#writing warmup

[smoft-demons]

Tsundere nonsense

(This takes place between getting Beel’s pact and leaving for the retreat)

Mild angst, hurt/comfort, fluff. The human is very sensitive and cannot tell when Mammon’s spouting bullshit.

_______

Auva sits on the couch in the living room next to Beel. There’s a show playing on the TV. Beel is snacking as they watch it idly. Levi sits in a corner playing a game on a handheld console, hunched over and grumbling about being out of his room. Asmo sits on the floor, painting Satan’s nails. Everything is peaceful.

Mammon walks in, and Auva perks up, hands grabbing at the air in his direction. Beckoning him to sit at her other side.

Mammon acquiesces with an unsubtly fond eyeroll. Smiling openly.

Asmo snickers at him

“Honestly, Mammon, you still can’t admit that you’re wrapped around that human’s little finger? You’ve all but adopted her at this point! Can’t you say how much you love her?” Asmo teases.

Mammon sputters, hands flapping frantically as his face burns bright red. “Wh—! I—! NO! I don’t love the human, I didn’t even want the human, I don’t care about the stupid thing, what the fuck are ya talkin’ about Asmo—Shut the fuck up before I make you—!” Mammon deflects desperately, defending himself as Asmo cackles.

Under the sound of Mammon’s shouting, there’s a muffled little sound. A quick, squeaky puff of air, as if from being punched in the gut... Auva.

She inhales slowly, blinking hard. Trying not to cry. Trying not to draw attention.

It’s not working. She turns to bury her face in Beel’s shirt.

Because… Auva knew Mammon didn’t like her at first, he had said as much all the time! But… but she really thought he had changed his mind by now! He hadn’t said anything like that in weeks!

All the time he spent in her room, all the hangouts and talks and whispering stupid comments to each other in class, all the silly memes they’d sent to each other, his ever present charger and toothbrush and random items left in her room because he’s always in there with her… how is that not friendship? How can he still not care about her after all that? How could he not want her? Why…

“…why would he say that?” Auva asks Beel, her voice cracking with barely suppressed tears.

Beel places an arm around her shoulders. “He doesn’t mean it.” He assures her.

She sniffles quietly.

“—the worst, Asmo, see if I don’t sell YOU next, you piece of—oh, human…” Mammon finally notices his human, curled up in a little shivering ball of heartbreak. Hiding under Beel’s arm. Tucked away from him.

“Wha—no, no, hey… ya know I never mean any of that… right? Human..? Auva…” Mammon’s voice is suddenly softer. Soothing, like he’s trying to coax a scared animal out of hiding.

Silence.

(In the background, Levi glares at Asmo. He throws a nearby cushion at him.)

“I didn’t mean it, Auva, I promise..! C’mon… look at me?” Mammon frantically says.

Auva sniffles again. “Y-you said… you don’t care about me. Stupid thing, you said… you said—”

“No, no, human… I’m sorry. I didn’t… you’re not a stupid thing. I promise ya, I didn’t mean it! I was just…” he sighs heavily, as he mentally kicks his own ass.

“I—look. I get defensive, I’m… how’d you put it? I’m real fuckin bad at feelings, okay? I just—I get called out, then I get defensive, an’ I just yell lies to get everyone to lay off, an’—aww, baby, no don’t cry, don’t… fuck, I’m a jackass… c’mere, c’mere…”

Beel glares at Mammon as he pulls Auva out of her hiding spot, so he can hug her.

Auva thinks what he just said demonstrates some rather impressive emotional intelligence and self-awareness, especially for someone who just claimed to be bad at feelings. This… is encouraging, she thinks. Maybe, maybe it really will be okay..? Maybe he really does love her?

Hesitantly, desperately, Auva hugs back. Tangling her fingers into his shirt, hands bunched up in the loose fabric at his sides. Clinging, but not daring to actually hold him. Not yet.

“I’ll work on it, I promise. I’ll do better. I promise, I promise, human… I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean a word of it, I’ve never meant any of that, please tell me ya knew that…” Mammon pleads as he squeezes his human tightly. Secure, safe… how he knows by now she responds best to.

“You said… you said you don’t want me..?” Auva sobs.

“I do, baby, I do. You’re MY human. ‘Course I want ya! I’m never gonna get rid of ya… shhh, shhshshh… I’m here, baby. I gotcha. I’m not lettin’ go. Promise.”

Mammon has dropped his tsundere nonsense entirely. It falls away to reveal the soft, gentle, protector that Mammon is when no one else is there to witness it.

“…Auva?” Mammon murmurs in the long, quiet moment after she’s calmed down. “You did know that I never meant any of that crap I say when I get like that… right?”

Auva shakes her head slightly. “How would I know?? I can’t do subtext, Mam. Unless it’s in fiction, I guess. I never pick up on any of that in real life. I just… I trust you, so I believe you. S-so… if you say that you don’t care about me… how would I know that’s not what you meant?”

“…oh. Well… fuck. I… y’know what? I need you to know I’m tellin’ ya the truth now. I want you to use the pact. Command me to tell you the truth. Lemme tell you what I really meant.”

Auva’s taken aback. That’s a big gesture! “Um—are you sure?”

He looks away, red-faced and clenching his jaw as he nods. He gestures at her to hurry it up, get it over with.

“Okay… Mammon, tell me the truth. What do you really think of me?”

“Auva… you’re MY human. My precious lil buddy. You’re my lil gremlin human. There’s really not much I wouldn’t do for you. I love you, I’d NEVER get rid of you! I can’t imagine ever not wanting you here with me. You’re not some… stupid annoying obligation. Not at all. I can’t believe you really didn’t realize how much I cared about you, even from the very first few days of knowin’ you! Auva, I’m supposed to protect you, and I WANT to! You’re my baby, Auva. My lil baby. I love you, and I’m staying with you. As long as possible. ‘Kay?”

Auva stares wide eyed at Mammon. That’s… wow. Some shit she’s sure he’d NEVER say if it weren’t forced out of him. Safe to say she knows what to believe now.

She lifts the command.

“…wow. Okay. Yeah. Thank you…”

Overwhelmed, Auva buries herself in Mammon’s arms again. That was… a lot.

“Don’t let go?” She requests softly. Mammon squeezes her reassuringly in answer.

It’s peaceful again for a moment.

“Mammon.” Beel rumbles threateningly. “If you make the baby cry again I will throw you through another wall.”

Auva makes an embarrassed sound, curling into Mammon to hide again.

Mammon laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I won’t. I got the baby. She’s fiiine.”

Auva squeaks, overwhelmed and unsure how she’s supposed to react. She decides on clinging to Mammon and ignoring everything else. Her usual strat. It’s normally effective enough.

[strangersteddierthings]

Dialogue prompts. Platonic Stobin + “We met at a funeral.“

The thing with having your best friend in the whole wide world, the platonic love of your life, your soulmate, be Steve 'Heart-Throb' Harrington is that you can't really go anywhere without people thinking you're a couple.

Robin had hoped that once they left Hawkins that would stop. Chicago is big and Steve doesn't have any sort of reputation for being a lady's man here! But still, when they go out and about the city, someone has to comment on how 'cute you two look together' or 'you two look so in love' which makes both of them visibly gag, because, ew, gross, no.

And Steve makes friends so easily. Not always lifelong friends, but friends in that they get invited out to a lot of things, all the time, always. Parties, out to bars and clubs, weddings. Robin isn't nearly as social as Steve, but she always comes with, which isn't really helping the unfortunate boyfriend/girlfriend situation everyone thinks they're in.

Inevitably, Steve gets pulled into talking with whomever invited him out and Robin is left to linger near wherever drinks are being served, flocked by woman cooing at her about wishing their boyfriends looked at them 'the way Steve looks at her' (to which Robin's always thinking they need to ditch their boyfriends then, because Steve's looks are completely platonic and that makes her think these girls are dating boys who don't even like them as people) or to ask after their relationship.

She's given up trying to explain they aren't dating. Instead, she's decided to have fun with it.

She invents new, ridiculous, ways they've met every time she's asked.

"Oh, we met at a funeral," Robin lies, looking past the group that has gathered around her to Steve, trying to telepathically tell him to come rescue her right this second. Steve does make eye contact and given the smarmy grin that spreads across his face, he received the message loud and clear. He's just enjoying her torment. "My great aunt's. We weren't close but I went to pay my respects. Steve was just there because he'd read the obituary in the paper and showed up for the free food. It's his favorite pastime."

The silence that follows is awkward, to say the least, and Robin relishes in it.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," Robin says and slides away from the crowd to go let Steve know how they met this time.

Steve always plays along.

[velocitytimes2]

Have an angsty Metalsandwich blurb for your Sunday night.

Rating: T for drug mention Pairing: Steve x Billy x Eddie

Wrote this as a love letter to the anniversary of Eddie sacrificing himself for his friends because I'm feeling some kind of way about it.

tw: angst, major character death, canon character death

Steve only ever returns to Hawkins now twice a year, now. His mother comes to him for holidays, doting that he shouldn’t have to pack the entire family up from Pennsylvania to come see her when one-person traveling is easier than five. Robin lives in Spokane now, all the Byers had settled down in California again – both natural born and married-in Wheelers alike, Dustin in Silicon Valley, only because of his wife, Lucas traveling for broadcasting… No one really was left in Hawkins for Steve. But no matter what, he always came back, drove over the still two-toned pavement at Town Hall to turn left and head home. Six days a year. The morning before in to spend the day with mom. The day of. The day after to pick himself up and dust himself off and pack the Volvo for the drive home.  The dates are always the same. March, for a dried out red roses and a joint. July, for sunflowers, and a Marlboro (even though he quit at twenty-seven). Both with a six pack.  July is always a fight, always explaining that he just needs time alone on the holiday to his kids, how grandma sometimes needs him home – a lie but one that helps, watching his partner understand but still hurt that his choice had always been to go back. March sometimes fought back with attempts at late-season blizzards, and isn’t that the most hilarious thing. To know that even now, even forty-fucking years later he’s being bumped into by Eddie. Even when the weather sucks, even when the snow is falling or the fourth of July is the hottest in ten years, Steve goes, sits with his back to a headstone, and talks to the two boys he’d once loved with so much in his heart that he was delirious with it.  It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy, god he had fought and clawed and torn his way to it but he was happy. Was so in love again with someone who saw him for the bat in his trunk (still), and nights where he walked the halls to press a palm to each of his children’s chests, and the days he had to go and spend with the people who weren’t able to come see him anymore. Who hadn’t left Hawkins and survived.  He knows Nancy goes to see Barb. Sometimes, on the day he leaves Hawkins Steve does too. He tells her what he can about her friends. He apologizes for not being the person he should have been, for playing the role in her death.  He walks across the same cemetery and sits with Chrissy. Knows Eddie would want him to. He sometimes lays on his back and cries on her grave, making up stories of what he and Eddie and her could have been doing now in their thirties, forties, fifties. Sometimes he just tells her about how much he had loved Eddie, loved him quietly from the side, loved him loudly behind closed doors.  No one who Billy loved is in Hawkins. So Steve tells him about what he knows about Max’s life now. He keeps him up to date with what musicians are doing. The new and the old and the in between. He tells Billy about Eddie, how much he would have loved Eddie once he got past the whole nerd thing. How much they would have loved one another.  He always ends up crying to them both. Because how do you move past horrific deaths? How do you move on with the guilt that both times you were the one to live and they weren’t?  You don’t. But you can be happy.  He is happy. But he can miss them. Thinks it’s okay he misses them. Knows they’re happy he’s happy.  “I love you. I know you're out there somewhere, watching. I’ll see you next year, baby.”

[royal-songbird]

I, Carrion (Icarian)

wrote a silly little thing with gay people bcus i cannot stop listening to hoziers new album and needed to do something about it <3 uhh this is also vaguely inspired by those like... medusa x blind woman stories Word Count : 603

“We can’t keep doing this.” She murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper and her gaze downcast.

“Doing what?” “This.” 

I follow her gaze, down to our hands, intertwined. Her thumb brushes over my calloused palm, a frown tugging at her lips. The touch sends sparks through my veins, and I feel giddy with it, even with the melancholy hanging heavy in the air like a suffocating fog.

“Why? Why can’t we?” I ask, curling my fingers around her’s. Her frown deepens, and her golden brown eyes shine in the candlelight, glimmering with unshed tears.

“You’ve heard the stories. You’ve heard what I am.” “I have.” “Then you know I cannot be loved. I do not deserve it.” She breathes, her voice trembling. My heart aches, and I place my other hand against her cheek, pressing my palm against the chill of her too-cold skin. Her gaze lifts, and I meet it with a quiet smile, even as her eyes glow a bit too bright against the dark. 

“If you are unlovable, then I would not be here, darling.” I swipe my thumb over her cheek, rubbing away the few stray tears staining her face. 

“But… I’m not like you.” I will outlive you, she doesn’t say, but I hear regardless. She turns her face into my hand, her voice going quieter.  “There are others. Ones who arent… Ones that can make you happy.”

“I’m happy here.” I lean forward, tilting her head so she meets my gaze. “I am happy with you, and only you.” “But what of the town? What will you do if they find out? If they outcast you?” “I’d rather spend a lifetime as an outcast if it meant I could be by your side.” I whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Her face scrunches up, tears rolling steadily down her cheeks. Her shoulders shake with barely constrained sobs, and she doesn’t resist as I pull her close, resting her head against my chest.

Her hands grab my clothes, too-sharp nails digging into the fabric. I hold her tightly, pressing my nose against her curly hair.

“I love you.” I mutter, rocking both of us side to side as she breaks, broken, wailing sobs tumbling from her chest as she clings to me. “I love you, and that will never change.”

“What- What if I’m not enough? What if I can’t return that love?” “Then I will love you, regardless. You could cast me aside, you could take a knife to my throat, and my devotion to you would never waver.” 

“Do you promise?” She whispers, her voice shaking with a frail sort of hope. I tighten my grip around her, love and adoration surging through me with the intensity of a tidal wave. I think, not for the first nor last time, how I possibly could’ve been so lucky to find her, and be given the chance to keep her.

“Yes. Always. I swear to the very stars.” I reply, every ounce of love I hold for her spilling past my lips and into the air around us. “I promise, I will always love you.” She cries, soaking my shirt through with snot and tears, but I don’t mind, merely cradling her close to my chest, whispering quiet words of reassurance. I make up my mind then, sitting with my love in my arms in a quiet, candlelight room. This is where I want to stay, until the end of eternity. The town has nothing to offer to me anymore, not while all I could ever want was right here. 

I refuse to leave again. 

[the-mindless]

#2

You are a Hero, and before you, is the mutilated corpse of the Demon King.

Years have passed ever since you began your adventure. Back then, you went out with a party made of your closest friends, and now, you are alone.

There was nothing you could do to bring them back.

There was nothing you could do to stop them from dying.

When your last teammate died, the pain, the anguish, the… rage, was unbearable.

You can still remember their last words.

“Strike… him… down… for us… okay?”

And you did. You charged head first into the demon army. Everything felt like a blur, an acid trip of bloodshed, a vague haze of screaming, slashing, shouting, killing.

And when it ended, you were on the floor, and so was the Demon King.

You didn’t get back up immediately. You simply laid there, for what felt like hours, weeks, years, an eternity. You can’t tell.

Only when the rays of sunlight washed over you through the broken ceiling of the throne room, did you finally get back up. It wasn’t easy, clearly. Everything felt numb, and you’re pretty sure you lost a couple of teeth here and there. But it was over.

You pulled out your sword from within the Demon King’s chest, and turned around, to finally make your way home.

At least, that was the plan, until you saw… Yourself. Someone who looks… exactly like you. Wearing, and holding, the same things as you.

Notably, they were not alone. Surrounding them were…

Your old friends.

You took a step back. Your breath was heavy. And before you could formulate another coherent thought, you heard that someone say, in a tone that matches precisely with yours:

“STRIKE HIM DOWN!”

“OKAY!”

[ephemeralfuture]

There’s a beat of silence. The Hero’s expression is swimming with guilt. His eyes then flick up, brow furrowing.

“769.” He says, “only 769 were worthy of being etched on your throne?”

Andras raises his eyebrow at the Hero, at his question.

“How many did you—.”

“889.” The hero grunts, his lips pinned closed to keep his expression neutral, if not guilty, “889 and I wish that each of them were unnecessary. But only 769 were worthy for you?”

Now the Hero’s eyes are blazing, as if lost in thought. He steps forward, and Andras rears himself up, waits for the Hero’s attack, but the Hero stops just at the base of his throne to stare at the etched names.

“Some of these are Lamarkian.” The Hero remarks quietly.

Andras’ eyes widen. Then he rolls them. Oh. That’s what the Hero thinks this is about.

“Yes, yes, your point?”

“Who’s Hathar Bétchrakian?”

Andras purses his lips, groans in annoyance. He pinches his brow.

“A worthy sacrifice. Worthy enough for his name to be etched on my throne.” Andras says.

The Hero clicks his throat, shakes his head.

“Yes, Hero, even Lamarkians can be bestowed with Honor in death.” Andras drawls boredly.

“But only in death.” The Hero says tightly, “and only when they’re high ranking officials, hoping to appeal to the High Kingdom, garner some sympathy, so their people can finally be allowed to feed their children.”

“You dramatize.” Andras says flatly.

“Do I?” The Hero snarls, he runs his hands over more of the names on the thrones, “Some of these High Kingdom names are familiar. Leaders of outreach programs.” He stops at a name.

“Did you know Kaeleri Lechant?”

“The name is… familiar.”

Andras thinks to the names on his list on the road to successful domination. A list that the Prime Minister of the High Kingdom granted to him. It worked, for sure.

“She made sure that Lamarkian children had access to education.” The Hero says, “she wasn’t a warlord. Or an upstart. Is that why she was granted the honor to be on your throne?”

Andras stares at the Hero, stares at his blazing scarlet eyes and pained expression. The Hero sighs.

“I’m tired of watching my people try to appeal to the likes of you.”

“Be assured, Hero. What I did is nothing personal against your people. I don’t even hail from the High Kingdom.”

“But the High Kingdom had a hand in helping you, gave you the names so you can pave your path to power.” The Hero says with a grimaced smile, “Am I wrong?”

Andras stays quiet, sits back, watches the Hero, who stares back, expectant. The Hero forcefully smiles again, barely concealing his rage.

“Of course I’m not wrong.” He says lowly, “you can’t even bring it in yourself to lie.”

“Consider adding 1,400 to your number.” The Hero says, “seeing as that’s how many were lost in the siege of my town, in your name.”

The Hero lunges, and Andras’ blade sparks up against the Hero’s.

“Have you nothing to say?!”

Andras opens his mouth, then closes it. He huffs. “It was not reported to me.”

The Hero pushes his blade harder against Andras’, pushing himself closer.

“You think that High Kingdom lieutenants would report the deaths of Lamarkians to you?” The Hero lets up, laughs hysterically, “what kind of childish retort is this?”

The Hero’s expression turns dark with unpredictable anger again. Andras raises his blade, ready to defend himself. Uncertain in the wake of the Hero’s words.

“I didn’t know.” Andras says, “I didn’t know about this…”

The Hero rolls his eyes, swings at Andras.

“You’re the ruler of the High Kingdom now.” The Hero growls when their blades collide again.

“I was supposed to be the ruler of this realm!” Andras refutes in protest, “It wasn’t supposed to be based in prejudice!”

“But it was!” The Hero roars, “Every snake in your ear has been from the High Kingdom! You just presumed based on what they said who was the superior society!”

“And you think yourself the superior society?” Andras says, “if it weren’t the High Kingdom, but instead the Lemarkians, it would have been better? Because let me tell you— it wouldn’t.”

“Don’t pull that nonsense.” The Hero hisses, “Stay in reality. High Kingdomers shaped this world. Shaped the world of Lemarkians. Every aspect of Lemarkians were either shaped by or shaped in spite of the High Kingdom. From the language we speak to the way we dress to the way we carry ourselves. It’s been dictated by High Kingdomers.”

Andras stares, notices how the Hero’s previously scarlet eyes have turned syrupy black in his rage. The Hero stares down at Andras, tip of his sword resting against the tile of the throne room.

The Hero’s expression changes at the sight of Andras’ reaction, from justified rage to exhausted pity.

Andras hates the Hero’s pity. Hates how it bores into him. Despite every reason the Hero had to look down on him. The hero held no hatred in his expression.

“Of course you wouldn’t know.” The Hero huffs, sheathing his sword, “if you’re anything like a High Kingdomer. They *never* know. That’s the comfort you’re granted. Never having to know.”

Andras inhales, a little pit of annoyance and anger blossoming at being told of his ignorance.

“Not only are you granted the boon of not knowing, it’s not a slight against you if you admit you never knew.” The Hero says. He sits on the steps to the throne, back to Andras, “That’s not a luxury I can be granted.”

The Hero is currently being a fool, with his back turned like that. Andras can strike him and be done with it. Yet, it wouldn’t be honorable to do so, especially since the Hero sheathed his weapon.

Andras sheathes his own sword, stands at the step the Hero sits at. The Hero glances up at him, looking even more exhausted than ever.

“You said that you etched the names of the people you killed in order to never forget the cost of your victory.” The Hero says, “and yet you don’t know the real cost of your victory? Your domination?”

“You could just strike me down.” Andras suggests, “In my alternate realm, ignorance is seen as a great insult.”

“But it’s influenced everything you do as a ruler.” The Hero says, “so its clearly not great enough an insult to you.”

“And that was my mistake.” Andras admits, “so you could still strike me down.”

“And what will it do?” The Hero says bitterly, “I strike you down singularly? When the ideas have seeped into the very stone of this realm? There would be no victory on my end. My brothers and sisters would starve anyway. The average High Kingdomer would be disgusted at the sight of me anyway. The High Court of the High Kingdom would see me as subservient either way.”

“You could strike them down too.” Andras suggests again.

“I could. That is the main known language of the High Kingdomer. Yet, they hope I do violence, expect violence from me.”

Andras then sits at the step with the Hero. Staring out at the unusually calm view to the rest if the kingdom.

“It is easier for the people of my realm to adopt the dominant culture when it’s time to conquer.” Andras says, “I suppose it’s not too different to that of the High Kingdom.”

“No, no.” The Hero says, “the High Kingdom either rejects or forces assimilation when they direct their colonial forces. They never assimilate.”

“Well… since my goal is to conquer the High Kingdom… maybe it’s time to start the conquering part.” Andras says, “in earnest, this time.”

The Hero looks at him uneasily.

“Consider, Hero, becoming my new advisor?”

“What?”

“How many people have died to achieve this world domination of yours?” “769.” “…What?” “769 people died to achieve my plans. I counted them, and had each of their names etched on my throne so I never forget what my victory cost the world. Now tell me, how many have you killed to see me dead?”

[bitletsanddrabbles]

When the ridiculous writing warm up you did while battling a head ache is the first piece for the fandom in question...

[whoknoo]

Perhaps it was a dream, she thought. Perhaps if she pinched herself, she would wake up. But she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay, here, where the people — humans or not — actually noticed her. Back home, she never realized how her search for isolation had made her so hungry for a simple human gaze. More specifically, one that wasn’t immediately quantifying her potential net worth, breedability, “market value,” was the current euphemism.

Yes, to be looked upon as a living, breathing, intelligent thing, to be regarded with simple curiosity, an innocent desire to know her and experience her way of life, with all its strengths and weaknesses. She wished to stay here, where she would be looked upon with genial, respectful love, where she could be accepted, no submission required, no promise of exchange. Back home, she knew, this would be impossible. That place, at its core, was so commercial that there was no practicable notion of human respect; that was unprofitable, impossible, basically the same thing.

And she was no different. Until now, even in the isolation of her fantasies, the forefront concerns of her mind had been ownership, of herself, of her land, of poor Polo. Even in chasing freedom from it, possession was all she had sought, to expand her being, and to fight against the intrusion of others, to prevent the endless inward recession that her empty life had been. Back home, that was taking care of yourself. It was a shitty home.

“What if I choose to stay?” she asked. Polo’s eyes held her, in a language she wasn’t yet speaking. “I mean, I don’t have to go back, do I? That place is awful, and backwards. No one cares about each other, just gives their dead hearts to heartless things. We calculate costs and benefits, discern the opportunities, conduct case studies, and we look for the numbers to tell us what to do. And when we do it, we don’t love what we get. We simply own it, and move on, caring for it according to the profit margin it gave us. But here, I love. Truly.”

She held Polo’s face, but Polo just sighed. They unclasped the chain around their neck, and extended it back to her. She wasn’t getting it. “Then take this back. It has no place here.”

[persicipen-archive]

[stevviefox]

This is a lovely story.

The devil walks into your work on a Thursday.

“Hi,” you say, “welcome to McDonalds.”

The devil clops up to the register, red eyes sliding from the cartoonish picture of Grimace, to the Coca Cola drying in the grout, to the ketchup stain on your pale blue button down.

“What can I get started for you today,” you prod when he continues to stare.

“Uh,” he says. “I came for your soul?”

Your smile slips for a moment before you can pin it back in place. Thank goodness your manager is on their lunch. “We don’t sell that, I’m sorry. Have you tried a Big Mac?”

“I know McDonald’s doesn’t sell souls,” the devil says. “Your parents sold your soul. Before you were born.”

“Oh,” you say. That would explain…a lot, actually. “Well. I’m at work, so…can you collect later?”

“I’m owed your soul on your 18th birthday,” he says.

“It’s my birthday today?” You glance at the register. “Wow. I forgot.”

“That is so fucking sad,” the devil says. He punched the bridge if his nose. “When is your shift over?”

“3am.”

“Jesus,” the devil says. He turns on his hoof. “I’m going to go buy you a cake or something.”

“Wow,” you say. You press a hand over your heart. “That—that actually would make my week.”

“And that’s sad,” the devil calls over his shoulder. “See you at 3!”

Now you have a reason to look forward to getting off work.

[iasconsumesmedia]

Writing warmup, ten minutes or just a paragraph.

Describe a thing. Anything. Rely on nouns and verbs, and stay away from adjectives as much as possible. Still, convey an attitude or feeling toward the thing.

[kamurocho-lullaby]

Tue 5th September 2023, 09:52

3-4 paragraphs using only sense descriptors but no sight.

The tap tap tap of the rain on the window is infuriating in its simplicity, a backdrop tattoo of calm washing over the heated room. The smell of leather permeates everything, soft and musky with age. The unique squeak of wet skin on lacquered wood as he heaves himself to his feet. It had been a long night, the sounds of Kamurocho outside the window softening briefly as dawn crept ever closer. 

The refrigerator door creaks in protest, ice cubes crackle as they warm and fall into the lowball glass with a tink. The smell of whiskey hits his nose and his mouth waters, the acerbic alcoholic smell covered with warm caramel notes that promise a syrupy relaxation. 

He falls into the old sofa with a sigh, cushions letting out a soft pfft of dust that only intensified the leather and lacquered wood musk of the office. The glass was cold in his hand, condensation dripping down his fingers to land on his shirt. The cold soaking through the thin fabric doesn’t bother him in the cloying warmth of the office.

The air is muggy and stale, humid from the summer rains outside. If he were to open the window, he would be assaulted with the smell of hot garbage and standing puddles, rotting meat and rat carcasses, and the press of hot bodies. Instead, Yagami sips at his whiskey, oblivious to the world around him.

[wttcsms]

Itoshi Sae gloating to the other team about his victory and having loud sex with you in the hotel after💗 knowing damn well the other team is moping around in the same hallway

sae is prideful. he always wants to be the best and to have the best. that's why he knows to expect to hear the other team making comments on the "hot girl" sitting in the athletes' family section, remarks on how nice your legs look in that mini skirt, how your legs would look even nicer when it's wrapped around them.

sae's the type of person who doesn't go all out when he shit talks the other team; he saves all his gloating comments for during and after the game. and while he's not necessarily a sore loser, he makes for a bastard of a winner.

you don't know where all his stamina comes from, and you want to ask him to slow down, but he reminds you that he's a winner tonight. and you promised him, you told him that if he played well, you would let him do anything. so just lie down on the hotel bed like a good girl, soaking through the 500-thread count sheets, biting your bottom lip hard enough to nearly draw blood as you try to stifle your moans.

that's what makes him fuck into you even harder, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix. your silence isn't what he wants, and he knows it's because you're embarrassed of all the noise his teammates and the opposing team will be privy to.

he knows to press his thumb right to your clit, the stimulation having you clench around his cock. the pleasure gets to be too overwhelming, and you can't help but let out a loud, drawn out moan.

that's good. but sae isn't a winner because he's easily satisfied. you can be even louder than that. as a matter of fact, you're making him feel like he's not fucking you hard enough.

he'll know he's doing a great job when you're reduced to a fucked out, wet, sloppy little mess whose throat is so sore from screaming out sae.

[ekkothroughtime]

staring problem | ekko x reader

Word Count: 2,000 Notes: Not particularly sexual, but MDNI, AFAB!Reader. Body (boob?) worship, tight-fitting clothing (no sizes mentioned), fluff, couch cuddling, the briefest food mention of all time. Ekko might have an oral fixation. The prompt for this warmup was literally just Ekko loving on your boobs, do with that what you will. No description of breast size.

Looking back on it, you absolutely knew what would happen when you squeezed into this tiny little black top.

In your defense, though, you had only been curious if it would even fit, pleasantly surprised to find that the soft material was designed to stretch and hug your frame like a second skin.

And it was just so warm that you couldn't bring yourself to peel it back off, not when the first wisps of winter are already twisting through the air. Niping at your nose, frosting the ground, and squeezing through the cracks in your front door, desperate to terrorize you and your already cold feet.

If anything, it's Ekko's fault for bringing it to you.

Some little thing he found while sorting through the new batch of clothes collected for the Firelights. But for someone so intelligent, he sure looks shocked the moment he looks up and sees you standing in the middle of the base.

You're pretending that you notice the way his eyes go wide, feigning ignorance, as you hang these new decorative lights. Using a hoverboard would have made this easier, wouldn't have had to reach so far overhead, but there's an ulterior motive here. Shamelessly twisting your body. Blissfully unaware of the familiar gaze that drinks in your frame, like a man who has just found a glass of water in the desert.

"Please be careful," Ekko's gloved hand presses into your lower back, and you don't need to look to know that the other is in front of you. Ready to catch you the moment you slip.

But try as he might, he can't keep his attention focused on what you're doing. Distracted by something that isn't your diligent hands, securing the string of lights to the wall.

Even after you've finished with them, and Scar calls Ekko over to come look at the engine they're repairing, you can't help but feel as if you're being stared at.

It's one thing to feel the other Firelights looking you over. With so many newcomers these days, all with varying estimations of how long it's socially acceptable to stare at someone, it's bound to happen, but this is different. The script has flipped.

For once, it's Ekko staring at you.

He thinks he's being subtle about it. Looking over his shoulder every time you walk past, going out of his way to ask you questions that he definitely knows the answer to. He's up on the balcony, head swiveling to keep up with you as you walk around the tree. Just so happens to think there's an issue with his hoverboard, one that requires him to fly past you half a dozen times.

You've got a fairly good idea of what could possibly have him so distracted, but it's only confirmed later in the afternoon when you're all huddled around for a meeting. It's another one of Scar's debates about capacity issues, and this time, it sounds like they're actually making progress on it, but...oh, what the hell. You're not listening.

You can't.

Not when Ekko is sitting eight feet across from you, hands clasped in front of his face, staring dead at your chest without the slightest hint of awareness of what he's doing. As if one quick glance won't reveal that he's more focused on the shape of your breasts than the overwhelming topic of where to put everyone. No bra to alter their shape into something modest, and with the way this shirt hugs every single inch...

You cross your arms, letting the motion squish your boobs into a new position.

Ekko's eyes dart up to your face. Caught red-handed.

"Ekko, you got any ideas?" Scar tilts his head, briefly looking toward you, then back to Ekko. Seems he caught on to what was happening a long time ago.

For once in his life, Ekko doesn't have a single clever suggestion to offer. A crucial mistake that keeps him at the meeting long after it ends; the capacity issue won't solve itself, and ideas don't grow on trees.

You're settled into the patchwork couch when Ekko finally pushes through the door. Face paint smeared across his forehead, some of it mysteriously staining his cheek, as if he's wiped his head with his hand and then rested his face in it. One of these days, he'll figure out how to get the consistency right with these new materials, but until then...

"Did the kids get you with a paintbrush again?" You giggle, aimlessly reaching out for him despite how far away he is.

Every muscle in his body seems to relax at the very sight of you, tension melting away like metal under one of his blowtorches. "I smeared it all over my face again, didn't I?" His voice has already lost its usual confidence, resigned to something much quieter.

Any other day, you would chide him for walking out of his shoes, leaving them scattered across the floor to be tripped over later, but you don't think he even has the energy to carry them over to their designated place by the door. All lazy smiles and half-lidded eyes, collapsing into you the moment he's deemed himself close enough.

"And here I thought I would have an easy day," Ekko grumbles right into your collar, groggy voice vibrating through your bones.

"An easy day for the leader of the Firelights?" You tease, running your hand up the back of his neck, nails tracing against his skin. "Never."

His whine cuts through the air, long and drawn out, as if being reminded of his status is the worst thing he could possibly hear right now.

"I'm sorry," laughing, you press a kiss to his forehead, where you're certain you'll get the least amount of paint on your lips.

All he has the strength to do is groan again, tilting his head until he's fully buried his face into your chest. Maybe if he snuggles close enough, nobody will be able to come ask for another favor that he'll inevitably say yes to.

"I should have never given you this shirt," Ekko still isn't lifting his head. Content to stay here with his face smashed into nondescript fabric for the rest of his life.

"What, you don't think it looks good on me?" Feigning hurt.

"It looks gorgeous on you," it comes out a little too fast. Seems he's been sitting on that thought for a while now. "That's the problem."

"I can tell," you have to momentarily pause with that thought, preoccupied with sorting his hair back into place. "You spent half of the afternoon and the entirety of the meeting staring at my chest. I'm shocked Scar didn't call you out on it."

"Oh, he's never gonna let me live it down," Ekko's tired chuckle is the prettiest thing you've heard all day. You can only imagine what went on the moment you left.

But one can only lie next to one's favorite temptation for so long. It's only a matter of minutes before he begins to wander, using the tip of his nose as a guide, wandering across your chest until he brushes over the soft swell of your breast.

A vague, warm pressure greets you. There and gone in a matter of milliseconds, leaving behind a coolness that wasn't there before.

And he does it again, a little bit slower this time. Easier for you to catch. The swift dart of his tongue, wetting the material of your shirt, and maybe he's misplaced his concepts of shame because there's no trace of it to be found today. Content to mouth over your breast, no real end goal to be found. Doing it just for the hell of it.

"What could you possibly be doing?"

No answer.

You're making no move to stop him. It's comparable to a feather-light massage, diligently working over you, leaving no space unattended to. He'd make this his full-time job if circumstances would allow it.

The left half of your shirt is almost entirely damp, your nipple gradually hardening from the cold, poking through the fabric, only to be greeted with his burning mouth. Tongue flicking over it, the faintest pressure of his teeth sending it off.

But the right side can only be neglected for so long, stealing his attention away from your left. Marking it in much of the same way while his hand rises to cover the wet mess he's made of you, warding off the chill before it can grow uncomfortable.

"How long." Kiss. "Will you." Kiss. "Let me do this for?"

You trace the outline of his jaw with the tips of your fingers, humming. "I haven't thought that far yet."

Forever, or until you can't stand it anymore. Whichever comes first.

Enabling him is the worst thing you can do in this situation. You've only got so much time before the dinner bell rings. Even less to change shirts and scurry across the hideout before everything grows cold, but you just can't bring yourself to deny him...whatever this is.

Even if you did want to, it's so hard to find your voice when he peeks up at you. Gentle brown eyes peering through thick lashes, drinking in your expression as he mouths at your breast, drool spilling off his tongue like you're the best thing he's ever tasted.

His hand appears at the hem of your shirt, pushing it upward. Past your belly and over the stunning swell of your chest, and fuck, those eyes sparkle at the sight that greets him.

That mouth of his wobbles. Opening and closing, visibly searching for words that he doesn't have the capacity to conjure up right now. Doesn't find them until after he's pressed a kiss into the underside of your boob. "Has anyone ever told you that you're breathtaking?"

"You," deadpanning. "Every day since the day I met you."

Ekko looks away from you, suddenly very, very interested in the stitching of the couch. As if he's ever cared about the odd green square that covers up the burn mark one of his inventions left behind.

It's remarkably easy to slip your hand beneath his chin, delicately turning him back to look at you. His eyes are a tad reluctant to meet with yours, still bracing for the impact of you expressing some kind of irritation with him that has never, ever been there.

"And I love every second of it." Whispering. A secret meant solely for the two of you to share.

Oh, he just lights up at the sound of that. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He's still just as slow as he was the first time. Diligently kissing at your soft skin, loving on every little inch. Hot, wet tongue tracing shapes and his fingers smearing the saliva left behind. The other hand works carefully at the side he's not playing with yet, massaging loose circles into it. His callouses are just the right amount of friction, enough to create a slight drag that you can't possibly ignore.

"And you don't mind me doin' this?" He shouldn't be talking with his lips half wrapped around your nipple, but ugh, the vibration of his voice...

You're not sure when your hand made its way to the back of his neck, but its there, stroking up and down in a manner that always makes him melt. "I would have told you if it bothered me."

If you had known that something as simple as a new, form-fitting shirt would have ended in this, you would have invested in one sooner. Scratch that, an entire clothing business. Maybe you can find a shirt that'll fit him, too. Give yourself an excuse to kiss and suck on those lovely, bulging biceps that you so often find yourself staring at.

A yawn takes over his handsome face. Contagious. Passing on to you like a bad cold. And just like that, it wanders back to him, running its course through him one, two, three more times until his eyes have watered to the point of tears streaming down his cheeks.

Your thumb swipes out, stroking them away and smearing even more of the paint across his face. Oops. "You still have time for a nap if that's what you need."

"Here?" There's that glint in his eye again. Hopeful.

The bed would be so much more comfortable, but... "I don't see why not."

And as he helps to pull your shirt back down and snuggles down into his favorite spot on your chest, you can't help but get the feeling that you've unintentionally created his new favorite thing to do with you.

...not that you're complaining.

[searenbound]

Woke up really late and hungry, gonna find food now and maybe do a little writing warmup. If you have any thoughts for me to use for that feel free to share

[tazlov]

Nobody really gave it any thought. Until Ryce came aboard.

The captain had dealt with some rather strenuous troubles in the past, some fights and last-second defenses to save his life. But he had never been in the Federation military… let alone face the horrors of war.

Ryce often just sat there, slowly skimming through files and reports, as her former status as a ship engineer offered her a much-needed job doing something a lot less strenuous. At least she didn't have to tune up FTL-6 nuclear missiles for launch anymore.

Here, it was more of a private company, seeking diplomacy… and income, obviously, though that was "less of a priority," the CEO had said. But everyone knew that was bullshit—this was a job, and they were all there to simply do their job, get home, and spend the rest of the year with their families.

Ms. Ryce had become an advisor for certain weaponry designs, on occasion, though she often terrified the other engineers and mechanics with her ideas. They were ideas inspired by her time in the military, working with classifieds and just barely avoiding the NDA breaching. In any case, it's not like Ervine Corp necessarily had the funds for such weaponry. Thankfully, no private company, not even government contractors, could have predicted exactly what sorts of things people like Ryce had seen.

The captain found his way down the stairs to the fourth floor of the ship, where the engineer's wing rested. Before the sleeping quarters, there was a massive open area littered with various projects crafted and partially torn apart by the engineers, and Ryce was slowly picking apart a lone engine, meant for a small cruiser.

She shoved one of the pieces aside as the captain approached, and his noise surprised her. She jumped slightly, and then stood at attention. Force of habit.

Captain Ai'nach grinned, and waved the gesture away. "At ease, soldier. No need for all that here."

"Sorry, Captain." Ryce spoke with a subtle hoarseness, as if her voice had been scarred with screams. And that was very well plausible. "What do you need?"

"Well, a million credits would be nice. But I doubt you have that."

The joke didn't really break the ice. Ai'nach chuckled awkwardly, and then cleared his throat.

"...I just thought I'd check in on you personally. What with you being sort of new here, still."

"...Sure." Ryce glanced away, itching at her short hair. Some of her scalp had been scarred, so a small scratch of hair didn't grow back. "I'm good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm good."

"Are you sure?" The captain crossed his arms, and asked this question as gently as he could. "Because, well… I've been hearing things from your crewmates, and…"

"And what? That I'm weird?" Ryce became flippant now, and tossed her wrench to the floor. She didn't maintain much forethought in this action—the sharp clatter of metal against metal flooring made her flinch. "That I scare everyone?"

"Well, not necessarily…" Ai'nach leaned back, and itched his face with his upper hand. His other set of arms stayed crossed. It was sort of funny, people of his species were typically much taller than humans were. And yet, Ryce was suddenly dominating the conversation.

She shook her head and kept working. "Then tell them to fuck off or fire me. I don't care. I'm tired of everybody gossiping about me."

"They're… they're not gossiping, Alice…" The captain sighed, and kept his cool. It was both pressure during flight and pressure during confrontation that had eventually earned him his rank as captain. "They're just concerned. And I'm concerned."

Ryce stopped messing with a plastic tube.

"...You've been getting quiet lately. Quieter than usual."

"Uh-huh."

"And I know that the military was, uh…" Ai'nach made a face. "...Not a walk in the park."

Ryce shook her head, subtly. As much as she didn't want to admit it.

"...You can talk to me, you know. Because, while I realize humans aren't exactly taken seriously, well… none of us could have expected this kind of climate."

Ryce stood quietly for a second, her back facing the captain. Then she gave a half-shrug. "...When you come from a planet that deals with nothing but war… you get used to it."

"Do you, though?"

That stung. Ryce squinted, glancing back at him.

Ai'nach became less confident. "Not—not to challenge you—"

"No, no. You're right. I mean…" Ryce sighed, and rubbed her forehead. "The first few times you actually launch something, well… you just try not to think about it. Just part of the job. But thinking about it is… it's hard. But it's exactly what you need to do. To really get over it."

Finally, she was talking. Ai'nach nodded gently, and crossed his hands behind his back politely as he listened. No way in any hells would he want to screw up this chance.

"But that's what they beat out of you, right? Free will. Thinking for yourself. It's all about the team, the squadron, your commander, your country. Your planet. The 'good guys.' But then you realize after a while that the good guys are actually just whoever's paying more." Ryce crossed her arms, and leaned against the large engine that sat anchored into the floor.

"Yes, that's not a foreign concept, I think." Not anymore. But he didn't want to say that part out loud.

"Well, I got tired of it. And I got… scared. I guess." Alice chewed on her lip, unconsciously. She felt defensive now. "But I never had time to get scared or think about it for too long. Not until, uh… this job."

Ai'nach nodded, and glanced elsewhere. "Right, well… if you need to really get into it, then… maybe I can help with that. I only really had a few minutes to spare down here, but I'm happy to help connect you with someone who's more qualified than me."

"What, like a therapist?"

"Is that what they call it?"

"Well, we do. Hah…" And for the first time in all the time she had been here, Ryce graced her captain with a small smile. It was accompanied by an eye-roll, but it was still a win.

Captain Ai'nach smirked, and offered her a small pat on the shoulder. "Just try to relax, Ryce. You're doing well, you're adjusting well, and… it's okay to not be the toughest species on this ship all the time."

"Hah, alright. Alright. I'm sorry."

"No apologies. Just keep at it, and I'll get back to you about what I find."

"Okay. Thank you." Ryce nodded, and gave a thumbs-up as she turned back to the engine she had been neglecting. But before she dove back in, she thought for a minute before looking back. "Jovaise."

The captain turned back as he had been walking.

"Really. Thank you."

He gave a warm smile, and patted against his chest. "Always a pleasure, Ryce. You know which channel I'm on."

"Aye, captain."

And then he disappeared back upstairs, his long tail taking care not to drag against rough metal, and Ryce stared at the many bits and bobs and wires and tubes this engine presented to her.

This damn thing was getting fixed today. Even if it took her all night.

Humans have always been endurance hunters. We can endure untold physical, psychological, and emotional trauma. Being so unexceptional, we are mocked by the intergalactic community until war shows how terrifying it is to simply… endure.