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vbecker10 · 2 months

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How Could this not Fit?!

Laundry Day (Loki x fem reader Y/N)

Loads of Fun (Bucky x fem reader Y/N)

Pairing: Loki x female reader - Loki POV

Summary: You (Loki) and Y/N are living together in the Avengers Tower and she has asked you to help her with the laundry. You agree and when she sees you use your magic to put away the clothing, she makes a bet with you which you simply can't resist. After a brief, albeit intense battle with the fitted sheet, you realize she has cheated to win the wager and you absolutely cannot allow that.

Warnings: ... um nothing really, alluding to sex but not much other than Loki having a literal fight with a fitted sheet

A/N: this is the companion piece to Laundry Day, you can read either one first. They just tell two different point of views for the same event... enjoy 💚

You put the basket of clean laundry down on the floor at the foot of the bed. "There, laundry is all done," you say to Y/N triumphantly.

She laughs as she dumps the laundry basket she is holding onto the mattress. "Not quite, my prince," she says and your smile fades as hers gets wider. "You have to put everything away-"

You wave one hand towards the clothing and the other towards the tall dresser and closet. A green glow extends from your fingers and in an instant, everything is folded and back in the correct spot.

"Without your magic," she finishes her sentence just as the last drawer closes. She crosses her arms and shakes her head.

"What?" you ask with a laugh. You step around the laundry basket on the ground and put your arms around her waist.

"That's cheating," she replies, lightly smacking your chest.

"No its not," you counter, pulling her closer to you. "I was just saving time so we can do other, more interesting things."

"No," she laughs. "You used your magic because you have no idea how to put the laundry away. Just like you didn't know how to wash the laundry or clean the bathroom or vacuum-" she starts to rattle off all the things you rely on magic for.

You put your hand on your cheek and lean down to kiss her. Your other hand rests on her back, keeping her close to you. She grips the back of your shirt but she only remains silent until you break the kiss.

"Or cook or take out the garbage or-" she continues where she left off.

"Ok," you put your hand over her mouth and she stops. "I admit, I use my magic to help me with things I don't know how to do. I appreciate you teaching me these things but I still insist magic is not cheating. If you knew how complex some of my spells are you would know they take more effort than simply doing the task," you try to convince her. She rolls her eyes at you, your hand still over her mouth and your arm around her.

You let out a sudden laugh when Y/N licks the palm of your hand and you pull it away. "Did you really just do that?" you ask her in surprise.

She smiles and nods, "You never complained when I licked you in other places."

"Well I much prefer those other places to my hand," you tell her. Before she can respond, you pick her up and toss her gently onto the mattress. On her back, she tries to move towards the headboard and you grab her by her ankles, pulling her back towards you.

"Wait," she giggles, placing her hand on your chest as you climb on top of her. You look down at her questioningly. "The bed doesn't have sheets," she says and you look at the mattress.

You look at the laundry basket and wave your hand towards the sheets but she stops you. "No magic," she says from under you. You look back at her. "I'll make a bet with you," she offers and you smirk.

"I'm listening," you say, feeling intrigued.

Well, this all seems simple enough, you think as you stuff the last pillow back in its case. You toss all four of them onto your dresser so you have space to work on the bed. How hard could this possibly be, you question as you find the fitted sheet. You are confident you will win this bet as easily as you had won the last four Y/N had proposed.

You grab one corner of the fitted sheet, knowing that needs to go on first, and tuck the top right corner in then bottom right corner. Nearly there, you think to yourself. I don't understand why she complains about doing- your thought is cut short.

Much to your surprise, the sheet is too short to make it to the bottom left corner, it goes tight before you even get close. You pull a bit harder, hoping it will stretch but the first two corners suddenly spring free.

You groan and begin again, this time with the bottom left corner. You make sure it is tucked in but not too much in case that was your issue. You carefully move to the right side of the bed but you pause your movements when you realize can't make it to the opposite corner.

You let go of the sheet and it springs back together into a pile in the middle of the bed. "Who designed this ridiculous type of bedding?" you ask aloud as you run your fingers through your hair in frustration.

You stare at the pile for a moment but you are determined to win. Shaking your head, you pick up the sheet again but you have lost the corner. "Do not test me," you mumble to the sheet as you feel along the edge until you find a corner but now you are unsure if it is the top or a side.

You get it mostly laid flat and begin to work on the right side but this time it is too long from corner to corner. "Gods!" you exclaim, "I must have this wretched thing on sideways now."

You turn it the other way, at least you think you do but it appears to be fighting back as if it doesn't want you to win the bet either. There must be a way to do this, you think growing impatient. Y/N had only given you half an hour to compete this task and you were quickly running out of time. You do not like losing bets, especially one with Y/N. You wanted to claim your prize.

You begin again, starting at the top left corner, tucking it under the mattress carefully. You walk to the foot of the left side and get the corner into position. You move to the right corner slowly.

"How could this not fit?!" you yell as the sheet pulls free from your hand and snaps back so fast it pulls the side you already fixed completely out from around the mattress.

You rip the sheet off the bed and roll into angrily into a ball before throwing it back on the mattress.

You cross your arms and look down at the offending sheet. After a moment you say, "I will not be defeated by a piece of fabric. I am a God."

You grab one end of the sheet, determined to make one last attempt to get it into the bed and notice a small tag on the inside. Your eyebrow raises as you read it. 'Top Right Corner' is printed in small black text. "That would have been helpful at the beginning," you grumble out loud. You shake your head and bring that corner to its rightful place but you pause when you notice a second tag next to it.

"Full," you say when you see the size listed above the washing directions. You lower the sheet confused, "We don't have a full... we have a queen bed."

How could Y/N have given you the wrong size sheets? You can't imagine she washed the wrong ones by accident, you wouldn't have even owned this size. She must have planned this in advance, to ensure she would win the bet. You throw the sheet onto the bed and leave your room.

You walk quickly down the hall, determined to find out if your precious Y/N truly had cheated or if it was some sort of mistake. It seemed unlikely that she gave you the wrong sheets by accident and a part of you was hoping it was on purpose. If she cheated, she owed you your prize as well as a punishment, you think with a smirk. You very much enjoy finding new ways to punish her and she clearly enjoys it as well.

"Y/N," you say in a serious tone when you enter the kitchen. She looks at you nervously and your suspensions are confirmed as she backs away slightly. "You cheated," you state, still walking towards her. You ignore Stark and the others, Y/N is your sole focus.

"No, I was just..." she tries to explain. Her words die as you keep your eyes locked with hers.

"You... cheated," you say slowly, backing her into the counter by the sink.

"I mean, only a little," she smiles up at you and you fight to hold back a smile of your own. "And I only did it to make sure you didn't use your magic," she quickly adds.

"Um, I think we should go... literally anywhere else," you hear the captain say as you grip her waist with both hands. You press your body to hers, keeping her caught between yourself and the counter.

"Don't worry, we're leaving," you reply to him, keeping your eyes on her as you let a smirk cross your lips. She bites her lip and you pick her up, throwing her over your shoulder with ease. She gasps and you wonder what other sounds you can pull from her tonight. You wrap one arm around the back of her legs to keep her from slipping off as you turn to leave the kitchen.

You pause as you pass the counter and pick up her water bottle. "You'll need to keep hydrated, it's going to be a very long night, love," you assure her as you head towards your room.

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did 💚💚

@soubi001 @michelleleewise @harlequin-hangout @ace-of-gay @xorpsbane @mochie85 @sheris532 @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @kkdvkyya @animnerd @peaches1958 @peachyjinx @theaudacitytowrite @lokiandbuckysdoll @winterfrostlovetriangle @high-functioning-lokipath @winniewings @pics-and-fanfics @cabingrlandrandomcrap @icytrickster17 @lokisgoodgirl @mischief2sarawr @stupidthoughtsinwriting @mjsthrillernp @holdmytesseract @holymultiplefandomsbatman @lulubelle814 @crimson25 @goblingirlsarah @janineb86 @chantsdemarins @foxherder @tonystank8 @alexakeyloveloki

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 3 months

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Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 96

Part 1 Part 95

Mom makes him go home when he starts dosing on Steve’s hospital bed. But it’s okay because she kisses Steve’s cheek before she leaves, and Eddie and Wayne stay parked by his side.

The connection’s easier now. It’s like all that time straining for Steve has snapped something into place. He can feel them all the time, a warm buzzing in his chest. He wonders if he runs hot now. If the warmth will diffuse through his whole being, make coats obsolete even in the dead of winter.

Hopper is waiting for them in the waiting room, El burrowed into his side. She looks wan, and tired, drooping into her extravagant coat, eyeliner running down her cheeks like she’s been crying. Something inside him twists when he looks at her.

Before he can untangle that knot of emotion, Hopper stands up, both hands slapping against his knees first the same way Mike’s dad does before he gets up from his recliner. “You ready to go?” he asks, not looking away from Mom.

When Will glances up, Mom’s smiling up at Hopper in a way he doesn’t want to think about. The adults talk quietly in front, leaving El to stumble tiredly along beside Will. She’s staring at the side of his face. Will can’t bring himself to look back.

“Steve,” she says, sounding the word out and making it longer like it still tastes foreign on her tongue. “He is okay?”

When Will gets up the courage to look over, her eyes are big and worried. He smiles at her helplessly. It’s almost funny how innocent she looks; like she’s a bunny dressed up in punk clothes. “He’ll be okay.”

She smiles, small and close lipped, but it still beams out of her like the sun. Will tilts his head to the side and tries to see what Mike sees in her. He wants to hide her in Castle Byers, build a fortress around her, and keep her away from all the lab people for the rest of her life.

Is that howMike felt, hiding her in his basement, giving her frozen eggos and keeping his mouth shut?

But then her lips thin and she looks forward again. The feelings vanishes. It’s just El, hia friend, despite how much of Mike’s attention she’d snapped up just by being herself.

“I’m glad,” she says, looking at Hopper’s broad back as she takes two steps for each one of his.

It’s quiet after that, the way it always is after; all of them too brittle and bruised and bone-deep tired for conversation.

Hopper’s truck rat-a tat-tats itself to life in the hospital parking lot. The radio croons out something quiet and thrumming until Hopper reaches over to shut it off.

El’s heads smushed into the window, vibrating against the pot-holed roads of Hawkins.

Will’s so tired he’s wide awake.

He watches the familiar buildings of Hawkins flicker by. It's been a long time since knowing his surroundings brought any comfort.

Monsters could live behind every door, every tree, every smiling face.

He’s not sure any of them will ever feel safe again.

Will closes his eyes, locking the scenery out so he can focus on the bundle of warmth in his chest. They’re still huddled together, two sparks merging in his chest.

The past couple days have been a necessary violation of Eddie’s private feelings. He’d bared them all with love confessions and grasping hands, trying to pull Steve back from the edge of immolation.

He’s not even sure Steve knows, hopes he does. Steve deserves to hold that love delicately between his palms and choose what to do with it.

He won’t crush it, even if it’s unreturned. He’ll hold it gently like he always does.

Will doesn’t realize he fell asleep, or that they’d arrived home until he’s in free-fall. It feels like one of those falling dreams where you wake up solidly in the middle of your bed, but this time he really is tumbling, only Jonathan’s arms keeping him from hitting the gravel.

“Are you okay?” he asks shakily as he pulls Will into his chest, holding him tight enough to hurt. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Mom murmurs, wrapping them both up in her arms, chin landing solidly on Jonathan’s shoulder, sandwiching Will between their bodies. “Everyone’s fine, right Will?”

Will murmurs his affirmation, feeling groggy and confused in the light of day.

“I was with Nancy,” Jonathan whispers. “I was just with Nancy, and you were–I almost–”

“Shh,” Mom cuts him off, reaching up to cradle his face and smile up at him. Will barely catches the edge of his watering eyes from his restricted vantage point between them. “Everyone’s fine.”

“I should have been he–”

“Jonathan,” Mom interrupts again, sharper this time. “Everyone is fine. You deserve a normal life.”

“But Will–”

“I’m fine!” Will cuts in this time.

Jonathan pulls back, looking down at him with worried, droopy eyes. “And Steve? Mike said he was possessed.”

Will feels that bundle of warmth in his heart, lets it shine through his smile as he looks up at his brother. “He’ll be okay.” As Jonathan droops with relief, Will feels his smile turn cheeky. “Eddie will never let you forget that you were on a date while we were fighting monsters, though.”

Jonathan closes his eyes, pained while Mom laughs.

It’s not until they’re walking toward the front door that Will notices the lack of demo-dog bodies. There’s still puddles of black oil-slick blood, but everything else looks normal. Who covered their tracks? The lab? Hopper?

He settles down for the debrief, pillowing his head on Jonathan’s shoulder as Hopper’s even tones flit through his brain.

Maybe familiar places no longer hold any comfort, but Jonathan’s bony frame is enough to lull him into a peaceful sleep.

Part 97

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb @rainwaterapothecary @practicallybegging

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #will byers #steddie upsidedown au #my fic #Steve pov: I'm a wretch and a monster and everything is my fault #will pov: steve's so comforting :)#also Jonathan freaking out because he missed everything is something that is so fun to me. He's like. I'm a terrible brother!#Meanwhile Nancy only has low stakes in the whole thing. And she never got involved so by the time she knew to worry about Mike.#She already knew he was fine. so her main reaction is feeling left out.#Nancy is so fun in this AU because her inciting character incident (Barb's death) shapes so much of who she is #that we have like maybe one episode of characterization to work off of wrt what she was like before #anyway I'm sick so we'll see how much writing I can actually get done while feverish!

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jen-with-a-pen · 3 months

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ALL TIED UP - FIVE

Previous ⊹ Series

summary: Steve's night is made when his barista ends up sharing a class with him. But Steve's paranoia gets the best of him– can he really trust his gut?

pairings: Art Student!Frat Brother!Steve Rogers x Film Student!Sorority Sister!Reader

word count: 2.66k

warnings: flirting, fluff, hand holding, closeness, steve is adorable when he's nervous, paranoia, unease, cursing, barista lore™

a/n: had fun writing this one as we build up to friday! i might be switching the days/chapters around in the next few, but we'll see. depends on the depravity of my brain 😈

gif by @paliaphrodite | additional graphics + dividers by me ♥

my ao3 | my masterlist | all tied up masterlist Read this fic HERE on ao3! ♥Reblogs and comments are highly appreciated as always♥

Last Thursday.

Learning how to draw, when he already knows how to draw, makes Steve feel bad at drawing.

Sitting in the lecture hall of the art school, he doodles over the half-assed notes he manages to take during the first thirty minutes of class. Usually, he loves Drawing 101; it’s his easiest, only late-night class each week and one of the only times he can relax without worrying about one of the brothers barging in with another stupid homework question. Usually, it's just him, his earbuds turned up a touch too high, and whatever subjects the instructor places in front of him. On Thursday nights, nothing stands between him, an easel, and two straight hours of sketching pots and people.

Except when a said-Thursday night happens to fall on ‘mandatory lecture’ day.

It hasn’t been an hour when Steve gives up trying to force himself to focus, instead choosing to mindlessly doodle over and around the page. The Drawing 101 guest professor continues to drone on about different types of graphite in the pencils kits Steve and twenty-odd other kids in the course were forced to buy. Steve doesn’t understand– nor does he particularly give a shit– as to why a 3H pencil is better over a 3B pencil, or how using an 8B pencil isn’t preferred over a 7B pencil.

A pencil is a fucking pencil.

Steve sighs, failing to stifle a yawn. No amount of coffee– not even the triple espresso concoction his barista had him try earlier that day– could save him from falling asleep in this godforsaken, decades-old room with dimmed lights and sporadically-filled seats scattered amongst the vast sea of empty ones. Honestly, nobody ever came to monthly lectures, save for when their usual professor mentioned the material would be part of their written midterms. Guest lecturers result in a lesser turnout, too, and Steve partially wishes he’d chosen to spend it back at the café or in the library. As the professor continues on to the next type of pencil, the double doors at the back of the room creak open. Still dazed in a bored stupor, Steve cranes his neck over his shoulder to see which unlucky bastard is almost an hour late to the snoozefest.

He immediately wakes up, shooting up in his seat as if a bucket of ice water were splashed on him. He can’t believe what he sees: it’s her. Her. His barista.

Mouth agape, he stares as she slowly closes the doors, careful not to draw too much attention to her late arrival. When nobody bothers to acknowledge her, she makes her way down the carpeted steps of the lecture hall in search of refuge in an empty seat. Her eyes dart across the aisles, desperate for just one, inconspicuous place that will draw the least attention.

As she combs the rows with a furrowed brow and bottom lip slipping adorably between her teeth, Steve realizes he’s got some sort of a chance. Eyes dart to the professor, then back to her. Steve subtly raises a hand, waving to get her attention. Locking eyes, she finally sees him. Relief and surprise replace her bitten lip with a beaming smile. Steve’s heart soars, skipping far more than several beats. He doesn’t– he can’t– take his eyes off her as she quickly shuffles through the row of seats, plopping down next to him and dropping a tote bag at her feet. She pulls out a purple notebook and pen, slouching back into her seat with a relieved sigh, knee brushing gently against Steve’s. A ghost of the sweetest-smelling perfume drifts into his nostrils and he has the urge to replace his oxygen supply with it.

Steve feels like he’s dreaming. Cloud nine, light as a feather, the whole fucking nine yards. He skims over her features in the dim light of the lecture hall– the curve of her lips as she whispers to herself, flipping through the pages of her notebook, trying to find a blank spot; her eyelashes that flick up and down as she copies down the date and class number. He trails down her neck, crossing over the gold bar necklace she wears every day, to her shoulders and arms, her hands. When his eyes drift back up to her face, she’s staring back. Heat blooms in his cheeks and nerves constrict his chest in embarrassment. She smirks, shaking her head and turning her attention to the professor’s current ramblings on B and HB pencils. Steve opens his mouth to speak but quickly shuts it.

What would he even say? How would he get away with trying to talk to her in the middle of the lecture? The professor would hear him, he’d get called out, everyone would see him–

She huffs, turning to another blank notebook page. Steve side-eyes her as she quietly tears the page out and scribbles something on the first line. Side-eyeing Steve, a small smile pulls at the corners of her lips as she discreetly slides the paper over to him.

hi stranger.

Steve can’t help but grin. It spills across his lips as more heat blooms, trailing up his ears and down his neck. Trying not to seem too eager, he clicks his own pen and scrawls a response. The professor’s voice fades into background noise, going through one ear and out the other. He’s a goner and so is Steve.

YOURE THE STRANGER, STRANGER

He slides the paper back to her. She scoffs a laugh, smile growing wider.

last minute class drop + switch. u know how it is.

TRUE. DIDNT KNOW YOU WERE AN ART KID

She shakes her head, quickly scribbling when Steve cocks his head, mouthing a ‘what?’

film kid. have to take art class for credit. only one available.

Steve’s surprised at her response, nodding once he thinks it over. It makes sense.

She makes sense.

It fits her. It fits the way she moves, the way she carries herself, the ease in which she comes up with witty comebacks. It’s then and there Steve really thinks about the contrast between the two of them– the way he’s perceived versus how he perceives her. He’s a frat brother, a six-foot-two guy with muscles he doesn’t know how to use yet, and a lifelong artist who doesn’t fit in– no matter how much he tries to claw and fight his way out of the hole people dig and throw him in.

If anything, he doesn’t make sense.

Brow furrowing and jaw set, Steve’s caught in the downward spiral he’s been fighting to keep at bay since coming to Richards– since he pledged his life away to Sigma Theta Beta and the never-ending identity crisis the brothers force upon him every waking moment. But, it’s with her that he feels more like himself than anywhere else in the goddamned world. It’s with her he wants to– willingly– be himself. He wants to be himself with her.

He, however, doesn’t realize the hack job he’s performing on his poor cheek tissue until a soft hand covers his, squeezing lightly. Warmth spreads like wildfire across Steve’s skin, breaking him free and bringing him back to the real world. Concern veils over his barista’s expression; her soft, searching gaze jumps between his baby blues.

‘You okay?’ she mouths, studying him, hand still on his. Her brow twitches upwards when he still doesn’t respond. Steve holds up an index finger and goes back to responding on the paper.

SORRY. LOT ON MY MIND

She nods heavily in agreement.

same. pencildick up there is putting me to sleep. how do you even do it?

Steve bites a laugh back.

DRAWING, COUNTING THE CLOCK

Before she takes it back Steve adds,

AND NOW YOU.

Her smile is bright enough to light up the darkened lecture hall.

Two whole pages are filled by the time class lets out. Front and back.

Steve allows his barista to take the lead in following other students out of the lecture hall. Buzzing conversations reveal a shared eagerness to get the hell out of there and go spend the rest of their Thursday night doing something else more worthy of their precious time. Steve slings his bag over his shoulder as he follows close behind, verbally continuing their written conversation about her shift from earlier in the day and swapping ridiculous ways on how they’ll manage to work every type of pencil into their midterm.

As he plods next to her, Steve fights an innate urge to place a light hand on her lower back to guide her out on their way to the parking lot. Instead, he gets the door, jokingly half-bowing with an outstretched arm to the second set of double doors. Continuing out of the building, Steve takes a breath, deciding now is the perfect time to ask if she’s busy tonight. Instead, though, she stops abruptly. Steve runs directly into her, arms jutting out instinctively to steady both of them out of sheer instinct. Grabbing her shoulders, she spins around to face him, closer to his chest than either realized.

Steve feels his ears turn red again. She looks up at him, blinking before taking a step back, lips parting slightly. An awkward beat hangs in the air before Steve clears his throat and rubs his neck.

"You, uh,” he swallows, preparing himself for the inevitable, “You maybe wanna go grab a bite t’eat, or somethin’?"

Her eyes widen, lips twitching at the corners. She looks like she’s about to answer before quickly realizing something, as if internally scolding herself for even looking excited. Pressing her lips together, her eyes dart back to her phone.

"Shit, I–" she quickly types a response and shoves it back in her pocket, exhaling in frustration.

"What is it?"

"I would love to, Steve. I really would, but," she closes her eyes and sighs, "I can't. My sisters need me back at the house. They said it’s an ‘emergency.’" She adds sarcastic air quotes, rolling her eyes.

"Oh!” Relief fills Steve’s chest, thankful she’s not purposefully blowing him off with some shitty excuse. “Okay, no yeah, I–I totally get it, family can be-"

She smiles softly, shaking her head and taking his hand to run a thumb over his knuckles. The gesture is so casual, so soft, yet it sends goosebumps up Steve’s arm.

"Oh, no. No, they're not my actual sisters. They're, um, my sorority sisters." She flinches as 'sorority' leaves her lips.

Steve blanches, swallowing a disbelieving laugh. He can't help the lopsided smile spreading across his face. He can’t help taking both her hands in his and holding them in excitement. The odds of it– all of it– all the things, of all the people, she’s the one to make him feel less alone. She’s the one that understands everything.

He tries, and fails, to contain his excitement.

"No, I– I completely get it. My frat brothers are insufferable and I'm the newest pledge, so–"

It’s her turn to blanche. "You? You’re a new pledge, too?"

"Yeah, I, uh, I’m required by my scholarship–"

"Oh thank God it's not just me!"

"There's one for sisters, too?" Steve gawks. He’s truly in shock at the audacity of Richards to make any student required to endure the circle of Hell that is Greek life. He squeezes her hands. She matches him.

"Of course there is, meathead,” she snorts. “Title nine, or whatever the hell."

Steve nods. "I can’t tell you how glad I am not to be alone in this. It's fucked up, but maybe not as much now that I know you're in the same boat as me."

He pulls her ever-so-slightly closer. She lets him.

"Guess that makes you the Jack to my Rose."

Steve furrows his bro, cocking his head like a confused puppy.

"Oh God– Don't tell me you've never seen Titanic," she gasps, feigning offense and sending Steve off course, thinking he’s fucked up somehow.

Sarcasm isn’t his strong suit.

"I, uh– no, not that I know of. I–I mean I've heard of the Titanic, but I don't remember the– well I know there's a movie, but I–"

She laughs, full and genuine, stepping forward as her hands leave his, placing one on his shoulder. Her touch is soft, gentle, more comforting than anything he’s ever felt.

"I'll show ya some time. Don't worry."

Squeezing his bicep, her fingertips glide down to his hand, grazing his fingers for the slightest moment before slipping between them, lacing them together. Electricity shoots up Steve's arm. Without another word she leads him out of the building, walking down the sidewalk lit by the moon rising overhead and scattered street lamps illuminating the parking lot.

Steve decides then and there he’ll go wherever she takes him. Anywhere. Everywhere.

She stops at the edge of the parking lot and turns to him. "This is where I leave ya, my car’s over yonder.” She nods to a blue sedan with a Richards sticker on the back windshield sitting underneath one of the street lamps. “Plus, I’d like to save you walkin’ me to my car for another night.”

Butterflies. Steve nods. She scoffs a laugh.

“Text me, meathead. I'll see ya tomorrow?"

“Tomorrow.”

She releases his hand in slow motion and Steve hopes she’s relishing every bit of physical contact with him as he is with her. He heads to his own car parked in the darker side of the lot under the shadows of the perimeter trees and dimmer lamps, swaying languidly and ambling across the pavement in a trance. Steve makes a note to himself: watch more movies, because he sure feels like he's in one.

The trance is broken when a split second of what sounds like a scream echoes over the lot and is snuffed out just as abruptly as it started.

Steve freezes, key halfway into unlocking the driver’s side door. Ears prick up, breath held firm in his chest. Turning over his shoulder, he gasps, startled as a blue car– her car– slowly backs out from under the streetlamp and exits onto the road casually. Steve watches it disappear from view. The sound of the engine gunning it down the road leaves Steve alone in the dark, a sick uneasiness pooling in his gut.

He gets in his car, tossing his bag into the passenger seat and pulling out his phone.

You okay? Did you hear that?

Steve turns the engine over and throws the car into drive, foot hard on the brake before checking her text back.

Hear what? I’m okay! :)

The uneasiness doesn’t leave him. She doesn’t usually text like that.

“Fuck, get a grip, Steve,” he mutters to himself, resting his head against the steering wheel. He takes a second to gather himself and calm his nerves. The paranoia he’s been trained to feel thanks to his brothers, in combination with the fear of fucking everything up with his barista tonight, must be mixing together and clashing against every active nerve in his body. He’s fine. She’s fine.

She’s obviously driving right now, of course she wouldn’t fucking text how she normally does. She’s probably using voice text. Calm. Down.

Steve sends another text before tossing his phone into the passenger’s seat, the unease refusing to dissipate. He turns on the radio, turning up the song blasting from the speakers in a sorry attempt to silence his racing thoughts.

No big deal. Get home safe.

His phone stays silent the rest of the night. It stays silent as he gets home, as he throws a bowl of ramen together, as he throws himself onto his bed and flips open his laptop to watch some random brainrot he finds on Netflix.

He nods off, letting himself be taken by exhaustion as the uneaten bowl of ramen sits on his desk, growing colder, while the dim computer light and hum of dialogue pull Steve further and further into a dreamless sleep.

His phone dies silently in his hand.

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mirabritart · 1 month

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"A Song of Ice and Fire" sounds like it could be a magical girl anime c'mon let's be real

Individuals below the cut!

#asoiaf #asoiaf fanart #brienne of tarth #daenerys targaryen #arya stark #sansa stark #magical girl au #for this magical girl squadron I have selected the female POV characters with ages beginning with a 1 #specific af prompt but that's the vibes #brienne and arya both barely qualify #bri's outfit inspo is joan of arc. not the most original pull but yknow it works #for dany I was looking at Targ inspo classic Byzantine fashion #arya is every dnd assassin just de-edgelorded #sansa I tried for a more classical princess look. she's in blue bc I tried like every shade of green and they all made her look too much #like Fantasy Jean Grey #my art #fan art

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ghouljams · 7 days

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The Price of Fire(Prologue) Rating: M Tags: John Price x oc, 3rd person POV, fae au, witch oc, fae!Price, first meeting, slow burn Summary: Lio is a young witch. Young, not stupid. She's made it this long without being eaten, and she intends to make it longer. Until she meets a man deep in a cold, silent, forest. He's handsome, and all the more dangerous for it.

Lio marks nearly two decades of life without meeting a witch-eater. She’s heard stories from her mother, has seen the fae all her life, but to actually meet one? No. Precautions are taken and kept: faerie circles are avoided, the path is followed, and wards are drawn on her skin in charcoal ink. Lio knows better than anyone where the forest meets the fae wild and she skirts that invisible barrier with each step. Every trip into the forest is a risk, so every interaction with the fae must be closely monitored. Too many witches meet their end to hunters with honey on their tongues.

But the forest must be braved, witch-eaters or no, and Lio finds herself forced deeper and deeper into it as the winter creeps along. Winter is a time of sickness. A busy time for witches. Ingredients for spells and potions grow in the dark recesses of the wood, and no amount of hoping will coax them closer to the forest edge.

There are no birds or bugs to guide Lio as she weaves her way through the trees. Silence the best marker for how deep into the forest she’s traveled. It’s snowed recently and the branches of the trees hang heavy with their winter burden. Red curls frizz out from under the witch’s hat breaking up with stark whiteness, a spot of fire in the winter chill. Lio’s feet crunch through the thick snow, she follows deer trails, keeping track of broken branches and tracks. The deer know where it’s safe to travel, even if they can’t tell her why. She trusts that she’s on the right path.

There’s a crispness in the air that almost chokes her lungs when she tries to draw too deep a breath, ice ruling even the oxygen that fills her lungs. It’s the warmest part of the day, and still Lio cups her fingers over her mouth to warm them. Her gloves do just enough to keep the wintery chill at bay as she breaks branches off of trees and tucks them under her arm. She stops occasionally, following her mental path, tracking the deer, winding through the tree trunks, stopping when she pleases, and collecting wood as she goes. Her hatchet weighs heavy on her belt, hardly touched.

As she walks the forest grows darker, the trees crowd closer together. She murmurs a quiet spell, the charms in her boots heating up to keep the cold from chewing through her toes. Lio stops to check her trail, her head turning this way and that, watching her tracks weave through the forest. The line of steps is straight, the forest hasn’t turned her around yet. Still, it’s getting quieter. The leaves don’t rustle the same here, the breeze dying among the trees as easily as the animals do.

Lio walks past a man leaned against one of the tree trunks. She ignores him, and continues her walk forward. In her periphery she sees him side step around the wood only to reappear ahead. He raises a brow questioningly when she stops short. Lio glances around the forest, blinking once, twice, and a third, before settling her eyes back on him.

It takes a moment to adjust her sight to the fae. Her magic draws the veil back from her eyes as they take in the man before her. The heavy black wings, feathers dragging through snow and the protruding horns from his forehead speak to what he is. Though even if she couldn’t see him, she’d know he wasn’t human. There’s something in his eyes, a golden ring around the blue that speaks to magic. His beard is too neatly kept, his smile too generous, he’s handsome in a way that she’s never seen. Dark and dangerously alluring.

He takes a step towards her and her fingers tighten on her bundle. The young witch takes a step back. Witch-eater, her mother’s voice whispers in her mind. Charming fae whose only goal is to increase their magic, eager to eat up any witches foolish enough to fall for their honeyed words. Despite the chill that runs through her blood at meeting him, Lio smiles, polite in the face of a danger. There are rules for these sorts of things. Rules that have been pounded into her head until she knew them in her dreams.

“You’re far from the trail,” The fae man says bluntly, inviting conversation. Lio hums, she knows, she can see the lights of the willowwisp starting to drift between the trees. She’s taken a step too far into the wild, her home forest bleeding into the faerie’s realm. She’d noticed the trees growing bigger, but hoped she still had some time before running into anything.

“I am?” Lio feigns ignorance, “I hadn’t noticed.”

The man turns to look away from her, smiles to himself at her lie. She can see the way his tongue moves over his teeth while he thinks, even with the wire of his beard in the way. His eyes are as icy as the winter snow when he looks at her again.

“It’s dangerous this deep in the forest,” He tells her. As if she doesn’t know. As if he doesn’t know she knows.

“I’m quite alright,” Lio responds, starting on her trail again. She intends to pass him, but he catches her arm, and hauls her to a stop.

“If you’re smart,” He warns, “you’ll run home, little witch.”

Lio stares at the hand gripping her arm, the black soot that sticks around his nails, she wonders if he was tending a fire nearby. Tipping her head Lio meets his gaze, she’s young, but not stupid. At least, not quite so stupid as this man thinks.

“I’m being careful.”

“You’re being foolish.”

The man’s grip on her tightens, and he turns her to follow the trail back. The trees straighten Lio’s winding path, the forest bending not to her will, but to his. She looks at the man again, there’s a tightness in his jaw that makes her think he’s holding something back. His eyes burn as they stare into hers. He smells like blood. She raises a brow at him, ever too eager to poke sleeping bears. The rumble in his voice is worth it when he tells her:

“If you’re fool enough to wander this far into the forest, you’re fool enough to be eaten.” A harsh squeeze to her arm as she glares at him is followed by his deep, “Run along.”

“If I’m foolish enough to be eaten, you’re a fool to turn me around,” She turns back, takes her first step back down the path and feels his hold on her loosen. Something unwinds in her chest as his fingers drop from her arm, some tension she’d been ignoring slipping free. Lio takes her first full breath in as many minutes and feels the sting of ice in her lungs.

“Maybe.”

His low rumble makes her pause, the hair on her arms standing on end at the chill in his voice. He wouldn’t eat her now would he? Lio raises a gloved hand to her chest, her fingers feeling for any threads between the two of them. Nothing. She hasn’t misspoken, hasn’t fallen into any traps, she wonders why he’s letting her go. There’s nothing stopping him from eating her, from tearing apart her flesh like an animal.

“Thank you, for the advice” Lio tosses it over her shoulder, baiting the man, “I’ll try to remember it for next time.”

Again her arm is caught, and she’s dragged back. Her back bumps against the fae’s sturdy chest, she softens her breathing, pushes down panic. There are wards sewn into her clothes, written over her skin, she’s protected. At least from magic. She can only hope that his teeth, his fingers, are less willing to do the dirty work. The strength of him- she can’t compare to it. If she tried to run, would the path twist under her feet? She doesn’t hold the forest’s reins like he does, can’t direct it as expertly as the fae. She’s barely come into her magic and now she’s going to be eaten.

The man leans over her, drags his hand down her arm to hold her wrist. He raises it, his fingers pressing to her pulse as he inspects the seal on her gloves. Small magic, she tells herself. Nothing that would interest the fae, certainly nothing that would interest one like this.

“And if I decide to cash in your thanks?” The man asks. His voice is too low, too quiet, it splits through the silence of the forest, the chill of his breath skirting her cheek. Lio steels herself for the pain as she speaks, unsure if he means it as a threat or something else.

“You won’t.”

“I might.” There’s a smile in his voice, one that makes her smile in turn. Relief slips down her spine.

“Any fae that would make a witch turn around isn’t one that would cash in a favor so small.” Still, Lio feels the soft sting of her thanks tethering them to each other, a debt to be repaid. Small but present.

“I could say I saved your life.”

“But you won’t.”

“No,” The fae agrees, “I won’t.”

His release is soft. His hands relax and drop their hold on her, letting Lio take a few steps forwards. She wastes no time looking back, following her footprints back through the forest towards home. It’s a lucky thing to meet the fae and come away without a scratch. Luck she isn’t going to waste on something silly like ‘goodbye.’

Price watches the witch pick her way back through the forest. There’s no fear, no hesitation, in her steps. There hadn’t been any on her skin either, and no fluttering pulse or short breaths. What an interesting woman. Her eyes were so clear, staring right through him. A seer, he thinks to himself, so she must be used to these sorts of sights. He feels a pang of interest, ill-advised curiosity, bubbling in his chest. There was something about her.

She was warm.

For the first time Price shivers against the cold of the winter forest. The heat which had been pressed into his chest disappears with the witch. The season wraps its tendrils around him, bringing him back into the familiar chill. The trees shake off their snowy burdens, filling in the holes left by the witch’s feet, holes which seemed to melt all the way to the dark leaf strewn dirt. Price can’t help smiling to himself. He supposes winter isn’t for everyone.

divider by @/saradika

#x oc #cod x oc #1fae1 #fae au #oc: witch #captain price mw2 #captain john price #captain price #john price #captain price x oc #john price cod #john price x oc #female oc #nobody can come for me because the pov character reads like an oc #I'm leaning into the oc-ness #you're all forced to deal with Lio now

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 9 months

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i’ll go see you again tomorrow (spring is coming to an end) ; sashisu

[ part 0 - first meeting ]

synopsis; the gradual blossoming of a youth shared with three strange classmates, at the weird, isolated boarding school you all attend. as the seasons of your first year together pass, the relationship between you changes into something you don’t need to put into words to understand.

word count; 1.6k

contents; sashisu/reader (but can be read as either platonic or romantic, or something inbetween!! i wrote it with the latter in mind), gn!reader, no curses au (dw they’re all still a little bit insane and damaged), very shoujo manga-esque, reader is a little bit in love with all their friends, just wholesome comfy vibes :), characters may be ooc but pls bear with me </3

a/n; this is the shorter opening piece of a sashisu/reader series i’m writing and the first out of six planned parts!! :> the rest will be much longer this is just me setting the tone. sorta. i’m extremely normal about sashisu and i wanted to write something summery and sweet so <3

you first meet them in a sun-soaked classroom, with blue-tinted windows.

the room in question, clearly not having been of use for some time, is just a little dusty. enough that you notice it, nose scrunching up as your gaze trails over the space.

tiny specks of light dance around, meeting and intersecting between the gaps where streaks of sunlight fall and illuminate the floorboards. they’re oddly mesmerizing, a little hard to forget. the flicker of their movement begins to etch itself into your retinas; for some reason, you can’t quite take your eyes off them.

eventually, your attention is caught by something else, coaxing you into moving your gaze towards the translucent windows. they glimmer softly, tantalizingly in the sunlight, reflecting the blue of the sky. through the glass, it’s all you can see at first — a sky so blue that it’s a little irritating. big, white clouds are scattered like splotches of paint across a blue canvas, treading gently over the boundary of your vision.

in a similar fashion, the ground of the schoolyard is littered with dots of white. for just a second, you delude yourself into thinking that it’s snow; it’s not until you spot the skeletal trees and their pale blossoms that you see them for what they are. soft petals flutter down to the ground eagerly, covering everything in a pure white.

it really is eerily reminiscent of a snowy landscape, ephemeral in its beauty. it gives you the impression of having stepped over some sort of threshold, into another realm, another world entirely. coated in apricot blossoms, soaked in sunlight.

(it shouldn’t be possible from where you’re standing, behind the windows — but the scent reaches you all the same. everything smells of apricots.)

it’s springtime, and you’re in the prime of your youth.

a youth you’re about to share with three other kids, all standing in front of you and wearing mildly indifferent expressions as you give each other a brief glance.

you try not to stare too hard, but it’s difficult to resist the temptation. three new classmates, mysterious and just slightly intimidating; two guys, and one girl. the tiny glances you steal at them aren’t very sneaky, but you doubt they’d care, when they’re all doing the same.

you study their appearances, eager to sate the curiosity clawing at your heart.

the girl is pretty.

the expression on her face is laid-back, almost bored, and she looks a little like she doesn’t quite want to be here. her hair reaches down to her chin, just barely, brown and smooth and silky. estimating her exact height is a little tough; you can tell she’s fairly short, but you don’t know how much of it is exaggerated, courtesy of her placement between the other two. their lanky legs and broad shoulders only make her look smaller in comparison.

her eyes are chestnut-coloured, a little dim, somewhat hazy. there’s a mole under one of her eyes, too, and you’re acutely aware of how charming you find it. you’re relieved to have at least one girl in your class, anyhow. you hope she’s nice.

the boy on her right is pretty, too.

he’s much taller, and wearing a somewhat serious expression, but something about him feels almost comforting all the same. he seems relaxed, but also sharp, as his eyes trail across the room. his hair is black and silky, and it’s long — or so you assume, judging by the fact that he’s got it in a bun. two things about him stand out in particular; one, the black gauges on his ears, and two, a single lock of hair framing his face. his hair is tied up and neat, prim and proper, with the exception of his bangs. you don’t think it looks bad, exactly, but it’s an odd choice.

at first glance, you think his eyes are black, but when a ray of sunlight falls across his face you realize that they’re brown. a deep colour, oddly soothing, warm. little sparks of amber glitter in the depths of his irises, illuminated only by the sun. it gives you the impression that there’s more to him than meets the eye.

then there’s the other boy.

he’s the most intimidating out of the three, without a doubt, though you still can’t pinpoint exactly why. he strikes you as particularly unnerving; maybe it’s the expression on his face, that you can’t seem to identify. he’s also tall, very tall, even taller than the other guy — though only by a smidge. he towers over you slightly, and that unnerves you even further. there’s something in the way he’s standing that almost seems a little menacing. his hair is white, and soft, and just a tad messy. and he’s wearing a pair of round sunglasses, even though you’re indoors.

you can’t see his eyes well, behind the black glass, but you get the vague impression that they’re blue when sunlight cascades down the contours of his face and reflects in them.

you take another moment to simply look at them, observing them, as if trying to reach some sort of conclusion about what they’re like. it doesn’t really work, but you do get some semblance of an impression.

finally, your teacher clears his throat, breaking the silence of the classroom — urging you to hurry up and get the introductions done and over with. the impatient reminder snaps all four of you out of your collective trance.

the first person to speak up is the boy with the weird bangs. that alone gives you a sense of his personality; polite, proper, the first to do the thing no one really wants to do.

”my name is suguru geto,” he begins, well mannered. ”it’s nice to meet you.” his voice is pleasant, somehow. nice to listen to. there’s something comforting about it, that you can’t quite place; it sounds almost familiar, like you’ve heard it all your life.

then, the cute girl chimes in, casual and unbothered as she fiddles with something in her pocket. ”shoko ieiri. just call me shoko,” she says, short and sweet.

she really is pretty, you muse, bathed in the streaks of sunlight falling haphazardly across the room. and she seems nice, not uptight or obnoxious; the kind of person that’s easy to talk to, easy to be friends with. you think you like her already. but she notices your lingering stare, and so you look away, gaze falling to the floorboards.

finally, after a slight pause, the boy with the sunglasses speaks up. you still can’t get a good read on his expression. ”… satoru gojo,” is all he says, and you can’t seem to grasp his tone of voice, either.

it irks you, though. you’re not sure why. you almost get the sense that he thinks he’s appeasing you, by introducing himself, like hearing his name is a priviliege. that, and you feel a little like you’re being dissected when his gaze falls on you — like he’s weighing your value, deciding your worth. you think you almost catch a glimpse of his eyes behind the black tint of his glasses, and they strike you as acutely menacing, bright blue and uncanny. you decide that you don’t like him, and that his sunglasses are kinda ugly.

their gazes fall on you, at last.

you’re the only one whose name they don’t know, now. it’s a kind of power, in a way, the power of mystery. intrigue. their stares feel heavy on your skin, and you feel more than a little nervous; but you’re intent on following the silent cue, all the same.

and you do so, dutifully, raising your hand up in a silent hello before tentatively saying your name. then, in a voice you hope doesn’t come across as bored or unpleasant:

”— it’s nice to meet you.”

some of them hum in affirmation, as if to say it’s nice to meet you too — others remain silent. even when the introductions are finished, you continue to look at each other, vaguely and discreetly, as if trying to look inside each other’s heads.

but then your teacher begins to speak, in an authorative voice, and you’re snapped out of the trance, once more.

he babbles on and on, about something you’re sure is important, something about the school and the classes you’ll be having and the dorms and so on. you try to listen, you really do, but it’s tough — you vaguely get the gist, but all you can really think about is your classmates, still so mysterious and intimidating.

you try to repeat their names, inside your mind, trying to ingrain them into your memory.

suguru geto, shoko ieiri, and satoru gojo.

you still don’t really know what to think about them. shoko will probably be fairly easy for you to warm up to, but the other two are a different story. all three of them seem to have strong personalities, reflected in their eyes; a dim hazel, a deep umber, and a stark azure. you don’t know what’s hidden in them, but you have a strange inkling that you will, in due time.

that’s how the four of you meet. and in this moment, as you look into their eyes for the first time, you have no idea how much your life has changed — how much they’ll change it for the better.

you only know that it’s springtime, and that you’re in the prime of your youth.

a youth you’re about to spend with these three kids in front of you, who you know nothing about. some part of your soul urges you to find out, for yourself.

maybe you will.

(outside the sun-soaked classroom, through the blue-tinted windows, the world observes your meeting with bated breath and barely contained excitement.)

part i

#title is taken from the lyrics of yorushika’s ’spring thief’ btw i listened to it while writing this n cried <3 its sooo sashisu.#anyway!!! this series ended up kinda reader-centric but the focus is meant to be on the relationship between all 4 of them #its just… really easy to analyze the characters from a third party pov. and im a shameless self inserter so. x reader it is!#this series is also my excuse to (attempt to) analyze sashisu as a trio/individually but idk if my own interpretation will align w/ canon #in my defense theyre a lot less traumatized in a no curses au #but i still wanted to try and explore their high school selves + their issues w/ intimacy and trust n all that. im obsessed with them.#so i hope i did a decent job :’) anyway thats enough ranting in the tags if u read this far i am in Love With You #sashisu x reader #shoko ieiri x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #sashisu #gojo satoru #geto suguru #shoko ieiri #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #…. i think thats all #jujutsu kaisen #jjk

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bi-hop · 21 days

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It's update time for Only I See You (the way you wanna see yourself), the uni AU that's set my brain ablaze! Read the second chapter here!

#dunmeshi uni au #my fics #labru #laios touden #kabru of utaya #only going to tag the pov characters this time #rinsha fana #holm kranom #marcille donato #falin touden #flamela of the house of sorn #anyway i'm exhausted #enjoy!!!

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mixelation · 4 months

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consider: book club arguing over who has the strongest Main Character energies

#reborn au #tori @ shisui: you wouldn't even make it as a POV character

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bonefall · 7 months

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feel free to ignore if this question is too dark, cw themes of war and genocide (i know i’m so sorry)

how deep does thistle law go? what is the end goal of someone with that ideology? is it a permanent state of the four clans fighting forever, or is the end goal of someone who believes in thistle law to absorb all four clans into whichever clan they hail from? is there any split between thistle law thinkers on this, kind of like the splits between traditionalism and hard traditionalism? i’m curious on just a general worldbuilding level, but like i said, i know this is a super dark and heavy question, so do feel free to ignore it, i don’t want you to have a bad time. ik better bones gets pretty deep but if you’d rather steer clear of this one entirely i understand.

The stated end goal is different between every incarnation of Thistle Law. Brokenstar was explicit in that he planned for the destruction of the other three Clans, where Tigerstar called for assimilation, and Mudclaw just desired WindClan to be operated for the benefit of WindClan cats.

But it doesn't matter what they think they believe. The built-in conclusion of Thistle Law, and of ALL Fascism, is genocide. That link is to a post where I talked a bit about what would have eventually happened to RiverClan under TigerClan.

If blood can be impure, and the pure race is tainted by association with the dirty race, allowing groups to mix is an existential threat. Every birth for Them is a loss for Us. It will eventually come down to anti-miscegenation, then segregation, then mass murder.

The line between Hard Traditionalism and Thistle Law is usually some desire to begin enforcing a standard of purity, typically the elimination of the Queen's Rights. In the case of Brokenstar, this had less to do with blood and more to do with spilling it; his warriors would need to be loyal to destroy the other Clans.

Every warrior is an individual. There's some supporters of Thistle Law who have actual principles they want to stick to; but most will fall in line behind a strongman leader. The thing about authoritarians is that they HATE intellectuals and they LOVE submitting to hierarchy; so you will not find the same "width" of different beliefs within Thistle Law that you do within the Traditionalist or Fire Alone spectrums. No part of what they do is driven by rationality.

So to answer the question directly, how deep does Thistle Law go? Not very far. It's a shallow grave. Evil is deceptively simple.

#tw fascism #tw genocide #Thistle Law #tw segregation #tw bigotry #One of the limitations of BB as an adaptation of canon is that I can't really delve into HOW bad TigerClan should be...#I wish I had a ton more characters to work with to kill off en mass #But for the record I am planning to have a POV in TigerClan at some point #A rework of Sasha's stuff #better bones au

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ghoulbrain · 10 days

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i finished the draft for the first chapter of my medieval fantasy ghoulcy fic and i just hope folks are ready for this to become my entire personality. preview under the cut!

The walk was littered with blackened torches, this part of the dungeon rarely patrolled. Maximus continued until he was at the end–the last cell. It was silent inside. He glanced at King Henry, who nodded solemnly, his own eyes focused on the darkness. He lifted his torch through the bars, partially illuminating the pitch black cell.

A figure laid flat on the floor at the edges of the light, face covered by a weathered wide brimmed hat. Their hands were folded over their sternum, their ankles crossed. Their cloak was splayed beneath them in a tattered mess, the fabric crawling across the stone floor like reaching tendrils. They wore a pauldron on their shoulder that boasted long, sharp spines. Their armor was so dark, it didn’t glint in the firelight. It swallowed it.

There was no fog of breath, no sign of life within the figure. Maximus felt a chill of nervous anticipation roll up his spine. While ghouls were aplenty, an affliction of the cursed magic surrounding the kingdom of Vaultence, there was only one entity that was referred to solely as The Ghoul, and for the first time in his life, Maximus was looking directly at him.

King Henry stepped forward, cloaked in heavy furs to abate the chill of the dungeon. “Rise, Ghoul,” he said, standing closer to the bars than Maximus was comfortable with.

There was no answer. The figure did not move.

The king’s lips pursed. “I know you can hear me.”

Deep laughter echoed in the darkness. Slowly, stiffly, as if reanimating from death, the Ghoul rose into a sitting position, hand catching his hat to slide it atop his bald head, turning to look at them. It took everything in Maximus not to wince at the sight of him.

The Ghoul’s eyes were deep set, pitch black in the shadows cast by the fire. His skin was dry and gnarled, lips pulled in such a way that his yellowed teeth were perpetually on display. In the center of his face, a great black hole served as his nose.

“Well, well, well…” The Ghoul drawled in a low oily voice. He had the accent of a man from the Outer Ring of the kingdom, where the livestock and crops were farmed. “How long’s it been this time, Hank?”

#ghoulcy #vaultghoul #wip #jill did some sketches of the ghoul for this au and i've been INSAAAANE about it ever since #so y'all have to suffer with me #maximus is the POV character for chapter one and from there it'll flip around the main trio #i am really gonna try and finish the whole fic before i start posting tho bc i am.... notorious when it comes to sudden writers block

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dryemiddi · 1 year

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I'm giving him an A for effort on this one Anyway here's the origin fic I promised, I'll make an official post for it later when I find the time

Dream Tournament -> @nashdoesstuff Molten!Dream -> @orbital-inclination

Silence (Dream!Error) -> @dryemiddi

#Dream Tournament #Molten!Dream #DreamTale #Dream Sans #Silence #Dream!Error #AccidentVerse #DryeArt #Doodle #Digital Art #UTMV #Undertale AU #Outcode #Fusion character #The fic is a bit late #Mostly cuz I've never tackled a surreal character POV like this before #So I struggled hard #Not my best work but hey it's an attempt

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laundrybiscuits · 9 months

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(soulmates AU: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4)

When Eddie Munson was almost fifteen, his soulmark showed up overnight.

Oh fuck oh god oh fuck oh god he’d thought in a loop, horrified eyes stuck on a wrist thrust as far away from himself as his gangly limbs could manage.

All year, the hope had been growing and growing in him that he’d dodged a bullet. Turns out it was just a little slow.

Because, see, when Eddie Munson was almost eight, he asked his mom why can’t we just go away somewhere, like—like, just us, and Sarah Munson kissed his head and said your daddy’s my soulmate, baby. It’s gonna be okay.

And then because he was a little shit who routinely broke his mom’s heart, he tore himself out of her arms and yelled if you loved me he wouldn’t be your soulmate, which didn’t even make sense to himself at any point, he’d just been hopping mad with nowhere to put it except a woman who had only ever done her best to love him.

He didn’t blame her at all when he got sent to live with Wayne, pretty soon after that. Not, like, the next morning or even the next month, but close enough that when he got told he was going, it all sort of made sense in his eight-year-old mind. It all connected.

When his fourteenth birthday came and went without the heavy hand of destiny landing on his wrist, he’d slowly started to relax. He’d gotten all wound up worrying about it, the whole year he was twelve, concocting increasingly elaborate scenarios in his mind: a popular girl who would sneer resentfully at him for the rest of their lives, or maybe some bizarro girl version of Eddie who would hate him even more.

Sometimes, guiltily, he’d wondered what would happen if it wasn’t a girl’s name at all. He’d never even heard of anything like that happening, but he’d been starting to get the feeling that if there was ever going to be a freak of nature like that, it just might be him.

As much as the thought of getting chained to a girl for life was starting to make him feel like running and hiding and clawing off all his skin, the thought of getting a name that wasn’t a girl’s name—that would be so much worse. Sure, he couldn’t picture any girl who’d be pleased to have his name on her, but some guy who had to bear Eddie’s chicken-scratch scrawled across his wrist like the mark of Cain? He’s pretty sure people have gotten put in the ground for less. The week before he turned thirteen, he had three nightmares in a row about it.

Maybe it should’ve been some kind of relief to see SANDY FOWLER, who could be a girl but honestly probably wasn’t, someone he hadn't even ever met and couldn’t guess anything about. A reprieve from having to know for sure either way: as close to a blank canvas as anyone like him could get. A million-to-one shot. Instead, he'd just felt the fear in his gut curdle and turn to a cold kind of fury.

Fuck this, he’d thought, and reached for the beat-up Bic on his bedside table.

———

People get real weird about it, especially once he gets it covered up all the way instead of just stabbing ink into his skin any which way, driven by nauseous determination to fuck it up any way he could.

When Wayne had come home that day and seen Eddie on the bathroom floor, covered in blood and ink and the snotty tears he couldn’t hold back after a while, he'd yelled at Eddie for the first time in Eddie’s life.

He hadn't kicked Eddie out afterwards, though Eddie’d still slept with his backpack tucked under his bed for weeks, just in case. Instead, Wayne had asked around awkwardly, and one of his old trucking buddies had known a guy called Frank out in Ohio who ran a side business for desperate folks.

Frank had made some kind of face when he saw what Eddie had done; nodded at Wayne and said, "You did good bringing him here."

Wayne had just nodded back in that taciturn way he got around strangers sometimes, and helped Eddie up into the chair.

He'd gone back one more time when he was eighteen, just to get it patched up and smoothed out again. Frank hadn't recognized him at first with his fresh new metalhead look and the way he'd been shooting up like a weed. They'd joked about covering his whole arm eventually, and Eddie thought maybe it wouldn't even be a joke in another few years. He's not in a rush. He feels a kind of vicious, candy-sweet relief when he looks at his arm now, so everything else is just a bonus.

But yeah, people do get real weird about it. He’s pretty sure some of them think he never had any kind of name under there, that he’s just a poser who wants to act all badass like he’s rejecting something he never had, but the joke’s on them because Eddie really fucking wishes that were the case. The ones who do think he has a name probably think it’s covered in Sharpie or something, like Eddie gets up early every single morning to reapply the felt-tip for shock value.

It’s not a huge shock when Steve Harrington gets a little squeamish about the whole thing. It’s maybe a little surprising that Steve hasn’t heard the rumors about it already, but he guesses they’ve moved in pretty different circles.

Every time they’re in the same room now, Eddie’s got a mental timer ticking away until Steve’s eyes drop down to his wrist. He’s pretty sure Steve doesn’t even know it’s happening, most of the time.

Of course he knows about the Nancy Wheeler thing. Everyone fucking knows about the Nancy Wheeler thing. Steve hadn’t been shy about it at any point; it’s not all that common to meet your soulmate real young, so it had been pretty big news in the halls of Hawkins High. It was bigger news when Wheeler dumped him very publicly and, it seemed, very permanently.

Eddie hadn’t cared so much until that point. Sure, it was a little unusual, but who gave a rat’s ass? You could see that kind of thing in any insipidly brainless rom-com you liked. The break-up, though. He’d never have guessed that Wheeler had the big brass balls to pull that kind of thing. And shacking up with creepy weirdo Jonathan Byers like that—there had to be some real juicy story there. He’d even heard some of the adults around Hawkins talking about it, like it was actual news or something.

The whole thing makes a lot more sense when Nancy finally gets around to telling him about it. He’s kind of a captive audience at first, just blearily nodding along as she perches on the chair by his hospital bed and nervously, haltingly fills the silence when he’s too hazy to contribute much to the conversation.

She ends up telling him a lot of stuff that he’s not a hundred percent sure she meant to say, or at least he’s not a hundred percent sure she meant to say it to someone who’d actually hear her.

“I liked him,” she says. “I did. I’m positive. I wasn’t being forced into it, or anything like that. I liked him so much. I wasn’t…I wasn’t lying when I said I loved him.”

Eddie’s only mostly awake at that point, but he sees her press the heel of her palm into her eyes and take a deep breath. “I wasn’t lying. Not on purpose. God, I don’t know. Maybe I was lying. I didn’t think I was when I said it, anyway, and that’s—that must count for something, right?”

She laughs a little. “You’re not even awake, and I’m having a complete breakdown at you.”

With a truly herculean effort, Eddie rouses himself to make some kind of acknowledging noise.

She flinches a little in her chair, so she really must’ve thought he was out. “Oh! Eddie, um—are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“S’okay,” he manages. “You can—keep talking. If you want.”

Nancy pauses and looks at him, pursing her mouth in that prissy, thoughtful way. “Okay,” she says at last. “I will.”

#not!soulmates au #hey it's been a while! turns out I'm making a transatlantic move so my life's been a little chaotic #and hey looks like I missed the anniversary of this blog. I've been here for a whole year that's wild.#but here's some more of whatever this is #I put SO much effort into finding a reasonably contemporary name that could semi-plausibly be unisex #I also wasn't quite sure I ever wanted to pick a name for Eddie's wrist bc the whole point is that it doesn't matter!#ultimately though it felt like it was building up an unnecessarily mysterious vibe. idk.#anyway my favourite writing game is 'show that the POV character is fucked up in ways they do not understand or acknowledge'

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ghouljams · 11 months

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Ballet Au but the performance is just about Reader and König’s alternate fae au selves.

Oh my god, YES!! Hold on how do I do this...

You brush your hands down the long chiffon of your skirt, fingers plucking at the little tie around your waist. Honestly you're not the biggest fan of these sorts of heavily romantic ballets. You suppose the horror bits are OK, but it's a newer ballet and those are hit or miss.

The director nods to you, and you walk out on stage. Long elegant steps, pushing yourself en Pointe to dance and spin under the lights. König catches your hand to hold you steady, your leg raised behind you, your movement stopped on the end of your raise as you look at each other.

The hood over his face, his hunched posture, it's not the König you're used to. The emotion in his eyes makes your breath catch in your chest. Devotion.

You take your hand from his grip quickly, dropping out of Pointe to run across the stage and continue your solo.

König follows, his hands on your waist, spinning you as you pirouette. You love the feeling of his hands on you. The raw strength, the size, dwarfing you even as he hunches to try and grab you. You slip from his grip a second time.

You spin across the stage, feeling König's eyes on you as you do. You pause, in the middle. Arms raised above your head, leg raised high behind you, exerting strength you normally have a partner to help with. You drop off Pointe, and glance back at König. His watchful gaze is heavy, his hand outstretched toward you, offering his aid silently.

You raise onto Pointe again, hold your hand out to him. When König rushes to you, he doesn't take your hand. Instead you're lifted. His hands on your waist swooping you up overhead as quickly as you can take a breath.

Being lifted has always turned your stomach. The hands lifting you are always too tight, press too hard, lift with too much effort. Your previous partners would lift you quickly, your jump aiding enough to actually get you in the air. From there half of the lift was dependent on your own strength, but with König... With König he lifts you slowly, his strength and care shining through the movement. The only flip in your stomach comes from the way he looks up at you, like you're some sort of amazing magical creature.

Aren't you supposed to be playing the human?

When he lowers you back down you don't want to leave. Your hands trail his biceps, as you're set en pointe, and you rest your forehead against his chest. His arms circle you, his head ducking to press his nose to the top of your head with open affection. It's not in the choreography. Your director will be mad you've pause the pa des duex.

"Your character runs, Liebchen," König whispers to you, you tip your head back to look at him, to see the adoration in his eyes up close, "so run."

You do, slipping from his arms to continue your cat and mouse duet. There's no pay off for the final act if you stay with him now. That doesn't stop you from wishing you could stay with him, from missing the warmth of his hands each time they leave you. You don't know how anyone could run from him.

#ballet au #könig x reader #könig x you #könig cod #cod x reader #x reader #i no longer know ballet terms but i can picture their dance so clearly in my mind #very similar to the cat and mouse when odette and her prince first meet in the woods #trying to figure out choreographing König and liebling's relationship #this is just the start of it when Liebling is unsure of König's intentions and keeps running from him #ballet darling doesnt understand her character but shes playing her like a champ #pov ur pretty sure the two leads in this ballet are fucking but you dont have any evidence for it

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