#sunday needs to sit down ill bring him back but after that fic i need a breather

[milksnake-tea]

the second im done with this fic im going back to my roots (writing for aeons)

[alblondo23]

Hi big fan of your omegaverse oscar/logan thoughrs we were literally discussing that topic with a friend yesterday and then i found your blog and we were like Ok yeah. we have the same vision this is good ...

this part specifically ... you get it ... so sorry to guys named logan hunter sargeant from fort lauderdale, florida but you WILL know emotional torment.

its a fic ive been meaning to write i kind of have it outlined but i like to think logans first heat happens super late, like F3 with Prema kind of super late. he was kind of getting used to the idea of being a beta, which. you know. is not being an alpha but its always better than being. (lowers voice) an omega. he isn't even really aware oscar's an alpha because oscar doesn't boast about it like most other alphas and in fact oscar doesn't even really talk about it or even allude to it in the first place and nobody ever comments on it and he figured that maybe oscar could be a beta too...

anyways none of it matters to logan until that fateful first heat. it's such a humiliating and painful ordeal because he genuinely doesnt want to deal with it or talk about it or do anything with it. he wants it to go away and somehow be given suppressants without having to ask for them and then never think about it again.

and of course. it happens on a sunday morning which thank the lord means he only has one race to go through but also means HE HAS ONE RACE TO GO THROUGH. and he has that moment of frenzied panic where he just googles a shitton of different terms and questions that basically boil down to "how to make your heat disappear instantly without an alpha" and every single article online is like :/ you kinda... cant do that... sorry... and hes like. (Grits teeth) ok great. yeah. superb actually.

do not be fooled. his ass will NOT be talking about it. he gets up goes through race preparation. inevitably crosses the path of oscar. and oscar immediately furrows his brows at him and goes (man that clearly knows whats up voice) Hey... whats up... and logan whos suddenly so much more attuned to scents just. wants to THROW UP like oscars scent is so. undescribably strong and intoxicating. he just kind of backs off and goes Haha just kind of ill this morning. Its ok ill survive (< thinks he is going to pass away). oscar is so obviously NOT falling for this but he just lets go of that subject immediately.

fast forward... logan performed like SHIT. he feels like everybody knows about his heat (half the grid probably does, lets be real). he flees to his room and thinks about just finding an excuse to extend his stay and lock himself up in there for a week. but of course. oscar comes knocking. he looks genuinely super concerned but also his pupils are blown wide and even though logan isnt sure oscars an alpha and he can tell oscars not trying to take advantage of his. state. it feels shitty and humiliating and he kind of wants him to GO. he doesnt want to be that to other people and especially not to other men.

of course oscar is being very nice and careful about it. when logan goes back to sulk and agonize in his bed, oscar sits on the edge right next to him, and tries to make normal small talk and enquire about how logan feels in ways that are a bit less than subtle. he asks if logan needs oscar to bring him food and water. if he wants to call a doctor. if he wants to call someone else.

and logan starts having these wild thoughts that are like. What if oscar. what if they could. would oscar actually, like. help him. it makes him SICK to think about that he has NEVER had SEX with a guy and he DOESNT WANT TO. but he just. kind of. needs it. and its made a bajillion times worse with oscar's scent. but he stays quiet. he will NOT be asking for it. and silence stretches between them. and oscars just looking at him with his stupidly kind eyes. and after a moment oscar says, super quietly, "Look, i don't know if it's big deal for you but. i can tell you're in heat and you're having a rough time, okay. you can tell me to leave right now if you want to but i just want to know if i could. do something about it. Not---not like, in a weird way, i just want to help."

logan wants to curl up in a small ball and die at that point its so. he hates that. he doesnt want help. he shouldnt need help. especially not from oscar which, mind you, he doesnt even know that well yet. but in the smallest voice ever he says "i dont even know what to do right now, this is the first---" and oscars eyes widen immediately and he goes. What. and logan is even more embarrassed. everything about it makes him want to disappear.

but then oscars hand is on the side of his face and its like. liquid relief washing all over his body. oscar's touching the spot behing his ear, his hair, his neck. logan feels like hes been set on fire and yet he feels better than hes did all day. oscar asks, "have you told anybody...? you need to tell someone. you cant. you shouldnt spend this one alone." and logan says, "no, i don't want. i don't want anybody to know, this is just so stupid."

hes like, on the verge of freaking out again. he didnt want anybody to know, but oscar knows. and its so---oscar knows, and oscar's a beta for all logan knows, which isnt much, which could even be horrifyingly wrong; and oscar could use this against him. oscar could. tell the press. and oscar is. rubbing his skin, of all damn things on earth. and it makes logan stupidly sick with desire, and he's stupidly wet, and he hates everything about being an omega, from what it is to what it means. and he hates oscar for. for. taking advantage of it? for not taking advantage of it, for not letting logan be done with it without having to say it outloud? for being gentle and kind? for accidentally making him feel so weak and vulnerable? hes going to throw up.

he swats oscar's hand away and regrets it the second it leaves his skin but he's still like "Oscar. Oscar, please, stop. Don't. You need to leave, right now." and oscar is VISIBLY mortified and hes like Sorry, have i done something wrong? Im so sorry, I just thought. Okay. Sorry, yeah, nevermind, I'll just. and he awkwardly moves to the door and he stops for a second and his breath hitches like he's going to say something but then he. leaves.

ensues a very miserable lonely couple of days for logan he thinks about calling oscar and begging him to come back on every single one of them. he eventually rides the heat out and its kind of awkward between him and oscar for a while but they dont bring it up. logan sure as hell wont. he doesnt even tell his PARENTS about it like its genuinely. worst thing on earth to him.

overall this is a fun mix of internalized homophobia toxic masculinity and internalized. omegaphobia. ??????. talk about being comfortable with your manly man male self when you have to make peace with the fact that youre into MEN (of all people on earth) and an OMEGA (of all designations on earth). he thinks of it as extremely emasculating especially as a nineteen years old guy who's trying to make his way through the ranks on his road to F1. Slaps fic You can fit so many narratives in this badboy.

Anyways. Sorry for the rambling omg!!!!!! ive been trying to spread the omega logan agenda. im so happy we're on the same page here.

Never apologize for rambling in my inbox! I adore it!! As you can tell from my other posts, I'm very happy to read and ramble myself (I actually have another a/b/o loscar ramble in my drafts rn which may get posted later)

Have you consider for this fic: True Mates? It would add a bit of spice to the suffering because Logan is very clearly never going to ever acknowledge his feelings or that he's an Omega ever. But, ever since Oscar left his room, Logan has needed him even after his heat ended, and he doesn't understand why. He doesn't understand anything about being an Omega and doesn't want to, so why would he try to understand why he is constantly yearning for Oscar.

The entire F3 grid definitely clocked what was going on with Logan, but because presenting at 19 is so unheard of, Oscar was constantly trailing him trying to help without being overbearing, and the fact that Logan looked two seconds away from death (his or someone else's), everyone just went I think that's not my problem, Oscar will fix it. Because everyone knows he's an Alpha besides Logan because Logan (let's say it together everyone) is a fool who doesn't deal with his emotions well. They just assumed that Logan had been suppressing his heats and scent until now which prompted the worrying from Oscar and the inability to deal with himself from Logan. Clearly no one saw that Logan was finally hitting the character building emotional turmoil part of his life/the fic.

Logan here is the epitome of I'm going to put all my emotions right here and then one day I'll die. Oscar meanwhile is trying to figure out why being with Logan during his heat felt the way it did. It nearly killed him to leave Logan like that, alone and trembling from the barely suppressed heat he was going through. He doesn't feel the True Mate bond yet because (checks nonexistent notes) you only feel it during your heat or rut (yeah that sounds right)

I really hope you write this fic! The emotional journey Logan will definitely have to go through to actually feel comfortable in his skin would really interesting to read!

[writefightandflightclub]

Return to Sender: (Richard Alonso Muñoz x GN reader)

What is this? This is 4/10 one-shots/blurbs for my “friends to lovers” event. I’m not gonna share the prompt as it’s spoilery, but it was requested by @sergeantkane​ who is a genius for picking this combo! It’s a prompt about LOVE LETTERS! Omg! And thus, it matches perfectly with Richard (trust me, I had NOT made that connection when I made the prompt list :P). Thank you so much for requesting, Clarke, and I hope you enjoy it. I’m excited about this one!

If you’d like to read/keep track of the other fics, I’m keeping an up-to-date friends to lovers list in my pinned post.

Author’s note: Oh, I really quite like this one. Hope it makes you feel as soft as I did for Richard while writing it! Also- it’s my first bash at writing him, so let me know what you think! Thanks to everyone who helped with film details too: those not already tagged in the post- @prurientpuddlejumper​ @witchyavenger​ @veuliee2​ @waatermelon-sugaar​ @pascal-isaac​

Word count: 4.5 k. So not a blurb, then? :P

Rating: Mature, for light steam (not explicit, but 18+ or out, please!)

Warnings: mentions of food/eating. Mild angst (but it ends well), Steamy. Kissing, brief non-explicit mention of erection. Implied coitus (cut scene). Richard works in a “correctional facility”. Small mention of attempted break-in. If I missed any let me know.

Tagging: @anetteaneta​ @isvvc-pvscvl​ @nowritingonthewall​ @supernovafeather​ (ONLY READ IF 18+)

GIF by @nathan-bateman​

“Have you ever received a love letter?” Richard wonders shyly, without looking up from his crossword puzzle, his long eyelashes fanned out as his gaze dances over the monochrome squares.

Meanwhile, your eyes snap up immediately from your magazine, which you are idly leafing through, a breath catching in your chest.

You bristle at the question, and yet Richard seems either entirely oblivious, or entirely determined not to look-up at you. Perhaps both. So, instead of looking, he simply slurps the dregs of his milkshake, and pushes his plate of waffle remnants further toward the far end of the diner booth.

When he finally raises his gaze – a gentle prompt for you to answer him- his eyes are large and shining under the fluorescent lights as he peers at you over his glass, dabbing at his thick moustache with a paper napkin shortly after.

“No, never,” you state sadly, heeding his prompt with a small smile and a shake of your head. Not even a love e-mail.

“I’m surprised,” he flatters with a cautious smile. And, if you’re not mistaken, his eyes light-up with the faintest trace of desire. The barest undercurrent of passion, which is enough to have your heart beating like a drum. You notice it sometimes; this dull heat emanating off of him. It is a spark which never ignites, however - to your endless disappointment; you would fan that flame if only you knew how.

You swallow. He’s surprised? He can’t be that surprised, you think, a stone sinking through your stomach as you dwell too long on the topic of love letters, and meanwhile, Richard’s attention seamlessly diverts back to 3 across.

“You deserve one,” he says, still looking at the page, but a smile animating his wiry moustache. “A letter.”

You wrap your arms around yourself, a spiralling sadness catching hold of you. Does he not understand what this is doing to you? This painful reminder? “Can we drop it, Richard?” you say tensely, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are even more soft and cautious than usual, causing you to admonish yourself for the bite in your tone.

“Yes,” he says. “Of course,” he smiles thinly, apologetically.

It’s simply the new job, you think. Director of Communications. The man has letters on the brain. Richard is so considerate, that you realise he must not intend to hurt you in dredging up the past; he would never. In a way though, you think, it’s even worse that he brings it up so… casually. You can only conclude he has forgotten that you sent your letter to him at all. Had your heartfelt words, declaring your love, had so little impact on him?

Maybe that’s it. After all, they seemed to have so little impact upon him at the time. What could you expect years later? On the other hand, you -apparently- remain rather sore about the topic, all this time later. It’s natural to be sensitive though, isn’t it? You’d written him a love letter and he didn’t write you back. He didn’t say it back. Didn’t feel it back.

And, perhaps it still stings so much, even all these years later, because you never did stop loving him, even if he never started loving you.

Feeling a sudden, overwhelming haste to leave, you thumb through the pages of your magazine so furiously that the next table turn their heads to look at you, until you find what you were searching for.

“Here, Richard. The article I mentioned. Dramatherapy for people who are incarcerated.”

You fold the magazine back on itself, fobbing it off on him with an unprecedented urgency, hurriedly signalling to the waitress that you’d like the check. The roomy diner booth suddenly feels suffocating, and you want to get out. Meanwhile, oblivious, Richard chuckles at the title of the article -some kind of pun, you recall- as you try to push down the unpleasant emotions surfacing within you.

“Thank you for this,” he smiles, looking up at you earnestly. Looking concerned as he reads the expression on your face. “Are you alright?”

Your eyes fix on the table, where his fingertips inch hesitantly across the surface, hovering moments from yours as he debates whether to extend comfort. You make the decision for him, snatching your hand back from his reach.

“Yes. I’m Fine,” you say, unconvincingly. “Can we please go? I need some fresh air.”

“Alright,” Richard agrees gently. He looks a little flustered, but, now sensing your urgency, he begins to sweep up his papers and to shrug on his jacket. He pulls out a small comb to fix his neat curls in place, and offers you a soft smile. “Maybe we can go to the park next?” he suggests.  

As much as you want to run, you nod, some of your agitation dissipating now that the prior topic seems to be forgotten. “Okay. Yeah. That would be nice.” You school your expression into something calm, and you offer him a reassuring smile as his soulful eyes dance over you, a lingering but unobtrusive concern there.

As you split the check, you tell yourself for the millionth time that being his friend is enough; but even after the millionth time, you can’t quite believe it.

Still, today -Sunday- is your one day with him this week. And, no matter what you can’t have; you’ll take anything you can get.

He’s too dear to you to settle for anything less.

************

One month later:

You crouch in amongst the boxes on Richard’s front lawn. He is having a clear-out, setting out some items for goodwill, and some for a neighbourhood yard sale happening next weekend.

You are having fun assisting him in sifting through various items, occasionally bursting into a fit of laughter when he reveals yet another ill-informed, late night shopping channel “bargain” – usually some new-fangled, scarcely-used exercise contraption, which he proceeds to demonstrate in good-humour, making you fold over clutching your stomach in mirth. Occasionally, as you rifle through the boxes, you’ll be overcome by a pang of sentimentality when he uncovers an item with a memory attached; and -no matter how useless- he usually sneaks said item into his ever-growing ���to-keep” pile.

“But this is the picnic hamper we took to Bound Beach Island! For your birthday, remember?”  

“Yeah, Richard, but it’s battered! It has holes! It needs to go.”

“It was a beautiful day. The light and the dunes were beautiful… and… and y-“

“-Oh my goodness, what is this?! Please for the love of God tell me you never actually wore this!”

You work through the midday sun until you come to a tired, dead halt on the grass, finally parking your ass down and wiping your brow. Richard looks warm too, a “v” of sweat soaking his old, oversized “Save the Turtles” t-shirt. No - he really doesn’t throw anything away. You smile fondly, though, remembering his sea turtle phase. Of course, he’d read some article. He always was looking for a cause.

“I’ll make us some iced tea,” Richard announces with a tired puff of breath, looking more spent than he probably wants to admit after shuttling the various boxes. Still, the way his grizzled curls have fallen away from his harsh side-part appeals to you, sitting disobedient and undone on his forehead.

Thinking of him undone, you hear a faint beating of drums sound in your chest.

You ignore the music though, like always, instead smiling gratefully as he heads inside, and you take a second to collect yourself before dragging the nearest box towards you, deciding you may as well continue. This next box is taped securely shut, and you chuckle quietly to yourself when you notice it’s labelled “workout-gear”.

You peel the packing tape away and open it up, scooping out the pile of miscellaneous papers sitting right on top. Beginning to leaf through, you surmise it’s mainly unopened junk mail; mainly garishly printed promotional flyers - from a pizzeria which closed down years ago, you recognise. Probably hastily stuffed in before his last move and never dealt with. Absent-mindedly, you begin to bundle it up for the recycling pile, when a smaller, more humble envelope drops out on to your lap, a hand-scrawled address on the front. The stationary is resoundingly familiar.

In fact, everything about it is familiar.

Your heart hammers in your chest as it immediately dawns on you.

It’s your letter.

The letter you sent him, all those years ago. You’d needed to be apart from him- needed to go away to take care of family, and you simply couldn’t go without letting him know. Letting him know you were in love with him.

The memory is like a slow knife sinking into your chest as you idly turn it over in your hands.

But… It can’t be…?

It’s… unopened.

All the air leaves you lungs.

No. No. It doesn’t make a shred of sense.

You’d spoken to him right afterward, on the phone. The first time he’d called after you left town he’d almost pleaded with you, giving you an unequivocally clear, and endlessly painful answer that he didn’t want what you wanted. What you’d written about. He’d made it abundantly obvious that he simply wanted to be friends. “I- I don’t want anything to change. I want everything to stay exactly like it is between us – please? Can we still talk every day?”

But if he didn’t read it…?

You heart pounds so hard that you hear blood rushing in your ears.

He doesn’t know.

His words didn’t mean what you…

Oh my god. All this time.  

You shoot abruptly to standing when you see him approach, as if you’ve been caught red-handed, guiltily stuffing the letter into your back pocket before he can ask you what it is, an abundance of thoughts screaming in your head.

He hands you the glass of tea, ice tinkling gently, and you take it from him, the coolness shocking your palms.

Assessing what you’ve been up to in his absence, and noting the carcass of another box, Richard glances down at the pile of papers strewn at your feet. He looks suddenly worried for a moment, as if you might have found an old porn stash or something – and he looks just as suddenly relieved when he sees they are more innocent papers, scooping them up from the grass.

“Richard?” you say, your eyes burning a hole in the back of his head, and the letter burning a hole in your pocket as he drops the items into the recycling. He hums for you to go on. “Do you... You know when I moved away...?” your voice is strained, and you gulp hard. “Just before, do you remember getting any unusual letters or... weird post from me?”

“Like what kind of thing?” he asks curiously, turning back to you.

“I don’t know exactly,” you lie, nervously. “I have a feeling I sent you something? A sappy goodbye thing?”

You see him mull it over, combing his impressive moustache with his fingers. “I don’t remember, sorry. But apparently I was drowning in junk mail at that apartment. Maybe it got lost, or returned to sender?”

Despite everything, you exhale a small laugh. In a roundabout way, you suppose it had been returned to sender after all. You look at the ground.

“Was it important?” he asks, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand as he looks at you.

Biding time, you take a sip of your tea while you search for an answer. It’s refreshing.

“It… Uh. It was a long, long time ago. Doesn’t matter now, I suppose,” you muse, masking your sadness, and he nods, looking at least half-satisfied with your answer.

Except, it does matter. It matters more than anything. And, with a sudden, overwhelming need to grab on to the past, you track to the “to go” box, rescuing the battered picnic basket from the pile of junk.

“You shouldn’t get rid of this,” you state, your back to Richard, hoping he doesn’t notice the way your voice falters. You tense as you feel him settle by your side, his hand hovering tentatively at the small of your back but never quite touching. “It was a beautiful day.”

“No,” he insists. “You’re right. I shouldn’t hang on to it.”

His words are like a punch in the gut. You turn your head to your side, where Richard is, your eyes and heart almost overflowing.

Noting your sadness, and connecting it to the picnic basket, he does everything he can to smooth things over, like always. “We can get a new one,” he says, his brown eyes sweet and hopeful and bright.

You love him. You love him still and you can’t help but turn towards him and reach out your arms, dragging him in for a hug.

“No! No, I’m sweaty,” he protests self-consciously, but you don’t care. You just need to hold him, even only for a moment – and, for a moment he stills as you loop around him, never quite clutching you back.

When you pull away though, you could swear that dim spark of passion is present in his eyes again. That spark that never catches, no matter how much or how often or how hard you wish it would. Oh, how you wish.

“Don’t ever change, Richard,” you say sincerely, your voice imbued with fondness. “Okay? You’re a sweet, wonderful man.”

His eyes are immediately soft and bashful again, the colour of his cheeks deepening a little, a crimson undertone blooming under his brown skin.

“Yes. Okay,” he offers, with a nod, his eyes creasing at the corners, and his posture even bolstered by the compliment, you could swear, his chest puffing out proudly.

For the rest of the afternoon, you ignore the unread words in the back of your pocket; but for the life of you, you can’t ignore those drums.

************

One month later:

You bundle the yapping, happy little white dog into your arms, relieved that she’s okay as her little tail happily beats against your arm.

“Are you okay, Lady?” you coo as she nuzzles her snoot into your face, eagerly lapping little kisses on to your cheek. “Thanks goodness, sweet little floof,” you baby-talk as your eyes quickly scan around Richard’s place, setting his spare key down on the kitchen counter.

You’d barrelled across town to get here, after receiving a call about an attempted break-in. His neighbour to the left had your contact details in case of an emergency -it’s not very easy to reach him at work, of course- so here you are. You came to give things a quick checking over, assured that no-one suspicious had continued to loiter. Richard won’t be much longer -his shift has nearly ended, and you’d left him a voicemail so you’re sure he’ll hurry- but you still thought you’d go on ahead of him, especially so that he wouldn’t worry about Lady.

Looking around, thankfully all seems well, and you don’t think anyone made it inside after all. Slowly then, you allow your nerves to calm and your heart to settle, bouncing the little bundle of fur in your arms, and feeding her a treat from the packet on top of the microwave, just in case she’d been stressed out.

Calming, you can’t help but smile as you look around, absorbing all the little details of Richard. You do hang out in his apartment a fair amount, but most often you will meet or sit outdoors, when the weather allows. After all, he loves to feel the sun and fresh air on his face, especially after spending all day cooped-up in windowless rooms. To you though, this Richard-ness is like a breath of fresh air, and you let it all wash over you, drinking in the details of his simple daily routine. The discarded half-plate of frijoles and rice by the sink. The ironing-board piled with identical uniform-issue shirts, pants, and plain white t-shirts. The photos on the fridge door – some of you and him too.

Doing a lap of the living space, you further note the dining-for-one TV table, evidence of his relatively solitary existence, and you can almost see him sitting there. Can almost hear his soft voice relating the far-fetched storylines of his favourite telenovelas. You imagine him chuckling warmly - perhaps shedding a tear sometimes too.

You decide you should pop your head into the bedroom and bathroom to check there too, for good measure, and you set Lady down, the dog trotting along at your heels. Once you’ve done a loop, you sigh, seeking out a fresh task, and you circle back to the sink, scraping his discarded plate and rinsing it, stacking it in the dishrack. Then, you move towards the TV chair, intending simply to sit yourself down and wait for Richard to come home. After all, you’re here now - you may as well say hello; or, maybe you can even prepare him dinner after his long shift, you muse.

As you revisit the small, rickety table, however, your eyes more keenly notice that a bunch of papers are strewn over it, all identical- a series of pastel pink leaves of paper and envelopes.

Letters.

Handwritten, in his familiar scrawl.

Letters addressed to you.

Your brow furrows in confusion, as you wonder what they could be. You don’t want to invade his privacy, of course, but perhaps this is something that’s meant for you? After all, sometimes he leaves you notes when you come over to feed or walk Lady.  

Still, this feels different, and, with a lump in your throat that you don’t quite understand, you pick up one of the leaves at random, skimming the first line, yet feeling only more confused than you did before.  

You see your name at the head of the paper, followed by the words “my dearest love,”, and underneath, some other half-formed paragraphs, scribbled over and crossed out.

No, you shake your head, your stomach flipping over. That can’t be right, you think, even as your fingers scramble for another leaf - for leaf upon leaf, until you piece together what’s going on. Until, with every line you read, fragments of both English and Spanish, you feel as though you are piecing together his heart.

Could it be true? Is this really true?

Your fingers dive for a sheet more developed that the rest, where you see paragraphs of writing, and you devour the words like you are starved of love; for you are, aren’t you? Starved? And yet, you suddenly feel so full. Brimming.

My darling,

There are infinite ways to fall in love. Some are elemental, like a raging fire. A shock of lightning on first sight. Some are slow-burning and constant, the heat of friendship warming your hearth, defrosting your iced fingertips when you come in from the cold.

There are infinite ways to fall in love, and I should know, my heart, as I have experienced every one of them with you.

You can barely read the rest as tears blur your eyes, and your hand comes to clamp over your mouth as realisation sinks through to the pit of you, the page quaking -like a leaf- in your fingers.

You make my heart beat like a drum. When I look at you, I am music, without being played. When you’re with me I am dancing, without movement. If only you would touch my skin, I feel like I would sing. If only you would-

“-Are you safe? Are you alright?” Richard asks from behind you, and you tear your eyes away from the page with a start. You were so absorbed by this swell of beating music that you didn’t hear the scrape of his key in the lock. You didn’t hear his hurried footsteps coming up behind you.  

“Richard,” you suspire, and for once his touch is on you without hesitation, his hands clasped around each of your shoulders, slowly running down your arms, and you nod quickly to reassure him, your mouth opening wordlessly. You’re safe.

His touch is warm through your clothes, and you think he is right- your skin would sing for him too if he touched you. Your love rattles you, like drums beating musically in your chest, pulsing through your body.

Then, Richard clocks your sideward, guilty glance at the pile of letters, and you see his panic instantly surface at the thought of all his unsent and unspoken words laid bare before you. All the pieces of his heart exposed.

At first, he looks apologetic, but then you step forwards a little more, into the circle of his arms. Arms which suddenly fall, unsure, at his sides once again. And, achingly slow, endlessly sure, you lift up you hand and you place it on his chest, over his heart, smoothing over his shirt and over the cool metal of the shield he wears there. You feel his heart really is beating like a drum. His chest is rising and falling beneath your hand, his breath quickened – eyes nervous.

You step a little closer, and your fingers continue their slow crawl, dancing up around his collar, inching further up until your fingers finally brush the bare skin at the nape of his neck, pushing up into the curls behind his ears, your thumb skimming his sideburn. You touch him, with your fingertips, and he does sing for you, a half-choked moan leaving his mouth at your tender caress.

“Richard,” you say breathily, searching his face, eyes openly appraising his beauty. “Don’t worry, sweet man. I love you too.” And, when you next meet his eyes there is no nervousness there. Not any longer. Instead, you find his dark, expressive eyes brewing with adoration, and that gentle but ever ascending note of passion.

“Darling, can I kiss you?” he pleads, his voice dogged by desire, his brow knitting together and his hands slipping bravely to your waist, circling you as you arch into him.

“Yes. Yes,” you say, and his mouth meets yours in a desperate, tumultuous crush. You sing too, your skin thrumming as you finally know the feeling of his thick moustache brushing against you. As you taste the sweet flavour of cherry sucker on his kiss. As you finally feel the texture of his slicked curls beneath your fingertips.

You kiss, urgently, until you are each smiling too broadly to continue, and instead Richard beams and presses sweet, intermittent kisses all over – your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, your neck- his moustache tickling wherever it touches. His hands are everywhere they can be politely, roaming over your back and your arms and your hair, and it feels so good to finally be held like this.

Eventually, he pulls back, his smile no longer tugging at his lips so keenly -lips now kiss flushed with deep colour- but shining in his liquid eyes. “How long have you loved me back?” he asks in a still choked, disbelieving voice.

You bite your lip, but then allow your face to split in a radiant, unrestrained grin.

Always. Always. I loved you first, you think.

You reach for your bag, reluctant to break from him so trailing your love’s hand in yours- and you fish out the letter. The one you’ve carried around since it was returned to you. “Take a look, Richard,” you encourage.

He looks from you to the small envelope, turning it in his spare hand as you pass it to him. “What is this?”

His brows rise in confusion as you tap the stamped postmark with your index finger. Years. Years ago.

“I sent you a letter,” you explain. “Telling you I loved you. That I love you,” you correct, squeezing his hand tightly in yours, amazed at how natural it feels already, to touch him.

He audibly gasps in air, looking pained. Devastated. “I never got it. I would’ve-“, he fumbles for words, but he can’t finish them, the magnitude of all those years lost to yearning too big to wrap his lips around. “I never got it,” he repeats sorrowfully.

You shake your head. “Don’t worry about that now,” you soothe. “I got your letter.” And, as you engulf him with your arms a soft smile takes over his features once again. He can’t help it.

“I’m so glad you did,” he beams, drawing you to him for another kiss, which you eagerly accept, opening your mouth to him.

God, he’s a good kisser, his tongue in you deep and eager, and the heat generated is quick to catch, a fire lit in the pit of you. That moustache is a divine thing too, his lips soft and full beneath, his mild-mannered tongue positively sinful as it works against yours.

Letting the kiss grow, you grab hold of him by the belt to draw his body closer to yours, arching your hips into his, and you feel an impressive bulge greet you as you do so.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers bashfully, angling his hips away from you, in case you’re not ready for… that yet. “You’re perfection. So perfect, I… I’m a little bit, uh, excited.”

You don’t blame him. You’re a little bit excited too. There’s a drum beating in your chest. Music in your heart. A song everywhere. A dance in your body.

“W-would you like to take me to the bedroom, Richard?” you purr, softly. “We’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

You wish you could capture the bliss which sparks in his eyes then, and keep stoking it forever more. His whole being glows as if you are the sun shining down on him. He loves the sun on his face. He loves you.

He loves you.

*******

Later that night:

At some point after round three, Richard is ravenous, and so you head to the kitchen to grab some snacks. One of Richard’s plaid shirts wards off the slight chill, settled over your otherwise naked body. As you microwave something quick, you can barely keep the smile from your face – even more so as you glance over at the table full of half-finished letters. As the microwave pings and you grab out the plate, another idea occurs to you, and you simply can’t help yourself.

So, you pad mysteriously back towards the bedroom, where Richard is waiting. The blanket is slung low over his hips, skimming the dark trail of hair which draws your gaze down beyond his abdomen. He is covered, and yet you bloom blissfully with heat at your new-found knowledge of what lays beneath. He’s laying with one hand folded behind his head, and one hand rested on the soft, roundness of his stomach, which you had laid your head on only moments ago.

Richard’s eyes shine with unadulterated admiration as you enter, and you flash him a mischievous smile as you transfer the plate to his hands, and subsequently tip a cascade of his letters into the middle of the bed.

“What’s all this?” he asks, with a contented laugh as you bounce eagerly into bed by his side, humming in equal contentment as you slot yourself under his arm.  

“I want you to read them to me. Will you?” you ask, sweetly, and he looks bashful all over again. “No-one has ever sent me a love letter.”

“Me neither,” he chuckles. “Or I thought so…”

He hesitates, perhaps feeling shy, but he wraps his arm around you securely, nuzzling you into his side as he picks up the closest leaf of paper.

He hums gratefully as you begin to stroke his smooth chest. He really does sing whenever you touch him.

“They’re not finished,” he caveats. “I wanted to find the perfect words and I… I couldn’t.”

“The words don’t have to be perfect. It’s more important that they’re delivered,” you say, your voice soft as you sink into him, and so, he gently clears his throat and he begins to read, his words and his rich, soothing voice filtering over you like warm sunshine.

After a moment listening, and letting his love and his letters envelop you, you interrupt him gently. “My sweet man. Promise me you’ll never write me another love letter?”

“Are they that awful?!” Richard exclaims.

“No!” you laugh, into his chest, tipping your chin up to look him in the eyes. “They’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. It’s just… I think I hate love letters, Richard. They’ve only ever kept me from you.”

His expression becomes wistful, lost in thought until a smile finally captures him. Then, with a finger curling gently under your chin, he dips down to plant a small kiss to the very tip of your nose.

“No more letters then,” he promises softly. “Let’s always promise to say it out loud from now on. Let’s talk every day.”

You heart full, you bring your hand up to caress his cheek, before planting a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips; and, despite what you’d just suggested, you plead for him to keep reading to you, his voice and his love lulling you to sleep in his arms.

With the love letters as kindling, your dim spark finally catches, your fire now blazing. You set it in a hearth in your chest, and you vow to keep it stoked for always.

THE END

Bonus:

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 3

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Winter soldiers on, the cold and occasional snow giving way to the promise of spring. Her birthday comes and goes, celebrated at her mother’s with her family as it had been before there was someone else to lay claim to her time on special days. The vacant spaces in her apartment that had been occupied by Ethan’s books and clothes, his toiletries, and VHS collection, begin to be filled by evidence of her new, single life. Her solitary toothbrush in the cup by the sink starts to look normal, the indent on her finger where his ring lived begins to fade, and the silence she arrives home to at the end of her workday becomes mundane instead of painful. Though this change was initiated and welcomed by her, change is always hard. She goes through the motions of being okay until one day in early April, she realizes that she is. The budding crocuses bring with them the optimism of a new life, another chance. A third chance, as it were, to get it right. Now she only has to figure out what right is.

Though they’ve always been close, she and Missy become even closer, taking up the space in each other’s lives that would otherwise be consumed by boyfriends or lovers. They are each other’s better half, sharing the minutiae of their workdays and staying available for unexpected illness or the need to move heavy furniture. While every human needs other humans to thrive, the Scully sisters fill that need with each other, shunning the idea of casual dating simply for the sake of companionship. There is no companion more perfect than the one who has known you since before you could understand the need for such a partner in life, and who is by your side not out of obligation, but because their soul is stitched so firmly to your own. They have always pledged their dedication to each other through thick and thin, and the new year of 1997 proves that to be a sincere promise on both their parts.

As such, they sit at their favorite local coffee shop on Sunday afternoon when Missy finally dares to ask her sister the question she’s avoided for the past four months. Not because she was afraid of her reaction, but because she knew Dana wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“Have you heard from Mulder at all?” she asks so casually that Dana flicks her eyes up and stares in disbelief, not sure that she heard her right.

“What?” Dana asks, her heart having lept for one single beat at the mention of his name.

“Mulder. Have you had any contact with him, or seen him?” Missy is misleadingly casual, acting as though this is not a question she’s been waiting months to ask.

“No,” Dana says flatly, her eyes dropping down to her coffee cup. “I wouldn’t expect to.”

“Does he know that you and Ethan split?” Missy asks next, her feet folded underneath her in the oversized armchair.

“I don’t see how he would,” Dana posits.

“Have you considered reaching out to him?” Missy tries, watching her sister for signs that she is going to shut the conversation down.

Dana shakes her head glumly. “After what I put him through, I’m sure I’m the last person he wants to hear from. That was nearly nine months ago, he’s probably long since moved on.”

“Have you? Moved on?”

Dana pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I don’t know how to answer that. What does it mean, to move on?”

“Do you still think about him?” No assertions, just gentle questions, leading her sister to the conclusion she knows she needs to come to.

Dana nods softly. “All the time. Every day.”

“Then I think your answer would be no. You should contact him, Dana. It feels like unfinished business.” Missy has a thing about unfinished business. She believes it prevents you from achieving your full potential in life.

“Missy...what would I even say? ‘Sorry I broke your heart, good news is it didn’t even work out so it was all for nothing’? I don’t want to cause him more pain than I already have.” Her tone is resigned and defeated. Another regret she will come to live with, pinned to her lapel with a collection of other mistakes that she can never quite atone for.

Missy shrugs. “You know what I think. The rest is up to you.”

Missy is right. The trouble is, she doesn't trust herself to make these decisions anymore. She’s proven to herself that she doesn’t know how to make the right one.

———

“Excuse me,” a rough, nasally voice calls from behind her. She turns to see a red nosed young man in the doorway of the pathologist’s office, slumped against the doorframe with watery eyes. “I’m here to pick up an autopsy report, for, um...I think it’s Richards or something.”

Scully has worked with this courier before, and compared to his typical demeanor it’s easy to tell that he’s unwell.

“Are you alright?” she asks as she uses her feet to push her rolling chair over to the file cabinet, retrieving the report in question.

“Uh, not really, no. But if I call out sick one more time I’m gonna get canned.” He leans his head against the cool metal of the doorframe. She suspects he’s feverish.

“You don’t look well enough to work. Where is this headed?” she asks, still holding the file in her hand.

The young man blows out a stream of air and she holds her breath for a moment, not wanting to inhale whatever he’s infected with. He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. “Hoover Building, Behavioral Science Unit. Agent Kissop.” He stuffs the paper back in his pocket and looks around, taking refuge in the extra chair near the end of her desk.

She feels a little flutter in her belly; what are the odds?

“I’ll tell you what,” she begins, “I was just about to head out for the day and I live in Georgetown, so I’m going that way anyway. Can I drop this off for you? You don’t look well enough to drive and I’d hate to see you on the news in the morning if you cause an accident.”

He sighs deeply, the biggest display of excitement he can muster. “Are you sure? I’d really appreciate it,” he says, his eyelids barely maintaining half-mast.

“No problem at all,” she replies, gathering her coat and purse. “You get home and take some Tylenol, okay? And get some rest.”

He nods weakly and she leaves him there, climbing into her car with the file and a pounding heart. She can’t help but feel like this is a sign. She’s been thinking about signs a lot lately, and she’s recently resolved to start paying attention to them.

———

Mulder stands beside the copy machine, doing his Wednesday afternoon ritual of fighting with the toner cartridge and cursing profusely. From around the corner, he can hear AD Kirkbride drumming up his own song of profanity, which is more of a daily ritual than a weekly one.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kirkbride is shouting. “Now that dipshit is conning goddamn doctors into doing his pathetic job?”

Another much softer voice answers him, but Mulder can’t quite make out the words. He moves closer to the open door, bored enough to bother eavesdropping and seeing which of his colleagues is going to get their ass handed to them today.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is sick, that fucking lowlife. He’s sick every fucking week, it’s always something with him!”

“Sir, I don’t know what the history is between you and the courier,” answers the other voice, and it’s familiar in a way that makes him stop in his tracks, his stomach clutching in a mix of nervousness and excitement. “Can you direct me to Agent Kissop, please? Then I’ll be on my way and you can work it out with the courier service.”

It’s Scully. It’s her, he’s sure. He’s been dreaming of that voice for months, the soft sibilant S’s and the way her plush lips rest against her adorable overbite. Without thinking, he enters Kirkbride’s office and sees her standing in front of his desk with a file in her hand and an exasperated look on her face.

“Scully?” he asks, and she turns to him. Her hair is a bit longer, now just past her shoulders, and she’s wearing black slacks and a white blouse. She’s as beautiful as ever, maybe even more than he remembered. She doesn’t look all that surprised to see him. If anything, she looks relieved. Emotion boils up in his chest immediately and he feels his throat constrict.

“You know her?” Kirkbride asks, gesturing to Scully, and Mulder nods. “Great, then show her where Kissop sits so I can call the fucking courier service and tell them to fire that lazy asshat before I strangle him.”

Scully walks towards him and he turns wordlessly to show her out of Kirkbride’s office and down the hall to where Kissop sits. His heart is beating slowly but firmly, his pulse resounding in his ears. What is she doing here? Did she come here to see him? And if so, why? When they arrive at Kissop’s desk, Scully hands her the file and they exchange words that Mulder doesn’t bother to listen to. Then Scully looks at him hesitantly and slowly turns to walk away, towards the exit. He feels suspended, unsure if he can believe his own eyes that she is really here, and entirely conflicted over what to do about it if she is. He’s spent nine months trying to forget her, but she’s as real and alive as ever, standing before him. His self-protective instinct says to let her go, but his heart says to run after her.

“Quit standing here like a dumbass and go talk to her,” Kissop orders him, clearly picking up on some tension though she doesn’t have the faintest idea what’s causing it.

Shaken from his daze, Mulder follows Scully into the hallway.

“Scully,” he calls out, and she stops walking but doesn’t turn around. When he catches up to her, he touches her shoulder and she turns to face him with wet eyes.

They stand there for a moment, looking at one another, an expectant feeling hanging over them. He wants to touch her, to feel the press of her body against his again, but he doesn’t dare. That would seem like a relapse, of sorts.

“Would you have coffee with me?” she finally speaks, her voice small and unsure. It’s an invitation she is not at all confident he will accept.

“Okay,” he answers, and they walk out of the building side by side, silently.

They seem to understand without saying so that Mulder will lead them to where they ought to go, which is a little cafe called Burial Grounds just a block from the front doors of the Hoover Building. They stand in line stoically, tension crackling between them like static as they order something that will occupy their hands and give them a safe place to avert their eyes while they talk. They sit at a small table near the door and wait, glimpsing at each other’s faces and then away, summoning courage. Because this was at Scully’s invitation, it seems like she should have the floor.

“Ethan and I aren’t together anymore,” she finally blurts out, and his first instinct is to look at her hand, which is indeed bare of any jewelry. Next he looks at her face, considering her expression and whether she takes this to be good news or bad. She looks pained, but not about what she’s just said. She’s had this look on her face since he first spotted her in Kirkbride’s office. He’s unsure if he should be offering congratulations or condolences, and irritated that he’s being put in the position to figure it out, so he says nothing.

“I’m sure that I’m just about the last person you want to see,” she continues, her ocean irises tracing the logo printed on her cup. It wasn’t a question, but if it were he’d tell her that she’s the only person he wants to see, the only one he ever thinks about. The reason he can’t sleep and, when he does, the only thing he dreams about. “If it’s okay, there are some things I’d like to say to you. I understand if you don’t want to hear them.”

She flicks her eyes up to meet his for a moment and he nods softly, keeping his expression neutral. She returns her gaze to the skull and crossbones bearing the name of the coffee shop.

“I have always believed that life is about making the right choices. That we are presented with an ongoing series of options, opportunities and situations, and that we are tasked with determining the right choice that will put us on the path towards the best possible life. But as of late,” she pauses to take a sip of her coffee, stealing a glance at him before she continues, “I’ve come to believe that there is actually only one choice. One path we’re supposed to be on, and there are signs along the way to pay attention to. The choices might not always make sense at the time, but in the grand scheme of things, they are the ones you need to make in order to have the best possible life. Or the right life, the one you’re supposed to have.”

She pauses and slides her hand across the table, covering his with her own. The soft warmth of her skin electrifies him a little, sending a flush to his belly. She brings her eyes up to meet his, her brows knit with emotion as her chin gently puckers. She’s so beautiful it physically hurts.

“I ignored the signs,” she says tightly. “I made the wrong choice, Mulder. I thought I was doing the right thing, the best thing, but I was wrong. I’m so sorry that I hurt you.”

He feels his chest tighten, a telltale precursor to tears, and he looks away from her. Why is she doing this? To make herself feel better? She pulls her hand back and sniffs, then stands and slings her purse over her shoulder.

“Thank you for having coffee with me,” she says, and then he watches her leave. He sits there, staring at the pink lipstick that stains the rim of her cup, wishing she’d given him some more time to absorb it all. Wishing she’d never made the wrong choice.

[lokidokitom]

Wrong Type of Comfort

This Imagine from @imagine-loki submitted by @jotun-philosopher gave me an idea for a small fic. Did not follow it much so there’s a twist to it.

Word Count : 1700

Prompt : Imagine Loki noticing you’re upset about something, so he turns himself into a huge purry fluffy cat and jumps on you to tromple you with his fuzzy lil’ paddy-paws and give you snuggles and headpushes

_______________________________________

Sometimes the world is just not on your side and you feel like it’s personally out to get you.

The last few weeks feel like you were running on autopilot. Going through the motions at work and crashing without any energy left at the end of the day.

The weekend finally arrived and you were able to relax around the tower. Tony had given you the weekend off when he noticed how beat up you were but it was now Sunday and all the sleeping and relaxing hadn’t helped at all. You still felt exhausted.

When you woke up this morning, you made your way to the shared living room. Since you had spent the last two days in your room to rest and it hadn’t worked, you thought that a change of scenery might help you recharge.

Tony was the first person to see you on the couch under your pile of blankets.

“Hey there Y/N! Are you feeling any better?” Tony asked you, trying to see where your head was under everything.

“Hi Tony, I thought the time off would help but I can’t seem to shake off this tiredness,” you admit popping your head up to see him clearly.

“You can take more time off Y/N. We need you on the team but we need you at a hundred percent. I want you to be okay and not burnt out,” You can see the worry in Tony’s eyes. You feel bad for making him worry so much.

“I can’t make you just wait for me Tony. I’ll be able to work tomorrow.”

“Don’t rush it Y/N, you can take at least another day okay? I don’t want to see you do any work before Tuesday, got it?”

“If that makes you stop worrying so much about me Tony, I’ll do it.”

“I always worry about you Y/N/ Now, do you need anything? Soup, tea, water.. anything?”

“I’m okay Tony, really please stop worrying about me.”

“Okay then. I’ll send someone to check on you in a few hours to make sure you’re eating,” with that he ruffled your hair and walked away.

You smiled and fixed up the hair that fell into your eyes. Having someone care so much about you feels good, but it’s not enough to completely lift the funk that you’re in.

Flipping the channels on the tv, you stopped on a cartoon that you enjoyed when you were younger and cuddled further into the couch. An hour into the movie, Steve comes in the room with a tray full of food.

“Tony sent me a message saying that you were in here and needed, and I quote, ‘a shit ton of food’. Is there anything that you want and don’t see here?”

“Thank you Steve but you didn’t have to do all of this! I won’t be able to eat it all.” He had brought you a giant bowl of mixed fruits, some eggs, pancakes, toasts, a few different kinds of jams, waffles with all the toppings, and a plate full of bacon.

“I can help with that,” Loki smoothly waltz in the room with a smirk. Loki and you weren’t what you would call friends but you would talk once in a while.

“I mean, if Steve is okay with it, he’s the one who made it all,” you look at him for his input.

“Go right ahead Loki I just ate, but make sure Y/N eats her share. Tony’s orders.”

You roll your eyes but Loki nods and comes to sit beside you on the couch. Once Steve leaves the room, Loki turns to you looking curious.

“So why are the Captain and robotic man so worried about you this time?” Loki asks when he pops a grape into his mouth.

“They’re just over reacting. I’ve been tired lately and all the sleep I had in the last two days hasn’t helped, but I’ll be okay.”

“Have you fallen ill?”

“I don’t think I have.” You hadn’t thought of that. You didn’t notice any more symptoms but that didn’t mean you didn’t have a small fever.

Loki surprised you by sitting closer and reaching his hand to touch your forehead. That is the first time he’s ever touched you and you weren’t expecting how smooth his hand was. You’ve seen videos of how he fights and you expected his hands to be rough.

“Well, your temperature seems okay but I wouldn’t be the best judge since, well, frost giant and everything,” he moves back to his previous spot on the couch and reaches for more food.

You chuckle and reach for some food as well. “Friday, could you check my vitals please?”

“Of course Y/N, your vitals are all good.”

“So no fever Friday?”

“Your temperature is normal Miss Y/N.”

“Thank you Friday. I guess you were right Loki.”

“I guess so, now make sure you eat enough of this before I get blamed.” Loki grabs the bowl of fruits and plops it onto your lap.

Talking to people and seeing them trying to take care of you is helping lift your spirits just a little bit.

“So what has been going on Y/N? Friday said there was nothing medically wrong,” Loki asks again, not pushing but curious.

“I think it’s mentally. I’ve been feeling a lot negative and low energy for the last few weeks and nothing seems to get better. Usually a good night’s sleep will help but lately it’s been dream after dream where I wake up even more stressed than I was before.”

“So you haven’t been sleeping well?”

“No. Even the last two days, the only thing I did was sleep and relax but it didn’t help me.”

“Could I try something to help?”

“Of course,” you nod almost enthusiastically, wanting anything to help you rest.

You watch as Loki completely disappears in front of your eyes and a black cat is sitting right where he was, the eyes are the same ones you were looking into a few seconds before just more cat-like.

The cat pads his way to you and head-butts your cheek before sitting next to the fruit bowl on your lap.

You smile sweetly at him until you feel a sneeze explode out of you. Once your eyes open, even Loki notices how watered they got. Another sneeze comes out and Loki jumps back to his previous spot and turns back into himself.

“What’s wrong? I thought you weren’t sick,” worry floods his eyes.

“No I’m not sick it’s,” another sneeze. “It’s only allergies. I’m allergic to cats,” and another sneeze.

“I am so sorry, darling!” You can see how bad Loki feels. “Is there something I can do?”

A sneeze comes out before you can start talking. “Could you just get my allergy medication from my bathroom?”

“Yes, of course!” Loki jumps up from the couch and disappears from the room.

A few seconds later, Loki comes back with the bottle of medication you needed and hands it to you. You pop a pill and swallow it between sneezes.

“I apologize, Y/N. I didn’t know you’d have a bad reaction like this.”

“It’s okay Loki, you didn’t know I was allergic. It’s not your fault.” By the end of the conversation your symptoms had already slowed down a lot. You’re sneezing stopped but your nose was still congested. “Thank you for trying to make me feel better.”

“Trying being the key word right?” You laugh. “Are you allergic to dogs as well?” 

“No, I love dogs!”

Loki smirks and transforms himself into a beautiful black lab and makes his way towards you on the couch. You smile and pat his head when he rests it on your lap.

“Would you like some?” You ask Loki pointing to the fruit bowl next to his face. He just pushes the bowl a bit with his nose closer towards you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be eating some too.” You pick up a piece of watermelon and put it next to his mouth.

You spend the rest of the morning like this, eating through the food tray together and finishing the rest of your movie, you even start another one. After all the food is gone you make yourself more comfortable on the couch and Loki does too, coming closer to you.

He head-butts your hand until you get the message and you start to pet him. The soothing motion of petting his soft fur slowly makes you fall into a comfortable, stress free sleep and Loki falls asleep as well.

A few hours later, Tony walks in to check on Y/N and what he sees is not something he’d ever imagine seeing. His little chuckle wakes up the dog on the couch. Loki slowly removes himself from next to you and makes his way toward Tony and by the time he’s in front of him, he’s back to his Asgardian form.

“One word of this to anyone and you will regret it,” Loki fumes into Tony’s face.

“Don’t worry Lassie, you helped Y/N feel better so I’ll keep your soft side a secret,” Tony smirks and leaves the room.

Loki’s furious face disappears when he turns around and sees you still sound asleep on the couch with a peaceful expression on your face. He makes his way closer to you and makes sure you’re covered under your blanket then picks up everything around and brings it all to the kitchen.

“Did she eat some of it or did you eat it all?” Steve asks when he sees Loki dropping off the empty food tray.

“She ate most of it actually. After she got comfortable she ate a lot more. She’s sleeping peacefully now so don’t go rushing in there.”

“Tony sent out a message just a few minutes ago to the whole tower saying not to bother her.”

“Of course he did,” Loki rolls his eyes and turns to leave the room.

“Hey, Loki. Thanks for helping her,” Steve sincerely says.

Loki nods and leaves the room. You might be able to call your relationship a friendship now.

[whitttbit]

Hawks x reader lemon An acceptable apology and an unexpected visit.

Warnings: This is absolute filth. Extreme dom hawks with spanking,Dom sub dynamics,a dash of angst, office smut, and just general smut. It's my first fic so try not to judge to harshly. If you guys enjoy it I'll open requests and do more. Ps: I am incredibly nervous posting this.

You've been warned:

Dating a pro hero was never easy. They were always busy with paperwork, patrols or undercover missions. Dating the number 2 pro hero was damn near impossible. Somehow though, here you were sitting in a shapartment waiting on the winged hero to get home. Hawks was charismatic and energetic and that definitely translated to the bedroom. The sex was phenomenal and the love was passionate. He was always bringing you gifts and when he found the time he would plan out elaborate dates for the two of you that were thoughtful and fun. Lately though he had been working overtime investigating the LOV in anticipation of an attack. He wouldn't get in until long after you'd fallen asleep. He would then leave before you woke up with a gentle shake and apologetic kiss on the forehead. The commission had given him a positively brutal schedule and he hadn't had a day off in over a month since accepting the mission.

You were trying your best to stay awake but sleep finally won you over and you had drifted off to sleep on the sofa. The hero had planned to be home for dinner but ended up sending an apology text last minute after receiving some new Intel on the case. As you drifted into the welcoming arms of your slumber the dinner you had spent hours making was still on the table. It had long since gotten cold but you hadn't been able to bring yourself to put it away. It was well after midnight when the hero finally landed on the balcony of the penthouse, shaking the snow from his tired wings and sliding the door open. He glanced around and his eyes landed on your silhouette on the couch wrapped in a blanket. Sighing he turned to grab something quick to eat from the kitchen and saw the table set for two. His gut tensed and he felt the sense of guilt that he had become all to familiar with.

"damn....." He mumbled as he started to clear the table putting the delicious looking food into Tupperware and loading the dishwasher. Once everything was clean he walked quietly over to you and scooped you up taking you to your shared bed. He knew he'd have to make it up to you somehow but all he could think of right now was sleep.

Five thirty had come far to soon for Keigos liking as he slammed his hand onto the alarm clock by your bed. He stood up and showered and got ready to go back to work. You began to wake as he left the bathroom and the florescent light hit your eyes. Sleepily you groaned and looked at him in his hero costume ready to leave you yet again.

"Kei?"

"Shit! sorry angel I was trying to be quiet. Go back to sleep, Ill text you around lunch." He walked over and gave you a deep apologetic kiss as he tucked the blankets around you.

" You have to work again? Its Sunday and you said you might be able to get off."

" I know but I've got to complete the paperwork today and its a mountain on my desk. I'm sorry. I should be off someday soon though and ill make it up to you."

" You always say that." You hadn't meant for it to come out so harshly but you were sleepy and annoyed. Keigo blinked and stared at you for a moment before finally speaking.

" I know angel but the mission is almost over. It's literally just paperwork. I've gathered all of the Intel that the commission requested."

"Fine. Ill see you tonight I guess." You rolled over feeling slightly guilty at how cold your words had been. Sighing Keigo walked out to the balcony and headed to his office across the city.

You awoke a few hours later and went into the kitchen to get breakfast. You saw your phone on the counter and saw that he had texted.

BIRDBOY: You awake love?

You hastily typed a quick message.

Y/N: Yes, do you want me to bring you lunch?

BIRDBOY: No, I don't really have time I've got a budget conference call at lunch and still have to complete my reports.

God, why did he even bother texting you back. He might as well be dating the commission. Then a thought popped into your head. It was kind of mean but he deserved it. You took off your leggings and t-shirt and threw on some red lacy panties he had bought you for Christmas and a matching bra and tousled your hair a bit snapping a quick aerial picture. 

Y/N: But I miss you daddy... 

*attachment*

You sat on the couch eagerly waiting for him to reply. It took a few minutes and he had started typing and stopped several times.

BIRDBOY: Angel, what are you doing? You know not to send me pictures at work. It's not nice to get daddy worked up before a business call.

Y/N: Well its not nice to leave me this wet either.

You knew that you were pushing it. His daddy kink always put him in his dom head space and testing him wasn't always a good thing. He could be positively relentless with his punishments if you went to far.

BIRDBOY: You are pushing it baby. 

Y/N: Well you aren't here so I guess ill just have to take care of it myself.

You knew that would do it. He was going to lose it, but still you had already hit send so no turning back now

BIRDBOY: Don't you fucking dare. You know the rules! Don't test me darling.

You left him on read and went to the bedroom to grab some black thigh high stockings and a garter belt. Putting on some heels and a long pea coat. This was possibly the gutsiest thing you'd ever done but you were going to pack up last nights dinner and take it to him at work. He deserved to suffer a little bit after all. Grabbing a scarf you hailed a cab and made your way to the office ignoring your phone which was buzzing with angry texts at your lack of response no doubt.

As you pulled up to the tall silver building you felt yourself getting more and more nervous. You were practically naked under a coat and going to your boyfriends job. This was dangerous and uncharted territory. Keigo always took his job so seriously. As you watched the floor number flash on the screen in the elevator you felt more anxious. Finally it dinged and the doors slid open. You made your way to his secretaries desk. Clearing your throat.

"Hi Jamie....um I brought Hawks lunch" She beamed up at you and tapped her desk.

"He is about to be on a call, if you leave it here ill make sure that he gets it." Part of you wanted to do it. Somehow you mustered up some nerve though.

" Um.... actually I was hoping to give it to him myself.....we were planning on eating together. Ill just sit quietly in his office until hes done. He's expecting me." You looked at her praying that she wouldn't check.

" Oh! okay he must have forgotten to tell me, go on in." Oh thank god, You walked to the big steel door and turned the handle. Walking in you saw him staring at papers and biting a pen. He didn't even look up. 

"Jamie, I'm about to be in a meeting whats up?"

You cleared your throat and waited. He looked up and dropped the pen staring.

" I um...brought you lunch"

" Angel, I told you I couldn't have lunch today what are you doing here?" He studied your body like a predator shaking and looking down you began to speak.

" Um.....well..... I thought id just bring it I can go. " Placing the basket on the ground you turned finally losing nerve. What were you thinking. Coming to his office like this? In a flash of crimson he was over to you grabbing your arm and turning you to face him. He cupped you chin forcing you to look up into his golden irises as he spoke.

"I told you to stay home and wait. Impatient are we?" you grabbed the buttons of your coat to keep him from discovering your secret and kept eye contact trying not to break.

" I just want you to eat that's all you jerk." 

"Tch- So disrespectful, its sir or daddy not jerk. Now go sit on the couch until after my meeting. It seems we need to have a little chat, and since you can't seem to respond to my texts or use proper honorifics today you'll have to spend that time coming up with a damn good reason I shouldn't teach you a lesson when we get home." He smirked and pointed to the bright red couch on the opposite side of his office and turned to sit back at his desk.

What a cocky asshole. He was so full of himself sometimes. Still though considering everything you'd done already you figured that you better not push it so reluctantly you complied. 

" Good girl. Now don't you dare move a muscle until I finish this call do you understand?" 

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes....sir."

He smiled as his phone rang. He took the call and began going over expense and damage reports. 

-One hour later-

You had been sitting here for an hour. This asshole had had several openings to end the call but he just kept talking. He would smirk at you every time. God this was torture. Why did he have to be such an ass sometimes? Finally after the fourth opening to wrap things up and he refused you decided that he deserved to suffer. He had told the guy on the phone to go over the quarterly reports one more time for his notes so you knew you had time. You stood up and his eyes darted to you and narrowed.

Slowly you undid the tie of your coat and unbuttoned it revealing your bright red lingerie  and smiled at him. His eyes went so big you had to smile. You laid back on the couch and began to stroke your folds throwing your head back. You felt those golden orbs on you. suddenly you felt a feather wrap your wrists. Jerking your head up you saw him crook his finger. The feather began to pull you towards him....oh shit.

You made it to his desk and he sent one feather to lock the door and the other to sharpen and cut off your panties. He bit his lip looking at you. Reaching to the phone he hit mute.

" Now, since you don't know how to listen today here's whats going to happen." He began unbuckling his belt.  

" You are going to come over here and sit that pretty little pussy on my cock and you aren't going to move or make a sound until daddy is done with his phone call got it?" He shimmied his cargo pants down revealing his throbbing cock. Gulping you looked at him

"....yes daddy....I won't make a sound."

"Good girl now come on."  You shuffled over straddling his lap and lowered yourself onto his cock. He reached over to unmute the call.

The call went on talking about numbers and deadlines for a few minutes and you could feel your resolve slowly crumbling. He reached his hand between you and began lazily rubbing your clit as he continued the call. You had to bite your lip to keep the moans from escaping. You shifted your weight a bit and you felt him throb inside of you. He gave you a dangerous look and you stilled instantly. He began vigorously rubbing your sensitive nub. Fuck this man was the devil. Biting his shoulder you could feel tears welling up. You had to get some relief. This was absolute torture.Fuck you were going to cum. You couldn't stop the whimper that escaped as you felt yourself nearing the edge. His ministrations abruptly stopped as he grabbed a fistful of your h/c hair and yanked your head back.

" Everything okay Hawks?" what was that?" the gentleman on the line asked. He looked at you with rage and replied.

" Everything is fine sir, I just got a paper cut. Listen, I think I've got what I need for now so why don't I finish these reports and call you tomorrow afternoon?"

" Sounds good we'll talk then." Keigo clicked the phone off and forced you to meet his gaze again.

" I said not to make a sound y/n. You are being such a brat today." whimpering apologetically you looked at him. Rolling his eyes he yanked you off of him by your hair and bent you over his desk displaying you perfectly. Kicking your legs apart he leaned down over your back and bit the shell of your ear and growled . You let out another involuntary whimper

" Does my angel want to cum?" you nodded feeling yourself turning to jello beneath him.

" I can't fucking hear you slut."

"...yes sir" was all that you could choke out

" Not good enough. Lets teach you some manners first." He reached over to his phone and hit the speed dial for his secretary.

"yes sir?"

" Jamie, why don't you head out to lunch for a bit on me. Use the company card. We both deserve a break. I'm going to eat here with y/n."

" Thank you sir! I've been wanting to try that new sushi place!"

"Knock yourself out, you deserve it." He clicked the phone and listened until he heard her gather her things and go.

" Don't fucking move." He reached down and you heard him rustling with his clothes. Something dropped next to your face and your eyes shot open. His belt was displayed right next to your face. Leaning down again he spoke.

"Now princess you are going to count for daddy got it? You'll get five with my hand for sending me that photo, Five with my feather for not texting me back, and five with my belt for being a needy brat during my call and not listening. Do you understand?" You could feel yourself shaking.

" ..Ye..yes daddy."

A harsh slap echoed as her hit your ass with incredible force. 

"o....one" you cried another slap echoed through the office

"Tu...two" the next three came so quickly you could barely keep count. There was no way to anticipate his pattern. You could feel your ass stinging already.

"Three.......fo...four...FIVVEEEEE!!!!!"

He smirked pulling out a feather and hardening it into a makeshift switch and backing up to admire his handy work. Bright red hand prints covered your ass. He Pulled back and hit you with his feather causing your entire body to lurch forward onto the desk with force.

"FUCK! one." With a swish he landed another on your thigh

"TWO!!!" It was like he was hitting you harder with each go.  The last three caused more tears to obscure your vision. Dreading what was next you saw the blurred outline of the belt slide off of the desk.

" Last set angel, You okay? Remember the safety colors? Where are we at?" You felt a rush of relief as you heard the concern in his voice. Green meant good yellow slow down and crimson (your safe word) full stop. You and he both knew he'd never been this rough so he was checking in.

"st...still green daddy...g..green." You stuttered out.

" Good girl" he praised

"Okay, lets continue." He folded the belt in half an pulled back to take aim.

SNAAAAPPPPP!

The belt hit your ass ...hard.

"One" you felt so raw beneath him shaking and numb from the sting.

The rest of the hits echoed and caused you to melt into a puddle beneath him. Cunt practically drooling from pleasure and pain. He dropped the belt and positioned himself. Cock pulsating  as he grabbed your hips he spoke.

" Color angel?" Eager to come you answered instantly

"Green."

" If you want it fucking beg. Beg like the needy slut you are beg for me right fucking now"

" Puh...please daddy I need it. Please fill me up I can't take it anymore" He smiled and shoved his full length in with a thrust and began to relentlessly pound you into the desk. His pace was brutal but it was like he was hitting every single nerve. A knot starting to form in your abdomen you started to whimper.

" Can I cum daddy PLEASE!!!!!!! Oh my god!" you were begging trying desperately to hold it in. He would be so angry of you came without permission.

" No." he said simply as he continued his assault

You bit your arm closing your eyes. 

"Please.....daddy please." You were a blubbering mess but you didn't care you needed release.

"NOW!" he yelled. With a scream you came with him Your walls fluttering as his seed filled you with pulsating rhythmic thrusts. Collapsing on top you sweaty and spent. You both laid there in a perfect heap of ecstasy and release.

After a few minutes he picked you up and released your hands carrying you over to the couch. HE sat down placing you in his lap and began stroking your hair.

" You did so well angel. So perfect for me." he cooed all you could manage was a hum. 

" I'm sorry love, i'll take tomorrow off for a personal day. I know its hard but I love you and you are so amazing for sticking with me. I love you so much." He smiled.

Sending a feather to his mini fridge to get a bottle of water he unscrewed the top and handed it to you.

"Drink this angel." You felt the cool liquid slide down your throat steadying you and bringing you back down.

"How about I take the rest of the day off. I'll fly us home, run us a bubble bath and we can order some take out from your favorite place and watch a movie. How does that sound love?"

" That sounds perfect." You rasped out

"I'm so sorry my love. I hope you can forgive me."

"I should visit more often for apologies." You said with a smile. Nestling into his chest. Everything was perfect.

[falsegoodnight]

✰ say a little prayer: an outtake ✰

*a harry-centric drabble from sleeping on our problems taking place the five days after louis told harry about the baby.

(obviously: major spoilers from the fic!

a birthday present for @louislyrics <3 thank you for asking the question that sparked this!

The door shuts behind Louis with a dull thud, silence echoing as Harry stares at the wood, mouth still dropped open with his protest lingering on his lips. 

A wave of nausea rises in him, strengthened only by his disbelief, confusion, and slowly festering panic. 

Pregnant. Louis is pregnant. 

With his baby. 

The panic grows, tightening in his chest and filling his lungs. He exhales jaggedly, hands shaking as he sits down on his bed stiffly and places them on his knees, bracing himself.

He’s twenty. He’s twenty years old and he’s gone and knocked up an omega. He’s just recently been picked as captain. The season is picking up soon and he’s got classes and responsibilities and he’s knocked up an omega. 

A product of him and Louis has been planted in Louis’ stomach and will grow into a living breathing human after just nine and a half months. The white gap on his wall between his window and a poster sears into his burning eyes as he stares blankly. 

He doesn’t realize someone has entered his room until a hand lands on his shoulder, jerking him out of his tense actions. Liam’s face slowly comes into view when he glances down, a worried furrow between his brow. 

His mouth is open too, closing and widening as if pronouncing syllables and words, trying to communicate - except Harry can hardly hear a word through the thundering of his heart, deafening in his ears and making his vision go blurry. 

“Harry,” Liam says, maybe for the fifth or dozenth time, “Harry, are you okay?” 

Opening his mouth, he is unable to respond. Is he okay? Is he okay after finding out he’s going to be a father when he’s only twenty years old? 

And it’s like - Harry has always known he wants children, wants to find a nice omega and settle down and put a baby or a bunch of babies in them. He wants to have a family. He gets off on the idea, for fuck’s sake. But it’s different having it sprung on him so suddenly. It’s different because he’s not ready. Not even close. 

He’s Captain for fuck’s sake. He’s got a year to play well and play hard to up his chances of being drafted to a good team in the summer. Not to mention, an entire team not to let down. Hockey is his life - it’s been his life since he first got onto the ice at eight years old and fuck, he wants it to continue being his life for a long time. 

“H, you’re worrying me, what’s wrong?” Liam continues, sounding completely bewildered. Harry can’t blame him. He’s Harry - always cool headed, calm, and driven. Not much rattles him, though it’s safe to say this definitely has. 

“Liam,” he says slowly, voice hoarse. He forces himself to make eye contact with the fellow alpha, taking a deep shuddery breath. “Liam, I’m going to be a dad.” 

He watches as the words process and Liam’s face morphs into one of disbelief. He watches as Liam looks at him, face pale once he sees the tears in Harry’s eyes and the raw honesty on his face. He watches as he realizes it’s the truth. 

Fumbling for words, Liam sits down on the bed beside him. “Um,” he starts, giving Harry an anxious look. 

Shaking his head, Harry explains properly. He reminds Liam about Louis, the omega he hooked up with at their end-of-summer party and who helped him with his rut. He tells him that Louis wants to keep the baby. “I mean, s’his body, his choice, of course,” he says panickedly. “But he also wants to know if I want to be involved and-” He cuts off, unable to continue. 

Liam is silent for a bit. “What’re you going to do?” he asks eventually, voice soft and gentle. 

It’s still enough for Harry to break. Suddenly he’s crying into his hands, shaking because he has no fucking idea what he’s going to do. He’s twenty - he’s twenty years old and he has no fucking idea what he’s doing. 

He thinks of Louis. Sweet and beautiful Louis who’s caught his eye more than any omega he’s ever met, who his inner alpha feels an inexplicable pull towards, against his mind’s wishes. If he hadn’t been so dedicated to hockey, he wonders how things might have been between them. If this would be playing out a little differently. 

Most of all he wonders how Louis isn’t in pieces like him. He’s the same age as Harry and yet he was so sure - so certain of this new permanent fixture in his life. 

Even when he left, face crumpled and close to tears much to the torment of his inner alpha, there was no trace of regret or doubt in his face. He wants to keep the baby. He’s okay with being a mother and raising a child. 

Meanwhile Harry feels like he’s going to puke. He keeps crying, letting Liam awkwardly pat his back and murmur semi-encouraging words, struggling to handle an emotionally distressed Harry when he’s never even seen him cry before today. But Harry soaks up the little bit of comfort Liam offers, closing his eyes shut and wanting to scream because the ultrasound picture  he left on his desk is still branded across his eyelids. 

One thing’s for sure, he needs to make a decision here. But first he has to come to terms with it. 

-

Harry wakes up on Sunday morning and almost forgets the revelation of the evening before. 

He told Liam to tell their frat brothers he was feeling ill and would be eating in his room. Then he proceeded to have his dinner, which was tasteless and overall unappealing to him, while staring aimlessly at his laptop screen where Criminal Minds was playing. He remembers nothing of the two episodes he watched, putting his laptop on the nightstand and yanking his clothes off so he can sleep about three hours earlier than usual. 

Though he forgets, it comes back to him like a knife to the chest when he glances at his desk where the ultrasound is sitting, black and white little blob and all. He sucks in a breath and then exhales through his nose, heading to the door and slamming the door shut behind him.

Liam must have told the others to leave him alone because no one comes up to tell him good morning or complain about current chore assignments. He’s sure he’s radiating frustrated pheromones as he grabs some cereal and an energy drink. 

There’s a morning practice in half an hour so Harry brings his breakfast upstairs with him, eating as he gets dressed and grabs his stuff. 

He stares at the ultrasound as he gathers his gear, eyes latched onto it even when he’s stuffing everything in his duffel along with his water bottle, before turning his head and looking away. He pushes it all down. 

Striving to the door, he hesitates, glancing back at the desk. With an exhausted sigh, he walks back to the desk.

After spending the entire morning avoiding the elephant in the room, it all comes rushing back to him, a heavy weight in his lungs making it hard for him to breathe. But he makes himself look at the paper, lets himself study the small blob in the middle that will be his and Louis’ pup.

His pup. His child. 

He wonders what they’d look like. Would they look more like him or Louis? He imagines a baby in his head but its face flashes between Louis’ delicate features and his sharper ones, Louis’ big blue eyes and his green ones, Louis’ soft smile and his own. 

“Harry,” Liam says, knocking gently on the door. He’s cautious as he reminds Harry that they have to get to practice.

Harry nods, gnawing on his lip. “I’ll meet you down there,” he murmurs, not moving his eyes from the ultrasound picture. There’s traces of Louis’ scent on it, sweet ripe strawberries. So lovely and intoxicating and so much deeper now. Deeper because of the baby. He glances at Liam who hasn’t left, a concerned frown on his face. “I’m fine,” he swears, voice lowering to a whisper. 

Liam dips his head to his chest in acknowledgment and backs out of the room. 

Heart fluttering painfully, Harry realizes that he just spent five minutes thinking about his child and not panicking. 

Examining the black and white sheet carefully, he folds it gently and tucks it into his jacket pocket. It sits there like a promise through the entire day. 

-

Harry spends the next couple of days going through his normal routines and attending classes and practice completely dazed. He zones out during lectures, mind wandering to heartbeats and tiny limbs. He’s distant with his frat brothers and absent from his friends; ignoring text messages and Snapchats and cutting all interactions with everyone, except Liam, short. His mind is constantly spinning with thoughts of ultrasounds, parenting, and panic. 

How is he expected to talk to people normally when a lump the size of a boulder is clawing up his throat and fighting to spill out, his thoughts utterly consumed by something the size of a cherry. 

(A size of a cherry. That’s what the internet said when he googled information on babies at 9 weeks in the middle of Music Theory. Itty bitty. Just bigger than the pad of his thumb.)

He’s distracted in practice and everyone notices, including Coach, who pulls him aside during a practice game to tell him off for being sloppy. He’s captain for fuck’s sake and the season is just kicking off. He can’t afford to be so spaced out - he’s lectured on this point over and over, head ducked and shame curling in his stomach. 

And yet, he can’t stop himself from pulling the picture out of his pocket during class or practice or in the middle of the night when he wakes up staring at the ceiling, while his insecurities and nerves whirl around him like a never ending nightmare. 

The folds grow cracked and worn with the amount of times he opens and refolds the paper; looking, staring, and memorizing the lines of his future pup as his heart beats painfully. 

On Wednesday, three days after he found out, he calls his mom.

She answers with a, “Hey, lovey,” like she always does, chipper and happy.

Harry swallows, closing his eyes. When he speaks, his voice shakes. “Mom, I have something to tell you.” 

As if sensing the panic in his voice, her response is soft and encouraging. “You can tell me anything, darling.”

“I don’t want you to be disappointed,” he whispers. 

“You’ve never disappointed me and you never will,” she says easily, sounding confused and curious. 

It doesn’t make him feel any better. His stomach is twisting painfully when he finally works up the courage to blurt it out. “I got someone pregnant.” 

His mother’s shock is palpable, bleeding through the phone and seeping into his skin until he’s flinching, the hitch in her breathing almost deafening to his ringing ears. 

Before he knows it, his tears are brimming again. 

“Mom,” he says desperately. “Say something.” 

“Harry,” she says. “Oh my god.”

Needless to say, he starts crying again. The whole story comes tumbling out and his mother is achingly indecipherable, asking him questions about if they used protection (no, but Louis had been on birth control) and how far along Louis is (9 weeks and 4 days as far as Harry knows) and how well they know each other (“Not well at all,” he had been forced to admit). 

“Honey,” she starts, voice gentle but firm. “I’m your mother and you know I always want the best for you. But you also know I’ll never bullshit you, which is why I feel comfortable telling you that there’s a right and wrong decision to make here and I swear to God, Harry Edward Styles, that if you choose the wrong path - the coward’s path, I will come up there and -”

“Mom, I’m not abandoning him,” he interrupts, gaping. “What the fuck?”

“I know you’re not,” she scoffs. “I meant if you choose not to have a joint-custody. I know you, darling, and I know how much you’d regret it if you let one of your own flesh and blood slip through your fingers even when you’re as young as you are.”

“I…” He trails off, swallowing. “How am I supposed to raise a child when I want to be in the NHL?”

“How is this omega supposed to carry a child while attending classes and living his own life?” she counters. “I’ll tell you how. You figure it out. You work your ass off and you come up with solutions and you never give up. When it comes to family, you can move mountains if need be.” 

Harry exhales, words embedding themselves into his skin and sticking there. He nods even though she can’t see him. She’s right. She’s completely right. It’s been four days and his pup is still just an embryo but he’s already attached. He’s in too deep and there’s no way he can settle for anything less than as much as he can get. “What about weekends?” he suggests.

“Weekends,” Anne repeats. “Is that what you want?” 

He takes his time to respond, mulling it over and considering every option. Is it possible for me to do this? he thinks. Is it possible that he can live and breathe hockey and other obligations while still being a father that his pup deserves?

In the end, it’s an easy question to answer. 

“Yes,” he says, no signs of hesitance or doubt in his voice. “It’s what I want.”

“I’m glad to hear that, darling. So glad. But I also need you to understand. Being a parent will change your life forever - it’s the most satisfying and fulfilling and beautiful thing, but it’s hard. Looking after another human being is a full-time commitment and I know you want kids, but it’s different when you’re actually having them.”

“I know,” he says. He’ll need to do research and tag along to appointments and be as involved as he can. He’ll need to find time for his pup - make time for them - both before and after they’re born. “I’ll do my best.”

“And I don’t care if you and this omega are nothing but strangers,” she continues fiercely. “That child is half yours and this omega will be carrying it for the both of you these next nine months. You better be there trying to make it even a little bit easier for him every step of the way.”

He sputters. “Of course,” he says, defensive. “I would hope you’d expect better of me than that.”

“And I’d hope I raised you well enough that you’ll treat this omega as good as if he were your own omega and support him as much as possible,” she says.

“You did, I will,” he argues, brows furrowing. He thinks about Louis and how much discomfort, pain, and struggles he’ll have to endure over his pregnancy and how he knows he’ll handle it brilliantly. Because Louis is smart and determined and he’s going to be a brilliant mother. 

He knows it. 

“I love you and I’m proud of you,” his mother says after a beat, voice softening. “And I’ll be here for you whenever you need me, honey. Just a few hours away. For you and Louis.”

It’s the first time she’s said his name out loud and Harry’s heart does a funny thing at the sound. “I love you too,” he says belatedly. 

“Robin’s going to be home in a few minutes, so stay on,” she says. “I want you to be the one to tell him the news. You have to tell your sister too, but maybe in a little bit. I don’t want to overwhelm you, darling. But how long do you think is the appropriate time to wait before telling the relatives?”

Harry can’t help but smile as she rambles on but it fades as his earlier worries return. She wants to tell the relatives but Harry’s still scrambling to process, to believe. 

“Mom,” he says, voice ragged. 

“Yes, lovey?” she asks softly, sensing his distress.  

���Do you think I’ll be a good dad?” he breathes, wiping a stray tear with the back of his hand. He hears his mother’s shocked inhale before she’s crying too, telling Harry of course, darling, the best dad in the entire world. 

And Harry, through his tears and worries and anguish, believes her. He can feel it in his bones, in his mind, in his heart. He will be. For his pup, he’d be anything. 

They stay on the phone for hours. 

-

It’s Thursday afternoon, five days after he found out, and Harry’s staring at the creased and wrinkled ultrasound picture - staring at his future - when he pulls out his phone and writes out a text. 

Hey Louis...

-

this is one of quite a few drabbles i have on a list for already-posted fics and the first one i’ve actually finished (whoops) - hopefully i’ll get to the others too!! :) this was really fun for me to write and i hope it was nice to read :)

thank you @soldouthaz and chelsea for looking this over for me! <33

[burgerkang000]

Who needs a soulmate?

also this is a wooyoung fic

yes, ill be adding the read more thingy

@beyoncesdragon @aixy-hpsa (if anyone else wanna be tagged, tell me )

enjoy? :/

THIS FIC IS BEARABLE BECAUSE OF @mingination​ so, actually most of my fics are bearable cuz of her so uhm go hype her up?

In a world where soul mates exist, your soul found amity whenever you were with Jung Wooyoung. You always thought people had soul mates because it brings peace to their souls. You thought it exists because when two people were together; their souls go on an adventure, an adventure that was never the same for a pair, or even a trio of people. 

But all that changed when you met Wooyoung. It happened when you were dragged outside by your friend, because you tend to hole up in the dorms. As she was dragging you to her car, you bumped into a stranger holding a house plant, the glass pot shattered and the soil scattered, making quite a mess.

“Ah, that hadn’t had set yet.” The stranger exclaimed. You had no idea why he was so calm about it as you expected him to lash out any moment, but instead he smiled at you, displaying his beautiful pearly white teeth and told you not to worry about it.

You stared at him dumbly as he tries to pick up the shattered glass, and that’s when you decide to speak up.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry!” You kneel down to help him with the glass all the while expressing how sorry you are, and rush up to your room to grab cleaning supplies to clean the soil. After the both of you cleaned up the mess, you offered to go plant shopping with him, to pay back for the one you clumsily broke.

Of course, he refused, but you insisted and he gave in.

Your friend had seemed to leave, leaving you to make small talk with the stranger.

Later that night, you shrieked at your friend for leaving you alone with the handsome stranger and she laughed it off leaving you absolutely furious.

The day that you had planned to go to the greenhouse, Woo contacted you and said that there was a change of plans, you were confused but agreed anyway. But you were a little surprised when he took you to the flower shop, where the enthusiastic florist explained the meaning behind all the flowers Woo had picked. You had enjoyed yourself very much that day, surrounded by the scent of different flowers and the rays of sunshine that had brought a specific kind of warmth to the store, even though this was going to burn your savings for a good whole month and you’d have to stick to ramen if you wanted to pay rent for the shared college dorm you were in. When you were done picking flowers, Woo ended up paying, saying that your company was enough as a payback for breaking his plant.

Before he dropped you off at your dorm, you were shocked when he handed you the flowers he bought and your eyes widened as he leaned in closer to leave a soft kiss on your cheek and whispered to look forward to his texts. As he left you stood there dumbly, blushing profusely and unable to comprehend what just happened. And that night you went to bed with a smile on your face, sniffing the flowers which now were placed on your bedside table.

 .

.

.

That was how it started; now you have a theory on what soul mates are; they’re people who were created to be perfectly adaptable to you, but the chances you find them were 0%, except for the few people who would search everywhere for their soulmates and find them. You’ll never meet your soul mate in this world or the next one, because there is a definition of perfect for the universe, but everyone else’s definition of perfect is different.

And even if you do meet your soulmate, there is no guarantee that they’re the one for you, since the universe is changing. And it’s about time it changes the rules set for humans.

You find amenity when you’re with Jung Wooyoung and that’s all the reassurance you need.

 .

.

.

Even though your theory has helped ease (like the tiniest bit) of your frustration over the resounding problem which was, what if Woo finds his soulmate? The thought of that suffocates you; you turn into a human zombie pondering through assumptions, and possibilities. Until one day Woo sits you down and asks what’s wrong.

“What would you do if you find your soulmate?” you ask quietly. He shakes his head, conveying silently that your worries are unnecessary or maybe he’s disappointed in you for thinking things like that, but it’s not like you can help it.

“I’d tell them, no thank you, I have a lovely girlfriend who wants the universe to change its rules and I stand by it.”

You lightly hit his arm and huff out a laugh.

“I’m serious”

“I’m Wooyoung”

‘’I’m sick of your bad jokes” and as you get up to leave, he pushes you back down, places a hand under your chin and says-

“I won’t leave you for the fucking world. You hear that?” 

 .

 .

.

After a few weeks of dating and becoming official, Woo took you to visit his friends, who were the reason you met in the first place, the innocent plant was asked to be delivered by one of his friends, you needed to thank them, since the plant was long gone.

And, you’ve heard a lot about his seven friends, who share an apartment house, with four rooms. When you were led inside, you were attacked with greetings, compliments and questions; you tried to reply to all of them, you really did. They were more intimidating in the beginning, but now you wonder what was it about them that made you feel that way.

Jongho was a person you would always avoid, you were mostly shy (read: terrified) of him. But one day you were eating an apple, and he wanted to show you a trick. And you were beyond shocked when he just broke it into two halves with his bare hands. And every day after that, you’d bring an apple when you feel like it, and pass it to Jongho and tell something utterly ridiculous like

The cat ate my knife

I’m too broke to buy a knife

It’s banned to cut apples with knives; I heard it on the news

And he would roll his eyes and do it for you anyways. 

Once you handed him a melon, and you were surprised that he attempted to break it open. He banged it on the table twice and glared at you for making him look weak; you ran as he chased you around with a melon.

Seonghwa was your favourite. He’d come over, be annoyed at the mess you and Woo made and then proceed to clean it up. But all jokes aside, you really liked Seonghwa, and he does laundry too!

Hongjoong, you assumed would be very authoritative, was actually an adorable goofball. And you enjoyed teasing him about his height.

Yunho along with Mingi were the dorky and mischievous pair, and always managed to earn a yell from Seonghwa for dirtying the place with their ridiculous pranks.

Yeosang, who was Wooyoung’s friend for over 5 years, appeared to be a very quiet person and somewhat normal compared to the others. That's what most people would think anyways, but once he opens his mouth you’d regret ever calling him quiet. The guy knew how to expose people better than Dispatch did.

San, now San you have beef with.

Because he takes Woo away from you, and you keep on complaining to no one in particular-

“This is not fair-” you ramble off

“Look I’m only helping, it’s for the greater good-“

“Oh? What would that be?” you shot.

“Woo, likes it when you get all jealous”

Your cheeks heat up and then you angrily look at Woo who shrugs and says “I didn’t say a thing”

You storm out the room and hear something along the lines of

“He also likes it when you get all hot headed; I’m helping you get laid, your welcome….”

.

.

.

 You and Woo have fights too, But you have an unspoken, but definitely existing rule; communication. Sure, there might be couples out there who can guess what the other person is feeling, or what the other person wants-

But for you and Woo, communication is key and you like it that way.

.

.

.

It’s impossible to wake Woo on Sundays, so you have taken the matter into your own hands.

Despite being adults who have different jobs and no longer go to school, you aggressively shake him and yell

“Woo, time for school, you missed the bus, wake up”

Or

“There’s a fire, the cat is dying”

.

.

.

“I love you”

 You were the first one to put it out there. You just blurted it out one night, lying in bed, when you were lying next to each other, hands intertwined in between you both, just staring and outlining each other with your eyes. You were ready to drive off the nearest cliff when-

“It’s obvious I do too, no words necessary”

You were suddenly embarrassed and rolled over to the other side to hide the colour of your cheeks, yanking your hand away and muttering-

“Great or else you can find me at the bottom of a cliff with your damaged car.”

“Didn’t know your life was on the line”, he says back hugging you and grabbing your hand back.

“It’s clearly an exaggeration, dumbass”

He chuckles and both of you fall into a silence of nothing but the sound of your breathing and the clock ticking. And right when you were almost asleep, you hear him mutter I love you, I love you, I love you and press a kiss to the side of your head before pulling you closer and tightening his hold around you.

You think you’ve never felt more content, sharing a complex emotion, which is filled with other complex emotions and being understood, it was profound to be understood.

Who needs a soul mate, you’ve got Jung Wooyoung and that was more than enough for you.

.

.

.

[yellowmagicalgirl]

All the ways we couldn't save you

Ladybug and Chat Noir defeat Hawk Moth and Mayura late on Friday night. On Monday morning, Mme. Bustier tells the class Adrien won't be coming to school anymore.

I don't consider myself to be in the Miraculous Ladybug fandom anymore, and I haven't watched most of seasons 2 and 3 nor do I have any desire to. However, I had this idea and I wanted to write it.

Timeline-wise, I guess this takes place sometime after Marinette becomes the Guardian? Though, the episode "Dark Owl" did not occur in order for this to properly work.

TRIGGER/SPOILER WARNING: This fic is about suicide. There is no happy ending.

AO3

FFN

Ladybug and Chat Noir defeated Hawk Moth and Mayura late on Friday night. Ladybug had taken the Miraculous from the two unconscious adults, pocketing them to take back to the Miraculous Box when she and Chat were done. Chat had found rope, and he and Ladybug had tied up Gabriel Agreste and Nathalie Sancouer. When the police arrived, the superheroes handed over the now ex-supervillains and re-entered the mansion, looking for any underlying threats.

"Should we wake him? Tell him?" Ladybug asked as they passed by the portrait of Adrien and his father.

"No," Chat said, eyes oddly downcast. "When Adrien wakes up, he's not... I don't think he's going to like having to live in the world he wakes up to. Let's not force him into it so soon."

Ladybug shivered as they made their way up to Hawk Moth's lair. Not because she felt cold, but something felt very wrong about this situation. She couldn't place why, though.

She shook her head, briefly. It must have been being so close to the Peacock Miraculous. That was what was setting her off. It had to be.

They found notes. Blueprints to a secret room. Ladybug pressed her lips together and glanced at her partner. She couldn't tell if it was the lighting or something else that made him seem so pale.

They found the coffin in an underground garden. There was something beautiful about it, in a horrifying way.

Adrien's mother looked so peaceful. She looked like might just be sleeping.

She wasn't breathing.

Chat Noir gasped. It was an ugly, wet, choking sound. "Why?"

"I don't know. Let's face it, Gabriel Agreste was an evil man. He kept his son locked up for years. Of course he'd keep his wife's corpse locked up, too."

"And not even tell his son."

After a minute of searching (and Chat staring at Emilie Agreste with an odd look on his face), Ladybug found the plugs to the life support. She wrapped her hand around one.

"What are you doing?" Chat asked her. He did not move.

"Chat, she's already dead."

"You don't know that."

Ladybug took out the butterfly miraculous, and pinned it to her suit. "Is she alive?" Ladybug asked, looking between the kwami and the woman in the coffin.

"No. Well, technically yes, but only because of life support. Her mind is gone," they said, shaking their head. "I already told Ma- Gabriel this before he even formed his first akuma, but he wouldn't listen."

"Is there a way we can bring her back?" Chat's voice was strained.

"That's why he wanted your miraculous," Nooroo said. "If you combine the Ladybug and Chat Noir miraculous together, you can grant a wish. But, that wish comes at a great cost. I tried to tell Gabriel this, too, but he wouldn't listen."

"What sort of cost?" Chat asked. Ladybug wrapped her fingers around the plug once more.

"A human life, and probably the one of someone he cared about," Nooroo said. Ladybug pulled the plug loose.

"What are you doing?" Chat turned to Ladybug, horror evident on his face. Ladybug continued pulling the plugs. "We're not the bad guys, Ladybug! We save people!"

"She's already gone. She's been dead for months," Ladybug said, dropping the last plug. "And sacrificing someone, anyone, isn't the right thing to do."

Chat stood rooted to the spot, eyes vacant.

"I'm going to go tell the police about her, so they can take her so she can finally get buried," Ladybug said. "Trust me, Chat, I didn't want to do this either."

"Go ahead." Chat's voice was flat.

Ladybug gave him a soft smile. "I'll meet up with you later. I'm glad this is over, but I'm also really tired."

"Yeah. I'm tired, too. It's over."

Marinette went to school on Monday morning, a smile on her face and a spring in her step. She had a box of celebratory cookies with her.

Hawk Moth and Mayura were gone, so she could be a normal girl with a normal life. She could go through school without worrying about having to miss class because of an akuma, or that her frustration with a failed quiz would lead to the downfall of Paris. In fact, she probably wouldn't fail as many quizzes, now, because now she could spend more time studying.

Adrien and Chloé weren't at school. Marinette frowned slightly as the minutes passed and neither of them walked into the classroom.

Mme. Bustier walked into the classroom, her arm around Sabrina's shoulders. Sabrina went to her seat, hugging herself. Sabrina seemed paler than normal, and her clothes seemed darker. Mme. Bustier's eyes were downcast, and her lips were pressed together. Her face looked slightly red.

"Adrien isn't going to be coming to class, anymore," she said. "Chloé will be... when she returns, don't press her about it. She's already not doing well."

"What? Why?" Alix asked. "Do the police think Adrien was working with his dad?"

"He did never get akumatized," Max said, and shrank down into his seat when the class turned to glare at him. "I'm not saying that he's at fault, I'm just saying it looks bad to an outside observer!"

Sabrina sank further into her seat.

"Okay, but didn't M. Agreste get akumatized himself? Into the Collector?" Alya said.

"Yeah, he did, Adrien was really torn up about it afterwards," Nino said, looking sadly at the empty seat.

"So the authorities shouldn't be blaming Adrien, then," Max said.

"Adrien isn't in any trouble," Mme. Bustier said. "He... Adrien was sick, and he succumbed to his illness on Saturday evening."

"Stop using euphemisms," Sabrina said. Her glare was so icy that it could've frozen the tears in her eyes. "Adrien killed himself."

On Monday night, Ladybug tried to call Chat Noir. She had given him space, because she had known he was mad at her, but she needed the one human who'd know why she felt so guilty.

He didn't respond.

On Tuesday, Marinette saw a tabloid wondering if Adrien's death was a cover up - if someone thought he was a threat. Thought that he would become the next Hawk Moth.

Marinette had never wanted to become Lady Noir again so badly as she did then, wanting to cataclysm the entire stand.

She called Chat Noir again that night. She still got no answer.

She didn't think he killed Adrien. If anything, Ladybug had killed Adrien.

Chloé came back to school on Wednesday, but it took Marinette a moment to recognize her.

Her long blonde hair was in a loose, low, lopsided ponytail. She didn't wear any of her usual eye makeup, and her foundation did little to disguise the redness around her eyes, the bags under them, and the paleness of her complexion. Her posture was hunched, like she was trying to make herself smaller. A plain golden ring was on her middle finger, but she wore no other jewelry.

Sabrina went to hug her.

"The funeral's on Saturday," Chloé said; her voice was soft and hoarse and didn't sound like her at all.

Throughout the lesson, Chloé stared at her ring with unfocused eyes.

On Friday, Mme. Bustier gave a lesson on mental health, and how to recognize signs of depression in someone else. It surprised her, that suddenly being happy after being sad for so long wasn't always a hopeful sign.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marinette saw Chloé flinch when their teacher mentioned that a suicidal person will give things important to them away.

Marinette didn't remember seeing most of these signs in Adrien. She remembered seeing some of them in Chat Noir.

Chat Noir still wasn't answering her calls.

It was a double funeral for both Emilie and Adrien. It made sense. Gabriel had not been allowed to go to his son's funeral, so the task fell to foreign relatives. It would be easier to bury both at the same time.

It was an open-coffin funeral. Emilie looked the same as she did when Ladybug had killed her.

Adrien looked so peaceful. He looked like might just be sleeping.

He wasn't breathing. If Marinette squinted the way she did when she used her lucky charm, she could almost see the signs underneath the mortician's makeup, showing where his neck had broken. They also hadn't covered up the tan line where Adrien's silver ring had been.

Chloé hugged Adrien's cousin, still wearing the gold ring she had worn to class.

Ladybug went out on patrol again on Sunday evening. She needed to clear her head so that all she would be able to think about would be way she had to swing in order to not fall.

She checked her yo-yo's map, to see where she was because she got too caught up. She saw an indicator to Chat Noir's location.

It was time to go find her partner.

The holder of the Cat Miraculous sat on a rooftop, knees curled to their chest. They stared at the Agreste mansion with unfocused eyes, specifically where Adrien's room had been.

They weren't Chat Noir.

She had long blonde hair was in a loose, low, lopsided ponytail, held by a dark green ribbon. Her torso, legs, and arms were coal-colored. Her collar, gloves, and thigh-high boots were the color of midnight, and all were at v-shaped angles. Her bell was on a dark green ribbon, and a dark green ribbon formed her tail as well. Her blue eyes had tears in them.

The Cat Miraculous holder looked up at Ladybug, and then back at Adrien's room. "I couldn't stop him." Her voice was soft and hoarse.

"Stop who?" Ladybug asked, sitting a few feet from the girl.

"The previous Chat. I couldn't stop him, and I should've known better. I should've known something was wrong. I should've known that something was wrong when he gave me a small jewelry box. Not that he had been Chat, of course, because it was a plain black box. But he wasn't wearing his ring when he gave me the box. I should've stayed with him."

"What happened to Chat?"

"It was all over the news."

"I didn't know his identity. He didn't know mine."

The girl's eyes narrowed as she glanced towards Ladybug. Her eyes unfocused again as she started staring at the Cat Miraculous.

"He hung himself. And his name was Adrien Agreste. And his body was still warm when I found him."

Ladybug hugged Chloé as she burst into tears.

Author's note: Here is how Chloe looks when she uses the cat miraculous.

[nikxation]

If You Give a Mothman a Loan

Huge thank you to @birdgirlamp for commissioning me to write a fic by donating to WHO (if you want more information, see this post). Sorry it took so long to get this out, but here it is! Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 2359

Characters: Stanford Pines (pre- and post-portal), Fiddleford McGucket (pre-portal), Wendy Corduroy (post-portal... obviously)

~ ~ ~

It’s three months into Fiddleford’s stay in Gravity Falls, and the skeleton in the closet (or the portal in the basement) is slowly looking less and less like just a bundle of messy wires and half-finished structural supports and more like the behemoth of a machine it’s meant to be. The raw stock for the exterior plating should be here any day now, the first of the two power transfer beams is online, and every day is another day closer to their end-goal.

He’ll hand it to Stanford Pines, this is some of their best work yet.

He still remembers the day he arrived and Ford showed him the initial drafts. He’d thought the size was overkill, that the hollowed-out basement beneath the house would just become a room with decent acoustics for him to practice his banjo playing away from his old college roommate while the real machine was built somewhere less cold and damp.

Boy howdy was he wrong.

Now, every time he walks in the room, he feels the thing like the presence it is, towering stories tall, looming over him in a way that he would almost consider menacing if it weren’t for the fact that it’s just a machine.

He’s got blueprints and prototyped miniatures of literal death bots.

So why would the interdimensional portal in the basement put him on edge?

It shouldn’t.

So he shakes the thought away and gets back to work.

An unsuccessful system test led to the time-shift circuit on motherboard seven incinerating again. If he were the kind of man to actually keep count (which he certainly is), he’d know it’s the fourth time in the past week this same part has crapped out on them.

It’s also the reason he’s gonna finally stop out-sourcing these parts and just start making them in-house from now on. He’s about sick of replacing them every five minutes.

That’s what brings Fiddleford to where he is now, with his upper body shoved halfway inside the portal’s support structure and crammed between God knows how many electrical components. His arms have just started to cramp in their rather unnatural position as he pries at the burnt-out part to replace it with a newer one that will hopefully hold out against the power output better than its predecessor.

Ford’s sitting in the control room, supposedly running through some of the math again to double-check that they didn’t miss anything.

The “supposedly” is only because, for the past twenty minutes, the man has been prattling on like Fiddleford’s grandma at Sunday family brunch. He can only hear the occasional snippet from his position (quite literally) inside the portal, and as far as he can tell, he thinks he’s talking about either his most recent research outing, or something about preacher scouting. He wants to lean towards the former, but with the new stories he’s found about a so-called “velocipastor”, he can’t rule out the latter. Either way, the man hasn’t stopped talking long enough to breathe, let alone re-run equations that use relative space-time physics with integrated fourth dimensional calculus.

Fiddleford just doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he really can’t hear him.

He snaps the ribbon cable off the still-smoking component (after the first time it blew, he learned to bring heat-resistant gloves in here with him) and is rather glad to see it’s still intact. Rewiring is a day-long project he’s glad to not have to do again. He maneuvers his hand back out into open air and tosses the old piece somewhere into the room before getting to work mounting the new one.

Ford’s voice echoes from the next room over.

“… extra funds… exploring… investing for…”

Bolting the circuit down turns out to be easier the fifth time he has to do it, and he’s about to start running a simple, probably non-exploding test to make sure the new part is integrated correctly when he hears—

“… so I gave Mothman a thousand dollars…”

And that, of all things, stops Fiddleford in his tracks.

“Come again?” he yells. He had to have misheard because he swears he just heard the man say—

“I ran into Mothman in the woods yesterday,” Ford says, all too nonchalantly, “and they told me they were starting up a small business and needed an investment, so I gave them a thousand dollars from my excess funds with a verbal agreement that they would pay me back within the year.”

… So he didn’t mishear him, that’s for darn sure.

The fact that the Mothman is real is surely weird enough. But he’s lived in Gravity Falls (and known Stanford Pines) for long enough that it doesn’t really surprise him too much. No, that’s not the part that brings him to wiggle himself out of his position inside the portal’s underbelly just enough so that he can meet Ford’s eyes in the other room.

“You gave Mothman… a thousand dollars…” Fiddleford says slowly.

“To help kickstart their new business, yes.” It’s so casual, like he doesn’t even register the inherent absurdity in what he’s saying.

“And that business is?”

“Mothballs.”

“Stanford!”

“What?”

“That’s the stupidest scam I’ve ever heard.”

Ford sputters, his face aghast for a moment. “I did not get scammed by Mothman!”

“You did.”

“Did not.”

“Do you even know what mothballs are for?”

He pauses, his mouth snapping shut, his face turning the slightest shade of red. Fiddleford can see it from the next room over. “No. I always assumed they were some biproduct created by moths during reproduction or something.” Fiddleford lets his head fall back, bonking on a bar of the steel framework behind him.

“Stanford, they repel moths,” he says. “You just let a bunch of moths convince you they’re starting a business making the thing they hate. That’s stupider than the time my neighbor tried to convince me his cat could see God. And you have three PhDs!”

“Four now,” he says quietly, and Fiddleford levels him with a single raised eyebrow.

“You’re gonna go back, find that over-glorified insect, and get our money back. Or so help me, I will never do another grocery run for as long as I live here.”

“Oh come now, that’s hardly fair. You know I hate going into town.”

“Then you better hurry along and find him.”

“You honestly believe the actual Mothman is pulling a con.”

“People lie, Stanford,” he says, finally ducking himself back into the machine to finally run the diagnostic on the new circuit. “Even cryptids and aliens probably from another dimension.”

There’s a moment of silence, but it’s broken a few moments later by the sound of a chair scuffing on the floor and footsteps ascending the wooden stairs out of the basement.

Fiddleford snorts, shaking his head and getting back to work.

~ ~ ~

“So, like, the Mothman,” Wendy says, keeping pace next to him as they make their way back into the woods, the sun’s last rays just starting to slip behind the trees. “The actual Mothman. He’s real?”

“As real as any of the other anomalies in this town,” Ford says, adjusting the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. He’d heard the cryptid had come back into town again shortly after Wierdmageddon, and after his first attempt at getting his money back a few weeks back (second if you count that time over three decades ago) went sour, he decided to bring back-up this time. But with Stan still out of commission and the kids rightly wanting to stay with him, he was hard-pressed for options. That is until the cashier girl piped up and said she’d do it for ten percent of whatever they recovered.

Ford negotiated her down to eight and a half. She drives a hard bargain; he can see why Stan hired her.

“Dude, that’s sick,” she says.

“I mean, I hardly think they’re ill or anything,” Ford says. “As fast as their moths die off, they re-introduce new ones to the population through some sort of reproductive mitosis—”

“Nah dude, it’s a phrase,” she cuts him off. “Means, like, ‘that’s awesome’.”

“Ah, alright.” Ford pauses to check the anomaly scanner on his watch, the little white blip flashing on the screen. “I’ve never been exceptionally ‘with it’ when it comes to slang, so you’ll have to pardon my misunderstanding.”

“You’re fine, Dr. Pines,” she says. She kicks a loose rock off into the brush. “I’m pretty sure Stan doesn’t understand half of what I say either.” Ford hums an affirmative, intently watching the small blip on his watch, confirming that it is, in fact, slowly moving in their direction. After a few seconds, he drops the bag he’s been carrying with a thwump, a bit of dust swirling up from the dirt.

“We’re going to set up the trap right here,” he says. “We have probably ten minutes until the Mothman comes through here, so we’ll need to act quickly.”

“You got it boss-man.”

It’s a fairly simple net trap, one that they make short work of assembling. Ford had already built the majority of it to bring out here, including a magic-imbued mosquito net that should contain the Mothman’s consciousness so long as they catch the majority of their moths.

He made that mistake last time, the Mothman managing to escape in the couple moths that his trap missed.

“So, you really were in, like, a different dimension for a bunch of years, right?” Wendy asks as she spreads some leaves and twigs over the net.

“Multiple dimensions,” he says as he carefully sets the trap’s trigger pole. “I travelled through thousands of them in my thirty years away from this one.”

“Dude, that’s nuts.”

“It was… pretty sick,” he says, shooting her a wry grin. Wendy groans.

“Well,” she says, “you just confirmed for me that I was right to never teach Stan slang, so thanks for that I guess.”

“Glad to help.” With the trap finally set and ready to go, he pulls the last item out of the bag: the bait, which he flicks on and gently sets down against the trigger.

“That’s a flashlight,” Wendy says, the statement almost a question.

“Indeed, it is.”

“Is it, like,” she says, waving her hands slightly, “I don’t know, magic or something?”

“Nope,” he says, backing off and giving the trap one last look-over. He has to hand it to the girl, she knew what she was doing.

“You’re serious?”

“Entirely,” he says. “It doesn’t take much to attract them. Back in the eighties, they used to hang around streetlamps and windows all the time. It’s a wonder they’re still considered a cryptid considering how blatantly out in the open they—”

He hears the tell-tale sound of fluttering insect wings, not too far off, but loud enough to make him pause. He glances in the direction and then down at his watch, the blip on the screen almost on top of them. Quickly, he motions to Wendy to hide and then does the same himself, crouching behind the nearest tree and peering around the side to watch.

It’s rather quiet for a few moments, the darkness starting to settle into the pines, the lit flashlight a lone beacon, just the sound of the pine needles whistling in the breeze and the far-off humming of the approaching cryptid. But that low hum gradually gets louder, turning to a white drone of hundreds of small wings beating in tandem.

A familiar dark shape emerges from the underbrush. Humanoid, but just barely. Ten-feet tall with two enormous wings sprouting from its back, two large yellow eyes reflecting the scattered light of the flashlight in the clearing. Their entire shape feels blurred at the edges, like someone drew a line of charcoal and smudged it, the hundreds of moths that make up their body shifting and moving amongst each other in a din of small beating wings.

The Mothman.

Ford hates to admit that the thought still sends an excited shiver up his spine.

They emerge into the clearing, glancing around and taking an immediate interest in the flashlight lying on the ground. They approach it slowly, cautiously, glancing around as if waiting for the ambush, eventually making it onto the net before moving to bend down to pick up the flashlight.

They stop.

Ford holds his breath.

“Stanford Pines,” a voice says, the sound a high whine broken up and mixed with soft clicking. The Mothman stands back upright, snapping its eyes right in his direction. Immediately, Ford’s mind starts swirling with potential fallback options to try to turn this in their favor. “Surprised you’re still alive after last week. Really think we’re stupid enough to fall for—”

“Suck mothballs, lamp licker!” Wendy screams from across the clearing, the Mothman whipping around just as a projectile of some sort (is that an axe?) flies out of the underbrush and hits the trap’s trigger dead-on, sending the net shooting upwards and capturing almost all of the moths above it. A shrill screech fills the air from the now-dangling mass of moths, but Ford is too busy gaping at the cashier girl as she emerges from her hiding spot.

“Nice shot, Wendy!” he beams, shaking off the shock and coming out to join her on either side of the now-enraged Mothman. She shrugs, retrieving the axe from off the ground and sliding it back into her belt loop behind her back.

“No biggie. My dad enters me into the annual axe-throwing competition every year. I’ve won the last 5 in a row.” Ford, having not known anything about this girl before today, is rather stunned. He certainly was not expecting that from the teen, let alone the nonchalance over it. “But anywho,” she says, turning her attention to the writhing mass in front of them. “About that money…”

~ ~ ~

About two hours after they left, Ford and Wendy arrive back at the Mystery Shack, Ford heading to the back of the house to find Stan and the kids, Wendy collecting her things and heading back out to go home, a crisp one-hundred dollar bill tucked into her pocket.

[theres-a-goldensky]

16 + 2 Reddie Fic Recs pt. 2

I’m back and still on my Bill Hader bullshit, so here’s another round of Reddie fic recs, because I can’t stop reading and sometimes sifting through the insane amounts of fic is a nightmare. So if you feel my pain and need some (at least in my opinion) fun stories, then come along with me on a magical journey filled with men crying during sex, hypochondria, and your mom jokes.

As ever, feel free to reblog and check out my other rec lists for the following fandoms:

IT chapter 2 list part one - Reddie

Good Omens fic 

The Untamed list one and two - various pairings, mostly Wangxian

Various BL Series fic (fandoms: Love By Chance, TharnType, 2Moons series, My Engineer, Until We Meet Again, 2gether, History3: Trapped)

Or just head over to my bookmarks on AO3.

All my recs are completed, almost all of them are post-It chapter 2. * - denotes a favorite

1. I killed a clown. AMA! by liesmyth - ~10,000 words, teen - The history of Eddie and Myra’s marriage shown through their posts on reddit. The voices here are great, and it really feels like reading the reddit forums, down to the people sleuthing through their past posts and comments to try and figure out if what they’re saying is real or an elaborate troll.

 r/relationships

Posted by u/martymcfly6xo 7 months ago

 My (39F) husband (39M) likes horrible stand-up comedy. How can I stop him from bringing this up in front of our mutual friends?

For the last year or so my husband has been watching a lot of stand-up comedy on youtube. I want him to have something relaxing to do (he works a lot and gets really invested in his ‘hands-on’ hobbies in a way I’m not sure is good for him) but I was very puzzled by this discovery as he likes very crass acts and that is certainly not the kind of humor hubby usually enjoys...

2. all of the kids back home believing much more than you do by eatcheeseliveforever - ~11,000 words, explicit - This is a fix-it fic, which is becoming more and more rare in this fandom as we collectively started deciding that Eddie Kaspbrak doesn’t need to be brought back to live, because he never died in the first place, dammit. It has some great pining by Richie. You can really feel his grief and desperation as he searches for a way to get Eddie back. The other Losers are great in this too, especially Mike with his whales.

"A boat, actually," murmured Mike.  "I'm on a whale-watching cruise."

Richie mouthed the words "whale watching cruise" to himself.  Empirically he knew such things existed, that they happened not far away from the coast where he lived, but it felt like several fucking galaxies away from where he was, surrounded by the ghosts of takeouts and blackouts past and the actual ghost-ghosts, who he couldn't step in or stub his toe on at three in the morning, but hurt so much worse.

"He said you've been googling resurrection rituals."

Richie scrounged through his pile of empties, hoping one wasn't.  "Bill talks too much."

"Richie."  A sigh, or a wave, or a really quiet whale.  "You're not going to find a resurrection ritual on Google."

"I've found hundreds," said Richie.  "Funny thing, though, they all seem to call for orgies.  Or virgin sacrifices.  Or sacrificing someone's virginity in an orgy.  I'm hoping Ben will volunteer as tribute."

3. * - you’ve got the answers to my confessions by QueerOnTilMorning - ~17,000 words, explicit - This is the good stuff right here. Richie accidentally sexts Eddie and Eddie is IN. TO. IT. This fic starts with excellent phone sex, there’s misunderstandings and confessions in the middle, and then it ends with super hot sex. There’s a brief part with karaoke that was a bit of a lull in the story, but doesn’t take away from how great the rest is.

     suck on ur tongue  

     show u how much I missd that mouth  

     when u start getting weak in the knees  

     thats when ill get on mine  

 He set the phone aside to unzip his pants, palming himself through his boxers, already half-hard.

 Then he froze.

 The text he had just replied to--it was what he'd expected Travis to say, but it wasn't how Travis would say it. That text began with a capital letter and contained punctuation. That text was from--

 "Oh, fuck, no," Richie whispered, and his phone rang.

 Incoming call: Eds

4. * -  L'Appel du Vide by Mackem - ~92,000 words, teen - I know, I know, almost 100k and no sex, but hear me out! The pining in this fic is so exquisitely beautiful and wrenching. Eddie’s POV is excellent and feels really spot on. The other Losers are well represented, especially Ben and Bev. In fact, the group dynamics here are almost as good as the relationship stuff. The later chapters bring in a subplot about the deadlights that I wasn’t that interested in, but it’s still done really, really well, and that’s only a side plot that doesn’t impact that exceptional story of Eddie and Richie figuring out how to stop being dummies.

Two messages, however, are from Stanley, sent to him privately. He opens them, and is met with a picture of Richie, apparently taken without him realising.

It shows him laughing, his eyes crinkled at the corners behind his glasses, and his smile bright and broad as a hand gestures wildly in the air. The other hand is in his hair, pushing it out of his eyes as he tilts his head back, displaying the line of his throat beneath his stubble.

The breath is punched from Eddie at the sight of it.

He stares at it for a long moment, surprised by the depth of his reaction. His stomach is swirling happily, a bubble of excitement growing at the pit, and he cannot help but feel a heated flush build at his cheeks.

It’s probably just because Richie looks like he’s enjoying himself. It’s good to see his friend having fun. That has to be it.

Then he reads Stan’s message.

Stan: He was talking about you. He does that a lot.

5. my love a beacon in the night - by zach_stone - ~4500 words, explicit - Richie is on the road doing shows through Christmas. His friends have a surprise for him. I know it’s almost Valentine’s Day, but it’s never the wrong time for a fluffy Christmas story imo.

 “Yep, just got to my hotel,” Richie says. “Now I’m getting ready for my big Christmas Eve plans.”

 Eddie snorts. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

 “Well according to my TV guide, they’re doing a rerun of The Mistletoe Promise, so I’m all fuckin’ set,” Richie says, grinning when Eddie laughs. On Eddie’s end of the line, he hears the sound of cars passing by, the muffled chatter of people, and says, “Are you outside?”

 “Huh? Oh, yeah,” Eddie says.

 Richie glances at the clock on the nightstand. It’s after ten; Eddie’s not one to be wandering around Times Square after dark. He frowns slightly. Eddie’s been unusually vague about his holiday plans, so Richie has no clue what he’s up to this evening. Not that it’s any of his business. Maybe he’s started seeing someone and is spending the holidays with them. Richie has a sudden image of Eddie, arm-in-arm with some generically pretty woman, taking in the lights and decorations around the city. It opens a pit in his stomach.

6. Coming Back and Coming Out: Richie Tozier's 2019 by Lunatical - ~2000 words, teen - I genuinely adore the mixed media fics that this fandom has spawned. This one is an excerpt from a magazine interview with Richie as he restarts his career.

Slouched on his couch in a cheesy Hawaiian shirt and torn-up jeans, Richie Tozier looks exactly like the manchild he is describing himself to be. Next to him, sitting up straight and dressed in a lovely suit that most people would consider appropriate for an interview, his husband rolls his eyes.

When we scheduled this interview, Tozier insisted we hold it at their house, citing a desire for the interview to be “as chill as possible”—in his own words, of course. He argued that seeing the two of them in their usual environment would help me get a better idea of the kind of relationship they have. After walking into their apartment and seeing the way they’ve decorated the place, I have to admit that I can understand why.

7. baby, there’s no other superstar by kaspbrakziers - ~7000 words, mature - Another mixed media fic that shows the progression of Richie and Eddie’s relationship and Richie’s career through tweets, texts, and interviews. Eddie not knowing how to turn off the capslock on his phone absolutely sent me.

Search history

Today Sunday, 13 November 2016

should i get a divorce? - Google Search

Unhappily Married: Should I get a divorce? - Yahoo Answers

10 Signs Your Marriage Is Over - Buzzfeed

how to divorce? - Google Search

How To File For Divorce (With Pictures) - wikiHow

how to divorce someone without them getting angry? – Google Search

can you divorce someone without telling them? - Google Search

8. Goes on Trips for the Scenery by InkandOwl - ~4500 words, teen - Eddie dies and then comes back to life and tries to get some perspective. I liked the conversations between Eddie and Richie and then way that Eddie starts to take care of himself. The end is really sweet.

If cosmic power and a literal alien space clown’s death wasn’t going to bring him back to life, Eddie was certain that the terrible pain of hearing Richie beg, his tears dropping onto Eddie’s face, probably would’ve done it. He feels sick just thinking about it. About what it all means. “Yeah, Rich, I will.” He could throw a jab at him, tell him something about eating like an adult for once, but he wants to be easy with him right now. Richie deserves it. “You’ll text, right?”

Richie looks down at the prepaid cricket phone in Eddie’s hand and laughs, “There’s no fucking way that thing gets texts.”

“It does.” Eddie grins, “You could call too.”

The fight drains from Richie, his shoulder slumping and he sighs, “Yeah, Eds, I’ll call.”

9. cause i'm about to blow that back out by thotgreeves - ~5000 words, explicit - Here, have some porn. Eddie wears lingerie and Richie loses his goddamn mind. Features submissive top Richie and his unending boner for Eddie.

Richie really should have learnt to never underestimate Eddie Kaspbrak by now. It had come close to killing Richie once, but Eddie might actually be trying to finish him off.

Because the other perk of always letting Eddie go ahead of him was that it gave Richie a prime view of Eddie's ass. Eddie knew about this part and was okay with it. He was wearing a high-waisted pair of slacks that Richie was pretty sure came from the women's section, slightly loose in the legs but nicely filled out by his ass. Richie had been very vocal in the past about how hot they got him, which signaled that Eddie definitely wanted to have sex tonight, and that was already enough to make Richie's dick twitch in excitement. He hadn't been prepared for the finishing blow.

Richie's eyes were fixed, pendulum-like, on how Eddie's slacks were hugging his butt perfectly with every step he took, tight enough to show off the outline of his underwear. Only the folds didn't sit where Richie had expected them to. Instead, Richie realized, his mouth going dry, that in the absence of boxers, there was only a V-shaped crease running from Eddie's hips to between his asscheeks, which could only mean-

Eddie was wearing a thong.

10. * - I’ll Be Homo For Christmas by Amuly - ~15,000 words, explicit - Bill and Audra get a divorce, so Bill moves into Richie’s house with him. Eddie, watching all of this from New York, where he’s still married to Myra, is super, super ok and fine with it in every way.

Except then Richie started posting.

Just stupid shit, mostly with Bill. It wasn’t even real. Eddie knew Bill wasn’t gay and him and Richie were just fucking around ‘for the ‘gram!’ But the more posts Eddie scrolled past on Richie’s Instagram—

 Bill in the kitchen swatting at Richie with a spatula.

 Richie and Bill at the pound, Richie rating dogs on adoptability, Richie begging Bill to adopt a dog with him.

 Richie in the morning with bedhead, smiling blearily into the camera as Bill…

Well. Eddie couldn’t even remember what stupid thing Bill was supposed to be doing in the background of that photo because his eyes couldn’t get past Richie’s bedhead and shirtless torso, chest hairs creeping up towards his collarbones and the little dip at the base of his throat.

Eddie hadn’t thought he was homophobic. But he must have some unresolved issues with it, because he got a stomachache every time he looked at that photo of Richie. Eddie popped a Tums and resolved to talk about it with his therapist.

11. A High-Five is a Hug You Can Hit by Amuly - ~26,000 words, explicit - This fic shows us times throughout their friendship when Eddie and Richie would invent reasons to touch each other without even knowing why. This author feels the same bone deep conviction about Richie crying during sex that I do, and I greatly appreciate that. Plus, all of their stories are fantastic, including this one.

“You know, one of the symptoms of hypothermia is feeling like you’re warm. So like, your body gets so cold that it gets hot, and then you start taking off your clothes-”

“Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Eddie?” Richie shot back at him without turning around.

“Why don’t you ask your sister how much she liked it last week!” Eddie hollered up at him. Richie just flipped him off without looking. That kinda… bugged Eddie. What the fuck did Richie think he was doing leading up the group with Bill? Why was he stuck back here with Stan? Eddie glanced over at Stan, who was trudging tiredly through the woods alongside him, breath puffing out in little clouds of smoke.

“Okay, Stan?”

Stan glanced over at him, confused. Then he shrugged. “Yeah, fine. Cold.”

“Well that’s better than feeling warm.” And now Eddie was back on track. “Because, if anyone starts feeling warm, they should tell the others immediately. That’s a sign of hypothermia. And we have to warm you up. But you have to do it gradually, you can’t just jump in like, a pot of boiling water-”

12. * - fall apart of stay intact by kaspbrak_kid - ~19,000 words, teen - A more melancholy take on the Christmas fic. This story takes Richie’s self-esteem issues and mental problems and amps them up in a way that feels entirely realistic. The gang comes together to celebrate Christmas, and everyone is walking on eggshells because last Christmas was a bad one for Richie. Also, Eddie moves into the house literally right next to Richie’s, and I find that detail endlessly charming.

“Five minutes ago. I called you, and you didn’t answer. Because you were outside, apparently, fucking...stargazing in December! With no hat on!”

“It’s about the Vitamin D!” Richie says. Now that he’s moved a little, he can really feel the cold—his ears are aching, and his face is numb. “Reflecting off the moon, or something. I have seasonal depression, you know!”

“You have seasonal stupidity,” Eddie mutters, audibly rubbing his hands together. “Just get inside.”

“Yours or mine?” Richie jokes.

Eddie doesn’t get the memo. “Mine, obviously. I’ll make you hot chocolate.”

“Oh,” Richie says, and sits up. “Um. Okay, be right there.”

“Oh, thank god,” Eddie says, and hightails it to his back door, cursing about the cold.

13. evidence of a happier future by lagaudiere - 23,000 words, mature - I am here, leading the Jealous!Eddie revolution. Why aren’t there more fics about this. Have you SEEN Eddie Kaspbrak, can you IMAGINE him jealous? Make this happen, fandom. Anyway, in this one, Richie has a boyfriend back in LA. Eddie has trouble dealing with that as he tries to figure himself out and pick up the pieces of his life post-Derry.

“It’s not gonna be like Mike’s announcement, don’t worry,” Richie says hastily. “And it’s not like, a huge thing, so don’t make it a huge thing. But you guys are like, my best friends, and I just wanted you to know that I’m, uh. Gay.”

He turns up his palms and raises his eyebrows in a gesture that suggests a magician presenting his audience with an empty hat after making the rabbit disappear, and Eddie says, “Are you joking?”

“What? Jesus, no, Eddie.” Richie’s face falls, and Eddie instantly feels guilty. “I’m trying to be sincere here.”

“Sorry,” Eddie says immediately, feeling all of their friends looking at him with reproach. “I was just — if you weren’t, I wouldn’t think you should… joke about it.”

“Well, I am,” Richie says. He sounds slightly put out — and who wouldn’t be, Eddie scolds himself, by that ridiculous response. “I have all the gay credientials. I have a boyfriend, partner, whatever people say. I don’t really tell people because of the whole, stage persona, thing. But yeah.”

“Richie!” Bev’s voice breaks through the awkwardness, and she reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. “Thank you for telling us. Really.”

And the others all join in, a chorus of voices telling Richie they love him and they’re proud of him, and Ben is saying, “I wanna see a picture of the guy!” and Eddie’s throat feels like it’s closing up.

14. The ‘Do Not Fucking Touch Me’ Tour by MellytheHun - ~23,000 words, explicit - It’s Richie’s comeback special, and he makes it a big one. This...isn’t really a comedy show, but the author lampshades that. It’s an excuse to have Richie talk about how much he loves each of his friends individually, and it’s extremely entertaining. Richie doesn’t know that Eddie is in the audience watching it all.

“Hey, uhm… Eddie… he couldn’t reschedule his thing? He - I mean... it… it was really that important?”

She feels awful for him immediately, but not wanting to spoil what would ultimately be a lovely surprise, she tells him, “I’m sorry, Rich. He said it was urgent. He was really sorry about it.”

Her phone buzzes with a text from Eddie right as Richie curses under his breath, missing the noise. She clutches her phone more tightly in her fist, knowing Eddie is wondering where his seat is going to be; she bought him a separate ticket, elsewhere in the theatre, so Richie wouldn’t catch him sitting among them, as he will absolutely, inevitably look over to the Losers for most of the show.

“Okay,” Richie surrenders sadly, “Uh - I guess he’ll see it eventually, right?”

Smiling forlornly at him, she pats his arm, and tells him, “don’t worry, Richie. Your genius will inevitably be forced upon us all.”

He smiles at her, gives her a kiss on the cheek, and when Bill jokingly asks why he didn’t get one, Richie flips him off, and reminds them to treat themselves to the bar in the lobby.

Once he’s backstage, Beverly takes her phone out, and emails Eddie his ticket, explains that she’s already convinced Richie he’s not coming, and to make sure he doesn’t show up too early, or Richie will notice.

15. The List by cissues - ~7000 words, teen - Eddie finds a list he wrote as a teenager. Richie tries his best to fulfill them all. This is very sweet.

‘ All the things I want. Everything I’m not allowed to have. A perfect summer. ”

The words hit gentler than he thought they would, but they still hit and he finds himself blinking away at a wetness at the corner of his eye. He wipes at it and sniffles and Richie peers sidelong at him to make sure he’s okay. He is, he’s fine, and Richie never dotes on him when things are, generally, okay. Only when he needs it, which is one of the many things he loves about what they have now.

“This is… this is like a fucking  bucket list  for the most repressed child in the world.” Richie says, breathless.

Eddie rolls his eyes to hide the sting. “You’re looking at him,” he says, bitter. Richie frowns at him but turns back to the paper. Another thing Eddie loves, Richie never takes his trauma-induced bait. His knee-jerk reactions developed over years of what he’s now comfortable enough to call abuse.

16. Richie Tozier Answers the Web's Most Searched Questions by DeadpanMage - ~2000 words, teen - This is a short one, but the transcript of this popular YT video format with Richie felt spot on in terms of characterization and Richie’s voice.

[Back to the text screen: “So WIRED asked Richie Tozier some of the internet’s burning questions.” Cut back to Richie, now holding a poster board with several Google autocomplete searches half covered.]

Richie: I’ve undergone something of a rebranding in the past year, so I wonder how many of these questions are going to be super irrelevant-slash-embarrassing. Probably all of them. Let’s get started! [He tears the covering off of the first question.] Alright, that’s not bad. “How to pronounce Richie Tozier?” Well, we’re only on question one and I’ve already said it like a hundred times so there you go. And that’s “Richie Tozier” spelled J-O-H-N M-U-L-A-N-E-Y, so if you’ve got any complaints be sure to send them that way. Next question!

You can check out a larger list of stories I’ve enjoyed in my AO3 bookmarks. And finally, if you’re interested, here are the two fics I’ve written:

1. Waiting For a Sign - ~6000 words, explicit - Eddie meets Richie again and comes to the startling realization that he totally wants to hit that.

Maybe if Richie wasn’t famous, Eddie could have found a way to let it go. A couple furtive jerk off sessions in the shower after he got back to New York and the image of Richie’s big hands and wide smile and improbably flattering stubble would fade from his mind.

But Richie was famous, and the internet never forgot.

Eddie lasted three days before giving in and typing ‘Richie Tozier’ into the YouTube search bar. Just seeing Richie in the thumbnails was enough to make Eddie’s heart thud, what the fuck. He had to scroll past a bunch of news videos about Richie's supposed mental breakdown, but after that he landed on some old stand-up.

Before he clicked on the first video, he got up and made sure that the door of his study was locked. Then he turned off the lights and put on a pair of earbuds.

Fake It ‘Til You Make It - ~21,000 words, explicit - It’s that totally relatable situation where the man you’re secretly in love with is a celebrity who just came out and now needs a fake boyfriend to keep himself in the spotlight. Eddie offers to help out of the goodness of his heart and not because he’s insanely fucking jealous.

Eddie froze, breath catching in his throat.

Richie looked...really good.

Bev’s influence was obvious. His hair, which had been unkempt and shaggy, a perfect match for his stoner permakid schtick, was cut much shorter and neater. His formerly unruly stubble somehow now emphasized the sharp cut of his jaw instead of obscuring it.

He wore new glasses, Eddie noticed. Slim silver metal frames instead of his giant, clunky plastic ones. The fitted black sweater and dark blue jeans were simple, but made his shoulders look impossibly broad and his legs miles long.

Fuck everything and Beverly Marsh in particular.

LINK TO MY FIRST SET OF REDDIE RECS 30+ FICS

[moonb-eam]

could you do no. 7: “I almost lost you.” from the list?

hello. yes. i can definitely do that 💛✨

(i am still slowly completing what’s left of these ship starters, i think i’ve got three more in my inbox??)

i’ve been having a hard time sleeping lately, and whenever i can’t sleep, i listen to thunderstorm sounds. thus, had to write fic with a thunderstorm. (as in, had to write a sappy, over-emotional fic because....what else am i gonna do)

i really hope you like it, anon!! ✨✨✨

no. 7 “I almost lost you.”

Lucas wakes to the distant rumble of thunder.

It’s not that he doesn’t like thunderstorms. He does, he just likes them the most when he spends them wrapped up with Eliott, a tangle of limbs underneath a soft duvet, whispered secrets and drooping eyelids, lingering kisses pressed to cheeks, foreheads, lips.

He reaches out for him, for Eliott, fingers seeking warm skin, long, bony limbs, but his hand lands on flat, cool sheets.

Lucas is still waking up, still shaking off a dream where he and Eliott were meteors, chasing each other around Saturn, so his head is filled with the thick air of space and it takes a second for him to get it, for his fingers to curl into the mattress and to feel it barely give, for him to recognize the absence.

He rolls himself over to Eliott’s side of the bed, buries his face in the pillow and sighs. His inhale smells like Eliott.

He reaches out and touches the home button on his phone, sees that it’s only a bit after two in the morning.

They had gone to sleep early that night, exhausted from a day out in the humid summer air with the boys, exhausted from the three rounds of sweaty sex they had when they got back to the coloc. After an icy shower Lucas had fallen asleep spooning up behind Eliott’s back, lips pressed to the nape of his neck.

He’d been drunk on sunshine and heat and love and orgasms and he’d said, Hey. Eliott. Eliott. Did you know that you’re the love of my life?

What had Eliott said? Something like, Go to sleep, Lucas.

Now, Lucas throws back the duvet and stands, wearing nothing but his boxers, toes wriggling against the cool wood floor. Outside, it’s pouring, a rain that makes him think of a black and white detective film Eliott had made him watch last week. Heavy drops spilling down the brims of fedoras. Soaking the shoulders of trench coats. 

More thunder rumbles overhead.

Arthur had predicted it, when they’d been at the park earlier, standing on the edge of the water with his hands on his hips staring out into the middle distance like a character from a Jules Verne novel.

It’s going to thunderstorm tonight. I bet you anything.

How the hell do you know? Basile asked.

Eliott had leaned over to where Lucas was lying on his back, blocking the sun out with his face. Lucas squinted up at him.

Did you hear that? Eliott said. A thunderstorm. I love thunderstorms.

Lucas snorted. I know you do.

Do you know why? Eliott asked.

Lucas shrugged.

They’re romantic, Eliott said, leaning down far enough that he could push Lucas’s sunglasses off of his face, far enough that he could press their lips together. 

Lucas walks out of the bedroom quietly, into the dark, silent flat. There’s no noise from Lisa’s room and Mika’s shoes are missing. Still at that party, then. Or maybe he crashed somewhere else because of the storm.

Eliott isn’t in the kitchen, isn’t in the bathroom, and Lucas is trying not to let himself panic, trying to calmly wonder if there were any signs of hypomania earlier that day. He’s no expert, but he’s gotten better at noticing, especially with Eliott being open with him, helping him.

He wracks his brain, but comes up with nothing.

He tries not to think about Eliott running through the soaked, lightning-lit streets naked. Tries not to think about going out to find him.

He enters the kitchen and there, it’s such a wave of relief inside of Lucas’s body it’s palpable, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

Eliott.

He’s sitting on the living room windowsill, the one that leads out onto to the wrought iron fire escape. His back is to Lucas, bare and wide, half in the darkness of the flat, half in the faint light from outside, the grey-blue-black of a thunderstorm night.

Lucas takes a few tentative steps towards him, makes sure to step on the floorboards that creak the loudest, not wanting to surprise Eliott. Not wanting to scare him.

A flash of lightning erupts in the thick cloud cover, washes enough light over Eliott that Lucas can make out the notches of his spine, one, two, three, four, five… Lucas wants to kiss them.

Instead, he whispers, “Eliott,” and gently reaches his hands out, rests them on Eliott’s back. 

There’s a moment where neither of them say anything, a moment where it seems like Eliott is holding himself up, stiff, but then he sighs, his shoulders deflate. “Lucas,” he murmurs, and Lucas slides his hands to Eliott’s chest, wraps his arms around him, and presses his mouth to the highest notch of his spine.

“Hi,” he says, can’t resist giving a little kiss to the notch. “Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Another little kiss. “I can make you tea if you want.”

“No.” Eliott’s voice is faint, a bit distant, and Lucas takes it as an introspective mood, takes it as Eliott wanting to be left alone.

“Alright,” he says lightly, easily, “I’m going back to bed.”

He’s pulling his arms back but Eliott reaches up, fast, grips onto Lucas’s hands.

“Can you stay?” Lucas doesn’t say anything so Eliott prompts, “Please?”

“Sure.” Lucas squeezes Eliott’s hands. “Sure. But if I’m staying I want tea.”

He does make himself tea, comes back wearing Eliott’s hoodie, the zip open against his bare chest, carrying two mugs with clouds of steam wafting out.

“Only if you change your mind,” Lucas says, placing the second mug down on the floor near the window sill. “It’s Lisa’s. Chamomile.”

Lucas sits down on the sill as well, back against the frame, legs hanging into the living room. Outside, the streetlights are pale dots of orange between sheets of rain, the trees swaying against water and wind. Lucas watches as two girls sprint down the street, barefoot, both of them carrying their shoes and shrieking, laughing. 

Another streak of lightning. Thunder follows.

Lucas blows on his tea.

He thinks he can hear jazz playing from somewhere, someone’s apartment window open to the night storm, rain spilling in and music spilling out. 

“Do you hear that?” He asks Eliott. “The music?”

Eliott doesn’t say anything so Lucas continues.

“There must be some people dancing, somewhere. Huh. That’s kinda nice, actually.”

Eliott still says nothing, but Lucas catches the corner of a smile, and it makes him smile in turn, down into his tea.

They sit there in silence for Lucas doesn’t know how long, listening to the storm, watching the occasional pedestrian down below battle the elements. Eliott picks up his tea and takes a sip, and Lucas tries not to show how smug he is.

Eventually, though, eventually Lucas wants to say something. Just. Something.

He gently pokes Eliott’s knee, at the side, where it’s hinging at the edge of the sill. “Hey,” he says. “Eliott.”

Eliott doesn’t look over but Lucas knows he’s listening.

“If there’s something going on, you can tell me. I mean, I know you know that, and I also know you know that you don’t have to tell me. You can keep it private if you want. I just…wanted to remind you, I guess, and I want you to tell me if I’ve done something wrong, or if I’m doing something wrong, you know? I’d rather know than make a mistake. I almost lost you, before, because of that.”

The words are out before Lucas even registers them, caught up in the simultaneous stillness and chaos inherent with every thunderstorm. He knows he means the words—he fears fucking up and losing Eliott more than pretty much anything—but he didn’t mean to say them, especially when Eliott may or may not be in a sensitive state.

Eliott’s head whips up, eyes wide on Lucas’s face. “What?”

Lucas waves his free hand at him. “No, I’m sorry, forget I said that last bit, we don’t need to think about that—”

“When did you almost lose me?”

Lucas blinks. His mug is cooling down, losing its heat between the rain-soaked air and Lucas’s icy hands. 

“Well, when…” Lucas really doesn’t want to get into this, but Eliott is looking at him like he desperately needs to know the answer, so he says, “When I said that thing to you, about mentally ill people? About my mom? That. I said something that really hurt you without realizing it. Something ignorant. Something mean.” He tries on a shrug but it doesn’t fit, a jacket three sizes too big, too loose for how tight his chest feels. “I just never want to do that again.”

“You never lost me.”

The sentence hangs between them, gets washed away down the fire escape with the rain until it hits the pavement, swirls into a drain.

It’s Lucas’s turn to say, “What?”

“Never,” Eliott says. “I was always yours, from the very first second I saw you. I didn’t think you were mine.” Eliott has a weird look on his face that Lucas can’t decipher. It makes him nervous. “Lucas, it was me who almost lost you. I almost lost you because I lied to you, because I put you in danger.”

“Eliott, please, I was never in—”

“I did lose you, didn’t I?”

A boom of thunder rolls through, so loud it makes Lucas startle, makes what’s left of his tea slosh precariously close to the edges of the mug.

He turns back to Eliott but he’s not looking at Lucas anymore. He’s staring down, frowning.

“Eliott,” Lucas says gently, “I didn’t mean to bring all of that up, okay? I’m so sorry. But you have to know you never lost me either.” He pokes at Eliott’s knee again, needs Eliott to look at him. “I’ve always been yours too.”

“I was thinking about it,” Eliott blurts out, knee twitching under Lucas’s touch. He sets his mug down on the ledge, runs his hands through his hair, over his face. “I was thinking about it all day yesterday, something that Yann said about you getting drunk on a Sunday. After that night.”

Lucas feels his cheeks flush. “Alright, I’m not proud of—”

“No.” Eliott shakes his head. “It made me so upset, because I did that to you. I made you hurt that much. And then, I…you told me I’m the love of your life, and I thought, how can he love me like this when I’ve hurt him so much?”

“Oh, Eliott—”

“I woke up because of something, I don’t even remember what, and you were right next to me, looking completely perfect, beautiful like a painting like a fucking dream and I couldn’t understand it.” Eliott’s eyes trail down the street, dance across any still-lit windows. “I couldn’t understand how I can still have you when I’ve made you feel like that. Like you have to get drunk to forget me.”

“Baby,” Lucas sets his own mug down and reaches for Eliott’s hands, twines their fingers together, “we hurt each other. And it was awful, but we don’t do that anymore. I got drunk. I made that choice. I was sad, we both were, but now we’re healing, right? Now we take things minute by minute and we talk to one another. Please don’t be cruel to yourself for something that happened in the past, something that we’re fixing.” Lucas takes a breath. “Please don’t tell yourself you don’t deserve this. That scares me.” 

He squeezes Eliott’s hands. Eliott nods, once. 

“I’m sorry,” Eliott whispers. “I never want to scare you.”

“I know that. But you do when you act like we don’t have a chance.”

“Okay,” Eliott says. Lucas can see his breaths evening out, ribs expanding and contracting gently. “Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.” 

“Stop apologizing.” Lucas smiles when he says it, heart warm and light when Eliott smiles back.

Eliott lifts their joined hands to his mouth, gently kisses Lucas’s knuckles. “Your hands are so cold,” he murmurs against the skin. He kisses them again. “You’re the love of my life. I didn’t say it back before, because I was too…in my own head. But it bothered me that I didn’t say it back.”

Lucas giggles, full of summer air and relief. “Sap,” he says, but it’s coupled with him stretching his legs across Eliott’s lap, moving his mug down to the floor.

Eliott detangles their fingers to run a hand up Lucas’s thigh. “Thank you,” he says softly, slowly trailing the hand back down. His touch leaves goosebumps behind. “Thank you for putting up with me.”

Lucas shivers, wraps Eliott’s hoodie tighter around himself. “You have to put up with me,” he reminds Eliott, half-teasing and half-serious.

One of Eliott’s hands slides behind Lucas’s knee, gently lifts it while he bends down. “That’s not hard to do,” he says, voice soft and honey-sweet, pressing a kiss to Lucas’s knee. He nuzzles his face a bit higher, kisses where knee meets inner thigh, breath warm against his skin. “I’m in love with you.” Another kiss, a little higher. Another breath. “Fuck, I’m so in love with you.”

Lucas exhales shakily, runs a hand through Eliott’s hair. “I’m in love with you too. Eliott, we’ll keep talking to each other. We’ll keep being honest. That’s what will be the difference between what happened before, and what’s happening now.”

“Yeah.” Eliott presses another kiss to his thigh and straightens up. There’s another rumble of thunder in the sky and the rain is still pounding onto the street, and Lucas can still hear the jazz music playing. 

They’re both silent for a beat, staring at each other, eyes dark and mouths curled into soft smiles. Smiles that say, you’re here, smiles that say, I’m here, smiles that say, stay with me.

“Do you want to dance?” Eliott asks. “Like those people you were talking about.” He taps his fingers against Lucas’s legs, completely off-rhythm from the music. “I’ll dance with you.”

Lucas shakes his head. “Nah.” He gently runs his index finger down Eliott’s nose, all the way to his lips. “I’m fine to sit here with you.” Eliott’s lips purse against his finger in a kiss. Lucas lowers his voice to a whisper. “Also, you’re a terrible dancer."

Eliott grins, wide and lopsided, and his teeth bump up against Lucas’s hand. “Do you know why I like thunderstorms?”

Lucas’s finger travels down to Eliott’s chest, traces nonsensical patterns over his heart. “Because they’re romantic?”

“Because they remind me of you.”

A startled laugh. “Yeah? How’s that?”

“You know, when the city is so hot, it’s claustrophobic, and everyone is praying for a thunderstorm to break the humidity, and then it comes, fresh air and all of Paris exhales and it’s like we can all move again, we’re human again. And that’s what you’ve always been like, for me. You’re that thunderstorm.”

[angelicspaceprince]

Alive

Author:  Ama

Title: Alive

Pairing: Beelzebub/Reader, Friendship!Aziraphale/Reader/Crowley mentioned, squint and you’ll miss it Friendship!Aziraphale/Beelzebub/Crowley I guess?

Character/s: Beelzebub, Aziraphale, Crowley, mentions of God.

Word Count: 3, 459 words

Warnings: Mentions of cancer, cancer treatment, a bit about what happens to your body when we die, nightmares, mentions of death. I think that’s it.

Tags:  @elyshakate,  @trelaney,  @corvids-of-the-skeleton-tree  

Summary: Beelzebub doesn’t get it. Cancer is not a cold, it’s not temporary, this thing will kill you. But they don’t seem to care and even when you fight to stay alive, it’s not until a certain angel intervenes that they realise what they’ve already lost.

Notes: So, y’all can blame trelaney for this one and me listening to Alive by Sia on repeat for the past hour. We have been talking about Good Omens hcs for a while now and she brought this one up and its been eating at me ever since/I pretty much said yep I’m gonna write a fic about this so everyone can cry. So if y’all are upset with the concept, I’m not to blame. Plot bunnies were provided, I just ran with them.

First time writing Beelzebub, it’s probs OOC, I do not give a shit but don’t come running to me crying ‘this isn’t Beelzebub’, suck it it is now. Beelzebub also uses them/they pronouns. It might not be canon, but it is here.

Buy Me a Coffee

Alive

You were alone when you got told that you needed to go in for further testing, alone when you went for the scans, alone when you got the results. You kept everything hush hush, not wanting any drama or to raise concern when it could be a false positive.

But it wasn’t.

Cancer. Brain cancer. Glioblastoma multiforme to be exact. Pretty advance, the doctors gave you a realistic prognosis of six months, and a hopeful prognosis of twelve months at most. You didn’t cry when you got the news, didn’t cry on the way home, didn’t cry as you cooked and ate dinner alone. You held it in, waiting until the quiet of the night took over and you knew you were truly alone and that’s when the sobs became to rack your body.

You were too young! How could you be given a prognosis of twelve months, at best, at your age? You knew you were going to die one day, but you expected quite a few more decades before it happened.

You didn’t sleep that night, spent most of your time crying and trying to figure out what was going to happen next. You had to tell people, had to plan what was going to happen when eventually treatment stopped working, what you wanted once you died.

You have to tell B.

Being in a relationship with Beelzebub has been hard, but worth it. Some emotions were clear on their face, anger, annoyance, frustration, but others were not, such as love. You knew B loved you, they wouldn’t have spent time with you if they didn’t like you or put up with your human tendencies if they thought you to be beneath them, but sometimes it was hard to gauge if they truly loved you. It was always hard to bring news to them because their emotional reaction would always be a little….off. This was something that you weren’t looking forward to telling your partner.

You told your partner about the doctor’s visit the next morning. Beelzebub always made sure that they had the mornings with you seeing that their nights were rarely free. For the first time ever, you really had hoped that some unexpected hellish business had kept B away from you that morning, you still hadn’t processed the news. Still hadn’t accepted your fate. And even though it was hard, you managed to get the words out.

No reaction.

That’s what hurt you most of all, you think. Beelzebub didn’t even seem to care. Out of all the emotions you could read on Beelzebub’s face, none seem to pass them. You got the tests alone, the results alone, the prognosis alone. But telling B and explaining what the doctors had said? Made you feel the most alone you felt during the entire process.

You started on chemo and radiation, wanting to prolong your life as long as possible. You spoke to Aziraphale about life after death for humans and his answers, although philosophical, did nothing to ease your mind into thinking there was an afterlife for humans where you could continue to be with Beelzebub, if that is what they wanted. B was there every morning to help you with your medication and the subsequent nausea and vomiting that followed. They once asked why you were doing this and appeared confused when you told them it was to length your life. Surely you didn’t want to go through all this torture just for a few more measly months? But still, they continued to help where they could. You asked for them to take time away from hell to be with you, but they refused. You would still be there in the morning, why disrupt business as usual?

You continued to waste away. You become frail and unable to move without assistance. Aziraphale and Crowley are literal God sends during this time. Crowley would always hiss and say he’d talk to the love of your life, but you always asked him not to. It’ll be fine. Beelzebub knows that you’re sick and, they’re right. Why disrupt business as usual for one, insignificant human? Eventually, however, even Beelzebub could see how ill you had become, nothing but skin and bone, being wasted away from the sickness.

Then the seizures started.

The first one was a shock. You were so angry at Beelzebub not being able to understand that you wouldn’t just bounce back from this. No matter how many times you tried to explain it, they just didn’t seem to get it. Suddenly, all the anger of being sick and dying way before your prime and before you could enjoy a long like with the Prince of Hell just exploded from you. You screamed and raved about how this wasn’t a cold or the flu, this was serious. You asked them if they even loved you because it feels like they don’t, you need them right now and they are not there for you. When Beelzebub asked why you were so upset about this when you would just wake up in the morning, healthy as ever, you wanted to scream. Instead, you fried.

You collapsed on the floor as your brain began to overheat, body jerking uncontrollably. For the first time ever, Beelzebub felt out of control. No demonic miracle they tried got you to stop so they decided that, for once, they’d ask for a human’s help. They got you to A&E where you were instantly admitted into the hospital before into a room once they got the seizure under control. Quickly, it was decided that you needed to stay at the hospital and you weren’t going to be able to leave. Beelzebub didn’t leave your side once you were admitted, only once to go back to your place and get some things to make the barren walls seem more like home.

You barely made it to the five-month mark. Towards the end, there was nothing of you left. Seizures continued. They were quick to strike and intermittent. Some lasted for a few moments, most lasted for at least 10 minutes, and some very rare ones lasted for over an hour. They were horrid, your brain felt like it was being fried every single time as B just sat with you. But, as time went on, they became more regular and prolonged. You struggled to maintain your breathing after four days in hospital. It was decided that your airway would remain unassisted. The rattle of your throat unnerved Beelzebub, but they stayed regardless, their hand never leaving yours. They stayed in the room, even when you were being washed but did not assist. The nurses looked unnerved enough at the Prince of Hell’s attire and lack of desire to leave your room or even eat. They played your favourite music and read to you, spoke about things down in hell that was being managed for them. It was as if it was a rare night where Beelzebub could actually take the time to spend with you and you alone. Aziraphale and Crowley visited often, spoke to you as you continued to apparently dream and made sure Beelzebub was ok and asked if they needed a break. They always said no. They’d rather watch you sleep. You looked peaceful when you were like this and Beelzebub could almost convince themselves that you were snoring whenever the rattle could be heard.

It was a rainy Sunday morning when you died. Beelzebub was holding your hand and reading to you a book you never got to finish. When B got to the end of the last page, they could almost hear you sigh as you breathed in, and out, and in, and out, and in, and out.

Nothing.

With a smile, Beelzebub closed the book and put it to the side and waited, hand on yours as it had been the entire time. Seconds pass and concern started to bubble under Beelzebub’s skin. Usually with discorporation, it was instant. You’d be here with a new body and ready to live a new life. Seconds turned to minutes as your body started to cool and Beelzebub’s concern grows to anxiety as they move up towards your body. You should be back by now. The rattling that was once concerning would have been a relief to hear right now. They call your name, beg you to wake up because this isn’t funny anymore as they climb onto the bed, careful of all the wires and tubes so they can try to convince you to just wake up. Even if it was just to scream at you some more, they didn’t mind, they just wanted you to stop pretending and to get out of bed.

That’s how Aziraphale and Crowley found the Prince of Hell. Sitting over your rapidly hardening body as rigor mortis kicked in, confused as to why your eyes were open, yet glassy. They were still begging you to wake up, this isn’t funny anymore, I know you’re mad at me but please just wake up. Neither had heard Beelzebub sound so desperate and confused before, and it had been clear that they had been doing this for hours. Aziraphale is the one who puts two and two together and walks up to the demon.

Crowley goes to get the nurse. You wouldn’t want to be lying there in your own filth, you deserved a more dignified death than that as Aziraphale quickly but quietly got Beelzebub off of your body and off the bed so the nurse could do their jobs in peace. B still looked at your corpse confused, now pale as the blood settles on the lower half of your body. You’d never looked so sick in your life, but this isn’t right. You should be awake by now.

That’s when Aziraphale breaks it to him. Humans, when they die, they aren’t like demons or angels. When they die, they are gone for good. Its like a sleep, apparently, that lasts forever unless you were in good favour with God. And being with a demon most definitely removed your changes of that.

The news takes a second to sink into Beelzebub’s brain before everything starts making sense. Why you wanted them to spend more time with you, the frustration of when they refused to break their schedule for you, and when they just didn’t seem to understand that this was serious and terrifying for you. Discorporation is scary for anyone who hadn’t experienced it. But you’d be back. Surely.

It’s not until the nurses arrive to clean your body that Beelzebub moves. The nurse goes to start with your face and the Prince of Hell just screams as emotions they didn’t even know they had crashed over them. They screamed at them to not touch you, that you weren’t dead and you’ll be ok, just wake up, please wake up. They are sorry, just please, for the love of all things unholy, open your fucking eyes. Nurses, doctors and security had to rush in to pull the Prince from your body as the nurses fought back to make sure you weren’t injured in the fight. Beelzebub claws at everyone who touches them, almost attempting to swim past everyone to get to you as they are thrown out and into the family room with a nurse to try and console them. You’re in a better place now, God will take care of you, you are at peace. Beelzebub just rocks and cries because of all the things they will miss that they didn’t even realise that they would miss. Seeing you wake up and being groggy before lighting up when you see them, holding your hand, kissing you, making a plate for them even though you both know full well that you’ll end up snatching most of it from their plate. Never have you listen to them rant and offer advice that only a human could provide or listen to you rant after a particularly hard day. Never see your face whenever you see something that excites you, never hear your laugh, never be held in your arms or hold you in theirs ever again? Never be able to tell you that they love you.

It felt like all the oxygen had left Beelzebub’s body and no matter what they did, they couldn’t get enough in their lungs. They never told you that they loved you, they always assumed they had time for that. Now they’d never get that chance again. Darkness seems to crowd in from the corner of their eyes as a truly desperate and primal wail finally makes its way out of B’s mouth and fills the halls of the ward before they promptly pass out.

~~~~~

Beelzebub wakes up with a gasp. Not in the hospital, the chemical smell no longer burning their nose. They are back home, in your bed. The demon rubs their face with a relieved smile before they turn to make sure you were alright.

No.

You’re not there.

The sheets are cool and there is no evidence of you sleeping there. Beelzebub can feel the oxygen slowly being sucked out of their body again when the panic sets in again. Are you dead? What’s happened?

A flush followed by three loud crashes and a string of swears in the dark lets them know what’s going on and they rush from the bed straight into the kitchen to see you, still pale and looking permanently tired, but alive standing in front of them, checking over your foot. B can’t help it. They crash right into your arms and hold you as close as physically possible, breathing in your scent deeply to centre themselves. It’s ok. You’re alive.

“Whoa, hey there.” B could hear the smile in your voice. “You ok?” Beelzebub doesn’t trust their voice, so they just nod. “B? Are you crying?” The smile turns to concern as the Prince pulls you in closer. You start to rub their back as you sway in the kitchen. “The dream again?”

“Yes.” Their voice croaks, they sound broken. Exhausted. You sigh as you pull back and make sure that you can make eye contact with your partner. The unshed tears that they are clearly fighting back break your heart as you swipe your thumb underneath their eyes as you cup their face in a silent attempt to calm them.

“It’s ok dearest. I’m ok. You’re ok. Do you remember what happened?” It takes a second for Beelzebub to nod as the memories come flooding back.

You did have an argument and you did have a seizure before it concluded. Beelzebub did think that you would just return in a new body ready to go. But Beelzebub got you to the hospital quicker. You came out of the seizure quicker. You ended up in a coma and in the hospital for a week. B didn’t leave the hospital for that entire time and they did read to you and play music and talk. That’s when Aziraphale told Beelzebub what happens to humans after death. That’s when the penny dropped and, for the first time in a week, Beelzebub stepped outside.

Beelzebub got on their knees and begged for God to spare you, just for a while longer. A miraculous healing, that’s all you needed. No matter how much Beelzebub tried, no miracle of theirs could save you and God did not help in anyway. When Beelzebub came back, a day later, your prognosis did not look good. They took you off air support. They suspected you had 48 hours at most. That dreaded rattle could be heard before B could even walk in the room.

Aziraphale suggested that, perhaps, between the three of them they could save you. Somehow, it worked. The cancer was gone, and you woke up to a crying and relieved Beelzebub six hours later, to the amazement to all the staff involved. B just climbed onto the bed and kissed you and kissed you and kissed you, apologising between each kiss and saying that they loved you, so, so much whenever you both pulled away for long enough for them to get the words out. You were still incredibly sick, even a year on there have been complications. It took a while for you to be able to walk without assistance, for your weight to return and for you to be able to concentrate for a full hour – or even just be conscious for three hours – and not need a nap. You came home six months after you first were admitted into the hospital. Beelzebub made a point, from then on, to be home as often as possible. Hellish business could be conducted anywhere, so B worked from home in the same office you now do. Beelzebub, although still not in tune with their emotions, had become more affectionate and initiated the affection more often than before. The Prince even began to learn the value of sleep and loved to spend the night with you holding each other.

The nightmares came about a month after you came home. You needed to spend the night at the hospital after you found out you needed some exploratory surgery done. Beelzebub woke up with a fright, convinced you were dead until they went to go pick you up the next morning. If you disappeared from the bed for too long, the nightmares would start up again. A side effect of the cancer has left you forgetful, and some nights when you wake up and just need to pee or eat or drink something, you forget that being away caused Beelzebub distress like this. But you work on it.

Another side effect, as you both found out one day that Beelzebub is sure nearly brought them to discorporate, is that you can’t die. Turns out, the angel and the demons did their job a little too well. Although you have gotten better and parts of you have changed, you haven’t aged a day. When you didn’t see where you were walking and got hit by a car, Beelzebub felt their world end again for a brief second before you stood up, amazingly unharmed, and began to apologise to the driver for not watching where you were going. The relief hit Beelzebub hard, before realising that you were going to be with them forever. The joy that wracked their system is something that Beelzebub has not felt since but enjoyed every moment of it.

Right now, however, Beelzebub did not feel joy. Some relief, yes, but mostly residue panic from the constant nightmare that they had been having. Somehow, you managed to coax them onto the bed and pulled them in tight against you so they could have some comfort.

“Feel better?” B makes an uncommitted noise that you take to mean as ‘yes’. “Good. I’m sorry I forgot again. I’ll try to remember to read the sticky notes next time.” You can feel their scoff against your chest as you roll your eyes. “I love you though. I’m not going anywhere for a long time.”

“Please don’t.” Their voice still sounds broken but comforted in the knowledge that you were okay.

“I won’t, precious.” You smile as they make eye contact with you and a rare smile graces their face.

“I’m sorry I was a bad partner.” You roll your eyes.

“B, you weren’t a bad partner, you just didn’t understand, and I didn’t think to explain it at the time. It’s okay. We’ve worked past it.” The noise B makes this time makes you think they don’t believe you, so you jostle them slightly so you can both lay down together, you stroking their back as they make small buzzing noises of content, both of you slowly beginning to drift away.

“Love you.” You smile as B’s quiet voice fills your ears right before they fall asleep.

“Love you too.” B’s hum lets you know they heard it just as you close your eyes and let your sleep take you away.

You were alone when you had the tests, got the results, and the prognosis. You felt alone as you battled for a few months more to live with your love. You drifted alone in a dream state for a week before two demons and an angel brought you back, better than before. After a journey of feeling so alone, it was moments like these that made you feel so loved because you knew Beelzebub loved you, loves you and will forever love you, as you will forever love them. Even as you drift in your sea of unconsciousness, there is one thing that you feel now that you hadn’t felt for a long time after your diagnosis.

Alive.

[hollandroos]

Everything that left with you | Tom Holland series, chapter 1

Summary: When you lose someone, it can feel like you lose yourself too and while you may not want it, sometimes you need someone who understands to bring you back.

Written with the wonderful @neptuneparker

Words: 2746

Warnings (IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ): this fic focuses around a homicide support group and deals with things such as murder, kidnappings (in flashbacks and mentioned throughout) and mental illness and trauma. PLEASE do not read if this will trigger you in any way. it is a little darker then what is usually posted on here so please BE AWARE.

Disclaimer: This is NOT a romance fic and there will be no romance between Tom and the reader.

Once again, PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS BEFORE YOU READ THIS SERIES!

The circle was more full than normal, Y/N noted as she sat in the rickety folding chair with a bland cup of lukewarm coffee. There was a new face sitting two chairs away from her, he looked shy and sullen and no one made a move to talk to him– but then again, not many people spoke here.

Wendy was the leader of the group, she was spunky and had never lost someone the way everyone else did. Y/N had envied her, she seemed happy, she hated seeing people happy and even more, she hated opening up to people that could never experience the level of pain she felt on a day to day basis. She’d utter a few words about how she felt on that day and Wendy would give her a small smile, telling her that she was improving when in reality, improvement had halted long ago.

“Who would like to start us off today?” Wendy asked, rubbing her hands together as people sat in the circle. It was silent, people never wanted to speak first at these meetings, they all knew what the other was thinking without even having to speak. It wasn’t that hard to.

“I will.” Y/N spoke, it was the first time she had talked to the majority of these individuals, she was typically silent at the meetings, fingers tapping against a flask of cold coffee as others spoke but never her. She cleared her throat and began her cynical telling. “I’m Y/N, twenty-three, and when I was fifteen a man broke into my house and killed my older brother while I hid in the closet. You’ve all been waiting to hear that one right?” She spoke curtly, her face void of emotion as the rest of the group stayed silent.

The new man two seats over watched her with a haze in his eyes, one that never seemed to leave. It was rare that he ever showed any emotion since that incident and the only time he ever did it was pure sadness- and guilt, definitely guilt. The circle is still silent and Y/N lets out a breath, waiting for someone else to speak as her words linger seamlessly in the air.

It wasn’t that they were shocked by her experience because they each had their own, rather chilling story to tell. Each horrifically different. Y/N’s was just one more thrown into a void of plenty. At least that’s what she felt.

He gives the girl a side glance, coughing as he leans forward in his seat. “I’m Tom, twenty-eight. My six-year-old daughter was taken from her bedroom and the police found her body facedown in the woods three weeks later.”

He ignored the restriction in his arms as the jacket he wore hugged his biceps when he leaned forward, prefering to stare at the ground for an awkward moment.

There was a hush over the small group of people, they all looked to the ground, except for her. Y/N looked straight into Tom’s eyes, recognizing the same feeling she had deep inside of her, noticing the guilt laying underneath the sheen of tears.

“We went to the park that day. The police said that’s likely where he chose her. Chose her, like she was a toy or a pair of fucking jeans.” He hated talking about it, he could never keep his anger inside, the anger he had for the world for not being able to find the person who took away his pride and joy.

She listened to every harsh word with crossed arms and a stone cold face but she felt them, she really did. Because she wouldn’t forget the sight of her own brother coated in his blood—the crimson red sticking to the walls and running across the carpet. It was an experience she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. “He was older than me, seventeen at the time and we were watching Christmas movies when the other guy burst into the house.” She mutters. “It hurts a lot, and it never stops. It never fucking stops hurting, right?”

Tom had never witnessed anyone who felt his pain before, never had he met another who could compare to what he felt that day and everyday after. Nobody had experienced their heart being forcibly removed from their chest at the arms of another, someone else’s choices to take their loved one from this life. He clenched his jaw, seeing the slight pain on her face as she spoke about her encounter, it was hidden, but it was there.

And while he sat in a room full of people that likely felt every ounce of pain that he experienced from losing his little girl, he still felt lonely. So fucking lonely– but for a moment he had her. The girl with the darkest eyes– not physically but he could see so much pain hidden behind them, and the dark circles that could run for miles.

“I hid in the closet and watched and the man took my mother’s jewellery and left.” She paused, looking down at her fingers. “I wish he opened the closet door to find me.”

“Y/N, Tom.” The leader coughed awkwardly, welcoming her newest. It wasn’t Y/N of course, she’d been coming here for years but Tom was new—despite the accident occurring years ago. “I’m glad you’re... bonding.” Y/N shook her head sarcastically and Tom noticed, fiddling with his fingers. “I’m glad to be here.”

It was sarcasm, nothing more. Because if his daughter wasn’t killed then he wouldn’t have to be here in the first place and if her brother hadn’t been murdered, then she’d be at home right now, decorating for Christmas. Now she hated Christmas.

If he hadn’t taken that life, the life of her loved one then she wouldn’t be up at all hours of the night because every time she closed her eyes she was back in that closet, a hand place securely over her mouth as warm tears ran down her scolding cheeks. She wouldn’t hear those piercing screams and then utter silence then the boots– the heavy thudding that possessed her nightmares as he stepped around the closet. Her eyes held many sleepless nights and if you looked really closely, you could see every memory suppressed.

And if this daughter hadn’t been torn from his grasp at such a young, ripe age then he would still be able to put even the slightest bit of trust into people. He wouldn’t have to watch the barista that he used to talk to daily make his coffee with piercing eyes and one hand over the counter, maybe he’d still help the little old lady next door bring her groceries into the house every Sunday. Tom used to trust way too fucking hard and it cost him more then he had ever expected.

And now, now every time he closed his fucking eyes he thinks about how scared his little girl must have been, what her screams might have been like, the look in her eyes when he took her, and the numerous calls out for Tom that were never answered.

They were all damaged, utterly fucked and riddled with guilt and nightmares and the inability to trust and simply want to give love.

Wendy plastered an over joyful smile on her face and glances towards one of the other support group members– Billy, a thirty-something year old that talked a little more then he should’ve if he was invited to.

“Shall we carry on then?”

“Tomorrow will be the eighth year since my mom…” The stories of the other members faded to the background as Y/N stared toward the sullen father. She could tell that there was something he wasn’t talking about, there was resentment behind his story, and more anguish than most she had encountered.

Tom didn’t look at the rest of the group, he stared at the brown and black carpet, a ringing present in his ears, it was just like that day they found Paisley. The carpet was as dark as the soil he walked over, his boot indenting the rich earth. It had just rained and Tom couldn’t help but wonder if she got to see it before her life was taken from her.

“See you all next week. There are more coffee and cookies over at the tables. Stay safe.” Wendy said, interrupting Tom’s intrusive thoughts. The circle dispersed and most of the individuals walked out of the recreation center’s doors, not wanting to be surrounded by the cloud of depression and self-pity that they had to endure week after week. Tom didn’t want to be alone, though, he wanted to be around people like him, who understood him, for as long as possible.

Tom stirred cream into his coffee, the dark liquid flowering lighter than before, Paisley loved watching that. The coffee was cold, but he didn’t care, he wasn’t even going to drink it, he just wanted to hold it to make it seem like he had some reason, some purpose for staying back longer with the rest of them.

“That was one hell of a story.” Y/N commented, picking at the few cookies left on the purple plastic platter.

“You too.” He said softly, looking up at her for a second before looking back down at his constantly stirring coffee. “Sorry about your brother.”

She shrugged at his comment, letting out a breathy chuckle before breaking off a piece of a cookie. “You don’t have to be. You didn’t kill him.”

“I still can be, I’m human.” Tom said back to her, looking down at his feet. They were pointing toward the door, eager to leave and be home by himself, wallowing in his own self-pity like he did every other day.

She looked up at him for one of the first times since the meeting ended. His curls hung in front of his forehead, he looked like he hadn’t had a haircut in months—and he hadn’t. Tom barely took care of himself since he found his daughter.

“Could’a fooled me.” She joked, unable to be vulnerable for too long. This was the first time that she was able to talk about what happened that night, she never wanted to mention it to anyone. She didn’t want people telling her that they were sorry for her, it was her biggest pet peeve.

Both of them held little emotions. This was probably the hardest day of the week for both of them. It was where you’d have to open up, actually reach out and talk about things that you preferred to keep hidden in the darkest parts of your mind.

Tom didn’t want to forget Paisley and her little pink gumboots or her adoration for hot chocolate with marshmallows overflowing the top of the mug and Max and Ruby. He didn’t want to forget the way her giggles bounced off of the walls or the sound of her feet pandering down the hallway at half past eleven at night. He never wanted to forget the way she ran around without clothes on after her bath when she was just a baby, babbles leaving her mouth as he ran after her.

But he wanted to forget what it felt like to walk into her room that day– to find books and toys turned upside down and the window wide open, rain and wind smashing against the blinds. To this day he could still feel his heart pounding in his chest as he looked around the room, he hadn’t even heard anything from the kitchen.

“Paisley! Sweetheart? Where are you?” He yelled, his own voice sounded foreign to him as it rang in his own ears and through the empty room. Normally her giggle would erupt from the closet or from under the bed but it was silent. “Fuck oh fuck..” he spoke softly, seeing her rain boots by the window, one knocked over on its side. He knew she would have put her boots on if she left, but she wouldn’t have left without telling him, even if he had yelled at her just before that—she knew he loved her, right? Tom was short of breath, his hands shaking before the mug of hot chocolate slipped from his hand, shattering on the ground—marshmallows rolling on the hardwood floors, the brown liquid bleeding through the open Berenstain Bears books on the floor, her favorites.

The thoughts filled his mind constantly, never once did he stop thinking about her. He hadn’t spoken to anyone outside of his family in the last seven months, for the last person to speak to him was the funerary director when giving him the bill for burying his six-year-old. The pain of outliving your own child is indescribable, so why talk about it?

“You gonna come here every week?” Y/N asked, pulling Tom away from his spiraling thoughts. He gulped, shrugging his shoulders. Tom knew it was good to come back, his mother begged him week after week to just try it—she couldn’t stand to see her son like this any longer once he stopped seeing his therapist.

She had described him of a shell of the man he used to be and while his mother had been supportive, by his side through everything, Tom no longer appreciated her attempts to heal him.

He hated that word- Heal. Tom believed that he would never heal and refused to give himself false hope.

The older women had lived with him for a few months after Paisleys passing but she didn’t need to live with him anymore to know that he was refusing to sleep, living straight on coffee and canned soup and if he did sleep on the odd day- it was after crying himself to sleep and torturing himself with thoughts of the child before her taking.

“Gonna try.” He spoke curtly, not wanting to be any more vulnerable than he already had that day. “I suck at keeping to routines though, they just don’t seem to stick. I’m more of a spur of the moment kinda guy.” Tom finishes.

Paisley hated that about her father. He sucked with routines and they often made him late to pick her up from dance or school. It meant that they would sometimes have dinner at four pm and sometimes at eight. Still, she’d have herself in bed by at least eight thirty pm exactly every single night.

“Well if you do decide to come every week at least you’ve got a friend here.” Y/N secretly hoped that the stranger would come back. She hadn’t seemed to click with any of the others yet and while she hadn’t clicked with Tom, she wanted to at least make an effort with this one. His story broke her heart but he didn’t search for pity.

Tom glances at the girl, seeing a small but barely there smile tug at her lips. The lukewarm support group coffee left a film on his teeth, it felt as he did, there was an extra layer between his teeth and the air—an extra layer between him and the rest of the world. His mother joked once that coffee was just as bitter as him. But before Paisley had died, Tom prefered his coffee sweet with extra sugar. Every sip would make him smile but now every sip of his coffee, bitter as could be made him screw his face up. He felt that it was all he deserved.

“I’ll think about it.” He decides, mind already caught up on other things.

Positive posters lined the walls, decorated with quotes and sayings he deemed bullshit. You had chuckled at them once too, drawing a mustache on one of the men that spoke lies about putting yourself first and all that crap. What did that even mean? Maybe putting herself first was shoving herself in that closet.

But maybe that was all bullshit, maybe this whole support group was all bullshit, a way for people to feel like they’re being heard when nothing about their stories mattered to anyone else. Maybe, just maybe she’d realize the lies she’s been fed for years after attending these meetings but she kept showing up for someone to come who understood her. Someone who understood that no, not everything is going to be okay, and as she watched Tom walk out of the recreation center building, she knew it was him.

Please remember to reblog or send me an ask telling me what you thought of this - it took us months to get right and we would appreciate some thoughts :-)

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[reidandweep]

Nine Months and Twenty-Six Days Too Long

Gilbert Blythe x Reader (female)

A/N- Another Gilbert fic for you. I know this one is fairly long and cheesy. But I loved writing it. Hope you all enjoy.

Word Count: 2337 words

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Death, Cheese (lots of it)

Y/N had known Gilbert for years before school had even began for the both of them. Gilbert’s father John, who had been close friends with Y/N’s father, would often bring Gilbert over to the Y/L/N residence for Sunday lunch after church. As the years of friendship passed between the two children, friendship changed to something more. Both had accepted the feeling they held for the other. However, neither had initiated the conversation that loomed over the duo. Were the feelings reciprocated? Yes. Did the other know? No. 

The feelings they had for each other was soon put on hold once Gilbert had voiced to Y/N his intentions to leave Avonlea after his father’s passing. There were many tears from both children. But Y/N knew that, at this moment in time, Avonlea was not Gilbert’s home, and that he had a lot to accomplish in his life. Gilbert had tried to persuade Y/N to leave with him, but to no avail. Y/N’s own father was sick and she, like Gilbert had done before, would have to stay at home to help him recover. 

So, Gilbert left to voyage the world. Leaving Y/N behind with a promise and a small gift; his mother’s engagement ring. Gilbert wanted Y/N to never forget him; in case he never returned. The ring was a promise between the star crossed almost lovers, that if Gilbert were to ever return, and their feelings were still as strong, that they would elevate the friendship they have into something more. Something they had both dreamed about since they were young. Y/N wore the ring around her neck, on a simple piece of string. So that Gilbert was always just above her heart; no matter whether he chose to return or not.

For the first three months of Gilbert travelling across the world, the two young souls kept in touch. Letters were exchanged frequently. Y/N informing Gilbert of school, their friends, her father, and the events in Avonlea. Gilbert replying with descriptions of the places he had been and the people he had met. Bash was becoming frequently mention in their correspondents; reliving Y/N of worry and stress, as Gilbert had a friend by his side. 

However, life in Avonlea had become increasingly difficult for Y/N. Due to her father’s worsening state, school was no longer a daily occurrence. It was not even a weekly occurrence for the girl anymore. Contact between Y/N and her friends was non-existent, as Y/N’s friends were more focused on boys and school, rather than seeing Y/N and her father. All except Anne and Diana, who would visit as often as possible with food and books. Letters between her and Gilbert became less frequent due to money becoming less and less in the Y/L/N household. 

In Gilbert’s seventh month at sea he stopped getting letters from Y/N. Worry and confusion raged through his mind. What had happened? Had he done or said something wrong? He had no idea why she was no longer replying. He had been away eight months when Y/N’s father had passed away leaving her, like Gilbert and Anne, an orphan. 

She refused to be fostered or adopted. She refused to leave her home. She refused to speak to her friends and she refused to write to Gilbert. Taking on multiple jobs just to be able to pay the rent on her home and feed her-self one tiny meal a day. She wished she could have done what Gilbert had. But she could not leave Avonlea. She could not leave because he might just come back.

Gilbert had been at sea for nine months and twenty-six days when he decided to return home. Ruby had counted each of those days and made sure everyone around her knew how long he had been gone also. When he arrived back into Avonlea, she changed counting the days he had been gone to the days he had been back; much to the annoyance of her classmates. Everyone was happy for Gilbert to be back. 

He walked into school the morning after his return, ready to see his friends, and more importantly Y/N. Even though he was initially upset at her lack of response to his letters, his feeling for the girl had not faded. He still loved her. He missed her dearly and could not wait to see her again. As they did make a promise that if he returned, they would be more than what they were when he left.

Unfortunately for Gilbert, she was not at school the day he arrived. She did not turn up all day. As the school day had ended, all the children could leave. This gave Gilbert the chance to ask Anne where his Y/N was. 

“Anne. Where is Y/N? Why is she not at school?”

Anne looked at Gilbert with annoyance.

“Like you don’t know Gilbert.”

Confusion settled on the boys features.

He grabbed onto her arm as she turned to leave.

“If I did, I would not be asking.”

Anne suddenly realised that Y/N had not told Gilbert anything. She had lied about informing the boy and telling him to stay at sea. Shock hit Anne like a lightning bolt. She had not told him at all.

Tears began to form in Anne’s eyes as she thought about the pain that her friend had been through. Anne and Diana had continuously tried to be there for her with no avail. She wanted Gilbert. She needed Gilbert.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Anne grabbed Gilbert’s hand and led him to sit at the nearest desk. Sitting at the one in front she turned to the confused boy.

“Y/N stopped coming to school four months after you had left. Her father had fallen gravely ill. Much like your own.”

Gilbert to a sharp intake of breath. He knew what Anne was insinuating but he dared not to believe it. However, the fiery red-head confirmed his assumptions.

“He passed away nearly two months ago. Y/N was tending to him, getting him ready for bed when he had a heart attack and died. He died in her arms Gilbert.”

Tears were freely flowing down both of their faces. 

He quickly wiped them away, taking a moment to gain his breath.

“Where is she now?” he questioned. 

“She’s at home. She refused to leave. I offered her to seek residence at Green Gables, but she denied my offer. She didn’t want to leave her home. Diana and I try to visit as often as we can. But most of the time we sit in silence. She only ever talks if she hears your name in conversation.”

Gilbert’s head laid in his hands as a new wave of tears had hit him full force. Whilst he had tried to run from his problems and pain, she was experiencing hers alone. She had been there for him and had been supportive of his decision to leave. But he had not been there for her. 

Anne felt the remorse and tension Gilbert was feeling. She had felt it too when she could not be there for her friend. 

“Go to her Gilbert. She needs to see you are here. She doesn’t even know you are back. Go to her and have that conversation you have been dying to have. You know, tragical romance and all?”

Gilbert lifted his head and laughed a teary laugh.

“She told you huh?”

Anne smiled.

“She did not need to. I have read enough romantic novels to know true romance when I see it. Now go to her.”

She pushed Gilbert off his seat and watched him run out of the school doors and down the path towards Y/N’s home. 

“Tragical romance? Most likely a fairy tale ending” Anne thought to herself.

Gilbert ran as fast as his legs could take him, fighting against the cold, blistering wind. Y/N’s house was not far on foot from the school, therefore it did not take long for him to arrive. 

Standing at her doorstep, he took a minute to catch his breath. He had not seen Y/N in nearly ten months and so much had changed. Except his feeling were the same, maybe even stronger. He was ready to see her. To see his Y/N and be there for her even though he previously had not.  

Taking a deep breath, he knocked the door three times and waited for it to open. Slowly after knocking twice more, he heard foot-steps approaching the main entrance. The door swung open and there she stood. 

Y/N looked up at the face of the figure in which stood outside her door and an instant wave of euphoria hit her body and mind. Gilbert. He was here. For the first time in a long time, Y/N smiled. Tears were quickly falling from her eyes. But not of sadness, but pure joy. He came back. He had come home. 

Gilbert’s face showed the same emotions. No matter how much time he thought about this moment, it could never be imagined as good as it was. They both looked different to when they had last seen each other. Gilbert’s skin had become fairly tanned, and his hair curlier and longer than ever before. Y/N had lost a significant amount of weight, and her hair was duller than the last time they were together. But she was still so beautiful. So, so, beautiful. 

He walked towards her, taking a step into the house and closing the door behind him. He could already feel how cold the house was. The wind from outside decreasing the temperature even more. Gilbert placed his hands on either side of Y/N’s face and held her tightly. She could not believe he was here.

Her smile soon faded as she saw his face fall, and once again, tears clouding his vision.

He sniffled and whispered to her that he was sorry.

“What for Gilbert? You came home. That is what I’ve longed for.” She answered, her hands holding onto his coat tightly. 

“I should have come back sooner. I am so sorry that I was not there for you when your dad passed. You were there for me and supported me when I chose to leave. Whereas when you were in the same situation, I was not here to comfort or support you. You stayed here alone because of me.”

He cried out to the girl. Anguish filling his voice.

She pulled on his jacket so that they were a breath apart. His breath caught in his throat as he looked into her eyes. They were not dull as Anne had described. They held fire, and determination, and love.

“I did not stay because you told me to Gilbert Blythe. I stayed because I wanted to. I wanted to stay in my home and wait for the boy I love. Not because he asked but because it was my choice. Is that clear.”

They stared deep into each other’s eyes. 

“I love you too.” He said breathlessly. 

Once again, Gilbert had left the girl shocked. 

“What?” she gasped.

He smiled, a small chuckle leaving his lips. 

“You said you waited for the boy you loved not because I asked you to stay. So, I love you too.” 

Still stuck in a daze, she stood there as Gilbert place his hands on the nape of her neck, untying the strip that had not left her neck since he disappeared. Taking the ring off of the string, he placed it onto her ring finger on her left hand.

Her voice caught in her throat. In the ten minutes that Gilbert had been in her home, he had surprised her and caused her to be speechless longer than anyone in her life ever have.

“I loved you before I left, and I love you now. I promised that when I came back that we would speak about our relationship. But I know now may not be the best time, and if you are not ready, I completely understand. I will wait however long it takes for you. But I believe we are passed the stage of boyfriend and girlfriend. We’ve been in love longer than many adults we know. You may only be 15 and I 17, but we have faced a lot more than many children in Avonlea. So, will you, Y/Fu/N, do me the honour of being my wife? Even if it means we are engaged for years on end, it would make me feel like the king of the world.’

Gilbert looked at Y/N with baited breath. Y/N looked back with glossy eyes and a frown which slowly formed into a blinding smile.

“Course I will marry you Blythe.” She chuckled.

Joy radiated from both the teenagers, as Gilbert pulled Y/N into a searing kiss. It was passionate and full of the emotion they had held for one another for years. Y/N pulled back for air, leaving little pecks before fully letting go.

She had missed her Gilbert, and she still missed her father. But he was there in spirit and Gilbert was home. They were each other’s future and it looked extremely bright in the cold dreary hallway of Y/N’s house. 

With his arms wrapped around her waist he led her to her hat and coat by the door.

“Now” he said as he helped her slip on her coat and hat.

“I have an important person for you to meet. I think you two are going to get on very well.”

Y/N pulled her coat around her and turned to Gilbert. Slipping her hands around his neck she pecked his lips.

“Lead the way Mr. Blythe.”

He smiled, opening the door.

“After you soon to be Mrs Blythe.”

The girl giggled, linking her hand with Gilbert’s free one, pulling him out the door and towards his home, ready to meet Bash and ready for what the future will entail. She was finally happy again. He was happy to be home. To be with Y/N. 

His soon to be wife.

A/N- I love it. AHHHH. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it. x

[theresonlysofarnewmoneygoes]

hello! nine hundred million years ago I wrote a fic of the restaurant scene pottermore described and I found it this afternoon in my notes. so here that is, and you can read it on ff.net or ao3 if you want to~

Lily Evans has never been a fan of the calm before the storm. She didn't particularly care for surprises, especially surprises where she knew nothing good was going to happen. While her boyfriend might be thrilled when Sirius sent down owls from his dorm to the Great Hall with notes saying things like Middle of Hogsmeade, three o'clock in the morning, don't bring your wands, it's a surprise, Lily most certainly was not.

That was why she didn't agree to this evening out with Petunia, her horrid fiancé Vernon, and James, sweet James, who had no idea what was in store for him.

"It'll be fun!" he said. "It's a double date. It's brilliant. The lads and I do it all the time."

"James, the four of you going out to the Three Broomsticks is not a double date."

"'Course it is, we sit across from each other, don't we?"

Lily had sighed, knowing he was trying to loosen her up, get her in a better mood, but it was just like she told her mother: this could only go one way.

"Nonsense, dear," she had laughed. "And Petunia desperately wants to meet with you!"

"Mum, I know that's not true, honestly," Lily said, ignoring the fact that she so very much wanted it to be. She missed her sister. They had been best friends when they were younger, braiding each others hair, baking biscuits together Sunday afternoons, daily trips to the market in the summer hols for ice lollies, and laughing, laughing all the while long.

But her sister had become someone else. She hadn't laughed in front of Lily in nearly seven years.

"There's no point, Mum," Lily said wearily. "Honestly, it's not like I haven't tried! Why can't you just let it go?"

"When you have two daughters who refuse to speak to each other, you tell me if you're willing to 'just let it go'," her mother said, temper rising slightly. "You're going, you'll bring James, Petunia's going, she'll bring Vernon. That's final."

And so here she was, sitting with James on her right, and Tuney and Vernon across.

They had ordered, Vernon and Petunia looking at James like he was a madman when he casually mentioned it was a shame there wasn't any Firewhiskey on the alcoholic menu.

"Well, I don't blame you at all for being late," Vernon said, breaking the silence, and starting the storm. Lily put her fork down.

James nodded, giving Lily a funny look. "Thanks."

"After all," Vernon said, in a rather loud voice, "it is the four hundred."

Oh, sweet Merlin.

"Sorry?" said James, being perfectly polite.

"The four hundred."

"Er... yeah, I heard you."

Vernon raised his eyebrows.

"You mean, you've never heard of the four hundred?" Petunia said, in a voice filled with what Lily knew was a mocking horror.

Lily glared at her sister. Of course he didn't know, she knew full well he didn't. Petunia avoided her sister's gaze.

"Er, no, I haven't, sorry. What is it?"

Vernon looked as if James were some sort of animal.

"Is it... a computer?"

"It's a car, James,” Lily said. "Just his car."

"The Ferrari 400," Vernon said importantly.

"Oh, a car!" James said enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah, I love cars. They're so funny. I don't have one. My mate Sirius has got a motorcycle, though."

"Hmm," Petunia said.

"And do you ride along the back?" Vernon asked, venomous sarcasm and contempt dripping from his voice.

Lily was about to signal for the waitress to bring over the check--who cares if she had barely started on her appetiser--when James said, eyes narrowed, "No, I have the Nimbus 1001."

"The--what is that, Italian?"

"English. They make them in Bath."

"Bath? What company makes cars--"

"Brooms."

"Sorry?"

"Brooms. I fly a Nimbus 1001 broomstick."

Oh, God.

Lily couldn't even bring herself to look at Vernon and Petunia's faces.

"You..."

"I fly a broomstick," James said in a slightly louder voice.

Lily still didn't look.

"I'm captain of Gryffindor's Quidditch team," he said.

Not looking, not talking, Lily thought. Can't make it worse if I don't do anything at all.

"You... have a broomstick?" Vernon said faintly.

"Live on it," James said, grinning.

Lily put her head in her hands.

"You live on your broomstick?" said Vernon and Petunia at the same time.

"Just about, yeah."

"And--and what about your parents?" Vernon sputtered.

"Well," James said, "I reckon my mum prefers to be indoors, but, er, yeah. Them too, I guess."

"Well," Vernon said. "I guess we know who's paying for dinner, eh, Petunia?"

Lily, who was reaching for her glass, put her hand down. As Petunia tittered, she felt positively ill.

"Not to worry, though," Vernon said. "I'm already making twenty-thousand a year. And I'm expecting a promotion."

James nodded. "My dad used to make thirty-thousand in Galleons each year, but he's retired now."

Vernon and Petunia looked at each other, then back at James.

"On top of the family fortune," James said, looking at Lily.

She couldn't meet his eyes. He was trying to gain approval in their eyes, she knew, and she loved him for it, but he couldn't win at their game. That was the game.

"Are you mocking me, Potter?" Vernon said.

"Wha--? No!"

"Petunia, I warned you we shouldn't have come--think you're funny, do you?"

"Yeah, but that's not--"

"My, God--"

"I'll get the car--"

"He didn't do anything, for God's sake!" Lily shouted, standing up, finally bursting. She clenched her fists and they shook. "He's been trying since we sat down and every time you go and one-up him with your stupid four hundred and one dinner, Petunia, one dinner was all Mother wanted--"

"What Mother wanted!" shrieked Petunia. Lily thought the vein in her forehead would burst. "What would you know about what Mother wants! You're up in Scotland running around with--with all those people; you're barely part of our family! You've not spoken to our grandparents in months, off doing God-knows-what, and if this is the kind of riffraff you're doing it with... good riddance, I say!"

And with that, they stormed out of the restaurant.

Lily fell back in her seat and burst into tears. She felt James wrap his arms around her, and felt the eyes of everyone in the place on them.

"Right," he said softly. "Right, Lils... Let's get out of here."

Lily let James lead her out to the parking lot. He held her tightly and they Disapparated back to Hogsmeade.

"We don't have to talk about it," he said. "But you should know you're the greatest person I've ever met and I would be so, so honoured and thrilled to be your family one day."

Lily smiled and wiped her eyes.

"I'm kidding," James said. "Obviously, I already am."

Lily laughed, tears still pouring down her cheeks. James wiped some away and kissed her.

"You don't... need her. You'll be okay."

Lily looked up at him. "Let's just... walk back."

"Okay," he said. He was quiet for a moment. Then he said softly, “I’m sorry.”

“No, James...”

“I shouldn’t have reacted, I should’ve tried--”

“I don’t put the blame on you for a second, James--”

“Well, I don’t care who the blame is on, this was important to you, and now you’re upset. You’re crying. And it’s my job to keep you happy, so I’m putting blame on myself here, for this.”

Lily wiped her eyes again. “It was over before it started,” she said, voice shaky. “It’s been over for years. So you never really stood a chance.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.

"You don’t have to even bother with them.”

“Yes, I do. She’s your sister. It’s important to you and that makes it important to me.”

“I love you," she said. "Thanks. For even coming."

"No," he said. "Don't even... whatever. I love you too."

"Good."

"Yeah.

"Yeah."

"Well... Should we race to the carriages?"

"Erm, no."

"No?"

"No."

"Okay. But just so you know... I would win."

"You would not," Lily said.

It was arguments in the snow, which wasn't exactly ice lollies in the sun, but if there was one thing Lily Evans knew for certain it was that different didn't always mean bad.

That, and she really, really loved a hurricane-haired, tree bark-skinned, forest-eyed boy.