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channieismyboy · 19 days

Text

˚ ❀ giving skz flowers ❀˚

{ot8!skz x gn!reader}

˚ ❀ genre: pure fluff - | masterlist | ❀˚

a/n: i'm back yall!! this has been in my drafts for a long time, and i just had to complete it. i had thought of this idea during a late night, and couldn't get it out of my head, so i obviously had to write a fic on it hehe, enjoy!!

❀ *₊。° ❀ °。❀ *₊。° ❀ °。❀ *₊。 ° ❀ ° 。❀ *₊。

bang chan:

you're getting ready for a date night with chan. looking at yourself in the mirror, you admire you frilly white dress that hugs your figure beautifully. chan arrives at your place and texts you that he's waiting you for outside. you answer him and tell him to wait for you while you finish getting ready, smiling to yourself, excited about your little surprise for him.

with a bouquet of beautiful english roses, that are an elegant shade of light pink, behind your back you exit your room and head to where chan is. he stands up when he sees you, eyes going soft with wide smile on his face. you're excited to see his reaction to the surprise you bought him. you notice a slight look of confusion in his expression, and see his eyes wondering to what you are hiding. "i have a surprise for you..." you state and present the flowers to him with proud expression on your face.

chan smile brightly and giggles since he's taken back from your unexpected action.

"for me? you really didn't have to y/n. thank you!" chan gladly takes the flowers from your hands and engulfs you in a warm hug.

"i just wanted to give you flowers for once," you say while hugging your now hysterical boyfriend back.

"aww well, i love them and i will treasure them for forever" chan says happily. chan did treasure them, he never threw them away. when they started to whither, he pressed them and kept them as decorations to display on his desk.

minho:

your boyfriend minho is your savior. he doesn't mind cleaning up around your shared apartment, and he also enjoys cooking for you both on late nights when you're too tired to even stand. so what better way to surprise him then by cleaning up the kitchen and rest of the apartment on your day off?

your boyfriend already does so much so for you, that you wanted to have him come home to a pleasant surprise, and some pretty white tulips which are one of minho's favorite flowers to gift to you.

after a long few hours of non-stop cleaning, a visit to the local flower shop and a nice long shower, you stand by the door ready to greet minho. once the ringing of keys hits your ears, you stand tall and watch your boyfriend come back from work. minho looks at you with his mouth wide open. tire eyes turn bright and lively at the sight of you. words cannot come out of him for a good second while he admires the tidy state of the apartment, and the tulips held by a gorgeous girl.

"you did all of this and got me flowers?" he asks, and hugs you dearly.

"i did it for you, i know how hard you work.." you say shyly as minho continuously showers you with kisses on your face.

"i will treasure this moment forever y/n."

changbin:

you have been in a long distance relationship with changbin for many months now. you only get to see each other for around a month every 4 months, so obviously you miss his presence dearly. there have been many late night chats where you each plan out your future dates. movie dates, shopping dates, beach dates and lazy at home dates, you guys have covered them all.

when you board the plane, you take out the origami flowers you carefully created out of your carry on to make sure they look nice and presentable for changbin. every late night talk he mentions on gifting you flowers, you just had to surprise with something of your own as well.

when the plane lands, origami flowers in your pockets, you exit the plane and look in the crowd of people in the airport. you skim the crow for a familiar face, and you find him. changbin's smiling with a sign in the shape of a heart with your name on it and bouquet of red roses. you rush to him and engulf each other in a long hug.

"these are for you, baby" he says and hand you the flowers. you pause for a moment and rummage through your pockets and present him with bright pink origami flowers. he smiles brightly and thanks you just a little too loudly.

"y/n, these will never leave my side. i love you!" he says.

hyunjin:

hyunjin shows a lot of his affections for you through small and thoughtful gifts and actions. he often surprises you with matching couple's rings, little sketches he made while thinking of you and beautiful flowers every so often.

tonight however, to show your gratitude towards him, you were going to surprise him on your next date by giving him flowers. however, you wanted to give them to hyunjin in a special and creative way. you know that hyunjin loves to draw pieces that are inspired and related to you, so you will surprise him by asking him to draw pretty red and pink carnations.

"hyunjin, baby?" you ask while stepping into his room while he's getting ready to paint.

"yes?" he asks without glancing at you.

"could you paint these for me?" you say while displaying the flowers you had gotten just a few moments ago. hyunjin, baffled by what you want him to paint, look at your direction and is surprised by your lovely surprise.

he gives you a little side stare, as if he knows what you are doing. "are these for me?" hyunjin asks the obvious. you nod excitingly and your boyfriend gladly takes them from you and inhales their fresh scent. "i love them, and yes i will paint them!!"

fast forward to many months later, the beautiful painting of those red and pink carnations, is now part of the decoration of the new house you and hyunjin moved into while being newlyweds.

jisung:

it's jisung's birthday and you wanted to surprise him with something special. for your birthday he gifted you a wonderful tiffany ring that you have never taken off since. you decide to reciprocate your love for your adorable and loving jisung in the manifestation of the perfect gift.

you know your boyfriend loves to create music and he is either always in his studio or attached to your hip, no in-betweens. jisung had mentioned to you a few months ago that there's a new guitar he had been wanting to buy but he'd have to save up a lot for it. little does he know that you have been sneakily saving up for his birthday present for many moths now. with the guitar purchased, a smile illuminating your pretty face, you head to the flower shop to find some white tulips.

jisung had always given you flowers for your birthday, and you decided you will follow this tradition by giving him flowers as well. you surprise him at the studio on the morning of his birthday, and the look on his face is so precious. you wish this moment can stay engraved into your eyes, his bright smile and shocked face always makes you smile.

"happy birthday baby!" you say, while handing him his presents. "you really didn't have to darling. thank you so so much, i love all of it. i will treasure these gifts forever!" he says while embracing you.

months later, and both the guitar and pressed flowers have never left his studio, as a reminder of you when you aren't there with him.

felix:

your boyfriend felix is quite literally the definition of sunshine. no one smiles and laughs brighter than him. and no one's presence makes you feel all warm like his.

felix has been wanting to have a fun date with you ever since your exams have finished. you both have been so busy with school, you haven't been able to enjoy special time together. for special dates like these, you know he will surprise you with flowers. it's always a new kind of flower, of course. a few weeks ago it was red roses, 2 months ago was baby pink tulips, and the list continues. you have been wanting to do something special for felix and you decide to steal one of his maneuvers.

you decide to buy him sunflowers, as they seem to embody him nicely. you smile to yourself, wondering what his reaction to you gesture will be. will he smile brightly? will he laugh and giggle?

you're about to find out soon as he is knocking on the door, waiting for you to open it just before heading off to your date. "coming!" you say loudly so he'll hear it. as you open the door, sunflowers in hand, you are greeted with the sight of daisies in his. you both do a double glance, and burst into a fit of laughter.

"are these for me?" felix asks, still smiling with a touched expression. you answer with "are those for me?" and tilt you head to the bouquet of daisies.

"thank you y/n, this is the best surprise you could have given me" felix says, accepting his flowers. for the rest of the date he admires them fondly, smile never once fading.

seungmin:

the other night ago, you and seungmin were watching a kdrama. it was one of your favorites and you had been raving about it so much to your boyfriend that he agreed to rewatch it with you. one of the scenes showed the woman giving the man a pretty bouquet of flowers. "why would she give him a bouquet?" seungmin questions out loud.

"why not? that's such a cute thing to do. i think you're just sad cause you haven't received a bouquet" you say while looking at his expression. seungmin did not answer you, he looked deep in thought and you realize that your joking comment was actually true. you realize that you have never once given him one, while you've received almost 15 from him. now, you are on a mission to surprise him with one, and you know just how to do it.

you both have scheduled a cute date at a fancy restaurant. you went out of your way to purchase him a pretty bouquet of assorted flowers in various shades of purple, and hid them temporarily in your closet to surprise him with at your shared apartment before you both left. "are you ready y/n" he questions while laying down lazily on the couch. you enter the room all pretty with the bouquet in hand to give to him. to your surprise there's not a really surprised reaction on his face, it's happy but not surprised. "these are for you seungie" you say.

"next time, you have to be better at hiding your surprises, i found these immediately" he says playfully with a smile and taking them into his hands. you slap him gently on the shoulder, "you could've at least acted surprised you know" you say. all he does is smile and gives you a sweet peck on the forehead, "i love these, thank you sweetheart"

jeongin:

jeongin has been feeling quite down lately and you know the reason why. he has been trying his best, staying up late and working for hours on a big assignment that is worth 25% of his grade. normally, this would not be as big of a deal, however the professor of the course hates jeongin for absolutely no reason.

you've done all you can to comfort and cheer him on, even contemplating on confronting the professor for acting unprofessional. you rack your brain on what you can do to cheer him up, on your walk to your shared apartment on campus, until you pass by a flower shop.

you recall a late night conversation you've had with jeongin just a few days ago. you both talked about your favorite flowers, he had mentioned pale pink peonies are his. your eyes catch them on the display window of the shop, without missing a beat you step foot in and purchase a bouquet of them. you arrive home and call out for your boyfriend. you're not surprised when you see him slumped on his desk eyes not leaving his computer.

"hey baby" he greets you, eye leaving the screen and now faces the pretty flowers being presented to him. his hand reaches to cover his mouth in surprise and he looks at you. "i wanted to surprise you, i know it won't help with your assignment, but just know i'm always by your side jeongin".

he gladly accepts the flowers, and showers you with kisses and a warm hug. "thank you so much y/n, these will help motivate me!" he says mid hug.

❀˚

a/n: hey guys, i hope you enjoyed this!! ik i did hehe. please feel free to leave any comments or thoughts! love yall and be safe and healthy!!

𐐪 please do not copy, repost, translate, or upload this post and/or any of my content/posts on other websites or profiles that aren’t associated with me without my consent, without notifying me beforehand, and/or without any credit, thank you. 𐑂

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yandere-writer-momo · 1 month

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Yandere Head Canon:

A Friendship Forever

Yandere Platonic Unicorn x GN Reader

This is a self indulgent piece for all the people who always wanted a unicorn as a friend when they were young (albeit a crazy one).

Tw: Kidnapping, being held hostage (affectionately), platonic yandere, and yandere themes

Your hands ran a brush through Andromeda’s white main. The unicorn leaned into your touch with a whinny.

“Andromeda, I cannot stay here.” You softly whispered to your longtime friend. The unicorn turned her head to look at you, her soft voice rung in your brain. It still unnerved you that she’d always communicate with you telepathically despite how many years she’d done this…

“But it’s safe here. You said you didn’t want to get married or grow old, so I brought you here.” Andromeda’s white ears flapped against her head, another whinny left her lips.

“I said that when I was five, Andromeda.” You sighed softly. “I’m in my twenties now-“

“Humans are a fleeting existence! You’d whither away if I didn’t step in!” Andromeda nodded her head. “You’re my best friend! I cannot bear to lose my best friend!”

Andromeda rose to her feet before she shook her head, her dark eyes held a playful glint in them. “Come on! We can frolic together in the enchanted forest just like we always have!”

“We can play forever! This is much better than being with humans. Humans are bad! But not you… you’re the best!”

Andromeda nodded her head at you, a snort escaped her muzzle when you didn’t get up right away. “I know you’re not tired! You’ve slept for hours! Come on!”

You sighed when Andromeda stomped her hooves at you to encourage you to get up. The unicorn happily whinnied when you obediently followed her. “There we go! Want to race to the waterfall?”

“Andromeda, you know you’ll win.” You sighed when the unicorn stamped her hooves against the forest floor.

“Not true! I let you win sometimes!” The unicorn began to circle you as she shook her mane about in a playful manner. This unicorn was still quite childish despite the many years you’ve known her. “It’s been a fifty-fifty!”

Andromeda bumped her head against your back. “Well, if you don’t want to do that, we can make flower crowns in the field!” The thought seemed to excited the unicorn who began to bounce up and down. “You can make your flower crowns and I can eat some flowers! That’s a fantastic deal, wouldn’t you say?”

You gave the unicorn a sad smile. This mythical creature could never understand you properly. You knew her will came from a good place, you’d never starve her or worry about rent anymore… but you missed your friends. Your human friends. And time seemed to pass by so differently in this enchanted forest. The weather was always perfect… And that’s when a terrifying thought entered your mind. How long have you been here exactly?

“How long have I been here with you now, Andromeda?” You softly asked the unicorn, hopeful for reassurance that it’s only been a few weeks… that you still had a life to go back to if you tried to escape.

Andromeda thought for a moment before she stomped her hoof on the ground. “It’s been about five months here, but that’s fifty years in your world!”

Andromeda circled you. “I upset the balance of the forest for my very best friend! But the spirits are not upset with me since I’ve been alone for so long! Yes, yes! We will be together until the end of time! Just you and me… friends forever.”

You felt a few tears run down your cheeks as your situation finally sunk in. You really were trapped here forever with her…

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starlightsearches · 2 months

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track 8 with eddie!

all i ask is that it’s sub!eddie 🤞

Brat

So I lied earlier about deleting all of the requests for the mixtape milestone 😬 i did get rid of the some of the requests i hadn't started, but i couldn't let go of the ones i drafted, which is good news, because inspiration struck for this one!

Ex-boyfriend! Eddie Munson x Fem! Reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+, pussy eating, bratty eddie but he gets put in his place super quick, bondage, not a happy ending if you want them to get back together, language, and i think that's it!

You never thought you'd be back on Eddie Munson's doorstep.

Hands hanging heavy at your sides, a little taste of a summer breeze teasing at the hem of your skirt. You'd been full of a strange mixture of righteous fury and sick anticipation on the drive over but it's all gone now, a choking feeling in your throat when you lift up your hand to knock.

And you still can't do it.

Your eyes rake over his completely uninteresting door (are there even interesting doors?)— pockmarked with random dents and dings and sticky residue from long gone flyers—but you study it like it's the Mona Lisa, like it's got the meaning of life hidden somewhere in its peeling paint.

Fuck that. You didn't come here for the meaning of life.

Your knuckles meet the cool metal, once, then twice. The door flies open before you get a chance to drop your hand.

Eddie was waiting for you on the other side.

Heat floods through your entire body—and not the good kind—the oily feeling of embarrassment creeping up your neck. Had he been watching you through the peep hole?

He leans casually up in the door frame, arm stretched long above his mess of curls. The smile on his lips is so familiar it makes you ache.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Eddie looks good. Better than the last time you saw him—a little over a month ago, although not much as changed. Kind of stubbly, kind of toned. Still very, very hot.

There's no need to feel guilty for thinking it, but that doesn't stop your stomach from sinking as you drag your eyes down the white t-shirt he wears, band logo faded and the sleeves cut off, knees poking out of the rips in his jeans.

It should be ridiculous—a fucking caricature of a cool guy with his artful rips and the tats littering his arms. A Halloween costume on anybody else. But not on Eddie.

You push past him, like you push past the thought about how tight he wears his jeans. "Don't call me that."

He follows you into the living room of his shitty little apartment, kicking the door closed behind him. "What can I call you, then? Sugar tits?"

He doesn't even pretend to whither under your stare, although you feel like you cut glass with the look you give him.

"I thought I told you not to call me at all. Where is it?"

He's standing too close, looming over you with a little smirk. You can feel how hot his skin is. Feel the warm puff of breath from his nose on your cheeks. "Where's what, gorgeous?"

He never called stuff like that when you were together. Baby was his favorite. Princess when he was feeling sassy. Honey, but only on the rarest occasions, the sweetest mornings. That one always made you weak at the knees.

"The box of my stuff," —you're mad at him, at this, and it hits you hard, has you jamming a finger into his sternum, feeling the wiry muscle of his chest underneath the tee—"the one you left me three desperate messages about."

That humbles him a little bit. A very little bit, but enough to make Eddie shut his mouth for once. He points down the hall behind you.

"Bedroom."

You know the way, but let him lead. It's colder in his apartment than it was outside, the hair on your arms standing up, and you hold yourself a little tighter, cussing yourself out for leaving your jacket in the car.

"You look good," he calls back without turning in your direction, eyes on the clutter covering every inch of the floor, maybe hoping you won't notice the edge in his voice, “going out tonight?"

That was the plan—before this. "Yeah."

"Who with?"

Eddie doesn't even have enough shame in him to look embarrassed about asking, staring at you openly, like he has any right to know anything about your life now that he's not in it.

"You don't know them," you answer, and he laughs.

"Come on, sweetheart. Your friends are my friends."

And yeah, that used to be the case. Robin still called you up some weekends, inviting you out to girls' nights in a sad little tone. You made up excuses every time, but she still called.

Whatever. They were Eddie's friends first.

"Well, I made new ones."

Eddie runs his tongue over his bottom lip, crossing his arms across his chest.

“What’re their names?”

Jesus, he's such an ass.

"Just a bunch of guys I met outside a liquor store. Said they'd buy me shots tonight if I let them motorboat me in the parking lot."

"Har-har," Eddie rolls his eyes, but you didn't miss the look. His concern for you makes you itch. "Seriously, princess, just wanna know if you're keeping good company."

"Well, I'm not. Can I get my stuff now?"

And maybe you feel kind of bad for lying to him, but you can't let him know the truth—that it'll just be you and a couple girls from work. A few glasses of wine and some gossip. Hell, you'll probably be in bed before midnight.

Eddie digs around at the bottom of his closet, producing a cardboard box littered with garbage—a stack of magazines, some stupid teddy bear he won for you at an arcade, and a couple of bras you'd never be able to wear anymore with the way Eddie's spit is probably permanently fused in the fabric.

A wasted trip.

You try to take the box from him, but Eddie's grip doesn't budge.

"I can carry it out to your car, sweetheart," he says, standing up tall, "unless those biker guys are out there waitin' for you."

"I never said they were bikers," you respond, adjusting your grip on the box, pulling it tighter to your chest. It just has Eddie taking another step closer, big, warm hands sliding over yours.

"Good, 'cause I don't think bikers are your type."

He's whispering a little, lowering his voice all sexy in the way that always used to get you into bed with him.

Not this time.

"Oh fuck you, Eddie. What would you know about my type?"

"Uh, at least a little, honey," he laughs, smiling wide and boyish—so confident, self-assured.

"Don't—" you snatch the box out of his hands, "call me honey."

That's the landmine he's been waiting for you to step on. Eddie looks at you, ready to mash all your buttons until he figures out which ones will have you on him. You wish he wasn't so close to the right combination.

He stalks closer, trapping you up against the closet door, both hands planted above your head. You can't feel anything below your knees.

Voice low, breath wet up against your ear, Eddie says, "what are you gonna do about it, honey?"

The box falls with a whump, spilling all your shit across Eddie's bedroom floor. It's nothing compared sound of your body slammed against the door when your lips finally meet his.

You don't know who started it—whether it was your hands tangled up in his hair or him pinning you in place with his hips. You just know you don't want it to stop.

Eddie's running hot—hot hands at your waist and stubbly skin scratching up your jaw and his whole, hot body pressing up against you, moving just the way you like.

Liked.

You push his hands away with both of yours, trapping them against his sides, but it's not enough to stop him, his mouth at your neck.

"Come on, honey," he whispers, "I said I was sorry."

"I don't want an apology, Eddie."

He tries again, fingertips just brushing against your hips. He looks at you, eyes a little sad, a little too honest.

"Then what can I do to get you back?"

Fuck him. You didn't come here for that either. There's only one thing you want from Eddie Munson, and it's not a box full of bras.

"Get on your knees."

You're surprised his bones don't break with the speed he falls to the floor, thumping against the carpet. Hands already pushing up the hem of your skirt, face pressed low against your stomach. Maybe he's missed this as much as you.

"God, baby," he whispers against your thighs, fingers snaking under the hip of your lacy underwear, "knew you couldn't stay away."

Your knee juts out against his sternum, pushing him back.

"Stop that."

The look on his face is a little stupid, jaw dropped open and his brows furrowed. You were never like this when you were together, always deferring to him in one way or another. But you’re not together anymore.

You crouch down to his level, tracing the tips of your nails over the distended veins in his neck. Eddie's lids flutter, and then fall closed when your lips run over the same path, hand stroking faintly down his arm.

"You don't get to touch me, Eddie," you tell him, and he starts to nod, until his eyes flicker open again and he gets a good look at you, zeroed in on your tits and the low-cut of your dress.

"I- I don't, I mean . . . how?"

You slip the black bandana from his back pocket, give his ass a little squeeze. "Don't worry, honey, I'll help you out."

Eddie doesn't fight you when you push his wrists together, wrapping the cloth around them. He just stares, like he's trying to make sure this isn't a dream, his throat trembling when you pull the knot tight, letting the coarse fabric bite into his skin. You can almost hear a moan on his lips. But maybe you just imagined that.

Besides, you're not worried about what he likes right now.

Back on your feet, you rest your shoulders against the door, jutting your hips out toward him. Eddie looks up at you, big eyes wider than you've ever seen them, wiggling his wrists a little to see if there's any give.

You raise a brow, nudging at the ripped knee of his jeans with your bare toes. "Well?"

Whatever doubts Eddie may have had, they're out the window the second he sees you lifting up your skirt, revealing more and more of the soft skin of your thighs, the black lace you're wearing underneath it.

"Jesus, honey," he shuffles forward until his face is sandwiched between your thighs again, "you wear these for me?"

There's a little laugh on your lips, if only to cover up the way your breath hitches at the way he kisses at your skin, squeezing you between his teeth.

Even without his hands, Eddie Munson is dangerous.

You shift your legs wider so he can fit better, plant a hand in his hair and pull him closer to wear you want him.

"Not a chance, Munson. You think the next guy will like them?"

Eddie can't answer. Not vocally at least. His mouth is busy, tongue splitting your lips, before he stops to rub slow circles over your clit through the fabric. Like he's trying to tell you that there's not gonna be a next guy.

Fuck. You thought you were stronger than that, but maybe he's right.

Because, for all his faults, Eddie really knows how to eat pussy. Even without the use of his hands he's got you shaking—better than the feel of his fingers splitting you open, maybe even better than when he'd rip your underwear off you and dive in, nothing to separate you from the pleasure Eddie loved to give.

You're underwear are soaked, and not just from his spit, the sloppy way Eddie devours you, big eyes dark, looking up at you past the bunched up hem of your skirt. He's got you dripping, a little desperate.

Or more than a little.

Eddie's whispering when he pulls back enough he can speak, and you're shocked you can even hear him with the way he's talking directly into your pussy, and through the buzzing in your ears.

"Come on, princess. Let me taste you."

You snake your free hand down—because you want to, not because he asked, pulling the sticky wet fabric to the side. Eddie whistles low and soft when he sees your glistening cunt, the breeze sending a shiver up your spine when it meets your feverish skin.

He moves back in, slower this time, savoring the taste of you, his tongue peeking into your dripping hole and circling the edges, collecting your cum, drinking you up.

You press tighter against him to improve the angle, one leg coming up to rest on his broad shoulder. Eddie groans and the vibrations go straight to your clit.

Fuck, you're close. Close in a way you haven't been since you slammed the door to this apartment all those weeks ago—the kind of close you'd been looking for with your hand between your legs ever since, losing the feeling every time you were reminded that you should be thinking about anyone but Eddie.

But how could you manage? Head like this was hard to find.

Eddie knows that, the fucker, lips circled around your clit, sucking at you like his life depends on it. Your vision goes dark, eyes rolling back of their own accord. The only thing louder than your moans is the sound of Eddie's sloppy most working at your core.

You grind your hips down against his face, riding his mouth when the feeling overtakes you, body buzzing as those little uh uh uhs spill from your lips. Shock waves like fireworks traveling through you with each stroke of his tongue.

Fuck.

Eddie doesn't slow down, still abusing your poor clit, sucking at your puffy lips, trying to drain you of all those moans from you until you've got to drag him away by his hair or else he's gonna make you cum again.

And then you'll never want to leave.

Eddie looks up at you, face shiny, and he smiles.

"How was that?"

And it's almost as thrilling as that orgasm, the way his brain so clearly shuts down and stalls when you shift your clothes back to where they were, unphased, patting his cheek with a patronizing little look.

"Passable. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have plans."

Eddie doesn't have quite enough balance to get back on his feet with his wrists still tied, so he shuffles after you on his knees, tripping on clutter and knocking shit over.

"Wait a second, what about me?"

He waves his hands in front of his face, like you might have forgotten that you tied him up, like it wasn’t the highlight of your day.

"I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out, princess."

You don't even bother to look back, and the satisfaction that washes over you probably feels better than heroin.

You're in the living room before you hear Eddie call out again.

"Hey! You forgot all your stuff!"

He doesn't get a response to that one, either. The last Eddie hears from you is the slamming of his front door.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #my writing

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brabblesblog · 5 months

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As if the gods made you to ruin me.

A little love letter for everyone who makes art for this vampire man.

Inspired by the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. First person POV. A sculptor confronts a piece of marble, and Astarion is their masterpiece. One-shot.

The idea of statues "breaking free" from the marble is taken from Michelangelo. This can be better seen in his Prisoners.

@spacebarbarianweird mentioned Pygmalion today, and this idea came to me.

Read on AO3.

P.S. If my writing is something you're interested in, please consider my masterlist. I highly recommend beginning with the 'Whither' series. Thank you<3

The finest, purest white marble. I stare at it, unsure, trying to parse out the figure trapped in the block for me to release. An elf, I think, my hands reaching out in front of me, imagining where the curves would be. Curls, long and growing over his ears. A sharp jaw, strong and yet delicate.

I pick up my tools, and begin my work.

It’s almost as if I’m not in control of my creation. My hands work of their own accord, carving in features that genuinely surprise me and were probably not what I would have preferred, but the longer I look, the more it seems right.

It has deep, piercing eyes, with crow’s feet. I find myself staring at it at times during breaks. It looks like it’s trying to escape its stony prison, emerging from the formless block. Its expression is poignant, as if it was lost in thought.

Smile lines? I draw backwards and away from the sculpture, frowning myself. It gave the man a look of maturity even though it was youthful. Together with the smile lines and the subtle wrinkles on its face, it seemed as if the man had lived a harrowing life before being trapped in the rock for me to uncover.

And yet, it was beautiful. There was something ethereal in the way it gazed out into space and pondered nothing.

I keep up the work. I feel myself slowly getting absorbed by it. The compulsion to keep going is overwhelming, and unlike any other. I don’t eat other than the bare minimum. I don’t leave my room unless necessary. I don’t think of much else other than what part of him to carve next.

It - no - he consumes my thoughts. In the day I carve and release him from his marble prison. At night I dream of him. Of his face, of his delicate hands, of his lithe body. I dream, I wish, and I long.

He is my finest work, the star amongst my oeuvre. My patrons are forgotten, their commissions delayed. Their ire is nothing to me. There is only him.

Astarion.

The name, his name, comes to me in a fever dream. He reaches out to me, and I ask him what he would want to be called.

A frown crosses those features, and I want more than anything to press my lips to his forehead and smooth the furrows on his brow. I watch him open his mouth, and it surprises me to see fangs.

“Astarion,” he says, and his voice catches me by surprise. There is a slight nasal timbre to it, and a drawl, almost a purr, at the end.

I snap awake, staring at the marble statue. He is looking at a spot about a meter away from where I am right now, the moonlight streaming through the window illuminating his ivory skin.

Ivory. Color. I remember now. His eyes were crimson, his hair white as snow. Features I had never imagined, the medium of my work limiting me from even considering anything regarding complexion. However, the stone was a close match to his skin in my dreams - a white so smooth it was almost pearlescent.

A vampire, I realize, as I remember one more thing: the scars on his neck. I pick up my chisel and walk over to the marble, my hands searching for the spot I remember from my dreams.

I carve, and it is perfect.

I wonder who he is, and what he’s done in his life. I am almost done freeing him, the stone block now only at his knees. I work on his genitals, shaping them as best as I can. I carve out a vein, which I would imagine to be of a bluish tint.

His body is beautiful, and I step back to admire it. Muscular, but not too large. Delicate, long limbs, the marble’s natural veins adding to the illusion of an actual circulatory system. Fingers that would make a pianist weep. Strong legs, with subtle thigh musculature.

He is full of contradictions. Masculine, and yet feminine, his hands on the delicate tilt of his hips. Youthful, and yet his face belies a strange maturity and melancholy. So real to me, and yet here he is, just the work of my hands and my overactive imagination.

I am enthralled.

I do not put him on display once he is done. I don’t sell him. He stays in my room, taking up valuable working space. I do not care.

He is my muse. I talk to him, argue with him, ask him for his thoughts. There is no response, no more dreams.

I weep. I mourn for something that never was. I seek company in lonely taverns, for warm bodies to lose myself in. It is never enough. It is not even close.

I cover him in a sheet. I don’t want to see him, to be reminded of what I so desperately need and can never have.

I try, so damn hard, to forget.

“You ruined my life!” I scream to no one in particular, to him. I am unable to work, my patrons having moved on to more productive artists. I want to throw my chisels at him, to topple him over and ruin him, as he had ruined me. But I cannot.

I rip off the sheets, staring at that face that had burrowed so deeply into my psyche, and I give in and move to press my lips against it. I close my eyes.

The lips that meet mine are cold - but not stone-cold - and soft. I feel hands move to wrap around my waist, tugging me close. I instinctively move my hands up over his head, and feel hair against my fingers - curly, fine strands that flow against my fingers like silk.

A very good illusion from my mind, I gather. As I pull away I force my eyes to open. Crimson ones meet me, and those smile lines crinkle as he grins.

“Hello, darling,” he breathes.

Taglist: @elora-the-slutty-songstress @tragedybunny @spacebarbarianweird @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire@qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @linllewellyn @battisonsgf @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptrr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion x you #greek mythology #pygmalion #astarion ancunin #astarion baldurs gate #baldurs gate astarion #astarion fic #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion angst #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction #astarion romance

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zombielenin · 1 month

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[ID: The Silt Verses fan art. Photograph of black Vans slip on shoes. The Wither Mark from The Silt Verses is drawn on the upper front portion of the shoe with a white paint marker. The shoes are on a light brown hardwood floor. End ID]

[ID: The Silt Verses fan art. A picture of black Vans slip on shoes. The words “The Silt Verses” are written on the heel in all capital letters using a white paint marker. The words are written in two lines with “The” on the first line and “Silt Verses” on the second line. The shoes are on a light brown hardwood floor. End ID]

I needed some new shoes since my converse were worn to shreds, so I decided to make some Wither Mark shoes. I think they turned out pretty well. They’re my new favorite shoes! The process is below the cut in case anyone’s interested.

So first I traced a mirrored image of the whither mark on some tracing paper using a white Conté pencil. Once I did that, I rubbed the tracing paper on my shoe, leaving an outline of the wither mark. I then touched up spots that didn’t transfer well with the white Conté pencil. I don’t think a standard white wax colored pencil would work for this scenario. Then, working from the inside out, I went over the lines with a fine tipped white Posca paint marker. I had to let it dry and do multiple coats until I got a solid white color. Then, I got rid of mistakes by drawing over them with a black fine tipped Posca paint marker. Once I was done, I cleaned up any remaining white pencil marks with a moist rag.

For the heels, I wrote the words on the heel using a white Conté pencil until I was satisfied with how it looked. Then, I wrote over that with a white bullet tipped Posca paint marker.

#the silt verses #tsv #wither mark #the silt verses fanart #tsv fanart #silt verses #customized sneakers #vans #described

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kingedmundsroyalmurder · 6 days

Text

Blue Castle Book Club 2.0 - Chapter 2

We begin in this chapter what will be a recurring motif, namely people whose spouses died because they did not care about them properly. Our first example is Mr. Fredrick Stirling, whose name haunts the narrative but about whom we know practically nothing. What we do know here is that he was a man who did not – could not? Would not? – override his wife and died because of it. There are a lot of formidable women in the Stirling Clan, but for the most part the men seem to match them. The two couples we see – Aunt and Uncle Wellington and Aunt Alberta and Uncle Herbert – are fairly evenly balanced, with the one pair being fierce and unyielding and the other being more chill. Meanwhile Fredrick Stirling seems to have been much closer to Valancy in temperament than to his wife, judging by the fact that neither he nor Valancy seems able to defy her.

More broadly, this is a book about how people blossom when they are loved and whither away when they are not. That bodes ill for Mr. and Mrs. Fredrick Stirling’s happiness, had he lived.

With that said, this is also a book about gossip, and backing up a step, what we are actually told is that “It was whispered about in the connection” that Mrs. Stirling killed her husband by not lighting a fire. We’re about to be told a great number of other things that “the connection” whispers about, most of which are patently untrue. We are also slowly going to learn that no one in the family actually particularly likes Mrs. Fredrick Stirling. And so that begs the question: did Mrs. Stirling cause her husband’s death? Or was he already ill and no amount of fire would have saved him and it was just easier for everyone to blame the newcomer to the family that they already didn’t like? Mrs. Stirling is undeniably a petty tyrant, but the Stirling clan is also undeniably vicious.

Mrs. Stirling is also undeniably afraid of rocking the boat. She exercises all her vicious tyranny onto Valancy because she has no other outlets for it. She is terrified of Uncle Benjamin and his will. She allows Aunt Wellington to tell Valancy how to wear her hair. She has extremely little power within her family, which was her husband’s family first. None of this excuses the way she treats her daughter, but it shows how deeply the poison here goes. The clan creates miserable, vicious people whose only pleasure is taking their misery out on others.

The other thread here is a complete disavowal of fantasy. Valancy is 29 and miserable and will only ever get older and more miserable and she can’t bear to hide from it any longer. There isn’t a hint of lightness or joy in any of the descriptions – they are all stark and bleak, monochrome and harsh. It’s grimdark but in the form of descriptive paragraphs. And, like grimdark, it feels in the moment as though it’s Valancy facing life as it really is, in all its dreadful hopelessness. But life at its most unflattering is no more a whole realistic portrayal than life at its most rose-tinted. Last chapter we rejected the Blue Castle’s diaphanous whimsy, and now we have to work to reject Elm Street’s harsh grimdarkness. Somewhere between those two extremes we’ll find a reality that’s actually worth living in.

Colors mentioned:

Brown gingham

Black stockings

Black hair

Black brows

White teeth

Dark-brown eyes

White face

Black bear

This chapter is short and almost aggressively drab. Brown, black, white. That's it. Those are the colors we get when Valancy is determined to go through life without any fantasy and "face reality unflinchingly".

#blue castle book club #moonlight and mistawis

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isaacsapphire · 2 years

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I feel like the only way to make sense of weird race rhetoric, both the Western Chauvinistic side and the Woke side, is to mentally replace race with class. Western Chauvinism is often just aristocratic conservatism clumsily trying to expand itself outside old elites, particularly in the sense of viewing most of the world as incapable of self-rule. The fixation on academic performance and the like doesn’t take working class white people as the model for “whiteness”

Mmmm, IDK. Like, obviously if you are an academic White supremacist who goes on about IQ, the existence of trailer trash Whites is a problem that you have to navigate, but a Lot of White supremacists ARE trailer trash Whites. And on the woke side, the existence of trailer trash Whites strengthens their argument. They can and do say that's the natural state of Whites, also the poor ones deserve poverty, so lols.

#race in america #whither whiteness #oh geeze i can tag asks now #class in the US #race and class

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avatarmerida · 1 year

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I caved and I wrote a Paulina/William drabble. I don’t have context except that I HC Paulina would take longer to switch to the plant track and William meets the squad earlier in this version. Maybe I’ll explore this AU more lemme know if I should yo 💚💛

———

“Oh Lina, it’s absolutely stunning!” He marveled at the large colorful flower she was trying desperately to hide. But his praise only caused it to grow larger as a very flustered Paulina tried to control it.

“It’s nothing, I swear!” She insisted, but the vines has already made themselves comfortable. Summoning them had clearly taken skill, it would a challenge for anyone to make them disappear at a moment’s notice especially if they didn’t really want to.

“I have to disagree, I think it’s very much something.” William laughed. “It’s something wonderful!”

“No, it’s so embarrassing!” She said, brushing the flowers out of her hair. “I can’t control them anymore than I can control my other magic. You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“I promise you, I’m not lying!” He insisted, gently removing a white rose from behind her ear. “I would never! I could never!”

“No, William I promise it’s okay I won’t be angry at you for it.” She said. “I guess… I was just nervous to show you. I… haven’t really told anyone I’ve been practicing plant magic.”

“Well, if you ask me you should practice it more. It suits you.” He said with a smile, feeling she looked so natural surrounded by the flowers.

“You’re sweet,” she said with a smile, and her calmness spread to the plants who did not whither away but made a slow return to their pots. “You’re wrong, but sweet. I know it’s silly to try another type of magic when I can’t even get the basics of my track.”

“Paulina, I promise I would not lie to you. In fact I cannot lie.” William said, his normal vigor lacking. “Like… I’m unable to.”

“What do you mean?”

“A secret for a secret?” He said, raising his pinky which she took in hers (thankfully this time there was no goop incident). “It’s part of my curse,” he began to explain. “If I am to lie, I am overtaken with great pain. It feels as though my bones are shifting and trying to escape. It matters not how grand the lie is, any lie will trigger it.”

“How do you know?”

“I did lie once, to my uncle.” He said, shuddering at the memory. “I had snuck out of the castle and when he asked me where I’d gone, I denied having left. And suddenly it felt as though my heart was being ripped from my chest, the pain so severe I could hardly stand. He said ‘this is what happens when you lie to me, you’re only hurting yourself by doing so. I will always know.’”

“Woah,” Paulina whispered, often forgetting William was related to the Emperor. She always views him as cold and scary and William seemed just the opposite, despite his attempts to seem intimidating. She wondered where he had gone before it struck her. “Was this… the night you came to our conjuring?”

He nodded and Paulina felt her heat sink.

“Oh William, I’m so sorry if I had known I would have never-.”

“No, please don’t be sorry princess,” he insisted. “It was a lovely night, truly. It was the first time I felt… normal. I didn’t think about my curse or my duties I just had… fun. That night meant a great deal to me.”

He smiled at the memory of holding her hand beneath the light of the full moon, the sound of her laughter as the managed to navigate the Owl House before Eda found them out. The way her eyes shimmered when she walked him to the door and said how happy she was that he had come.

“Well, you probably would’ve been back sooner if I hadn’t messed up the spell.” Paulina said, her voice low.

“If I had arrived on time I could’ve left on time, don’t blame yourself for something beyond your control,” he said, remembering the time he had put into his outfit, trying to impress her. “I was bound to discover it sooner or later, and knowing the effect has made me more careful. You can take credit for that, but nothing more.”

She smiled, knowing he meant that. She believed even without the curse William valued honesty. But such great pain no matter the lie? Not even a harmless white lie?

“Wait, did he mean every time you lie or just when you lie to him?”

“Well I… don’t really know,” he admitted, furrowing his brow. “I haven’t tried since then. But royalty shouldn’t lie anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. I intend to be an honest and fair ruler.”

“But what if you need to?” Paulina inquired. “What if by lying, you can help someone? Like what if Boscha was looking for me and asked you where I was, it wouldn’t be wrong to lie to her.”

“I would gladly endure the pain to keep you safe.”

Paulina blushed. He didn’t even hesitate.

“But when you go on missions, what if your identity is supposed to remain a secret and someone asks you if you’re the prince? It would be okay then, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said stroking his chin. “Hmm, we should investigate this. Paulina, may I lie to you?”

She giggled, always finding his formality endearing. “You may.” She replied, matching his regal tone.

“All right,” he straightened his spine and cleared his throat, searching for a lie to tell. “Okay um… you are not very beautiful.”

He closed his eyes and prepared for the impact his only lie had given him, but to his surprise he felt no pain. “Huh? I did it! I lied!

“Well, I don’t know if it’s a lie exactly,” blushed Paulina. “It’s kind of subjective.”

“Oh? Oh, yes I suppose you’re right, as usual.” He scrunched his face as he tried to summon a more probable truth. “Okay then, I do not think you are very beautiful.” He clarified for the powers that be. He waited a beat and again felt no pain and raised his arms in victory. “Huzzah!”

Paulina blushed once more. “I mean… I’m still not sure that’s the best example,” she said quietly. “I mean, because what if that’s-.”

“Oh, yes I see what you mean,” he said, reading her mind. “I know opinions and fact can differ, but I can only lie about what I know, correct? Even if it just a lie to me, because I do believe you’re very beautiful. See? Neither sentence triggered the curse. I promise you the truth is the latter, you can ask Luz I’ve said that well before I ever thought about trying to lie.”

“Oh, well okay.” She said with a smile as Willam did not falter from the sincerity of the compliment. He simply acted like her beauty was a universal truth. She wondered how often if came up that he instantly felt that way. But despite how nice the sentiment made her feel, something about the delivery troubled her. “So… if you only feel pain when you lie to your uncle does that mean…”

“Does that mean… what?”

“William… is he the one who cursed you?”

#huntlow #huntlow dupe #winter toh #I like Willina #I’m calling it Willina #willina #beta huntlow #toh #the owl house #Paulina toh #William toh #Willow park #Hunter toh

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bucking-mustangs-with-wings · 3 months

Text

It's finally here, people. It will be posted on ao3 too which I'll make a seperate post with the link when I publish, but for now, Happy Reading! 💖☺

The air of the grounds was colder than the last few, a bite to the air that left the tip of John's nose stinging a little with the prick of it. Not enough to be a bother, but enough that him and the other boys had noticed it, a few more layers draped over their shoulders or a blanket haphazardly thrown over jeans as most sat around the fire pits outside their campers. A few sat with a beer or whiskey in their hands, taking a sip every now and then to warm their insides as well.

John cast a glance back over his shoulder at the others, reaching into his sheepskin jacket to fish out the pack of Malboros he'd managed to aquire from one of the boys before his run today. He pulled out a single cigarette and slipped it between his lips before meandering his way further from the camp grounds and the sounds of fire crackling and laughter and towards the arena and the chutes, which only hours earlier in the heat of the sun he had managed to score the highest once again, this time on a big brown and white bull they called Hitchcock. Mean son of a gun with monster horns filed off at the tips and sounded like a Greek beast of mythology when he bellowed.

Lighting the tip of his cigarette with one quick flick of his hand, John blew the first inhale out in flimsy swirls in front of his face, barely illuminated by the last few arena lights still on at this time of the evening, while a few straggling competitors worked their horses before calling it a night. It was the quietest part of the day, other than when everyone was fast asleep, and other than a few people scattered here and there, packing up equipment or officials gossiping leaned up against the fences, the whole place had turned into a ghost town. The yards situated out behind the chutes where they kept the cattle and bulls in waiting before each run or event was a wash of darkness, the floodlights only just managing to cast enough illumination to see where you were going without running into the panels.

Luckily, they were empty now, no monster bulls or crammed cattle, all of them either trailered off to the next event or back home to whatever close by ranch or farm they came from. John supposed not unlike himself and the other competitors, who would have a day or two to drive all the way up to Washington to do it all over again.

The taste of tobacco was acrid on his tongue, coupled with the burning cool inhale of the evening air, but he delighted in it all the same. It was hard to figure out where the tobacco smoke and his own breath ended, swirling once again out into the night like a poison promise.

As John looked down at his dust-mottled boots kicking through the dirt, he found himself rounding the edge of the main chutes and further into the holding yards, further into the quiet. Though amongst the silence, the low hum of a voice reached him through the dark, a low drawl only just distinguishable but not clear enough the make out any words. He thought it just one of the other boys that had hung back, maybe gotten lost on the way back to the camp grounds behind him, but as he squinted against the deepening black, the sun finally dipping behind the mountain tops in the distance, he could vaguely make out the dimmed line of a horse's back in one of the pens, the spotlights over in the arena giving that small light source reflected off the animals coat.

It made him pause momentarily, listening to the continued sliver of a voice in the horse's direction. The animal was standing contently, rustling its nose into what sounded like a hay net in front of it every now and then. The silhouetted outline of a hat peeked up over it's whither, then disappeared as whoever was on the horse's other side leaned back down before appearing again. The telltale sound of a hard-brush raking over it's coat cut through the air rhythmically.

Taking another draw of his cigarette while also taking another few steps forward, he was able to finally make out the shining golden coat of the horse barely distinguishable in the low light, the palomino a familiar image. Now that he could also see what horse it was, he could also recognise the hummed deep drawl of Gale Cleven, talking softly to her as he cleaned her off for the night. John leaned his shoulder against the corner of one of the metal panels, resting his left foot against the curve of his right and took another long but quiet inhale of smoke and just observed the exchange, not wanting to alert Gale to the fact that he was there just yet.

Gale ducked underneath the curve of the mare's neck to change the side he was working on, the long white mane brushing over the brim of his black hat. He laid his hand against her shoulder as he started sweeping the brush down the line of her throat.

"Yeah, you're a good girl." His voice was calm and low, almost gravelled in it's tone. It made something unknown and foreign crawl it's way up John's back, a cold shiver not unlike the product of the chilled air sitting still around them. He swallowed it down with another draw. His eyes followed the long line of Gale's back, up to his shoulders that flexed with every pass of the brush, then down to the intricate leather work pattern of his belt, still only just visible. His gaze then tipped just a little further to the shape of his legs enveloped in dusty blue Wranglers, maybe a single size too big needed for the movement he was expected to need when in the saddle. He still looked amazing in them.

John shook his head of the thought and straightened, shoving his hands in the deep pockets of his sheepskin coat as he took a step forward.

"Hey, Buck. Little late out for you and your unicorn, ain't it?" He smirked, a hint of teasing in his tone. "Woulda thought you'd already be on your way up to Washington with the rest of 'em."

He could see Gale freeze in his movements, the brush halting it's path on Baby's coat. The mare snorted as if in protest, and Gale heaved a slight sigh, the line of his shoulders lilting slightly.

"Yeah, well. Guess I just needed a little more time to get myself sorted," the blond retorted coolly, his hand resuming the monotonous motions. "Could say the same about you, though I thought you'd be back at the campgrounds celebrating your victory for today."

Bucky felt the side of his mouth tilt at that as he came up close to Baby's head, watching the palomino mare side eye him as she buried her nose amongst the hay. In a fluid motion he lifted the sole of his boot and stamped out the remaining butt of his cigarette so as not to get any in either her's or Buck's face. He knew the blond hated the smell and the act in general. Especially if it was around horses or stock of any kind. John may have been as arse, but he wasn't a total one when he could help it.

Gale noticed the movement and hummed to himself in realisation, flicking a look in Bucky's direction before focusing back on the horse. An almost inaudible thanks floating on the air between them.

"Victory," Bucky said with a smile "I can celebrate any time. Plus I think Rosie hid most of the bourbon from me, the bastard. Or drank the rest of it on me, hard to say."

He couldn't one hundred percent trust his eyes, but he thought he saw the ghost of a smile light up Gale's face, only momentarily, before the other man tilted his head just enough so that it was out of John's eye line. It made something flicker in John's chest, but he swallowed it down before it fully formed itself.

Silence enveloped the two men for several minutes, Gale continuing with his grooming and John rotating his concentration between looking at Baby lazily chomping her hay and the way Gale's hands were so gentle and tentative over her.

Buck really loved his horses, John could see it every time he managed to catch a glimpse of him cinching them up before his runs, the way he handled the reins with the faintest touch, his seat in the saddle. The man was a legend among the rodeo circuit, whether it be the ropers or the barrel racers or any of the others. Even the bull riders. As much as John liked to tease him about it, crack jokes, he was in reality impressed with the man's skills and horsemanship. He knew it took a bit more of a different finesse than bull riding in it's own way. A soft-mouthed horse was a lot different than a hulking 1800 pound bull trying with every ounce of its power to unseat you by any means necessary. He had a lot of respect for any of the riders and their discipline, as much as he would blatantly deny it. Gale especially..

His mind flickered back to what he had witnessed, unbeknown to Gale, earlier in the day when the rodeo was full swing and the roping had just finished up. The officials were taking a hiatus between events to rake the arena and make sure it was set up with the barrels for the barrel racers.

He'd been present to Gale's run, seen the swiftness that he'd taken off, the mere seconds it took for him to throw the lasso around the quickly fleeing steer and the erupting cheers and hollers and whistles from the crowd as the announcer called out his praises. There were another few more competitors after Gale, but by the end it had been another flawless run, knocking the rest back on their haunches and adding another bright and shiny victory for Buck.

John couldn't help but smile seeing Buck do what he loved best, and be damned good at it. For all the jesting he'd spit forward in Buck's direction in digs at his manliness and the sport he ran, it really was just that, in jest.

He'd pushed off the fence and ran his hand through his sweat soaked hair before sitting his hat back atop and making his way behind the bleachers. Flashed Bubbles and Crosby a smile while they were bantering between themselves over something mundane.

His path was that of heading back to the campers, get his mind and head together before the drudging task of packing up his gear fell to him, just a part of the preparation to move on with the other guys to the next grounds and the next competition.

"Can't believe the shit you pull sometimes, Gale, I tell ya."

The cutting and frustrated voice of someone Bucky didn't recognise cut through the air a short ways ahead of him. It made John's brow crease, his eyes zeroing in on the distinct white and blue of Gale Cleven's own trailer slotted in amongst about five others parked in a loose circle.

John's footfalls became a little lighter as he moved silently in between a beat up off-white caravan and Crosby's gooseneck. One of the horses tied to the side of it gave him a flustered snort as he slipped up beside her, enough so that she hid him away from the eye line of the two figures Bucky managed to get in view.

Gale had his back turned to him, still all rigged up in his protective vest adorned with the countless patches of sponsors and brands he had supporting him, brown and blue chaps a little dirtier than when the day began. The tilt of the blond's black cattleman hat directed towards the dirt at his feet. The ridge of his shoulders looked tense but worn, a spring coiled, a pistol cocked. But worn (and almost defeated) in his stance nonetheless.

John turned his gaze to the older man in front of Buck, heavy set in his body build and a few inches shorter than Gale, greying hair peaking out from under the brim of his own hat. Silver-grey stubble lined his jaw, which was set hard. Almost as hard as his eyes, familiar ice blue but burning with this unfathomable disappointment and low intimidating anger.

John almost had to look away so as not feel that anger like it was directed at him. The air was absolutely thick with it. But that anger wasn't directed at him. It was directed at Gale.

"You expect to make it to the big leagues, make it to Vegas with a fucking dumpster fire of a performance like that? You'd last five seconds in that arena and not in the way we want it to count."

Gale's head raised slightly, maybe a vague attempt at making eye-contact with the older man in front of him, but quickly lowered it again, gloved hands coming up to rest on his hips. "I had a good run today, Dad. Another half a second off the clock than last season, and the others-"

"It don't much MATTER about the others than what you're putting out there, Gale! You're making it out here at the fairs and these simple half-time rodeos, but those buckles you got sitting at home ain't NOTHING compared to what you should be doing and bringing home."

The man took a step forward, digging his finger pointedly into the centre of Gale's chest, making the younger man have to rock back on his heels so as not to tip from the force of it.

"You're a Cleven, for fuck sake, act like one! Not like these nobody's and ranch hands you insist on hanging around with." the man spat cruelly.

There was a moment of silence, tension hanging in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife, before Gale's father moved even more into the blond cowboy's space, finger still firm against his sternum. Furious blue eyes only a whisper away from Buck's own, noses almost bumping as the scowl on Mr. Cleven's face deepened.

"You pick up your fucking slack, or don't bother coming home or using our family name. I won't have you tarnishing the Cleven's legacy I set out for you."

Another moment passed before the older man finally pulled his finger away from Gale's chest with a snap of his wrist. Bucky thought he'd see a hole left there in it's wake with the force he'd exuded behind it. Blood leaking out just as quickly as Gale's confidence must have been.

Without another word, Mr. Cleven turned with a low exclamation, wandering off back towards the main arena with the sound of spurs following behind him. John though, could only keep his eyes on the stone still figure that was Buck, the younger man not having moved a single inch as his father had stormed away from him.

As if it even possible, John swore he could see the fight leave Buck, ripped out from that invisible hole left behind by his father's finger. His shoulders slouched just that tiny bit, no longer standing tall like the Gale he knew. One of Gale's hands came up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger, brim of his hat tipping down once again so that his eyes were directed at the dirt.

John held his breath and felt something pull harshly inside of himself when Gale brought his hand away, and the distinct patch of wetness staining the soft tan leather of Gale's glove caught his eye.

With a heaved breath and a rolling of his shoulders, Buck finally moved from his position and disappeared in between the other trailers, leaving John with a stone-hard sensation in the base of his throat and a frown that ended up making itself at home on his brow for most of the remainder of the day. Even Curt had commented on it when he'd passed him earlier that night, over near the bull rider's camp as they had all been sitting by the flames of the fire pit.

Back in the present now, John was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Gale's voice cutting through them. He blinked, focusing back on Buck's face, which uncharacteristically actually had a touch of worry surfaced there.

"Sorry, what?" John managed, sounding dazed, distracted.

The ghost of a smirk lifted one corner of Buck's lips, his baby blues almost baring a hole through John's own. "I said did you have a stroke? Haven't heard you this quiet since you got here. All those falls in the arena finally catching up to you?"

A huff escaped Bucky's lips, his own smirk mirroring Gale's, just a bit more obvious.

"Oh, har har, the pretty cowboy's got jokes, huh?"

If he didn't know better, he would have sworn he saw a hint of blush colour Buck's cheeks before his face went blank and he turned his attention back to the brush in his hand, which had once again gone stoically still in their exchange. Baby tossed her head in their direction in obvious protest before pulling at the hay again.

"You got no idea," Gale said lightly, clearing his throat with the same gentleness. His face had once again dropped into the emotionless mask that John was often witness and accustomed to, like the blond had internally put up some sort of barbed wire fence, intent on keeping any vague emotions sheltered and hidden away.

It was a fence John wanted to take a pair of wire-cutters to.

Without thinking, Buck let the words he so desperately knew Gale needed to hear slip past his lips and into the settled quiet of the night.

"You did good today. Just wanted to let you know that."

Once again, Buck's hand stilled in the movement of brushing, and Baby actually let out a grunt this time in obvious annoyance that her grooming kept being interrupted. Though the two men weren't faced, John could still see Buck watching him out of the corner of his eye. A startled deer ready at a moments notice to bound off at the first sign of danger.

It twisted John's gut, made him feel a rising disdain towards the man he knew was now the cause of Gale's weariness, if not partially or fully, he wasn't one hundred percent certain.

All the boys there had been through their fair share of rough upbringings, absent fathers, dead fathers, non-existent, you name it. And he should have know Gale was no exception. Having a father and mother himself who didn't exactly show their support when he told them he wanted to pursue bull riding as a career, John had a bit of a more gracious understanding of most situations. It was a far stone to throw though, when you had an asshole of a father like Buck's obviously was, and a famous asshole of a father at that, that expected you to fill his boots even bigger than he could until you were bursting from the stitchings in the side.

It was no small talk that Gale Buck Cleven was, well, a Cleven. One of the most famous roping names in the rodeo world as far back as what Bucky could remember reading about in one of the Western Horseman magazines he had flicked through one day off of the coffee table in Curt's trailer. Generation after generation of skilled horseman, Champions and legends, articles and newspapers and long-winded news stories on the internet. Most of them featured Gale's name as the precipice now, but always circling back to the great Cleven cowboys that came before him. And God, were they some big boots to be expected to fill.

But as far as Buck could tell, Gale was continuously climbing the ranks in anything he set himself to. It was always his name being praised over the speakers, and his hands that those buckles and trophies were passed into at the end of the day.

" 'preciate it," Buck mumbled carefully, so low John almost didn't catch it. "But it coulda been better. Alot better."

Bucky scoffed in reply, his mouth slightly agape in a grin that this time hinted on something a little more intent than playfulness. "Are you kiddin' me? Buck you kicked their sorry asses out there today. I ain't ever seen you get the timer buzzed that fast, and I can say now that the amount of times I've seen you compete, wouldn't surprise me if you broke some sort of record."

As the words sunk into Gale, he sat the brush on Baby's back, her hide twitching at the feeling, and turned to face John fully but slowly, a look almost akin to surprise knitting his features underneath a confused frown.

John almost thought Buck was going to say something in contempt in his direction, but as he saw Gale's gaze soften ever so slightly, his eyebrows flickering for a millisecond into something that almost resembled confusion, his heart squeezed with that unknown feeling once again.

"You've watched my runs?" Buck said softly. "All of 'em?"

John's mouth once again dropped open as an unexpected warmth flushed the top of his own cheeks. He lifted his hand to rub at the back of his neck, through his own slightly damp dark curls there.

"Uh, well, yeah. The ones I've seen since I got here to this circus anyway." he said with a smile. He wasn't going to tell Gale that he may have also looked up a few of his runs in Buck's slightly younger days, all bright eyed and just as determined, but not as much tension permanantly etched on his features.

John couldn't believe his eyes when he witnessed Gale's entire stance soften, even if it was only by a hair, something unspoken opening up there as an actual chuckle slipped past Gale's lips with a small shake of his head and a genuine grin breaking through.

He dropped his eyes from John's for a second or two, looking lost in a thought. "Circus is about the right way to put it, I reckon." Gale huffed.

His eyes flickered back up to look squarely at John's own, before casting off over towards the arena that was still lit with a few spotlights. Most of the riders that had been walking their horses around in circles had retired for the night. The sands were empty and still.

Something still troubled and haunted Gale's eyes though, and John couldn't help but swallow down an uncomfortable thickness that had settled itself in his sternum.

"I mean it, though. I'm not bullshitting you." Buck said gently, following Gale's eyeline to the arena. "I may not be much of a horse type cowboy, you know I can't really ride for shit," Gale chuffed at that, "but even I can recognize a real cowboy when I see one, especially one that's a rank above the rest."

Gale actually looked back and held his eyes for more than a mere few seconds this time, something so soft but still that hint of disbelieving pooled there, but it was a damned start. It felt like an entire lifetime that John held that gaze, letting himself be swallowed by it.

Buck's long pale fingers rested once again on the jut of his hips, which cocked slightly to the side in the movement. "Never thought I'd hear a genuine compliment from John Bucky Egan himself," Gale managed.

Once again that coltish smile shaped the blond's lips, wider, more confident this time. Still a tad sheepish, still guarded, but Buck found himself wanting that smile to stay, for a lot longer than mere seconds. He wanted to see that smile every second. Wanted to relish in the fact that he had caused that, had cut down that first strand of metaphorical barbed wire that had obviously wrapped itself around Gale's heart.

His own grin mirrored Gale's then, he couldn't keep it at bay. Couldn't wrangle it back.

"Don't get used to it, pretty boy. I gotta keep up appearances you know." Bucky leaned forward slightly, hand coming up beside his mouth and giving a quick glance in either direction before slipping Gale a wink. "The boys might think I've gone soft."

Gale rolled his eyes with what Bucky could have sworn was fondness.

"Can't have that now can we." he chuckled.

The warmth of it gave John's heart it's own flame. It cast itself there like a stray needle from a cactus catching in the hem at the bottom of his jeans. There to stay, not easily shaken this time.

Still with that smile, John regarded Buck carefully, letting himself fully take in the man standing in front of him. The slightly dusty blond hairs straying out from underneath his hat, falling in a haphazard curl on his forehead. The soft baby blue eyes, framed by dark blond lashes that fanned his cheeks in an almost elegant way every time he blinked or lowered his gaze. The strong line of his nose that lead down to the cupid's bow of his top lip then down to the fullness of them, that put the prettiest buckle-bunnies to complete and utter shame.

"You know, uh," John began softly, his smile dropping the tiniest bit, only in concentration at the serious tone he now felt rise in him. Buck cocked his head to the side at the sound, "when this whole circuit ends at the NFR is Vegas, and there were only two cowboy's left in that arena, it'd be me, and it'd be you, Buck."

Something sparked in Buck's eyes, his smile towards John softening even further as a deep but gentle laugh escaped him. "Don't count on it."

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arealphrooblem · 1 year

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Surrender Prompt Fills #3

Was about to pump this out before surgery. Wish me luck y'all! As always, these fills were inspired by the amazing surrender prompts by @whither-wander-whump

Part two here

- a character who steps forward and holds out their hands to be restrained almost gleefully. Bantering and trading taunts with their captor, because they know that every moment they spend here is another moment their team/friend/lover has to get away.

“I have to admit, I didn’t think it would be this easy.”

The antagonist stared down at the hero’s proffered hands like it could be a bomb

The hero grinned, pouncing on this opportunity like a cat with a laser pointer. “Are you calling me easy?”

“Are you — once again — twisting everything I say into a pathetic double entendre?” The sheer exasperation so early on in their banter made the hero’s smile curl into a smirk.

“You ask that as if you don’t set me up for that exact response.”

The antagonist gave them a flat stare. “I don’t.”

“Not consciously at least,” the hero added, fondness leaking through their tone.

They should feel anything but fond right now, staring down the barrel of a painful captivity in hopes that their teammates could get away. They were minnows compared to the white whale the hero had become to the antagonist. Years of teasing, cat and mouse games, dancing out of the antagonist’s clutches at the last moment — all down the drain. The game was over and the hero lost.

And yet anticipation buzzed electric under their skin at what the antagonist would finally do now they had the hero in their hands. So many years of pent up threats and sly hints at the strange attraction stretched taut between them spelled a kind of risk/reward feedback the hero couldn’t help but look forward to.

“Well?” they prompted, wigging their wrists. “Do I have to put the cuffs on myself?”

The antagonist did nothing but stare, as if their very gaze could take the hero apart piece by piece and see everything inside. The hero tried their best to look as guileless as possible in return.

“Tell me the catch and I’ll consider it.”

The hero blinked. “There is no catch. You want me. You can have me.”

“What’s the price then?”

The hero debated on another oblivious answer, but the way the antagonist’s eyes narrowed spelled the end of their patience. The game was over.

“You get me,” they said softly, “and only me. No one else.”

Understanding bloomed in the antagonist’s gaze. “I see. They’re already gone, then?”

“I sure hope so. I wouldn’t want to deliver myself to your tender mercies for nothing.”

Something flickered in the antagonist’s eyes. A sharper edge. A hunger. Without warning the antagonist shoved them roughly against the side of the car, cuffs clicking with tight finality over the hero’s wrists.

“What I am going to do to you,” the antagonist breathed, their lips just a scant few inches away, “is neither tender nor a mercy.”

Something bright sparked sharply in the hero’s chest. Whether it was fear or desire, they couldn’t tell you.

What I am going to do to you

Oh the terrifying and electrifying implications of that statement.

The hero’s gaze darted down to the antagonist’s mouth, drawn like a magnet to iron. They watched a smirk curl the corner of their lips up before the antagonist leaned in close to their ear. Their fingers pressed into the thrumming pulse in the hero’s wrists.

“Perhaps, if you’re good, you may even enjoy some of it. But you would have to be very good, Hero. Are you sure you’re capable of that?”

The hero felt strangely light-headed. Fear and delight danced a tango in their chest, as close together as the hero and the antagonist were right now.

“I guess we’ll find out,” they whispered.

The antagonist pulled back far enough to lock their dark dark gaze onto the hero.

“Yes, we will.”

#hero x villain #surrender prompts #prompt fills #my writing #writeblr

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frodo-with-glasses · 1 year

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So Meg and I were chatting on Discord the other day and came to a realization:

Hey! now! Come hoy now! Whither do you wander?

Up, down, near or far, here, there or yonder?

Sharp-ears, Wise-nose, Swish-tail and Bumpkin,

White-socks my little lad, and old Fatty Lumpkin!

This is the rhyme that Tom sings when he’s looking for the ponies. The first five of them are Merry’s ponies: presumably one for each of the hobbits to ride, and one more for the baggage. (The last is Tom’s own pony.) And Meg noticed a surprising parallel between the ponies’ names and the hobbits:

Sharp-ears = Merry

Throughout the story, Merry is shown to be the one with the best head for details. He’s “sharp”, if you will; observant and intelligent.

EDIT: Merry is also the one who spies on Bilbo and Frodo to learn about the Ring! He’s got very “sharp” ears, and eyes too.

Wise-nose = Frodo

This is the easiest one. Frodo’s name means “wise” or “wisdom”, so this pony fits him well.

Swish-tail = Pippin

Tell me whose vibe fits Swish-tail better than Pippin. That’s right; you can’t. The name conjures a picture of careless jollity, which couldn’t be more Pippin.

Bumpkin = Sam

A “bumpkin” is defined as “an unsophisticated or socially awkward person from the countryside”. As much as I would be the last person in the world to call Sam a backwards yokel, he is nonetheless the most “country” of the four hobbits, and his name literally means “half-wise”, or “lacking wisdom”.

That leaves White-socks to be the baggage pony, which likely doesn’t have much significance (aside from the fact that he’s an outlier because hobbits don’t wear socks).

We’re not sure there’s any particular point to this. We’re also not sure whether or not Tolkien did it on purpose. But either way, it’s a fun thing to think about!

#meg tag #lord of the rings #lotr #lotr meta #tom bombadil

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enjoyerofgoodbooks · 3 months

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SpidermanxBatfam crossover part 1 (cringe but I'm learning so shut up)

reposted from ao3 of the same name

Honestly, I'd rather be dead than in New Jersey.😔

"A little while ago, most people went to bed thinking that the craziest thing in the world was a billionaire in a flying metal suit. Then aliens invaded New York and were beaten back by, among others, a giant green monster, a costumed hero from the '40s and a god."

Peter was just saying goodbye. At that moment he promised he would tell them, he promised that he wouldn't let them forget. Peter lied. Sure, this time he may not have had a choice, as he was dragged away in a flash of light. Still, even if he stayed, he would've let them go.

It's better that way. Everyone who loves him dies sooner or later. Is it selfish that he can't take that loss? Is it selfish when you had to watch your uncle whither away? Is it selfish when the only man who was there, the one you thought of as a father figure dies because you just weren't good enough? Is it selfish when your last living relative died in your arms too? Really it's selfish of him to keep on living, when those who deserve it can't. There's a whisper of something in the back of his mind.

He ignores it.

It doesn't matter. None of that matters, because something must have gone wrong with the spell. It wasn’t even his fault this time. Of course, Peter could be dreaming, or hallucinating, or- any way that still doesn't explain why he's no longer anywhere he recognizes.

Perhaps he's dead. Maybe when the spell was cast it killed him. No one can re-remember Peter Parker if he's not there, right? He could be dead.

Being dead is funny. He's small, like super small, around 4 feet even. And his body feels… disproportionate. He feels like a child. It doesn't make any sense. If he was dead, why would he be at an age he's not supposed to have his powers? He can still feel the ringing of his spider-sense, and all of his spidery instincts are intact, so why is he a kid? There's no one to fight in the afterlife. He can feel the way his suit hangs off of him with hyperawareness as well as the blood and grime all over his body. It's disgusting. The nanobots should be contorting to any shape he takes, and it doesn't.

If Peter isn't dead, then where is he?

“Karen?” he waits a few seconds, there's no response.

Well, that's not good.

His suit retracts back into his blue wristbands. The area stays silent. It's early out, and the surrounding area is full of brush and greenery. The trees are tall oak variants and the bushes are completely unfamiliar. The smell of polluted waters infects his sense of smell, more so than the overall rankness of the place. It's a park. Even in its dilapidated state, he can tell. The footpaths are clear of people and only slightly weathered. It doesn't appear to be a very popular destination. Everything feels washed out, it feels heavy. Where is he? He smells a city, but not his city.

He’s not in New York, that much is obvious.

He needs to figure out where he is. The most apparent way to start would be the footpath leading beyond a curve, it looks safe enough. First, though, he needs to asses himself.

The white tee he is wearing is full of stains, most of it blood. Truly unfortunate as he couldn't just go out and about covered in blood, that would be suspicious, especially with his pants in the same condition. It doesn't help that his clothes are a few sizes too big. No, Peter needs to do this movie style- he needs to steal from a conveniently placed clothesline when no one is looking. It wouldn't be his first time anyway, Spider-Man always needed clothes he didn't have.

“Personally, darling I'll take larceny over virtue every time!”

After tucking in his shirt and rolling up his pants he starts for the path. It must not be a bust time of year, or a very popular park, because Peter has been walking for 10 minutes and he hasn't sensed anybody. Thats definitely a record to say the least. It is starting to get concerning with his surroundings transforming to become more… threatening? Yeah, his senses have been going off the entire time he's been here- but eh what kills him makes him stronger! Still, that doesn't mean he's headed for the more suspicious option when he comes to a fork in the path.

It was easy to forget about everything and walk, there was too much to think about, and he preferred not to, but as his time came to an end he had to think about what to do. He could clearly see the metal gates of the entrance creeping up ahead. The sign stood boldly against the grey sky. It was written backward from where he could see it, clearly meant to be read on the way in, nevertheless, he could see the bold gothic font reading “Robinson Park”. Yep. he has no idea where that is.

Giving himself one last check-over, he wipes his face with his forearm and continues past the gate. There are people lurking now. Every little thing makes his hair rise, he's never seen so many people accustomed to blending in with the shadows, never so many so distrusting. It's disconcerting. He takes a left onto the sidewalk, still with no concrete idea where he's going. He should ask, but the looks he receives just walking make his skin crawl, no one is safe. It reminds him how vulnerable he is as a child.

That's when he happens upon the aforementioned conveniently placed clothesline! It's located between two third-story windows that look like they belong to a small family. For someone with normal abilities, it would be impossible to reach that high, fortunately for Peter, he hasn't been normal for a long time. Every kid had their parents, but Peter had his aunt. She's not here- He crawls up the wall, there aren't many clothes that suit him within reach, but he can see a pair of overalls that fit. Eh good enough. The owner shouldn't miss them anyway. They're a bit old but they are clean. He jumps back down into the alleyway.

After changing his pants he tosses them onto the clothesline, abandoning them for good. And then he walks. He walks until he finds somebody who doesn't look like they would walk away when he approaches them, and he sticks to the shadows. It takes another 20 minutes.

He sees an older woman. Her dreads are a deep purple, they complement her skin nicely. She’s still intimidating, but he can just tell she won't chase him away. Perhaps it's because she's tending to some of the only healthy plants he's seen so far. She cares. May liked yellow garden mums.

After a moment of gathering his courage, he approaches.

“Hello? I’m sorry to bother you ma'am but could you tell me where I am?”

She stares at him for a hot second (reasonable considering he likely looks like a preteen covered in dirt) before responding, “Gotham, Jersey,” She shifts toward him “What's got ya stranded, tiny?”

“I'm not sure?”

“Don't say that like a question.” Okay then.

“I’m not sure.”

“Better.”

Let's cut down on the conversation, “Sorry, but could you point me to the library?”

“Down the street you just passed.” She says it like she would rather like for him to shut up.

“Thanks.”

She simply goes back to her plants. he turns around and heads for the sign that reads “Lamar Street” before taking a left to go down it. Gotham, New Jersey. What kind of a stupid name is that? It kind of fits though, everything is quite gothic. Well, at least it's not named City City or anything. Eugh but he's in New Jersey- what kind of a sick joke is Mr. Strange Dr. Strange playing? Gotham doesn’t even exist. Honestly, he's confused, because if it did there's no way he wouldn’t have heard of it. This place is huge, and a pain in the butt to walk in.

He wants to go home , is there anything left of ‘home’?. How did he even end up here again? He's been walking for just about half an hour and he's only come up with a few theories.

A. He's been put into a comatose or dreamlike state by the spell to teach him a lesson? Unlikely.

B. He has been in a comatose or dreamlike state since he was a child and created a reality in his head where he's Spider-Man and has awoken in the real world. Also unlikely considering that if his life was a fantasy he wouldn't have killed off everyone he ever loved.

Now for the most likely answer: C. Peters has been sent to an alternate dimension by the spell and is now stuck in a timeline where everything is fucked, including himself.

Probable, unfortunately. Seeing as the spell had to do with both sewing the multiverse back together and sending the villains back home.

“‘Probability’ is just a five-dollar word for ‘luck.’ And I'm nothing but bad luck, baby.”

Yeah, something went wrong with that spell.

Faith darn it. —

He’ll need to get to the library to truly confirm anything. Good thing he can see a large rectangular structure in the distance, it's a traditional structure with an ornate design, it has white stone support pillars, huge steps, and a ramp that leads to a row of doors.

It took a few minutes to actually get the the library, it was more impressive up close. You could clearly see the spots that were repaired, and they added to the beauty of the exterior, like kintsugi There’s beauty in a broken bowl, Peter-. Just above the entrance, you could see the well-carved “Gotham Public Library” sign. Good thing he arrived at the moment he did, the sky looks ready to cry and he does not want to be on the receiving end of it.

Peter finds the many steps to be irritating on his legs, but the rotating doors feel satisfying to walk through. It's like a weight lifted off his shoulders. The smell of books and wood is comforting. He’ll find a way home.

The interior was exactly as he imagined, with a high ceiling and a ridiculously large space. The floor was made of a polished grey stone, and the shelves were dark wood. Throughout the room he could just barely see tables and chairs with lamps situated stagnantly in place. There was definitely more beyond what he could see.

At the front, there were two desks, only one of them was occupied though. On the other side of it was a redheaded librarian, typing something on a rather outdated desktop.

Peter, needing an outdated desktop of his own, advanced on her desk. He barely reached over the top, so he stepped back a bit to be more in view of the librarian.

“Excuse me,”

She paused from what she was doing and looked up, she seemed surprised, and… perturbed. She reminds him of May.

"With great power, there must come great responsibility."

She spent a second thinking, “Ah yes, do you need something?” She decided on.

“I’m looking for the computers-” She interrupted, “Oh! Yes that’ll be just down the aisle,” she gestured to her left. Her gaze never left him, though. “Thanks, Ms.-?”

“My name’s Barbara, and yours?”

“It’s Peter.” He hadn't needed to introduce himself in what felt like ages. It’s nice.

“Have a nice day, Peter” she smiled.

“You too Ms. Barbara!” he smiled back, genuinely.

Though even as he walked away he could feel her eyes on him.

— — — — — — — — —

Today was actually shaping up to be a relatively normal day for Barbara, as on all good days no active rogues were waiting to terrorize the city, she got a good chunk of sleep, and she even ate a couple of croissants. That was until her early afternoon shift at the library. Sure, doppelgangers exist, but so do clones. This didn't feel like a clone.

The child in front of her sent her back- back to an age where an 8-year-old in a leotard beat grown men in the dead of night. This isn't him, this child may share his shape, but his eyes and hair are brown, a dark brown that you can only see under the light. It could be a coincidence, but when has anything been a coincidence? There's surely something wrong here. Is it an unknown relative? Unlikely. Somebody would've mentioned extended family if he had any. If the boy was related to Dick then the only real option is that he fathered a child.

Except Peter looks 10, possibly younger, and Dick just turned 27. Teen parents exist. Dick is not one of them.

— — — — — — — — —

So… you got sent to another universe. You screwed up. You know it's probably something you did. The question is, what was it? Maybe you tried to do something stupid. But take it from a guy who has no idea what’s going on… the only way to find out is to take a step back. The voice of Captain America rings in Peters' head. He actually kind of wishes he could watch his PSAs. It would mean he is somewhere close to home.

Except that the only American captain around here is Captain Marvel, which is nothing like the Captain Marvel back home, seeing as this one is a man. He also happens to be one of the many members of the Justice League, which looks like this universe's version of the Avengers.

Of course, there's a bigger issue here, namely 1:15 PM April 3, 2011. The computer clearly states it as the date though just a few hours ago it was around 7:00 PM on July 11, 2024.

“If you expect disappointment, then you can never really be disappointed.”

Peter is nine. Nine years old in the crime capital of the world. In a world that isn't even his. Stuck in a place not even 8.5 vigilantes (Nightwing spends most of his time in Gotham's sister city of Blüdhaven if Peter remembers correctly) can protect.

It's all part of the Parker Luck!™

#batman #spider-man #dc x spider man #dc #marvel #peter parker

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