#fanfic interpretation

[quarterlifekitty]

Thinking about the difference between being called bunny and rabbit by price

Bunny is a soft, helpless domestic little thing. Bred for his amusement (in more ways than one). Gets laid belly up, vulnerable and unaware, for Price to enjoy. Gets hand fed and carefully groomed. Bunny jumps in his lap the minute he sits down when he gets home.

Rabbit is a wide eyed, shaking prey animal that can recognize him for the predator that he is. Can see the glint of his sharp teeth. Gets chased down. Takes food in quick bursts, avoiding grabbing hands. Kicks their legs when finally caught. Needs to be held down firm with their face to the dirt, ass up, pussy presented while they get filled with his kits, teeth buried in their neck.

Edit: a little more

[sukunasbow]

being in a relationship with katsuki bakugou means that both of you have a mutual understanding that comfortable silence is something the two of you value every once in a while. you're able to simply be with each other, communicating through nothing but eye contact and actions.

ochaco's birthday is coming up and the entire class decided to throw a surprise party. everyone had a certain task, including you and katsuki.

your task is to bake cupcakes for the party, so now the two of you are alone in the shared dormitory kitchen while the rest of your classmates distract ochaco and take her to the mall.

your boyfriend finished baking the cupcakes and left the decorating to you. he sits on one of the kitchen stools, his eyes never leaving you as you carefully spread pink frosting onto each vanilla cupcake.

during this time, neither of you bother making small talk or conversation. instead, you decide to enjoy the presence of being there for each other and knowing that's enough.

[woof-verine]

re: the vanessa logan wade situation post deadpool & wolverine

I think vanessa and wade try to make it work again, I really do. I think they talk about it. I think he takes her to dinner a few times and he goes over to her place and they try to make things like they used to be between them until they realize that things can never be that way again because THEY will never be that way again. both of them have changed, are changing still, are growing upward and outward and also … apart.

wolverine tentatively reintroduces himself to the x men and wade tags along. vanessa starts her new position at work and that comes with way more responsibilities and way less time for anything else. she’s more serious than she used to be. wade is, too, but in a different way. one day when the x men go out on a mission, wade suits up too because he “has nothing better to do.” logan rolls his eyes but lets him come and stares down the other x men when they ask what the hell wade is doing there. deadpool doesn’t shut up the whole mission. he also does a good job. soon he comes on another mission. then another one. wade keeps weird hours because wolverine is always on call with the x men, and now deadpool is kind of unofficially on call when wolverine is. vanessa needs eight hours of sleep to wake up early to get to her job on time. she isn’t a stripper anymore. and wade… well wade’s looking like less and less of a merc. when wade isn’t sleeping over at vanessa’s, he doesn’t have to worry about someone killing her in the middle of the night while they’re looking for him. wolverine can handle whatever comes after him. he can handle whatever comes after wolverine. when logan wakes up tense and violent from a nightmare in the middle of the night, wade is there and he can’t hurt him. when wade wakes up in a cold sweat from nightmares of his own, he doesn’t have to explain it to logan, because logan already knows what it’s like. slowly, wade’s world unwinds itself from vanessa’s and wraps around logan’s. it’s almost so slow they don’t know it’s happening. but it happens.

and one morning, maybe after a couple of months being back together, wade and vanessa wake up on one of the increasingly rare nights they spend together, and they look at each other and realize that they are different now. too different. and then it ends, to quote t.s. eliot, not with a bang but with a whimper

[shoeboxgoblin]

Sometimes the author of a fanfiction is an incredibly talented writer who has an extremely poor understanding of the source material 💖

[snupy]

so! just watched one piece fan letter and i... NEEEED them 🧎🏽‍♀️

[vityaposting]

WRITING REQUEST HIII

what about reader going to viktor to get augmented for a non physical reason - like maybe mental illness or addiction or something (idk dealers choice) and viktor slowly getting to know them over time. eventually reader overcomes their problem, and viktor realises that he likes reader just the way they are - unaugmented or not.

don't feel obligated to do this lol just saw that your requests where open

HI!!!! i love this request so much i decided it needs to be a multi chapter thing (4 or 5 probably?) i got broken up with yesterday so i ATE this prompt up lol

how to heal a rusted heart - mh!viktor x gn!reader - part 1

wc: 2100

You approach Emberflit Alley with no small amount of trepidation. The house is smaller than you expected, shoddier on the outside; shutters hang from foggy, cracked windows, and ivy like claw-scratches makes its way up the worn brick walls. You know—as does every Zaunite you’ve ever met—that there is more to the Machine Herald’s residence than meets the eye. You don’t know exactly how—somewhere, some way, there is a massive laboratory tucked behind the house’s unassuming facade. Maybe a separate underground sector, or even a pocket dimension supplied by the Herald’s knowledge of thinning the barrier between tech and magic. All these speculations are, of course, rumors—you’ve never had a reason to solve the mystery yourself. Until today. Today, you’d snapped.

Your chest still burns with the fury of it all. Betrayal. And to think they’d claimed to love you. Sickly-sweet self-satisfaction rises like bile to the back of your throat, putting a little more power behind your knock on the door. You’d been right. Paranoia, your doctor had proclaimed years ago—a not-uncommon symptom of your particular ailment. Well, was it true paranoia if you were always proven right in the end?

It doesn’t matter. After tonight, you won’t care.

A thickly-accented voice cuts through the speaker above the knocker: “You may enter.”

Ominous. You push away your trepidation, another instinct you’d be free of sooner rather than later. The door is heavy steel—you have to use your shoulder to pry it open, but once you’ve managed its weight, it swings inward for you on well-oiled hinges.

You emerge into a wide space thick with the stenches of metal and oil, cast under an ambient glow in various shades of orange. Lights flicker at you from lanterns on the walls, from faint bulbs hung across the ceiling. A lab bench spans the entire length of the room, which seems impossibly large compared to the house’s outer facade. A pocket dimension it is, then. Maybe. You still can’t be sure. The equipment littered across the bench is foreign and complex-looking.

The whistle of steam and clicking of gears greets you before the Herald himself can.

He’s tinkering with something. Something sharp. He sets it down, turns on his stool, lowers his hood and pushes his goggles onto his forehead. You aren’t quite sure what you expected the Machine Herald to look like under his armor and mask. If he even takes them off at all. Whatever you expected, this isn’t it.

“Good evening,” he says levelly. His voice rumbles in his throat, his accent lending the greeting a soft, alluring quality. He tilts his head, an oddly innocent gesture, considering his reputation. “With what can I be of service?”

The words you’ve been rehearsing for hours lodge themself in your throat, and even a heavy swallow can’t force them out. The Herald is unblinking. Molten orange pupils burn into yours, piercing against his dark scleras. His face is pale and his features sharp—he’s beautiful, you note, not completely willingly—and his frame is thin and willowy beneath his cloak.

“Well?” he prompts, and shame floods you, reminding you why you decided to take measures this drastic in the first place. “Nobody comes this deep into the Lanes just to visit me. Not to say I mind the solitude.”

He doesn’t want you here.

You’re here for a service, scolds the rational side of your mind, a side which seems to grow more and more powerless with every passing week, with every friend you lose, with every burst of rage and every bridge you burn. A service he openly advertises. He allowed you to open the door. He could have… have death-rayed you.

“Mister… Machine Herald,” you begin, horrendously embarrassed at how your voice quavers. The air in the lab is muggy. You wrap your arms around your middle anyway. “I’ve heard of the… the services you provide, and I—”

“Viktor,” he interrupts. “Viktor will suffice.”

You cough. His eyes narrow.

“Go on. You seek augmentation.”

“Of the… unconventional variety, I guess you could say. Less of a physical augmentation and more of a…”

“You are at war with your own mind,” he observes. “I can see it in your eyes. Come closer.”

And you do, because there’s something in the rumble of his voice—which is so close to a growl you feel weak in the knees—and the sharp glow of his eyes that draws you in like a moth to a lantern. He gestures to the second stool at his side. You wonder who it’s normally reserved for. Patients? Experimental subjects? A partner, perhaps—or has he always only worked alone?

“You’re tense. Relax.” He speaks with such calm authority that it’s impossible not to listen. “I will not touch you without explicit permission. If it’s only emotional suppression you seek, I may be able to offer a solution that does not require me to lay hands on you.”

You don’t know why this disappoints you.

He tilts his head as he gazes at you, one gloved hand fidgeting with a trinket on his workbench. “Tell me. In detail. What is it you want out of this? What causes you such pain?”

“Everything,” you say. It’s almost a whimper. He raises an eyebrow. Clearing the embarrassment from your throat, you try again. “Everything is… is so much. I’m scared. All the time. I can’t love anyone anymore, I… I’m afraid they’ll all leave me.” Oftentimes, they do, you neglect to add. This won’t concern Viktor. He has no reason to care. “And it can change on a coin. It’s like you said. It’s like being at war.” A war between your body and your brain, you’ve realized, would never be one worth fighting. This, however, seems to be the only way to put an end to things. You look at Viktor plaintively, hoping he isn’t judging. If the rumors are true, he removed his ability to judge long ago.

“Ah,” he said after a silence that seemed to stretch for eons. “I understand.”

“My doctor says it’s an… ailment.”

“That may be,” he says. “As such, you have a right to want to heal it. Procedures with the intent to alter emotions are harder and riskier than procedures focused on the physical. I am happy to give you what you ask for, but you must be aware of the potential consequences. Do you intend to eliminate all emotions, or… only their extremities?”

“Only the extremities.” Life will be much easier, you think, if you never have to love another person again. Amicable acquaintanceship, however, hurts nobody.

“Good,” he hums. “Complete removal is difficult. If I weren’t so stubborn I’d nearly say it was impossible.”

“How do you know?”

“I tried,” he says plainly.

“And you failed?” You don’t know what emboldens you to say it.

“I simply have not yet succeeded.”

You look at him, then, really look at him. And behind those beautiful eyes that glow with the light of a hundred fires, shine with the darkness of a hundred polluted Zaun nights, you almost swear you see your own loneliness staring back at you.

“It’s risky,” he continues. “In the case that something goes awry, do not say I didn’t warn you.”

“Of course,” you whisper.

“May I take a closer look? I’d like to get a feel for the incision site.”

You nod a silent confirmation and bow your head, gripping the sides of the stool. He wheels himself closer. Lifts his hand. You hold your breath.

The Herald’s hands are gentle when they card through your hair, pushing a few strands away from your forehead. His demeanor now is a far cry from the terrifying villain you know him to be—the chaos-wreaking force of evil most of Zaun insists he is. You wonder, as your breathing calms, exactly how many of the tales are wild fantasy, because this soft touch is the realest thing you've felt in a long, long time.

“All I can promise you is that I will be careful,” he murmurs, tracing a line from the center of your forehead to the crown of your hair. “This particular procedure is immensely detail-oriented, even in comparison to the others I’ve performed. To dampen your emotions, I will be altering your limbic system, in the simplest of terms. However, if I am not meticulous, I risk damaging other functions, such as reasoning or memory.”

Truth be told, waking up without any memory of the hurt you’ve endured doesn’t sound too awful.

But, you realize as a shiver runs down your spine—you want to remember this.

“There is another option,” Viktor goes on. You’re forced to draw your attention away from his soft, prodding touches. “Implants in the form of pills. Those, however, I’ve not yet managed to make permanent. They’re finicky, and they don’t last long. You’d have to take them twice a day—one separate medication for each emotion you wish to suppress. I imagine it would all be a hassle. This, however… if you consent, I can perform the entire procedure in one process, and your desired results will be immediate.” He draws his hand back, lightly scratching your scalp—it’s enough to relax, but not enough to hurt. “You don’t have to decide today.”

“No, no. That’s alright. I’ll take the… the surgery.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

Finality settles over you like a chilly breeze as he pulls away. You’ll finally be free. Free of heartbreak, of fury, of flaws. There’s something in his mechanical gaze that unnerves you and enthralls you simultaneously. Something human.

“Being that this is a complicated procedure,” he says, “I will have to schedule it in advance. I will reserve an entire day for you and I cannot free the time for a week. A week from today. Is that alright with you? I can give you the medication to temporarily curb your symptoms in the meantime, if you like. It’s experimental, but I am relatively sure of its safety.”

He looks so hopeful. You know the joy etched in the lines of his sharp face is nothing more than the joy of scientific innovation, but it’s endearing all the same. The Machine Herald of Zaun’s urban legends is a completely different person. You find it hard to believe that the cackling, murderous tyrant rumored to haunt the Lanes even shares a name with the man in front of you. There’s a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, and a few locks of hair sticking up haphazardly from beneath his goggles. You find yourself cracking a grin for the first time in days.

“No,” you say. Your chest feels lighter. Just a bit. Enough to be noticeable, enough to instill the certainty that trusting your life to the Herald is the right decision—malicious cackle, terrifying armor, death laser, and all. “No, I’ll be alright.”

He crosses his arms over his lap. “You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he says softly. “But the ache in your heart… someone put it there. I know the feeling. You are not the first to be driven away from loving altogether. I once thought I had a simple fix. I… do not know if it was the foolproof solution I thought it was. I will perform any procedure on you that you wish. But you should know this. Metal is perfection, yes, but love… love can rust the strongest steel.” He swallows, fiery eyes flickering. “I thought I’d warn you. However, I do my best for all my patients, and you are no exception.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. You’re grateful for the lab’s low lighting—it’s unlikely Viktor can see the blush crawling up your neck. “I—thank you.”

“Do you still want this? Even considering the risk?”

He looks at you so softly. He must look at everyone that softly, you realize, but the knowledge doesn’t make you feel any less warm. “Yeah.”

He gives you a businesslike nod, and you can see the Machine Herald’s persona sliding back into place. Cold. Unfeeling. For a moment, though, you saw the truth. “Thank you. I will see you one week from today—be here as early in the morning as you please. I’ll walk you out. Be safe out there. I can only complete the procedure if you return to me in one piece.”

What a gentleman, you think, but you say nothing. You accept with a small smile.

His hand brushes your shoulder as you reach for the handle of the door. Your whole body sparks, as if you’re a machine already.

“Goodbye,��� he says. “And best of luck. I will pray that the next week treats you kindly.”

You almost want to hug him goodbye—out of thanks if nothing else. You hold yourself back. “I’ll see you then.”

The last thing you see before the door shuts behind you are his eyes. Two pinpricks of light in the darkness of the Lanes. Mechanical though they are, you realize they still crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

[thief-of-eggs]

“He wouldn’t do that in canon!!!” “He would never say that!!”

SO FUCKING WHAT??

[zinnie-zoloft]

“Crystal is the voice of reason” no tf she is not did we even watch the same show? She’s a mess, she’s 16, she’s angry and emotional and dealing with way too much at once.

Female characters are so often reduced to “the reasonable one” or “the one with the braincells” but Crystal clearly isn’t that, every character is dealing with their own shit and none of them are perfect, they’re teenagers who repeatedly fuck up.

Yeah, she tries to help Charles, but she’s no therapist. She pushes him and screams at him because she doesn’t know how to deal with any of this either. She isn’t any better at dealing with her emotions than he is and that’s the whole point.

She’s just as impulsive as him and just as angry. She constantly puts herself in danger in order to save the people she cares about, and would have absolutely reacted the same way Charles did with the night nurse if it had been her in that situation.

People love Charles for the same character traits they keep trying to strip away from Crystal, and this is a massive problem with female characters in fandom.

[cchipollo]

felt really REALLY normal when i saw this comic panel ha ha ha !!!!

[manichewitz]

i dont think yall understand how floored i was when i found out that the interview with the vampire books are actually incredibly erotically gay for real and not just light queercoding or fan's gay ships?? bc this changes everything. i had always assumed anne rice hated fanfic authors for making her male characters fuck, but no, she just wanted to be the only author making her male characters fuck

[steddiehyperfixation]

wishful thinking

@steddie-spooktober day 12: graveyard | 1,058 words | T | canon compliant

“Hey, Eddie. Sorry Dustin couldn’t be here, you’re stuck with me today,” Steve says as he crouches down in front of Eddie’s gravestone. “Hope that’s alright.” 

Dustin usually comes by about once a week to clean the hate speech off, but he’s on vacation with his family right now, so Steve took it on himself to take up the mantle this week. It’s covered in slurs this time, angry red spray paint scrawled over a headstone that wishfully asserts that Eddie is ‘finally at peace.’ Bullshit, that. The graffiti and the headstone. How can he be at peace when all those witch-hunting dickheads are still stomping all over his grave? “I guess we don’t really give you much peace either though,” Steve muses aloud. “The kids visit you so much. Your uncle too. Kind of crazy - for all the hate you got, you were loved just as much too. Don’t know if that makes you feel better or anything.”  

He sighs, dunking a rag in a bucket of soapy water and beginning to scrub the paint off the gravestone. “I don’t even know why I’m talking to you, it’s not like you can hear me, wherever you are,” he says, though he still continues to talk regardless. It gives him something to do while he works. “I know Dustin talks to you a lot too. He says when he does he almost feels like you’re actually here, like you’re listening to him, sitting with him. He says that he imagines you responding to him, swears up and down that sometimes he really does hear you answering. But I know it’s just his imagination, wishful thinking. I think he knows that too. He just misses you. You dying really hit him hard, you know.” 

For all the years of crazy Upside-Down shit they’ve been through, Dustin had never lost someone so close to him before. It hardened something in him, left a hollow behind his eyes and an anger and cynicism in them that hadn’t been there before. Steve worries about that kid now more than ever. 

“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not really there, that you can’t see the way he’s changed,” he tells Eddie’s grave. “I think it would just depress you. It depresses me. But, I don’t know, sometimes when he talks about how he thinks he can feel your presence here some of that old hope and light returns to his eyes. So maybe it’d actually be better if you really were still hanging around, if it’s not just in his imagination.”

He shrugs. “And maybe you are. Who knows, the world we live in these days. It’d make sense, I guess, that your spirit or whatever might come back down here for Dustin. You guys had that, like, nerd bond. Not for me though.” He huffs out a dry laugh and re-wets his cleaning rag. “Either way, I’m still just an idiot talking to myself in a graveyard. There’s no reason you’d come here for me. It’s not like we were really friends. We barely knew each other, we just went through the week from hell together and then you died.” 

He frowns as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn line of graffiti and he falls briefly quiet, chewing at his lip. His silence is more pensive than focused, old thoughts now swirled up to the surface in his mind.

“I think we could’ve been, though,” he says after a moment, “friends, I mean. If I’d’ve gotten the chance to know you better. If we’d had more time. We- maybe we could’ve even-” Steve falters, unable to speak aloud what he’s really thinking, not while he’s scraping off slurs that might be hurled at him next if anyone heard. He can’t say that that moment in the stolen camper van when Eddie leaned into his space and called him ‘big boy’ had made something strange and new slither in his stomach and warm his blood. He can’t say how he wishes they could’ve gotten the chance to explore that, all the things it made him wonder about. Instead he settles on, “I think I could’ve learned a lot from you…”

If Steve really wanted to torture himself he’d give into his imagination, picture Eddie standing beside him with a comforting hand on his shoulder and replying We could’ve, like he knows everything Steve’s not saying and feels the same. Steve can practically feel the touch, hear his voice, could just about convince himself of it if he was enough of a masochist to. He has to glance at his shoulder, has to put his own hand there just to check for sure, to remind himself that there’s no one there. It’s just wishful thinking. He shakes his head and returns his attention to the headstone. 

His throat feels tight. “You shouldn’t have died, man,” he mutters. “You just shouldn’t have. I told you- I told you 'don't try to be cute or be a hero,’ didn't I? But you did it anyways. You did anyways and now look at you. Being dead isn't cute, Eddie, it just isn't.” 

Steve's voice cracks, eyes stinging. He takes a deep breath and presses the heels of his palms against his closed eyelids. He needs to pull himself together. He didn't come here to bare his soul to a chunk of stone for some guy he honestly didn't really know. What ifs don't mean shit to the dead; it's only the living they haunt. It’s only himself who’s here to hear it.

“Well,” he exhales heavily, swallowing down his emotion. He scrubs off the last remaining paint from the stone and sits back on his heels. “At least your grave is all shiny and clean now. That’s something, right? You’re welcome, by the way. My work here is done.” Collecting his cleaning supplies, he gets to his feet, hesitating for a second. Silly as it sounds, he feels like he should say some sort of goodbye before he heads off, like it would be rude not to. “I’ll, uh-” He pats the top of the gravestone, only a little awkwardly. “I’ll see you around, Munson.” 

As he turns to leave, Steve could almost swear this time he really does hear Eddie’s voice, a whispery echo following him from the graveyard. See ya, Stevie. Don't be a stranger.

[ask-but-beware-the-consequences]

"And all the songs we sang become soundtrack of my soul"

The drawing for the Outpost fic's last scene is finally done! aka Toki's definition of feeling safe :3

I just noticed that Murderface and Skwisgaar are both sleeping similarly to how they've slept in that family au drawing lol. Some things never change. "God's favorite fucking boy band"

[wayvchip]

wayv mtl likely to prefer having a clingy s/o

most

yangyang

xiaojun

ten

hendery

kun

winwin

least

— explanations —

yangyang seems like someone who has a lot of love to give. if anything, HE would be the clingy one in the relationship. yangyang would constantly be tackling you to the ground to try to tickle you or smother your face with kisses. he needs someone who can return his level of affection!!

xiaojun would absolutely bask in your affection, he LOVES all of the attention you give him and is very proud of it. he lowkey shows you off too. xiaojun wouldn't hesitate to kiss your hand in front of the others but the moment you do anything to him he gets all blushy.

ten is always seen hugging literally everyone in nct so i feel like he would love having a s/o that returns the affection. it gets him all smug and cocky. you would just be holding onto his arm and he'd be all like "damn if you want me just say so 😂😂😂"

hendery strikes me as someone who adores having a clingy s/o but doesn't want to admit it. he tries to act normal about it for the sake of his heart (palpitations go brrr). but when you randomly steal a kiss from him out of nowhere, he can't help but freeze and awkwardly stand there with his hands stiffly by his side LMAO

kun doesn't really mind it, doesn't really care for it either. if you're more touchy, he'll reciprocate the action. if you're not, that's totally okay, he'll find other ways to show his love for you, like cooking for you. overall, kun just likes how you rely on him because he enjoys taking on that role of responsibility.

winwin doesn't seem like he would be big fan of having an overly affectionate s/o ngl. you try to hug him for more than 5 seconds? winwin lowkey pushes you away from him 💀 it's not that he doesn't like you!!! he just needs his own space and prefers to show affection differently.

[leavingsunsets]

Idia going on his first date with his partner and we just take him to a picnic in the middle of the woods behind the school building.

this sounds ominous... like u just take him... to the middle of the woods.... and on the first date... next thing u know its late at night and ortho cant find his brother... but yes i love picnics !!! :D srry if its a little OOC

"𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗃𝗈 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾?"

[ᴵᵈⁱᵃ ˢʰʳᵒᵘᵈ ˣ ᵍⁿ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ]

"Uh, no."

"Oh, boooo. Why not?" You lean on the multitude of pillows on his bed. One of them was a plushie of you, requested by yours truly. Head all round like ball. You squish it.

"Because, really, out in nature? Me?" Idia lowers his Nintendo, looking at you incredulously. "You're asking the introverted tech guy if he wants to go and eat out in the forest?"

You roll your eyes. "Oh, come on, it's not as if I'm asking you out on a hike."

He sticks his face back in the screen. "Same point, I'm not going out to the woods just for lunch when I can have it here."

A sigh. This was a real struggle sometimes, especially with a boyfriend who's not so willing to entertain such cheesy ideas, let alone even imagine doing it.

"Come on, pleaseeee? It'd be really romantic."

"What, you gonna lead me there with a blindfold too?" He snorts while pressing away at the buttons. You throw a pillow at his head. It hits him but he only snickers and lets it fall.

"No. Its not like it's some sorta secret spot anyways. You can literally see the school from there."

He hums, tilting his head as a victory flashes across his screen. "Mmmmmaybe...."

"What, Idia. What series do you want me to binge with you now."

An excited grin stretches on his face. "Attack On Titan, full 4 seasons marathon. And-" he rolls his chair near the edge of the bed where you lay, "gaming session. My game of choice this time, since you always pick Mario Kart because I KNOW you searched up the cheats for that."

"Proof?" You ask smugly with your head resting on your palm.

"Stop using my tablet to google 'Mario Kart glitch hack combo'."

You click your tongue. "Fine. Deal."

"WHOOOOOO!" Idia cheers, pumping his fist.

. . .

It's quiet. Here you both sat, food and drinks alike between you as you're sat at opposite edges of the picnic blanket. You squint your eyes at the stark contrast between the food he brought and yours.

"....I brought Doritos and monster cans because I thought you'd want them," you whisper, looking at the nice weaved basket beside him.

You grip your 7-Eleven plastic bag in shame.

"Wha- Do you think I'm some sorta junkie??" Idia sputters, gaping at you. "And I baked this all for you, you jerk!"

"Well, you were just so against this! So I wanted to make you more comfy! Er, ease you in the vibe, you know?"

"What am I, some sort of screen addict? It's not like I don't know how to be outside, I just don't like to!" It's like there were metaphorical tears streaming down his face. "What sort of ipad kid do you think I am for you to pull this environment adjustment move on me?"

"Fine, fine, I'm sorry, Idia. It was a little insensitive of me."

"Ortho even hyped me up. He said you were probably going to surprise me with cute kitty cupcakes." Idia says, staring off in the distance with blank disappointment.

You groan loudly. "Ughhh baabeeee, I said I'm sooorryyy!"

"Don't 'babe' me! I made you a nice batch of food in this aesthetic cottagecore basket and you waltz in with two cans and a Dorito!" Grumbling, he crosses his arms, turning to the side. "I'm kicking your plushie out of my bed tonight."

At this point, you just sprawl across his lap, and he still doesn't look at you. "Don't do it, pleaasee," you beg muffledly, "I'll make it up to youuu."

"It's gonna take a lot more than just some sorries for this offense."

"...I'll move my minecraft bed beside yours this time."

"I take it back. Apology accepted."

You lift your head, deadpanning. "So you were still mad about about that?"

"Heheha, yeah I was," he giggled. "So, uh, wanna eat? I think it's cooled by now."

"Oh, yeah," you get up off him, fingers eagerly reaching for the basket. Taking it in your arms, you flip it open, only to pause when you see the contents inside.

"...cute kitty cupcakes?" you mutter in wonder.

"Yeah." Idia mumbles, fiddling with his jacket strings in an attempt to act nonchalant about his growing embarrassment.

It's quiet, and before long, you can't stop the cheeky smile creeping up your face.

"Who surprised who now, huh?"

"You're still on thin ice."

"Okay, okay, I'm eating."

[star-streaks]

Fellas, he’s back on my mind like a mold. Do I scrape this bitch off?

[cmkren]

— a human’s touch

; house x gn! reader

Maybe in some other lifetime romanticism wasn’t lost to House. That he had grown into a man capable of giving clear-cut affections— and capable of receiving it as well. The first ever puzzle he never wanted to solve, and it was of his heart. You, on the other hand, couldn’t give a damn about it all. You tied yourself to him after all.

In your lap, maybe that fact of House’s could be forgotten. For an hour or two.

a/n: i’ve never written for house, or house md at all. Currently in s4, and I’m just so attached to this crowd of misfits. I’m sorry if he ends up ooc— I just wanted to write something as close to fluff as I can with house LMAO 😭

tws; nothing you wouldn’t find in the show — 1.08k words

“What, are we playing mommy and her sexually frustrated boytoy? I don’t recall putting this into the search bar.”

“I don’t think you’re young and spry enough to be playing the pool boy in this scenario. Take as much offence as you’d want to that shocking revelation.”

Despite the very particular banter, nothing nefarious was happening in this scene. It was quite normal actually. In the tidiness of his apartment the two steeped in each other’s presence. Steeped may have been a strange word for it, but it fit the two. House was chatty like always, but even now and then he had grown quiet. Either getting caught by a specific feature of his partner (still thick on his tongue, not something he ever says really) or deep in his own thoughts.

What prompted him to make the off handed remark? Some might ask, especially when they were having such a peaceful moment!

The obvious answer would be because he’s House. What else was he supposed to do? The not-so-obvious answer was the strange feeling in his chest, as his head lay against the thighs of the person he oh-so cautiously let pull him down to such a position. If he turned his head sideways, you’d most certainly feel the prick of his unkempt beard.

He flexes his fingers, arms sort of kept… limp. Close to his chest. The pale blue of his eyes looking up to the other, brow wrinkled into a furrow as he felt awkward. He only allowed himself to be so hesitant for a second more before he went slack jawed and widened his eyes— a mockery of coming to another ‘revelation’.

“Oh! Pray tell me then, what are we?” Spoken like a young teenager picking out lines from a rom-com they watched the day before to aid them in romantic endeavours. His arms even moving just the slightest to resemble a ‘gosh darn it!’ kind of movement. That garnered an amused noise out of you, your hand very gently resting atop his mess of hair.

“Not we, you. What you are, is a man who can’t even sit still and let me dote on you. So I resorted to,” your free hand gestured to him. Legs stretched and resting on the arm rest of his couch, his head comfortably in your lap, “this.”

Then it was House’s turn to give a little snort.

“What you’ve resorted to is crippling a cripple. Can’t move! Should I go dial 911? Or are you going to kick my legs from behind just as I reach my phone?” This time, there wasn’t any sort of sound akin to laughter. Instead, you gave the hairs atop his head a bit of a tug. A warning.

A grunt left him, his eye wincing a little from the sensation but his wit outran any sort of complaint, “Pineapple! Oh— right we aren’t doing anything like that.” He still shot you a half-hearted look. All the playing around didn’t get him anything but a gentle expression though, a soft look in your eye that said that you would put up with him more than he could ever dream of.

A look he’d seen, but never truly appreciated. He wasn’t quite sure if he did so, even now.

“I would tell you to stop being stupid, but I know I could never stop that.”

“Wow, thanks.”

The way you leaned down to give press a kiss atop his forehead spoke to the fact that you never meant any malice or exasperation in their words. Sure, there was bound to be exhaustion, everyone had breaking points. You were always so lenient with him. Even if you wouldn’t admit that yourself.

Suppose in a way, they understood each other like that.

House didn’t react much to the kiss. You gave a lot of those, so. He didn’t say anything though, so that was either a good indication or a bad indication. 50/50, who knows maybe you should flip a coin.

“Good day at the hospital?” You mumbled, slowly twirling the short strands on his head, coiling them around your fingers. House’s face visibly relaxed, only flexing and moving as he responded. “Oh, yeah, like Santa’s little workshop there. Bundle of joy, fun bright lights.” He muttered, eyes closing for a moment.

Everyone knew that his days were full of pain. He made sure everyone knew, actually. Always made sure that everyone had to be dragged down with him. With you though, he toned it down. Just a little bit.

Your hand caressed the side of his face, gliding down the rough surface and down his scraggly beard. Mindless shapes formed along his skin, his eyes trained on your face. Whether your face would contort the longer you looked at him. As if waiting for you to have a revelation of your own— that he wasn’t who you wanted to spend your time with. That’d you’d wake up soon. Wake up from the dream you seemed so content with, him in your lap and the carefulness of your gestures.

“Something on my face?” Your hand trailed back up to his cheekbone, before pinching the skin there. A smile on your face, for him. For a moment, he stayed silent. Lips that were once parted were now pursed into a tight line, furrow of his brows suggested that he was thinking again.

The longer you waited though, the lighter your touch became. As if you were drawing back. An end to a gentle moment.

“No,” his hands shot up, taking yours in his own. His eyes firm, before they would soften and close as he brought your hands to his face. “Keep it this way a little longer.” For once, not a quip. A moment of genuine love, one that came out of him thinking this was all but fleeting.

In reality, you hardly moved at all.

You were just going to shift, hopefully making him more comfortable if he had felt the position a little awkward. Instead he cradled your hands as if they were the one thing keeping him off his pills. Even just for a short amount of time. Your shoulders went lax, tilting your head as you gave a faint smile. “Okay.” Was all you said.

“I’d rather have you touch me than the old reliables here,” one of his hands let go, giving a bit of a jazzy shake as if to emphasize, “god knows I’ve touched myself enough. Your hands are softer.” You snorted.

“I don’t doubt it.”