#whoops that sentence was too long for the tag

[cobiehaven]

Perfect Night

SYNOPSIS; juyeon wants to give you an anniversary date that you will remember, not anything like his usual candle-lit dinner plans.

PAIRING; bold!juyeon x fem!reader

GENRE; smut, fluff

WORD COUNT; 1.7k

TAGS/WARNINGS; minors dni ‼️, car sex, anniversary sex, ongoing long-term relationship, lots of praising! romantic sex to rough sex (but isn’t continued after the first orgasm), protected sex (as it should be), slight dirty talk, he calls you baby and good girl.

AUTHORS NOTE; this is my first smut so please don’t hate on me too much 😭❗️

you always knew juyeon to be a quiet and sweet boyfriend, so it was expected that you would see the same kind of persona when you both got to know each other better.

and by ‘better’ you mean better.

tonight wasn’t just an ordinary date between you both. he often took you out to dinner and/or went to go see a movie with you—he was a bit old school when it came to choosing date spots—although tonight wasn’t just special because of where he took you this time, that was for sure.

“i never thought the stars would be so bright tonight,” you mumbled behind your palm, as you had your elbow rested on the car door.

“mhm,” you heard juyeon hum from the other side. “the shine makes you look even more pretty.”

you blushed lightly, glancing down at the sparkles on your dress, remembering back on the evening you spend with him.

today was your one year anniversary.

he took you out to celebrate the day but as night fell, you both found yourselves secluded away from other buildings in juyeon’s car, staring at the stars out the open windows. the low music, bright moonlight, and piney smell was enough to set the mood since the moment he pulled over.

he looked over at you, your eyes still focused out your window. he didn’t need to look at your face to tell that you were flustered.

the way you fiddled your thumbs together and shifted your legs in the seat explained how you were feeling within a heartbeat.

you didn’t say anything and neither did he, causing you to glance over in his direction.

his tie was loose and his hair ruffed up in the best way possible, you could see the sparkles of your dress reflecting in his eyes and the way the moonlight shined in though his window, onto his fair skin.

he’s perfect.

suddenly, you felt a hand reach out for your knee, rubbing his thumb on your lower thigh. another spring of heat flushing over you but this time to places other than your cheeks.

“y/n,” he calls your name, you’re barely listening. “hm?” you hum in small desperation. “can i…” he trailed off as he slowly leans closer to you. he didn’t finish his sentence, but agreed regardless how far tonight went.

you were okay with it all, on such a perfect night.

he closed the gap between your lips, letting you melt into the kiss with passionate time as his thumb inches up further and into small circles.

his tongue was hot against yours, the both of you pulling away every few seconds to catch you breath.

you didn’t look up from his lips until you heard him chuckle lightly, spiking your curiosity.

“you already look so fucked out,” he smiled though his heat-pouring words. his free hand, that was caressing the back of your neck, moved his thumb over your bottom lip and onto the flat of your tongue. you looked up into his eyes, closing your mouth on his finger. “so pretty,” he tugged his bottom lip in between his teeth, you could tell he was having a hard time holding himself back.

you couldn’t blame him.

“let’s move this to the back, hm?”

you nodded.

after the both of you settled into the backseat, he ordered you to get into his lap, guiding your legs over his hips. “good girl,” you could feel his fingers crawling up your thigh again as the other placed itself largely on your waist. you gripped his shoulders, fighting a peep out until his tongue swiped across your nape. you squirmed, “that tickles!” you whined with a smile, he only giggled. “whoops,” he murmured before attaching his tongue to your neck again, only this time, sucking and licking the sensitive skin.

you failed to keep a noise out of you, your fingers gripping onto the black fabric of his thin t-shirt.

you could feel every inch of his slender body through the shirt as if it wasn’t there, but you knew it was, and that bothered you.

you tugged at the buttons on his shirt, throwing the piece somewhere in the car before your fingers trailed all the way down his chest, prompting his own to scurry up the waist of your dress and over your head. his eyes scanned over your half naked body as if it was the first time he had seen it ever before.

“what is it?” you asked softly, the tips of your fingers brushing the hairs on the back of his neck. “you’re so perfect,” he mumbled.

he was very heavy on the praising, tonight.

“so perfect,” his hands traced over your sides, feeling the curve in his palms shape perfectly. “every inch of you,” you arched your back instinctively causing your hips to roll back onto his.

a groan filled the car from the both of you.

“y/n,” he sighed out as you tried to roll your hips again, his arms wrapping around your waist for steadiness. “i can feel how wet you are,” you moaned.

his voice was low and his hands felt big on your body, making you feel small against him.

it was great.

“y/n, i can’t wait any longer,” he whined. “can i fuck you here, pretty baby?” he rubbed his thumb over the wetness gathering through your panties. you couldn’t help but moan back. “please do,” you helped him out of his black slacks and his underwear, starting on yours next.

pecking at your lips as he unclipped your bra, letting it fall somewhere onto the car floor, his big hands back to caressing your soft skin. he purposely teased your panties off, hooking his fingers around the sides but not pulling them off as quick as you wanted him to. but you didn’t complain, as you were too focused on his tongue rolling around your nubs and trying to rip open the condom packet he handed you moments before.

he let out a small sigh as you rolled the small rubber onto him, rubbing more circles onto your waist as if to contain himself from losing control.

you could tell how much he wanted this part of the night to come sooner.

although you had done it with juyeon a good handful of times now, it was still surprising to you how different this side of him was. especially this night, you weren’t used to him being this… expressive.

you liked it.

you liked it when he praised you for doing nothing but looking pretty, you liked it when he kissed your neck while he prepared you with his long slender fingers, and you most definitely liked it when he sank you down onto him, feeling the slightest burn in the stretch but not enough to pull away from him.

the both of you moaned into each others bodies.

“i’ve waited for this for so long,” he whispered into your neck, his hot breath tickling you. “juyo… we did it last week,” you reminded him, your fingers back to work on his black strands. “this isn’t the same,” he replied back, your breath was caught short when he suddenly started moving. although, at a much slower pace than he usually started with.

“i’m not just fucking you, y/n,” he leaned his head back a bit, your hands cupping the back of his neck.

“i want to make love to you.”

as corny as his words sounded, you could feel the heat rushing from your cheeks to your core, he sighed at the sudden tightness.

that was one way to let him know that you loved him.

“quit teasing me,” you softly spoke before closing the gap between your lips, his hands guiding your hips at a steady pace. “i do it because i know you like it,” he murmured into your lips, a soft moan escaping you in response.

you weren’t sure if it was because you were easy to read but juyeon had always been good at finding out your weakness.

it was a blessing and a curse—but more of a blessing.

before you knew it, juyeon had you turned on your hands and knees, your palms sweaty against the car door creating steamy hand prints against the cold windows. hopefully that won’t leave handprints tomorrow. “holy shit, you’re perfect for me,” he bit his lip as his hands rested on your ass, the sight of you bent over for him while in the back of his car being more erotic than he had imagined. “fuck…” he groaned out as he entered you from behind, pushing through your hot and soft walls.

the feeling, along with the image of you, it was too much.

he swore he wouldn’t bust this fast but you were making it more and more difficult for him as the night went on.

you gripped onto the door, unable to hold back your moans as he thrusted sloppily into you. at this point, the low music was heavily overpowered by both of your voices and wet skin-to-skin slapping. his fingers digged into your hips so hard that you would be surprised if they didn’t leave marks by the end of the night, his breath was hot against your back, planting wet kisses down your spine until he couldn’t anymore.

“juyeon…” you breathlessly called to him, propping yourself up more to get a good look at him behind you. “i know, me too,” he sighed, his lips crashing onto yours, one hand cupping your cheek as the two of you chased your high.

you were the first to go, a long moan escaping past your lips and onto your boyfriends tongue, following a low groan afterwards from him. he kept thrusting into you as he rode out his orgasm, you squirmed in sensitivity.

waiting a moment to catch your breath, he slowly pulled himself out of you, a small whine coming from you at the loss of his warmth.

despite just cumming, you ached to be filled up again.

“what?” he noticed your longing stare. “you want to go again?” he chuckled, pulling the condom off of his still aching cock.

once was never enough for him.

“you know me so well,” you hummed seductively, leaning in for a peck on his lips.

“this is our anniversary, after all,” he smirked into your lips before pulling away with a lustful look.

“grab another condom.”

the sweet part of the night was over, now it was time for the real fun.

© cobiehaven 2024

[themourningfox]

A New Life

Iiiii have been obsessed with watching @grind-pantera and @reddesires write about Planet of the Apes. Like, heavily inspired and biting at the bars of my enclosure to read or write or both. Apologies for the tags, I wanted to give proper credit for my rediscovered obsession. Thank you both! *runs off like a feral gremlin*

Anywho, I had this in my head and wanted to get it out. Don't know if I'll continue it, let me know if y'all want me to expand on this or...well. Maybe I will regardless. WE'LL SEE. *dives*

Rating: E (for Everyone!!)

Plot: You're newly taken in to the colony, a human with no idea how it works. Because of this, you're trying to navigate your new life.

A/N: Could evolve into (Character) x Reader, but...well. That depends on if I continue. Have this!

You weren’t used to this.

This referring to living among the apes of the woods. The ones who could talk—well, talk in rough, choppy sentences or sign language passed down by the older orangutan Maurice. It hadn’t been long since you had been brought there among the whooping hollering of one of their patrols, shepherding you to their leader…king? You weren’t entirely sure what they referred to him as, but you know they respected him greatly and looked to him to decide all things regarding their colony.

Him, of course, being Caesar. The first ape to speak.

You had heard the rumor, now passed around human campfires like folklore, of Caesar’s first utterances from years ago. It hadn’t been a big deal then, but when you had first heard him speak in that low, rumbling voice like he still wasn’t sure where exactly the sound sat in his throat, it had rocked you to your very core.

Scared you, even.

During the first week in the colony, you treated them like wild animals. Of course, you had known about the intelligent apes living in the forest, but you had never thought you’d be living among them. Now, so far away from home, not even knowing how to return, you wished you had learned more. A checklist formed in your mind. A sort of “How To” in order for your own survival.

One: Don’t look them in the eyes.

That was something you had learned as a child when your father was teaching you how to interact with strange dogs. Animals often took eye contact to mean a threat, that you were challenging them. Well, shit. You didn’t want any of these apes to consider you a threat. God, the gorillas were huge. They could rip you apart limb from limb. How many news stories had there been in your lifetime about pet chimps eating their owner’s faces off? So you didn’t look anyone in the eye.

By careful observance, you had learned how to properly greet those around you. Body low to the ground, head down, fleeting eye contact, hand above your head. If you were lucky, you’d get a simple touch to let you know it was okay.

Two: Avoid Koba by any means necessary.

The scarred ape, a Bonobo you believed, scared you more than anyone else in the camp. His glazed-over, milky white eye seemed to follow you everywhere you went. He didn’t you, and you didn’t trust him. How could you when he only ever glared at you and sometimes even growled? There wasn’t a single doubt in your mind that he’d be the one to kill you if he was ever given the chance to.

Three: Stay as close to Caesar and his closest companions as was allowed and considered acceptable.

Caesar had a fondness for your kind, you learned. His closest companions and family, though you got the feeling didn’t share his sentiment, at least showed you kindness in their own way. Rocket, Luka, Blue Eyes, and especially Maurice. They were your key to survival.

There was one thing you were completely certain of: They were never going to let you leave.

You had seen too much. You knew too much.

Your knowledge was valuable to any humans seeking to destroy them.

The longer you stayed in the camp, the more you came to recognize your new reality. At times, late at night, when the camp was quiet, you would sit out underneath the canopy and stare at the stars peeking through. There were certain things you missed about other humans. The laughter. Full conversations. The community.

Here among the colony, the impending end of the human reign pressed and tickled along the back of your mind like an ever-present itch.

Your eyes slid up and up, following the path that led to Caesar’s abode in the cave.

Shadows danced from the large fire above, and a silhouette stood on the edge.

He was watching.

And you knew, deep down, he always would be.

[the-kr8tor]

Hii, i have gone through all your ffs love them ❤️❤️, i got this video on my fyp and it just made me think of hobie. https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGJnnLQDt/ It could be a us babysitting kinda thing

Hello, angel! Thank you for requesting ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-punk x fem! Reader

Synopsis: you and Hobie play pretend with Mayday's toys.

Tags: no use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw food mentions, FLUFF.

It's Fluffy Friday!

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Finally putting Mayday down for an afternoon nap, you stretch your tired arms from carrying the toddler a bit too long. Walking towards the living room you hear Hobie cleaning up Mayday's toys.

"What is Peter feeding that kid? I swear she keeps growing every time we babysit" you stop in your tracks when you see Hobie casually scooping up fake ice cream into a plastic cone. He sits criss crossed on the carpeted floor, in front of him is the plastic ice cream stall.

The toy is from Peter's dimension, Hobie's curious at how the fake ice cream sticks to the plastic scoop with ease, And how it stays on top of the plastic cone without it falling. He whispers a question to no one, 'magnets?' The toys look tiny in his hand.

You giggle, "can I order uh, chocolate with sprinkles"

Hobie immediately plays with the bit, "we don't have sprinkles, just plain chocolate on a cone" he plays the part of a disgruntled employee, Hobie says his line flatly.

You stifle laugh, "fine, three scoops of plain chocolate, please" you sit in front of the toy ice cream stall, Hobie holds the plastic scooper in his hand.

"No three scoops, just one or two" He points at the stall, various 'flavours' of ice cream are displayed in pairs.

"What kind of ice cream shop only offers one to two scoops?"

"There's a dairy crisis" he says the sentence so matter-of-factly, you can't help but guffaw at his straight face.

"A dairy crisis?!" You play along, Hobie cracks a small smile.

"Yeah, and our CEO's lactose intolerant, he doesn't let anyone have their fun. Also he's a wanker for being a capitalist pig" he spits out the last word with so much malice.

You laugh loudly, covering your mouth with your hand so that Mayday wouldn't wake up from the noise. "Two scoops then, in a cup please" you say in between laughs, there's tears in your eyes from all the laughing.

"We don't have bloody cups!" Hobie gestures towards the toddler sized stall, "do you see any cups here?!" Hobie plays his part well. If not for the small smile he has, you would've thought he was actually mad.

You wipe the tiny tears welling in your eyes, "okay" wheeze "okay" giggle "um two chocolate in a cone, please" you manage to let out.

Hobie scoops the ice cream angrily, plastic thumping against plastic. "Here" he hands the toy sundae in your hands.

"Thank you," your laugh finally subsides, clearing your throat. You act, patting your imaginary pockets for your wallet. "Ah, I think I forgot my wallet at home" you smirk at him, "do you take kisses instead?"

Hobie finally cracks, laughing deeply. "Little shit, come 'ere" He lifts his arms up towards you. You scooch, closing in the small distance between you.

Hobie cradles your cheek, thumb grazing your lips before he leans in. You feel his lopsided smile through the kiss, you sigh, looping your arm around the back of his head, the fake sundae in your hand almost stabs him on the cheek.

You pull away breathlessly, "whoops" pecking the side of his face as an apology. "I'm gonna have to report you to management for the bad service" you joke, peppering kisses all over his jaw.

"Snitch" he whispers with a lovestruck grin.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

Thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging if you enjoyed it ❤️

[firenati0n]

several sentence sunday <3 :)

hello :) hope everyone had a nice week! sliding in exceptionally late whoops but thanks to

@orchidscript @kiwiana-writes @indestructibleheart @priincebutt @cha-melodius

@alasse9 @suseagull04 @heysweetheart-writes @wordsofhoneydew @lizzie-bennetdarcy

@thesleepyskipper @porcelainmortal @littlemisskittentoes for the tags <3

here are exactly seven sentences from the angel!henry sequel, because any proposal au snips rn are spoilery :)

Henry doesn’t know what causes it. One minute Alex is walking in, the clock striking an hour far too late for Henry’s comfort. The next, they’re arguing across the kitchen island, Alex running his fingers frustratedly through his hair and Henry gripping the counter edge. They’ve reached an impasse, and the cavern in Henry’s heart is hollow and wide at the sight. “Alex. I love you, but I cannot watch you chip away at yourself like this. There has to be a limit, there has to be,” Henry pleads. He spent so long watching Alex give and give and give and take so little in return; watching Alex punish himself in courtrooms and libraries, unable to interfere beyond a phantom hand on his shoulder and a whisper in the wind, we are not so different, after all. 

xoxo roop

+ open tag because it's late :) have a lovely week ahead!

[true-bugs]

hi! hope this is an alright question to ask, but i really really wanted to start adding IDs to my posts and stuff! im worried my IDs that ive done before are too long and detailed, so do you have any tips for ID writing? thank you in advance if you answer this!! =^.^=

QUESTIONS OF LOVE AND JOY

Tbh the biggest bit of advice I can give to anyone wanting to write IDs is that literally any ID is better than no ID even if you think it's too long. Genuinely just give it a shot and the more you do it the more you'll get a feel for it, just like any other skill!

If it's my own post, I start by identifying the type of image ("a screenshot of", "fanart of", "original character art of"), then identify the subject, then a quick verb or adjective about the subject. So

[ID: (image type) of (subject). (Subject) is (adjective and/or verb). End ID]

Yoinking my pfp: [ID: a PNG (image type) of a sticker sheet (subject) of holographic stars, moons and suns (adjective!). End ID]

Everyone who uses IDs will have different preferences for them. U could ask 20 people who require IDs for images about them and get 20 different answers. AFAIK the general consensus is that many prefer brief IDs because screen readers take yonks to read it out? But you do want to make sure you don't miss out relevant context.

IME the most accessible thing to do is write one directly under the original post (NO read more) and in plain text. small text (small text) or coloured text (coloured text) might or might not be picked up by screen readers but is gonna be difficult to read for many people with low vision, which is the main demographic IDs are used for.

uhh what else. There's a difference between an ID (image description under the post) and ALT text (embedded in the html of the image) and there's no single agreement on which is better (see paragraph 2) but sometimes a screen reader will skip the whole post if there's an image with no ALT text. Good practice is to put a very brief (1-2 sentences) in ALT text and the fuller ID under the post, like how my mutual's done it here.

There's more i could probably say but this is quite long whoops so linking some more posts about them for you here, here, here and here!

Also also if you want to make a huge difference to accessibility on your blog you can search through the notes of a post to see if there's already one (copy and paste it to your version if you want a different reblog chain! the writer won't mind!) and tag image posts with no ID as #undescribed or equivalent.

[fragilecapric0rnn]

WIP Week: we are SO BACK edition

have y'all been seeing this??? WE ARE SO BACK!!!! if anything could get the brain worms acting up, its all this behind the scenes stuff!!! shout out to @thefreakandthehair and @fastcardotmp3 for your impeccable timing <3<3<3

haven't done one of these in a while but there are several things cooking which is very fun and exciting!!!

The Rules:

In a reblog (or a new post w/ rules attached) post up to five (5) file names of your wips. Not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can’t share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. If you tag me in your post, I will send you an ask request!

tagging (with no pressure of course): @kkpwnall @judasofsuburbia @cheatghost @figthefruitfaeth @gideoncharov

@snowangeldotmp3 @seths-rogens @cuoredimuschio @roguenancy

The WIPS: (too many wips tbh)

criminal [steddie jailbird eddie fic]

steve&jj 2

modern au 3 (eddie pov)

6: the second half of 1999 [aiaof]

The Lumax

let me cook [buddie meet pre s2 longfic]

shameless alt 7x5 [buddie smut whoops]

Snippet [from Criminal]:

“Didn’t expect you to be one for a reality check, seeing as the Golden Retriever amounts of optimism you’ve had up until this moment.” 

“Guess I ran out of my supply.” 

Eddie takes a long drag from their shared joint, Steve doesn’t try hiding the way he’s watching his mouth. 

“Here’s to dying a virgin.” He pretends to toast the roach, before passing it to Steve. Steve, who feels his stomach bottom out. 

“Oh shit, man.” Steve’s tongue feels heavy, as he manages to get out his lame response. 

“Oh shit, indeed.” Eddie says, playing with one of his rings. 

“Like nothing? Not even a handy in the movie theater?” 

“Nope, not one handy besides my lefty.”

“Jesus,” Steve let his head fall heavy on the back of the trailer. “I kinda thought chicks would be into your vibe.” 

“I’m sure some of them are,” Now he sounds nervous, peaking Steve’s interest even more. 

“Okay, so what stopped you?” 

“I guess I don’t like many chick’s vibes,” he pauses, taking a long pull from the flask. “Or any of them at all.” 

“Oh,” Steve understands now. Something about this grass feels a lot like dirty bathroom linoleum. But this understanding also feels like something else. Something opposite. 

It might not work out for us this time. 

He thinks Eddie is saying something else, too distracted by the suddenly loud ringing in his ear, making him feel like he’s in a fishbowl.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Walla....kn1ves....genius big brain yandere writer....i just (re)found your Yves work (im sure you saw me freak out in the tags lmao) if you have the time/energy/inspo pls i beg you for a speck, a crumb, a droplette, ANYTHING of my baby Yves x fem!reader. I'm not sure how specific is too specific but I have a truckload of daydreams and prompts for this man dc im down BAD BAD for the way you write him. I'm not sure if this is too specific of a request but can it be yves holding himself back constantly because he wants to *romance* the reader but its so obvious he's itching for more until one day he finally snaps and takes her (specifically him giving her his virginity and whoops maybe going crazy when he finds out she isnt one)? I'm just obsessed with his characterization and want to see him in a ton of situations and feeling/reacting to different things. The stern dom undertones his whole vibe has disguised by a friendly foreign guide 🥵 The drabble of him was sooooo good and such a tease of his personality, it's so enticing hahaha. If that prompt is no good or doesn't inspire you then anything else is fine and ofc if you have no inspiration for Yves at all then that's a-okay too!!! Thank you sooooo much for thinking up that beautiful man and sharing him with us!!! Hope you enjoy your holidays💞💞💞

A/N: Ugh I'm so sorry I took so long in answering 😭😭 I was gonna write like a whole piece but my time has been cut dramatically, so please accept this poor little piece!! I was honestly so overjoyed at seeing your tags, it makes me so happy to see people's reactions to my stuff ┗( T﹏T )┛I wish I could have more time to write for this because I love the concept, I'm a huge fan of the "mysterious foreign guide who's just a little too friendly" kind of trope. Thank you so much for your support anon and I hope you enjoy this!! OG piece here for any of you nerds!

TW: Kidnapping, implied dubcon/noncon, manipulation

It wasn’t hard to notice Yve’s shift in behavior. Well, this shift out of many. When you first met him, he gave off a kind, well-meaning but nervous vibe. He did his best to show you around, to make you comfortable and converse with you in english to the best of his knowledge. That kind persona shifted into something more… desperate; obsessive, once he brought you back to his apartment. He was still kind, still well-meaning and observant to your needs. He apologized profusely when you got upset from how he kept you from leaving, promising that you weren’t missing anything important in class and that he could show you real culture instead! What could you learn from a textbook that would be better than seeing the country itself?

But time and time again, Yves made excuses to keep you inside, to make you stay by his side whether through photoshoots or studying, with him as your “teacher”. You had to learn the basics before taking such a “big” step out into his country, right? Unfortunately for you, Yve’s only taught information on the most trivial subjects. From words like “textbook” to “glass”, you were able to make meaningless sentences that wouldn’t serve you well in conversing with native speakers outside of Yve’s little apartment. Sure, it might help you occasionally, but it got you no where closer to understanding Yve’s rushed mumbling and incoherent rambling. 

With your sudden move to his apartment and his new change in conduct, Yves had slowly become less generous. He didn’t make as much of an effort to talk in english anymore, and made far less points to explain himself. You couldn’t tell what caused this new change-- a change that you were soon starting to accept as Yves showing his true colors. The man was still attentive to your needs, still caring and kind-- but the posessiveness that had slipped out almost entirely seemed to be taking hold. And while you’d think that a growing obsession would make it more beneficial to you-- it in fact, made your difficulty increase tenfold. Yves began to direct you on what you should wear, when you should eat, what you should do for the day.

 Not only that, but his attentiveness to…more intimate needs were far more prevalent as well. Whether it was bathing, or the need that pulsed between your legs, Yve’s was there to try and take care of it. You pushed him away multiple times, awkwardly trying to tell him that you were fine-- but it never seemed to stick. He always just looked at you with a tilted, confused expression, muttering in his native tongue as if he didn’t understand. So when the foreign guide began to sleep next to you instead of the cot on the floor, and began to press his morning erection agaist your backside sleepily, you knew your protests weren’t having any effect.

You would have walked right out of that teensy apartment the moment you felt he didn’t listen-- if you weren’t so afraid. If you weren’t afraid of the loaded handgun in his locked nightstand drawer, or how easily he could destroy your life at your new university-- which he mentioned offhand multiple times in a casual manner-- you would have walked out. The power he held against you, a foreign student with failing grades and no money, was too much for you to ignore. So, you decided to bide you time. It was only a matter of weeks until he got bored with you, you decided. But his new actions didn’t seem to prove that. 

In fact, the lustful, mischievous look he gave you that evening was the complete opposite. His scrawny frame jumped atop yours, hooking his hands behind your neck and leaning in to try and kiss you. He had planned an unusually fancy dinner, lighting candles you had never seen in his apartment before and bringing a bottle of wine with some italian takeout. You tried to question him about the mound of pillows and blankets on his balcony, the sudden romantic lighting, but the male only gave you a broad statement on how it was a “celebration” of sorts.

Yves’ sudden prowling mood after dinner wasn’t a complete shock-- considering you felt his eyes on you the entire evening-- but it still caught you a tad off guard. You tried to reject him, to push him away after each kiss, but it was done with such little effort and such great fear that you stayed silent once he muttered in an annoyed tone in his own language. Yves took your silence as a surrender, friskily lowering his hand under your shirt to caress your abdomen. He rambled against your flesh in half-english as he kissed you up and down, not afraid to let out vocal little noises of pleasure, or grunts of satisfaction ones he heard your breath hitch or a hum of desire come from your lips. 

But it wasn’t until he uttered a sentence with a familiar word, did you actually reply to him. You recognized the term from messing around with your friends, when you jokingly learned dirty words from your textbooks and the internet to use when you finally entered the country. You never expected to actually utilize them unless you went to a club or bar and happened to meet someone. One of those words, was ‘virgin.’ A more tame term compared to the bunch you had memorized, but one that you and your friends had idiotically decided to research. Though, it seemed your stupid endeavors had paid off. 

As Yves repeated himself, you began to understand the sentence a bit more. The man was seeming to imply… you were a virgin? Something about you both no longer virgin-ing? Maybe he was saying that he was going to ‘virgin’ you? You couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say, only mustering up the courage to poorly explain your sexual status to him, first in english and then in a broken version of his language. You tried to repeat yourself, thinking you might have said your statement wrong-- but Yve’s shocked expression and sudden lack of kisses seemed to prove you wrong. 

“You have…. Sex?” Yve put a hand to his mouth, eyes begging you to respond.

“Uh….yes?” You said with an awkward expression; you hoped he was asking what you thought.

Yve’s let out a choked gasp, looking as if you had crushed his heart in your palm. 

He looked down, voice cracking as he mumbled something incoherent, and likely not understandable to you in the first place. 

“I….I i’m sorry?” You tried to apologize, seeing how shaken Yves had become at finding out you weren’t as inexperienced as he. Despite his eagerness, you could tell he was new to trying to initiate something you had already grown long accustomed to, new to being so intimate. It was actually in part of his eagerness that you realized he wasn’t of the same sexual history. He was full of anticipation and desire, throwing caution and logic to the wind to fulfill what he had read in books and seen in films.

 Yves seemed to treasure the act of losing ones virginity far more than you had-- but you had only noticed it now. The candlelit dinner, the mood-fitting music-- your first experience was nowhere near as romantic. 

Yves seemed shaken, his low, almost sob-filled words growing heavier. He grew more aggressive, seeming to realize something now that he had processed this unexpected news. He had assumed you were just as much of an amateur as him-- that he’d be the one to “deflower” you in an act of passionate romance-- a bubble fantasy that had just been popped. But the male realized-- if he couldn’t have his desired outcome, he’d have to make due with what he had. Which was to make sure you’d fall to your knees, experiencing the best night of ‘passion’ that would make you never want to crawl to another man again. 

He was going to claim you-- to make it so those nights you spent with others never counted. 

You could only understand a fifth of what Yves breathily moaned into your mouth, once again jumping your bones though this time much more roughly. Before you could say anything further you had felt his quick hands unbutton your pants, his own thrown to the floor. He didn’t listen as you begged him to atleast let you move to the bed, where you would no longer be visible to prying eyes on the balcony. But he didn’t care-- Yves had already taken off his shirt, intent on ripping yours away too. He didn’t care anymore if this wasn’t going to be special for the reason he expected-- he was going to make sure you would be left with a night you wouldn’t forget.

[nine-of-words]

Something Borrowed (Part Eleven)

M Gargoyle x M Reader

PREVIOUS || STORY TAG

Wordcount: 7437

Content Warnings: Discussion of a Breakup, Brief Mention of Fantasy Catholicism

I’m not dead and here is another chapter! However this part ran way too long in the original plan, so I’ve decided to break it in two. It is somehow still more than 7k, so, whoops. Fittingly, we’re going with a baker’s dozen for this story rather than a dozen.

The anticipation is killing you.

You are in the back of a rented van, babysitting two comically large, magically chilled boxes full of partially constructed wedding cake. Your eyes are eagle sharp as you monitor it on the way to the venue.

It's something you've done hundreds, if not thousands of times before at this point, but it still makes you feel slightly queasy, watching the result of your hard work wobble and sway in its supported box with every little bump in the road.

But this time, you're an extra bit queasy for a different reason, as you hold your device out in front of you.

If you're going to call somebody, you need to have called them… at least twenty minutes ago, now.

Between working double time late into the night to remake this cake, and getting it ready for delivery today, you haven’t had time to make the call at a reasonable hour. 

Until now.

…Or so you tell yourself. 

You definitely waited until the last possible minute, at least partially out of fear.

You look down at the screen, the pixels composing the letters of Carlyle’s name starting to lose their meaning from staring at them for so long.

You suppose the second best time to call is now. 

You finally swallow down the dread and start to mentally count down from ten. 

Ten, Nine, Eight-

Ugh, what are you even doing? You’re just going to make a fool of yourself!

Seven, Six, Five…

What if he doesn’t pick up? What then? It’s the middle of the day on a work day! He's a lawyer, he's probably on a courtroom right now-

Four… Three… Two…

And what if he does pick up? You should’ve rehearsed what you were going to say better-

One.

You force yourself to hit the button before you can hesitate again. The sound of ringing on the other end is like a series of white hot pokers in your chest. Your eyes are screwed closed in anticipation.

It rings once. 

You consider wrenching open the sliding door of the van and tossing your voci out onto the highway speeding by.

It rings twice…

“Hello?”

Even with just the single word, he sounds absolutely incredulous. You can clearly imagine the way his eyebrows arch up when he hears something particularly egregious.

“... Hi,” You finally manage to force the word out on a forceful exhale, but then immediately stall, the ghost of your next sentence leaving you in a near-silent rattle.

“...Hello. Are you… okay?”

“Yes- Well, no. Maybe?” You laugh nervously. “It really depends on what your answer to my next question is…”

“Hah, well- I’m listening, whenever you're ready.”

You take a deep breath of air, fist nervously clenching your apron hem, then swallow it down with your remaining pride.

“I know this is last minute and I know I don’t really have the footing to ask you a favor right now, but… I really need you,” You say, mouth already dry and your voice beginning to shake, the words harder to excavate the more you scrape out. “Do you think that you could… would you be my date to this wedding?”

“Of course. I’ll be there.” Carlyle’s response is more nonchalant and so much lighter in tone than you expected; relieved, even. You hear fabric rustling and what sounds like the subtle grinding of stone on the other end. “Send me the address. And the dress code- I'm assuming there is one.”

“R-Really?” You say in disbelief; you expected rejection, or at least much more pushback. You expected to have to beg for forgiveness. “Just like that?”

“Yes?” He lets out a soft, barely audible laugh. “Were you expecting me to turn you down?”

He has a point. What were you expecting, exactly? Bitter resentment? But no, of course he’s behaving in a kind and supportive manner- He’s never given you a reason to think he’d act any differently. You’ve never been happier to be wrong.

“I… suppose I was. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“Just so we're on the same page here,” The rustling of movement on Carlyle’s end of the line continues. “I’m going as your date, but is this a date? I'll still join you in a platonic capacity, of course, so there's no pressure, but I would like things to be transparent from the start.”

“A date!” You blurt out, but quickly clarify; “A, uh, not platonic one. A romantic one, I mean. I-If that's what you want.”

“You don't know how happy I am to hear you say that.”

“Sorry- I think I might know. Just a tick-” You’re overjoyed and devastated at the same time, struggling to blink back the sting of tears at the corners of your eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Really. You don’t have to apologize.”

You try to convince yourself to get off the line, but it’s just so good to hear his voice again, you’re desperate to wring as much of it as you can out of this short interaction- to save it up in case things go south again. But you’ll need to unload this cake soon, and understandably, Carlyle can't stay on the call for much longer either, given the sudden need to pack and commute. So, after giving him the information he needs, you’re forced to cut it short.

You finally say goodbye and end the call, left sitting in the back of the van with the cake, the anxiety weighing on you laced with a bit of pleasant anticipation, now.

One look at the place when you get out of the back of the van, and you’re already intimidated. They certainly didn’t spare any cost, from the look of it. You push the feeling down and remind yourself you have a reason to be here- you’re here for work primarily, no matter what the self-critical voice in the back of your mind is trying to tell you.

The building is an old Elven palace nestled in sprawling gardens, situated on the northern edge of the city and repurposed into an event venue. The exterior is all tall, windy spires and iridescent panes of stained glass, with sprawling plant life tracing cracks where they’ve found purchase. Even from here, you can see that a massive tree growing from the same craggy base of the hill the palace is perched on has started to grow into a hole in the building’s stone facade who knows how long ago- now kept artfully pruned now as a feature, rather than a signal of disrepair, you have to assume.

You walk into the reception venue’s service door from the parking area, somehow even more intimidated by the inside. Fittingly, it’s the palace’s ballroom. Branches of the tree have slowly crept their way in here over the years, twisting through the stone and dotting the cracks with the occasional vine or flower. Long hanging pennants of silky cloth hang down between marble columns and the same rosy stained glass panels from the outside, the backdrop to meticulously set dining tables with live floral centerpieces, evoking what it likely looked like in the past. The high ceiling has some sort of eerie gloss to it, with multiple finely dressed banquet workers in the room seemingly running tests as the lights flicker and twinkle a different color occasionally- you can only imagine what this room will look like with the lighting fully set later.

In your line of work, you’ve seen a lot of wedding ceremonies, or at least the set up preceding them. Elven weddings tend to be showy and overdone, ostentatious in their presentation, and this one is no exception. Everything about the venue you’ve seen so far screams “I paid a lot of gold for this”, which given Trevor’s parents likely foot the bill for it, you’re unsurprised.

As usual when you arrive, your first order of business is to locate the wedding planner, to confirm where to put the end product of your hours of effort. This time, it's a stern looking elven woman in a flowy black and gold jumpsuit and sporting a tight bun atop her head- someone you instantly recognize and find yourself hit with a wave of dread, realizing you have to have this conversation, of all things, right now.

“Ooh, hello!” She says your name, but all you hear is being called up to the gallows. “What a nice surprise it is to see you here!”

This is the wedding planner you were talking to when you had begun to plan your own wedding, when you and Trevor were still engaged. You feel a little bad that you don’t remember her name- you could probably find her card somewhere in your files from the times you’d worked on the same wedding before you hired her, but so much of that time period is such a blur to you now. It feels like a whole different lifetime.

“Hi,” you say awkwardly, fingernails already digging into the strap of your bag of supplies. You force yourself to unclench your fingers. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It has! We haven’t worked on the same event for more than… well, more than a year now, wouldn’t it be?” Her nails tap the datapad in her hands as she types away.

You can hear the question she’s being too polite to ask: It was when we were planning this wedding when it was going to be yours, wasn’t it?

“I changed location, so that might be why.” You offer an explanation.

“When Ms. Devinthal said she had a backup in mind when the groom’s first choice bakery fell through, I had no idea it was going to be you! I didn’t recognize the business name at all!”

Backup? First choice…? What’s that supposed to mean?

“Yeah, well, I changed my shop’s name too, so I imagine there just hasn’t been a lot of overlap in customers lately, hahah.”

“True…” She lowers her data pad and purses her lips, barely bothering to conceal her pity. It seems she’s able to piece together the reason as to why pretty easily. “If I can be purely honest with you? I thought you’d have quit the business. Spirits know I wouldn’t be able to keep working in this business after… well, all of that heartbreak transpired. I hope things have improved for you in that regard, dear.”

You can feel your eyes glaze over a bit as you vividly recall the day you had called this woman in barely-withheld tears to cancel her service; how you barely were able to explain through your weak voice, hoarse from crying, that there wasn’t going to be a wedding to plan anymore.

“Oh, they have.” You say, trying to keep your teeth from gritting, with a drawn on customer-service smile.

“Ohoh! Well, I should let you get to work! That cake isn’t going to stack itself, is it? However, if things keep going well, you’ll have to keep me in mind when you hear wedding bells ringing again, hmm? They say the second time's the charm!”

“Of course I will!” You lie through your teeth. “Thanks.”

Mercifully, you have your job to turn your attention to.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, you let out a long, withering breath, and resteel yourself. You’re not going to have a breakdown. It’s too early in all of this.

One by one, you bring the chilled boxes into the reception venue, fingers locked tightly, but not tight enough to damage the cake inside. You’ve never dropped a cake at the venue- yet- but given your luck lately, you’re not taking any chances.

Once all the necessary pieces are inside, you begin the work of extracting the cake tiers from their boxes and moving them to the obnoxiously broad cake stand. The cake will be set on a small table all on its own, pride of place of the banquet area of the ballroom.

Every tier you place as if you’re disarming a bomb; your life and the life of everyone in the building depends on it being undamaged. Dowel rods and cardboard circles are strategically placed as needed for structural integrity, each tier of cake perfectly centered in the middle of the one below.

Finally, you gingerly slide the last, petite tier on top of the whole thing.

…It’s secure. That’s most of the battle won. You let out the breath you were holding. Putting on the final aesthetic touches won’t be nearly as mortally terrifying as the potential of the cake crashing onto the floor into a heap of sweet mush due to an accidental slip of the hand.

You begin the process of touching up the sides and the seams of the tiers, dolloping buttercream from your container to hide any cracks like you're spackling a wall. Time both flies by and is somehow agonizing in how long it drags on. All the way through laying down the final buttercream decorations, up until you've meticulously placed the last sugary rose you spent so much time sculpting, there's only one thing on your mind, and it’s not the cake.

All that’s left is to seek out the wedding planner once again for final approval. To your relief, she's thrilled with your work and gives you the go ahead to clean up as she uses the datapad in her hand to send the rest of your payment to your account. It's always easier when there's no new demands or fabricated issues brought up at the very end. The tightly wound muscles in your upper back ease, just a little bit.

And with that- it's done, finished, out of your hands. The cake is delivered safely, and you feel lighter already knowing it's not your problem anymore.

… As long as it makes it through the night without exploding, that is.

You swallow dryly at the thought. Kirby enthusiastically assured you that there was basically no chance of it happening again so soon- that it happening to the first version of this cake was a blessing in disguise, since that explosion took place in your shop and not the venue, and there wouldn't be enough time for negative energy to accumulate again by now. You can't help but still feel the twinge of apprehension, despite you trusting their judgement.

The last of your supplies get neatly packed away just in time, as you're starting to see more elves dressed in their best formal wear filtering through by the passing minute. 

Casting one last lingering look at the cake, you leave the grandiose ballroom for your hotel room to get ready. By nature of attending a wedding you've also delivered the cake to, the time you have to prepare is somewhat more scant than you’d like, so you’ve got to get moving. 

After a walk down a particularly gilded hallway, you enter the frankly ostentatious lobby of the hotel portion of the palace. The high vaulted, ribboned ceilings are almost dizzying, and all of the small details on the architecture being gilded or inlaid with some other precious material is making it hard to look at anything for too long.

A bellhop takes your bags, leaving you less to fiddle with in your anxiety. So instead, you compulsively check your voci every few moments while you wait for the front desk agent to do her thing. Hopefully, she doesn’t notice how sweaty your hands are with nerves when you take the set of keycards from her. You want to get up there and get ready as soon as possible. You don’t want to hog the bathroom if Carlyle still needs to finish getting ready, too…

Since the guest rooms themselves are in the various high towers of the palace, the elevator ride takes what feels like forever. You’re left to look at your many reflections, scrutinizing the imperfections of your face amplified in the glass and regretting most of your life decisions up to this point.

When you finally get there, the hotel room itself is even a bit intimidating in how expensive and ornate it looks. You’re aware you likely got one of the most standard of rooms, as a low priority guest. You don’t even want to think about what the bigger suites must look like… And certainly not the bridal suite, which the front desk agent was happy to chirp about being at the very top of the highest spire.

Despite being what’s considered a standard room, it’s still more lavish than anything you’d ever buy yourself for the night by far, all gilded and crystal surfaces and the finest fabrics. 

Of the most note is an incredibly tall window pane that reaches from the floor all the way up to the ceiling- at least double and a half of your height. The view overlooks the swathe of greenery and pastel color of blooming flowers below, and then eventual transition to the blocks of Windrise City proper in the far distance, past the gardens. 

You may be in a time crunch, but the view from the window is so entrancing you find yourself opening the light curtains a little wider and staring out in awe for just a few moments. If you had time, you’d probably be out on the balcony right now.

Your delivered bags sit on the golden luggage stand in one corner, looking very out of place in their mundanity.

Hastily, you pick out the one suit you own from the top of your luggage, where it’s neatly folded on the hanger. You shake it out a bit before hanging it on the bar in the hallway closet.

Carlyle hasn’t shown up yet, which is both a relief and terrifying. What if he got stuck in gridlock traffic and he can’t get here in time? You’ll be here on your own anyway, after all of that. Somehow it’d make the whole situation even more embarrassing, seeing familiar faces while you stew in shame, left to endure pitying looks that cover up deep disdain for your presence…

But.. no. He’d definitely call back if he was running late.

You peel yourself out of your slightly sugar-crusted apron and hop into a hurried shower, starting the rush through your grooming routine.

Once you’ve bathed, you immediately move on to shaving; going through the motion of working a lather of soap onto your face. Thanks to your mother being an elf, you don’t have to shave that often, but she is a snow elf, so the stubble will still get out of hand if you let it.

The preening gives you a sense of comfort- a calmness that you’ve been sorely lacking lately.

You can at least handle this. You are fully capable of looking presentable. It’s part of your job.

While the momentary refuge from your dread is a comfortable diversion, reality quickly sets back in when you hear a knock at the door.

You look up and freeze, the razor still in your hand hanging inert by your jaw.

A bolt of terror courses through you, despite bubbling with joy. You want to see him, if the urge to run to the door and immediately throw it open means anything. But it’s going to be so awkward… What do you even say now?

Maybe it’s just room service, even though you didn’t order it. A maid with extra pillows, even though you didn’t ask for them? A maintenance worker coming to fix something, even though you didn’t report an issue?

You realize you’ve been standing here frozen for far too long, and scramble to get some semblance of covered, throwing open the closet and yanking one of the robes off the attached anti-theft hangers, then hurriedly putting your arms through the sleeves and tying a sloppy knot around your waist.

Finally at the door, nearly working up a sweat in your haste, your hands fumble with the chain lock and the door handle, but manage to open the door.

Carlyle is on the other side, of course, and not the random hospitality worker you were conjuring in your head. He has an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, and a smaller one held at his side in his opposite hand.

He looks as handsome as ever, clearly freshly groomed and put together himself; freshly pressed suit, dreadlocks neatly tied in a loose gather, and the warm, spiced scent of his cologne’s heart note. 

You imagine Carlyle must own more than a few suits, given his job and the fact you’ve rarely seen him in anything less formal, but if this isn’t his best suit, it’s probably close to it. The fabric of the lapels is a silky, resplendent black, shimmering just enough when the light hits it that it’s nearly impossible to resist the desire to run your fingers along them. The rosy blush paisley pattern on his chosen tie is strikingly familiar…

His free hand is hovering halfway between his tie and the door, like he’s contemplating knocking again after fussing with his focus in anticipation. He lowers it to straighten his tie, and his face breaks into a smitten, amused smile at the sight of you. 

“Good afternoon.” The way the corners of his eyes tighten and his voice has the slightest hint of wavering, you can tell he’s barely holding back laughter. “I’m truly flattered that you wanted to answer the door so quickly, but you didn’t have to rush.”

“H-Huh?”

He gestures to his face like he’s stroking a nonexistent beard. You move your own to mirror the movement, immediately regretting your choice when the fingertips find the shaving lather you still have on half of your face.

The accumulated tension is blown to smithereens.

You can feel your face heating up in embarrassment, running to answer the door like this. 

A momentary silence falls between you- with you too dazed to access your proper manners, and Carlyle too patient to suggest you move out of the doorway and let him through.

Both on one side of a threshold, but neither being quick to trespass.

It’s a foreign feeling, knowing how close you’ve gotten, yet having this invisible, manufactured barrier still standing between you.

That evening in the shop when he came by late and you were in much the same circumstances comes to mind. There’s no extinguished neon shop sign barring the way now, though, just your own awkward behavior.

“Um. Well,” You cringe at yourself, trying to relax your wooden posture. “Come in?”

As soon as Carlyle has slid past you and inside the room, you scoop up your main layers of clothes that you had laying out within reach.

“Right, um. I’ll just. Be out in a minute-” You manage to blurt out before unceremoniously locking yourself in the bathroom, only catching half of his affirmative words before the door shuts.

Finishing shaving and getting dressed doesn’t take nearly as long as you’d hope- not nearly enough to think up something meaningful to say to him. You find yourself gripping the edges of the sink, staring yourself down in the mirror, desperately trying to plan your approach.

What is even appropriate here? Should you thank him for coming? Should you apologize again?

Anything is better than this. You can’t hide in the bathroom forever torturing yourself. 

Right?

You close your eyes to splash your face with a bit of water, and take a long, drawn out, deep breath. Then you steel yourself and meekly emerge from your hiding spot. 

You stall in front of the hallway closet, eyes turned away, and pick up your tie from the neck of the nearby hanger with your blazer on it.

But before you can make much progress with your tie, you’re hit with a pleasantly familiar, slightly sweet, slightly malty smell that calls you out into the room proper, despite your best attempts to keep hiding from your date.

You glance around for the source, quickly finding that there’s a neutral white mug sitting on the grotesquely ornate lacquer tray next to the brewing machine.

“Tea?” You identify, forgetting your task and taking the still-warm mug into your hands.

“I made you a cup. I thought you might need it.”

Carlyle’s taken a seat in the embroidered club chair in the corner of the room. Even in a place like this, he manages to somehow not look out of place. He peers out at you, one leg folded over the other. His spaded tail lazily whips the empty space below him.

“Ah. T-Thanks.” You say, trying not to let your voice crack, before taking a long sip. 

Queen’s Breakfast Blend. He even put cream and sugar in it- a bit under what you would’ve, but that’s only to be expected from him. You’re sure to him, this was just as excessive as you’d like. It’s nothing like the authentic blend Devin brings you, but you’re touched that he remembered your preference.

“Can’t help but see the coffee’s untouched.” You sniff dryly and look into the beige, opaque liquid in your cup, extending a cursory bit of teasing. Testing the waters.

“Hah! Well. A man has to have some standards.” Carlyle quips in turn, clawtips drumming the fabric of the armrest.

Another long sip. You investigate the prepackaged coffees.

“...It’s the same store brand that I buy, though.” You snort. “You've been drinking it for months. Every time you turned up at the shop…”

“It’s different when you make it.” He shrugs with a knowing smile; a bolt through your chest. You can only huff out a laugh in response to prevent yourself from getting too flustered.

The mug clinks against the tray as you set it back down to focus on the fabric still hanging limp around your neck, waiting to be arranged.

You can feel Carlyle’s eyes on you as you fumble your attempts to tie it, but he’s not saying anything. Yet.

You try again. You fail again. 

Your hands are trembling the smallest bit, but it’s making it hard to complete the fine movements. You don’t know if it’s your nerves about the event in general, or maybe the fact that you know if you look up, you’ll catch Carlyle’s warm, dark brown eyes shamelessly fixated on your movements.

“B-Blast it-” You hiss under your breath as you fail to form the knot once more, but clearly not as quietly as you think, and you seem to have fully spurred your date to action.

“Here. You look like you could use some assistance.” Carlyle laughs a sift laugh as he gets to his feet and clears the short distance between you. Though, he does hesitate a moment before touching you, despite his hands already raising to do so; “If you’d like it.”

“Please.��� Your voice comes out an exasperated groan, weakly throwing up your hands in defeat.

He moves in closer now that he has expressed permission, untwisting the mess of a tie and laying it flat against your flipped up collar. The room is so silent, you can hear the faint sound of the cotton brushing against this stoneskin.

“I know how to tie a tie,” You insist in your own defense, fighting no one but yourself- not angry, but more so particularly exasperated. Of course you’re failing this task while someone’s watching you do it. “I just. Don’t do it as often as you do, probably…”

“I’m sure you’re perfectly capable.” Carlyle says in a reassuring tone while his hands deftly maneuver with the finesse of someone who has absolutely done this way, way more often than you have. “Though, I’m not complaining about getting to do it myself.”

His movements are delicate but still firm, just like you remember.

His stone fingers brush the sides of your neck in the process. You simultaneously fight the urge to melt into his touch while your heart hammers in your chest so hard that you’re starting to feel it in your throat. 

…You’re fairly sure he’s dragging this out on purpose, but you, similarly, are not complaining- you’re too busy savoring the feeling.

“Is this okay?” He speaks barely above a whisper, and secures the tie at the base of your throat with a gentle tug. He’s asking about the tightness of the knot, surely, but with the way his hands linger, it’s also serving the purpose of re-confirming where your boundaries for physical closeness are, in your still undefined standing.

Your anxiety on the matter can't stand up to how badly you want him.

Your hand rises to gently touch the side of his jaw, but you hesitate, still unsure of yourself despite the clear look of invitation in Carlyle’s eyes. 

Then, there’s a slight pressure on your neck from your tie, still in Carlyle’s hands, as he gently pulls you closer by it. He does it slowly, almost agonizingly drawn out, giving you time to back out or stop it. But you don’t- you only lean in to close the gap, taking his lips in your own.

His kiss is warm and slightly rigid, just like you remember. You flinch, second guessing yourself- but his grip on your tie is still there, holding you firmly to him, clear that he has no intention of letting you go this time.

So, your hesitance melts away. Your other arm snakes around the yoke of his shoulders as you embrace him, the way you’ve been dying to do since you saw him standing at the threshold. You feel his tongue and the tips of his fangs, remapping the shape of them with your tongue. 

Your kisses grow more heated by the second, barely keeping from gnashing teeth, desperate to get more of this feeling; there’s a pit of lacking in your chest needing to be filled from the time you spent apart.

When he finally releases his hold on your tie, you pull back just enough to part your lips, you’re a glutton for air and blinking back the moisture rimming your eyelids. Overcome with emotion, you lay your head on his shoulder, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes, but not ready to break your touch for the fear that you’ll wake up and it won’t have been real.

“I missed you.”

Your voice is barely audible as you speak into the padded surface of his suit shoulder.

“I missed you, too.” He responds in a breathy, almost half-laugh, stroking the back of your head with his claw points.

Several moments pass with you unmoving, entwined with your head resting on him. None of what was bothering you seems to matter much now. 

You could stay like this forever- if only there weren’t things you had to do…

As if on cue, you hear the rumble of Carlyle clearing his throat, sounding particularly hollow from your ear’s position on his chest.

“We should be going if you want to make it to the ceremony on time.” Carlyle finally says quietly, checking his watch behind your head, but doesn’t budge yet himself, either.

“Right...” You sigh wistfully, still basking in the heady feeling of having your arms around him and his lips on yours again. You manage to somehow pry yourself away and slip your blazer on, but it’s the most difficult thing you’ve done in days.

Carlyle watches in approval as you straighten the lapels, a warm smile on his face.

“I have to say, you look stunning this evening.”

“My, what did I do to deserve such flattery?”

“Well- you see me in a suit regularly, but this is the first time I’ve gotten the pleasure of seeing you in one. It feels like a rare treat I should savor while I can.”

“I’m sorry but you’ll need to wait to do much more savoring, I’m afraid.” You say, unable to resist touching his face one more time, gently running your finger over the smooth stone surface of his bottom lip.

He kisses the tip of your thumb in response, looking you straight in the eyes as he does so.

You feel your face heat up immediately, and quickly detach your hold on him and open the door to the hallway before you give into the temptation to miss the event entirely.

“Sitting through this wedding is going to be difficult enough already- for completely other reasons now.” You quip, your voice coming out a slight rasp as you pass through the threshold of the hotel room.

“Look at this way-” Carlyle follows closely behind you, pulling the door closed with a soft click. “It's an excellent incentive.”

You manage to make it into the ceremony space just in time to not stand out as rude, sliding into the carved wooden benches at the back row, amongst the hushed pre-ceremony conversation.

The ceremony venue itself is just as extravagant as the reception area you got acquainted with while setting up the cake. 

The tree is most present in this room. Huge branches reach in through the partially open roof of the area, clusters of blossoms covering the whole left side, suspended high over the altar and reaching past over the rows of wooden benches. 

If nothing else, the pictures will be fantastic…

A small band of classic Elven musicians are in one corner, playing the equivalent to faerie elevator music on their antique reed and string instruments, to fill the room while people file into their seats.

Every attendee seems to have pulled out their best gown or set of robes from their wardrobe for the occasion, desperate to win the coveted and definitely real title of ‘best dressed wedding guest’. Swathes of Aurelian fabrics dominate your vision- shimmering flowing silks and light, twinkly sheer voiles, some likely literally enchanted with magic to float or gently shift like an aurora. You do see a handful of suits, as well as several more numan-standard cocktail dresses, but they are far outnumbered by the sheer amount of Elven finery in the room. 

It’s suffocating.

You can already feel your back muscles tensing and your jaw setting, looking out at the gathering of rich people dressed in formal wear. Even knowing you’re well within the dress code, you can’t help but think you’re underdressed somehow.

Every time a set of new eyes glance over you with brief curiosity or hazy half-recognition, you’re hit with a new small wave of panic and disgust. You sure recognize many of them- all extended family members and acquaintances that you’ve encountered over the several years of large, overblown functions for every Elven holiday with Trevor’s family that you had to endure. 

You’re sure none of them recognize you in turn- after all, why would they bother to remember you? You were only present for eight years. You were only engaged to be married. Why bother to remember something as trivial as what you look like or what your name was? At the very least, if any of them do remember who you are, they don’t dare acknowledge it.

You weren’t enough before, why would you be now?

The only small mercy is that the people closest to Trevor are far at the front, without a clear view to the back where you’re seated…

“So, how many crystal chandeliers do you think that lovely lady’s gown is worth?” Carlyle leans to the side with his back straight, just enough for his words to be audible to you but not likely anyone else, nudging your knee slightly with his own to direct your line of sight. You can hear the smirk on his lips without even turning to seeing his face. “Or do you think perhaps she robbed the baron’s bank vault directly?”

“That would be a difficult heist.” You reply, barely keeping a straight face, somehow no longer able to dwell on the occasional, real or imagined scan of familiar eyes on you. “Three, maybe four.”

A few minutes pass with Carlyle pleasantly distracting you from the impending ceremony with silly chatter. It works marvelously, until you catch sight of Trevor, dressed in uncharacteristically formal elven robes, taking his place at the altar. He, as always, looks as bored as he could probably get away with looking, though he’s standing at attention with his hands joined in front of him, rather than leaning on something.

A particularly bitter thought- that he looks far too overdressed for his face to look like he’s waiting for the bus- crosses your mind. He can’t even muster the effort to look excited on his wedding day, of all days? Typical.

Bile rises in your throat. You could vomit, and being in a crowd of people might be the only thing that keeps you from doing so. You want to yank the circlet off his head and wing it like a frisbee across the room.

Your teeth grit, and it takes all you have not to scowl. He’s attractive, and it makes you angry how good he looks in his stupid robes. Of course you find him attractive, you dated him for eight years. But any sense of thinking he’s good looking now comes with the added footnote of him leaving you when you needed his support the most.

You don’t want him anymore. You’re well aware of that. But you still can’t let go of the fact he’ll never own up to the pain that he caused you, or the fact that closure from him will stay out of reach-

The fact that you weren’t good enough.

Before you can spiral too far, however, you feel the familiar sensation of a stoneskin palm gently slipping into yours.

Carlyle doesn’t say anything, clearly not wanting to be disruptive during a ceremony, but he looks over at you and gently squeezes your fingers in a firm grip when your eyes make contact.

You don’t really need him to speak, because you can hear the message loud and clear-

I’m here.

He doesn’t take his hand back, letting it rest on your leg indefinitely. The feeling of the weight is comfortable and reassuring. 

Warmth spreads in your chest. Maybe you can make it through this ceremony.

The music slows, then immediately shifts into a recognizable, though mellow composition of a wedding march. Heads all turn in expectation.

The bride finally appears at the end of the aisle, and despite your feelings around the wedding itself, you find yourself a bit stunned by the sight. Devin is pretty anyway, so it’s not surprising that she’s also pretty on her wedding day of all days. Even if her face wasn’t obfuscated by a shifting, translucent veil, she would still be almost unrecognizable in the sheer amount of layers of fabric in varying levels of opacity she’s clad in, between the veil, train, and the full body of the gown. The bodice is fitted, with slim sleeves that start at the elbow and go down all the way past her wrist into delicate closures on her middle fingers. But the rest of the gown is simply the most ornate sea of cloth you’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s so foreign to anything you’ve ever seen her wear before, and you have to imagine it must be heavy, if the squadron of flower-clad elven children in white dress, barefoot and nymphlike, holding the train of her dress behind her are any indication.

It’s definitely still Devin under all that finery though, because she can’t hold the emotionless countenance of a demure elven bride at all- she’s too overjoyed, a permanent grin on her face as she tries to lock eyes with each and every person in the rows and give them a tiny, hurried wave from behind her bouquet- starting with you. You can’t help but smile sheepishly and return the quick wave. A small child abruptly and enthusiastically throws a fistful of flower petals at your row as soon as the bride passes by. A single petal clings to your blazer.

Trevor manages to smile in what looks like an almost genuine manner, but not after a moment of thought.

She finally reaches the altar, and the gaggle of blonde elven children are dismissed, seemingly barely restraining themselves from dashing back to their seats.

Devin is already visibly struggling to keep her composure, even through the veil, the sniffling audible in the gaps of the music.

Like most elven ceremonies, the wedding itself is elaborate and a bit drawn out. It involves multiple phases, the first of which involves both of the betrothed’s parents, even before any actual marriage vows are made between the couple. You of course are familiar with this, given the research you had started back when it was going to be you up there. This is the closest thing that an elven wedding ceremony has to a typical numan bridal party, instead focusing more on the couple themselves.

Trevor has always looked like a perfect mixture of his parents, almost like he was purposefully created in a lab, selected from their best features. They never quite warmed up to you, so you simply try to avoid making much eye contact with either of them. Devin, on the other hand, looks like a carbon copy of her mother, with her father having a more neutral complexion and dark brown hair- likely a grey elf, rather than a dawn one. As you let your eyes wander to avoid looking at Trevor and his parents too much, you follow Devin’s parents back to their row. Your eyes settle on a curiosity in the front row next to them; what certainly is the back of the head and shoulders of an orc, towering above the svelte people around them.

And of course, such a culturally important ceremony is completely performed in an archaic Aurelian dialect of Elvish. You struggle to follow along with the small amount of basic Elvish you learned from your mother, but it is a battle you’re slowly losing. Even Sunday mass for the Burning Lady doesn’t take nearly this long, and that might as well be a standard measure for what constitutes “too long” back home.

Several more observances go by, from what you can tell: A cleansing ritual with pastel colored clouds pouring from a small rose gold censer, Another chanting rite performed by the priestess for longevity and fertility, A spell performed to dissolve the bride’s veil with a sparkle of magic. Then, what you assume must be their vows, given that either of them speak following being prompted by the officiant. And after that, finally, is the actual handfasting.

A set of hazardously long ribbons are secured around their joined hands and the priestess says the last of their spiel. The music slowly starts to build back up.

Bride and groom kiss.

After all of the anticipation, you thought it would’ve felt worse- a twinge of jealousy, or even disgust. But you don’t really feel much at all, apart from a strange, deja-vu adjacent sensation that it might’ve been you up there, if things were different.

And finally, somewhere, in the back of your mind… there’s relief. 

You can’t say you mind that it isn’t you. Not anymore.

It’s not you. And that’s a wonderful thing.

You squeeze Carlyle’s hand.

Mercifully, after a one more short closing verse of Elvish, the new couple walks back up the aisle, fastened together, hand in hand.

If nothing else can be said- at least Devin looks happy. You can’t bring yourself to feel sour at the moment, regardless of how wary you are for her, given who the groom is.

“Well, that was enlightening.” Carlyle rises to his feet and moves to the end of the row, where he stands, straightening the buttons on his blazer. “Very… thorough.”

“Reminded me a bit of going to mass back home as a kid, to be honest.” You chuckle as you scooch to the end of the bench after him. “But much less kneeling.”

“Oh? We must’ve gone to different types of mass, then. I haven’t been since I was a child, but I clearly remember ours was always very succinct.” He holds out his hand to you with an amused smile, giving you a flash of fang. “If we ever find ourselves on the Queen’s Isle, maybe you can instruct me on the finer details.”

“I’d like that.” You grasp his hand and he helps you to your feet.

You don’t even need to plaster a smile on your face after that, and head to the reception area, hand in hand with your own date.

All that’s left now is to see the cake through to the cutting.

>> ✨ MASTERLIST >> ☕ KO-FI

[indecentpause]

Heads Up 7-Up

@oh-no-another-idea tagged me to share seven (or so) lines! from the untitled Darcey and Jordan thing! it's seven paragraphs instead oops

cw: implied transphobia

[Jordan] smiles and bounces [the basketball] over. [Ally] catches it easily, spins around and shoots while barely looking. She misses, but not by much. Darcey catches it and passes it back to her again, and Ally calls out, “Su-Hyun, do you wanna try? Have you ever played basketball?” “Oh, yes!” Su-Hyun squeaks with excitement. “I love basketball!” Ally passes the ball and says, “Give it a shot!” Jordan quickly loses track of the time. Ally gets them to play HORSE and four-square and some other games she’s learned in P.E. he used to know but has since long forgotten. And his initial thought was right—he is terrible now. But so are Darcey and Ally and it doesn’t matter, because Jordan hasn’t felt this light and free in weeks. Darcey’s smile is infectious, and the kids are laughing, and the echo of the bouncing ball and squeaking shoes starts to feel… a little less painful. Less like keeping his eyes down in the girls’ locker room and getting repeatedly shoulder checked on the court by the boys. A little more like something he wants to remember. Su-Hyun, the shortest and youngest of them all, makes more shots than the other three combined. “You ever made a slam dunk?” Darcey asks. Su-Hyun laughs and blows a raspberry. “You know I am too short!” Jordan catches Darcey’s gaze and Darcey’s eyes dart to the ball. Jordan grins and bounces it over to Su-Hyun, and before she can think about attempting a shot, Darcey lifts her up on his shoulders, and she squeals in surprise, then breaks out into giggles. She tosses the ball through the net and laughs in joy when she makes the shot. Ally whoops and Darcey grins as he puts her back on the floor. He’s so good with her. With all of them.

tagging @frostedlemonwriter @digital-chance @jezifster @mysticstarlightduck @flock-from-the-void @boltcutterparty @winterandwords @revenantlore @drippingmoon @author-a-holmes to share seven (or so) sentences/paragraphs!

[wtfuckevenknows]

Tarlos + "That's a very stupid idea."

Hej, hello, bonjour, guten Tag :))))

Thank you sooooo much for sending a prompt. I have no clue what this is, but it's the first thing that came to my mind and I think it's rather funny 😂

“Can I have a bite?”

Carlos looks at him like he’s grown three heads.

“I don't think -” 

“Oh, come one, sharing is caring.” 

“TK,” Carlos scolds. “You know it’s not about not wanting to share.”

“I know your food is more spicy than mine, but we’ve been building up my spice tolerance for nearly two years. I think I can handle it.” 

“Well, I don't,” Carlos mutters under his breath before shoving another bite of his taco into his mouth but TK hears him loud and clear. He drops his own burrito back onto the plate and just stares at Carlos. 

Carlos lets out a long suffering sigh once he’s had a couple of more bites while ignoring TK, which rude, and hands over the last bit of his taco. TK whoops in victory, blowing Carlos a kiss. Then he proceeds to put the last of Carlos taco into his mouth. 

"That's a very stupid idea," Carlos reminds him, but by now it’s already too late. 

Before TK can even say anything, Carlos gets up and makes his way to the fridge, where he grabs a bottle of milk. He doesn't even bother with a glass, just brings the whole damn bottle, which admittedly isn't full anymore, over to the table. 

“Thanks babe,” TK chokes out, before downing the entire contents of the bottle. He’s still breathing hard and fanning himself once he’s done and looks over at Carlos. He’s met by a smug grin and sparkling eyes. 

“Don’t say it!” 

“I wouldn't dream of it.” 

“Your face tells a different story.”

Carlos laughs at him then, leaning over the table to whisper in his ear “It was a stupid idea.” 

It’s only marginally better than I told you so.

Send me Five Word Sentences and I'll write you a little something while I wilt away at home

[sesamestreep]

hi hello I'm here to ask about "write a loving letter" and "mystery door no. 4"

how dare you make me format TWO excerpts??

“write a loving letter boy” should maybe not be on here because it’s not exactly an active WIP because I’ve fully forgotten the actual plot I had in mind for it, but I love the draft title so much I can’t delete it (see below if the reference eludes you). The basic idea was yet another daredevil college au (what can I say, I have a Type) but in this case it’s…like a Cyrano de Bergerac AU?? where Foggy ends up helping one of their classmates woo Matt because he “knows him so well” and ends up discovering his own feelings for Matt that way?? I watched an episode of Bones that was obviously a Cyrano pastiche but they refused to acknowledge it and it made me so annoyed, I had to write this AU instead. Also thought I was very clever for thinking of a queer Cyrano retelling and then remembered “The Half of It” exists. Whoops.

Here’s the only scene I have, which is Foggy talking to the girl who wants to date Matt, who ended up just being the most fun OC to write:

“I was going to ask you something, actually,” Willa says, in that precise way of hers. Foggy likes her, based on the few conversations they’ve had, but he imagines she makes a lot of people their age feel a little frivolous, just based on her general energy. Foggy already knows he’s pretty frivolous, as a person, so he doesn’t take it too personally, which probably helps. “Sure. Shoot. Go ahead.” “You’re really good friends with Matt, right?” “We’re roommates, yeah,” Foggy replies, as he brings his drink to his mouth. “Right. I know,” Willa says, frowning. “But like…you’re friends too?” “Of course.” “I’m not friends with my roommate,” she supplies, explaining her clarification without actually explaining it.  “Oh, sure,” Foggy says. He likes the way Willa’s brain works, he’s just remembering. It’s like he can see the gears moving inside of it. It’s kind of fun. “Yes, Matt and I are friends as well as roommates. Why do you ask?”

title reference for page break reasons

“mystery door no. 4” is actually not fanfic, it’s an original novel I’m kind of working on (I am working on it, I just have no real vision for what I’ll do with any of it should I actually finish it, is what that sentence means, ftr). It’s based on an old idea I did for the made up movies meme on here years ago and I’ve been mostly handwriting it as an excuse not to look at screens during the spring/summer when I’m a lot more headache prone. I went through a period of about 2-3 months where I hated every fic idea I started and was just miserable about writing in general and decided to try writing some original fiction, which is not something I’ve done since I was like 12 (a long time but redacted amount of years ago) and it’s been very fun so far though I’m keeping my expectations low.

here is an excerpt, featuring my new OCs who I’m sure I’ll start tagging in stuff soon as the next step in my full descent to madness:

“Again with these words!” Aleks groaned. “Didn’t you just wake up?” “Not just.” “Still. ‘Puerile’? I couldn’t use that in a sentence correctly with three cups of coffee in me!” “Was that a hint?” “Hmmm?” “Do you want coffee? Were you asking me to make us some coffee?” “Are you part sheep dog or something?” Aleks asked. “Will you go crazy if I don’t give you something to do?” “Maybe,” Eugene admitted reluctantly.

[cordeliawhohung]

20 questions for fic writers

thanks @peachesofteal for the tag!!! tagging @yeyinde @deadbranch and anyone else who'd like to join!

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

27

2. What's your total Ao3 word count?

477,081

3. What fandoms do you write for?

only really write for cod anymore, but i've been in many others

4. Top five by kudos.

though i split soft spot into one-shot like stories, i'm going to count that as number 1 total (though the "Death of Me" chapter specifically is #1) then Leftovers, pet!au, From My Corner of the Universe, and then In Limbo

5. Do you respond to comments?

i try to keep up as best as i can! i don't get a crazy amount of comments, but sometimes i won't respond if i don't know what to say lsdjkf

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

hands down, Leftovers

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

eh most of my one shots end pretty happy or... neutral. otherwise, for long form, the only fic i've completely finished has been Soft Spot, and that ending was fine.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

on ao3 not really? usually i get people complaining more about where i'm taking the story rather than blatant hate, both on ao3 and especially on tumblr.

9. Do you write smut?

...yes

10. Craziest crossover.

not a fan of crossovers

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

none that i know of......

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope, and i would hope someone would ask permission before doing so (:

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

i don't have the patience for that, sorry

14. All time favorite ship?

i'm an x reader fan at heart, and i'm not really a shipper? ghoap would be pretty close, but even then i always write/read ghoap x reader so whoops

15. What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

From My Corner of the Universe (ATSV). i love the premise and i had fun world building but... the worms shriveled and died long ago.

16. What are your writing strengths?

i feel like i characterize people pretty okay. at least, to my own tastes.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

i'm too verbose. i write more prose in my stories than i do the actual story. i tend to reuse the same idiomatic phrases. something that takes someone else two sentences to write and get the same feeling across takes me like, 5 paragraphs. brevity is the soul of wit, and i am witless.

18. Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

it's okay. has to be done really specifically though. normally i prefer to continue to write in english but use italics or something to share that something is being said in x language.

19. First fandom you wrote in?

i hate to say it but i think it was harry potter.

20. Favorite fic you've ever written?

Soft Spot was fine and really healing to write, but I think In Limbo is going to replace that very soon.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Six Sentence Sunday

Well it isn't Sunday for me anymore, but I thought I would get in on this since @novafire-is-thinking tagged me. I've been wanting to try this out for a while, so let's see how this goes.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

The Council loomed above him, the false Prime staring down disdainfully as Thirteen sneered from his place tied down to the center of the council chambers.

"Autoway of Iacon, former general of the thirty first division and head of the investigation unit of Iaconian law enforcement" The false Prime listed off his 'crimes' with all the humility of a Quintesson, which was to say equated to none at all.

"You are herby accused of the destruction of Cybertron's largest space bridge and the imminent deaths of of three colony worlds" Thirteen, or rather Autoway wished he had the ability to fight back, but he couldn't risk it, not when all those loyal to him were under threat; he needed to stay amicable, otherwise they would all be killed under the guise of traitorous behavior.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself before your sentence?" Autoway growled at the question, his whole frame shaking and battle protocols begging to be activated so he could tear these mecha who were willing to watch their whole world fall to the rust plague apart.

"If those bridges had remained open, the rust plague would have overtaken Cybertron... I did what was required, unlike you pompous slaggers too busy watching others suffer from your golden thrones" Thirteen hissed, trying to put as much venom into every glyph as physically possible.

"Then let all of Cybertron know that from this day forward, the mighty Autoway is stripped of all badges of honor and will instead serve as a lowly Gladiator in the pits of Kaon" Sentinel Prime had the gall to look down on Autoway like he had won, however Autoway merely grinned; if they thought this would stop him, they were wrong.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Oh man I may have kinda snuck under the rules here with how long this is... whoops. ANYWAY, this is a WIP from my fic The Many Lives of Optimus Prime, set quite a ways off from where I am currently writing. For those who have read my fic, here yall go, a little bit of a spoiler. And for those who haven't, well, I hope this was at least a little interesting to read. I have a lot planned for this fic :)

Lets see... who to tag. Perhaps @justanotherperson1 and @spreadwardiard. Of course anyone else can gladly join in as well, I just can't remember anyone else who I am aware of who is a writer right now.

[fastcardotmp3]

WIP WORD SEARCH

rules: share snippets of your work containing each of the words the previous poster selected for you (optional addition: if you can't find the word in your WIPs, or you simply don't have any WIPs, you can just write a sentence around the word)

thank you for tagging me @stevethehairington! 💖

my words: care, freckle, expect, long, and sweet

CARE - from the unpublished TLOUish AU

He knows who’s in the wrong for how few meal tickets they get a week, for how much shit shoveling work they have to do just to get one, and that’s the Feds, that’s NINA and NINA alone, but this is wildlife. This is shit that they can’t regulate no matter how hard they try, and it means all they’ve done to supplement how little the system cares about them and the horde of teenagers they’re trying to keep from getting stunted in their growth, is just fizzling out without anyone for Steve to fight about it. 

FRECKLE - I've got NOTHIN. here's a little bit on the fly instead <3

Nancy doesn't notice Robin's freckles until after the war, until after the sun returns to Hawkins, until after they've all collectively found stumbling, messy ways out and away.

Nancy doesn't notice Robin's freckles until polaroid photos sent in envelopes with smashed-in corners, signed at the bottom with dates and little quips in smudged, blue ballpoint pen.

Nancy doesn't notice Robin's freckles until they're too far away for touching, which means Nancy doesn't get to really learn their shape for quite some time, but god does she try.

EXPECT - from kas!chrissy au

Nancy’s been expecting this. Expecting him even long before he finds her with her mug of instant coffee at the rise of a foggy sun somewhere a world away from their little patch of wasteland. 

“Do you need me to, Mike?” She sits down, keeps her voice down, sips her coffee down, down, down as she glances up through her overgrown bangs to catch the direct power of her little brother’s scowl. 

LONG - from the little ronance diddy that was going to be my spring challenge fic before dead steve spring came along

Nancy hasn’t settled down in the years since they survived Hawkins for the final time, the time in which they have to keep surviving the fallout from having been born into an environment that wanted them dead, and Robin has quite frankly been waiting for it to all come to a head for a long time now. 

SWEET - from the eternally unfinished long distance decade plus slow burn of my dreams that I've been considering reworking pieces of into something else entirely WHOOPS

“Fuck you.”

“Just name a time and place, sweetheart.”

Steve Harrington laughs. There’s a sincerity to it underneath all the stilted quips. 

“So, tell me,” Eddie pulls himself up onto the countertop, settles in, “what’s it like in the future?” 

tagging!! @gothbat99 @flashyysins @griddlenavs @figthefruitfaeth @hellsfireclub @cheatghost @kkpwnall @judasofsuburbia @sharpbutsoft

your words, should you choose to accept them, are: light, never, startle, move, sharp

[serendipminie-writes]

Writing tag game

Reblog (or create a new post) with things you've done that you don't want to be forgotten.

Thank you so much for the tag @dancinginsepia~

This was originally a reblog and is not edited at all (whoops) but hopefully it's alright

*****

Tell me you won't forget me.

I can't possibly remember the impact that I, as one small unimportant person, could have here on the world. One day I'll be gone and there will be nobody to carry on my name, nobody to hold me close and tell me it's okay.

It was never okay, of course, and there was never anyone there in the first place to tell me that. It's much too late for anyone to convince me to stay here or that I am truly important in somebody's life.

So please. Promise me you won't forget me. Just promise, say two words and murmur them against my lips, hold me like I've always wanted to be held. Tell me I'm special. Tell me I'm important. Tell me you won't forget me. I want to mean that much to you, I want to be that person who makes your world spin round.

Tell me you won't forget me.

Promise me you won't forget the girl with stars in her eyes and freckles dusting along her cheeks, the girl who always has a song playing in her head and whose mind is filled with a dozen of words just waiting to be strung into sentences. Don't forget the girl who likes to dream and who needs love more than anything. Don't forget the girl who gets so worked up that stress and anxiety seem to be inches away from crushing her flat.

Promise you won't forget the girl who drinks hot chocolate during a long evening's work, the one who likes to bake and bead and write and sew. Promise that the moments we shared will echo throughout your soul eternally. Promise that you'll remember how I suffered, and how I giggled staring into your eyes. Promise you won't forget my love; the love I have for life, for the world, and for you.

Tell me you won't forget me.

Say you won't forget the girl who has so many dreams, creates fictional people with her words, makes those people happy because she cannot be for herself. Don't forget the girl who cries for hours on end, begging for someone to think of her for even a second. Don't forget the girl who continually makes her own misery, stuck in her own vicious cycle.

Tell me you won't forget me.

Promise you won't forget the girl who would jump at the chance to restart her life, to be someone new and make better choices, the girl who feels she needs to look a certain way and act a certain way to make even one friend. Please don't forget the girl you knew; the girl behind the mask she had so carefully hidden herself behind, the girl who finally felt comfortable enough to be herself around you. The girl who was untamed in her own way, free to express her thoughts and opinions and to simply be.

Tell me you won't forget the girl who wants nothing more than to love and be loved, the girl who would dream about meeting someone who could hold her, someone who could finally tell her things were going to be alright.

When you left me... I never forgot you.

So please, please... say it back. Tell me you won't forget me.

But the words seem stuck in your throat and all I can do is beg.

*****

I teared up... oh goodness. This was so heartfelt to write...

I will tag @worldsfromhoney, @pressed-poppies-and-poetry, @isabellebissonrouthier, @ashfordlabs, @ko0l-k1dd0, @unmellowyellowfellow and @awleeofficial only if you want + open tag.

[myinventoryisfull]

WIP Wednesday Game

WHOOPS I meant to do this yesterday but forgot >_>;; anyway, thanks for the tag @fluffleforce Y'all are gonna be disappointed in me because my file names are usually actually titles oops

Here’s how it woks:

* In a reblog (or new post w/ rules attached), post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

* Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!

* After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

* That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. If you tag me in your post, I will send you an ask request!

Boy Monster Part 1

As the tavern door swung open, the scent of horse and perspiration wafted in. It drifted over the sour smell of beer and mouthwatering aroma of roasted meat, drawing Dimo's attention away from his rotund and shaggy-haired companion.  was animatedly retelling tales of past conquests to anyone who would listen.

Then the whimpering came, and Dimo twisted in his seat to see exactly who it was that wanted people to think they were dying. 

A young man, thirteen – fifteen at the most and that was being generous - staggered into the tavern, his long ginger hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. It might have been neat and proper at one point, but now stray hairs stuck out at every angle while limp bangs dangled in his face, barely brushing over a splatter of freckles that dusted his cheeks. The collar of his too white shirt that was just starting to develop sweat stains hung open, exposing his flushed pale collar bones, and black boots that would have been polished until they gleamed like the night if it wasn't for the layer of mud caked around the soles.

In a tavern full of Jaegers and stout humans in weather worn clothing, the boy stood out like a vein of gold in a coal mine. One of the local nobles slumping in to slum it with the peasantry; a minor act of rebellion, no doubt.

Feelings I Can't Fight

"Maxim, does this mean you <i>bought</i> one of his CDs?" she asked accusingly, shoving the CD into his face and waving it around as if trying to ensure that he saw and acknowledged its existence. As if he could ignore it when Dimo's phone number and <i>hotel room number</i> were right there, staring at him tauntingly.

"Enough!" Maxim bellowed, elbowing Zeetha out of his way and pulling his shirt off over his head as he moved further into his apartment. His jeans followed suit shortly afterwards, and Maxim chucked his work clothes into a hamper before digging into his closet for something that didn't smell like sweat and coffee. "Hy chust got home from vurk, und hy wants to eat food und not think!"

And now his accent was starting to come through. If Maxim wasn't frustrated before, he was now, and he pulled his hair free from its bun with a yank of his hand. "Dere better be leftovers in mine fridge, or hy'm gonna be super crenky!"

The other disappointing thing is that that's all I've worked on lately o(￣▽￣)ｄ