#my shitty fanfic

[bigsexiest]

Phantom x Swiss sad fic w comfort at the end

For some reason, I was feeling angsty today, and Phantom is such a sad little sop to me.

word count: 2.1k

Summary: Phantom thinks he's been forgotten when the other ghouls are preoccupied with their friends, so he hides away. Swiss figures out he's missing and goes to find him.

When all the touring ghouls returned to the ministry, they were met with hugs and tearful “I missed you”s. Even Aurora, anxious about being left out, was dragged along by Cirrus and Cumulus to meet Sunshine. Phantom wanted so badly to run over with Rain and Dew to meet Aether, but he didn’t want to intrude. And anyway, if they wanted him to follow they would’ve asked.

He watched as Swiss walked over to the ghoulettes, immediately falling into friendly banter as if they’d never been separated at all. Phantom stood awkwardly to the side, wondering if anyone was going to turn around and invite him into their circles.

As the groups of ghouls started leaving, Phantom was struck with a feeling of deja vu. When he had first joined the tour, he had been freshly summoned in the ministry and then quickly shipped away with Aurora to start his job. Aurora was sweet to him, but he yearned for a pack. Dew making a point to ignore him was painful, but the ambivalence of the other ghouls was heartbreaking. They all eventually warmed to him, but Phantom still wondered if they harbored the same feelings about him.

He wondered if he could do anything to make them mad. Something that would make them so mad that they began ignoring him again. The thoughts hurt him, but they also gave him comfort. Whenever he did something bad, he used the thoughts to make himself feel better. It helped to picture the worst thing that could ever happen and know that whatever did happen would most likely be better comparatively. 

Phantom knew he hadn’t done anything bad. At least, he thought he hadn’t. Rationally, he knew the other ghouls were probably preoccupied with greeting old friends, and they’d find him eventually. He hoped.

In the back of his mind, though, a thought had started to chip away at his resolve. A small voice growing louder the longer he stood watching all the other happy ghouls. It grew angrier as more ghouls left the room with their friends, probably looking for a place to snuggle and catch up on lost time. 

The voice was telling him he was worthless. The voice was calling Phantom whiny, and bothersome. That none of the ghouls actually liked him, they only put up with him because they felt bad for him.

Phantom started to believe the voice. He had understood why Dew had gone to Aether, and he had expected Swiss to go with Aurora, they had become rather close. But he thought maybe Rain would show him around the place. It was a large building and Phantom did feel a little overwhelmed. But no, all the ghouls had found their closest pack members and Phantom was left alone on the outskirts. 

Phantom didn’t want to bother anyone asking for directions to the ghoul den. Instead, he decided to walk through the halls until either he found it or found somewhere cozy to hide. 

He just wanted somewhere dark where he could wallow in his own loneliness. He knew eventually someone must come looking for him. But he’d started to wonder how long that would take. How long until someone noticed he wasn’t standing in the background like he always was. 

He wanted to cry. Phantom just wanted a space where he could disappear for a while and not have to worry about anything. He wanted a space where nothing could hurt him, for at least a few hours. He’d probably fall asleep and feel better once he’d woken up. It had been a long drive back to the ministry and he was probably just being dramatic.

Once he had found a sufficient storage room mostly empty apart from a few large boxes, he happily shut the door behind him and climbed into a small cabinet. It was long enough for him to curl up comfortably, but it was still snug enough to offer him the support he wanted. He felt safe enough to let go of his composure.

Phantom let his limbs fall free of the tension that had been straining him and the tears he had been holding back fell. He let all of the loud sobs escape. His tail came up between his legs and the small spade at it’s tip slipped into his mouth, giving him more comfort. He drifted off into a deep sleep, hugging himself tightly.

Swiss had been enjoying his lunch with the girls. He was starving from the ride home. Aurora was an easy friend for Sunshine, since they both had the same job. Swiss was purring with satisfaction that the little air ghoulette had warmed up so nicely with the others. He had been worried for the new ghouls. He knew firsthand how scary it could be meeting new people.

He had been wondering about Phantom. Swiss thought he saw the little quintessence ghoul following Rain and Dew to Aether, but he had lost sight of him as the girls were introducing Aurora to Sunshine. He was sure they must’ve shown him around the ministry first rather than taking him straight to the dining hall. Technically there was a kitchen in the ghoul den, but the ghouls sometimes found it easier just to visit the ministry dining hall and eat with the humans.

Swiss had decided to put it out of his mind and to focus on the food in front of him. There was no reason to worry, so he happily took another bite and listened to the story Sunshine was telling about Aether. It was something funny, but Swiss immediately forgot about it when he saw Dew, Aether, and Rain walk into the room noticeably without Phantom. His brow furrowed and he waited for them to pass by to stand up and walk with them. 

Dew was less holding Aether’s hand than hanging off his entire arm, but Rain was just casually holding onto Aether’s right hand. Swiss grabbed onto Rain’s free hand.

“Hey guys,” Swiss wanted to be direct, but still friendly, “nice to see you Aether, what happened to Phantom?”

Rain stopped walking and turned his head to look at Swiss. “I thought you were gonna show him around.” He looked concerned. Aether and Dew had also stopped and looked over. Dew looked puzzled.

“No, I thought I saw him walking in with you guys, I was busy with Aurora.” Swiss was very confused. If none of the guys had shown him around, where was he now? 

Swiss figured Phantom could’ve figured out the way to the den on his own, but the thought didn’t make him feel great. The ministry was a big place, and the little bug could’ve gotten lost. Even if he did find his way to the den, how would he know which room was his? Swiss hoped his room smelled enough like him so the little ghoul could find it to hide away there until Swiss arrived.

“I saw him standing near you guys, I thought he was just waiting for you to finish introducing Aurora to Sunshine.” Dew stepped towards Swiss away from Aether. His voice sounded worried, but Swiss felt a flash of anger towards the fire ghoul. If he had seen Phantom by himself, why hadn’t he chosen to include the little bug?

But then Swiss saw the way Aether leaned forward to place a comforting hand on Dew’s shoulder. Of course Dew wasn’t paying attention to Phantom. He had just been reunited with his mate.

“I’m sure someone found him, everyone knows you guys returned today.” Aether was always good with reassurance, and Swiss could feel a touch of quintessence magic helping to calm him down. Now wasn’t the time to get angry, now was the time to find Phantom.

Aether, Dew, and Rain had agreed to help Swiss find Phantom. Aether separated from them to go find Omega to let him know Phantom was missing just in case someone brought him to the infirmary. 

Rain offered to check the ghoul den. If Phantom wasn’t there, there was a possibility another ghoul had seen him somewhere.

That left Dew and Swiss to search the rest of the ministry. Dew was going to check the upper levels quickly, while Swiss spent more time on the ground level. Phantom was more likely to either stay on the ground level than go upstairs.

Swiss was making swift progress through the rooms. The ones in use by humans or ghouls were easy, everyone fell victim to his easy charm and let him know they hadn’t seen any quintessence ghouls.

He had been trying to use his nose, looking for the little ghoul’s sweet citrus scent. Occasionally he thought he’d get a whiff, but then he’d immediately lose it amongst the other scents. He wished his nose was as good as Dew’s or Cirrus’s. It was his hearing that was much more sensitive.  

It was a good thing he had both of these senses. When he entered a small dark storage room, he wouldn’t have thought anything of the largely barren place, but something was off. The place smelled of Phantom, but it had faded in intensity. The scent was still present, but it wasn’t as bright as it normally was. Swiss wished he had spent more time telling Phantom how addicting he smelled. Swiss could spend days with his nose against Phantom’s neck, just huffing it in. He couldn’t decide if it smelt more like limes or lemons, and on some days it threw Swiss for a loop by being more orange-ish. He loved it.

The scent wasn’t the only giveaway. Swiss could also hear soft snoring coming from a cabinet at the end of the room.

Swiss quickly went to the cabinet and opened it up slowly, not wanting to startle Phantom. The little quintessence ghoul was sleeping curled into himself, facing away from Swiss. He noticed Phantom’s tail was tucked and he had his claws tightly clutching into his shoulders. It was an obvious attempt at self-soothing.

Swiss wanted so badly to grab the little ghoul and just hold him. He had really fucked up. As badly as Swiss wanted to comfort the ghoul, he was also worried about Phantom’s state of mind when he would awaken. What if Phantom didn’t want comfort? What if Phantom was angry? Swiss was ready to accept whatever responsibility fell to him. He would happily grovel in sorrow at the feet of Phantom. It was all his fault.

Swiss decided to rip off the bandaid and wake up the sleeping ghoul. Sitting on his knees in front of the cabinet, he reached out a hand to softly shake Phantom’s shoulder.

At first the quintessence ghoul didn’t respond. Eventually he woke with a flinch, seemingly unprepared to be disturbed. He quickly flipped to see who had found him, and broke down in tears once again.

Swiss wasn’t exactly expecting this, but he grabbed the little ghoul nonetheless. Lifting him out of the cabinet from under his arms, Swiss cradled the lanky ghoul in his lap against his chest, gently shushing him and telling him it was alright.

“Little bug,” speaking softly, Swiss asked, “why didn’t you come with me?” He just wanted the little ghoul to feel safe.

Phantom sniffled, his head resting just beneath Swiss’s chin. “I thought you didn’t want me.” 

“Why would you think that? Of course I want you, my sweet creature.” Swiss’s heart felt like it was snapping in two.

Phantom looked up at Swiss’s face, wanting to see if he was being genuine. “You all seemed busy with your friends, I didn’t want to interrupt you.” Phantom raised a hand to wipe at his tears.

“I thought Dew was going to show you around, but Dew thought I had you.” Swiss wanted to make sure Phantom knew no one had forgotten about him. “It was a huge misunderstanding and we were all looking for you the second we realized.”

“Really?” Phantom’s eyes went big with amazement, and he smiled for the first time since Swiss had found him. Swiss was happy to note that his scent had started to become sweeter as well.

“Yes, of course, little bug. Let’s get you to the den so they can all see you’re safe.” Swiss was beaming as well. He was glad Phantom didn’t seem too torn up. When the others all spent time cooing over him, Swiss was sure everything would be better.

“Can we nap in your room after?” Phantom asked jovially, sounding as though he’d forgotten all about the whole situation that led to him sleeping in an empty storage cabinet.

“Of course, my little cuddle bug,” Swiss said as he stood up, picking up Phantom bridal style, ready to carry the ghoul all the way to the den.

[sophie-manatee]

The second part is starting to get posted.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61903012/chapters/158283778

[el-pada]

i think i hauve covid

incase the designs werent clear lol

[charbroiledchicken]

reading the cadence of part time poets is funny because i understand none of the slang. like, 'yes, go off little english boy!'

[dreadfuldevotee]

it was, like, a funny haha to be like "oh loumand post-divorce yearning" but now I positively cannot stop thinking about it.

Armand may have packed his shit and booked it outta there to god-knows-where in the couple nights Louis was away, and yet... Did Louis climb into bed and immediately tear off the sheets because no matter how tired he was- he couldn't stand the smell of Armand's shampoo on the pillow next to him? Did he realize he actually had to go figure out how to work phone himself because he wanted to call the staff back and Armand wasn't there to handle it anymore? Even after all the redecoration is there still a nagging feeling of something missing? Where is the man who touched your waist as he passed behind you? The melodic voice in the other room on the phone with the contractors? He's gone and yet you wake up at dusk still expecting to see him asleep beside you. You'll always remember how you reached for another in the night, the unguarded expression of peace on his face he never quite replicated in wakefulness.

[diceverses]

Another dumb gf doodle! This is my favourite stangst fanfic trope, I can read a million fics about Ford becoming the brother they both deserve and it will never be enough!

[zara-renata]

Alike and Cornered Beast: Sylus's POV | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: I was desperate for Sylus's point of view during the first time that MC meets him in the Alike and Cornered Beast chapters of Long-Awaited Revelry. So I uh wrote it myself. I wanted to know why he touches MC so reverently but also quite brutally, so I spent a lot of time thinking about possibilities.

Sylus x gender neutral reader/MC, second person POV (but we don't use Y/N in this house). Brief, derisive mentions of Xavier and Zayne (this is Sylus's POV after all, don't come for me). I love all the LIs, but Sylus has his hand wrapped around my throat and I see him as arrogantly having something to say about the other people who are also interested in his shiny treasure. He has mean thoughts about the other LIs, but he can be mean and we love that for him. Slightly canon divergent if you believe Sylus can't tell that MC is scared and repulsed by him until the shopkeeper informs him. I however believe this man is a little more perceptive than that. CW: violence, cursing, rude language, death, grief, murder, ok this is Sylus hello, non-consensual (non-sexual) touching of MC, metaphors involving hunger and blood, overuse of the word "lovely," but Sylus is a simp and it's mostly his POV so we must endure it. SFW, although clearly there is a thread of desire running beneath the interactions depicted

He doesn’t need the aether core in his eye to know how you're feeling. He can see it in the way your lovely jaw is locked tight, teeth clenched behind soft lips twisted into a tight line. The shudder you’re trying and failing spectacularly to repress, desperate to conceal your weakness: the fact that almost as much as you fear him, you hate him.

Almost from the very beginning, things have been going sideways for Sylus. First, that imbecile having the hubris to believe he could just pilfer what had clearly been claimed as belonging to Onychinus.

Second, the palpable fear that had juddered through you as he had graciously relieved the larcenist of the burden of his pathetic life, only for that fear to flare into bright, barely controlled hate once you figured out that using yourself as bait had succeeded in reeling in the largest predator in the N109 zone.

Third, even when he sauntered close to you, allowing you to drink your fill of his face, no other spark of recognition fired besides that of the leader of the most powerful criminal organization in the region. You didn’t recognize him personally at all, even as he hungrily mapped your face with his eyes and felt the bottomless well of want deepen even further in his heartless chest.

You didn’t remember a fucking thing. And for some reason, you hated him more than his worst enemies. And he had quite a large body count in the worst enemy column of the ledger of his existence.

The fear, he can understand. Onychinus is on the Hunter Association’s Naughty List, and you’re one of the Association’s true believers, a jewel in the hilt of their blade composed of naïve warriors. And like the noble, naïve creature he knows you to be, you firmly believe that any intel they fed you about him and his organization was the pure, unfiltered truth.

But the hate? He muses as he looks down into your upturned face, a face that has been carved into his dreams for weeks now, ever since Mephisto had reported back after scouting the Flux Nexus in the no-hunt zone. Ever since the night he finally found you, stumbling around and battling at the side of your sleepy, cunning rabbit of a partner in the dark wood, oblivious to the real danger perched amongst the leaves, watching through mechanical eyes. His lips twitch in an ironic smile, as he knows he should be grateful to the rabbit for the fact that you’re in front of him now, so agonizingly close. He can see the rise and fall of your chest. The breath you exhale, for him to inhale. All he has to do is let his hand do what it wants—reach out, fingertips drifting softly along the curve of your cheek, your throat, the pulse point that betrays your racing heart. You’re close enough that he could swallow you whole. A good man might be grateful, but he isn’t a good man, and he doesn’t have it in him to be grateful; he only catalogues the threat, and tucks away the thought of the light evolver to be a problem to contemplate, and solve, another day. Right now, he needs to solve the problem of why you hate him on a level that professional distaste can’t explain. The hate he sees in your bright, sharp eyes is personal.

Consequently, he might not need the aether core in his eye to know that you hate him, but he sure as hell needs it to figure out why.

He knows he should wait to use his power on you. He knows that strategically, the best play here is to move slowly, to rebuild your trust, to tease out what he wants from you, to prove to you that despite every instinct that the Association has indoctrinated in you, he is not a threat to you and never will be. He knows all too well that one can’t force trust and forge an equal relationship from coercion, but he doesn’t have the time. Not with the entire Nest on the hunt for his Prey tonight, not with his own house in chaos with Sherman running amok and running up the bill on collateral damage. He needs to know why you hate him so that he can deal with it now, all of it. To borrow the vocabulary of another one of your hapless suitors: now is the time for triage, and after he has assessed the carnage, then he will begin suturing the aftermath. Sylus may be a businessman, but he can appreciate a surgeon’s precision in approaching a crisis. Even if Sylus can’t appreciate the iceman himself, if only for the lingering looks the doctor indulges in when his patient is looking the other way. Sylus files this problem away, like the other, to be solved in quiet solitude another day.

So he indulges in a lingering look of his own, fingers twitching with the need to touch where they’re deceptively, casually resting on his hips. And then: Sylus lets himself look. He can feel the familiar warmth increase within his eye socket, the ember beginning to glow hotter and hotter, until it’s almost unbearable, and then truly unbearable, as it is every time, the price he must pay so that he may see.

A little silver apple on a chain.

A pair of smiling eyes.

An old woman’s hand placing a dumpling on a plate.

The relief of realizing that the danger has dissipated, and dinner is still waiting.

A strong, broad back, shoulders shaking with laughter as a door swings shut.

Almost from the very beginning, things have gone sideways for Sylus. He shuts his eyes, feels the heat and the pressure fade like grief with time, as the power in his aether core goes dormant once again. But you haven’t had time, have you? It’s still fresh, the wound still hemorrhaging. You think that he caused this. You’ve been bleeding for months, thinking it was his hand that wielded the knife lodged in your heart. Or rather, detonated the bomb that incinerated the only family you’ve ever known, leaving a smoking crater where your heart used to be.

Sylus’s mind races, compiling this new information, archiving the whys and hows, constructing and reconstructing his carefully assembled plans and all of the contingencies in between, laughing derisively at himself for not seeing this possibility coming. Sideways is an understatement. Things are well and truly fucked, Sylus thinks, looking into your lovely, livid face.

For a moment, an unfamiliar sensation drifts through his chest. He tests it gingerly, letting it cascade through him before he can identify it: despair. After all this time. Every year, month, week, day, second, breath, he has been carving a path towards you, littered with the broken dreams and broken bodies of others, and now he has finally found you, and what should have been his greatest victory (the spoils? His fingertips drifting up your silken skin, his fingers entwined with yours, home), may have been his greatest loss—a loss that is for once, despite all of his crimes and all of the corpses at his feet, every terrible thing he has ever done, not his fault at all.

He savors this strange feeling for a few heartbeats, indulging in it, pressing into it like a bruise, if bruises would actually remain under his skin. And then he discards it: the unexpected rarely obstructs his carefully laid plans, but nothing about you has ever been expected, has it? If he were the kind of man to resign himself to unexpected loss, like the other men clumsily flitting around you, he’d have been a dead trophy tossed at the feet of an enemy long ago. So the rules of the game have changed. So what? Sylus will adapt, because no matter his fucking luck, he is playing to win.

Because while gazing into the depths of your beloved eyes, Sylus not only saw the why of your hate, but the only thing that could soothe it. Something that you refuse to admit, even to your fundamentally honest self. Something you can’t admit, as you spend insomniac nights training until collapse, as you slice, maim, and end wanderer after wanderer, as you bare your teeth a little too savagely as blood spills beneath your fist and blade. You need vengeance. You need someone to hurt as much as you’re hurting. And not just anyone—the wanderers and criminals that you’ve trained your fists and pistols and blade on do not satisfy the blood-thirst burning through your veins. You need to punish the person responsible for the inferno in your chest. Maybe then you’ll be able to sleep again. Maybe then you’ll be able to not smile again, but at least retract the fangs that have been frightening the people around you for months now. The fangs you feared were always there, underneath the careful façade of the well-adjusted, law-abiding, healthy paragon of a hunter you’ve built to keep the nightmares at bay for years, to show your colleagues, your partner, your doctor and your superiors: Look, I’m harmless and righteous, the perfect tool, love me, love me, love me, please do not leave like everyone else I've ever loved.

And Sylus? Sylus has always, and will always, endeavor to give you everything your damaged heart could possibly desire. He knows that you will not believe that he was not the one who ripped your ‘family’ apart. And he knows that it will take time, time that he does not currently have, to rebuild what has been lost between the two of you. He recalibrates, sweeps aside the despair, and reinforces his resolve. If you want to exact vengeance on the person you think is responsible for all of your indescribable pain, Sylus will give his heart to you on a bloody platter, regardless of the pain it will cost him.

You need someone to hate right now to stay strong? So be it. He will be that for you, until he can locate the actual culprit. As he reaches out, ever so gently trailing the backs of his fingers along your hauntingly lovely face, he tells himself for a moment that he can't bring himself to use something so impersonal as the energy of his evol on you. But who is he kidding--Sylus is many things, but a liar is not one of them. He admits to himself that this is just him finally giving into his deepest desire, as he lets his hand drift from your face to the side of your neck, closing around your throat and lifting. He does not want to handle your precious form with such brute, concise strength, but he needs to hurry, he needs answers and he needs to fix this, now now now and you need him to be the enemy. This is what is best for you at this moment, in this place, and he only ever wants what is best for you, so he plays the part you need him to play:

"From your past to your future...to even all the crimes you'll inevitably commit. After all, you and I...we're the same. True kindred spirits."

As your body goes limp from his chokehold on you, he catches you, cradling your head in his hand, grateful for the strength of his body, the shelter he can provide you as he lifts you in his arms, holds you tightly, your chests finally close again, yours too full of a maimed heart and his missing one entirely, complementing each other, completing each other, even though you’re out cold and it will take so much—too much, too much, it’s already been too much time, you’re finally here, you’re finally in his arms, where you should have been all along—time to be able to have you in his arms like this but with your eyes wide open and fixed on his.

Later, when you wake up, in a dark room with this familiar stranger disdainfully staring you down through crimson eyes, as his evol winds itself around you, as it jerks you onto his big lap, you clench your teeth, you fight the tears of frustration and fury—why do you always cry when you’re angry? Is it not humiliating enough to lose control of the leash on your emotions, without tears spilling down your face to betray you to the object of your rage?­—and you fight desperately against the immovable force pinning you in place.

"I want to kill you myself," you grit out, through the tears and the snot running down your face.

And then this man places your gun in your hand, eyes bright as blood never leaving yours, in answer to the quietest, deepest buried desire of your limping heart that he has driven you to saying out loud. Your hate flares, because how dare he expose you to yourself in this manner? Who does this motherfucker think he is, casually extracting from your own mouth and offering you that which you couldn’t before name in hushed whispers, as if it means nothing to him, as if it costs him nothing, his sharp jaw relaxed, a ghost of a smirk curling the edges of his wide mouth? You fight it, the surge of hunger that chokes your panting breath—you fight it so hard, you’ve been fighting it for so long, ever since the piercing ringing in your ears began to sound that replaced your grandmother’s and Caleb’s laughter, the ringing silence that followed as debris rained down on your useless, injured body. You are not a mindless animal. You will not give in to this voracious want. You and this man holding your gun to his own heart are not the same, and never will be.

“Do you need some help? Yes? No? Maybe so?” His voice is the purr of a jungle cat, his hand, large and just as calloused as yours, envelops your own, with that same bizarre gentleness that you can’t even begin to interpret the why of, his finger drifting along your own, until it slowly tightens over yours. Your mouth says “No,” and you see how his eyes dart from yours to your lips and back again, but the hunger inside you howls as this man presses your finger against the trigger and the sound of the bullet leaving your gun drowns out all of the other noise in the cacophony of your thundering heart.

His big body jerks back, head hitting with a painful sounding thump against his melodramatic throne (ok, so it's just an antique chair, but honestly, where do villains buy ridiculous props like this?), and for an endless moment in time, the hunger is satiated, and a sense of triumphant relief courses through you instead. And then your vision sharpens, as blood the color of this man’s eyes begins to pour through the hole he—and you, we, together—just shot into his fucking heart.

He jerks the gun from your grasp and tosses it with a loud clatter to the concrete floor.

“You—Are you fucking crazy?” You’re moving before you realize it, palms pressed over his heart (a spiteful part of you hopes that it hurts him, even as you are suddenly overwhelmed with the terror that he is actually going to die, before you get any answers, before you get any help, before you’ve accomplished anything at all).

“You wanted to take my life,” he pants. It never hurts any less, no matter how many times it happens. He can feel his flesh knitting back together already, each stitch as painful as the one before. “And so you’ve taken it.”

Despite the pain, Sylus watches you leisurely, drinking in the blood splatters across your lovely neck and chin. My blood, he thinks with satisfaction. He wants to soak you in it. He wants to watch you bathe in it. He shakes his head, tucking that urge away for later contemplation. He is finally in the position to do what he has been craving for so, so long. He has given you what you want. Of course he will always give you what you want. However, that doesn’t mean that he can’t simultaneously get what he wants—Sylus strongly prefers deals when they’re win-win. He has given you what you wanted, and the slate is now clean. Now, it is time to begin negotiation of the highest stakes deal of his life: the acquisition of your body, heart and soul. Back at his side, where you belong.

“Now what? Have you already figured out how you’ll pay me back?”

[escespace]

Leon: Ok. What's going on?

Merlin: What do you mean?

Leon: What's the matter? What's wrong with you?

Merlin: Listen, I know myself so you have to be a little more specific if you want a short answer.

[soundwave-radioandbroadcast]

Was chatting with my mom and she proposed this idea to me, and basically here it is/from what I remember of it.

Mom: Starscream should be in love with Optimus, but it's unrequired love because you know Optimus is like a big alpha liking the female transformers. But only Bumblebee knows the truth! So he tries to play matchmaker and plays romantic music to try and get them together!

Me: I-

Mom: STARSCREAM ALSO HAS DADDY ISSUES! YOU SHOULD WRITE THIS!

Me:...You know there is probably a fic like that out there?

Mom: IS THERE?

fun fact this entire thing sparked because I was talking about if Transformers were real, I would want Soundwave as my personal driver and she was just "Isn't Soundwave the one with heels and is very gay?"

[bigsexiest]

Ghouls love the light

Ghouls love sleeping in the sun.

They will find the exact spot the sun hits the floor, and they will sleep in it for hours.

The ghouls will follow the sunspot on the floor as it moves through the day.

Some ghouls will argue with other ghouls about which spots are the best.

Swiss prefers the hallway facing the East.

He believes the sun is brightest there because “that’s where it rises, you morons.”

Dew always drags Aether to nap in the library.

He thinks it’s the best spot because “the window is the largest in the abbey, fuckface.”

Swiss and Dew argue about this frequently.

No matter where the ghouls decide is the best place, they always manage to find the most disruptive spot.

Swiss’s preferred hallway is an integral path to several important rooms.

The siblings of sin hate it when he sleeps there in the sun.

They’re terrified of tiptoeing past since Swiss gets grumpy when his naps are interrupted.

Just imagine how an angry 6’ tall ghoul with sharp teeth would look after being awoken from a sun sleep.

You’d be terrified too.

Aether and Dew take up a sizeable chunk of the library floor when they decide to take a nap.

Several staircases are blocked because Aether will snarl at anyone who comes too close to his sleeping beauty.

Dew never wakes up because he knows he’s safe with Aether around.

Mountain likes sleeping in front of the glass doors leading out to the greenhouse, it’s like he’s the sleeping guardian. No one can get past him, no matter if they have actual work to do outside.

Rain likes to sleep on an entire table in the dining hall. The tall slim windows let just the perfect amount of light in for him. He doesn’t mind the clatter of silverware or the soft murmur of everyone eating. The siblings of sin all cluster to the various tables farthest away from him. 

Cirrus and Cumulus like the entry foyer. The sun comes in through skylights, and the soft rugs make for the perfect cuddle spot. The higher-ups in the clergy hate it. It discourages people from entering the building. Cirrus gets very angry when people step on her tail. It’s not her fault various siblings of sin keep wetting themselves, she’s valid in her emotions.

Phantom is widely known as the nicest of the sleepy ghouls. He won’t growl or scream when someone wakes him up. If anything, he gets nicer. He’ll pull anyone and everyone down with him for a good cuddle sesh. A good couple of clergy members were reprimanded for being late to their tasks because of Phantom. They couldn’t bring themselves to be angry with the soft ghoul. The naps were always very comfy. He’s not particular about where he likes to sleep. He’ll join any ghoul anywhere they want.

The siblings of sin like to entertain themselves with Phantom’s fascination with light. They’ll grab his attention when he’s all groggy from a nap and they’ll point to a spot of light. One of them is surreptitiously holding a mirror or some other shiny thing, refracting the light onto the floor. They all giggle as Phantom chases and pounces on the little spot of light. His tail flicking one way to the next with interest. Eventually, they reveal what they’re doing and Phantom will pull them down to the ground, and force them to sleep in the sun with him. 

They all get in trouble for shirking their responsibilities to be lazy with a ghoul, but they don’t care. Everyone loves Phantom.

[sophie-manatee]

So... I'm currently working on an omegaverse fic where both omegas accidentally get each other pregnant. Our lucky omegas, Zoro and Sanji...

[alcqraz]

★ summary — during a sweltering day at the horse races, anthony bridgerton finds himself rather enchanted by a sharp-witted, and competitive newcomer... however his greatest challenge turned out not quite to be their playful banter but perhaps something deeper than just that. ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★★ pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem! reader ˖˙ ꔫ —★★★ content warnings. n/a ˖˙ ꔫ —★★ word count. 3.8k ˖˙ ꔫ —★ genre. fluff? not really. idiots in love except they don't know they're in love...? anthony being anthony?? ★ authors note: excuse my god horrendous writing, i fear i have just come back from a 2 year hiatus and well.. it seems as if all my writing sense have bene diminished into the ends of the earth. also mutuals. i need mutuals please, i need to be insane to someone.

Anthony always enjoyed a heartfelt competition.

Perhaps a bit too much for the likings of others, but it always seemed to be infused with his blood. It all came so naturally to him; there was no need to try. As a young boy, he would compete with his brothers, Benedict having quite a hearty laugh when he would fail to beat him in whatever makeshift game they conjured up. It made it worse for the already tense gentleman because his annoying, bothersome brother would never stop bringing out how he was younger than Anthony during such times.

But he was not a quitter. He never was, and he decided that he never shall be. Anthony perpetually told himself that, and the results always ended up in his favor at the end of the day. Just as victory appeared within his reach, he let it go once more, easily slipping through his fingers in the subsequent round. Anthony has always been perplexed as to why this pattern only ever appeared to surround him or why he only noticed it within himself far too much. 

It seemed quite the same when it came to his love life as well. Taking away the winning part—he never quite seemed to win. Conceivably, Anthony never thought he could truly love someone with his entire being; the sensation felt so foreign and despicable to think about. An acquaintance, he supposed, was something he could settle with. And yet, an admirable acquaintance proved hard to find in this economy. The number of women that lined up for a dance, a date—whatever it may be, were all too simple-minded, credulous, or even dumb, if Anthony really thought about it. None of them appeared to be a suitable partner.

Those thoughts haunted him day and night throughout the season—the wonder if he’ll ever meet anyone well-suited for him, he pondered to himself. Anthony deemed himself rather fortunate that he was a busy man, bustling about a handful of places in need to complete the tasks firsthand. When he had his hands full with some problem, even if it may be pointless, occupied his mind enough for him to forget about his marital issues. Taxation never seemed more interesting to him.

Conversely, he found that it bothered him most during social events. Whereas his problems stood face-to-face against him, sometimes it felt as if it were a direct punch to the gut. With the remaining eligible ladies dwindling, his temper for it all only grew to being far more annoyed than anything else. Any other year, Anthony would’ve respectively enjoyed the horse race that he attended within the company of his brothers, but at this time, his mind had been elsewhere as he mindlessly stumbled his way around the course grounds.

There were a number of people that stood around him, chatting expressively with one an

other. Ladies whispering in hushed tones, their husbands gathered amongst themselves, likely betting against one another. Anthony couldn’t help but to do so himself—a solid bet did him well most days. Although, perhaps, he wasn’t the brightest when it came to the subject despite betting upon the favoured horse.

Anthony tugs heartily at his neckpiece, adjusting the pressure against his throat as it pressed in such a peculiar way that he began to pay some mind to it. He adjusted it so that it was allowed to rest lightly, not entirely choking him out anymore as it had done just moments ago. The effort ended up being weirdly abominable.

Peeved, bothered, and sweaty, he decided sullenly the lemonade that the event offered would not be such a bad idea to him after all. Refreshing was the only word that happened to catch his mind as he politely hurries his way towards where the stand had caught his eye as he made his way into the event. It seems as if half of the people there had a similar idea, heeding from the lengthiness of the line. He could perhaps find some place else to get some refreshments, but if Anthony is being honest, the idea of continuing to walk in this heat whilst unknowing if there even was anything waiting for him out there, wasn’t one that he would immediately jump to. And so he begrudgingly waits.

The sun beats down harshly upon him, and he tirelessly slides off his top-hat to appease the sweat that had begun to cling onto the sides of his forehead. Anthony dabs the beads away silently with the cuff of his coat when no one else is paying any mind to him. He liked to call himself fortunate as the line dissipates fairly quickly, and it is only a few minutes later when he finds himself nearing the refreshments area.

“Cooling, is it not?” 

It takes Anthony a beat to realize that the sudden intrusion of the voice is addressed towards him. He swivels his head, pivoting himself so he can adjust to the sudden change in position to locate where the sound had come from. He is quick to answer the question as the fine-looking lady standing next to him stares right back into his betrothed soul.

First impressions always stuck near and dear to Anthony, and while usually it would be noted of their personality and not much else, he finds himself in a different situation to the norm. The first thing he notices happens to be the alluring eyes, mysterious with a gaze that would unsettle any person, man or woman. But the expression read differently, a polite smile stretched upon the delicate skin, her fair hair conditioned beautifully for this particular sunny day. Anthony is quick to return the smile, as he had done so many times before in the past. He could regard it as a daily occurrence now.

“Indeed, it is.” His response is considerate, his voice moderately even; it’s as if he were trained for this. And Anthony supposed he quite literally is trained for it. “Especially on a day as sweltering as this.” 

He can faintly hear in the background a man grumbling incoherently about keeping up the line, and he apologetically (although he doesn’t feel very apologetic) responds to the not-so gentleman behind him. He hastily picks his glass, an internal groan erupting in him when a couple of drops spill onto the earthly grass. At least it had avoided his clothing by its means. Anthony had already begun to walk away, lemonade secured, when he noticed the same lady who had engaged him in a brief conversation engaging in the same direction that he was headed. 

“Such events are quite amusing,” Her words are delicate, but they are firm enough for Anthony to know that she stands her ground. She stands ever so beautifully, firm but beautiful, letting her dress flutter slightly into the soft breeze that washes over the course. “I can not say that they were common in my homeland.”

Ah. So that is why Anthony failed to recognize her—a new citizen, or possibly just visiting some family for the season. After all, Mayfair was quite prestigious in its ways if you stood in the high rankings. “So I take that you are not from here?” He questions, even though he already knows the answer.

The lady shakes her head, the hair atop her head bouncing as she does so. “Not quite.” She responded appropriately. She rattles off some place that Anthony had surely never been before, and he nods upon hearing the answer. "I am here visiting, as my cousin kindly offered to host me, and who am I to decline such a gracious invitation?"

The words rolled sweetly off her tongue, as if she were making a harmonious melody. Certainly a clever tongue in her mouth, Anthony could think to himself. “Well then, I must certainly assume that you are here for the season.” 

It was an honest question. The lady looked to be in her earlier years of life, if Anthony really had to make a guess. Fair skin, beautiful features, and a voice as gorgeous as the waves in the ocean—what else would she be doing in Mayfair at this time of the year? It only seemed reasonable to make that assumption. He stands correct when she pushes her head down as an agreement, “Yes.” She says, yet she pauses for a beat before continuing her sentence, "Though I must say, it is quite a considerable departure from what I am accustomed to back home.”

"In a manner most agreeable, I trust?" Anthony says, and the lady smiles approvingly. It was quite a sugary smile, the sort that sat well within the presumably older man. It looked as if the course grounds had gotten crowded by tenfold since Anthony had turned his back, making the exertion towards the stands much harder than what it should’ve been.

“Well, yes.” Whereas, the tone of her voice contradicted what her words have stated. The lady’s eyebrows furrow for a mere moment, as if he were contemplating something of sorts. “Nevertheless, it is quite hard.”

He inclines his head. Anthony could somewhat agree with her words—the season was always stressful, a throatful of things to stress and worry about, a million matters to perfect to attract the best of the best. He had never felt too stressed, perhaps when he was swarmed with tasks to complete for the up-and-coming ball or party, but never on his performance at such events. Anthony believed that is why he suddenly threw himself in as an eligible bachelor, and the best if he may add, was so diminishing. "With a lady such as yourself, I must presume it is not exceedingly difficult."

The lady, which Anthony now realizes that he does not know the name of, blushes a shade of pink that could only be described as warm, like a rose pelting in the wind. She laughs graciously, accepting the compliment with ease. “I must confess, I am flattered, Mr…” Her words trail off as she too comes to realization with the fact she does not know how to address the young gentleman.

“Lord Bridgerton.” He introduces, his voice not in any way condescending as many others may take him on to be.

Anthony takes note of the way the lady’s eyebrows raise up in surprise, followed by the rather flushed look that began to tint at her cheeks. "Oh dear, I beg your pardon, my Lord." Tilting her head down hesitantly as if she were unsure of what formality would be the most appropriate. It almost forces a chuckle out of the Viscount.

"And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" Anthony continues on as it is only polite to ask so. 

"Mm, indeed. How remiss of me not to mention it beforehand…” The lady says, letting out a sort of awkward laugh that could be seen as rather affectionate. “My name is Y/n.” The lady states, followed by a surname that Anthony can faintly remember to be as one of the other Viscounts that lived in the city, although he couldn’t quite say he knew the name all too well. Certainly not one that he had talked to on the occasion.

“I see,” Anthony nods along, a faint smile tainted upon his lips before he even knows it himself. “Charming gentleman your cousin is.” He could not say if the man was truly charming, or a gentleman at all, as he had only read a couple lines about it from the Lady Whistledown paper that his family had received a couple of long weeks ago. 

“Charming, indeed.” The words were more so grumbled, as if she didn’t quite agree with the statement. “That is certainly one way to describe him.”

He chuckles at the disdain laced upon her voice. Anthony fairly enjoyed the new sense of emotion—most ladies he had the pleasure of talking with all embellished their compliments in spite of thinking the opposite. Being able to hear an objection that wasn’t sugarcoated heavily; Anthony would think that he notably liked the trait that distinguished Y/n.

The course grounds slowly appear into Anthony’s line of vision as the conversation dies down. The sound of chatter that did come from his or her mouth refilling his ears—excited husbands yelling bets at one another, ladies shaking their heads as so—the look that was etched on their faces would be one that Anthony could appreciate and find humorous.

"I must confess, some of the wagers being placed are rather simplistic in nature." Y/n cuts in through the stillness of their discussion beforehand. A nice conversation starter, but one that would rile many people up. "It appears as though none of these individuals have ever graced a racecourse before! How utterly rash of them to bet upon the favored contender solely because of his popularity."

He can’t help but be taken aback, although once again, her exaggeration was one that could be seen as comical. That is, before he had realized that he himself had also bet upon the favored horse, Nectar, which Anthony assumed the lady was talking about. For a moment, he wonders if her words are pure bullshit, if she was just making conversation with him. It is as if Y/n sees right through him.

“Oh my, do not tell me you have also fallen into the unfortunate trap of betting for Nectar.” Anthony can’t quite place what expression she expresses, but it does not look good. Disappointed, or perhaps pity. 

“Naturally, I betted upon him, it is a sensible bet, and he is a horse of sound character who shall undoubtedly finish with victory this afternoon.” He defends, the tone of his voice sounding rather offended at the plain mention of his unwary wager. Something deep down in him wonders if the lady was indeed right, if he really did not know what he was doing. Again, Anthony could not say he was educated well enough, and admittedly, he had bet upon Nectar due to the favorability of his win. “I have a well placed feeling about him.”

“A feeling?” Y/n’s eyebrow cocks up, the smile on her face now more jovial than polite. “Or is it the choosing of the horse that everyone has chosen? Well, I do suppose that adds to the list of husbands who shall be more than disappointed once the race has concluded.”

“I beg your finest pardon, I have made a strategic bet.” His words are more puncuated than before, suddenly relishing within the first person to truly give him some sort of competition that did not stem from his brothers or family, for that matter. “Nectar is a prized steed. He is quite well bred, highly trained, and, as many other people have shown, well favored.”

Y/n tsks, shaking her head as if she were scolding Anthony as his mother and father had done when he was a young boy. “I must assume you have not considered the quality of the racing course and the weather to assess the true potential? Although these sorts of events are not truly common back in my homeland, I do must say that many of these may just be common sense.”

She knows that her words are stretching the truth, that it wasn’t just common sense, but Y/n must admit that she took delight in having a friendly banter. She climbs up onto one of the wooden bleachers, sitting herself upon the heated seat, with Anthony following quickly behind her. “You see, my cousin had kindly explained to me the expectations of the race, and it is said that Nectar raced well at Doncaster; however, the track conditions were far from the same. A firmer course, if you will. While now, over here…” She pauses to wave her hand at the field of grass in front of her view. “It is much softer, and it is a rather humid day. He will much slowdown in the final leg, giving HighFlyer the much easy victory.”

Anthony scoffs. Foolish? Perhaps. Tinted with truth? Also yes. "Are you merely echoing the words your cousin imparted to you earlier?" He argues as well, Anthony never backed down from a challenge, and this lady was surely challenging him.

“And are you merely saying that I do not know about horse racing because I am a woman?” She tilts her head to look directly at Anthony; the grin that is placed strategically on her face was one that he could not argue with. And he is sure of that when he opens his mouth to bite back, but being blatantly unable to respond with something witty. Oh, that shit-eating smirk that was so easily disguised as a polite smile made Anthony oh-so infuriatingly upset. Upset because she knew what she was doing; upset because, well, he was moderately fond of that smile.

“We shall see then.” 

Famous last words, because well, he is proved to be utterly wrong. The course of disappointed groans that steamed through the crowd, which Anthony would not admit (but was a part of), as HighFlyer flew his way across the finish line were abominably loud. Nectar staggered behind him moments later, but not before the crowd had seen how winded he was by the heat and conditions. 

The lady behind him had laughed in delight, unable to celebrate fully before she must turn towards Anthony to shove it into his face. “I can not say that I have ever beat a viscount before.” Suddenly, all formality that was once there had been gone, destroyed, as if it had never been there in the first place. “I do suppose there is always a first.”

“And a last.” Anthony grumbles under his breath, in hope that Y/n would close off her ears to the harsh criticism. To his luck, she does hear.

“I must concede, you are just like the many men who claim to be gentlemen.” She replies, even though she seemed not to be very upset by the Viscount’s words. If that had been the case, it would have appeared as though Anthony had experienced numerous episodes of frustration—possibly humorous ones, but nonetheless, frustration.. "Unwilling to concede defeat, even when it lies directly at his feet." 

“I am able to concede defeat if the defeat deserves to be conceded.” His words are sharp, even though the smile tugging at his face says different to his own jumble of words. Anthony could not quite help it when he sees her eyes light up with something that he could not describe. “If it dares, look me in the eyes.”

“Ah, is that right, my Lord?” She questions, carrying herself with the confidence that he hadn’t seen in forever. An admirable trait indeed, if Anthony must admit. "Does not defeat gaze directly upon you as HighFlyer is crowned the victor of this afternoon's fine race.”

He sighs. Anthony was never one to be dramatic; he always held himself upright and, in his family's words, rather serious. Still, he had to admit that his gasp was a bit dramatic. “Ah… well.” His words trail off slowly, grimacing at the truth of the lady’s words. “I suppose you are… right this time.” The syllables were uttered slowly, followed by another huff of a breath that he could only feel to himself.

She laughs, that beautiful melody of a laugh. While in many cases, it would be regarded as an unpleasant sound unless it was done so delicately, hers was not delicate, nor was it ungracious. It was as if the notes from every music piece ever composed had all come together to form one masterpiece of a harmony, one that ebbed and flowed in all the right ways. 

“Oh rejoice! What a sound those words are!” Y/n breathes dreamfully. 

The track is far from empty, with many individuals walking over to congratulate the winner, while the others either mourn the losses of their empty wallets, or giggling gleefully over their new-found bundles of heritage. However, the bleachers were starting to thin out, leaving just a select few groups.

There is a sense that weaves through him as he ponders his next move. He could surely just stand himself up, mutter out a respectable goodbye, and leave, yet at the same time, he could not allow himself to just do that. Anthony seemed far better off conversing with this lady than with any other of the ones that he had danced or engaged with in the slightest. The thought made him laugh at his own stupidity, and yet;

"I cannot suppose it would be honorable of me not to inquire if you might attend the Hearts and Flower Ball with me. I trust you have heard of it?" Anthony asks, not just out of politeness but also the small amount of desire he feels for just a beat of a moment. One that felt odd and far too new in his chest, something that he had yet to feel in the weeks that had came, and the weeks yet to come. 

The lady showed a glimpse of astonishment, and Anthony wonders if he had made the right decision upon asking her about it in the first place. "My Lord, are you, perchance, inquiring if you wish to take me on a social outing?" Though even she could hear the tiny quiver that was woven, her voice seemed steady as she spoke.

“I… suppose I am, yes.” He stands with his head gently cocked to the right, extending his hand in consolation. Anthony can feel the regret seeping into his words as they were carefully placed, because God, if she came to deny his request, he was sure he could drop dead on the grass at that given moment. 

“I would love to.” And Anthony would not be able to stop the sigh of relief that washed over him even if he had tried. The tension that creased his forehead, all the way down to his calves, was quickly overridden with a sense of declaration. 

As he wove through the throngs of disassembling guests, waving courteously to the lady that he swore to uncover the mystery of, Anthony finally let himself pry out of dapper smile. For the first time in a while, he felt as if he were winning. Not just a kid-made, pointless game, but something much deeper than he could have ever imagined. Except, this time, he would not allow it to simply just… escape his grasp.

[mrzombielover]

real price hours tn

NSFW warning! f!reader, porn no plot

“yeah, just like that… goood girl…” price groans as you take him fully, taking a large puff from the lit cigar he dangles. you whimper at his words, making him chuckle as he exhales smoke in your face.

“oh, you like that, huh?” he laughs, free hand running down your waist and coming to grab a fistful of your ass. “dirty girl…” you squeak as he slaps your ass.

you mewl when you start to move, letting out a shaky breath as you bounce agonizingly slow on his cock, still adjusting to the stretch. you throw your head back, a soft moan slipping past your lips as you wrap your arms around his neck, letting a hand run through his hair and grip at the roots. he chuckles again, rolling his hips into you, drinking in every whine and gasp and moan that you give him. he takes another puff of his cigar, hand trailing from your ass around to your hip to rub soft circles into your clit. you keen at that, head falling forward onto his shoulder.

"captain!" you whine.

"shh, shh, baby," price shushes you gently, softly connecting his lips to yours as he breaths smoke out his nose. he swallows your moans as you let them into his mouth, and you feel dizzy against him as you roll your hips, greedily chasing the electrifying pleasure. you quiver around him, reduced to a whimpering mess as you're stretched out around his fat cock. he's all you can focus on, everything else dissolving but his length inside you and the smell of his musk and cigar.

"so perfect for me," he mumbles against your flesh, placing kisses before softly biting your neck.

"captain..." you moan again, bouncing sloppier now, more desperately.

"please!" it's almost a sob. you don't exactly know what you're begging for, but the plead leaves your lips anyway like a last prayer. Price laughs dryly, letting his eyes slip shut and head fall back against the headboard.

"you're so pretty when you whine. poor baby, you cant do it alone?" he teases, rolling his hips against yours. you moan louder now, falling forward slightly as he starts to fuck up into you. your back is arching against him, barley processing his words.

"come on, sweet girl," he says softly in your ear, his thumb on your clit making you throb and squeeze on him, hands searching for something, anything to grip on to. "thaaat's it.. just needed my help, huh?" he says soothingly as you dig your nails into his back.

"oh, god!" you squeak, letting a strangled cry into his ear.

"fuck! I'm gonna-" you cut yourself off with a loud moan, all strength leaving your body as Price thrusts up, repeatedly abusing your g-spot. His fingers dig into your hip, other hand clenching his cigar so hard it nearly crumbles in his grip, but not a single part of your brain cares about that now. The orgasm hits you in shaky waves, reducing you to a throbbing, soaking, shaking mess as it washes over you.

"yeah, good girl," He says softly, pressing a kiss to your temple as his pace slows. He takes one last puff before haphazardly dropping his cigar into the ashtray on his bedside table, not even giving you a chance to catch your breath before he's fully lifting you up and flipping you onto your back.

"can you give me one more, baby?"

[erinwantstowrite]

y'all have no idea the au im cooking up rn

[shittymihodaily]

Day 18: gay

[sp0o0kylights]

Someone on Twitter proposed Steve and Gareth as cousins whose family had a major falling out, and then someone else brought it up recently and long story short no idea who to credit the idea too bc you can’t search for SHIT on Twitter but it's theirs not mine. 

Anyway I wrote a lil thing as a warmup 

PART TWO

"Why don't you come sit with Hellfire?" Gareth asked, angrily leaned against the bathroom wall while Steve fixed his hair.

He'd tried not to cling since he entered high school. Tried to keep things on the downlow, least any gossipy mouths started running. 

It was so stupidly, needlessly, hard. 

 His cousin was only two years ahead of him but they'd spent the last year in different schools because of it. 

 That year, and the lack of Steve's presence in it, had grated. Now that he finally had Steve back, Gareth was loathe to play by the rules. 

"Sit with you and Eddie, "the freak" Munson? I'll pass." Steve said, but there was no bite in it. 

That, Gareth knew, was because Steve was  using Eddie as an excuse. 

"You'd like Eddie if you spent five minutes with him, King Steve." Gareth fired back on automatic. His fingers dug into his arms, as he resisted the urge to pace around the bathroom floor. 

Unspoken was all the shit that had taken place.

Steve and Nancy's breakup. The rumor mill in overdrive, first about how Jonathan Byers had taken creep shot photos of them, then about how he'd taken his shot with Nancy herself. 

The supposed cheating, the public fights, the crazy background of Jonathan's little brother being missing. 

Billy Hargrove beating Steve to a pulp. 

Now friendless, Steve had thoroughly fallen from his place at the tippy top of the social hierarchy and between his utter lack of friends and his shit tier parents, Gareth was concerned. 

"You do not want me to sit with you, Gary. I'd tell all your little friends that you're apart of the royal family." Steve turned, making an exaggerated face. "How's Munson feel about cozying up to a Prince?" 

"I'd technically be an Earl, Steve, not a prince." Gareth grumbled. 

He got an eye roll in response. "Somehow I don't think he'll care." 

"I do though." Gareth blurted out, absolutely thoughtless. 

Steve blinked at him. 

"What?" He said. 

In for a penny right?

 "I care." Gareth said, looking down and scuffing a shoe, making it squeak against the grimy tiles. "About you. You dick." 

"Wow Gary you almost sounded loving there."

For once, he ignored the jab. "I'm worried about you, man." He said it quietly, the painful truth pulled out of him almost by force. 

He knew better than anyone how few people Steve had. Knew how his dad was likely taking all the crap Steve had been involved in lately. 

Richard Harrington hadn't been the wedge that had separated his and Steve's mother, but the man hadn't done them any favors, either. 

His intolerance towards the working and lower classes, his demand for perfection, the way he looked down his nose not just on Gareth's parents but on his own wife and son…

Gareth's mom didn't tolerate it. 

Likewise, Stella Harrington didn't tolerate her sister ruining her shot at being a rich trophy wife. 

Both their sets of parents were dramatic and neither of them weren't anywhere near the concept of "good" but at least Gareth's weren't neglectful and abusive. 

Shitty absolutely, but he never worried about getting thrown out, or that his mom wouldn't acknowledge his birthday because he'd "complimented her outfit the wrong way." 

(”It's fine dude she just thought I called her ugly. It was a miscommunication. Dad said it's a good lesson about how women work."

"Casual reminder that your dad's an asshole and also how is telling your mom that she looked lovely in the sunlight telling her she's ugly?”

“It implied she wasn't lovely the rest of the time or some shit, I dunno man.”) 

The BMW was a shitty prize when compared what Steve had dealt with to receive it. 

"I'm okay." Steve said seriously. "It's almost the end of the year anyways. I can tough out having some extra alone time." 

"If you're sure…"

"Yeah man, I'm sure. Thanks though."

Then Steve pulled him into a hug and fuck their parents, who demanded they continued some stupid grudge. Gareth clung to him just as hard as he had at ten. Unsure if he'd ever be allowed to see Steve again.