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bearhugsandshrugs · 6 months

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Ok imagine a sleep talking Tav tells their romance partner “I love you” in their sleep and their partner is just floored at the first time confession in their earnest, too-honest sleep haze and ofc Tav doesn’t remember in the morning

I had to write this for all of them, obviously, because this is so cute.

Thank you so much for this!

Astarion

He scoffs at the confession, taken aback in the moment, defenses rising sky high as he prepares for mockery. When he realizes Tav is half asleep, words tumbling out of their mouth unguardedly, he sits there in the dark, lower lip trembling as he stares at them. The next morning when they’re both awake, he softly tries to get a reaction out of Tav. He wants to, needs to hear them say it again. To make it real. So when the first opportunity presents itself, he jabs a “It’s because you love me, isn’t it” at them, and it’s absolutely not as smooth as it sounded in his head, but Tav stares at him, considering. Then it hits them, that they do, in fact, love Astarion. So when they reply “Yes. I love you”, simply and matter of fact, he can only grin, exhilarated by the repeated confession. “It does sound sweeter when you’re awake, my love.”

Gale

Love who? Gale is confused. They can’t possibly mean him, could they? But then Tav says it again, a soft “Gale” added to their confession, and the wizard’s face burns so hot that a drop of sweat rolls down his forehead. “I love you too” he whispers into the dark, gently placing a kiss on Tav’s lips before nestling his body against theirs. He doesn’t mention it, doesn’t say a thing, a sweet secret that he is happy to hold for the both of them, until Tav is ready.

Halsin

A small smile flashes across his face, but gets replaced by furrowed brows as Halsin softly strokes Tav’s hair. Love. A feeling, no, a concept, that is so deep, so complex, that he’s glad for his partner’s quiet breaths as they fall back into a deeper sleep. Does he love them? Deep in his heart, he knows. Has known for a long time, as their presence brightens all colors, heightens all senses, like a beam of sun breaking through a cloudy day. Still, the confession hits him unprepared, and he sighs as the meditation does not come easily that night, his heart stumbling over itself again and again as the memory of Tav confessing their love for him takes hold. The next day, he asks his lover on a walk, gently breaching the subject and telling them about their words, in the candid and tender way they’ve come to love him for. Sensing his struggle, Tav pulls him into a hug, whispering the confession into his ear again. Yes. It does not feel wrong, merely unfamiliar. Smiling down at them, Halsin finally responds: “I did not expect to go on yet another adventure with you, but for what it’s worth, this might be the sweetest one.” He isn’t ready yet. But he will be.

Karlach

“What?!” Karlach’s voice is loud enough to startle Tav, pulling them out of their dreams. “You what?” Slowly coming to, Tav rubs their eyes as they try to comprehend what has their beloved tiefling in such an outburst. “What’s wrong?” they ask groggily, but Karlach shakes them awake, beaming, grinning, giggling. “Say it again”, she demands, and Tav is too tired to understand. “Say what again” they ask, fumbling for Karlach’s face to caress her cheek. “You said you love me, you dumbass”, Karlach chuckles. “Which is good, because I love you too, and you know what they say about the drunk and the sleepy: they don’t lie.” Tav chuckles nervously, confused but not opposed to the sudden declaration. “I do”, they eventually sigh, and Karlach’s face lights up, even in the dim light. “I love you.”

Lae’zel

“T’chk”, the githianky scoffs, shoving her elbow into Tav’s side. “Don’t mock me with such foolery.” When she realizes that Tav’s asleep, unable to defend themselves (or reassure her), Lae’zel rolls her eyes and pulls the covers over her shoulders. “Stupid”, she curses under her breath, and it’s unclear whether she means Tav or herself. The next morning Lae’zel pulls Tav aside, a worried expression plastered across her face. “The tadpole seems to be messing with your head”, she says, eyes skeptical and alert. “Otherwise you’d hardly confess your love to me in your dreams.” Tav stares at them, then chuckles softly, touched by their lover’s particular way of expressing concern. “I’m fine, Lae’zel”, they insist. “Loving you is not a weakness.”

Shadowheart

Her small gasp surprises even her. Then, the pain follows. The white hot flash in her hand brings her to tears, and Shadowheart is glad that Tav is sleeping, oblivious to what has happened. Loving them should not hurt, but Shar keeps her brutal grasp on her. The next day, Shadowheart keeps looking at Tav, trying to gather the courage to tell them, but each time, the pain takes her breath away. When Tav ultimately notices, they pull her into a calm embrace, rocking her slowly until the cleric confesses. “I love you”, they repeat, kissing Shadowheart on her forehead. Suddenly, she feels safe – cradled and protected, belonging to them as they belong to her. The pain fades. Shar has no power over her heart. Not while she’s with Tav.

Wyll

When he hears Tav mumble the declaration in their sleep, he rolls over, facing them. Looks like he needs to speed up his plans – he’d been wanting to tell them that he loved them for days now, debating with himself if it was too much, too soon. Tav’s confession eases him. This is good. The next day he takes them to a secluded spot, flowers upon flowers decorating a small picnic blanket. “What’s the occasion?”, Tav asks, and he smiles, he already knows, so nothing they can say will deter him. “Oh, nothing”, he teases, “just that I love you.” Tav’s surprised, or relieved, maybe both, and they giggle with joy as Wyll pulls them in for a kiss. “I love you too”, they sigh, eliciting a knowing grin from their partner. He will never tell. Some things are sweeter left in the dark, quiet nights he intends to share with them, every night, for the rest of his life.

#astarion #halsin #karlach #shadowheart #gale #wyll #lae’zel #i don’t know shit about minthara so i’m skipping her #should i add gortash and raphael???#my writing #thank you for this prompt it’s so wholesome #please send me more stuff like this

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poorly-drawn-slugcats · 7 months

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Draw rivulet fortnite dancing over 5 pebbles corpse as they take his balls

they danced so hard his balls activated

#ask #rain world #rainworld #downpour spoilers #rivulet #five pebbles #send me prompts please #i so badly want to shitpost more

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stiltonbasket · 8 months

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For wen!wwx: "I may have made a mistake in taking you to Nightless City, A-Ying" were the last words Wen-shushu had spoken to him, a little more than a fortnight after he was slain in battle. Contrary to popular belief, it was Wen Zhuliu who saved A-Ying and took him to Nightless City. Wen Rouhan raised him to be a weapon, but Wen Zhuliu raised him as a son.

(link to part 1)

By the winter Wei Wuxian turned thirty-six, Qishan Wen had been at war for two years; but in those two years, very little had changed behind the walls of the Nightless City.

The wine ran as freely as it always did, and even the lowest-ranking guest disciples were allotted more treasures and fine foods than most well-to-do commoners would see in a year. The rare few of the clan who had spent time in the halls of the mortal emperor—Wei Wuxian among them, for his master wanted the emperor to know something of the raw power that lurked in Qishan, in case he ever thought of claiming even an inch of Wen territory for his own—were aware Wen Ruohan's sect banquets were far richer than anything the imperial court had to offer: and even if the war were to last another decade, the cities clustered around the great Sun Palace in Bu Ye Tian would flow with gold for ten times that span at the least.

Strength counted for much in the Jianghu, and for a great deal more outside it—and Wen Ruohan treasured the cultivators who labored for him as he treasured his own saber, so long as their younger selves had proved loyal enough to be permitted to reach adulthood.

Of the four children Wen Zhuliu brought back to Bu Ye Tian some thirty-odd years ago, only one had achieved that honor: the youngest, Wei Ying, plucked from the streets in upper Yiling some months before his fifth birthday.

He had grown up well, Wen Zhuliu thought, as he watched Wei Wuxian move across the banquet hall with a double-eared wine cup in his hand. The handmaidens at the Wei-fu had braided his hair with gold, so that the full, shining mass of it reflected the light from the lamps on the walls like a mirror; and though Wen Ruohan recalled him from Langya nearly six months ago now, he had not yet lost the watchful bearing of a general waiting under cover of darkness for his enemy to strike.

"Zhao-shushu," he said, toasting him with his half-empty cup of wine as Wen Zhuliu drew closer. "How have you been? I haven't seen you since..."

"It's been nearly a year, I think," Wen Zhuliu replied, inclining his head. "When we were stationed together in Jiangling."

A shadow crossed Wei Wuxian's face; and too late, Wen Zhuliu remembered that Jiangling was where his erstwhile ward bore witness to the execution of Yu Hengshan, in spite of Wen Zhuliu's best efforts to ensure that he was occupied elsewhere at the hour of Yu Hengshan's death.

He was absurdly soft-hearted for a man who had spent the last two years between war fronts and Wen Ruohan's great strategy chamber, and it discomfited Wen Zhuliu immensely.

"How is A-Yuan?" he said softly, for Wei Wuxian's yang son was one of the few subjects they could speak of without stirring the dreadful shuttered look in Wei Wuxian's eyes—though that had been present in some form or other from the day he was sworn into Wen Ruohan's service, and would likely never leave him throughout the remainder of his life.

"He is well," Wei Wuxian answered, nodding towards the artificial stream carved into the ground of the garden adjoining the feasting hall. Wen Zhuliu turned and saw a gaggle of youths and young girls kneeling by the water's edge, scribbling verses of poetry onto plain white lanterns; and then, following the line of his ward's outstretched hand, he saw that the boy at the front of the group looked like a smaller, light-hearted version of Wei Ying.

"How old is he?"

"Eighteen." Wei Wuxian's hand tightened around the base of his cup. "He's nearly old enough to wear a proper guan, if you can believe it."

Ah, Wen Zhuliu realized, with no small amount of pity—for if the war did not end within these next two years, Wen Yuan would be among the new soldiers sent to war, perhaps as part of his own father's regiment.

He reached out and grasped Wei Wuxian's arm.

"A-Ying," he said urgently. "This war will not last long enough to draw your A-Yuan into it. You know Lanling Jin cannot endure for much longer, what with Meng Yao—and once Lanling falls, Yunmeng will crumble soon after. Yu Hengshan was Yunmeng Jiang's greatest backer, and now that he has been slain—"

"Yes, but what then?"

Wen Zhuliu paused, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Once the Jianghu has been brought under our colors, what then?" Wei Wuxian murmured, before taking a long drink of wine. "The Jin might live peacefully under Junshang's rule—they will have no choice, for they are not strong enough to do otherwise—but the Jiang will abandon their clan seat if needs must, and flee to rebuild elsewhere. And once they rise to prominence again, what will our lord do next?"

And what will you do? his eyes seemed to say; and though Wen Zhuliu had vowed to murder Yu Hengshan when he was a child of sixteen, his ears were suddenly filled with the screams of the civilian woman who had discovered the man's decapitated corpse in a rowboat on Lake Lianhua.

He had not lingered long enough to listen to the screams of Yu Hengshan's sister, for fear that his heart would break at the knowledge that Yu Ziyuan grieved this brother of hers despite all he had done to them both—but now, the echoes of her cries were so clear in his mind that he was half-convinced he had heard them in truth, all those months ago.

"I will do whatever Wen-zongzhu commands me to do," Wen Zhuliu said at last. "I was sworn to him for life, just as you were."

In answer, the fingers of Wei Wuxian's right hand rose and fluttered restlessly over his shoulder: the left shoulder, where his wide collar hid the set of obedience sigils that Wen Ruohan carved into his flesh on the day he came of age.

"Yes," he whispered, his gaze straying once more to his son. "I am sworn to him for life—just as you are."

They parted not long after that, for Wen Zhuliu had only come back to the Nightless City for Wei Wuxian's birthday banquet, and he was due to return to Hejian early the next day. He had other generals to greet, and Wei Wuxian had gone off to judge the results of the winding-stream contest taking place in the garden; but shortly before dawn, Wen Zhuliu sought Wei Wuxian out once again and drew the younger man into his arms.

"Happy birthday," he said. "May you have ten lifetimes' worth of them, my child."

Wei Wuxian smiled tearfully—and suddenly, Wen Zhuliu was certain that after tonight, he would never lay eyes on this ward of his again.

"I wish it had not been like this," he blurted. "If I had not brought you back to the Nightless City all those years ago, then perhaps..."

Wei Wuxian's eyes flickered toward the throne at the front of the hall.

"What other purpose could I have served than this one?" he said quietly. "You had your revenge, and I was given the honor of serving Junshang. That is the end of it."

And with that, he kissed Wen Zhuliu on the brow, and vanished into the night.

Wen Zhuliu never did see him again, for he met his death on the Hejian front within the next fortnight; and when his jian was brought back to the Bu Ye Tian, it was sent to Wei Wuxian's residence, the High General's manor, where it would remain until the Wei-fu went up in flames with its master still locked inside it.

#wangxian #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #my fic #wrh raises wwx au #wen zhuliu #wei wuxian #once again PLEASE reblog and send in more prompts to see more chapters #no prompts = no updates ;-;

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starflungwaddledee · 5 months

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#sorry i could NOT get this out of my head when i read this ask. this is the funniest thing i have ever seen #just witnessed everybody saying that starstruck was sooo cute and soo precious in her big pink bow with her stupid little round cheeks #and ran begging into my inbox like PLEASE beat her the FUCK UP. okay!! absolutely!! as you wish it etc #i would never have actually done something this self indulgent without the prompt tbh but #joke's on you because the only characters i like throwing in the blender more than my faves are my sonas :)#you'll notice i only screenshotted it & this is not an answer to the actual ask. don't worry! it'll arrive some day #(this is jokeish in tone but i am genuinely delighted by this ask! never thought anyone would enjoy seeing stuff like that with my oc)#(always feel free to send me starstuck requests tbh!! even angst lmao. maybe i should throw her at galacta knight and see what happens)#(i think he'd just eat her whole in two bites like a strawberry cupcake ngl)

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hannaswritingblog · 5 months

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“Do you find me brave yet?” Neville Longbottom prompt

Fandom: Harry Potter

Suggested by @winterxisxcomingx

A/N: I almost gave up on this idea, as well as on others that are waiting for me from before my unexpected break, but I needed something to get back on track anyway and sometimes all you need is an old suggestion. :D I hope you'll enjoy this!

The battle at the Department of Mysteries certainly wasn't something you expected to take part in on this summer night. Confused and exhausted, all you want is to find some rest. But before you can lay and try to get any sleep, you feel the need to make sure all your friends are taken care of.

The only person gone from your radar is Neville Longbottom. A bit worried, you decide to find him, wherever he is. After a solid hour of searching, you come across him at the top of the Astronomy Tower.

"Hey," you say softly, trying to get his attention. "What are you doing here, all alone?"

"I'm so- I'm sorry, I just needed t-to rest for a while," he explains in a shaky voice.

"Oh, don't apologise! A lot happened today, I understand needing to rest. But I was worried about you."

You try to soothe your friend, sitting next to him and putting your hand on his. You wish you had words to comfort him more, but after everything that happened in the Ministry of Magic, nothing that would be good enough comes to your mind.

"Do you find me brave yet?" he asks out of the blue.

Startled by the sound of his voice, you don't immediately answer.

"Wh-what do you mean?" you ask back, wondering what he even wants to hear.

"Well... I know I will never get to Harry's level, and that I'll never be as appreciated as Hermione, or even the Weasleys," he starts explaining, "but one thing I want is to be worthy of being a Gryffindor. And everyone knows Gryffindors are brave. I was hoping..."

"Okay, stop for a second here," you interrupt him. "So you think you're not brave?"

"I don't see why I wouldn't think that. I'm afraid of everything."

You let out a sigh. Having always seen Neville as one of the bravest people you know, it never crossed your mind he could see himself in a different light.

"If you were afraid of everything, you wouldn't go to the Ministry tonight, would you?"

Neville doesn't answer you, clearly trying to process your words. Taking advantage of his silence, you add:

"Besides, the Sorting Hat would have made a different choice if you weren't brave enough to be a Gryffindor. And yet you are one."

"Are you trying to say you do find me brave?" he finally speaks again.

"Of course, silly! I never doubted that."

A soft smile lightens up his face and you're sure he believed you. Knowing how much you must've helped him, you start feeling a little better yourself.

It's been a long night, the night that's just a beginning of tough times, but this conversation made it a little bit more bearable.

#I just checked and the ask with the suggestions was send in February XD well well #if any of you have some more please send them!!! I'm actually excited to be back to writing fanfiction #hanna's writing #hannaswritingblog #fanfiction #prompt #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter prompt #neville longbottom #neville longbottom fanfiction #neville longbottom prompt #neville longbottom x reader #reader insert #gender neutral reader #suggested #winterxisxcomingx

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sasslett · 1 year

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FFXIV Naughty Fic Prompts

a collection of my favorite smutty tropes and ideas that I desperately want to see people write

Only One Bed Trope (tm)

Someone accidentally walks in on your OC pleasuring themselves

Your OC accidentally walks in on someone pleasuring themselves

Your Echo-bearing OC has a vision of someone in a private moment

Sparring leads to steamy times

Bandaging wounds/cleaning up after battle

Your OC being watched (alone or with others) during a private moment by Midgardsormr/Feo Ul/Ardbert/Fray (Esteem)/Emet Selch/Crystal Exarch/that fucking shoebill/Hydaelyn, or anyone else who regularly spies on them

A linkpearl call at a very bad time

Discovering/dealing with racial physical differences during intimacy (ears horns tails height differences etc etc etc)

Vacation to the Gold Saucer/Costa Del Sol/one of the many hot springs in the game (Kugane, Camp Bronze Lake, Lakeland)

Combat abilities used sensually/sexually

Post-battle emotional high/"Holy shit we're alive" moment

Pre-huge battle "We might not make it out of this alive" moment

Fun with fantasias

Everyone is attracted to the WoL/everyone wants a piece of the WoL

"I know we shouldn't but I can't help it" sorts of dynamics

Fellow Scion/acquaintance walks in on WoL/OC with their partner - gossip ensues

That damn Ishgardian ball we never got but deserved (ok I guess this isn't really steamy but it can be)

Other character with special sensing abilities (Y'shtola's aether sight, Krile's super sensitive Echo, Hythlodaeus' soul sight etc) knows what the WoL/OC has been up to/knows OC and their partner are a couple before they're out (or uses their ability in the heat of the moment if shipping with them)

Something fueled by armor/glams (and we know there's a lot of sexy outfits in game)

WoL/OC being given comfort after one of their few defeats (Zenos, Ranjit, Final Days etc)

That inn room scene in Endwalker (if you know you know)

#Don't send these to me but share if you want some sent to you #Because I wanna read these #Ask meme #Prompts #If I think of more I'll add more #And if anyone else thinks of more please add more!!#I know it's not Sinday idc

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wiseatom · 1 year

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hello !! byler with prompt 11 for kisses prompts maybe :)??

thank you for the prompt!!! this super got away from me, but i hope that you enjoy, and that it fits the prompt in a way you had in mind!!

kisses prompts #11: welcome home kisses

Objectively, nine hours is not a long time. Will knows this.

He’s tried to rationalize it every which way, every day of the week: it’s a single-digit number, he reminds himself, when he wiggles out of Mike’s arms in the morning and forces himself out of bed. It’s not even half of the hours that make up a day, he thinks, every time he glances impatiently at the clock on the studio wall and finds it’s still ticking that same, steady speed. You are being a giant baby, he chastises himself, out loud, when the traffic on the way home turns nine hours into nine and a half and makes him want to tear his hair out.

Subjectively, nine hours is the longest amount of time in the world when every other hour of your day is spent with Mike Wheeler, and nearly every one of your days has been spent that way since kindergarten.

(So he’s kind of dramatic. Will knows this, too.)

It’s Saturday, which is Will’s Friday, and Mike’s everyday, because when you have the luxury of (kind of) being your own boss and (kind of) working out of your own home, you (kind of) get to set your own schedule. Will is both (kind of) jealous at the flexibility and (very) grateful that it allows for a more instantaneous reunion when he finally arrives home every day, nine hours of work and traffic behind him. It’s the promise of that instantaneous reunion that gets him up both flights of stairs to their apartment, feet (kind of) dragging and (very) tired and his heart (kind of, very) aching because he’s dumb and misses his boyfriend after nine hours.

(Nine and a half.)

It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s at their front door, and he’s already got his keys out, and he sticks the right one in the lock on his first try, and he opens the door and he’s ready to be greeted by his boyfriend when–

Said boyfriend nowhere in sight.

Will frowns, toeing his shoes off and setting his keys down in the dish they have on the hallway table, a clatter ringing out as they settle into the glass. The lights are off, but the entire apartment is bright with the yellow-orange glow of the setting sun, streaming through the window with such intensity that it looks like streaks of fire tear through the room, patches of it setting the carpet and the empty couch and coffee table ablaze. He steps further inside, and the cat comes to greet him, rubbing her face up against his leg and purring loudly. At least someone cares that he’s home. He stops where he stands, letting her do a few figure-eights between his legs before he reaches down to pick her up, cradling her against his chest. She lets out a happy meow and nuzzles into him, and he scratches behind her ear as he wanders into the kitchen, just as Mike-less as everything else in his line of sight.

Objectively: this is fine. Mike does not need to wait by the door for him. Mike doesn’t need to drop whatever he’s doing to greet him the moment he gets home. Nine hours is not a long time.

Subjectively: this is not fine. Mike should be waiting by the door for him. Mike should be dropping whatever he’s doing to greet him the moment that he gets home. Nine hours is too long to be apart, and Will is going to lose it.

“Your dad sucks, Carrie,” Will says scornfully to the cat, flipping the kitchen light on and then glaring down the hallway to the office door, where he assumes Mike is holed up typing away at the computer, careless to the fact that his boyfriend is withering away in their very own kitchen from attention and affection deficit.

Carrie, who does not care that her dad sucks, rubs her head against his chest, which does not solve the her dad sucking problem, but does serve to make him wither just a bit less.

Whatever. Whatever. Who needs Mike, anyway? Not Will, who has very bravely survived the last nine and a half hours without him. He has a cat who adores him. He has a hand that’s cramped from drawing animation cels all day. He has… a box of Kraft mac and cheese in the pantry, he’s pretty sure. He can make this work.

He goes to put Carrie down, but she promptly screams the moment she’s within three inches of the floor, so it looks like he’ll be cooking one-handed, then. Thankfully, his instinct about the mac and cheese is correct – there are actually two boxes, which is great, because then Mike can make his own damn food once he finally decides that Will is important enough for his time. The thought makes him scowl again, and when he retrieves a pot from one of the lower cabinets, he makes sure to clang and bang it into every other pot beside it, making as much noise as possible.

The ruckus makes Carrie dig her claws into his shoulder, but even after waiting a minute, Mike doesn’t poke his stupid head out of his stupid office.

Stupid, Will thinks, slamming the pot into the sink and startling Carrie enough that she launches herself out of his arms, pushing off and away from his chest with all the force her little body can muster. All twelve pounds of her momentarily wind him anyway, and the sound of the bell on her collar jingles cheerily as she darts away from him. “Shit,” he mutters, pressing his hand to his chest where her claws dug into his skin through his sweater. He turns the tap on with more force than he intends to, scowling some more as water begins to fill the pot.

“Stupid,” he says out loud, under his breath, once the pot is full enough. He transfers it to the stove, flicking on one of the burners and reaching for the salt. He glances back to the hallway, where the door to the office is still closed. He nearly empties half of the salt into the water with how aggressively he’s shaking it. It has been nine hours and forty minutes, but he’s not counting. “Stupid,” he mutters again, and turns his attention back to the pot.

His mother’s voice comes to him, soft and kind: a watched pot never boils. Will huffs, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter opposite the stove. He sneaks a glance back to the office door, still closed, still no signs of life from beyond. A watched door never opens, his mother adds gently. That’s not even a saying, he shoots back, and then, quieter: sorry, Mom. I love you.

She doesn’t respond. The water isn’t even simmering yet. A teeny, tiny bell jingles somewhere in the distance. The office door stays closed.

Objectively, Will is going insane.

(Subjectively, Will is going insane.)

The thing is – yeah, he could march right down the hallway, bust down the door, and demand that Mike pay attention to him. He knows this, because he has done it before, and at that, often, and he has a 100% success rate of immediately distracting Mike from whatever it is that he’s doing and getting his undivided attention. It’s not at all a matter of whether or not he can.

It’s that he shouldn’t have to, because he was the one who sat in traffic, and he was the one who had to interact with other people, and he was the one who had to draw the same stupid lion over and over and over again, and he was the one who had to be away from home for nine hours, give or take. He worked all day. He shouldn’t have to work again just to get Mike to welcome him home.

“Stupid,” he says very neutrally, not at all mad, and the loudest he has yet, speaking in the direction of the hallway, ringing out through the kitchen. Carrie sneezes twice. The water starts letting out a hissing sound from where it sits on the stovetop. A minute passes, bringing his running total up to nine hours and forty five minutes.

Why would the office door ever even consider opening?

“So much for honey, I’m home,” Will mumbles, scathing, under his breath. The water finally rises to a boil, and he tears the top off of the Kraft box, flinging the torn cardboard somewhere on the counter. He does the same with the little packet of cheese flavor, though this toss is more careful, since he’ll actually need it later. Then he’s pouring the macaroni into the pot, and the office door still hasn’t opened, and he grabs a spoon from the pot they keep next to the stove, and every door in the apartment is still closed, and he starts to stir the noodles around, and there are still no doorknobs turning and hinges creaking and boyfriends leaving their fucking offices.

It’s fine, it’s whatever. Seriously. He’s not even mad, really. Nine hours and forty eight minutes without seeing his boyfriend, but what does it matter, right? Fucking objectively, that’s not even a long time, something most people wouldn’t even blink at–

The office door opens. Several more jingles ring out, timed with every little step Carrie takes to go greet her stupid, sucky dad. Will focuses every ounce of attention into stirring the noodles, and resolutely does not glance in the direction of the hallway.

Mike coos at the cat. Seriously? Will thinks.

“You’re home,” Mike says, as if this has not been the case for the last, like, eighteen minutes. And it’s like – okay, Will doesn’t know exactly what time it was when he got home, but eighteen minutes feels super right, and either way, it doesn’t matter, because there were at least nine entire hours before those eighteen minutes where they were forced to be apart by the cruel twist of fate. It’s certainly not Will’s fault that Mike decided to be crueler and twistier by enforcing an additional eighteen minutes onto their sentence.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Yup,” Will answers, clipped, mouthing popping on the p.

If Mike notices that Will is absolutely-not-at-all-pissed, he doesn’t care. “I missed you,” he says, all soft and sweet, and before Will can tell him to fuck off, because if he really missed Will, he would have been out here eighteen – nineteen – minutes ago, he’s coming up behind him, stepping into his space. His palms come to rest on Will’s lower back, sliding up and over his hips and stomach as his arms come to wrap around Will’s entire middle, pulling him back into Mike’s chest. He hooks his chin over Will’s shoulder, nuzzling into Will’s neck. “What are you making?” he asks, breath puffing out over the exposed skin at his collar.

Oh, right. This is why he was so mad – the closed door meant he didn’t get this, Mike touching him and talking to him all sweet and lighting up at seeing him. Objectively, it’s a nice thing, to be wanted like this, held like this, loved like this.

Subjectively, he’s still pissed that he could have had this twenty minutes ago.

“Mac and cheese,” he replies. He is horrified to hear that his own voice mirrors Mike’s, subtle and fond, that harsh edge Mike sidestepped smoothed over just with one touch.

You’re better than this, he chides, trying desperately to channel the annoyance that has been by his side since he stepped in the door.

“Gourmet,” Mike teases, swaying them back and forth, still hunched over him from behind. The comment should stoke the flames of his anger, but it’s hard to focus on that blaze when everywhere Mike is touching him feels like a thousand tiny fires of their own, burning and bright and scorching, just like the sunlight earlier. It is hard to be anything but delighted in their warmth. “Enough for both of us?”

You’re not, he reminds himself, all of the madness from earlier starting to scorch itself away. You’re really, really not.

“‘Course,” says Will, light and easy, stirring the noodles. They might almost be done, by now. It doesn’t matter, because they are less interesting than they were thirty seconds ago. He sets the spoon aside and twists in Mike’s arms, lifting both arms up and wrapping them around Mike’s neck. One hand comes up to his nape, thumb brushing through the hair that curls there, while the other hangs off his shoulder, ready to go back to stirring if needed. He allows himself a moment to stare, studying Mike’s face for new freckles or signs of aging that may have happened in their awful, arduous nine hours and forty eight minutes apart. Then, because he has to, he says: “I’ve been home for twenty minutes, you know.”

Mike hums. “Have you, now?” he asks, and there’s a quiver in his lips that is just this side of too amused, and Will hates him, hates him, hates him.

“Yes,” Will replies, haughty, swiftly reminded of how much Mike sucks, and is the worst, and doesn’t deserve any of the covers tonight. Not even a scrap. “And where were you?”

“I already answered that,” Mike says. His voice has dropped, still soft, but a little rough around the edges. Carrie lets out a mewl by their feet. Will should probably stir the noodles. He doesn’t move, except for his thumb, still tracing a path through Mike’s hair – back and forth, back and forth.

Will wracks his brain for the answer Mike claims he’s already spoken, but his thoughts are sluggish, gone slow from the exchange of heady oxygen between their faces. He can’t recall anything.

“When?” he asks, dazed.

Mike lets his smile run loose. “When I said I missed you,” he responds. He runs his own thumb along the dip in the small of Will’s back, the movement searing, even though the wool of his sweater. “That’s where I was. Missing you.”

Objectively, that doesn’t make sense. If he were missing Will, then he would have greeted him at the door, waiting there for Will to get home just the way Will had been hoping he would be from the moment he cut the engine in the parking lot. If he were missing Will, he wouldn’t have let the cat be the first to greet him, wouldn’t have let Will stomp around the kitchen and bang pots around and say the word stupid so many times that it stopped feeling like a word.

Subjectively, Will stopped caring about the details of it all the moment Mike wrapped his arms around him.

“Stupid,” Will mutters a final time, just for good measure, before pulling Mike’s face down to meet his.

When their lips brush, every single minute of their nine hours and forty eight minutes apart suddenly becomes worth it – the exile from bed that morning, the repetition of drawing the same cel over and over again, the ticking of the studio clock, the frustrating, non-movement of the traffic on the way home. They were all worth it, because here is Mike, with his chapped lips and his warm hands ready to reward Will for it all, to welcome him home without punctuality, but with a whole lot of personality. His mother’s voice floats back into his head, still soft, still kind: absence makes the heart grow fonder. Will laughs, right into Mike’s mouth, the kiss breaking with it, and thinks, go away, Mom, please, before pressing back into Mike with intention, insistent. Mike lets out a little giggle of his own, breaking it apart a second time.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, mumbling, muffled only because he won’t dismantle the kiss fully, and Will’s own lips are stopping the words before they can get all the way out.

Will blows out a puff of air, which makes Mike pull back, a bigger laugh spilling out of him. “Stirring the macaroni,” Will answers, because he’s not about to tell Mike that he was thinking about his mom while they were kissing. Before Mike can answer – or call him on his bullshit – Will swivels back around, retrieving the spoon from the counter and giving the macaroni one last, halfhearted stir before he’s moving it off the burner entirely and turning the stovetop off.

“Very mindful of you,” Mike comments. He stays attached while Will grabs the pot and turns around towards the sink, both of them somehow sidestepping Carrie, who is still hovering by their feet.

“One of us should be,” Will bites back, but it’s a playful thing, and Mike knows it. Will reaches up to the pot rack that hangs above the sink to grab the strainer, and makes quick work of letting the water wash down the drain. Normally, he’d carry on, would move to grab the butter and milk from the fridge and the abandoned cheese flavor packet from the counter, but Mike is (kind of, very) preventing that, so he leaves the strainer with the noodles in the sink and turns back in his arms, smiling up at him.

“Yeah?” Mike asks, also clearly not caring about the mac and cheese anymore. He lifts one of his hands to Will’s face and runs his thumb over Will’s upper lip, smoothing over the hair there. “You gonna shave this off, then?”

Will actually does scowl at him, now. “You like the mustache,” he says, and it is meant to be a defense, but it comes out as a demand.

Mike laughs again. “I like you,” he corrects. His thumb does another pass, sweeping over the hair again before trailing down to Will’s bottom lip. Will shudders.

“You love me,” Will revises, more correct than Mike’s correction. Mike’s thumb stays on his lip as it moves with the words.

“I love you very much,” Mike confirms. He brings his other hand up to cup at Will’s face, and he cradles it in his hands as he tilts it back so that he can kiss Will again, dry and warm and just as much his home as the walls around them and the cat with her belled collar dancing at their feet and the macaroni sitting in the strainer behind them. He pulls away too soon, but it’s to plant a kiss at the corner the corner of his mouth, the apple of each cheek; to trail them along his jaw, behind his left ear, and then along and behind his right; and all the way, between each one, two words: “Welcome home.”

Objectively, he’s a little late with the sentiment.Objectively, the macaroni is getting cold, and it’s going to be hard to mix in the cheese flavor. Objectively, just like one of her fathers, Carrie is quickly approaching the point where she is not going to take kindly to getting ignored much longer.

Subjectively, Will doesn’t care, and pulls Mike’s mouth back to his.

#byler #byler ficlet #byler fic #byler fanfiction #wiseatom minis #i did NOT fucking edit this so please ignore any typos or grammar mistakes i will fix them in the morning #i have to be up for work in 4 hours hahahee #btw their cat's name is carrie fisher lol but i think it's funny when cats have ppl names and so i kept her on a first name basis #also fun fact this is 3k and mike doesn't even show up until halfway thru <3 #silence mike wheeler 2k23 (jokes)#if you enjoyed you are free to send me more prompts from tht list!

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fourteenthz · 3 months

Text

FebHyurary - 1. START

The boy's eyes reflect the bright stars in the sky and the glittering water, his gaze not leaving Thaliak once. Louisoix smiles but only earns Thancred's attention once his hand finds the boy's shoulder.

"Tell me, how does Waters sound to you?"

#febhyurary #thancred waters #louisoix leveilleur #sharlayan #6.0 spoilers #ffxiv #ffxiiedit #ffxiv gpose #ffxiv thancred #mine #WE ARE DOING IT. I think i'll post like thursday prompts bc I can't commit with the whole month #but I think I got it once a week so starting on thursdayy!! if I get enough ideas I might do more idk #just. for thancred. doing it for him. sending kisses to the moon and all that.#i have a lot of thoughts abt the 'one name one promise' short story please can anyone hear me #the amount of times thancred speaks as if this was a start to his new life................ I'm SAD #HE LIKES NAMES.... HE SEES MEANING IN THEM....#he is a little shit but he accepts waters because how could he not and then he gets proud of this name later on he SAYS it #ON THE SHORT STORY it IS canon he is so AUGH #HOLDS HIM I miss my mans #I could have gone with canon short story writing but I wanted to do my own. like when he first stood in sharlayan #and he was in awe with how much it reminded him of linsa and how much it didn't... in the best ways #he stares at thaliak all the way and louisoix whatches him do in silence like 'hehe he's going to do well here'#i'm also pretty sure thancred wasn't like THIS little but it's what we can do with limited models so lets goo #using him as my play test so I can have better gposing skills for april... I believe!! gotta work on framing and using other reshades etcet #but we WILL get there. anyway ignore the wall tags text. LOOK AT MY BOY #realizing that in a few weeks there will be a Thursday prompt for ocean....... I'll think of something else trust

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ailithnight · 8 months

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Just had a wild idea in the shower for a dp\dc crossover.

Wes Weston is convinced that Batman is actually Lex Luthor, using the cowl to hide his baldness.

And he swears that Bruce Wayne is Superman, with makeup. After all, they are both himbos.

(the fact that Bruce and Clark have canonically swapped with each other without anybody noticing shows that they're similar enough)

Danny thinks Wes is completely ridiculous, but is also quietly concerned because he was right about him being Phantom, what if Wayne really is Superman?!

Sam's not convinced. Not only do Lex and Batman have completely different body types, but there's no way that the man who got drunk at a gala and got his lips stuck to an ice sculpture of himself can possibly have the mental ability to calculate how much force to use when grabbing a falling Lois without her exploding.

Tucker compares pictures. The butts don't match.

Its an interesting idea, Anon.

I, however, am not a DPxDC prompt blog.

While I do occasionally post prompts, those are just my own thoughts that latch into my head but I don't intend to write myself.

In the future, consider sending your prompt ideas as an ask or submission to the resident DPxDC prompt blog, @stealingyourbones

#dpxdc #dpxdc prompt #It's a good prompt #Albeit not one I am personally invested in #But please don't start sending random prompts to my inbox #I don't mind being tagged if you want to post it yourself #But I probably won't answer any more asks with them

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poppiesandpromises · 1 year

Text

I know I've written

The same poem a million times, I'm

Drowning in myself

#Poem #Please people send me prompts about more interesting things!#Inbox me!

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imperatorrrrr · 4 months

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Prompt: Jack being hard on himself after tonight’s game and Nico comforting him please

Jack hates that he even thinks it.

But tonight, tonight, he really wishes he wasn't responsible for Luke. That Luke could get back to their place on his own.

Because right now, Jack is waiting for Luke, and Jack wants to be as far away from this locker room as possible.

Everyone is giving him a wide berth after the second game in a row and he fucking hates it.

He can feel the rage, the anger, the self-loathing swelling just underneath the surface as he taps his foot and shakes his leg.

He's sitting in his stall, back in his game suit, having showered as quickly as he could, with his headphones on, eyes closed.

He's trying to listen to the music, trying to get his playlist to wash over him, to get himself out of his head, but all he gets is a soundtrack to his own low-lights from tonight's game.

A horror movie playing just for him.

Turnover after turnover. Fall after fall. Missed shots, missed opportunities, missed passes. Playing on repeat. Failures. Mistakes. Over and over and over again. He sees everything he should have done differently. Everything he could have done differently. How he single-handedly lo----

"Jack." The movie stops. His mind stops. His foot stops tapping. His leg stops shaking.

He opens his eyes as Nico takes a seat next to him. Nico makes a gesture to his own ears, and Jack takes his AirPods out in understanding.

Nico's never been one to shy away from touch, and he doesn't now. Sits as close to Jack as possible, their bodies touching at multiple points: shoulders, hips, knees.

Nico's just looking at him, but Jack can't look back. He keeps his eyes fixed on the locker room floor, on his white sneakers, tempted to start tapping his foot again, to start shaking his leg again, but he can't because Nico's so close, and Jack doesn't want to jostle him.

Nico puts his hand on Jack's knee and squeezes. And now Jack is looking at Nico's hand on his leg. He counts the fingers, the knuckles, the veins. Sees where Nico's hair stops, where it starts.

But he still can't look up at Nico as he tries for a joke, "Sorry we didn't get you the win for your four hundredth."

Nico huffs. Squeezes Jack's knee again.

"You know, I don't care about that," Nico says softly, and Jack finally looks at him, "I care...Jack," shakes his head a little and almost huffs to himself again, "I care about you, thats what I care about."

And a new movie starts for Jack. The soundtrack: his own heart, his own breaths, Nico's breaths.

His eyes roam all over Nico's face. Nico's new hair, his freshly shaved face which can never really look freshly shaved, his eyebrows, his nose, his mouth, those lips, and his eyes. Nico's eyes which hold no judgment, no pity, just unending softness.

#Text #Ask #Anonymous #NicoJack #1386 #New Jersey Devils #okay so this isn't exactly what you asked for Anon #but I think it may fit?#I got to where I got to and then I couldn't like get more out of it #but I hope this works?#please feel free to send in something else if doesn't leave you satisfied!#Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince #Writing #Prompts

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lazylittledragon · 2 years

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I love Charlie, Bree and Angel's friendship and I would LOVE to see more of their history

i wish all trans women blessed tits today and forever

#art #comic #doodle #illustration #webcomic #queer #enby #datemate #this is. most of their friendship tbh #i can 1000% see me and my queer friends doing this #please do send me more prompts like this bc i really like making these doodle comics #i went back to sai for this one just for fun #bree is just a guy who loves his wife

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zukkaoru · 5 months

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Hi Grace! I don't know anything about bsd, so I'm gonna stick with atla (if that's okay). Zukka with the fluff dialogue prompt: “I want to spend the day with you doing nothing.” please.

it's been so long since i've written them so uhhh i hope this isn't terrible 🫣

(prompt requests are still open)

The morning sun filters through the windows, painting Zuko’s bedroom golden. For the first time in months, they’re allowed to stay tangled up with each other in bed past sunrise. Sokka traces his fingers up and down Zuko’s arms as Zuko’s lips ghost against his boyfriend’s jawline. For a brief moment, they are allowed to be nothing more than two boys in love.

“Sunshine,” Sokka whispers, and Zuko lifts his head just enough to let his eyes roam over Sokka’s face. Summer has brought out his freckles, and they dot his face like constellations in the night sky. He cups Zuko’s cheek with one hand, then says, “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

Zuko hums in agreement. It would be nice, he thinks, if they had no obligations. If Zuko were not the Fire Lord and Sokka were not travelling constantly—if they lived in a world where they could hold onto each other outside the confines of this bedroom, if the world were not set up to oppose them.

“Me too,” Zuko agrees, then leans in to steal another kiss. “I’d take even just one day. I want to spend the day with you doing nothing.”

“One day,” Sokka muses. “One day of no responsibilities. Just you and me.” He sighs. “Maybe someday. For one whole day, we’ll lock ourselves in this room and do absolutely nothing.”

It’s a nice fantasy, unattainable as it may be. There are always things that require Zuko’s attention, and there are always people unintentionally pulling him and Sokka apart. But maybe one day, when Zuko has established himself as Fire Lord, when the world isn’t still reeling from one hundred years of war, they’ll be able to find a day of peace.

For now, though, Zuko will cherish the few extra minutes they’ve found this morning. It won’t be long before he’s called elsewhere, but until then, he’ll continue to kiss Sokka slowly, like they’ve got all the time in the world, and he’ll be content to have Sokka in his arms as the sunlight pours over them.

#zukka #zuko #sokka #atla #avatar: the last airbender #this could be pre-d.ivorced zukka if you want to read it like that. OR they could end up being happy and married and in love ❤️#i'm not even a d.ivorced zukka girlie but maybe seeing so much of it has subconsciously influenced me #or (more likely) the string of fandoms i have been in since atla has had my shipping tendencies devolve from #'i want them to be married and in love with a kid' to 'i want them to make out just to make each other WORSE'#(devolve? or evolve? you decide.)#okay okay i'm done #ty for the prompt!!#kit tag #grace's writing tag #alsoooo this was the last prompt i got so please feel free to send something!!#i'm gonna be in the car for 6-7 hours tomorrow and then another 6-7 on tuesday so. i'll have some time sddgfhgj

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livingforthewhump · 2 years

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Could you write a prompt with a whumpee with a leg injury (maybe a stabbing or something) who has to completely act like nothing’s wrong because they’re walking back home with their friend who is already suspicious and they can’t let them know (for some reason)? Sorry that this is uber-specific.

No 4. Dead on Your Feet

Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out

The night air hit Whumpee’s face in a rush. Their eyes flickered close, soaking in the warmth for a single moment before they had to keep moving. Whumpee followed Caretaker into the street, sprinting to a nearby alley that they could only barely see through the tears blurring their vision.

Their leg was a cacophony of pain. Blood had seeped down a good half of their pant leg, blessedly invisible against the black fabric in the dark night. Each step felt like it sent shards of glass into their bone, as though the knife was still embedded there. It wasn’t, which created more problems, as now they were bleeding out a lot faster.

“Whumpee, hurry up,” Caretaker hissed. Whumpee winced at how strained their voice was, even in a whisper. Maybe now that they’d finally gotten the job done, Caretaker would get some rest.

“Sorry,” they breathed back, fighting against a limp as they reached their friend.

Caretaker glanced back at Whumper’s base where it loomed behind them, jaw twitching in the dim light the street lamps provided. “If no alarm has been raised by now, we probably have until that guard you knocked out wakes back up. Are you okay walking back home?”

Whumpee furrowed their eyebrows. “Yes? Why wouldn’t I be?” They took another step and briefly found themselves unable to breathe. Lovely.

“Just making sure,” Caretaker said slowly, eyes just a little too perceptive. Whumpee stayed on the inside as they moved into the street, hugging the buildings and the shadows that clung to them. Their ragged breaths seemed to give life to the walls towering on either side, making them tilt and sway, the ground swelling.

Their shoulder hit the brick wall hard.

Caretaker turned towards them, face shadowed in the hazy streetlight. “Whumpee?”

Whumpee screwed their eyes shut, using the wall to push themself back upright. “Yeah. I’m good. Just tired, I guess.”

They didn’t get a response from that, only Caretaker watching them, a silhouette in the dark that Whumpee would give up everything for. Their leg was a dead weight beneath them now, heavy like lead and filled with glass that bit deep into their skin, their muscle, their bones, with each hesitant movement. Whumpee locked their knee when putting weight on it (wouldn’t want to be caught limping, would they?).

The world was still spinning. Whumpee leaned their head back and looked at the sky for a moment to try and disguise it, to hide the tears building in their eyes as sure as the headache embedded in their skull. “The sky is beautiful tonight,” they whispered. Not that they could see it.

Caretaker let out a small breath. “Yes, it is.” Their tone was softer now, and something gentle stirred in Whumpee’s chest.

“We should get home before Whumper wakes up,” Whumpee continued in that same soft tone. “You need sleep.”

“Is that honestly what you’re worried about right now?” Caretaker snorted, but there was no malice behind it. “You look exhausted yourself. But we deserve to celebrate tonight.”

Whumpee’s tears receded and they dropped their head back down. Their throat burned with the effort when they spoke. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Caretaker deserved to have a night of celebration more than anyone else. Whumpee wouldn’t take that away from them for the world. They walked on in silence, Whumpee’s hands burrowed deep in their pockets. Their fists were clenched against the pain, but beyond that, their extremities were getting very, very cold. They were almost surprised there wasn’t ice crusting along their fingertips, despite the warm night. Best to just keep moving.

Their vision was shifting in and out of focus, flashes of black coming in when they were certain they hadn’t blinked. They were shaking from the effort of keeping their leg moving, now. Their muscles were growing stiff around the weeping wound. Still, they kept their back straight. They kept their knees locked. Their breaths grew more and more labored, burning their lungs, but their breaths were there.

Then their leg buckled underneath them, and none of it mattered.

The world swung back into place slowly above them, circling and circling like water going down the drain, long after Whumpee had gone still. A muffled ringing filled their head. A noise was lingering beneath that, thick and soft like whoever it was was yelling through a mattress.

Why did it all hurt so much?

A face appeared right above them, blocking out the golden streetlights. Whumpee stared blankly. They were terrible at reading lips, and for some reason Caretaker was just mouthing words. Or—no, they were speaking. Whumpee just couldn’t hear them.

After a moment, Caretaker seemed to realize this. Their face was creased deeply in worry, and Whumpee felt a spear of guilt thrust into them at the realization that that was their fault.

“‘m sorry,” they forced out. Caretaker froze. Their expression changed, tightening. When they spoke again, it was very deliberate, so that Whumpee could make out what they were saying.

“Can you hear me?” The lips said. Whumpee shook their head, closing their eyes as the world dipped around them. Caretaker waited until they were looking again. “Where are you hurt?”

Whumpee hesitated, tears rising to their eyes again. They didn’t want Caretaker to have to deal with it.

Something like anger swelled in Caretaker’s eyes. They grabbed onto Whumpee’s chin, forcing their gazes to meet. The intensity of Caretaker’s expression cowed them, and one of their shaking hands reached down towards their leg, then slumped down in defeat.

Instantly Caretaker was down beside it, ripping away the soaked pant leg. Whumpee was pretty sure they screamed as it came away from the wound. They didn’t have time to think about it, though, because they promptly passed out.

When Whumpee woke up, their hands were warm, and their clothes were dry. It took them a moment to process anything else.

Slowly, they opened their eyes, rubbing the sleep from them. They didn’t remember going to bed.

“You’re awake,” a strained voice said. Whumpee sat up, wincing at a pain in their leg. Caretaker was sitting at their bedside, face like stone and eyes red and bloodshot.

Another sleepless night on their part. Whumpee could have drowned in their guilt. Their hands felt out the lump in the covers where their bandages were.

“I passed out,” they remembered. Their voice was weak.

Caretaker took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“I don’t—” they started, then deflated under Caretaker’s hard eyes. “I thought I could make it.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“…I don’t understand.” Caretaker crossed their arms over their chest. They hadn’t accepted Whumpee’s apology. Whumpee waited for them to continue. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Whumpee’s eyes dropped. “I. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m worried now, Whumpee.” Their voice was sharp as a dagger. Something dark flared across Caretaker’s face, receding just as quickly. Whumpee knew it was still there. They just nodded, morose.

A thin silence stretched between them. Whumpee’s head started pounding, and they leaned back against their pillows.

“I went for a walk this morning,” Caretaker said suddenly. “When you were still asleep. I was tired of sitting here.” They swallowed, brows lowering over their eyes. “You left a trail of blood last night, did you know that? I could follow your footprints all the way back to Whumper’s. And last night I didn’t even notice.” Their voice broke off suddenly, and for the first time Whumpee noticed tears in their eyes. “Why didn’t I notice?”

Whumpee hugged themself. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, it’s not my fault that you decided to just ignore your stab wound. It is my fault that I noticed something was wrong and I didn’t do anything until you were bleeding out on the ground.” Caretaker’s voice was raised now, and they cut themself off with a grimace. Their voice was soft the next time they spoke, but still shimmering with anger. “Were you going to tell me?”

“Caretaker…”

“No. Answer the question, Whumpee.”

“…no.”

All the air seemed to leave Caretaker at once. They slumped over, elbows resting on their knees and face in their hands. Whumpee had never seen them brought so low.

“Why?” they asked again, and it sounded almost begging.

Whumpee didn’t have an answer. They just sat there battling back their tears, because Caretaker deserved to feel upset without Whumpee stealing the moment again.

When Caretaker lifted their head up, their eyes were wet. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I am going to go get you some food and medicine. When I get back, I am going to be calm, and you are going to have some damn good answers for me.”

They stood up while Whumpee cringed and nodded. As they got to the door, Caretaker looked back.

“And Whumpee?”

“Mm.”

“Never let this happen again.”

—

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