#thank you so much for the prompt i had so much fun write this!!

[finelinevogue]

For prompt list, number 39 Harry Styles friends to lovers? Love your writing 🩷

thank you my lovely!!! you’re so kind💖💖

>500 words

“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

You stood and watched Harry as he scoffed at your question.

His bedroom in his university flat didn’t seem so big anymore with the two of you raging at each other.

You had come to visit Harry, your best friend, for the weekend, as you hadn’t seem him since you’d both moved away from home and off to university. It just so happened that Harry’s flat was hosting a flat party - so subsequently you’d been invited.

It had been going well.

You’d met Harry’s flatmates and they were lovely. You’d gotten ready with the girls in his flat whilst the boys went to the off-licence for drinks. The party had lots of people and it was fun. Perhaps a little too fun, or at least it had been when Harry had caught you.

“You were talking to Oliver.” Harry stressed, running a hand through his soft hair.

“And?” You exclaimed.

“He’s my fucking roommate.”

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that.” You glared at him, chest heaving as you pointed at him.

Harry’s tense brows dropped then, finally allowing himself a moment of calm. It was just you two in his bedroom - no one else. More importantly, no Oliver.

“I’m sorry.”

Harry huffed before slumping down on his tidy bed. Harry had always been very neat and orderly. It was one of the things you loved about him. Well, that and a list of another hundred things or so.

It was getting more and more difficult to keep that love a secret though.

It was clear that you both had feelings for one another. It was evident in the way that Harry didn’t exactly like you and Oliver cosying up to one another. It was evident in the way you’d decided to come down this weekend because you missed him so much and were scared he might’ve moved on.

Perhaps you were both idiots.

You slumped down next to Harry, forcefully taking one of his hands in yours and holding it tight before resting your head on his shoulder.

“I don’t like Oliver like that, just for reference.” You said quietly.

“I know. I could tell by the way you kept drinking rather than talking. Normally I can’t get you to shut up and yet with Oliver there was more silence than anything.” Harry chuckled beside you, making your head wobble against his shoulder.

You couldn’t help but smile at how well Harry knew you and all your tells.

“He was talking about his grandmothers Christmas bauble collection. It wasn’t exactly a riveting conversation.” You laughed. “He does seem like a good friend though.”

“He is.”

“So why’d you pull me away from him?” You took your head off his shoulder to look at him properly.

He nervously looked down before looking back at you, needing to keep ahold of your hand for support.

“I think you know.”

You gave him a small smile, accompanied by a minor blush. You nodded and watched his smile become bashful at your agreement.

Harry chuckled to himself as he looked away from you, trying to focus on something that would stop him grinning from ear to ear but it was proving quite difficult - especially when you’d both admitted to something as big as feelings.

“So what now?” He asked you.

“Well… You could ask me out? I might say yes.”

He turned to look at you with a cheeky smirk, “Or we could skip all that and you just let me kiss you?”

You stood up then - moving away from temptation.

“No. I don’t kiss on the first date and I definitely don’t make exceptions for my best friend.”

“Still your best friend, hmm?” Harry leaned back on his arms, stretched behind him on his bed as we watched you.

“You’ll always be my best friend, H. This time, though, I’ll just get to kiss my best friend too.”

[heylittleriotact]

⚰ＷＩＰ ＷＨＥＮＥＶＥＲ⚰

I've been tagged by @xxnashiraxx and love seeing their work pop up on my dash - thank you <3

The Soup du Jour is... smut! Plotless, pointless, porntacular, horny Emmrook smut.

We've got praise kinks, we've got flashing, we've got grinding, we've got trying-to-distract-this-poor-man-from-his-work, we've got Rook biting off more than she can chew when Emmrich calls her bluff. It is in this piece that I am (ultimately) going to make good on my threat of Emmrich reciting erotic poetry intimately into Rook's ear while he makes deeply passionate love to her, because that idea has lived rent-free in my head for days now and I need to manifest it. But first I need Rook to be a brat, and for Emmrich to... deal with that.

I was having doubts about this one because I am forever afraid of writing OOC, but honestly I'm just trying to chuck it in the fuck it bucket and have fun.

Tagging: @preciouslittlebhaalbae (you have TIME now MWAHAHAHA), @allofthebarks (don't hold out on me), @emmg (I know you're cooking 👀)

Under the cut because it is ✨EXPLICIT✨

𝒱𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃:

A funeral event where the prepared body of the deceased is reposed in the casket (open or closed) so that mourners may pay their respects, say their goodbyes, and grieve communally prior to the formal funeral service.

She knew exactly what she was doing when she pulled on the flimsy little camisole. She had very specific plans in mind when she slipped into the thin leggings that she knew were just a little too tight. There was a distinct reason she had chosen to completely forgo underthings. 

She tied her thick hair into a low bun at the base of her skull so her neck was clearly visible… as was the somewhat faded love bite from their previous encounter - the one that made Lace turn beetroot when she laid eyes on it at breakfast. The one that prompted Taash to reach over the table with a congratulatory high five. Emmrich had coughed awkwardly and subtly adjusted his own collar, clearly hoping the marks Amina had left on his neck in return were concealed.

She padded barefoot down the hallway to the laboratory, stomach fluttering and turning on itself in a not unpleasant way with the sheer anticipation of being in his proximity again. She couldn’t help but be drawn to him - his immense gravity could not be ignored; her need to be near him was insistent. She put little stock in the novelty of fate before Emmrich, but there was no doubt in her mind that there must have been some sort of cosmic ruling in which they were unwittingly sentenced by the stars to find one another. Her belly smouldered at the thought of such a thing… of such belonging.

She knocked gently on the door. “It’s me - may I come in?” 

She didn’t have to wait for an answer, nor did she have to turn the knob herself: she heard a chair scuff over the flagstone, the muffled jingle of gold - a sound that set her heart racing more often than not these days - and the door was flung open. Emmrich stood in the threshold, beaming affectionately down at her. 

“Of course, darling.” He took her hand and pulled her into the room, reaching over her shoulder to shut the door once she was inside. She might have been embarrassed that the sound of the lock clicking behind her made her breath catch solely due to its implication, but she was having a hard time feeling much of anything but barely restrained lust for the man in front of her. 

He drew her in close with an arm around her waist, still holding her hand between them, massaging her palm with his thumb as he bowed his head to kiss her sweetly. Her knees went weak when his lips met hers and his familiar scent filled her nose, rendering her brain incapable of anything other than inwardly chanting the same base sentiment over and over for as long as the kiss lasted: Home! Home! Home! Home! You’re home!

He straightened and looked at her, smiling as though he hadn’t heard the hungry little moan that had slipped from her, nor perceived the way she’d pressed as much of her body against him as she could during their embrace. “How are you today?” He asked, genuinely interested - as always. He knew. Surely he knew that she was positively bursting with need for him.

“Fine,” she breathed, returning the smile, watching as he started back towards the desk that was covered with books, inkpots, and parchment. “I’m well, thank you. Just thought I’d come say hello, see what you’re up to.”  

He pulled a chair over to the opposite side of the desk for her to sit on. She opted to remain standing instead, her eyes flitted over the pages of drying ink spread over the desk. 

“More letters home?” She waited until he was settled in his chair again, the quill back in his hand, and she bent at the waist to take a closer look at a recent anatomical drawing he’d completed. She could feel the cozy heat of the laboratory caress the exposed peaks of her breasts as the insubstantial shirt draped downward, offering a generous eyeful to anyone who might be sitting directly across from her. 

Her eyes flicked up from the drawing when Emmrich didn’t answer right away, a clever smile pulling at the corners of her mouth when she caught him red-handed; his eyes locked on the dainty swell of her breasts. 

He came to his senses when he felt her eyes on him and he comprehended the coquettish smirk on her face. “Yes.” He licked his lips. “Yes. Maintaining alliships and channels of communication is vital as we draw closer to our confrontation with the gods.” He swallowed and smiled again as Amina straightened and rounded the desk, settling against the wood on his side now.

“A fine plan,” she concurred, leaning back on her hands, her very visible nipples more or less eye level for the handsome academic to admire. “I hope I’m not distracting you: it’s so rare that I get a few hours to just relax these days.” She made a bit of a show of tilting her chin up and slowly rolling her head from side to side, stretching out the muscles of her neck and making sure Emmrich could see the soft plum-tinted bloom of colour he’d imparted on her skin as he sent her over the edge with his name on her lips, buried to the hilt between her legs as she clenched hard around him, her fingers curled tightly in his soft, thick hair. ‘You are incredible, darling,’ he had sighed against her tingling skin afterwards when they were little more than a tangled, panting heap of limbs. It had taken a good hour after that before she could walk again…

Amina squirmed against the desk a little at the thought, aware of the burgeoning wetness that was accumulating at the juncture of her thighs. 

Somehow Emmrich managed to maintain the discipline required to look back at the letter he was working on, his lips curling quaintly. “Not at all, my dear - quite the contrary in fact: I’m so glad that you’re finally taking some time to look after yourself.” He dipped the quill, tapped it once, twice, and then brought it to the paper.

She observed him in silence until he seemingly made peace with the fact that she was not going to sit on the chair he’d brought over for her, and instead pushed his own back slightly, pulling her down onto his lap where she perched gleefully, having gotten what she wanted. 

“I must concede that you are somewhat distracting, so I will need your assistance in proofreading these before they’re sent out - I do have an academic reputation to maintain, regardless of the beautiful woman on my knee.” 

“Is that so?” Amina purred, nuzzling into his neck, her lips barely ghosting over his skin that smelled organic and clean - crisp soap and freshly cut sage… a lingering hint of pipe tobacco and expensive brandy. 

Oh yes, she was going to be one hell of a distraction…

“She sounds like a real piece of work, this woman. It’s a marvel that you get anything done at all with her around.” She tilted her hips ever so slightly. Not enough for it to be claimed that she was trying to get a rise out of him, but enough so that the fingernails of his left hand dug into her side a little where he gripped her. A pleased smile took her lips at the feeling of him against her, already half hard: he could pretend to be aloof and composed all he liked, but she knew that there was only one possible outcome for this encounter. 

“I was just having a similar thought, as it turns out,” he murmured, breath catching slightly when Amina ground against him more deliberately this time. “She’s cornered me in my laboratory no fewer than three times this week, you see: my productivity has utterly plummeted.”

The way he whispered those words, his voice so sinful and cunning…

“Oh dear…” Amina tutted. “Well we can’t have that now, can we?” She moved to slide from his lap, fully prepared to at least pretend that she cared a whit about Emmrich’s ‘productivity’ of late. 

He held her fast though, keeping her on his lap with his hands and arms, and the sheer fact of his existence alone. She rewarded him with a satisfied hum and another agonizingly slow roll of her hips, suspecting that she was probably beginning to soak through her thin pants.

His hand dropped from her waist to her thigh and he palmed the expanse of hard muscle there, dragging his fingers towards her hip as he leaned forward and his hot breath washed over the sensitive shell of her ear, driving a small gasp from her as she flinched in his grasp: he had not been idly boasting during that dinner date about his anatomical prowess.

“I fear I wouldn’t have it any other way…” he confided, those artful, nimble fingers of his straying to her waistband and slipping beneath it. He sharply inhaled through his teeth and uttered a soft ‘oh’ when he found her waiting for him, slick and needy. There was a slight tremor in his voice when he said, “She is intoxicating, you see…”

She moaned encouragingly as he swirled a finger through her, clearly enjoying the experience of her arousal alone: she could distinctly feel his hardness against her rear now.

Oh how she longed to ravish him - ride him to completion on this very chair, or on the floor perhaps. Maybe against one of the many bookshelves that lined the room - they had dallied against one the week before, her leg hitched up around his thin waist, pulling him deeper as he set a pace that stole her breath from her lungs and hit angles that caused her to see stars. 

Or she could bend over the railing of the balcony upstairs and feign interest in the curious nature of their environs while he slammed into her over and over again, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips… 

Of course there had been the rather awkward instance a few days earlier where Manfred had wandered in on them both in a state of partial undress: Emmrich’s waistcoat hanging open, Amina dragging her hands through his hair, her own shirt piled in a careless heap on the floor nearby and Emmrich’s hand down her pants as she tried to kick off her high-heeled lilac slippers without removing her lips from his skin. Manfred had launched himself between the two of them with a consternated hiss, clearly interpreting their entanglement to mean they were fighting instead of well… the other thing. The following day, Emmrich gave his first in a series of many lectures to Manfred about the birds and the bees - and reiterated the invaluable virtue of always knocking before entering a room that might have someone else in it.

She was snapped from her musing at the sublime sensation of Emmrich’s finger dragging along the ridges of her walls as he slid the digit inside of her. She let out a small gasp at the intrusion and reflexively clenched around it, hips rocking against his once more. 

“... but I really must finish these letters.” There was a playful, coy edge to his voice as he slowly withdrew his finger and slowly pushed it back in. “This striking woman of mine will need to exercise patience today, it seems…”

Something about being his striking woman in particular sent a jolt of arousal straight through her very soul. She could feel the cool metal of his rings against her feverish skin as he cupped her sex, his thumb brushing almost tauntingly over her aching clit. 

“Please, Emmrich…” she whined, arching up into his touch, making her need plain. 

The demonstration of manners earned her a second finger, but her lover did not deviate from his task as he leaned forward, dipped the quill, and began to write once more. “In good time, my precious love,” he soothed. “Try to relax for the time being - I shan’t take long.” 

“It feels so good though…” 

“That’s wonderful, darling - I want you to feel good.” 

She fell silent, the wind in the sails of her desire to argue stilling as she let her head fall against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, allowing herself to exist in the moment - holding on tight to every emphatic response of her nervous system as Emmrich touched her with a capable familiarity that suggested he’d touched her a thousand times before; the erotic symphony of the quill scratching over the parchment mingled with the sound of his fingers moving within her… her breathy moans… his many bangles shifting gently with each purposeful gesture…

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured eventually - she had lost track of time - kissing her shoulder before returning to the letter. He had to be nearly done, hadn’t he? “So good for me… my sweet Amina…”

She whimpered at his words - the reverent praise tolling something deep within her that was starved and lonely. She writhed on his thigh as he placed tender kisses all over her cheek and crooked his fingers, stroking that euphoric place inside of her that made cognizant thought impossible and made her thighs tremble like she’d been in the training hall all day. He took her apart slowly, casually… effortlessly, and before long she was fluttering around him, cheeks and lips flushed a delicate pink, staring down an orgasm that was about to be everyone in the building’s business - she could feel it: the deep fire in her belly roiling and twisting on itself, going taut, so tense and eager that one more touch could snap it, yielding the most decadent release…

And then he was gone, the absence of his touch keenly felt as her walls flexed and tensed around the sudden nothingness. 

She glowered at him, though her stomach flip-flopped enthusiastically as she watched him taste her on his slender fingers with a dignified poise she should have expected. “That was cruel.”

“Is it cruel to strive to linger in a garden of untold majesty forever, even knowing forever is unobtainable?” He stroked those same fingers gently over her lips and she caught the tip of one between her teeth, flicking the very tip of her tongue over the fleshy pad of it. “I want to savour you, my dear.” He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled her scent. “Let me take my time.”

[roomwithanopenfire]

Happy Sunday Everyone!! Thanks for the tag @talentpiper11 !!!

Twas the day before Carry On Countdown...

Guys, about a month ago, I looked at the COC prompt list, and was like... "i have no time but it can't hurt to look at the prompts and see what kind of ideas I'd have... okay, maybe we put them all in a google sheet so I can write down my ideas... okay, maybe we cross reference things with my Fic Ideas google doc and see if any else fits... okay, maybe i'll write a few of them."

Anyways, now I have over half of the prompts written and several more of them on the way, so I will be doing most—if not all—of the prompts this year and I am so excited!! I haven't really written a lot of short form fics ever. I only have a handful of oneshots on my AO3 and most of those took me forever to write, so trying to write a lot of short fics quickly was a challenge to say the least. But, I actually had so much fun writing them, and I'm super excited to share! Hopefully you guys won't all get sick of me and my endless posting this coming month loll

Here's a snip from what I'm posting tomorrow!!

Baz’s eyebrows raise with interest when I set the music box down on the table. He’s used to me returning from Lady Ruth’s with some new item, anything from a “leftover” three-tiered cake to a new armoire; she never lets me leave empty handed.  “It was my mum’s,” I tell him before he asks. “A music box.” “Is it magikcal?” I shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.” Baz raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think so?” “I didn’t ask.”

Tags and Hellos under the Cut

@alexalexinii @angelsfalling16 @aristocratic-otter @artsyunderstudy @arthurkko

@beastmonstertitan @blackberrysummerblog @best--dress @bookish-bogwitch @brendughh

@brilla-brilla-estrellita @cccloudsss @cutestkilla @drowninginships @facewithoutheart

@emeryhall @fiend-for-culture @hertragedyconnoisseur @horsesarenotdeer @hushed-chorus

@iamamythologicalcreature @ileadacharmedlife @larkral @meanjeansjeans @m1ndwinder

@monbons @nausikaaa @noblecorgi @prettygoododds @raenestee

@rimeswithpurple @run-for-chamo-miles @rbkzz @shrekgogurt

@skee3000 @supercutedinosaurs @sweetronancer @thewholelemon @valeffelees

@you-remind-me-of-the-babe

[victoriadallonfan]

End of Act 1 - Author Thoughts

So, this concludes Act 1 of Dead Eye. 

​It's been a struggle for me to write this afterthought piece, because I have learned so much from writing this original story.

This was not the first time I've written original fiction, of course. I had a brief attempt at a web serial back in late 2016 (I can't even remember the name of it), I've written numerous short fiction stories for Reddit Writing Prompts, and I've dropped some short stories here in Creative Writing in the past. Not to mention contest submissions over the years IRL (nothing gained unfortunately).

However, what made this different is that I actually committed to the act of finishing an entire arc and do my best to flesh out the characters as much as possible. I kept a plan, I followed it, and I tried to make it enjoyable for the readership.

​Admittedly, going from the hundreds of likes and views of my fanfic to the thirty or dozen on these posts felt initially disheartening. 

Initially.

But then I realized that I wasn't thinking about things in perspective. I was no longer using larger fandoms as a crutch for engagement or relying on readers already having a basic understanding of the characters: I was needing to WORK and gain the TRUST of the readers for a totally experimental project.

And bonus, I got amazing comments and analysis each chapter, with people seeming to really enjoy the mystery and action I wrote. I got people investing in characters in just a little under 30k words, which I think is pretty darn decent!

Is there room for improvement? Yes, absolutely. I ended up unhappy with how little screen time Milian got, but a lot of my plans for him involved future plot points that couldn't fit within 6 chapters that I challenged myself. I struggled a lot with describing the city (because I find building descriptions boring), and perhaps I made the tension between Sabra and Persa a bit too thick?

More things I could discuss on that, but there are also things I'm proud of. I really enjoyed the action set pieces and how I distinguished character behavior. I really like that my magic system (based on me noticing how special eyes are so prevalent in fiction, why not make an entire system set around them?) flowed so easily for me to write, and that it allowed me to do fun things with the world. Giant glowing eyeball in the sky makes me giggle all the time.

​So, what is the plan going forward?

For now, there will be a small intermission. I would like to get back into Janus and HITF, maybe do some other fanworks too, just to flex my brain a bit from being in Persa's pov for so long.

The plan is that after a month or two, I will then return for Dead Eye - Act 2 for another 6 arc continuation.

Finally, I want to say: Thank You

Thank you to everyone who supported me, be it by like, comment, or Ko-Fi donation. It was you who kept me going, and made me achieve a dream of becoming an actual author of original fiction.

I promise I won't let you down!

[sustainably-du-mortain]

I'm not afraid of you - for the polyam. If you're taking requests?

I know these were supposed to be fluff prompts but apparently I cannot write anything soft without Jonah through pain first, so have some hurt/comfort!

'I'm not afraid of you'

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Pairing: Adam du Mortain x m!detective (Jonah Rafferty) x Nate Sewell Word count: ~1.6k prompt list here

Something is wrong.

Jonah hasn’t said a word since he got back from his apartment, although the quiet is not something unusual for the three of them, the fact that Bo’s fur is bristling and that the dog hasn’t left their boyfriends side since they got back is a clear indicator that something happened while they were away.

“Jonah?” Nate’s voice breaks the heavy silence, worry seeping through the name, but Jonah doesn’t seem to hear it, or if he does, he ignores it. Instead he keeps on scribbling frantically in his notebook.

Adam cannot see what he’s writing from where he’s sitting but, the way his hand follows the same pattern of movements repeatedly, tells him that Jonah has been writing the same words over and over since he sat down.

“Jonah?” This time he’s the one trying to grab their boyfriend's attention but, just like the first time, calling his name doesn’t get him any reaction, or at least not the one he hoped for.

Jonah’s scribbling grows more frenetic. Desperate even. He starts underlining certain words, each line he draws sounding like a knife slicing the tense silence. His breathing becomes erratic. He circles one word. Again and again. The motion like a rope that coils around one’s neck. Suffocating. Until finally, the paper tears and Jonah’s pencil’s snaps in his hand. Sobs follow, ripping away their heart as the sound echoes through the room.

Adam is kneeling before him in a flash, Nate stands next to him in the next.

Cautiously, Adam puts a hand on his knee, but Jonah flinches away as if the touch singed him. Adam can almost hear his heart shattering in his chest. His eyes riveted to his hands, he takes a step back. Tears well in his eyes as Nate takes his place before Jonah. 

A wail, brings his focus back on Jonah and he takes Nate’s previous place beside their boyfriend. He doesn’t have time to feel monstrous, not when Jonah needs them.

“Jonah?” Nate’s voice is hesitant but gentle. “Jonah, can you look at me?”

He doesn’t move. His face is buried in his hands and he’s slightly rocking back and forth in his chair. Nate throws a desperate look towards Adam, looking for help, but he is as lost as Nate is: their boyfriend is right before them and yet they have no idea how to reach him. If they could just get him to look at them.

“Ya rouhi…” The petname is tinted with a hint of despair and concern. “I’m going to touch your hands, if that’s okay with you?” Nate warns him. He waits for a sign that Jonah heard him, but it never comes. Yet, in hopes that the warning made its way through, Nate slowly reaches for his hands, ready to back away at any sign of discomfort from Jonah.

When Jonah lets him put his hands over his, Nate starts softly rubbing circles on the back of his hands. Adam watches as their boyfriend relaxes a little at the gesture, until he allows Nate to peel his hands away from his face.

“Hi…” Nate whispers with a smile when their eyes finally meet, although he’s not sure Jonah can see him through the stream of tears. “Now I want you to take a deep breath with me, do you think you can do that?”

Nate breathes in and Jonah joins him. Nate doesn’t let go of his hands the whole time. 

“You’re doing great, my love. One more time.”

Adam’s eyes fall on the open notebook while they do it a few more times. Covering every square inch of the page, he can barely decipher the five words etched over and over again into the paper.

‘I’m not afraid of you’ they read. 

Instantly worry washes over him. What the hell happened while Jonah was at his apartment? Who did he encounter? Did they attack him? He barely holds back from questioning him, knowing this would only make the situation worse. Instead he tries to reign in his concern and takes a deep breath along with his boyfriends.

When the sobbing quiets down, he puts a hand on Jonah’s shoulder who looks up at him, tears still trickling down his face. Adam hesitantly reaches to brush away a strand of hair sticking to his cheek. His heart soothes in his chest when Jonah leans into the touch before wrapping his arms around his waist, pulling him closer. Adam immediately starts raking his fingers through his hair for he knows that Jonah is very fond of the gesture.

They stay like this for a while. Jonah pressed against his stomach. Nate, still kneeling before him, although his head is resting on his lap now. This is an uncomfortable position for the three of them, but this is the one thing they need to ease the remnants of worry and fear which washed over them. So they do not move, not until every single one of them feels better.

“Want to tell us what happened?”

“Who is this about?”

A hoarse chuckle escapes Jonah’s mouth when the two vampires break the quiet at the same time.

“Bobby...” Jonah whispers with an exhausted sigh. He doesn’t need to explain furthermore, the mention of the reporter is enough to make the two vampires tense instantly. 

A few weeks ago, Jonah told them about their shared past, how things ended between them, the impact he had on Jonah’s life and well-being. So the thought of the two of them, alone in Jonah’s apartment, makes Adam’s stomach lurch in his throat. This might be worse than anything he had in mind.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Jonah shakes his head. “Maybe later…”

“Would you like some distraction then?” This time Nate’s question is met with a nod. “Do you have something in mind?”

***

Felix is walking by to get to the kitchen when a scream, coming from the living room, makes him stop in his tracks.

Adam requisitioned the living room earlier this evening, denying the other half of Unit Bravo access to the room for the rest of the night, which of course spurred a lewd quip from Mason. And since Adam did not tell them the reason behind his request, Felix has been dying to take a look inside the living room. So, when another scream escapes from the room, followed closely by three distinct fits of laughter - bright and loud giggles, a low chuckle and a muffled laugh - he can’t help but push the doors of the living room ajar.

“I told you we should have put these pillows here!” Jonah complains just as Felix peeks his head through the door. He hardly manages to hold back a laugh when he sees what’s going on.

Adam and Jonah are standing in front of a massive pillow fort, or at least what is supposed to be a pillow fort, for it seems to have collapsed in on itself, which Felix guesses is the reason for the screams and giggles he heard seconds before. The ruins of the fort take up half of the living room and Felix would have given everything to see it in all of its glorious magnificence. So, he makes up a mental note of sneaking into the living room later on to see it, since they seem to be keen on rebuilding it.

In the meantime he observes as Adam and Jonah stand before the mountain of pillows and sheets, only remnants of the construction, trying to assess the damage. Jonah is actually holding what looks like a construction plan and Felix struggles to bite back the chuckle that threatens to leave the barrier of his lips. He shouldn’t be surprised, these two always take things way too seriously, but a construction plan? For a blanket fort? Really? He wishes he had taken his phone with him, Mason is never going to believe him without proof.

As they start debating over their next course of action, Felix’ eyes travel across the room in search of Nate. He heard him laugh earlier, so he must be somewhere in there. But his focus is caught by the paused image projected on the wall behind them. He recognizes that one movie with the green ogre that Jonah once called a masterpiece and Felix has to admit he’s quite impressed with the fact that he managed to get Nate and Adam to watch it. Adam in particular, seeing that making him sit through an animated movie is a feat Felix hasn’t yet managed to achieve.

Bo, emerging from underneath the collapsed heap of blankets, catches his attention.

With a bark, the dog starts pulling at the sheets when a strange bump suddenly forms into the pile of bed-linen and pillows. 

“I know I cannot actually suffocate, but it would be nice if you two could actually help me out.” This time Felix cannot hold back a snort upon hearing Nate.

The other two immediately rush to haul him out of the wreckage. Jonah helps him up before rising on his tiptoes to land a soft peck on his cheek. Adam does the same on the other cheek.

“I’m sorry we left you in there.” Adam apologizes, his head nuzzling in the crook of his neck when Nate wraps an arm around him.

“Sorry!” Jonah gives him a sheepish smile before joining the hug, that’s when he finally spots him. “Oh, hi Felix!”

“Shit!” 

The vampire slams the door shut, cursing Jonah for revealing his presence. He has to flee before Adam kills him for catching them being all lovey-dovey despite the fact that he was supposedly banned from the living room.

[the-broken-pen]

I adore your writing style! If you want could you do something about a hero with wings?

The villain rounded the corner into the alley just in time to watch the hero nudge the boot of the body in front of them with their foot, face considering.

“For a hero, you kill an awful lot of people,” the villain pointed out, and the hero turned to stare at them, blood splattered across their pure white wings.

“What, that?” The hero kicked the boot of the body strewn across the concrete below them. “This is community service.”

The villain tipped their head at the body. “Does he know that?”

“I think he’s figuring it out,” the hero grinned, and the villain could do nothing more than stare at them, slightly dumb, for a second.

“How the fuck are they still calling you archangel when you keep murdering people in broad daylight.”

The hero shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t even know why they started calling me that in the first place, to be honest.”

The villain made a mocking face at them, and the hero made one back. “Oh, with the pure white wings and dazzling face, I wonder.”

The hero clasped a still bloody hand to their chest. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think you belong in a jar of formaldehyde.”

The hero dropped their hand, sighing. “Funny, because everyone else keeps writing fanfiction in my honor. And trust me, they have very strong opinions on my appearance.”

The hero’s grin couldn’t be described as anything other than catlike, pleased and sharp. Their wings cocked behind them.

“I’m sorry, you read fanfiction about yourself?”

“Don’t be jealous, there’s plenty about you, too.”

The villain spluttered. “I’m not jealous–”

“Sounds like it.”

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t bring that douche canoe into this,” the hero said, looking up. “His ego is the size of the titanic and I am doing my very best to sink that fucker.”

The villain gaped at them. “That is not very ‘innocent angel baby of the media’ of you.”

The hero kicked the boot of the body once more, and the villain winced. “Will you stop that–”

“Oh, sorry,” the hero looked down at the body. “Do you mind?” They turned back to the villain , gesturing with their thumb over their shoulder. “He says he doesn’t mind.”

“Archangel,” the villain repeated. “Fallen angel, saint of the city–”

“Listen, people will excuse anything if it comes from a pretty package.”

“What, so you use your pretty face to get away with murder?”

“No, I commit murder, and I happen to be pretty, and for some reason everyone is plenty fine with excusing the murder because of that fact. I’d be doing it regardless,” the hero confided. “My murderous tendencies continue whether or not I am forgiven for them.”

“What, so you just murder anyone you feel like?”

The hero gasped. “I’m not a monster,” they said, the corner of their mouth twisting into a wry grin. “My mother raised me right.”

The villain got the sense they were on the wrong side of an inside joke.

“That was decidedly not an answer to my question.”

The hero groaned. “You’re absolutely no fun right now. No, I only kill bad people. I’m a good samaritan.”

“I think we need to redefine your idea of what that term means.”

“Okay, if I was going around killing anyone who annoyed me, I would have a way longer rap sheet. Like people who cut in line. Not to mention how fucking annoying it is when someone decides to DIY a summoning circle in their basement and I have to handle that mess. Do you know how annoying it is to get magically butt dialed by a white woman on a random ass Tuesday?”

The villain blinked. “Uh. Can’t say I do, no.”

The hero ran a hand down their face in annoyance, smearing blood behind as they went. The villain cringed, but it didn’t seem to bother the hero in the slightest. 

“It’s really fucking annoying.”

“You also swear a lot,” the villain noted. “Not very heroic.”

“I think we can both agree I remain very firmly planted in the vigilante section of the spectrum,” the hero gestured with their hands to some imaginary chart. The villain squinted at them. “Also, what are you, the language police?”

“Uh,” the villain said, and the hero smiled innocently at them. There really wasn’t anything to say to that. “No?”

“Tell me, you pick up lots of girls with that suave demeanor of yours?”

The villain bristled at that. “You–I–ugh,” the villain groaned. “Did it hurt?”

The hero’s head tipped slightly to the side, endlessly amused. “Hmm?”

“When you fell from heaven,” the villain continued, and it was quite possibly the dumbest thing to have ever come out of their mouth, but this entire conversation bordered on a level of unhinged they hadn’t thought possible. 

The hero blinked once, twice, then burst into laughter, doubling over. Their wings ruffled in a way the villain had long since learned meant amusement.

The villain flushed. 

“You really think I fell from heaven?”

“I don’t know,” the villain said defensively. “It’s just a dumb pick up line–”

“You said it with an awful lot of certainty, though,” the hero countered, and the villain wished they had something to throw at them. 

“What was I supposed to think, with a name like Archangel and blinding white wings?”

The hero shrugged one shoulder.

“Have you ever actually met an angel before?” the hero asked, then amended, “other than me?”

“No,” the villain admitted.

“They don’t go around killing people, that’s for sure. Bunch of stuffy–”

Lightning cracked across the sky, and the ground rumbled slightly.

The hero groaned, wings tucking in. Blood flaked onto the ground. “What, you’re both pissed at me?”

A gust of wind whipped past them, hurtling down the alley, there one second and gone the next, and the hero let out a sigh. “Sorry.”

They did not sound sorry.

“Both?”

The hero looked back at them, and this time when they grinned, it was slightly sheepish.

“Yeah,” they said. “God, and, you know. My mom. Raised me right, remember?”

The villain was an idiot.

“You didn’t fall,” the villain confirmed, and the hero nodded their head. “Though I’m sure you absolutely would have earned that by now, if you were going to.”

The hero reared back, like they were about to spit something rude, but the villain continued before they could.

“Please, please tell me your father isn’t Lucifer,” the villain said, and the hero rubbed a hand across the back of their neck.

They laughed slightly. “Uh. About that.”

“Oh my god,” the villain said, and the hero didn’t even look upset about the reference. “You’re from hell.”

“You could call me an avid climber,” the hero offered, and the villain just looked at them.

“You’re an angel from hell,” the villain said.

“Technically, I’m an archangel from hell. So like, the media wasn’t exactly wrong with that one.”

The villain could write a killer memoir about this.

“This makes so much sense.”

The hero frowned. “I don’t like the implications of that.”

“You literally kill people.”

“Bad people,” the hero corrected. “We’ve discussed this.”

“I feel like that violates some sort of cosmic rule. There has to be some rule that breaks.”

“What?”

The villain gestured vaguely. “You’re self supplying your hometown.”

The hero laughed at that. 

“This really is not that big of a deal.”

“You’re a nepo baby.”

“And you’re awfully comfortable saying that to a literal child of satan.”

“If you wanted me dead, I would be.”

The hero weighed their head from side to side. Their wings moved behind them, as if they, too, were considering. “True.”

The villain found themself rubbing a hand over their brow. “You kill people, and you get away with it because you’re pretty, and people think you’re a child of god. When actually, you’re a child of Satan, and you crawled your way out of hell to wreak havoc on my life.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly why I did it,” the hero said dryly. “To fuck with you.”

“I would not put it past you,” the villain countered. 

“You were not my reason,” the hero said. They slid a step closer, hand curling into the villain’s collar, and the villain's mouth went dry. “But you are awfully pretty.”

“You’re literally an angel–”

“Which means it’s high praise,” the hero murmured, wings curving over the tops of their shoulders, and up close they looked even softer than the villain had thought they would. Their eyes stayed firmly planted on the villain’s lips, and the villain had no idea how they had gotten here but they were confused about it and also not quite mad–

“If you’re trying to woo me to distract me from the fact that you’re a dark angel, it’s not working.”

“Isn’t it?”

The villain swallowed. 

“You know, all that fan media includes you,” the hero said casually, and the villain’s heart skipped a beat.

“What?”

“You really thought I read it just for me?” the hero grinned, stepping back, hand falling away from the villain. “Oh, please.”

The villain opened their mouth to say anything, then closed it, then opened it again.

The hero’s eyes were laughing at them.

“Maybe the bloodshed is partially because I want your attention,” the hero mused. “Or maybe not. You’ll never know, will you, human.”

They said it like an endearment.

“You–”

The hero nodded. “Yeah. I tend to do that to people.”

“I don’t–”

“If it means anything,” the hero said as they went to move past the villain. They tucked themselves against the villain, lips brushing the shell of their ear. Their feathers skated down the villain’s bare arm, and they shivered. “My mother approves.”

The villain’s face was hot. They shuddered out a breath. The hero released them, continuing their path down the alleyway, and the villain spun to watch them go.

The hero paused at the mouth of it.

“Oh,” they snapped their fingers like they had remembered something, but their grin said this had been planned. “Her name is Lilith, by the way.”

The villain’s brain short circuited.

Lilith. The mother of all monsters. Lilith, the wife of Lucifer. Lilith, someone who apparently approved of the villain.

‘I’m not a monster. My mother raised me right.’

Oh, this little shit.

The hero laughed, vanishing around the corner, blowing a kiss as they went. The villain could have sworn they had a halo, wings still splattered with blood, and in the arch of the sunlight they were every bit the fallen angel the media thought they were.

“Oh, you beautiful, monstrous, wretched thing,” the villain murmured, but it was fond. “Only you could make damnation look like divinity.”

[wandixx]

I'm not much for naming things but: Danny's associated with green and M'gann's a White Martian, so... Spearmint (like the green and white mint candies)? Just a thought.

Prompt: Magic removed Amity Park from the map. JL didn't notice, but in an Alderaan type moment (Star Wars ref. yay!) The martian on Watchtower monitoring duty heard the residents get silent unanimously.

Of course they need to be investigated! So M'gann gets her watch partner to take over and flies there, discovering an odd green rift of death energy doing a black hole effect and it sucks her in. Danny gets landed on/ flown into when she tumbles through the rift. She tried getting a message through to JL when she felt herself getting sucked in, but the message was not received due to ectoplasmic interference.

So Danny has to figure out how to get her AND Amity Park back home!

(Just a thought. I'm curious how you flesh it out if you do!)

This is such an interesting idea, and it definitely deserves much more story than I can write in single prompt, so this here is just a beginning and I will continue. I hope it's up to your expectations

Also, I really love the Spearmint idea

*****

M’gann understood the importance of monitor duty in Watchtower, she really did. She also understood why they were taught it while still in this gray area between fully dependent sidekicks and fully independent heroes, that was the main reason the Young Justice Team even existed.

It didn’t make it any less boring. Even when she had a decent duty partner. Don't get her wrong, Green Arrow was a much better option than Batman or Superman, it was just awkward. At least he seemed equally done with it and didn't scold her for jumping between satellite cameras just a bit too fast to actually ‘monitor’ anything.

And it was only twenty minutes into the two hour shift.

One of the sixty (or so) screens, the one directly in front of her, blinked to the view of the American Midwest. She was about to skip further, when a sudden movement caught her attention. She clicked a few keys to review the footage and asked, still unsure if her eyes weren't deceiving her.

“Did the entire city… just disappear?“

Green Arrow nodded, equally stunned.

“I'm going to check this out” she spluttered, already flying out of the room and doing her best to get Zeta to send her as close as possible. It was a bit tricky when she couldn't see the keyboard. She managed though, so before the adult hero even finished yelling that it was above her skill level, she was out.

From there, getting to the disappeared city was a piece of cake.

She stopped right in tracks when the thing came in view. M'gann had no idea how to describe it. It was a green and white and black storm but not, glass, see-through dome but not, deep space but also decidedly not. It made her want to run away but also come closer, almost like it was tugging at her. Like some pseudo, mental in nature, gravitation.

Oh, wait, no. It was an actual, physical force that after a quick test turned out to be inescapable for her.

Green Arrow, perhaps, maybe probably was kinda right. It was so high above her skill level that a balled napkin from this height would cause serious damage. Thank Batman for comms that she could use to call a backup!

The comms, that, of course, didn't work the one time she needed them.

She sent the message anyway, describing everything to the best of her ability, even though it was only a tip of the iceberg. Just in case, if the magical storm thing just made her comm one way communication only. It was highly unlikely, but who was she, if not an optimist.

She barely closed her mouth, when she was jerked sideways before the whole world became blurred.

She later would have a hard time telling anyone how it felt, to be inside the thing. She was basically powerless, thrown around randomly despite clearly keeping all of her abilities. She couldn't see, couldn't tell which way was up and down, couldn't change direction even a little bit. The rumble of the thing was so loud she couldn't hear her thoughts, throwing her brain so off the loop she forgot what her name was. She was crying probably, almost puking, her limbs hitting any and every part of her body.

At first, she didn't even realize she was out, so dazed from the ride. She didn't even see the flying boy until a while after she crashed into him, throwing them both off the sky. Neither of them caught them before they slammed into the ground. Somehow she ended up cushioning the boy's fall. M’gann couldn’t breathe for a moment. She kinda deserved it for ramming into him in the first place though.

By the time she could use her lungs and behave like a social creature again, the boy scrambled off her and just crouched, intensely staring, anxious and awestruck at the same time. She sat up and gave him once over herself.

He was around her physical age, but much skinnier than her or anybofnher teammates, build like a twig. He had fluffy, white, almost glowing hair, caucasian complexion, and wore a black and white jumpsuit with a tool belt. Big ‘P’ on his chest indicated he was someone from a hero/villain scene, and from general vibes she got, M’gann was leaning towards a hero. He was kinda cute. She coughed awkwardly when she realized how long they just sat in silence.

“Hi?”

Apparently it was enough to release an incoherent babbling from the boy.

“Hi, um… Miss Martian, ma'am? I'm Phantom. What are you doing here? Is the rest of your Team going to fall off the sky too? Justice League?”

“Not right now probably”

She was ignored. Phantom just kept panicking.

“Is this some of your villain's schemes? Are you alright? You crashed pretty hard, sorry I landed on top of you by the way, do you–?”

“I'm fine, don't worry I got worse”

“Sure…”

“Sorry I threw you off the sky”

“Not your fault, really, it's fi–”

“You asked what I'm doing here. I went on my own to investigate when I saw the city blink out of existence and got sucked in. I'm not sure if my report from site made it through, but they know where I went, so they'll soon come to help, don't worry”

Phantom did not stop worrying.

“Alright, cool, cool” he ran his hand through his hair, tugging at them “The Justice League knows you mysteriously disappeared along with an entire city. This is fine, totally fine, absolutely–”

“You're panicking”

“No shit Sherlock. Someone kidnapped my city again and I have no idea how to fix it because my usual tactic is ‘punch the cause of the problem into submission’ and this time I can't punch the storm. Now you're here so if something happens, I’ll have pissed of Justice League to worry about because, of course, it will be my fault. You could be overshadowed and I have no clue what's going on but I have to fix it as soon as–”

“Breathe Phantom“ she interrupted again, projecting what the Team called ‘calming vibes’. Since it didn't involve outright entering someone's brain and humans almost didn't react to it, it was an okay thing to do without asking even on non-villains. “Remember, I'm a hero, not a damsel in the distress you have to protect non stop”

“Of course, you're not. You're Miss Martian. You're amazing, but it doesn't give me any more of an idea on what's going on nor what to do with Justice League when they come, obviously furious because everyone in Amity and their mother will testify that it was somehow my fault, especially if–”

“Hey, hey, none of that. I know you're a good guy and they’ll too. I will vouch for you if for some reason they get misled”

Phantom looked her in the eyes as if he was trying to read her mind himself without even an ounce of psychic powers. She could tell if he used it.

“I could be a bad guy,” he said seriously after a moment of silence.

“I know you're not”

“You don't know me”

“You spent almost all of our interaction agonizing over how to save your city. It's not typical bad guy behavior”

“I could be acting”

M’gann didn't even dignify it with her response other than an incredulous stare.

“ Alright, if I've been acting, I would be a lot cooler but still… I could be acting!”

“I'm a literal psychic, remember? I didn't read your thoughts, don't worry, I know it's invasive for humans. But I got a general overview of who you are, and your vibes matched pretty well with the vibes of good guys”

“Sure, of course, why not,” he muttered, taking a moment to reboot “Why is this my life now?”

M’gann decided it wasn't to her and well… Phantom wasn't wrong, she didn't know him, so however she'd try to answer it was pretty much hit or miss. But from what she'd seen of him, she was curious to learn more.

“Nevermind, let's get you a Specter Deflector before anyone tries to use you as a meatsuit” he said, catching her wrist to drag her somewhere.

She let him lead her. He still didn’t have any nefarious reasoning, and hey! Maybe she'll finish this adventure with a new teammate!

[Sure M’gann. Just a teammate. Don't worry, Danny won't be a panicked mess all of the time here]

[thedeadthree]

-ˋˏ .·:·. ⊱ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐛𝐲 @pavus — day one: 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞.

— 𝐈𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐑 . 𝐕𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐈 𝐃𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀 . 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄.

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐀𝐒. 𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐎𝐘 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐒.

— 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 (mutuals can opt in/out via 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 <3):

@loriane-elmuerto, @carrionsflower, @auricfog, @girliefailure, @sunsofdawn

@risingsh0t, @griffin-wood, @lilywatt, @full---ofstarlight, @grapecaseschoices

@tommyarashikage, @shadowsofrose, @shadowglens, @weisshaupts, @queennymeria

@deadrlngers, @d-esmond, @courtana, @gothimp, @wlwaerith

@unholymilf, @aezyrraeshh, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @shellibisshe, @florbelles

@celticwoman, @neonshrike, @cloudofbutterflies92, @adelaidedrubman, @carlosoliveiraa

@pinkfey, @spookyrares, @yharnams, @aceghosts, @confidentandgood

@theelderhazelnut, @leviiackrman, @ellierenae, @anoras, @lavampira

@dialdrunk, @full---ofstarlight, @imogenkol

[anachilles]

“So, what’s the prognosis, Doc? Am I gonna live?”

Your firehouse buckies? 😍 or anything else with buck x bucky 💓

omg hi! and please yes give me all the excuses to write my firehouse!au buckies!! (for those who may not be familiar - this is firefighter!bucky and bartender/PhD student!buck) here's a little thing set significantly further along than where we're currently at in the actual fic lol. + shout out to @avonne-writes and their 'who's taking who's surname?' poll and the discourse for inspiring a little part of this lol. currently taking prompts from this list: [ x ]

"So, what's the prognosis, Doc? Am I gonna live?"

His voice hoarse and barely there, trust John to tease him even around the tail end of a thermometer, just as Gale went to pull it from his mouth.

'Suppose he can't be too sick if he still has jokes,' was the first thought that came to Gale's mind. The second thought though, sneaking up hot on the first's heels, was 'John would be cracking jokes on his damn deathbed so that really isn't as much of a reassurance as it should be.'

Gale squinted as he examined the numbers. The light was low in the early winter morning, the sun not having quite fully risen yet. He'd usually have switched even just his own bedside lamp on as he got himself ready to leave for the day, but with John's groan of protest that particular morning, he’d quickly switched off again.

It'd been a restless night, and even though they were both feeling the impact of John's tossing and turning, and the seemingly inability for him to breathe at all through his nose anymore, the man himself just looked downright exhausted with it. He'd eventually managed to fall asleep with his hot, clammy forehead pressed into the back of Gale’s neck, plastered to his back, and Gale hadn’t the heart to try and move him despite how he had then been overheating.

"You know there's another, arguably much more enjoyable way to do that..." John leered, even if half-heartedly, and if only to fill the silence as Gale's eyebrows pinched at whatever he saw on the little digital screen.

See, this is why they'd more or less permanently shacked up at Buck's place rather than his. He had stuff like thermometers lying around. Stuff an actual home has.

Gale looked up at him then, incredulous. "You're really trying to flirt with me, sitting there with a 101 degree fever?" he said, turning the thermometer as if to prove his point. Incredulous, but not surprised; not really.

"Baby, if I'm ever sick enough that I don't want to flirt with you, make you blush all pretty like you do, that's when you should be worried."

Gale had almost been tempted to smile at that, until John had to cut himself off, a sudden bout of congested coughing rattling from his throat.

Capturing the inner corner of his bottom lip between his teeth, Gale sighed, his long legs unfolding from beneath him and as he got up from where he'd been perching on his side of the bed. He crossed to John's bedside, pulling the covers further up around the other man’s chest.

Gale clicked his tongue slightly, though his expression and voice betrayed him in their co-ordinating softness. "All of this because you just had to be the hero and go jump in the damn lake."

Off to the side of them, Maverick jumped up onto the bed, sleepily curling in at Bucky's side in the warm spot Gale had just vacated. She bumped her head against John's hand, eager and impatient as the day Gale met her. John responded without even having to look away from the conversation, his fingers scritching at the especially soft little spot of fur behind each of her ears.

“Hey, I saved someone's life."

Gale wordlessly took his phone from his pocket, showing him the text he'd already gotten from Benny, "Just FYI - let the record show that the guy knew how to swim and your boy did not have to jump in after him."

Uh, since when did his team all acquire his boyfriend's number just for the purposes of ratting him out?

"Well how was I supposed to know that?! It’s called due diligence."

Either way, he'd ended up with what seemed to either be a wicked cold or the beginnings of the flu for his trouble.

"You make up for your lack of sympathy with your excellent bedside manner, Doctor" John said, talking half to himself as Gale strode out to the kitchen at the sound of the kettle whistling.

He continued as the other man reappeared a minute later, a steaming Fire Department-branded mug in one hand, his own filled travel mug in the other. "Huh, that's kind of funny, seeing as you will be and everything. Dr Cleven."

“Not that kind of doctor,” Gale muttered, and John breathed out a faint laugh. He knew the difference, duh, but it was cute when Gale interpreted things so literally sometimes before he could think about it.

Gale quirked a brow as he set the mug down on John’s bedside table, batting aside lozenge wrappers and tissues with the rim of it to make room.

"Y'know what has an even better ring to it, though? Dr Gale Egan..."

When the idea of marriage came up between them, it was always in an abstract, vague kind of sense, underpinned by off-hand comments and passing jokes relaying the image of some version of their life that lay a safe distance away on the horizon. It wasn't right in front of them yet, but it felt comfortably inevitable, which made talking about it casually not really a big deal. One of the more common jokes being what they do in terms of surnames.

Gale could tell John was sentimental about his father's name in a way he himself wasn't about his own. It was never said so outright, but he got the sense that it was either a matter of hyphenating (even with John's arguments that neither Cleven-Egan or Egan-Cleven 'sounded right'), or Gale taking John's.

When Gale thought about the idea of shedding his father's name, he felt so much nothing it almost pissed him off because shouldn't it evoke something? Is that not the most normal reaction to losing such a defining part of your identity, feeling some sense of sadness? Of loss? It felt more to him like shrugging off a grimy, weather-beaten old coat turned threadbare in the elements, not particularly pleasant but reliably familiar. It was simply what he had.

Looking now, he took in the pallid, rheumy face and contrastingly long, firm lines of a man who loved him like John loved him. Who loved him so unshakeably, proved to him over and over seemingly without even really having to try; who made it look easy. Who loved him in a way he didn't think he ever could be loved, or be prompted himself to love like he loved John back.

"Well, then I guess you have until I finish my PhD to marry me."

There was a weird beat of silence and neither seem to be sure whether they were still joking or not.

“You saying you want to marry me? Is that a proposal? A deathbed proposal?” The look that bloomed on John’s face was as adorable as it was utterly insufferable. It was, however, quickly dispelled however by a sudden sneeze. He reached for more tissues, the groan that followed evidently vexed.

It cut through whatever tension had inadvertently bled into the moment, though, and Gale smiled. “Bless you. Tempting proposition that it is…” Gale finally said, as he checked his watch. When he continued, there was an edge of regret in his voice. “If I want to be Dr Anything I’d better get going.”

A noise echoed from John's throat, half displeased, half mournful.

Gale sighed and leant forward, bringing a gentle hand to John's fever-flushed cheek, his thumb stroking lightly on the sharp angle of his cheekbone. "Now, you get some sleep and drink plenty of water, you hear me? You can have more of these here pills in like a couple more hours. I should be home around 3ish, but text me if you need anything or your temperature gets any higher."

His voice was as even and steady as ever, only John could tell he was fretting slightly by how unsettled his hands were, and how they kept touching him, fiddling with the blankets, smoothing things down that were already smoothed down as he spoke.

John reached out and grab Gale's wrist, stilled it, in a odd reversal of their usual roles. "Okay, okay..." he acquiesced lightly, easily, and was immediately rewarded when Gale's fingers laced into the sweat-damp curls that had fallen down into his face, moving them aside so he could press a kiss to his forehead. His lips lingered for an achingly welcome half-beat, before moving to press another to his cheek.

Gale tore himself away then, grabbing his wallet, keys, and the steaming travel mug where he'd abandoned them on the dresser, and tossed his bag over his shoulder. A few second later, he was gone.

“Dr Gale Egan” is all John thinks about for the rest of the day.

In between naps, that is.

[mappingthesky]

planymphia wives honeymoon cutesy fluffy and overwhelmingly emotional drabble pleaseee

take my hand (take my whole life, too)

or: it’s their first week of being married - jane can’t stop referring to nymphia as ‘my wife’, nymphia can’t stop crying, and no one has ever been more in love in all of time.

Jane wakes up when Nymphia rolls over and flings a heavy arm across her torso in sleep.

Jane’s eyes flutter. Sunlight threatens to spill in from the other side of the heavy hotel room curtains all too soon. She’s only half conscious, and her eyes are still a little blurry with last night’s wine, and she’s content to drift back off to sleep, lulled by the gentle brush of Nymphia’s fingertips down her sternum, but then-

A little gasp, a sharp intake of breath. “Oh my god.”

“Mmwhat?” Nymphia mumbles, her eyes still closed as Jane grabs for her hand. Again, when her wrist is nearly pulled from the rest of her arm. “What?”

“Nymphia,” Jane whispers, but it’s thin, because she’s smiling. Nymphia can barely make it out through the dim light of the room and the sleep that clouds her vision, but she knows it just the same. She would recognize that smile by the sound of Jane’s words spoken through it, by the feeling of her soft gaze upon her. She would know it anywhere - even in the dark.

“We got married.”

Nymphia’s eyes blink open and look over at Jane. She’s on her back, holding Nymphia’s hand up to the light. She turns it over carefully, fingertips against her open palm, thumb tracing over the silver band on Nymphia’s ring finger. A diamond glitters in the dark.

“I know,” Nymphia grumbles, still half-asleep, still unwilling to be awoken for anything at all. “Spent eight months planning it, ’member?”

It was longer than that. It was the culmination of years of dreaming and months of planning, of Nymphia ironing out every last detail, Jane somehow even more stressed than she was, because she’d wanted it all to be perfect. For her.

(“You have a say, too,” Nymphia had reminded her on more than one occasion. “This day is about the both of us.”

“I know, baby,” Jane said, that spot between her brows that creases when she thinks too hard momentarily relaxing as she kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “But it’s really about you. Everything is about you.”)

Jane pulls Nymphia’s hand closer, studies it for a long while. Nymphia’s eyes are just closing again when Jane presses a kiss to her ring finger, then to her palm, more kisses up the inside of her wrist, the length of her arm, up her shoulder. Nymphia whines.

It comes back to her slowly as Jane coaxes her from her sleep, the only one she’d ever allow. Their night. It was everything they ever could have asked for, more than that. Their friends lining the aisle, swearing that they knew this day would come, arguing over who had really called it first. Jane, who had sworn she wouldn’t cry, who had warned Nymphia not to be worried if she didn’t, dissolving into tears the moment Nymphia emerged in all white. Nymphia, unsurprisingly to everyone, openly sobbing for half of the night, dabbing a tissue underneath her damp eyes at the dinner table. They’d had two glasses of champagne each, and nothing else.  They’d promised, because they wanted to remember this: the toasts, the dancing, each other, every moment.

Nymphia is beaming by the time Jane kisses her shoulder blade, eliciting a hum.

“Was it everything you wanted?” Jane murmurs, brushing a dark strand of hair back to kiss Nymphia’s ear.

A smile splits through Nymphia’s sleep, eyes still closed as she nuzzles deeper into the pillow, deeper into Jane. “It was perfect.”

Jane kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “What was your favorite part?”

“Mmm,” Nymphia hums, because how could she ever pick just one shining moment to stand out among the rest? How could she even begin to split the single most incandescent day of her life into segments? 

“The part where we went home,” Nymphia says, and Jane is pulling her closer. “The part where we went to bed and you let me sleep in.”

“Can’t let you sleep in,” Jane says, chin coming to rest on the crown of Nymphia’s head where it comes to press against her chest. “Too in love with you.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, basking in the warmth of last night as it rolls over to this morning.

“Wanna know my favorite part?” Jane asks, and Nymphia can feel the soft reverberation of her voice through her skin. “The part where we wake up and I get to say that you’re my wife.”

Nymphia can’t help but laugh at the sentiment. “This part?” she says, finally tilting her head up to look at Jane. She’s never gotten used to this - Jane looking at her every day like she’s still shiny and new. She doesn’t think she ever will. 

“Yeah. This part,” Jane beams, one hand coming to cradle Nymphia’s cheek as she smiles. “You’re my wife.”

“This part’s pretty good,” Nymphia stares into Jane, belly burning with butterflies, a love bigger and brighter than she ever thought was possible. “Say it again.”

Jane grins and brings her lips to Nymphia’s, kisses her with a lifetime of devotion. She pulls away, and there’s forever in her eyes. 

“You’re my wife,” Jane smiles. “And I’m yours.”

-

Jane doesn’t travel well.

She puts her packing off until the last possible minute and grumbles all the way to the airport. Nymphia can’t be upset though, because Jane ‘my wife’s’ Nymphia at every possible opportunity - she does it to the disgruntled employee who checks their bags, and the TSA agent who checks their passports, and the barista who makes their coffees while they’re killing time at their terminal. Nymphia rolls her eyes every time, but she’s smiling too, and can’t stop examining the sparkle on her left hand ring finger. 

Jane goes so anxious on the plane that Nymphia has to hold her hand through the takeoff. She doesn’t let go until thirty minutes into the flight, when Jane is finally distracted enough to drop her shoulders and stop thinking about the miniscule possibility that they go plummeting to the ground.

Eventually, they settle in. It’s a long flight, nearly twenty hours, and they shelled out on first class for the occasion. Nymphia’s got the window seat (partly because Jane knows she likes to look out the window, and partly because she can’t stomach seeing the ocean several thousand feet beneath them), and Jane wastes no time getting comfortable. 

(“It’s for my wife,” Jane tells the stewardess when she requests an extra blanket. “She runs cold.” 

Nymphia stares up from her book just long enough to swat Jane’s arm, muttering “that’s not even true.”

“I know,” Jane shrugs. “Just wanted to see what playing the wife card could get me.”

“Careful,” Nymphia warns. “You’re gonna wear it out.”

“What, calling you my wife?” Jane grins. “Baby, that’s never gonna get old.”)

They’re curled up together, alternating between books and movies and laughing at odd little happenings around them. Jane scoffs at shitty jokes on the screen, and Nymphia leans over to read her passages from her book, and Jane hums like she’s listening, but really she’s just admiring Nymphia in her comfy clothes, dark hair pulled back, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She likes her the best like this.

At the end of her movie, Jane glances over at Nymphia. “Are you excited?”

She thinks she knows what the answer will be, but she’s asking anyway, because she wants it to be perfect - their honeymoon, their first trip together as a married couple, their first foray into the rest of their lives together. They’d debated on a destination for weeks on end. They’d considered a roadtrip across America (too pedestrian - they’ll save that one for another summer), or a week in Vegas where they’d get married again in some cheap chapel (too cliche - they’ll save it for their vow renewals). They’d debated on whether or not to book a room in the most luxurious resort they could find in Thailand, but had settled on a cozy beachside bungalow instead. Jane thought Nymphia would like that the best, knew she would too, because she’d be happy if Nymphia was.

It’s funny how someone can change you so completely and entirely, how they can bring out the best part of you that was waiting to be discovered. Before Nymphia, Jane had always put herself first, even at the expense of others. She was content like that, and then she met Nymphia, and the center of her universe shifted outside of herself. For the first time it wasn’t a chore to care for someone else, and Jane was better because of it. 

“For the honeymoon?” Nymphia asks, folding her book in her lap. She looks down at Jane all nestled in her blankets, hoodie pulled over her blonde hair, and can’t help but smile. 

Nymphia had always been a hopeless romantic, all too eager to hand her heart over to the wrong person. She was a tender thing then, bruising easily in careless hands, burning through her own wells of hope faster than she could replenish them, and after the almost-great-loves of her young adulthood, she felt like she’d been cored. Having her heart handed back to her so unrequitedly time after time, she’d thought she’d been selfish to want a love as big as her own, to expect anyone to be able to return what she gave to them. She’d stopped dreaming of it altogether, and then she’d met Jane. Jane, who reveres her like the Earth reveres the Sun, who worships the ground that she walks on, who straightened out every desire Nymphia had crumpled up inside of herself and gave her more than she could ever dare ask for. 

Now, Nymphia knows she can be selfish. She looks over at Jane and thinks that she wants this for all time - all of Jane, all to herself. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m so excited.” Nymphia reaches over to take Jane’s hand. “Jus’ wanna spend time with you.”

“Good,” Jane smiles, “me too.” She tilts her head up, puckers her lips in a silent request for a kiss, and Nymphia obliges.

-

The plane starts its descent several long hours after they’ve woken up, and Nymphia is grabbing Jane’s hand before she even has to ask, because she knows she hates this part the most. Jane sucks air through her teeth as the last bit of turbulence rocks the plane, and Nymphia rubs her thumb in soothing circles over the back of her hand. As soon as they hit the tarmac, Jane snaps back into place, blocking the whole aisle just to get Nymphia’s carry-on out of the overhead compartment.

“Sorry,” Jane says over her shoulder to a disgruntled passenger. “My wife. She’s pregnant.”

“Jane,” Nymphia hisses through her teeth. “You of all people should know I’m not pregnant.”

“Not yet,” Jane kisses her shoulder before they maneuver down the aisle. “But when I’m through with you…”

Nymphia scoffs, smiling into the air, because she knows it’s impossible, but if anyone’s love could defy the laws of science, it would be theirs.

-

Despite their sleep on the plane, Jane and Nymphia are so impossibly jetlagged, and the car ride to the bungalow is a delirious haze. Determined to push through the rest of the day, they tumble out of their room and onto the tree-lined streets, perusing the local offerings and getting dinner while they speak to each other in exhausted, two-word sentences that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It’s all they need.

And then they’re out under the sky, wandering in this beautiful place with blue-green water that laps in whispering waves over the sandy beach, and Nymphia has never looked so beautiful to Jane as she does under the moonlight. 

She’s running up the beach, shrieking as the water splashes at her feet, or when Jane chases her up the shore and catches her, spinning her around and pressing crazed kisses against her hairline. Nymphia is laughing, and then her cheeks are wet with tears, and Jane is wiping underneath her eyes.

“Hey,” Jane says, pushing Nymphia’s hair behind her ears, a careful concern crossing her face. “Why tears?”

“I’m just so happy,” Nymphia blubbers, smiling through the silver-wet stars in her eyes, because it’s all been such a beautiful blur, and it hasn’t hit her until right now that this is the rest of her life. “I can’t believe we get to do this forever.”

“God, you’re unbelievable, you know that?” Jane smiles. “Here I was thinking you stepped on a sea urchin. Or you got stung by a jellyfish. And I’d have to pee on your leg or something. Wouldn’t that be a great start to our honeymoon?”

“Shut up,” Nymphia sobs. “You’re ruining the moment!”

“M’sorry, my love,” Jane coos, wiping another tear from Nymphia’s face. “You’re the most sentimental girl alive, you know I can’t keep up with that.”

Nymphia just laughs, because yes, she’s endlessly sentimental, but, secretly, so is Jane. She still remembers the first time she’d opened a card from Jane and was met with pages filled almost entirely with ink, letters squished together to make room for as many as possible, words winding around whatever tacky quote was stamped in the middle. Jane had a way with words, despite whatever she’d tell you otherwise, and never ceased to amaze Nymphia with the sincerity she seemed to save just for her. 

(It crosses Nymphia’s mind then what her favorite part of the wedding really was - when Jane had recited her vows from memory in front of all their family and friends, had taken those impossibly beautiful things that were usually relinquished to their most intimate moments and had loved Nymphia enough to profess it in front of everyone. Not that they didn’t know already. You can’t hide a love as enormous as this one.)

“You keep up just fine,” Nymphia says softly, resting her cheek against Jane’s hand. She swears Jane’s eyes go misty just before she kisses her right there on the sand, beneath the stars, beneath the universe that brought them together.

-

Nymphia smiles when Jane crawls into bed. She’s in a gray crewneck that’s cut across her shoulders, and she’s propped up against fluffy pillows, and Jane is pushing the book out of her hands.

“Dinner was perfect,” Jane kisses her cheek before slipping into bed beside Nymphia. “But is it bad that I just wanted to get back to the room?”

“It’s terrible,” Nymphia turns over, slotting her back against Jane’s chest. “Is this the part where we get old and boring?”

“Yes,” Jane envelops Nymphia in her hold, fits against her in the way they’re going to for the rest of their lives, slides a hand down the length of her torso and up the inside of her thigh. 

“Not even gonna call you a whore or anything,” Jane kisses her ear. One hand cups Nymphia’s breast, the other dips between her legs. “Just gonna fuck you good and tell you how much I love you.”

“So boring,” Nymphia sighs, already melting away.

“So boring.”

(It’s not boring at all.)

-

Now that it’s hit Nymphia, she can’t stop crying every time the sheer enormity of it washes over her.

She’s always been emotional, but sometimes there’s a delay. Her life moves so fast, always swept up in the current of whatever dream she’s chasing, and sometimes it isn’t until she has a second to slow down that she realizes just how special every fleeting moment has been.

It’s been a whole week of being married, of wandering through villages and long hikes up mountain sides and afternoons spent sunning on the shore, of dawns and dinners and keeping a distance from the rest of the world as they know it. Now, Nymphia is sitting in a hammock at the edge of the beach, and she’s looking out over the water, and she’s basking in the overwhelming perfection of this moment. It’s something out of a dream, the sort of thing she’d long thought would be impossible for her to experience, and she can’t help but want to slow it all down, to draw out every precious moment long enough to memorize them, to make them last forever.

She’s sniffling just a bit when Jane finally finds her. She slides into place beside her, knees tucked into her chest, and stares quietly at the last of the sun as it sets over the ocean.

“Beautiful,” Jane murmurs, and it’s about the sunset, but it’s about Nymphia too. She presses a soft kiss to Nymphia’s shoulder.

“I don’t want it to end,” Nymphia sighs, unwilling to look away from the heaven that’s in front of her. They still have another day of this, one more perfect day at the edge of reality, and then they’ll be packing their things, leaving the quiet paradise of their bungalow and flying home. Back to work, back to their crazy, stupid friends, back to the never-ending rush and whirr of the city.

It’s not just that Nymphia doesn’t want the honeymoon to end. She doesn’t want this to end: her and Jane, so head-spinningly in love that nothing else matters, so finely attuned to one another, so freshly devoted to making it last. Nymphia wants so desperately to do it right, for their love to outlive that of either of their parents, for them to see all of their promises through for years to come. The possibility that they can’t pull it off is mind-numbingly terrifying, but the possibility that they can…

It’s an impossible promise to make to one another, and yet they’ve already done it. 

Nymphia sighs, mind swirling, and Jane somehow knows exactly what she means when she says, “what do we do now?”

Jane goes quiet for a moment, staring out over everything she’s ever wanted, and does her best to be brave for Nymphia.

“We sit out here until we’re too tired to keep our eyes open, and then I’ll take you to bed,” Jane says softly. “And then we have one more beautiful day, okay?”

“Okay,” Nymphia says, chewing on her cheek, still unable to look away from the landscape should it all disappear on her. “And then what?”

“And then we go home,” Jane looks over at Nymphia. “We go back to our house. And I’ll take you to work every morning, and then I’ll come home and be pissed about something, probably, and you’ll roll your eyes and tell me to shut up and I will, because I love you and, y’know, I generally think you’re right about everything. And we’ll have our stupid friends over and show them a billion pictures from our trip and kick them out so we can watch Project Runway and fuck. How does that sound?”

Nymphia giggles, and when she finally tears her gaze away from the beach, she realizes there’s another heaven right beside her, one that she gets to take home. And home, their home, the one with the fat cat and the mismatched furniture and their pictures all over the wall, that's another heaven too. Suddenly, the trip being over doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. Nymphia is almost looking forward to it.

“Are you scared?” Jane ventures softly, searching Nymphia’s face carefully. “It’s okay if you are.”

“Only a little,” Nymphia mumbles, voice wavering, eyes watering. 

“I’m a little scared too. We’ll take it one day at a time, okay?” Jane continues, looking a little smaller all of a sudden, pushing through every worry that threatens to override her strong front. “I know we’ll have bad days too, Nymph. I know I’m gonna fuck up and not listen enough and piss you off sometimes, but I love you to fucking pieces. I’m gonna give you the best I’ve got, I promise you.”

Nymphia takes Jane’s hand, and there are silent tears streaming down her face, because it’s only been a week and she already loves Jane more than she did on the day that she married her. It’s enough love to override everything that threatens to pierce through their perfect bubble, enough to fuel the years to come, enough to roll over into the next life and the one after that.

“And if you get sick of me,” Jane teases, squeezing Nymphia’s hand. “Y’know. Just say the word.”

“Shut up. I’ll never get sick of you,” Nymphia cries, throwing her arms around Jane’s shoulders. Jane laughs into her neck, pulls her closer into a bone-crushing embrace. This is the best part - Nymphia married her best friend. It’s enough just to hold her, just to be beside her. All those other parts, the sex and the sweet nothings and the swearing each other to forever, they’re just the luxuries of being in love with her. 

“You promise?” Jane says into Nymphia’s hair. She knows what the answer will be. She just wants to hear it anyway.

“I promise,” Nymphia whispers. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Jane says. “With all my heart.”

(They go home two mornings later, back to the city and their couch and their cat, and they aren’t scared anymore, because the warm glow of one another lasts much longer than fleeting sunsets over foreign shores. They wake up together, kiss goodbye on the way to work, hang their wedding photos on the wall and muse over the best day of their lives for years to come. They have lots of good days, and a few bad ones, too. They fight, and then they talk, and they never go to bed angry, just put each other back together in the way that only they can. And then they wake up and love each other more in spite of it.

The honeymoon was great, but here’s the best part: they make it last.)

[ladycrimsonandblack]

(sorry if I have sent this to you earlier, I didn't know if it went through cuz my laptop bugged out haha. Feel free to ignore this if so-)

Idk if your still open for TCF prompts, but if soooo: Everyone in the group knows that Cale is aromantic, or at least knows he doesn't want a romantic partner. However the public doesn't know this, and assumptions and rumors begins to fly as they see Young Master Cale interact with some members of his group. (Basically Cale is in a QPR, or has something similar to that, with those of your choosing! People makes assumptions but it's eventually revealed what is really going on)

AO3

There are a lot of rumors about Commander Cale Henituse, the esteemed hero Silver Shield and the savior of both continents. Ranging from ridiculous (saying that Cale Henituse is related to the White Star and that’s why he was able to defeat him will get you laughed out of a tavern, with a few good kicks added for emphasis), to actually plausible (the current raging theory that the Commander is on his path to godhood is usually met with agreeing nods), the rumors fly from kingdom to kingdom and from continent to continent at unprecedented speed. Thanks to his many great and varied public deeds, Cale Henituse’s life is an excellent fodder for imaginations of nobles and commoners alike. 

However, the current rumor is a bit different. 

It seems that Commander Cale Henituse actually has a harem. 

It started innocuously, in a small tavern in Rain City, the patrons imbibing large quantities of alcohol and listening to even larger quantities of gossip.

“I heard he attended a ball with Princess Rosalyn, from the Breck Kingdom! Did you know that she’s building a new Magic Tower? Only someone as capable as that is worthy of the Commander!” 

“Didn’t he attend a ball with Knight Choi Han a few weeks back?” A couple of nods and a rumble of murmurs answer the question. “Did they break up?”

“No, they weren’t even together. Going to the ball at the same time doesn’t mean they’re dating.”

“You’re the one that said that the Commander is dating Princess Rosalyn!”

“They just fit! I saw them once on the street in the shopping district and they were very close! And the picture they make— ah, they look so beautiful together!”

“Well, Knight Choi Han always follows the Commander, so I guess they might be dating too!”

“Uhhh, guys,” a timid voice interrupts them as one of the gate guards raises his hand like he’s in a classroom. “Doesn’t Knight Choi Han live together with the Commander? I heard they have a villa near Harris Village.”

A thoughtful silence follows this sentence. Then a series of considering nods and whispers, as the patrons catch each other’s eyes. 

“It’s not so strange? A knight should live with his lord, right?” 

“But, uh, isn’t Choi Han from Harris Village? Did the Commander build a villa there just to have Choi Han live closer to home?”

“That seems like something the Commander would do. He’s so kind!” 

Everyone drinks to that, and then there’s shouting for a new round. 

“But doesn’t that mean that Choi Han is more than just a knight?” 

“He’s a hero too, he deserves that much,” someone refutes. 

“A whole villa where they live together? I think that’s a bit too much for any hero. The Commander didn’t need to move into Choi Han’s villa.”

This time, the murmurs lean more toward Choi Han. 

The man who first talked about Princess Rosalyn and the Commander frowns. “But Princess Rosalyn is also living together with them. Didn’t she move in during the war?”

The following moment of silence is full of consideration. 

“Does that mean he’s dating both of them?”

The room explodes. The evening ends with a bar fight so nasty that two people end up in the hospital and the rumors about what started it only grow with retelling. As does Commander Cale’s harem. 

Eventually, the rumors reach Huiss City and the ears of royal spies therein. When Tasha hears them, she bursts out laughing, doesn’t stop for good ten minutes, and then immediately goes to inform her nephew. 

“So there are rumors that my dongsaeng is dating Choi Han.” At Tasha’s nod, Alberu frowns in confusion. “There have always been rumors like that. Why is this important?”

“There are also rumors saying Young Master Cale is dating Princess Rosalyn...”

Alberu sighs. “Well, those will have more immediate political consequences, but it’s nothing we haven’t heard before.”

“... At the same time as he’s dating Choi Han,” Tasha finishes, her pearly white teeth stark against her face as she grins. 

“...What?” Alberu chokes out. 

The thought of Cale dating two people at once is so strange that Alberu needs to take a moment to recover. As if Cale would want to be in a romantic relationship with even one person!

Tasha’s grin becomes outright mean. “There are even some rumors that the two of you are having an affair.”

“He’s my younger brother!” Alberu bursts out, more indignant than he remembers himself ever being in his life. 

“And then there is Mary.”

“Surely people don’t think there is something going on between Cale and Mary?”

“Oh, they do, and there’s a lot of them.”

Alberu feels a headache oncoming. He rubs his temples and reaches into a tin can on his desk for some cookies to comfort him. “He treats her like she’s his kid.” Never mind that Mary is physically older than Cale. Cale has mentally slotted her into the same category as Raon, On, and Hong very early on, and now Mary gets an extravagant monthly allowance on Cale’s dime. 

It’s telling that nobody has actually commented on this, or thought it strange. Their whole family accepted it as just another one of Cale’s eccentricities.  

“And of course,” Tasha says, apparently not finished. “There is also Eruhaben.”

“He treats Cale as his kid!” 

“Well, it’s not like people on the street know that,” Tasha points out, very reasonably. “But they do think that Young Master Cale is dating all of you. At the same time.”

“So they think that Cale… has a harem?” Alberu tries to wrap his head around this. There is not a person less likely to have a harem than Cale Henituse. 

“Yes,” Tasha says, and smiles like this is the funniest thing she’s heard the whole year. 

“Why?” Alberu wonders, for once not being able to guess what people are thinking. Cale is just so… Cale. Alberu can’t even imagine him wanting to date someone. 

“Nephew,” Tasha gives him an arch look, and Alberu feels like he’s thirteen again, and is caught sneaking out for more practice with his sword. “You forget that not many people know Young Master Cale as well as you do. And when looking from outside, our family’s situation is a little strange.” 

Alberu tries to think about this objectively. 

“Our whole family lives together, even though most others have their own homes.”

“That is one part of it,” Tasha agrees. “It is especially strange for Princess Rosalyn, who is a royal from another kingdom, and Eruhaben-nim, who is known to be a Dragon.”

Alberu nods. “And whenever Cale goes somewhere, at least one member of our family accompanies him.”

“And the Young Master always buys everyone extravagant gifts.”

With each sentence, Alberu frowns even more. 

“This is nuts,” he says. 

Because, looking from outside perspective, it does seem like Cale has a harem. 

…

He decides not to talk to Cale. Instead, he gathers Choi Han, Rosalyn, Eruhaben and Mary for a private talk, with the children averaging nine years old dragging Cale off to shop in the city (On takes one look at Alberu’s face before suggesting the trip; she is growing up to be terrifyingly perceptive). 

When Alberu tells them the latest rumor, Eruhaben is the first to react. He sighs. “Unlucky bastard. And now he’s dragging me down with him.”

Choi Han is so red that his ears appear to be steaming. “How can they— why would anyone even think that?!”

“Because Cale provides for all of us,” Rosalyn says, laughing in delight. “And most people can’t imagine us being family. Not like this.” 

“But this is so strange! Cale’s not… he is not—”

Interested. Cale is simply not interested. 

It hadn’t taken them long to figure it out. Cale’s lack of interest in anything approaching romance or romantic relationships is so obvious to those close to him, that even the few of them that might have quietly considered it as an option chose to discard it immediately. Cale loves them, but it will never be romantic, and doesn’t have to be. They’re a family. That’s all there is to it, in the end.

Alberu smiles pleasantly, none of his previous confusion visible. “Of course, not many people know my dongsaeng well, so they would come to their own conclusions. However, I called you here today to discuss what to do next.”

“We have to stop them from saying it!” Choi Han burst out. “Cale-nim would be upset.”

“We don’t need to let Cale know,” Eruhaben points out reasonably. “He doesn’t need to worry about this too, and it’s not really a big problem.”

Alberu nods. “Eruhaben-nim is right. There is really no way to stop the rumors, but they’re not doing any real harm.”

“Why can’t we just say that none of us are involved with Young Master?” Mary asks. “Won’t people stop talking after that?”

“That won’t work,” Rosalyn shakes her head. “Denying something like this never works. It just makes it look like you have something to hide.”

“Exactly, Princess-nim is right,” Alberu agrees. “Our best official course of action would be to ignore the rumors completely. I wanted you to know about them so that you wouldn’t be surprised if you heard someone talk about it in a public setting.” Choi Han frowns at that answer, but Alberu only aims a bright smile in his direction. “Of course, if anyone approaches you privately to ask about any kind of rumors about my precious dongsaeng, feel free to respond as you wish.”

Choi Han’s answering smile appears innocent. Everyone in the room knows better than to trust it.

…

In the end, the gossip is stopped by the most unlikely person of them all. 

During the couple of weeks the rumors have been rampaging around without any checks, no one has actually been brave enough to ask for clarification from any of the people involved. Alberu, Cale and Rosalyn’s high positions stop everyone from commenting on it in their hearing, even obliquely, and Eruhaben… Well. Eruhaben is a Dragon. No one dares. 

There are a couple of people who try to broach the subject with Choi Han, thinking that the famously noble knight would not take offense. Those people end up in infirmary after Choi Han, somehow, convinces them to spar against him. 

That leaves only Mary. 

The thing about Mary is that she has a very clear, very even voice. So when she says, “I am not dating Young Master Cale-nim,” in a very crowded ballroom filled with Roan nobility, her voice carries despite the fact that she is not any louder than usual.

The nearby conversations immediately taper off as everyone strains their ears to listen. 

“Oh?” asks the madam that had had enough courage to approach Mary in her little corner. “Does someone else have the luck to be the recipient the Commander’s affection?”

“Of course not,” Mary answers, apparently not noticing that she has the attention of half the crowd. “Young Master-nim is very busy. He does not have any time nor inclination for romantic attachments.”

The crowd murmurs in agreement. The madam lifts a hand to her mouth, looking stricken. “Of course, I completely forgot.” Eyes misting over, she says, “It’s admirable that the Commander is willing to deny himself so much just to keep our kingdom safe.”

Mary nods. “Cale-nim is very dedicated to his goal.”

Everyone feels very moved, but also very curious about the Commander’s goal. They haven’t heard anything about that, beyond Cale Henituse’s well-known wish to keep everyone in the kingdom safe and happy. 

“His goal?” the madam asks, curiosity rising. 

“Yes,” Mary confirms. “It will be very difficult and very hard to accomplish, but Cale-nim will surely succeed.”

“Of course he will!” the madam exclaims. “Who would ever doubt the Commander?”

Nevertheless, people are very eager to talk about his goal. 

Very difficult and hard to accomplish? Perhaps it has something to do with his latest battles? The Commander had informed the public that he has been battling the organization behind the White Star’s power in other worlds. That is surely a feat that would bring him divine attention, and he has been seen visiting the Temple of the God of Death. 

Perhaps… perhaps those rumors about Cale Henituse ascending to the path of legend and godhood are not so far off. Everyone has heard about them, and some even believed them, but this is the first time someone from the Commander’s inner circle confirmed that there is a bigger personal goal for him in all this. 

The next day, there is some new gossip going around the taverns of Huiss City. This time, there are no bar fights, or even small brawls. 

Everyone agrees that Cale Henituse is deserving of godhood anyway. Why would they fight about it?

[purrpickle]

A while ago, I asked for somone to create a gifset of the parallel of Pin feeling her heartbeat after Anil kissed her cheek and Sam feeling her heartbeat after biting Mon's lip, offering up a ficlet in exchange, and @musicdramalove answered with this amazing gifset. In return, they finally called in my offer of a ficlet with:

The last few episodes of the loyal pin have been very heartbreaking to watch. Really want a fluff fic, let anilpin be happy together without all these external factors keeping them apart.

Thank you for the prompt, and I hope you enjoy!

*

There's a fleck of sand on Pin's knee. Instead of moving her hand away after using her thumb to rub it off, Anil slides her fingers up the start of her bare thigh.

"Anil!" Pin laughs in that way that always makes Anil grin, and Anil is not surprised in the least when Pin's fingers wrap around hers to stop her. "Anil," Pin's eyes dart over Anil's shoulders, "What if someone sees?"

"Prik and Pia are down the beach, near the palace," Anil reminds her. She stops a reflexive glance behind her even so, purposefully choosing to trust her servants. "They will stop anyone coming towards us."

"Will they?" Pin's eyebrows raise. Her annoyance from earlier seemingly forgotten, she grins. "Didn't you leave Prik buried?"

Disgruntledly, Anil finds herself making a face. Flexing her fingers, Pin letting her go a few seconds later, Anil turns her wrist, catching her hand before she can withdraw. "Then Pia will stop them," she says with full conviction.

Studying her, then ducking her head, cheeks flushing as Anil takes the opportunity to press a kiss to her knuckles, Pin nods.

Having made sure to catch and keep her gaze, Anil brushes her lips against her knuckles again before moving once more, lacing their hands together. Her eyes shift past Pin's shoulder. She sighs. "The ocean is beautiful."

Blinking, a little caught off guard by Anil's comment being apropos to nothing, Pin turns her head to look where Anil is. Her free hand tucking hair behind her ear that the wind kicks up, she smiles. "It really is."

Anil leans in. "You sure you don't want to get in the water?"

"Anil."

The look Pin gives her is pure indulgent longsuffering, and Anil laughs through a wide smile, dropping her head back. "I can teach you how to swim," she promises once she sobers.

"I'm sure you could." Pin's eyes are warm. And when she speaks again, her voice is a little vulnerable, her thumb stroking along Anil's hand still holding hers, "But can we stay here a bit longer? And maybe..."

Anil nods, butterflies eagerly perking up in her stomach, "Maybe...?"

Pin moves in so her lips are near Anil's ear, "Maybe show me how our honeymoon would go?"

The look she gives Anil when she pulls back is all Anil needs to know that she's ready and waiting for Anil's arm to wrap around her waist so she can pull her in - and capture her lips with her own, over and over and over again.

[sheikahwarriork]

prompt for childhood enemies dimileth!!!

When Byleth was 6 years old, and Jeralt left her in the care of an inkeeper while he was doing merc jobs, a traveling caravan of rich people arrived to the inn, and she heard an ugly rich bowlcut blonde baby say his dad was the strongest and could beat anybody's dad and she choose violence.

Someone had to put the bowlcut in his place and make him understand Jeralt was the strongest.

Dimitri didn't want to fight back for his crest until Byleth called him a wussy... which is a word the mercs used around her and she didn't know what it meant.

(she fondly recalls this story as the first time she won a fight)

(dimitri still has bite scars from the incident and was very scared of girls for a long time)

(gustave was worried sick a commoner kid got the crown prince rabbies)

(they haven't connected the dots)

(This is the same anon who hates Dimitri's hair)

(hello dear dimitri's hair hater anon, i loved this prompt a lot! i changed some little points in the narration, but the main plotis the one you wrote. i really hope you'll like this :3)

wordcount: 1.2k

Byleth was extremely bored. Jeralt— no, he said to call him dad— Dad ­­went to do some cool mercenary stuff he said were 'too dangerous' for Byleth to attend. How silly! She was perfectly capable of taking care of enemies. She had the best teacher in the world, after all; the Blade Breaker’s abilities were well known along all Fodlan.

Of course, she was still only six, while her father was… How many years old was Jeralt again? She realised she didn’t know exactly. Probably the same age all dads were. Like three-hundred years old or something like that.

Byleth frowned. Did she need to wait three-hundred years to become as powerful as Jeralt? No, it was too far away from now! The little girl stood up. She needed to go training now.

She went out the little inn where Jeralt— Dad left her some days ago, heading for that nice spot she found out the day before to train with her new super powerful sword. (Well, wood sword. After the last time Byleth tried to train by herself, she almost chopped her own leg, so Jeralt took precautions by giving her a weapon that 'woudn’t hurt his precious little girl'. How melodramatic! But he chose it precisely for her. It was special. She wasn’t gonna break it!)

Her wandering gaze stopped when she noticed some people a few meters from her. She frowned. A tall guy with dark hair and a younger blonde boy with an ugly bowlcut were talking under a tree, the very tree of her perfect nice training spot.

She frowned again. As people said, Byleth wasn’t… the best at social interactions. She didn’t like talking to people, especially strangers. And she hated when she had to. Like this moment. She needed those two to get out of her new special training spot. She needed to train! To become more powerful! Like, right now!

The urge to train was bigger than her despise for talking to strangers, so she got closer to the tree, holding hard her sword. Byleth repeated in her mind Jeralt— Dad’s lessons about how ‘not to be too scary with other people’. She had to act nice.

“Hi. Get out of my training spot”.

A greeting! Super nice. ‘Good job, me’, she thought, pleased with herself.

The taller boy looked at her with surprise, but his expression quickly changed in a smile. “Hello, you fellow warrior”, he said in a condescending tone, winking.

Ugh. That was one of the thing Byleth hated the most: grown-ups treating her like she was just a little child!

“Get out, I said! I need to train”, she said, pointing at her sword.

Bowlcut boy frowned. “But you’re too young to train by your own!”

“What?!” Byleth exclaimed to him, annoyed.

“Yes! My dad says children shouldn’t fight until they grow up. And you look almost my age! So, you can’t train”, Bowlcut boy explained, nodding.

Byleth crossed her arms. “It doesn’t make sense! My dad helps me train since I was… younger than you!”

Bowlcut boy looked troubled. “Why does you dad train you?”

“Because I want to become strong, and he’s the strongest mercenary of all Fodlan!”, Byleth said with a hint of pride.

Now Bowlcut boy looked annoyed. “That’s not true! My dad is the strongest one! Glenn, tell her!” he added, looking at the taller annoying guy.

Tall-annoying guy was watching at them holding a hand over his mouth as if he wanted to hide it, slightly shaking. Then he proceeded to burst into laughter, hitting the ground with his fist, without saying a thing.

Byleth frowned. What a weird guy.

Bowlcut boy frowned too, but apparently he decided to let the matter drop, as he looked at Byleth again. “My dad is stronger! He has big muscles, and he’s the only one that can use a super uper big powerful spear!” Then he looked down at Tall-annoying guy, who was still on the floor. “Glenn! Tell her!”

The guy tried to stop laughing, but miserably failed. “So… sorry, Dimitri… you’ll have to… deal with her yourself… PUAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Byleth crossed her arms; then, she got an idea. “Let’s settle this with a fight. However wins, has the strongest dad!”

Bowlcut boy’s eyes widened. “N… no! I can’t! I’ll hurt you!”

Byleth was really annoyed now: how dared that little brat imply he could beat her?!

She lifted her sword, pointing at Bowlcut boy. “Prepare yourself!”

“Oh, fuck!” Tall-annoying guy stopped laughing and stood up between them. “Ok, party’s over. Let’s try to get along, shall we?”

Bowlcut boy sighed in relief. Byleth sticked her tongue out, looking at him. “Your dad’s just a… wussy!”

Byleth really liked the word ‘wussy’. The way it sounded was funny. She didn’t exactly know the meaning, but Jeralt’s mercenaries often used it when someone was arguing (usually when drinking that weird ‘grown-ups fruit juice’) with some other of the band, getting the latter very angry. And Byleth wanted to make Bowlcut boy angry.

And she succeded! Bowlcut boy’s eyes widened, and he proceeded to run towards her. Byleth was ready, and promptly dodged the boy. She grabbed his arm, and sinked her teeth in it.

The boy screamed in pain until Tall-annoying boy managed to pull him away. “Shit shit shit! What the hell is wrong with you two?!” he said in a high-pitched tone. Bowlcut boy started crying.

‘Pathetic’, Byleth thought.

“Okay, little girl, we’re leaving, but promise me you’ll stay away from Dimitri!” Tall-annoying guy said, while taking Bowlcut boy in his arms. “We’re leaving soon anyway, so forget about this and do not tell anyone!” he added, going inside the inn, without waiting for Byleth to respond. “Shit! I did tell Gustave I’m not a good babysitter…” she heard him muttering, while Bowlcut boy was still crying.

She looked at the now closed door for a few seconds more, then turned around. “Okay. Melee training for day: done. I should practice with my sword now…”

“You did what?!” Jeralt—Dad screamed in shock.

Byleth crossed her arms. “I bit him, I told you! He was saying some crap about you!”

Dad looked at her in disbelief, and then bursted into laughter.

‘Why is everyone laughing at me today?!’

“You… you bit him… you bit the… freaking… AHAHAHAHAHA!” Dad was laughing so hard he didn’t finish the phrase.

Byleth shrugged, deciding to let him be. ‘It’s not like I’m gonna ever see Bowlcut boy again…’

15 years later

Byleth didn’t know if she was getting better at reading people, or if Jeralt was acting strange more than usual. Since she told him she chose to lead the Blue Lion House, her father started to make a soft giggle everytime she mentioned the house-leader, Dimitri. It was getting annoying.

“Are you going to tell me why do you make that sound everytime I mention Dimitri, dad?!” she finally said one afternoon, while her and Jeralt were having tea in her room.

Jeralt smiled. “Ah! Never. But maybe, you’ll have your answer if you’ll ever see his arm… Summer is starting, after all…”

[thetarttfuldickhead]

For the first sentence: It wasn't his fault, Jamie desperately reminded himself.

I couldn’t settle on any one scenario, so uh, have 5 times when it wasn’t Jamie’s fault + 1 time when it very much was. You’re welcome?

You can also read it on AO3.

1.

It wasn't his fault, Jamie desperately reminded himself. Blinking his eyes, blinking away stupid fucking tears, he tried to focus on the road as he took a left turn, exiting Manchester proper.

Dr. Sharon would tell him as much, he was sure. Roy, too, though he’d have to grit the words out between swallowing down all the I told you so:s he’d no doubt be fighting hard not to throw in Jamie’s face.

Dad wouldn’t agree with either of them, of course, judging by the way he’d snarled and wagged his finger in Jamie’s face, unsteadily leaning against the door to the flat Jamie had gotten him once he got out of rehab. “Couldn’t be bothered to get here on Friday like you said you would, could you, son, and what was I supposed to do all by meself all night, eh, just sit around and twiddle me thumbs like a twat?”

2.

It wasn't his fault, Jamie desperately reminded himself. He wanted to say as much, profess his innocence to Roy’s sister as she carefully pushed and prodded at Roy’s knee while Roy bit back enough swears to keep Phoebe in sweets for a year.

After all, it hadn’t been Jamie who decided that they would go for a run; wasn’t Jamie who laid out the route, or decided how far they should go, or how fast.

It had been for his benefit, though. And it’d been him who kept on going, pushing on and on because he wanted to prove a point, wanted to prove to Roy that he could do it, that he wasn’t soft, wouldn’t quit, wouldn’t break.

And in the end, it wasn’t Jamie who broke.

3.

It wasn't his fault, Jamie desperately reminded himself. Or, if it was, it wasn’t only his fault, because that’s what Ted had been going on about, wasn’t it �� how Jamie was only one of eleven, and that meant it wasn’t all down to just him if things went poorly, or if they went well.

Hard to fucking remember that, when he saw the defeated looks on his teammates’ faces as they walked off the pitch in the pouring rain and with the other team’s jubilant cheers still in their ears. Hard to remember that when remembering the sitter he’d missed early in the second half was so very easy.

A familiar hand fell on his shoulder, and a familiar gruff voice murmured in his ear: hey, it was a bad game for all of us, it wasn’t just you.

Jamie gave a curt nod, and tried to believe him.

4.

It wasn't his fault, Jamie desperately reminded himself. Yes, it was his birthday, and yes, it was him who’d nagged Roy into coming with him to the club, but it was Roy who’d dragged him out into the alley and kissed him like he wanted to devour him whole, and they’d both been too drunk, on beer and on each other, to notice the wanker with the phone.

“Papers won’t run it until you make a statement one way or the other, but it’s fucking everywhere on Twitter,” Keeley had told them over the phone after all hell broke lose, sounding as apologetic as if she’d been the one to out them. “I’m so sorry, boys, but not even Rebecca can bury this, and believe me, she’s tried, I think she even threatened to have people killed at some point.”

“Well, happy fucking birthday to me,” Jamie told Roy sourly as he tossed the phone aside and curled up closer to the other man. “For this year I got a hairy old boyfriend.”

5.

It wasn't his fault, Jamie desperately reminded himself. Keeley had already told him that, repeatedly and in between emptying her stomach into the loo.

“This wasn’t your fault, Jamie,” she had assured him, face pale and her hair a sweaty mess that he held back for her. “We’ve ordered from that place loads of times, and there’s never been a problem before.”

And that was true, wasn’t it, but it was also true that he’d been supposed to make dinner for them last night, only he’d been running late after shopping with Isaac so he’d picked up curries on the way back and now Keeley was curled up on the bathroom floor instead of getting ready for the weekend trip they’d been planning for ages.

Roy was going to fucking kill him.

+ 1.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Jamie told Roy as innocently as he could manage, but he knew he wasn’t able to fully hide the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“It absolutely fucking was,” Roy told him flatly, wiping uselessly at his stained trousers and shooting the giggling Keeley a reproachful glare. But when he turned his eyes back on Jamie there was a dark glimmer in them. “You’ll pay for this when we get home,” he promised.

Mmm, yes. Jamie was rather counting on it.

[allylikethecat]

⋆˚࿔ october prompts 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Day three lets goooo and it's still 7:30pm where I live so it's still the third so I'm not actually late, I've kept up with this prompt situation three days in a row! Thank you so much for everyone who has read one of these lil prompts so far and who is still here! I greatly appreciate it and hope you enjoy this one as well! As always, it was written rather quickly without any editing so I can't over think it. Thank you again for always being so lovely and supportive!

³⁾ rose-scented candles burnt down to the wick

Matty couldn’t help but smile, nestling closer to George’s chest, adjusting the soft cream colored knit blanket tossed over their legs before returning to pretending to be absorbed in the book held in his lap. It was a fantasy romance that had been on his TBR forever, opinions on it had been mixed, but Matty was always up for following the latest literary Tiktok trends. He wasn’t looking for anything award winning, just something mindless he could lose himself in. There were dragons, and shadow daddies. Matty loved dragons and shadow daddies, but even shadow daddies couldn’t hold his attention the way George did. The rose-scented candles were burnt down to the wick, and his cup of tea on the side table had long gone cold but he couldn’t recall a moment in time where he had ever been more content, curled happily in George’s arms. 

It had been a lazy day, spent just basking in the presence of each other. Lingering kisses tinged with the taste of maple syrup and coffee, Matty’s cheek pressed to George’s chest as they napped. George’s head in Matty’s lap as they watched television, their bodies intertwined as they read. Or, well, George read and Matty pretended he was reading. Matty was really good at pretending he was reading while really just lost in his own thoughts consumed by the disbelief that this was his life. That this was something that he got to have, snuggled up next to George in the home that they owned in London. Rain was falling, soothing white noise, and George’s heart beat in time with Matty’s own. 

“That page must be absolutely captivating,” said George, setting his own book aside, a paperback thriller he had picked up at an airport ages ago, misplaced and then rediscovered at the bottom of his backpack while looking for a spare phone charger after Boots, Matty’s cat not mine, as George like to remind anyone that would listen, had chewed through his cord again. His breath was hot against Matty’s skin before he pressed his lips to the junction of his neck and shoulder, visible amongst the collar of Matty’s sweater that was really George’s and thus hung off his smaller frame. 

“What?” Matty slurred, letting his own book fall closed as he pressed back into George’s touch. The hard cover tumbled to the floor and Matty winced, realizing he was going to lose his place and hoping he hadn’t damaged the dust jacket, he had paid a fortune for the special first edition having caught on late to the trends. 

“You haven’t turned the page in twenty minutes,” George said with a chuckle, “so clearly it’s so absolutely captivating, that you need to read it again and again, or you’re not paying attention to a single word on the page,” he teased, nipping at Matty’s neck in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. 

“I was reading,” Matty argued purely for the sake of arguing. 

George laughed again, his chest vibrating with the sound. Matty twisted in George’s arms. He wanted George to kiss him properly. 

“Oh yeah,” George asked, “what happened in the last chapter.” 

Matty frowned, wrinkling his nose in annoyance. He actually wasn’t sure. There was something about lightning and a wingleader? 

George just laughed and kissed him, and even though he was making fun of him, Matty didn’t even care. 

Day: 1 | 2 |

[pocketseizure]

fic prompt: epilogue botw-pre totk Link and Zelda starting a cooking show in front of a live audience

“Thank you for joining us once again on Hyrule Kitchen! We’ll close tonight’s episode with an elimination round.” Aurie Taamu flashed a smile at the cheering studio audience before returning his attention to the camera. “We’re jumping right back into the action with the grand reveal of our two chefs’ creations on the theme of ‘Cool Treats for a Hot Summer.’ Chef Link, what have you got for us on this sultry summer evening?”

“I’ve prepared curry rice, a summer favorite in my hometown,” Link announced as he lifted the lid from his dish to reveal a plate of smooth amber curry paired with glistening white rice. “I added fresh apples for sweetness, and it’s so spicy that the heat will be the last thing on your mind. I hope you enjoy this taste of Hateno Village.”

The first judge, a restaurant critic from the fashionable Riverside District named Gotter, sat behind a half-empty plate of Link’s curry. “The spice is lovely, and I can taste the freshness of the apples in the render,” he said, “but it’s evident that the dish was prepared with ready-made roux. It aims for a flavor that would more properly be brought out with time. I give it a six.”

The second judge, a bestselling travel writer named Beedle, hadn’t left a single grain of rice on his plate. “I appreciate the pumpkin you’ve added to the curry,” he said. “It’s a welcome bit of texture, but far from sufficient. After sweating all day, I want sustenance, not delicacy. Without carrots or potatoes, the curry feels meager. I give it a four.” 

“And with that, Chef Link receives a commendable ten points. For those watching at home, please check our website for Link’s apple and pumpkin curry recipe. Now we turn to Chef Zelda. What have you prepared for us?”

“Well, sir, I read your Notes on Cooking in the Wild when I was young, and it made a big impression. Inspired by your work, I’ve whipped up banana crêpes with chocolate, fresh cream, and a special ingredient – smotherwing butterflies!”

Zelda beamed as she extended a crêpe to the center camera, which zoomed in to capture the detail of a glistening black wing nestled next to the chocolate garnish.

“That’s certainly a surprise! And might I say, what a marvelous idea. Smotherwing butterfly essence is indeed a panacea for intense heat. What do our judges think?”  

Gotter’s face seemed somewhat green. “While I admire your choice of unusual ingredients,” he began, “a few drops of essence would have sufficed. I would never have guessed that anyone would mix actual insects into the cream. It’s not inedible, but the thought of eating bugs is difficult to stomach. I must regret that I’ll have to give this concoction a one.”

Beedle, on the other hand, was overjoyed. “Marvelous!” he cheered. “Wonderful! Fantastic! What a bold stroke of genius to dice the butterfly into the cream.The crunchy texture adds an evocative originality to a simple dish. I felt like I’d stopped on the road across the Akkala plains to watch the butterflies on the mountainside meadows. Delicious! I give it a nine.”

“What a surprise, folks!” Aurie Taamu crowed. “The elimination contest has ended in a draw. It looks like both Chef Link and Chef Zelda will continue to the next round. I know I speak for all of us when I say that I hope they’ll continue to learn from each other, and I can’t wait to see what they create in future episodes. As always, keep checking our website and socials for news and recipes! Who knows, perhaps we can persuade Chef Zelda to share some tips on unusual ways to use traditional ingredients!

“That’s all for tonight, but I’ll see you all again on the next episode of Hyrule Kitchen!”

.

“The live audience responded well to the tied score,” Aurie Taamu explained. He glanced at the executive producer, who frowned as he watched a replay of the footage. Being alone with the producer in the upstairs recording booth put him on edge, and he found himself losing his usual cool.

“No one wanted to eliminate either of them, of course,” he continued. “We think this initial confrontation will add a spark of drama to pairing them together later. But perhaps you had other plans? I realize now that I should have consulted you first.”

“No, you have the right of it,” Ganondorf replied. “Those children are our top audience draws, though I can’t for the life of me understand why. Their choice of dishes was uninspired, and their recipes are basic. Neither of them used seasonal ingredients, and their preparation was sloppy. They didn’t clean after themselves as they worked. I’d be surprised if they washed their hands. Their only talent is their enthusiasm.

“Regardless. I just made an arrangement with our Hebra affiliate. The next challenge needs to include salmon. Keep it subtle, but make it happen.”

“Understood.” In his relief to be dismissed, Aurie Taamu was struck by a bolt of inspiration. “You know, sir, the two of them should compete against you at the end of the season.”

A sinister grin spread across Ganondorf's face at the suggestion. “Maybe they will, one day. If they make it that far.”