#this is definitely just about a writing prompt

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

this is probably in your no doubt series but imagine Jake asking your parents for this hand in marriage and he's just super nervous and shaky about it 😿💔

OMG this one has been brewing in my inbox for soooo long bc i wanted to finish the series first before i dived into this one bc MARRIAGE . that's such a big kid word omg help but UGH jakeyn needs to live happily ever after forever & forever & forever & forever (˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )づ♡ i genuinely had to stop writing this one halfway thru bc i was gonna crash out over them . anyways! i switched up the prompt just a littleeeee...i hope you enjoy !!!

──── GONNA MARRY YOU 💍 🥂 🕊️ ↳ requested // part of the no doubt series !

You're so close.

You're so, so close to falling asleep.

It had been a long, grueling day for both you and Jake—full of exhausting emotional labor.

Like spending five hours on the couch debating which one of you would cry first when your hypothetical child goes to kindergarten.

Jake said you. You said Jake. The fight is ongoing.

Extremely serious business.

Obviously.

And now, finally, you're both tangled up in bed, one of his arms slung naturally around you, the other trapped awkwardly under your neck.

You told him to move it.

He refused.

"It's fine," he murmured casually, even though his arm was definitely already going limp. "I'll lose feeling in my arm for you any day."

You're so, so, so close to falling asleep—your brain is already shutting off and you're mentally somewhere in between counting sheep and officially entering dreamland.

Which is why when you feel Jake shift behind you—closer, somehow, even though you're pretty sure his entire body weight is already squishing you into the mattress—you barely register it.

You don't fully register the way his hand flexes against your waist, or the way his nose nudges against the back of your neck like he'll die if he doesn't breathe your air.

You're far too gone.

Too sleepy. Too warm. Too his.

So when his voice slips out—soft, low, and sleepy—you don't fully process that either—

"M'gonna marry you one day."

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

Your eyes shoot wide open.

Because...what.

You quickly twist your body around to face him and—bless his heart—Jake's face is half-smushed into your pillow, hair sticking up everywhere, blinking at you with the dopiest, dreamiest little smile.

"You—" you croak, sleepiness still tangled in your throat, "—what did you just say?"

Jake blinks at you as if you're the deranged one.

Then, very, very seriously—

"I'm gonna marry you," he repeats. Voice thick with sleep and absolute certainty. "You're it for me, dummy. Thought this was, like...common knowledge."

Your mouth parts slightly. You stare at him.

He doesn't even flinch. Just simply hums before fluttering his eyes shut again.

"Already asked your parents, you know," he mumbles casually.

"Mm—you WHAT?"

Jake peeks a single eye open, his sleepy grin still tugging at his lips—completely smug, completely serious, completely in love.

"Yeah," he says like he's stating the obvious. "Last winter. When we visited for Christmas. You were in the shower and I was in the living room with them probably watching some random cooking show you mom put on and it just...came out."

Your mouth is now fully open.

Catching flies and all.

"Jake."

"I know," he hums, laughing softly as his arm around your waist pulls you in closer into his chest. "I was super awkward about it, too. Like, full-on, 'Hi, can I marry your daughter?' out of nowhere. I honestly don't know what I was thinking. I don't think I was actually. Pretty sure I blacked out."

You crane your head up to gape at him.

You can't believe this ridiculous boy is real.

And that you're definitely going to marry him one day.

"Well?" you demand, your hands softly hitting his chest. "What did they say?"

Jake grins, his smile bright and easy like pure sunshine, even when he's half-asleep.

"They said yes, duh. Something about me already being part of the family or whatever. But it wasn't just whatever. I think I cried honestly. And then I think your mom cried a little. And your dad definitely did the whole 'I'm not crying, it's just allergies' bit. You know the one."

You let out a strangled noise—somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Jake's eyes now fully open to watch you with that look on his face—the one that makes you feel like you created all the stars he's been chasing.

He sighs, completely blissed out, then kisses the side of your head as he shifts again to hold you tighter—one hand cradling the back of your neck to guide you gently back to his chest.

"Just, like...try to act at least a little surprised when I pop the question, alright?"

You smack his chest half-heartedly, still at a loss for words.

He laughs again, sleepy and light—like he's carrying the entire future in his heart and it doesn't even weigh him a single thing.

And you just stay like that—holding onto him like he's already yours.

Because he is.

He always has been.

And now—

You know he always will be.

no doubt m. list

tag list! pt. 1 (open)

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

📊 How to Use Tropes Without Turning Your Story into a YA Checklist

You can tell when a book was written by vibes and TVTropes alone.

It’s got: ☑️ the reluctant chosen one ☑️ the love triangle ☑️ the mysterious brooding boy™ ☑️ the sassy best friend ☑️ the dead parents ☑️ the villain with daddy issues ☑️ the scene where someone says “you don’t know what I’m capable of” and walks away dramatically

And like… that’s fine.

Tropes are tools. But here’s the thing: they are starting points, not story goals.

If your plot reads like it was drafted by a checklist in a Pinterest caption, it might be time to recalibrate. Here's how to actually use tropes without turning your book into a YA Mad Libs generator:

─────── ✦ ───────

🧩 Tropes Are Patterns--Not Presets

A trope is a pattern, not a requirement. It’s not a law. It’s not a plug-and-play feature. And it’s definitely not your plot.

The “enemies-to-lovers” arc? That’s a container. What you put inside it, that’s where the originality lives.

The goal isn’t to avoid tropes. It’s to do something interesting with them.

→ Why are they enemies? → What does the “love” cost them? → What happens if they fail to become lovers?

Tropes don’t carry the story. The conflict does.

─────── ✦ ───────

⚔️ Complicate the Familiar

Here’s a trick: if a trope feels too easy, break it in half.

Examples: → “Reluctant chosen one” → okay, but what if they wanted it, and then hated it once they got it? → “The mentor dies” → cool, but what if the mentor fakes their death to manipulate the protagonist? → “Sassy best friend” → no. Make them real. Give them pain. Give them depth. No more walking punchlines.

Tropes are scaffolding, not shortcuts. Add weight. Add doubt. Add betrayal.

─────── ✦ ───────

🕳️ Interrogate Why You’re Using It

Ask yourself: → Do I love this trope or do I feel like I have to include it? → Am I doing this because I’ve seen it done… or because it serves my story? → Is this trope the only interesting thing about this scene?

If your answer is “because that’s what YA stories do,” delete it. Go deeper.

─────── ✦ ───────

💔 Tropes Aren’t Substitutes for Character Arcs

You can’t use “grumpy x sunshine” and call it development. Tropes are flavors, not meals.

Give us: → Choices with consequences. → Conflicting values. → Character growth that costs something.

Otherwise? Your grumpy guy is just a Pinterest moodboard with a pulse.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧨 Use Reader Expectations Against Them

You want to use a trope and not make it predictable? Weaponize it.

Example: → Start with a love triangle. Let the MC fall hard. Then have both love interests realize they’re in love with each other. → Use the “chosen one” trope… but make it about dismantling that myth entirely. → Introduce the “villain redemption arc” and let them choose to stay bad because it makes more sense for them.

Set up the pattern. Then snap it in half. That’s how you surprise a jaded reader.

─────── ✦ ───────

Final thoughts from your local trope goblin:

→ Tropes aren’t the problem. It’s treating them like a checklist instead of a narrative engine. → A good trope doesn’t make your story good. How you twist it does. → If a story reads like it was built from Tumblr quotes and nothing else—it’s gonna flop.

So go ahead. Use the trope. Then ruin it. Make it weird. Make it hurt. Make it yours.

—rin t. // story mechanic. trope thief. YA bingo card burner. // thewriteadviceforwriters

Sometimes the problem isn’t your plot. It’s your first 5 pages. Fix it here → 🖤 Free eBook: 5 Opening Pages Mistakes to Stop Making:

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

[luvyuuma]

Welcome to writing for &team!! I hope you enjoy it and remember to have fun 🤭

I can’t get over how much Nico would def say “you’re legally obligated to keep holding me” like that sounds so baby girl of him! What are your thoughts my love?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: thank u!! yes! he definitely would say something like this HAHAHA thinking of making this into a full ass fic IDK anyways hope u enjoy this one <3

SYNOPSIS / when you break your arm, your ex-best friend nicholas is the one who shows up to the hospital and sits by you for hours. then, he confronts you about the distance you were in between the two of us.

TW / none

WC / 1.1k words

PAIRING / nicholas x gn!reader

touch-starved &team prompt list

NICHOLAS + “you’re legally obligated to keep holding me” + "I can't remember the last time I did this with someone"

“Are you okay?” he asks for the umpteenth time.

You sigh exaggeratedly. Had you not broken your arm, you would’ve attacked Nicholas by now.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, eyes growing wide.

“I told you already, Nicholas. You should go home. I’ll be fine here,” you tell him.

Nicholas shakes his head profusely, “I can’t leave you like this.”

“You’re killing me, you know that?” you deadpan, looking down at the bed tray in front of you. Jelly-like pudding stared back at you, reminding you that hospital food is indeed food cooked in Hell.

“I won’t be able to sleep if I stay home, knowing I could’ve stayed with you longer.”

You look up again.

He’s staring at you, all innocent-like but you can read between the lines. Being friends with Nicholas for three years gave you a deep insight on who he really is. Smart, kind and takes care of you in a way you had never expected anyone to. It’s the fact that you wouldn’t have to ask either—he just does things around you while you simply existed.

It didn’t stop there.

It got intense at some point.

Brief touches—holding your waist to get past you, patting your head, hugs that lasted an eternity and night of sobriety at a party that felt like drunkenness. You swore that night you were about to kiss, Nicholas was about to tell you something but it slipped away.

It’s been months…

You’d distance yourself from him since. It was turning into something you weren’t sure you wanted.

He’s your best friend. He’s like a brother to you.

Then, you started craving his presence. It’s true, what they say. You only want something when it’s gone; when it was there, you had no trouble using it and now that it’s gone, you walk around forever craving it.

However, you were lucky.

You’d broken your arm and you needed someone to get your toiletries for you. Nicholas is the only one with a spare key to your apartment. The only one who would care enough to bring it to you.

So that’s why you’re sitting here—you on the hospital bed with unappetising dinner and he’s dragged a chair next to you. You’ve been like this for hours, catching up on what you missed out on the last few months.

But neither of you mentioned the distance you had.

Someone had to.

“What—“

“What happened to us?” he interrupts you.

You’re flabbergasted.

Nicholas sees it in your face. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” you respond. 

It’s easier than bringing it up yourself. Confrontation was not your strongest suit. Acting like everything is okay? You’re the most confident.

“Yes,” Nicholas says. “You do.”

“Nicholas, you should really go home now,” you murmur, putting your head down.

A beat and a half of silence saunters slowly past the two of you. The faint shuffling of the nurses getting by, the buzzers in the background and the cold, sterilised hospital air renders you still. As if breathing even a little louder would dirty the air.

You feel your heart beat out of your chest when Nicholas lifts your face up. Gently. He does everything so gently. Oh, how you missed that.

He forces you to look into his eyes.

And, you can tell. You can tell how much this scares him. After all, the line between friends and lovers is so thin and blurred and who would know better than the two of you?

“Please. Talk to me, Y/N,” he pleads with you, eyebrows sewing in.

You can’t find your voice.

“I miss you. I miss us.”

You’re shattered.

“I…I miss you too, Nicholas,” you finally speak.

His eyes light up slowly as he tries to fight back a smile. Ultimately, he fails. 

Nicholas pulls you into a bear hug.

“Hey, my arm is broken!” you yelp.

He’s careful of your arm, of course but you had to put it out there.

“No!” he exclaims. “You’re legally obligated to keep holding me—broken arm or not.”

You scoff. But you can’t argue. Your face is in his chest, taking in the scent you weren’t around for for so long. You missed this, you missed him.

You’ve felt so lonely in your being that you didn’t realise how much you needed this. All those months of isolation. Sure you were around people, but they didn’t compare to him.

“I can’t remember the last time I did this with someone,” you utter.

“Me too.”

Pulling away from him, there’s a new expression on his face. 

Reverence.

He hesitates, like he’s weighing everything. Then he speaks.

“Let me take you out, Y/N. Just once. I’ll make it worth your while,” Nicholas says. He says everything like he’s pleading you, begging for permission.

Your heart skips a beat, “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

“You don’t believe me?!” he asks, offended.

“Mmm, let’s say that,” you tease.

“Oh, you better be ready when your arm is healed.”

“Can’t wait.”

[traitor-boyfriend]

Maybe I'm in a minority since I see it so often, but I'm personally not a fan of any Stan/Kyle/Style fanart that depicts the two looking exactly like Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Even though they do share a few physical similarities (as we saw especially in "Post-COVID"), I like to think of Stan and Kyle as their 'own people' so to speak, and not just their creators' avatars. When I picture Stan and Kyle in my mind, they look quite different from Trey and Matt:).

Plus, looking at anything Style related (fanart/fanfic etc.), and imaging Matt and Trey in their places...just kinda weirds me out lol.

I've always enjoyed your South Park takes, so I would like to know what you think about this:).

i actually had a draft saved talking about this very thing prompted by a question posed to em *years* ago and this is the perfect opportunity for me to talk about this

i wouldn't say you're in the minority -- i think that's the aspect of transformative fiction in both prose and art that people enjoy exploring the most, which is bringing to life their specific physical vision of what the characters would look like; south park is perfect for this considering the relative blank slate it provides fans courtesy of its animation style.

i know there are a LOT of people who did not care for post covid's future adult designs for the characters. i personally didn't feel that strongly because regardless of whether post covid's narrative is considered canon or not, i don't feel impacted by the writers and animators presenting a vision of, say, stan and kyle as adults that differs from my own, but i understand that even having any presentation of them as adults 'ruins' the mystique of it remaining an entirely fan-centric concept. though i fully understand why they do, i did find myself wishing that perhaps stan and kyle had designs that were a little more creative than simply being renders of matt and trey as adults. which is how i've always conceptualized the characters -- separate entities independent of their creators, and i think it was something of a wasted opportunity to make them a bit more unique. maybe that would have been a more apt comparison with a different narrative, but i never really envision stan and kyle bearing too much resemblance to neither matt nor trey.

i'm also not here to dictate the terms with which anyone interacts with their media of choice, though -- i know there's people who *do* want stan and kyle to resemble matt and trey as their creators and their physical analogues, and that's fine, it's just not for me. i've also never understood projecting fictionalized relationship dynamics of real people in the form of 'shipping' real, extant people, but i don't care about it enough to think too in depth about it. if that's your bliss chase it i suppose -- i don't get it and it's not for me, but quote-unquote normal people would say that about my position writing prose about fictional cardboard cut-outs if they were fifty year old men with children, so. glass houses and whatnot.

my point being -- i don't seek out fanart or fiction of stan and kyle as funhouse versions of matt and trey, but if someone else does, that's fine. i definitely borrow small aspects of their physicality occasionally, as i think a lot of people do. for instance, i like to draw kyle with gap teeth, and i've seen stan with bleached hair gaining a LOT of popularity within the last few years. these little borrowing acts feel sort of like an homage to me; imbuing the characters with a touch of real life by pulling from the source. but when it comes down to it, i don't want them to share too much in order to preserve that distinct line between creator and creation.

ultimately i think it comes down to your own personal relation to both the characters and the artists depending on what you like. i do feel like i'm currently seeing a bit more of stan and kyle mimicking matt and trey in a fictional setting more than i have in the past, but i don't necessarily believe it's a bad thing even if it's not what i'm seeking as a fan participating in the culture of south park outside of the show. it's just not what i prefer because i enjoy seeing the absolutely bonkers breadth of different interpretations of these characters and their personality traits and how that's expressed in a visual medium -- even when i see some and go oh, you don't understand these characters AT ALL, because i recognize that my understanding and interpretation of them is influence entirely by my own read on them, and other people are also thinking this of me. and that's the cool thing to me is how many magnifying glasses we can hold up to one personality and come away with entirely different conclusions.

and a lot of this is just influenced by age and where you probably first found south park! i'm almost thirty and have been watching south park more than half of my life (what an odd sentence to type...), and my pop culture sensibilities and cultural touchstones are a lot more in-line with matt and trey than probably much of the current online fanbase, as fandom typically skews young and different entry points are going to have a lot of sway as to how the characters may be interpreted. for instance, my vision of adult stan and kyle -- or even stan and kyle as teenagers or young adults -- is going to look a lot different than a 19 year old whose introduction to the show was from edits of tiktok, which is not meant as a disparagement but just an observation that fans like that are going to be shaped by a different cultural landscape than what i came of age with in addition to the shifting tone of south park as time has gone on.

anyway, on a personal level, i'm not sure if this is necessarily reflected in *my* art all the time, but as a general inclination there are some specifics of how I envision stan and kyle

- stan's face, to me, is usually wider and rounder. generally I try to make stan's features "softer"; kyle's face is longer and sharper, more angular. though I usually give stan a broader chin, but not a cleft

- stan is hairy in the body but not as much the face; kyle is hairy in the face but not as much the body

- I guess I usually think of stan as being sort of short and stocky? maybe not short, but definitely stocky. definitely more on the broad, muscular side and weighing more than kyle. stan is rectangular but kyle is built like an inverted triangle.

- genuinely have a hard time imagining kyle overweight -- I always imagine kyle relatively lithe, more toned than overtly muscular but definitely not shrimpy. this is probably where i deviate the most from a lot of common attributes given to kyle, where he's typically shorter and smaller than stan. don't know if it's ideally how i would describe them but guess i would say kyle has always seemed more phenotypically "masculine" to me than stan, but i wouldn't describe either of them as appearing very feminine.

- If they aren't the same height I like to draw Kyle taller because I love being controversial ❤️

- not relevant in any way but one of those odd but highly specific details: stan has bigger hands but kyle has bigger feet

- I fence-sit the kyle with freckles vs. kyle w/o freckles war by just giving him several moles. and i literally don't care how insignificant it is I physically have to draw stan with an earring. at least one dumb little stud

[countfreakout]

wod meet cute event with @spookebee!

I had a blast working with @spookebee on this event! writing this really helped me get my game back and finally gave me an excuse to write something set in the world of darkness; and it definitely helped that I got to write about my brujah, alan, going up against @spookebee's brujah, ryker! his piece featured in this post is just one of the many masterpieces he has to offer, and they're currently taking commissions, so make sure to check out his blog! without further ado, here are the finished pieces!

---

amazing art by @spookebee:

---

writing piece by @countfreakout (~3800 words):

The crowd roared when the first fighter made his way towards the ring. 

Cheers and shouts erupted from nearly every direction, regular and first-time viewers alike eager to see what the moustached man had to offer; though even to those aforementioned regulars, this would be the first time they’d ever heard of Alan Harvey. They all watched as he pried his sunglasses from their perch on the crooked bridge of his nose, taking a few good glances around the arena now that his vision was fully unobstructed.

The Black Flag Combat Club was as advertised: nothing special, and a little shabby at that. It was sheer coincidence that had even informed him of its existence. He’d been out scouting for a safe place to squat, hoping to save himself the $100 he’d have otherwise had to spend on an AirBnB. Instead, he’d found a nondescript brick building whose only manner of decoration was the poster on the door and the banner above it, announcing the establishment’s name. The poster hadn’t been particularly eye-catching—it had looked like something designed by someone with no prior knowledge of graphic design on one of those apps plainly titled “Photo Editor”—but they’d already had him at the word “combat.” And their hold on him was cemented once he’d read the text on the paper, boasting the opportunity for seasoned fighters to participate in a match for a cash reward; $500 for participation, and another $1,000 if he happened to win. Which was guaranteed, seeing as he hadn’t yet met a mortal who had stood a chance against his preternatural strength.

The interior looked much the same as the exterior had, which was to say that it was practical. It wasn’t designed to please, just to provide a venue for sparring matches so the owners could presumably rake in some extra cash. And if they could afford to throw $2,000 total at every pair of brawlers, it was probably working.

The arena was small, capable of accommodating maybe two hundred people shoulder-to-shoulder, and was less of an arena than it was a large room with a boxing ring in the middle of it. There were no seats, leaving the space completely empty save for stanchions bolted to the ground, paving a much-needed path for fighters through the tightly-packed mob. Floodlights mounted on the ceiling trusses illuminated the ring, leaving the cramped audience with a clear view of the action. Alan had a feeling that might impede his vision during the match—unaccustomed as he was to bright light—but he supposed a little challenge was always fun.

There wasn’t a bar, or posters plastered on the brick walls, or even shelves, for that matter. Practical felt like the right word, though someone without his prior experience may have called it lousy or under-decorated. All in all, it wouldn’t be televised anytime soon. Still, Alan smiled at the audience as if he was, willing his dormant heart to pump blood through his veins and make him look some semblance of alive.

He tucked his sunglasses into his pocket, slipped his jacket off, and entered the ring.

He’d been right about the brightness of the floodlights. The onslaught initially blinded him, forcing him to squint as the crowd hollered, louder this time around. A few chants of “Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!” managed to make themselves heard over the general cacophony, prompting a grin from the second fighter as he approached the ropes.

The man who appeared in the ring only seconds later wasn’t what Alan had been expecting. Well, he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting. Maybe someone brushing if not breaking six feet tall, sporting a five o’clock shadow, decked out in little else but a tank top and scuffed jeans, like he was. Of course, he’d long learned his lesson about not judging a book by its cover, but the individual in front of him looked more like someone you’d find at a hole-in-the-wall record store and less like someone you’d find in a fight club. Though he figured the two scenes did have a bit of overlap.

Layered black hair framed the man’s angular face, ending just above his shoulders, the colour briefly intercepted by white stripes forming a raccoon tail on his left. His eyes were a deep brown, his skin somewhat lighter. An array of piercings Alan couldn’t name off the top of his head decorated his ears and lips, glinting in the overhead light. Clothing wise, he wore a spiked choker, a beat-up grey hoodie, a studded leather jacket adorned with pins, hand wraps, a studded belt, and a pair of pants that looked like they were actually two separate pairs of pants Frankensteined together; one leg red, black, and white plaid, the other just plain black.

Whoever this guy was, the crowd seemed to favour him. He carried himself with a confidence that suggested this was far from his first rodeo, or maybe even that he had professional training.

The announcer’s voice boomed through the PA system, surprisingly loud.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, for our final matchup of the night! This one’s bound to be exciting, so feast your eyes and show our fighters some hype!

“In the wifebeater is our first fighter, coming all the way from Kingston! Weighing in at 76.1 kilograms with a height of 179 centimetres, he just barely qualifies as a super middleweight! I, for one, think he’ll put up quite a fight, and I’m sure you’re all eager to see what tonight’s guest has to offer! Please welcome Alan ‘Whizgig’ Harvey!

“In the leather jacket is our second fighter, a local talent many of you are already familiar with! Weighing in at 72.6 kilograms with a height of 173 centimetres, he may not look like much, but those who’ve seen him in action know he packs quite a punch! With an astonishing win-loss record of six to none, our undefeated champion is sure to take your breath away with his tactics! You know him, you love him, please welcome Ryker Kessgowasse!”

The crowd had cheered when Alan was introduced, but that was nothing compared to the uproar Ryker’s introduction prompted. Ryker drank the near-deafening noise in avidly, glad to be back in his element.

“As you’re all aware by now, this club doesn’t shy away from a little ferocity. That’s why we only have one golden rule…”

What was probably hundreds of voices all shouted in unison;

“Don’t kick ‘em when they’re down!”

Alan had known this wasn’t a professional club since he’d walked through the door; professional clubs didn’t throw money at whoever showed up itching for a fight. No, this was the kind of place that masqueraded as your regular, law-abiding gym by day, and bared its fangs as your erratic, wayward fighting pit by night. The audience wasn’t here to watch two people take harmless jabs at each other. They were here to see brutal swings and ruthless beatdowns.

They were here to see blood. And that was what they were going to get.

“I won’t keep you folks waiting any longer! Something tells me this one is going to be a close call, so give it up for our fighters and let’s see some action!”

With that, the bell rang, and Ryker crossed the entire ring in a few quick strides, delivering a nasty right hook to Alan’s jaw. Alan took the hit, slipping out of the way as his opponent thrust his knee forward in what would’ve been a jab to his thigh. He backed off to briefly plan his attack as the announcer said something about Ryker coming in hot.

He knew Ryker’s type; rash, relentless, speed over smarts. It wasn’t the first time he’d fought one of them, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. There was no real “trick” he’d discovered to taking them down besides just waiting for them to tire themselves out, though he was sure there was something he just hadn’t picked up on. He had the advantage of sheer size, but that was only useful if he could tank through the barrage ahead of him; and judging by the blow he’d already received, Ryker was no light hitter. Tanking through wouldn’t be his first course of action. So he had to think of something else, and he had to think of it fast.

A hand gripped his shoulder as another whizzed past his face, missing him by a hair’s breadth when he leaned back to avoid the strike. He immediately realized that doing so had put him in a nonoptimal position, but it was too late. The hand on his shoulder moved to grasp him by the throat, and he was heaved across the ring with alarming strength, ropes straining with the effort of catching his full weight. People howled at the sight, breaking into their chant from before.

“Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

He stared at the other man in disbelief, attempting to rationalize how someone ultimately smaller than him could’ve pulled that off in the first place. The last time he’d been hurled across the ring like that, the guy who’d done so had been several weight classes above him. And even then, he’d been like Alan was; cursed to spend his days asleep and his nights hunting for blood.

Ryker liked that look, the disconcertment that always made its way into the eyes of his opponents. It was especially satisfying to see in cocky mortals who underestimated him, to watch their air of superiority falter in the face of an adversary stronger than them.

He’d grown to expect it, just like Alan did. Every fight was a cakewalk, in the ring or outside of it, something the two of them could breeze through as if it were a minor blockade on the road to whatever goal they were chasing in the moment. Unlife had taught them nothing was unachievable; so long as you had the money, power, or fame to coax it into the palm of your hand. But they were still fledglings, new to the game with only the basics on how to play it. And fighting others of their kind wasn’t in the basics.

Alan was the first to notice something was wrong about his opponent. After a feat like that, Ryker should have stopped, panting, heart hammering against his chest. He shouldn’t have thrown Alan a smug look while motioning for him to approach, visibly unaffected despite having thrown a seventy-six kilogram man through the air only seconds ago.

He understood why the crowd had cheered so loud now. The guy was good. Too good.

Suddenly determined to prove himself to the audience, he lunged at Ryker, grappling him to prevent any further assault as he attempted to force his jaw to the side, expecting to meet skin moist with sweat.

But he wasn’t sweating. He was cold.

Dead cold.

Fuck.

He’d gone up against other licks a few times now. None of those experiences had been anything less than agonizing, and he didn’t care to repeat a single one of them; at least, not until he’d learned what to expect. And that was the problem. With mortals, he could almost predict their every move. Sure, some were more skilled than others, but so long as they weren’t armed with flamethrowers or machetes, they were relatively harmless. With vampires, on the other hand, he could never be sure they wouldn’t screw with his head, or vanish out of thin air, or become impossible to move, or grow a whole ass pair of claws.

His momentary hesitation cost him a blow to the side of the head.

And then another. And another. And another.

Before he could even register it, he was down on the ground.

“One!”

The light caught him right in the eyes with a sharp glare.

“Two!”

Over the PA system came a snarky remark about Ryker mopping the floor with him.

“Three!”

Rage threatened to take hold of him, but he reigned it in.

“Four!”

He picked himself up and settled back into a fighting stance.

Caution had gotten him nowhere. Not right then, and not in the past. He’d spent the entire round riding the wave and analyzing Ryker’s moves, forgetting that wasn’t what places like these respected in their fighters. They only respected brute force.

Now that he knew what he was dealing with, he’d show them that and then some. With mortals, he had to maintain a careful balancing act; he reigned himself in just enough not to breach the Masquerade or cripple his opponent, but still took enough advantage of his vampiric strength to end up victorious. It was an ordeal, which was why he didn’t fight as often as he had before his Embrace. But tonight was going to be different. Tonight, he fought against someone on even ground. The next round wouldn’t be a repeat of the first; at least, not for him. He’d show this Ryker guy what it meant to harness the might given to them by unlife.

As round one took its leave—signified by the bell—so too did his wariness.

The two men retreated to opposite corners of the ring, waiting out the break. Neither of them needed it, though Alan, for his part, tried to pretend he did. Not just for the sake of maintaining his mortal facade, but also because he suspected Ryker hadn’t figured out he was going up against one of his own yet. That was an advantage he couldn’t just dump down the drain.

Soon enough, the bell sounded again, and Alan surprised Ryker by hurtling forward in a reckless lunge, not unlike the one he’d received himself at the beginning of round one. The difference between his and Ryker’s attack, however, was that he wasn’t holding back. His fist connected with the punk’s nose, cartilage and bone dislodging themselves as a consequence of the brutal hit. No blood seeped from the injury, but if the audience was disturbed, they didn’t show it. A cacophony of glee filled the room, which only increased in volume as Alan kept going.

A forearm strike to the throat sent Ryker staggering back, leaving him free for only a moment before Alan enveloped him in a crushing bear hug. Bones splintered, a telltale sign of less-than-natural force that was thankfully drowned out by the crowd’s cheering. Despite his newly-broken ribs, Ryker grabbed Alan by the hips, pushed himself away, and delivered a knee strike to the other man’s groin, forcing him to relinquish his hold. Had he been mortal, that move would’ve surely given Ryker an opening, allowing him to put Alan on his ass.

Definitely not his first rodeo.

The pair retreated and circled one another for a moment, that same look of realization slowly working its way onto Ryker’s face. But Alan wouldn’t let him have time to think; or to use the power of his Blood to will his bones back together.

He came in high with an overhead punch, but just as Ryker moved to block it, he used his left arm to grab him in the abdomen with a low uppercut. Ryker soon found himself forced back into the ropes by a series of relentless jabs, doing everything he could to keep up and parry before regaining his footing and spinning away.

The rest of round two continued on in much the same way, roles reversed; Alan now on the offensive while Ryker tried to keep up and defend. Eventually, Ryker did manage to regain some of his earlier aggression, placing the two on even ground just before the bell rang.

Ding, ding, ding!

While the announcer gave a brief recounting of the events of the last two rounds, Alan and Ryker locked eyes, now both in possession of the knowledge that the other was a lick. There was a challenge there, in that moment of eye contact, one that wasn’t hostile, but instead friendly. The two had at last met their match; someone who could keep up with their preternatural abilities in a similar fashion. A common sentiment pervaded the arena: this is fun.

Ryker smiled, baring his fangs, and Alan smiled back in much the same way.

“Now, folks, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for! While the last two rounds may have awarded each fighter with a victory of their own, this third and final round will be the tiebreaker; whoever takes this one will take home the prize money! As a show of your admiration, I’d like you to give our brawlers a huge round of applause!”

There was less actual applause than there was people screaming at the top of their lungs, which was unsurprising. Controlling a crowd that rowdy was practically impossible, unless you were the Toreador Alan had once seen lure an entire neighbourhood into one bar using only her voice. In his experience, the announcement of the final round was always like floodgates being opened. That wasn’t to suggest the audience had been tame for the past two rounds—far from it—but there was always a detectable change in atmosphere when the grand finale hit. People were on the edges of their seats, eager to see if their bets would pay off or sometimes just if their championing idol would retain their streak. It was all held breaths, wide eyes, and slack jaws. Alan had come to appreciate the humanity of it in the years since his untimely demise.

This time around, there was a countdown before the bell rang. The announcer began at five, but by the time he’d reached four, every other voice in the building had joined in.

“Three!”

Alan could just barely make out the sound of Ryker’s bones welding back together.

“Two!”

Ryker rolled his shoulders, ignoring the Hunger digging its claws into him.

“One!”

The two men readied themselves for action.

Ding, ding, ding!

In what would be the first time since the beginning of the fight, both brawlers charged each other at once.

The audience fell speechless when they watched the pair land their attacks on each other, Alan punching Ryker in the jaw with enough force to dislodge it completely, Ryker wrapping his hands around Alan’s throat until there was an audible crack. Both were giving it their all now, and the sight was grisly. Assault after assault came that should’ve had both of them on the ground, bleeding, groaning, dying. The only thing more disturbing than the arena’s dead silence was the sight of them tearing each other apart, strike by strike, bone by bone. And every single time, they got right back up. Like it was nothing.

The fighters, on the other hand, were having the time of their unlives. Being able to unleash their full potential was a luxury they seldom came by, let alone under a circumstance where neither party was trying to kill the other.

Eventually, the Hunger started to get to Alan. He’d been so enthralled by the action, he’d forgotten that every healed injury cost him more and more juice. He really should’ve grabbed a drink before diving head-first into a match he’d presumed would be a dull, easy win; but it was too late for that now. Not too keen on frenzying out in front of hundreds of mortals, let alone on one of his own, he slowed his pace marginally and stopped healing his wounds.

But marginally was a big difference when it came to fights like these, and Ryker soon seized the upper hand.

The round was almost over when Alan felt the world start to slip away from him. Neither of them were on the ground yet, and he wasn’t sure how the judges would be able to score something like this, but in any case, the outcome was clear: he would lose. For once in his unlife, that prospect didn’t bother him. Especially when, on the other path, there was torpor. And his experience with torpor wasn’t one he cared to repeat; mostly because sneaking out of the morgue was never fun.

When the next blow came, he let it knock him down.

“One!”

Ryker backed off, abiding by the one rule.

“Two!”

The cool feeling of the mat bit its way through his tank top, soaked with artificial sweat.

“Three!”

At last there was a moment of stillness, one that allowed him time to think.

“Four!”

Events hadn’t unfolded like he expected them to. But he was glad they hadn’t.

“Five!”

“After a beating like that, folks, we’re not sure if he’ll be able to get up!”

“Six!”

He healed the worst of the damage he’d received, reeling his Beast in as he did so.

“Seven!”

What a fight.

“Eight!”

A smile worked its way onto his face.

“Nine!”

Yeah, he’d like it here.

“Ten!”

The round came to a close with a final ring of the bell.

The silence that had permeated the arena shattered all at once, replaced by the ruckus of the first two rounds; somehow amplified to the point that the announcer could barely be heard over it all.

“And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen; we have a winner! While Harvey proved himself to be a worthy adversary, tonight’s fight undoubtedly goes to Kessgowasse! Please show your appreciation for your champion before you head out the door!”

The crowd’s appreciation was shown indeed, as the hundreds of people within it lent their voices to a third chant: “Ryker! Ryker! Ryker!”

The noise trickled out of the building just as the audience members did, and soon enough, the arena was left empty save for the announcer, a few staff members, and, of course, the two fighters.

As he steeled himself for standing up, a pair of worn-out Docs entered his field of vision, shadowed by the presence of the man they belonged to.

“Hey.”

In an attempt to preserve what was left of his dignity, Alan sat up, squinting in an attempt to make out Ryker’s face through the torrent of fluorescent light.

At the very least, Ryker was every bit as roughed up as he was. The entire left side of his face looked like it had been hit by a truck, and his nose was more broken than it had been when the fight started. He may have won, but there was a reason he hadn’t healed himself; and it was very likely the same reason Alan had let himself lose.

The two exchanged a glance much like the one they’d exchanged just before the last round had started, but there was a difference in the one they shared now; something akin to admiration present in each of their gazes. Teeth flashed in a grin just before a hand reached down, palm open, in front of him. Immediately, Alan recognized the gesture.

Sportsmanship.

That was difficult to find in mortals, and nearly impossible to find in those like the two of them. And yet, there it was. Clear as day.

Smiling back, he took the hand offered to him and heaved himself up.

Ryker stuffed his hands into his pockets once Alan got onto his feet, speaking once more.

“Welcome to Montréal.”

---

thank you so much to @porcelainseashore, @crownedinmarigolds, and @vampemoqueen for organizing this event!

[plethomacademia]

I'm trying to think of techniques to get past my current anxiety about my writing. I have ideas, but the idea of writing them just makes me feel a dread that I can't figure out. I'm hoping it's just my anxiety about my life and the entire world bleeding over, but neither of those is clearing up any time soon and I do enjoy writing, so I would like to figure out a solution.

Definitely open to suggestions. I am thinking of trying to do writing sprints just to get over the hump of sitting at my keyboard or trying one of the prompts moldering in my inbox. I'm also thinking of what I might want to write and not share, since I suspect that part of the anxiety is related to potential rejection, which is very silly because I have so many lovely friends who enjoy what I do.

[nuttersinc]

Sunday writing - in which Edwin gets his revenge on a cat

Thanks to @mykingdomcomeundone for tagging me about my Sunday writing. This is the first rough draft of this morning's writing for my @deadbangdetectives story coming out in August.

_____

“You have very protective cats,” Charles said to Niko, but she mustn't have been able to hear what the cat had been saying, because she smiled indulgently. “I know,” she smiled sweetly. “They have been following me around for weeks now. Ever since my dad left. It's like he sent them to me, to protect me,” she said, and continued to pet the orange cat, which resumed its purring as if it hadn't tried to take Edwin's eye out.

The black cat which had rested in the sunbeam, stretched and rolled to its feet, padding over to Charles as well, until he felt positively surrounded by Niko’s feline bodyguards. “Bollocks,” the black cat said, “we’ve been sent by the Cat King himself.”

“The Cat King?” Edwin, inquired, his bushy eyebrows raised.

“Who?” Crystal asked, confused, confirming that like Niko, she couldn't hear the cats talking.

“Did you know that cats can talk?” Charles asked, still flabbergasted by this discovery.

“Oh,” Niko said, beaming. “Oh! I know! Are they talking to you right now? Can you ask their names?”

“Can we just get back to the Cat King?” Edwin almost begged, sounding a little unnerved, his pen poised over his notebook. “This case is already very confusing…”

The black cat at their feet sighed and lifted its paw, licking it briefly, before answering. “The Cat King owes one of his lives to Mr. Sasaki, so his honour now tells him he owes it to Niko. He sent us to take care of Niko and report back to him if anything out of the ordinary happens.”

“We will definitely report you,” the orange cat snarled from its throne on Niko’s lap.

“10 hour flight in a crate,” a pissy looking tabby cat at Charles’s feet moaned. “The things I’m willing to do for him… I miss Port Townsend.”

“Are you still talking to the cats?” Crystal asked, eyeing the accumulated cats with suspicion, “because this is weird.”

“We should go and see this Cat King,” Edwin decided, and snapped his notebook shut.

Charles had a hard time seeing how that was their strongest lead, but it also was kind of their only lead, and he trusted Edwin's detective’s instinct. “Fine,” he sighed. He still wasn't looking forward to mirror travel and how he got sick every time they went through with it. “We’ll find your dad, Niko,” he promised.

Niko smiled gently. “Thank you. That's wonderful. Can you ask my cats their names before you leave?”

With an arched eyebrow, Edwin turned to the cat who had scratched him. “Well?” he prompted impatiently, and the cat answered by hissing at him, showing its sharp fangs. Unimpressed, Edwin kept looking at it.

“Bartholomew,” the cat said haughtily.

Cooly, Edwin turned to Niko. “The orange one is called Sir Custard,” he said evenly, unblinkingly.

“How dare you?!” Bartholomew spat and launched himself at Edwin.

It was lucky Charles had quick reflexes and pulled Edwin aside just in time, shoving him towards Niko’s full-length mirror. They fled through the mirror, Charles's fear of succumbing to his mirror-sickness momentarily forgotten.

*-*

Edwin was fucking giggling.

“Sir Custard?” Charles asked back in their office, while Edwin was doubled over, steadying himself with one hand on the wall.

“Did you see his furry, little face?” Edwin wheezed, gasping for breath he didn't need. His hilarity was astounding and also, Charles thought, really, really cute.

“To be honest, I was looking out for his razor sharp claws,” Charles remarked, unable to keep a straight face himself, grinning at Edwin's childish reaction.

With a soft huff, Edwin straightened and pulled on the lapels of his brown coat, his eyes crinkled and moist from his hilarity. “This is a most interesting case,” he announced, sounding pleased and looking invigorated.

_____

Tagging @ravenwilds , @tragedy-machine and @raina-at .

[lexiecon-mp4]

The Confession: A Line Breakdown

Day 6: S2 EP5

Prompt: N/A

The iconic "rom-com" episode! All throughout the first four episodes of the second season, I was strictly holding myself back from becoming attached to these two. There were so many insane moments that I could hardly believe were canon, but I dismissed it all as unintentional writing choices and "queerbaiting" because I refused to believe the writers (for the MCU!!!) would commit to their relationship all the way through. At least, not without giving way to a more "serious" straight relationship or disrupting it with some overt "bro" jokes that wouldn't take them seriously.

Yet this episode manages to bring some excellent humor into their relationship (through some alternate-self shenanigans) with moments that take their relationship seriously. But what impacted me the most was one single line that defined the significance of their bond.

Back in S2EP1, Loki timeslips before he can tell Mobius what he believes are his final words to him. As soon as that moment happened, I knew the writers were going to pull a "Chekhov's gun" with this confession, and bring it up in a significant place later in the season. So when Loki finally said "You saved my life when I first arrived. You saw something in me that I hadn’t seen in myself." in EP5, I immediately knew that was what he wanted to tell him. So, let's break down the significance of this line and the tragedy of his Mobius not hearing those words.

"You saved my life when I first arrived."

The first thing that comes to my mind in hearing this sentence was Mobius interrupting Loki's trial and preventing him from pruning in the very first episode. At the time, both thought pruning would result in an instant, permanent death there was no chance of coming back from. But of course, as of now Loki knows that he could have survived in the Void himself for some time. What he seems to be pointing at here is more of a figurative saving rather than a literal one.

The Void in S1EP5 was full of Loki variants that continuously backstabbed and sabotaged one another for power. Even in a wasteland with no people to rule, their definitions of "glorious purpose" was severely misconstrued and self-destructive. When our Loki arrives there, he's clearly very embarrassed over their actions, and has a small moment of self-reflection. He recognizes that this is what everyone else saw in him on the timeline; just a malicious and egotistical fool who often secured his own downfall. But rather than being offended or close-minded about it, you can tell that he acknowledges he was once like them.

If Loki had been immediately pruned upon arrival at the TVA, he would have acted just as simplistically as the others, or worse, met an unfortunate fate due to betrayal. It was meeting Mobius that gave him an opportunity to listen to someone who pointed out all his flaws and shortcomings, but without judgement. In turn, this helped him distinguish between the limitations of his initial purpose, but not of his character.

"You saw something in me that I hadn’t seen in myself."

And this idea perfectly coincides with his second line. What strikes me the most in this is that Loki doesn't say "that others didn't see in me" or "something that I didn't think was possible" but rather, a part of himself he didn't even believe existed. After years of being raised in an environment that saw everything from his powers to his status as inferior, it changed the way he saw his own nature. That he was born without the capacity for selflessness, benevolence, or even love.

This completely recontextualises his entire character, not only in the series but in the entire MCU. He never had that opportunity to truly believe he could selflessly care the way that many others did. So when he arrives at the TVA right after Avengers 2012, at one of the lowest points in his life, he's very hesitant to the idea of trust or friendship. Yet Mobius manages to defy all the expectations Loki had of himself, revealing the very human heart underneath his godly facade.

That last line then, is a huge revelation both on Loki's behalf and their relationship as a whole. Mobius had never seen Loki as merely a subject or experiment, but always as a multifaceted being. It was a genuine connection, a truth that saved Loki from himself. Something that had forever left an impact on his identity. And now, the prospect of spending the rest of his newfound life with this person was rapidly slipping from his fingers. Without Mobius, where did he belong?

But something that Loki might never know for sure was how much that statement also rang true on his partner's behalf. Because I can almost guarantee that Mobius would have said the same if he had heard those words.

In the TVA, he had no sense of identity outside of their established "glorious purpose" to protect the sacred timeline. He was a man with dreams and ambitions (no matter how frivolous) that could never be achieved. When Loki crash-landed into his life, he was probably just expecting an opportunity to learn from someone he was fascinated by. In turn, he hoped to at least give closure to this Loki variant outside of the fate he was assigned.

But almost instantaneously, that spark of rebellion in him turned into a flame. For the first time Mobius was pushed way outside his comfort zone by someone who exemplified mischief and chaos. Loki brought him a new perspective on things, and consequently, he risked his own neck (and skin) for someone he didn't owe anything to. It was done out of care for someone the TVA told him he should have zero attachments for. Loki saved him from a lifetime of servitude, and as a result, freed the universes for all time. It was because of him, that Mobius could decide his own future for himself. Both of these characters shaped one another throughout the series. Always following, always chasing, always changing each other like an ouroboros.

Nothing emphasizes Loki's confession more than the last scene of the series. We see that these two are still drawn to one another despite entire realities separating them. It was their own care for one another that ultimately distanced them for eternity. The desire to be together—not for the TVA or a life on the timelines—is never fully uncovered until after they part ways for the last time.

A confession left forever unspoken.

[readenheim]

This but I also know the dark version of it. Like A starting to feel it fade and accepting that maybe they can be okay even if it's not meant to be .. and then B loving them so much all of a sudden..so so so so much..maybe too much .And A starts feeling guilty for not being at the same level of love anymore because.. isn't this what they wanted ? And now that they do and B is still such a wonderful person why isn't it just perfect? shouldn't they be swimming in happiness? Are they too greedy ? is that why they're not satisfied? and they can't just let B know because they're just so wonderful .. if they were to feel hurt because of them it would only prove how much of an awful person they are.And B sometimes notices B is not as happy as they thought they'd be . So B starts doubting themselves. And A knows it and knows it's their fault..

And so A fell first , and B fell harder but neither can admit the fall hurt.

!!!!!!!

[livinghalfway]

Importance

We do a lot of Danny leaving the league and being adopted by the Fentons but let’s switch that around.

Talia is on a mission investigating the Fenton scientists, and their research on ectoplasm—which sounds suspiciously similar to the Lazarus pits—when she comes across their young son Daniel Fenton.

Before Talia had even entered the house she watched as the scientists ran out the front door yelling something about having to go and capture a ghost. She also knows that their young daughter is currently spending the night with an aunt, and upon seeing the Fentons drive away, the door left unlocked, Talia notes, assumes that the son is with the aunt as well.

Quickly and efficiently she copies any important documents that look useful, and just as Talia is about to leave a sharp cry rings throughout the house. In a moment of weakness she turns around and goes further into the home to find the source of the crying. That is when she finds baby Daniel Fenton (like 6 months old) who had been left all alone in his nursery.

Thinking of her own son, Damian (who's around 3), she reaches out and gently begins to rock him in her arms. When given this mission Ra's had given her the order to take anything of importance she finds and this, Talia decides, is something of importance as she looks down at the boy now calm and sleeping; a tiny hand gripping onto her shirt.

Once arriving back at Nanda Parbat the first thing she does is present her father with the information she gathered, and her new son. Within the next few hours the second grandson to the Demon’s head is announced, Danyal al Ghul.

Damian absolutely adores Danyal, and takes his new role as a big brother very seriously.

Things from here continue relatively as normal with Damian (8) and Danyal (5) arriving at the manor. Danyal may not be his by blood, but Bruce welcomes the boy nonetheless. He would have done so even without Damian’s threats of violence.

A few more years pass and Damian (14) is going steady with his role as Robin, and Danyal (12) trains with his siblings but has not been allowed out yet on patrol. After a fight with Bruce and Damian about this fact, Danyal decides he’s going to look into his biological family.

Dead end after dead end Danyal eventually contacts Talia and asks her where he came from. It takes a bit of but Talia does tell him how she found him ‘abandoned’ in the home of a couple she was looking into. Their names and the sister who wasn’t there that night.

With this new information Danyal leaves a note for his family to find as he makes his way to Illonis as quickly as he can knowing that Damian, at the very least, will be right on his heels when he discovers his disappearance.

When he arrives at the Fenton house it’s quiet. He knows that his sister, Jazz, will be arriving home from school any minute now. Against his better judgement Danyal decides to enter and take a look around. This leads him to the basement standing in front of a giant machine.

The papers on the desk tell him that his bio parents are trying to build some kind of portal with their most recent attempt ending in failure.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Danyal investigates the portal. While taking a step inside the lab door slams open causing him to trip; his hand landing on a button. Bruce, Damian, and Jazz now watch on as Danyal dies right in front of them. He comes back, different now.

A few months later Bruce Wayne announces the arrival of his newest adoptive daughter, and a new vigilante known as Potoo (look it up lol, they have a nickname called “ghost birds”) is seen running around with Batman and Robin.

[jesuistrestriste]

i absolutely adore your pastor’s son art but..hear me out…pastors son patrick 😈 but unlike art he is lowkey sacrilegious and not as hard to drag into sin like art

-🍰

♱ pastor’s son!patrick zweig x reader

cw (18+) : switch!patrick, switch!reader, mild corruption kink, mutual masturbation, giving each other a hand, general filth and dirty talk

patrick’s a good boy.

a true believer; he’s someone who idolizes his father, the only pastor in his small town, and does everything he can to remain physically and emotionally devout. doing bible studies alone in his bedroom, attending every service that’s held, upholding the religious teachings that have been woven into his very soul from a young age.

but.. that’s not to say that temptation is easy for him to push down and pray away.

temptation is more like a toxic friend that mumbles dirty little nothings into his ear when all he wants to do is avoid the draw of engaging in sin. it thumbs the waistband of his underwear when it’s late at night and he can’t stop thinking about the curves of people’s bodies. it licks warmly at his lower stomach when he catches you sparing him a glance on your way out the tall church doors. and god, your lips.. oh, your lips..

temptation is more like a sick, twisted, toothy monster that clings to his back and digs its claws into his flesh. bleeds him out from the puncture wounds, letting the filth leave his body and become realized. it’s impossible to ignore. it gets him into trouble.

you’re mostly to blame though. this time, at least.

you had chatted him up after a particularly stirring sermon, when everyone had already left, and then relished in the flush of his cheeks that had been so deep in color it almost hid his freckles completely. you’d touched his arm and smiled all sweet, your poison seeping into his frame from your fingertips. he tried to resist, he really did.

if temptation was a monster trying to fuse to his spine, it was certainly your henchman.

now you’re sitting beside him in an empty pew in the empty building. heads turned toward one another as shared, heavy, stuttered breathing echoes out into the spacious church. despite it being a peaceful place, it’s beginning to smell of nothing but sticky immorality. it’s easy to pick up on the scent of sweat from warm bodies and faint musk from the fluids involuntarily spilling forth.

his hand is shoved down into his unzipped jeans and past the elastic of his boxers, pumping himself shakily as he watches you play with yourself at the same time. your fingers rub quickly at the sensitive spot that makes you feel hot all over. patrick spares half a glance to your hand’s movements as you shift it underneath the shielding fabric, and lets out a soft, strangled sort of sound at the sight.

“does that feel good?” he breathes out, his voice breaking around a moan as he accidentally thumbs his tip. it’s already covered in his fluids. slimy and lewd.

you nod quickly, your brow pinched up and your legs trembling.

“y-yeah, feels really nice,” you murmur, “how does your cock feel?”

immediately, his legs kick out in front of him and he sinks a little in his seat—his stomach flipping pleasantly at the sound of that vile word slipping from your mouth. cock. he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard to stop himself from saying something stupid like “please, say that again”.

this is the first time he’s ever seen someone else touching their body this way, let alone with him. this is all so new and thrilling and terrifying, but he can’t help but enjoy it—it’s ironically the closest he’s felt to salvation in a very long time. his hips feel floaty, his head is spinning, and his toes are curling in his shoes. he doesn’t quite remember how he let you talk him into this.

“.. aah, oh— it’s so good..” he shakes.

you swallow thickly and arch your pelvis into your circling fingers. you hump your touch, trying to get more friction. thrumming bursts of heat begin to burst in your lower stomach like fireworks..

patrick suddenly keens and cries out, pulling his wet palm from his bottoms in half of a second, like he just burned himself on a scorching stovetop. he pants raggedly and then looks to you with lidded, watercolor eyes. loose brown curls hang in front of his forehead as he parts his lips.

“i almost—..” he can’t finish the sentence, reaching his digits up to tug at his damp collar. it’s like god is actively punishing him by cooking him alive. he’s never felt quite so overheated. and he does feel guilty, more than he’s willing to admit to himself, but you’re all he can see right now. there’s no way he’s going to give this up. not a chance in hell.

he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until he’s doing it. his clean hand reaching for your occupied wrist, guiding you out of your underwear and then down into his own. he gives you a pleading look, a desperate one, and then his jaw slacks when he feels you instantly wrap your touch around his throbbing length. how is it that you know exactly what to do? have you done this before? with who?

he tries not to get jealous. he’s in absolutely no position to feel that way.

all thoughts melt away anyways when you begin to stroke him. up, down, up, down, up, down; the squelching of your tightening hold on him only further igniting his forbidden arousal. it’s hypnotic, and holy fuck, it’s so much better than doing it himself.

everything feels so sensitive.

“please, just touch me,” he shudders out, looking deep into your eyes as he instinctively reaches out to find your body. his fingers inch down past the waistband of your panties to brush over the swollen bud hidden beneath. just the feeling of your soft, squishy flesh sends him careening towards the edge. he’s losing it quickly. almost embarrassingly so.

your knee knocks into his as you whine, spreading your legs farther apart to give him more access. your own release only a handful of agonizing moments away.

you’re both filling the place with sounds filthy enough to shatter the stained glass. the fragments that would come down in the wreckage to slice at your bodies would be less painful than this act of teetering on the precipice of something so primal and grotesque.

he swipes his fingers awkwardly from side to side over your parts as he fumbles with the angle of his touch and his lack of experience. but despite all of that, it feels incredible. your legs clamp around him and your back arches up from the wooden pew. your fist glides over his frenulum as you jolt.

he leans in closer, almost close enough to kiss you, and chokes on a whimper.

“im think i’m about to— im ’bout to—..!”

his voice shakes the earth.

the waves of overwhelming sensation in your body start to flare; your muscles pulling taut as patrick’s do the same.

“i think im really gonna come.. i-is it okay if i come—?” he whispers, whiny and urgent.

like a plea. a prayer.

“yeah, yeah, yeah.. me too..” it tumbles from your chest and stills the air around you.

everything stops for just a moment.

him gasping and squeezing his eyes shut. you gripping the edge of the wood below you with your free hand, nearly squealing as his thumb flicks messily over your bead of nerves. he jerks forward in his seat before seizing up at the sound of your strained little noise—toppling over the edge with a jarring finality that seals him in his shame and blinding pleasure. he all but wails.

wet warmth meets your skin and you touch him through the waves of orgasm that have him promising to repent. your own climax rips moans from your throat and forces you to gush into your clothing. patrick doesn’t even know what to think, not that he can, brain much too melted to salvage any coherency. the sound of bells and doves and the choir fills his head. ringing out deafeningly, like a sick joke. he can’t seem to come down from the high.

he trembles as he pushes down softly on your slick bud, then collapses afterwards into a heap of jelly-like limbs. you follow not a second later. you're both a mess of slick parts and damp faces.

he wipes at his upper lip and then his cheek.

“oh my-..” he trails off, knowing he probably shouldn’t finish the sentiment. he’s already on bad terms. no need to make it worse for him later in the confessional. he sighs, still feeling your hand resting around his softening dick. he tries not to think about the fact that he covered your fingers in his depravity, but the thought comes and goes without his permission anyway. his flesh twitches. he stifles a groan.

“yeah.. woah..” you smirk lazily,

he gets the urge to drop to his knees and pull you down with him. to press his lips to yours before bowing his head and asking for forgiveness. that would probably be the proper thing to do. the better thing. his dad always says that the harder something is to do, the more likely that it’s the right thing to do. he doesn’t know if that’s true, but.. holding himself back from kissing you while also grappling with the remorse has him struggling to maintain composure.

patrick vows right then to never repeat this sort of thing in the future, to refuse the clutches of temptation whenever it pricks his skin again, but the vow begins to crack the moment he feels your index finger lazily rub at the vein bulging from his shaft. he inhales sharply through gritted teeth at the sensitivity, and then turns his head to look to your expression. eyes glazing over with reigniting desire.

he can deny it no longer. oh, you are temptation in human form, flesh and bone.

you’re inescapable.

[obsessedwithstarwars]

Bruce: How was your class trip Damian?

Damian: It was quiet and productive Father.

Bruce: I’m glad to hear it. What was your favorite part?

Damian: I learned how to escape an Iron Maiden.

Bruce: …

Damian: …

Bruce: Explain please.

Damian: A boy Drake’s age taught me how to escape an Iron Maiden.

Bruce: How did he have that knowledge?

Damian: He claims his family has a dungeon full of medieval torture devices. I believe he may require further investigation.

[shywhumpauthor]

A Whumper with fire powers branding their Whumpee not just with their name or initials, but their handprints.

Two palms scarred against either side of Whumpee’s neck, fingers wrapping around their throat in a collar that can never be removed. Hands on their sides, just below their broken ribs, a touch that will never relent. Fingers wrapped around their wrists in shackles that won’t be unlocked. A handprint against their face, cupping their cheek that had already suffered so many punches. The small of their back. A single hand just between their shoulder blades. Dragging down their thighs.

Just. Branded handprints.

[hitlikehammers]

Early November, 1984 and all Eddie wanted was to light up behind the Byers' place in peace🚬

he went all that way and all he got for it was a maybe-dead💀-but-definitely-unconscious-king👑-slash-maybe-babysitter(?), plus some shithead children directing his van🚐 to those fucking abandoned labs that may as well be lit up in neon lights screaming 🚨THIS IS A FUCKING TRAP🚨

Eddie shouldn’t be here. Like, not in a it’s forbidden kinda way, but more in a, there’s no real reason for him to fucking be here.

Save for the obvious.

It’s just…after the whole dead-not-dead thing with the youngest kiddo, the property around the Byers house has kinda turned into no-man’s-land; easy place to get high when Eddie wants a change of scenery, basically, with no one trying to break his nose, or call the pigs.

Or snatch his supply.

But when he hears that fuckface Hargrove call out, the tone on him—and Eddie’s real sensitive to tones, he can guess between the lines for everything he can’t read—he perks up; listens in. Stays put out of sight.

(And no, he does not cream his pants when Harrington calls back, Jesus; taunts like the cocky prick that he is—

And no it is not a close thing or…whatever.)

Point being: he hears more than sees what happens. Up to and including a gaggle of literal fucking children dragging Harrington toward wha Eddie thinks is Hargrove’s eyesore of a car, one of the sheepies crossing around like they’re planning on driving it, and Eddie’s not one for the rule of law or anything—definitely not if it’s Hargrove’s property that’s on the line—and fuck yes Eddie’s driven without a license, and far below the age to get one, but, but—

He’s tripping over himself to turn the keys in his own ignition and swinging the van around quick enough to kick up dirt before he leans over and throws open the passenger door.

“Hey,” he hisses, low but not quiet, he needs them to hear but he doesn’t know if Hargrove’s gonna storm out any second, it’s a delicate balance; “hey, get in,” and he’s crawling over the seat to open the back, too, to push things to the side to mostly leave it flat, tossing blankets to the middle with no care for their cleanliness because there’s no time for that shit, there’s no time and then he’s grabbing the hinges of the doors and flinging his whole top half around to eye this hoard of strange ankle-biters and what’s revealed quickly to be their still-weirdly-attractive-when-beat-to-shit charge in Steve Motherfucking Harrington, trying to project some degree of meaningful trustworthiness, because he is trustworthy, here and now, but they’re kinda in the fucking clock of crazy-eyes-Mc-West-Coast stumbling out of the house, so Eddie’s kinda gotta urge these rugrats with real feeling, waving his hands to the point where his fucking wrists hurt:

“Get in.”

And of course these little urchins still and just, raise a fucking eyebrow at him. Like they’re not working on an inexact sort of fucking timeline—

“Who the fuck are you?”

Yeesh. He wasn’t off when he said they were ankle biters; the little lambies have teeth.

“I just wanna help,” Eddie tries to say it with as much of the genuine concern that he really and truly feels, and not get weighed down with the probably-suspicious-off-the-bat vibe of pulling up in a random van just to start the exchange out with waving some strange kids into the back of it.

Jesus, that sounds terrible, wow, okay.

He gets it.

“No,” oddly, not the ringleader girl who eyed him first but it’s the curly headed boy now who stands up, squares his shoulders, and stares Eddie down with an only-slightly-less-menacing glare. “No, you’re not gonna hurt Steve.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, I swear,” Eddie’s honestly surprised by how unmuddled his tone bleeds put as desperate, versus irritated by this motley crew of munchkins trying to fight him when he is risking his own neck to help them.

And…King Steve, but then: can he be that motionless, hanging awkward from the noodles limbs of a handful of preteens (at most)?

“I just want to get you out of here, somewhere safe,” Eddie bites his lip, wonders where the fuck he intends to go and realizes he was probably just going to drive toward his home and hope for the best; “Er, somewhere safer than here,” and they don’t fucking budge, little assholes, and Harrington doesn’t fucking twitch, and just, just…

Ugh.

“Come on,” he urges them again, just shy of begging; lets how fucking nervous he’s getting seep clear into his tone a little, but he honestly doesn’t think he’d have convinced them to move if not for the crashing of something in the house behind them, and—well.

Nothing like impending doom to speed shit along.

“I wanted to drive,” the redhead’s muttering with a scowl as they heft the body they’re barely keeping off the ground and awkwardly feed Harrington head-first up to Eddie where where he’s crawled properly into the back of the van to help, and Eddie thinks these little fuckers just might be more wild and feral and insane even than he originally would have guessed for how they make to scramble behind their Steve; only just manages to steady and lower the royal body as careful as he can before the hoard clamors in and denies Eddie so much as a moment to press his finger under Steve Harrington’s flop of bloody hair and touch below his jawline where those stupidly infuriating moles of his speckle his skin, marks that Eddie’s hasn’t ever really paid attention to ever, nope, Eddie only needs now to assess whether he’s just accepted a dead fucking body into his van but: no.

Maybe a little sluggish, but pulse’s strong. Which: Eddie doesn’t care about past the legality of it all. Beyond getting saddled with a murder charge or some other bullshit.

No other reason. Of course. Yeah.

The only thing that floors him more than the Hardy Boys-plus-Girl on steroids tearing onto the cushions around where their unconscious charge is laid out, as Eddie shifts into gear and makes to get the fuck out of dodge, like, yesterday, is the even-louder voice in his head that asks probably the most pressing question:

The fuck did the King do, and how, and why, to make these children this loyal?

What follows all that is quite arguably—actually more than that; definitely a strong contender for—the most surprising thing that’s ever happened to Eddie. That could maybe ever possibly happen to Eddie, in any circumstance for any reason within any universal construct or reality. And he’d been really marinating in his Munson Doctrine this year, too, having been forced to reevaluate some shit after the letter arrived to hammer the most disappointing nail in the coffin of Eddie’s first senior year, but then…fuck everything, then there were the stupid little sheepies and their stupid gorgeous goddamn babysitter—which still, still: what the fuck was that, who the fuck even was Steve Harrington?—and Eddie’d barely even put the ink down to dry before all of them banded secretly together and shredded that motherfucking document before it could even properly take root in Eddie’s brain.

All while something else entirely started to take root in his chest, in his hea—

Well. Something. Something that wasn’t even remotely recognizable inside his most recent—and most polished to date, if he does say so himself—draft of the Doctrine like, at all.

Which is the point.

Because Harrington was indeed alive, and did indeed wake up, and clocked Eddie quicker than expected, even by name—Munson? What the fuck?and hell if that hadn’t fluttered between Eddie’s ribs an indefensible amount that no one would ever know about ever, thank you very much, but still: Jesus H. Christ—

But all his own humiliating discombobulation at the not-even-hands-just-voice-and-presence-of-the-golden-boy aside: it’s a damn good fucking thing Harrington wakes up, and is definitely not dead, because Eddie knows where the King lives, and he knows he’s not driving in that direction but had instead been foolish enough to give these shitweasel munchkins the benefit of the doubt here, like that there maybe was a safe house or some shit, fucking sue him, he was a little prepccupied, yeah—by the threat of a chase with that Hargrove fucker and then by the absolutely spectacle of Harrington screeching at the wayward waifs like a harried mother at the stovetop, because fuck, but Eddie nearly crashes them into three ditches and at least five trees for for trying to watch and he can’t even pretend otherwise—but the end result is definitely not a fucking safe house, and these little asshats have directed him in the wholeass wrong direction, if the undeniable fact of the old abandoned labs at the edge of town looming big through his windshield, looking at least slightly less abandoned (as if that’s not goddamn terrifying in and of itself), what the fuck has he literally driven into, is he an accomplice, and to what, and just, just Jesus—

“Hey.”

Eddie is honestly wholly jolted out of his spiral for a lot of reasons, here. The low tenor exhale of a sound in a voice too kind and open and invested, to much like music given what it does to Eddie, what music means to Eddie and what this voice shouldn’t fucking mean too straight out the goddamn gate. The proximity of a body close enough to feel the warmth of each breath. The indefensible feeling of it being nearly erotic out of nowhere and with no justification at all—just the reality of Eddie’s world right now, to feel the barest brush of the side of a body alongside his, leaning forward where he’s still in the driver’s seat. All of that would tip his world at the very least into a different sort of spiral pattern, breathless in a completely other way.

But.

What knocks Eddie hardest and most effectively in one go is the hand on his shoulder, braced to comfort and steady, and the realization in the flesh of how fucking big it is, how the span of that palm, those fingers, because Eddie knew those hands looked big, not that he’d studied them with any real…attention or anything but feeling them was something entirely other, and the touch, the touch is…is—

“Hey,” and Harrington’s breath is close enough then to tickle Eddie’s hair, goddamn: “breathe.”

And where Eddie hadn’t been wholly aware that he wasn’t, y’know, doing the breathing thing so well, either for the absolute insanity of the evening or the ominous spread, all proper D&D-style foreshadowing of nope don’t go there not now not ever waiting where these menaces had directed him to drive; but whatever the reason, where Eddie now takes a gulp of air in now that fucking burns, there’s Harrington, leaning over a little more, a second hand on Eddie chest to steady him as he falls all while he’s fucking squeezing Eddie’s shoulder, only a second before he’s getting ready to jump out of the van like he wasn’t just beaten unconscious like, five fucking minutes ago.

What the actual flying fuck.

If Eddie weren’t a goddamn idiot, he’d put the van in reserve before anyone could get out the back, fuck the way they’ll be thrown against the sides, at least they won’t be walking—willingly—into whatever the fuck’s waiting, all angry red and kinda…pulsating in the distance in a way that may or may not be a trick of his own paranoid mind, and then spewing little glowing motes into the air like lightning bugs.

Which could be charming, if it weren’t way fucking past the season for that shit.

And in fairness, the whole experience of Steve Harrington touching him and leaning close and breathing near him and telling him to breathe? That shit does carry him through—mostly—the hours that will follow, cliche and genuinely fucking embarrassing as it is, as it will be, to acknowledge at all.

But in the now—

“Thanks, man.”

And…oh, well, fuck.

As in point number one: that hand—bothhands—really are distracting as all hell but then also, simultaneously, very much point number two:

What the actual fuck.

“What?”

Apparently sending Eddie-usually-eloquent-enough-to-spin-some-pretty-bullshit-on-demand-Munson reeling outta nowhere is this fucker’s MO. Probably for the best that Eddie’s been writing him off as a pretty airhead for years now—if for nothing more than his own sanity.

Or else, like…relatively speaking.

“You got us here,” Harrington gestures out the window and…yeah.

“Here?”

That’s the relative part. And the insane part to be thanked for. Because where they’ve ended up is definitely the DoE labs that were supposed to have shut down or whatever, after people disappeared and came back and disappeared again and also didn’t and were never gone and fake bodies and whatever.

No one thanks anyone for bringing them to a place like this.

“And it’s more than I could have asked someone to do,” Harrington’s going on like it’s a casual thing, a favor like walking his goddamn dog and not more like what’s actually staring them down inside the fencing, namely the building that doesn’t look as abandoned as advertised by half, and definitely doesn’t at all look like the only thing it’s missing is a big neon sign blinking TRAP! FREE TRAP! IN THE MARKET FOR A QUICK PAINFUL DEMISE AT THE HANDS OF THE WORLD’S SHITTIEST TAINT FACTORY EAST OF ARMPIT-IAPOLIS? STEP RIGHT UP! ALSO REMINDER: CLEARLY A TRAP!

“Harrington,” Eddie doesn’t love the way his voice trips over a bonafide gulp. “Steve.”

He also doesn’t love how much feeling sneaks into that part because one, where the fuck’d that even come from and two, he…

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever said this guy’s first name out loud. As in…ever.

He doesn’t love how nice it feels, how scary but bubbly-warm it tingles at the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach.

So there’s all of that.

Still set inescapably under the threat of the non-existent-but-no-less-real-neon-sign-of-death and…stuff.

“We know what we’re doing,” Steve’s pats Eddie’s shoulder again, moves the hand from his chest like he’s pulling away, like he’s leaving to go toward the trap and Eddie whips his head around just in time to catch Steve shrug sheepishly and add:

“Like, mostly.”

It is not at all lost on Eddie, how Steve doesn’t even try to sidestep that he’s walking into the gaping maw of probably death, here.

That might be the most terrifying part of this yet.

“I could,” Eddie’s voice is a crackle, so he tries clearing his throat, licking his lips; “I could at least try to help.”

That comes out a little stronger, but not steadier, and he doesn’t really think he’s making his point very well at all.

But then there’s Steve, and his hand back full on Eddie’s shoulder, saying:

“You could,” like he believes that; “and we’d be grateful,” added in like he means that too.

And most unbelievable of all of it, what he tacks on last with a squeeze of his hand and a lower pitch for no reason Eddie can figure save to catch inside the clench of his pulse so it takes to jittering like fucking mad as the King himself exhales:

“I’d be grateful.”

And what the fuck does that mean, said with eyes so bright when the night’s so dark?

And what the fuck does it mean when Eddie’s heartbeat starts jittering, a butterfly between cupped hands, until:

“I need you to be safe though,” and the words have physical form, brush Eddie’s frizzled curls straight behind his ear like…tenderness, delicate.

What. The. Fuck.

Eddie blames the way his heart goes form butterfly to battering ram, ready to crack through his ribs for no reason save a feeling he can’t justify, but’s too real to pretend away as less when he half-fucking-moans:

“What about you?”

Because Steve’s shepherding the kiddos. He’s keeping Eddie on the sidelines, safe. He’s charging into battle with a handkerchief and a bat and a goddamn pair of rubber gloves found from somewhere, sticking out his back pocket like he’s flagging in day-glo, holy hell—

But who takes care of Steve?

“I’ll see you at school,” Steve winks, leans this time to bump one shoulder straight to Eddie’s and then he’s jumping out the back of the van, and he’s moving too fast and—

“Harrington,” Eddie calls, suddenly forgetting he’d ever been trying to keep quiet, to avoid attention of whatever they’re going out to face, Hargrove or harbingers of worker fates, or both at once; “fuck, fuck,” he hissed as he trips over shit that got shifted back in his way as he stumbles to the doors and yells:

“Steve!”

And it’s like maybe saying his name does something to Steve himself, too, because he pauses, and even for the distance, the little curve of his lips isn’t a smirk, it’s a smile.

It’s fucking beautiful.

And then he’s saluting cockily before he turns on his heel with just one last parting shot;

“See you on the other side, Munson.”

And the tunnels beyond only let him watch so long, see so far. The weird shit in the air, and the bandanas he can see a scuffle over, to make sure they’re tied over noses and mouths, lit by weird pulsing colors, obscene squelching noises he can hear the echoes of even this far back and just, just…

Typical eldritch fuckery from a monster manual.

That doesn’t belong in real life.

It’s a fucking trap, Admiral. Good fucking god.

And Jesus H. Christ, but Eddie hadn’t even had the chance to light up tonight as he’d planned, as he’d explicitly driven out to do.

For fuck’s sake.

>>>part two 💚

For @miraculousmultifan, who requested Post-S2; 'Now, I’m not going to deny that I was aware of your beauty. But the point is, this has nothing to do with your beauty. As I got to know you, I began to realise that beauty was the least of your qualities. I became fascinated by your goodness. I was drawn in by it' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—very late, obviously, and MID-S2, rather than post but it ENDS UP being post-S2, promise 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here

[grevyi]

14 days with you x Teen Beach Movie AU

[Prompt 1] A storm approaches as Angel surfs while [REDACTED] follows, but they are both swallowed by a wave and transported to a 1960s musical titled Wet Side Story. 

Playing the younger brother of the leader of a motorcycle gang, [REDACTED] is determined to continue the plot of the movie by having Angel catch him when he falls off the stage while singing. (They didn't know each other before all this)

[Prompt 2] When [REDACTED] first meets the surfer gang at Momma's beachside restaurant, he falls in love with their leader. Determined to win them over, [REDACTED] goes undercover as a new surfer named 'Ren' while his gang tries to understand the disappearance of their commander.

[the-impala-is-my-home]

Hiiiiii

For a little 1+5: "I just wish I could talk to him, you know?"

thank you I really love your writing!!!

Hi! So. This ask is from last September. I might have taken a bit too long to get to this kjsdjkgjkgewdlkglds. But hey, here it is! This is a companion piece to this 5 sentence fic and takes place at the same time. :) It ended up being 5 paragraphs instead of five sentences, but oh well 😌 Thank you so much for this ask!! You're so kind 🥹💜

“I just wish I could talk to him, you know?” Wilhelm pouts up at Felice, whose hands don’t stop their soothing movements through his hair, even as she is clearly holding in a frustrated sigh.

“I know honey, you’ve said so. Repeatedly.” One of her fingers tugs slightly on a strand of his hair and he makes a protesting noise in retaliation. “And still, you have yet to actually walk up to him and open that pretty mouth of yours despite the hundreds of opportunities you’ve had. In fact, we both know you’ve been longingly looking at Simon all evening while somehow still managing to always stay at the opposite side of this party.”

“I can’t just go up to him Felice.” His voice comes out in a whine he would be slightly embarrassed about under normal circumstances. “I completely messed up when I didn’t reach out to him after we kissed and you know it. He probably hates me now.”

A frustrated groan is all the warning he gets before Felice rudely shoves him off the couch they’ve occupied for at least fifteen minutes now. “Wille. I am begging you to go and find your crush for both our sakes, because if I have to hear these same arguments another time, I will drag Simon over here myself.” With that, she makes a shooing motion in Wille’s direction, completely ignoring his betrayed look and the exaggerated way he’s rubbing his elbow.

“I don’t even know where he is”, he tries to save himself, but Felice’s raised eyebrows tell him she doesn’t believe him for a second. “Fine. But if he does hate me you owe me all the ice-cream and binge watching sleepovers in the world.” With that, he tries his best to avoid the way his heart is trying to jump out of his chest and walks towards the door he just saw Simon leave through.