughter had erupted from Lucy "Omor?! What kind of exotic romance novel kinda name is that, D?!" She burst into another fit of laughter, pressing the palm of her hand to her forehead, finding something rather normal from his human past funnier than any of his jokes she’d made with him.

The Count were about to bark back at her, a snarl of a comment when Elizabeth raised her hand at him to stop him. “You laugh, but who do you think would be making up his new bedroom?” she arched a high brow to the young ghost, raising from her seat like an elegant mistress. The look of Lucy’s face would be priceless if it could be captured on camera. You could practically see her internally screaming about how to put on a bed sheet. Elizabeth waltzed to the Counts side, reaching out for her to take her hand hand. “Where are we going?” he asked, nonchalant. “Outside.” She replied simply. “I’ll need a coat, it’s cold outside.” he glanced up from her hand to her sparkling grey eyes. “You’re dead darling. You are the cold.” Elizabeth grabbed at his hand, taking force of the Count, someone needed to. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.” she snorted as he led him out into the cold air.  They weren’t in the countryside at all.

[jamsponge-blog]

Hello! This is a raw-text paste of the huge amount of thoughts I provided for the recent interview with The Guardian - it was written by Simon Parkin, who is superb - so I really recommend you go and read that first. https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2018/sep/08/youtube-stars-burnout-fun-bleak-stressed (This is all copy-pasted via my phone, and I haven't edited it as I would an article - it may be full of errors and it's definitely formatted quite badly. Ta!) *** I first properly got into YouTube after taking a job to head up a channel for a video game website, after working as a print journalist for a couple of years. Now I do my own thing and run a couple of channels, which collectively have just over 150,000 subscribers. It's pretty much a full-time job for me, and has been for just over 5 years. YouTube has been incredible in terms of creating opportunities - with low budget equipment and software I was able to create work that could easily reach thousands of people. Five or six years ago it felt very freeing - a system that allowed quality to naturally find audiences without having to go through gatekeepers. The sheer scale of the numbers you're looking at are the main thing - a handful of written pieces I've worked on have been read by more than a million people, but when videos go viral it's something quite different: one of my earliest, biggest hits was watched 5 million times in just a few days. I'm admittedly wary of that level of success now, and actively try to avoid "going viral" - but the brief explosion of mild internet fame I achieved in 2013 has allowed me some unbelievable freedoms: a small handful of that audience has kindly followed everything else I've done since, and I've managed to shift my YouTube career into something that feels sustainable - both financially and mentally. The channel I worked for blew up pretty quickly - after a handful of viral hits, I kept plugging at creating new regular content. YouTube is very strange in that it's not enough to simply create great things - most audiences expect consistency and frequency. If you're a channel looking to grow, this means both playing to the gallery of the followers you've got as well as pleasing the whims of "the algorithm". As a platform funded by advertising - of which Google take a healthy cut - YouTube's algorithms promote the videos that best suit the needs of those adverts. Because of that, real success on YouTube requires creators to jump through a series of constantly changing hoops: changing the upload frequency and duration of their videos to better align with the current criteria, in the hopes of seeing their work being fed more frequently to users who haven't seen their work before - or even, grimly, having their work being seen more frequently by those who already subscribe to their channels. I find the idea of chasing algorithms a frankly miserable starting point for creative work, however, so whilst I'm acutely aware of how to achieve success on YouTube the process that leads to it seems depressingly dull. There's a bleakly cybernetic tone to it all - sci-fi has mostly presumed that transhumanism would see technology being integrated into humans, but the zeal with which people aim to please algorithms suggests we're going to save a fortune on futuristic surgeries. What we're seeing a lot of these days is people using services like Patreon to get around the requirements of YouTube's algorithms, allowing people to make a living without having to achieve huge amounts of video views. Over the past few years it became a lot tougher for a lot of people to make a living from advertising on YouTube - mainly because the automated algorithms were whacking adverts on fairly inappropriate stuff - it was a Wild West situation, and every gold rush eventually ends. A lot of people have moved over to Twitch, where it's currently much easier to make a bunch of money - but the person costs involved are not insubstantial: there's a real difference between uploading videos and putting yourself out there, live, every day. I think if you're someone who really cares about putting on a good performance, these platforms end up being vampiric - always asking you for just a bit more until you've nothing left to give. For people who really care about their work, it's absolutely an unhealthy ecosystem. The sense that you should always be working is an absolute killer. YouTube very much has its own culture: people talk a lot about the community they have on *their* channel, but in truth YouTube itself *is* the community, and the tone and expectations of that wider community are far from ideal, to say the least. Knowing that working more could earn you more money is a standard freelancer anxiety, but with YouTube it's more the fear that if you take a break you might lose it all. Riding on the wave of success requires consistency, and with a fresh supply of wannabe stars toiling to find an audience on these platforms it's incredibly easy to slip off the radar - to lose favour with the algorithms that gave you your wings. I worry a lot about the health of many young people trying to find success on these platforms today - a nasty side-effect of algorithm-led content creation is that creators themselves are largely disposable: churn until you burn out, get replaced by three people doing the exact same thing. A crucial truth about internet culture that we've yet to fully appreciate, I think, is that human brains really aren't designed to be interacting with hundreds of people every day. When you've got thousands of people giving you direct feedback on your work, you really get the sense that something in your mind somewhere just snaps - we just aren't built to handle empathy and sympathy on scales of that level. Critical feedback is essential for growth - but it also takes time to properly absorb it. When you've got new strangers every day launching into a fresh intervention, your capacity for reflection goes right in the bin. "You aren't making enough videos". "You're wrong." "You used to be funnier." "You've let me down." These comments only represent a tiny fraction of your audience - most of whom will hopefully be positive and supportive - but the human brain is rubbish at numbers: you don't see ten negative bits of feedback as a fraction, you envision ten people you've really disappointed. When this becomes a regular occurrence - and you're already ploughing ahead making the next thing - you don't have the time or capacity to work towards any legitimate sense of closure, so you either get upset or angry and dismissive. A thing I've experienced that seems to be common is the way that your brain gets so used to these negative comments that it starts to automatically invent them while you're working - I suspect it's a kind of self-defence mechanism, helping you to catch potentially contentious aspects of your work, or things that might easily be misinterpreted. I definitely think this process does help with minimising negative feedback in the actual work, but if it means you're still living through the experience of that negativity - despite it being fictional - is that actually any better? One of the great things about supporting my work through Patreon is it allows me to work at a pace that actually provides room for reflection: I currently make one Cool Ghosts video once every two or three months: it's a broadcast-quality show that's deeply strange, and we take as long as we need to create it. It's the best work I've ever done, but I still feel the constant guilt that I'm not doing enough - I'm not working hard enough. Patreon allows people to work without the worry of getting enough views to make money from adverts, but unfortunately just creates a new strain of stress: You look at how much money you're earning every month, and worry that you aren't doing enough work to justify that figure. But the harder you work, the more that figure is likely to increase - so it's an impossible carrot-on-a-stick situation. Even when you're working as hard as you can, it's so easy to feel like you should be doing more. The first time I really experienced burnout was at the end of 2013. I'd taken a YouTube channel from 1,000 subscribers to 90,000 in just under a year, and my work had caught the attention of Charlie Brooker - leading to an incredible opportunity to work on a one-off show about video games. Trying to juggle that alongside my main YouTube job had me working 18-20 hour days for about 3 weeks, after which point I felt exhausted and frazzled in a way that weirdly seemed totally impervious to rest. Looking back now, I'd clearly been burning out for months prior to that: I looked pale, gaunt - my work had become increasingly rushed, increasingly acerbic in tone. Worryingly, this didn't affect my popularity - one of the most toxic things I've discovered about making content online is that the points at which you're breaking down, being slowly consumed by frustration, are the points at which the algorithms love you the most. "Divisive" content is the king of online media in 2018, and YouTube heavily boosts all content that causes people to get riled up. Explaining why you hate stuff gets you 10 times as much traffic as explaining why you love something - but it also means that the commentary you're dealing with is consistently angry. I don't think it's possible to exist in that space without the stress from that negativity bleeding back into your work: Anger is like a virus - it's fantastic for keeping audiences engaged, but it also motivates creators to better serve the algorithm: working and uploading in a rash, rapid fashion. It's why you see YouTube politically so dominated by right-wing creators - introspection, balance, empathy and care are all values diametrically opposed the platform's core values of More and Now. I think it's possible for creators to be maintained by that anger - nourished by the stuff - for months, years, possibly indefinitely. You see that so much on YouTube these days - people who've slipped into a deeply unhealthy place, keeping it together on a weekly basis by channelling that anger into exponential success. It's like one of those coins spinning around those circular charity things - escalating in a loop as they gently slide towards the void. Burnout happens at the point at which you pause, and I think that anger effectively allows people to maintain velocity for quite a long time. Over the past few years burnout has been more frequent and more serious - my wife was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer in 2014, and since then I've been mentally wobbly in a way which is frequently incompatible with living on the internet. Still though, I think I was burning out perfectly well without that - I spent my twenties working ceaselessly, feeling invincible and boundless. And honestly, I was. Right up until the point where I wasn't. I really worry about young people devoting their lives to platforms like YouTube and Twitch - because when you're young? You absolutely can. You've got the energy and focus to work incredibly long hours, you've got very few responsibilities to take your attention away from work, and - perhaps most importantly - you've likely still got a solid social circle, friendships that aren't difficult to maintain. The reality changes sharply when you get a bit older: your energy levels start to flake out, the stress you've put yourself under has started to damage you physically - my thyroid stopped working properly in 2016, and I've developed frequent patches of anxiety and depression. What starts out as being the most fun job imaginable - getting paid to sit and play videogames all day - can slide into something that feels deeply bleak and lonely: sitting alone for hours playing games and making videos is understandably aspirational when you're a teenager, but as an adult it's a cocktail for disastrous mental health. Suddenly in your thirties everyone gets busy - commitments make friendships harder, and the perception of success & having a "dream job" can slightly poison the way that friends treat you - leaving you understandably uneasy about complaining about your situation. It's this social aspect that leads to some of the biggest issues we're seeing with YouTube: if your life becomes so defined by the platform that you don't really have the time for a life outside of it, it's easy to double down on the relationship you have with your audience. This idea of being friends with your fans is inherently unbalanced, and a phenomenal source of power that many take advantage of with incredible cynicism. Perhaps worse than this, though, is the side-effect of creators having largely grown up being socialised within a constant feedback loop: the things you say and do on your channel define the behaviours of your community, but the behaviour of your community also defines your ideas of what is and isn't OK. It's unsurprising to see people who've spent most of their adult lives working on YouTube having automatically hoovered up some awful characteristics and worldviews from the platforms they exist on - it's a factory line that predictably churns out half-baked, bigoted variations of Peter Pan. I'm still trying to learn how to switch off, even now when I've fully escaped the churn. I think once you've immersed yourself fully into the Content-Creation mindset, it becomes pretty hardwired into your head. I'm mainly thankful though that I approached it as an adult - I think that without the wider perspective of previous work, I maybe wouldn't have realised how toxic it was. I think it's definitely possible to be successful without it taking over your life, providing you know what success looks like. If you're brilliant at what you do and you do something unusual, eventually you'll find an audience. If you stay true to what you love and remain honest with the people who love what you do, it's entirely possible to make a decent living without devoting your entire life to this stuff - if you care about your long-term happiness rather than just a short-term boost of cash, I honestly think it's the only real option. I've never had any formal relationship with YouTube itself, but I've never been impressed by the advice it gives creators. Emphasis is always firmly placed on growth - how to boost the size of your audience, how to get the most out of promotion, how best to "engage" with your community. I've always felt deeply uneasy about the way these things sit side by side: spend extra time making your fans feel loved - it's very an effective way of boosting your income. Patreon in many ways has only amplified that, with one popular company going so far as to label those who pay them monthly as their "best friends". It's incredibly cynical behaviour, but even when genuine it doesn't feel healthy - for many creators it seems from afar that their community has effectively become their main support network - that's an awful lot of eggs to put in one basket. We've seen cursory mental health advice popping up on the platform over the last year or so, but it feels far from sincere: encouraging creators to "take a break!" is pretty laughable when coming from the mouth of a system that actively promotes quantity over quality. There's no sense of responsibility for the culture that they've created - no good advice for dealing with the pitfalls that most people will have to deal with. Steady growth is great, for example, but what happens when growth explodes? When something goes viral? On paper that situation is 100% great, but in reality you're suddenly dealing with a vast, new audience - perhaps an audience that differs in tone to the one you're used to. What happens if the size of this new audience actively swamps the community you had before, leaving you suddenly creating videos for an audience you don't necessarily even like? Fame is the toxic by-product of success, and these platforms allow people to achieve fame quite suddenly - the realities of that are a double-edged sword. I think it's important that young people know it's OK to be unhappy whilst also a success: YouTube stars are always loved best when endlessly thankful for how lucky they are, but the harsh truth is that working on YouTube is just another form of job - you're allowed to decide that you actually don't like it, even if everyone you know keeps telling you that you've got the greatest job in the world. If you're not having a great time doing it, there's literally no point in doing it at all - don't let the demands of the audiences of algorithms steer your life into a position where it's no longer fun. It's important to be wary of rapid growth: if 50,000 people suddenly turn up on your YouTube channel, the obvious reaction is to be thankful and thrilled. If 50,000 people turned up outside your house? You'd probably hold off on opening the champagne until you'd worked out why. Finally, recognise that if you become mildly famous - your relationships with those around you will change. Don't let your desire for internet success get in the way of real-life relationships: the impossible-sounding truth about growing older is that it's remarkably easy to go from having loads of friends to realising you've actually only got 4. Being lonely and successful is a terrible combination, and one that seems to creep up on a lot of people without much warning.