#i haven't written anything in such a long time

[codtrashsammy]

Cute Meet?

Started as a kinda character study and idk what happened, i'ma be honest. I haven't written anything with length in awhile, so feel free to leave cc and let me know what you think <3 Just a cute meet kinda scenario, reader is an anxious lil thing and Simon 'Ghost' Riley is obsessed upon first glance. Love? No, not yet.. but obsessed, yes. Word Count: 1.3K Pairing: Simon Riley x Reader/You Warnings: No warnings, no use of y/n tho Enjoy :))

Ghost is the keeper. Ghost is stoic, cold, even apathetic. Ghost can kill a whole platoon without batting an eye, can be covered in the blood of his enemies and be entirely uncaring to watch it flow down the drain once he has enough time to scrub the caked blood from where it seeped through his clothes. He is in charge, able to control his emotions effortlessly, able to lead. He is everything he needs to be. And then there’s Simon. Ghost is the keeper. Simon is the man beneath the mask who needs one. Simon is more akin to a stray dog than a human at times. Face hidden from the world, yet teeth always barred and ready to bite. Hidden behind a mask, a carefully crafted mask that is Ghost. A man with more scars than flesh, a man with more trauma than peace, a man who simply longs for the normalcy of life without a way to reach it. And then came you.

Ghost couldn’t care less for you. The mask is on as he’s on leave, shopping in a grocery store to get something to eat on while he stays in that damned motel for the next couple of weeks before flying out once more. The mask stays in place, a protection, a show the keeper is in charge. You don’t mean to run into him, you’re definitely not the type to go looking for trouble- you’ve had enough of that in your life, and you’re just starting to get your shit together for the nth time. But as you’re both leaving, you stumble, bumping right into him and leaving a couple of his poor bags strewn about on the sidewalk rather than carefully held within each hand. “Fuckin’ ‘ell,” Ghost grumbles with a sigh, clearly not pleased by the circumstances while watching a can of beans he had bought simply roll off of the sidewalk area and into the road- promptly ran over by a vehicle looking to park. No beans and toast now, british man. “I am so sorry-” You immediately apologize, the sheepish and embarrassed look on your face obvious as you dust yourself off and try to begin gathering the mess that you had caused. Ghost is annoyed at you. Just one look and he’s annoyed. But Simon? Simon is enchanted. The sweet, sheepish smile on your face, the way you scramble to help, the heat to your cheeks in your embarrassment as you scatter around trying to fix the situation. The way your hair falls and how you’re clearly nervous, but you still act anyway. You don’t care of how he looks- all brooding and intimidating with his hoodie over his head and the black medical mask over the lower half of his face. You couldn’t care less of that- you simply want to make things better. Simon notices that though. Simon remains frozen for a few moments, hidden interest in his eyes as he watches you scramble about, resorting your things just to have an extra couple of bags for his things. And you just hand things back over to him, the sheepish smile still on your face, the embarrassment clear- but gods, you look like such a sweet lil thing, lookin’ at him like he’s a human, a person. “‘S fine,” Simon eventually spits out, taking the bags from your hands and glancing once more at the beans staining the roadway now, before turning to focus his attention back on you. He could let you leave now. He could, it’d be so easy. He could leave it at that and walk away, probably never hear or see from you again. I mean, hell, he’s only known you for all of 5 minutes, and it’s because you’re a clumsy little shit who fucked up his shopping. It’d be so easy so why does it feel so hard. “D’ya always ‘ave to make such an impression?” Simon quips out, readjusting the bags comfortably in his grip. You can’t even pretend not to notice his accent- it’s unusual for where you live, you don’t think you’ve ever heard anything like it outside of the media you’ve consumed. It’s pleasant, rings around in the ears for a bit. You finally meet his eyes, and gods, they are gorgeous. Deep, rich, brown- like chocolate with golden flecks scattered. Especially in the sunlight- like they are now- pools of liquid gold swimming about a chocolate river. “Ah- No- Um-” You struggle to find the right words, now your cheeks are warmer, and it’s less from embarrassment and more from the pretty eyed stranger you just fucking throttled on accident. But at least he doesn’t seem angry, so there’s always that. “I’m so sorry,” You settle on apologizing again, one of your hands moving to nervously run through your hair, pushing some strands out of your face. “‘S fine. Really.” Simon says with a slight nod, and you can feel the burn of his eyes as they trail over you. You can’t decide if he means it or not, though, he sounds oddly monotone for such simple words. “Still, I feel bad, I uh- I’m kinda clumsy at best,” You blurt out, sheepish smile on your face despite its softness as you glance away from him before looking back once more, “I uh- just wasn’t paying much attention to where I was going- a real bad habit of mine, honestly- which is surprising cause you’re kinda huge and hard to miss-” 

What the fuck did you just say?!Your cheeks heat up further, hands moving to gesture with your words now. You’re rambling, you know you are, but god did not give you the ability to shut the fuck up. “N-Not that that’s a bad thing! You’re uh- very well-built!” what the fuck you’re making it worse- “I-I mean- You uh- You have lots of muscle a-and that’s a good thing! And you have pretty eyes- always a bonus!” Simon’s eyebrow slowly lifts, his eyes crinkling at the sides. Simon’s been called a lot of things in his life- but he’s realizing at this moment that no one has ever called his eyes pretty. They’re brown. He can recall Johnny referring to them as ‘shit brown’ more often than not.  And you just look so fucking adorable- continuing to ramble, but he’s hardly paying attention to the words now, watching your cheeks get darker, your hands gesturing with your words, nervously shifting on your feet as you try to ‘save’ the situation. Such a precious lil thing, too pure for this world.

Simon was enchanted at first glance.

Ghost decides he could be, too.

A pretty thing like you? In this world? Oh, love, that’s just not safe. You’re a lil bundle of nervous, clearly. How’d ya make it this far? Who made ya like this? Unsure, rambling, nervous? Ghost wants to learn you. Wants to figure out what events molded you into this cute lil thing. You clearly need someone- he won’t judge, Simon needs him, too.

Ghost decides he wants to know you. Simon has made that thought known.

“You know what? I’m gonna shut up!” You finally say, voice a higher pitch and the heat being felt in the tips of your ears at this point as you take a step away from the masked man, who you know you’ve done ruined the chance to know with your inability to shut the fuck up.

“Tell me yer name before ya do,” Simon says, voice smooth like it’s the easiest and most casual thing in the world.

He’s so… quiet. He let you ramble and make an absolute fool of yourself- but now he’s actually wanting to know your name?

After you manage to knock yourself out of your stupor, you finally offer your name to him, cheeks finally cooling down a bit. Only to heat back up once he repeats your name in that voice of his, all low and gruff- says it differently than anything you’ve ever heard before- like it’s something important, something that matters.

“Simon,” He supplies, adjusting his bags in one grip as he offers a hand to you.

Simon and Ghost are two very different people who share this skin suit.

But they both decide you’re theirs.

#simon ghost x reader #cod x reader #141 x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you

[osamusriceballs]

One week

Bokuto x fem reader

Warnings: NSFW

Words: ~ 1,7 k

About: Just Bokuto missing you so, so much. And kinda cumming too fast.

It's been a week.

Only one short week of you being apart.

You remember how you held Bokuto's face in your hands and told him that you'll miss him—and how he adorably pouted and told you that he'd miss you more and win this game for you and make you proud.

You had smiled and told him that you're always proud of him, and he had simply wrapped his arms tightly around you and kissed you goodbye.

It's been a week since that moment, and now you've been anxiously waiting for him to come back.

He did win the game. For you, baby, as he had proudly reassured you on the phone, telling you that he'll make sure to take the next flight to visit you—and you know he will come home any second.

A rustling noise of keys makes your ears perk up, and after a few moments that seem like forever, you finally see him.

Koutarou.

"Y/n!" His energetic voice echoes through your whole apartment, and you barely manage to get up before he already makes his way towards you and wraps his big arms around you.

"Baby, I missed you so much. So, so much." He emphasizes every word by pressing kisses against your cheeks, your lips—everywhere he could reach, his full lips feeling soft against your skin, just like you're used to remembering his touch.

"I've missed you too, Kou." You smile and press yourself closer to him, not leaving any distance between your bodies now. He instantly responds with his hands coming from your back to your hips, holding your body in a firm grip. You look up at him, noticing how intently he's suddenly looking at you. You squirm in his hold, a sudden feeling of want and need rushing through your body—oh, how you've missed his touch too during the past week. He seems to feel the same, his hands roaming around your body, wandering up on your shoulders, and resting on your ass cheeks finally, gently squeezing the soft flesh.

"Baby, can we... can we go to the bedroom, maybe?"

Your heart stops for a second, your body already tingling with slowly building anticipation. As much as you want to talk to him, you also want to be close to him- and, oh, how much you crave his touch now.

"Please." You tilt your face upwards and press your lips against his—in a deep and intense kiss, hoping to feel the same hunger from him, and he is quick to push his tongue into your mouth, turning the kiss into a messy tangle of tongues, lips molding against each other, and bodies pressing hardly against each other. His hands move from your ass to your thighs, and it only takes him one firm movement to grab them and wrap them around his waist. You grab his shoulders and bury your hand in his hair, enjoying the feeling of his soft fluffy hair, slightly pulling on the strands because you know the effect this has on him. He groans into the kiss, blindly stumbling in the direction of the bedroom, not paying too much focus on anything else besides you. You mentally bless his reflexes and strength for saving you both from falling when he stumbles against his bag that he had left on the ground, and he slightly pulls back to focus on the way, walking into your shared bedroom with a few hasty steps.

His grip on your thighs tightens when you rake your nails against his chest, feeling his muscles under the black shirt, your breathing pattern irregular when he finally reaches the bed and stops. An excited grin is displayed on his face when he turns to sit on the bed, the motion effectively placing you right on his lap. His hands leave their place on your thighs and wander under your shirt, feeling the warm skin of your stomach, grazing against your ribs, causing a whine to leave your lips while you involuntarily try to close your legs—a futile attempt when his thighs both rest between yours.

"Baby, I missed your body, missed touching you like this." He breathes out when he roams his hands against your bare skin, feeling you everywhere within his reach. "Kou, please touch me." You know that you sound whiny, that he is already touching you, but you just need more of him—you want to feel him everywhere.

"I am, I am, already touching you. What do you need, baby? I'll give it to you." One hand comes up from under your shirt and grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are full of love and affection, a dark need lingering behind these pure emotions. That's the Koutarou you've been missing for so long—

"Want to feel you. Want everything." You mumble, knowing that he will take care of you so good—he always does. And he immediately nods and leans back to pull his shirt over his head, effectively leaving his upper body bare—and god, the smooth sun-kissed skin covering his muscular body makes your cheeks burn and flush. You push against his shoulders, and he gets the hint and rests his back on the bed, waiting for you to join him. And you're quick to lean down, still sitting straight on his crotch that you feel hardening with every shift of your body, and you start to kiss down on his neck, making your way down to his collarbones and chest. "Baby—" his voice has turned darker, more needy, and he throws his head back into the pillow when you lick and bite the skin on your way to his prominent v-line and to his dark happy trail right above his boxers.

"Baby—" a loud whimper leaves his lips, and he suddenly bucks his hips almost to your face. You lift your head and look up at him, his chest heaving heavily, and he suddenly sits up and leans down to kiss you intensely.

"Wanna feel you, baby. Please let me." He gently grabs your arms, and now it's your turn to lay on your back, and he gently pulls your shirt up to expose your chest. Your hands fist the sheets underneath as he pushes your bra to the side, and his head instantly leans down to kiss the valley between your tits. "Kou—" a gasp leaves you at his eagerness when he leaves messy, wet kisses against your body, but his hands already fumble with your pants. Bokuto helps you shed yourself out of your pants, and your panties are quick to follow.

You barely register how he undresses himself; in the next second, he's already hovering over you again and gasping your name against your neck.

"Y/n—missed you so much, baby," his voice right next to your ear makes you shiver in anticipation and you know he won't make you wait any longer. You arch further into him and push your hips against his, until you feel his bulge against your stomach. He grinds against you, the hardness of his cock pressing against you, and you slowly bring your hands down his back to bring your hand between your bodies to his cock, but he is quick to stop you when he realizes what you're about to do. "Can I—put it in already? Wanna feel your warmth, wanna be buried in your pussy." A shiver runs down his body, and you nod with a breathy whine when he lines up at your entrance.

So full. Only the head of his cock nudged between your legs, and you already feel full. He slowly inches deeper, the stretch delicious and welcome, especially since you haven't seen him for quite some time, and your body is overwhelmed with sensations and feelings. "Kou—"

"It's okay, baby. It's okay. I'm here." He keeps eye contact as he pushes deeper, but you can see him struggling as well, with his breath shallow and fast and his face blissed out.

He moans loudly for you when you clench around him, the sound unrestricted and loud in the room, and you tug on his silvery-white strands as a response. His moan changes to a whimper, a cute needy sound coming from this big, beefy man, and he finally allows his hips to move, to feel your warmth and wetness. You know you're already dripping for him, making his cock wet, and the lubrication makes him easily glide in and out of you. The first few thrusts start steady and slow, but the whimpering sounds won't stop coming from his lips, a few beads of sweat running down his forehead while he slowly ruts his hips against yours. "Baby—I'm sorry—" he gasps and presses his head against your neck. "Can't fuck you- like I want to—'s too much, missed you too much—" his hips suddenly stutter, and his body tenses on top of yours, and you feel him cumming, the warmth filling you up and making you feel so good while he cums and cums, throaty moans escaping his lips along an incoherent mixture of your name and prayers.

His body finally goes limp above yours, his massive weight caging you underneath, and you gently rake your nails against his back and caress the smooth skin under your fingers.

You stay like that for a few seconds, only your rapid breaths filling the room, until he tenses and sits up a bit to look at your face.

"Baby—I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to cum so fast," another whimper leaves his lips when his softening cock slips from your pussy, and his cum starts leaking out from you. It's a lot. You felt him cumming before, and you know that he usually cums quite a lot- but the amount that's starting to leak from you now is insane.

"Kou—you came so much. All for me?" You ask and bring your hand to his cheek, only for him to lean into your touch. "All for you, baby. Haven't touched myself since I last saw you. Wanna give you everything, always."

He brings his lips down to yours and connects them in a deep kiss, his body slightly trembling from having just finished. He pulls back eventually with a look of sadness on his handsome face, and you know that he is disappointed in himself. "You didn't finish, baby. I want to make you feel good too." Your heart swells with affection at his words, and you smile at him with hearts in your eyes probably.

"It's fine. I'm feeling really good already."

"Y/n, baby." He smiles when he says your name and fully lifts his body, his prominent muscles on his chest and arms all showing when he leans back and looks down at you. "You know that I can give much more than that." He grins, the sweet playful grin that you love so much on him, and he leans down to kiss down on your body, his hands holding your waist and pressing you down to the sheets, and you know exactly what he's up to.

"Now, I'll make you feel really, really good, baby."

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #bokuto #bokuto smut #bokuto x reader #I headcanon that he eats you out like a starved man after this #and then you go for three other rounds #like seriously #he's got so much to give #he's such a pleaser #but he sometimes gets overwhelmed #poor bby :( #the way this took me so so long to write #so sorry #haven't written anything this month so far #I was quite busy with my internship #but I have like the whole weekend off #which is like the first time this year I think #I feel so good rn #might open a bottle of wine and enjoy the night

[yikesharringrove]

steve being absolutely whipped for steve is my favorite thing ever. like ok what if they were friends and billy likes steve, and steve's oblivious to it but billy will drop whatever he's doing to make steve's like a the tiniest bit easier and it's so cute

It all starts with homework.

Homework Steve dropped on the floor in the hallway, to be more specific.

He fucking tripped and his shit went everywhere, and he was scrambling to pick it all up, when he noticed another pair of hands shuffling with his papers.

“Thanks, Hargrove,” he muttered.

“Most of these are wrong.” Steve snatched the math worksheet out of his hands, his face hot as he stuffed it in his backpack.

He tried to push past the absolutely solid wall that was Billy Hargrove, but the other boy kept blocking him.

“C’mon, I’ll help you.”

“I don’t need any help.”

It was a fucking lie. He knew he’d gotten most of the problems wrong. They were working on some weird formula that had to do with area, or volume, or something like that. And Steve really didn’t understand it.

But he didn’t want any help from fucking Hargrove, who would just spread it around the school that Steve Harrington is in remedial geometry as a senior.

But Hargrove had reached into Steve's backpack, and yanked out the assignment, using the pencil he had stored behind his ear to erase Steve’s shitty work.

“All you have to do is multiply the length by the width by the height. And that’s volume.”

Steve had added those three values and then cubed them. It had taken him hours.

“I know.”

Billy gave him a scathing look.

“Meet me in the library at lunch, and we’ll fix it.”

-

Steve wasn’t actually expecting Billy to be there, but he was. And they fixed Steve’s math.

And he got an A on the homework, his first one all year.

So it became a thing. They’d do Steve’s math homework at lunch together. And Billy would walk him through the tough problems, and clap him on the back when he got something by himself.

His teacher noticed his progress, and congratulated him on it.

“I got a tutor,” he told her.

They were studying on some random Thursday together, Billy with his nose in some worn-out novel, periodically peeking over the pages to take a look at Steve's math homework.

He was doing much better, and now Billy only had to silently point to an incorrect answer for Steve to go back and fix it.

Steve's stomach rumbled, breaking the silence,

"Jesus, Harrington. I think your stomach is trying to eat itself."

Steve rolled his eyes, but he smiled at Billy.

"Seriously, just eat lunch."

There technically was a rule against food in the library, but the librarian liked Billy, and tended to turn a blind eye to whatever he was doing at his usual back table.

Steve checked his watch.

"I'll just grab something later. I need to finish this."

He kept working on his math. His stomach growled again.

Billy sighed.

He dug into his bag, pulling out the crumpled brown paper bag Susan has passed him in the morning. She always made him lunch after a rough night with his dad.

Consolation prize, he guesses.

He pulled out the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, placing one half on Steve's open textbook.

Steve looked at him with round eyes.

"Nah dude, that's your lunch. I can get something after school."

"Like hell. Just eat the sandwich, Harrington."

Steve scarfed the first half like a small animal, and Billy glared at him until he had the second half.

He'll be okay, he can just sneak some food at home before his dad gets back from work.

-

"Harrington! How many times," Coach yelled from the sidelines. "You're leaving yourself too open!"

Steve was breathing hard, sprinting down the court after being bowled over by one of the guys on the other team.

It was deafening in the gym, the stands packed full.

Steve was playing like shit. The other team was dogging him, stealing the ball from him, blocking his every move.

He was point guard to Billy's shooting guard.

Billy yanked him by the back of the jersey, pulling him back to mutter in his ear.

Steve nodded once.

It was a good play, a simple pick and roll.

The other team scored, and Billy nodded at Steve.

They brought it down the court, and Billy made eye contact with Steve as he moved to set a pick on the asshole guard that kept knocking Steve down.

Steve moved, sprinting to the basket to finally make a fucking shot.

As he moved, the guard followed, but there was Billy.

They collided hard, and Billy got knocked flat on his ass.

His head cracked against the wooden floor, and he saw stars for a second.

He was fucking pleased as punch to see the other guard flat on his back, too. Looking as dazed as Billy felt.

There was a hand in front of his face, and he took it, allowing Steve to bring him to his feet, a look of concern in his big eyes.

"You okay, dude?"

"You score?"

"Yeah."

"Then I'm fine." He clapped Steve on the shoulder, jogging back to get in the game, shaking off the dizzy spell.

-

Billy paid no mind to the phone ringing.

He was sat at the kitchen table, finishing up his chemistry homework.

Sometimes he and Max did homework at the kitchen table together. Neil would give approving looks when he walked by if he saw Billy helping her with something she pretended not to understand.

"Hargrove residence." Neil was the only one who answered the phone that way. The rest of them said Hargrove-Mayfield.

Billy tightened his grip on his pencil.

He could feel his dad's eyes on the back of his head, standing straight against the wall where the phone was mounted.

"Yes, he is here."

Fuck.

What could Billy have done now? He's been a model fucking citizen for the past week.

And no one can trace that fucking fire under the bleachers back to him. Besides, he put it out before anything could really get burned.

"Billy, the phone's for you."

At least if he was in trouble, the person wouldn't be asking to speak with him.

Billy stood up, ignoring Max's questioning look.

Billy took the phone, not making eye contact with his dad.

"Hey! Sorry, I know this is weird, but I got your phone number from Max a little while ago, and I know usually we just study during school, but I am so fucking confused on this assignment. And I'll pay you! I'll even order food if you want to come over to help me. Oh! This is Steve by the way."

As if Billy wouldn't recognize his rambling.

"Um, sure. I can help you." He looked at his dad. "And no need to pay me."

"Just try to get out of here without any money. I dare you. So, can you come over? Tonight? This is due tomorrow."

Billy wasn't supposed to leave on school nights.

"Can you give me a second? Please?" He didn't wait for Steve to respond, he just lowered the phone.

"Dad," he started.

"How long have you been tutoring that Harrington boy?" Neil's voice was unreadable.

"A few weeks. Mostly at school. He needs some help tonight, and uh, offered to pay me if I come by his place."

"And you said you didn't want to be paid?"

"Yes, sir."

Billy tried his very best not to flinch when his dad patted him on the shoulder.

"That's good. Rubbing elbows with the Harrigntons. I was wondering why they didn't press charges when you beat that boy to a pulp."

Billy fucking hated when Neil brought that shit up.

It wasn't his fault he has a hard time controlling his rage. If anything, it's Neil's fault for slapping him around before sending him on an errand.

Steve just happened to kinda get in the way.

But Billy apologized, and Steve said he got over it, and clearly he did, if he's inviting Billy over to his house to work on his homework.

He raised the phone back up to his ear.

"Sure, I can help you. But I can't be out late. It's a school night."

Neil nodded approvingly, and Billy flipped him the bird the second he turned his back.

"Yeah, whatever. The front door's unlocked, just come upstairs when you're here."

Steve didn't even wait for a reply before he ended the call, and Billy quietly placed the phone back on the receiver.

He cleaned up his own homework, and took his bag with him.

"Billy," his dad said as he was halfway out the back door. "Curfew's at 8:30. And I'll be locking the door."

"Yes, sir."

-

Harrington's house is fuckin' huge.

Billy should've expected it, with Steve's family being as well connected as they were.

He let himself into the house, as Steve had told him to do, and was immediately met with a slight woman, staring at him like he'd just walked uninvited into her home.

"Uh," he said. Why the fuck would Steve tell him to just come in? "I'm Billy? Billy Hargrove. Steve's tutor."

And then her face brightened, and holy shit, Steve looks exactly like his mom.

"He is upstairs, I'll show you." She waved him to follow behind her and she took off up the stairs.

Billy scrambled to kick his boots off and raced after her.

She was lean like Steve, with long legs and insanely thick,dark brown hair that went clear down to her ass.

(Steve even kinda has his mom's perfect ass.)

She knocked on the door to Steve's room, even though it was slightly ajar, and let herself in.

Steve was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, all curled up and sitting cross-legged on his chair.

"Tesoro, il tuo amico è qui."

Steve turned, and he fucking beamed at Billy.

"Grazie, Mamma." He waved Billy over in the same motion his mother had done downstairs.

Billy felt awkward in the room, and his face felt hot, and his palms were sweaty.

"Avete bisogno di qualcosa?" She asked, and holy shit, how has it taken Billy this long to realize that Steve and his mother were not even speaking fucking English to one another.

He knew he was staring.

"No, grazie."

She smiled again at Billy as she left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

"Damn, your mom's hot," was all Billy could think to say.

Luckily, it worked. Steve rolled his eyes, turning back to his work and shaking his head. But Billy could see a tiny smile on his face.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't start that shit and just help me with this, okay?"

Billy peered over his shoulder.

Steve was working on an English assignment, the same one Billy had completed last week.

It was a questionnaire about the Shakespeare play they had read in class, Othello.

Billy knew it was grueling, fifty multiple choice, ten matching, and three essay questions.

He had the book open text to him, and there had been lines and passages highlighted and annotated.

"This shit was nasty. I did it last week."

Steve scrunched his brows up at Billy.

"You're in English 12? How? You're a junior?"

Billy shrugged.

"That's just what I tested into when I moved here. I was on a fast track in California." Yeah, he would've probably gotten to graduate a semester early, if they had stayed.

"Okay, well, then you can help me. Because I can barely read as it is, and this stupid Shakespeare stuff just doesn't even make sense."

He put his head down on his desk, leaning his forehead against the questionnaire and groaning loudly.

"It's like another language. You have to learn to translate it. I mean, you and your mom were speakin' something, so you know how to do this."

"Yeah, and that's kinda the problem." Steve sat up, looking at Billy. Billy moved to sit on the corner of his desk. "My mom's from Italy, and I didn't even speak English until I was like, six. Regular English has never made sense to me, and then they give us this shit." He flipped the book closed harshly.

Billy had to bite his tongue, because the only thing he could think to say was you sure do talk a lot for someone who allegedly doesn't understand English. But he didn't really wanna be a dick right now.

"Okay. Here's what will do. We'll answer as many questions as you can. Once we get to the ones about specific passages, I'll read them in plain terms, and you'll be fine, okay?"

Steve nodded glumly, but he picked up his pencil.

"Okay, dude. You can definitely answer this first question."

Question one: Who wrote Othello.

Steve circled the correct answer and Billy pat him on the head. Steve glared at him playfully.

They went through the questions.

Some were easy, and clearly all Steve needed was a cheerleader, because he circled the correct ones right away.

But then, some were fucking difficult.

"Okay, question 36: What is the significance of Othello's handkerchief?"

Steve flipped through the book desperately.

"What fucking handkerchief?"

-

It was a little past eight, and Steve was just barely halfway through the packet.

He was clearly trying not to get frustrated, as he came across harder and harder questions, understanding less and less.

"So, in the passage, Iago is basically trying to turn Othello against Desdemona. He's saying that if she deceived her father, she would deceive Othello."

"But, I don't get why she lied to her dad. Like, what was the lie?"

"He didn't want her to get married to Othello, but she did anyway."

Steve just looked desperately at Billy.

"So, she did cheat on Othello? And Iago is telling him about it?"

"No, she didn't Iago is trying to fuck with Othello."

"Wait, so Desdemona did nothing wrong, and then Othello still kills her?" He looked incredulous.

"Yeah, man. It's Shakespeare. In the tragedies, everyone dies. In the comedies, everyone fucks."

"Why?"

"Because it was Elizabethan England, and everyone was fucking and dying, and half of these stories are based on the Greek plays that came before, in which everyone just fucked and died."

"I wish my life was like that. I just wanna fuck. And then die." Steve put his pencil down, leaning back in his chair. "I'm sorry, man. That I dragged you here to help me with this. I'm just fucking dumb."

Billy smacked Steve in the back of the head, and he yelped, glaring at Billy and rubbing the spot where Billy had merely tapped him.

"You're not stupid. This is hard. Now, let's keep going. This isn't gonna finish itself."

-

Billy ended up finally leaving Steve's close to ten.

His mom thanked him for helping Steve, and shoved a wad of cash in his hand that Billy felt too awkward to count until he had parked in his spot behind his house.

Jesus Christ, she gave him fifty bucks.

He put it with the rest of his stash, in the locked glove compartment, and wiggled into the back seat.

He doesn't doubt that his dad had locked the house promptly at curfew. He doesn't doubt that he was gonna get his shit rocked tomorrow after school when he showed up back at home.

But Steve had finished his assignment, and had flung his arms around Billy when it was finally over, and it's okay. Billy can take a few smacks.

-

"Hey!"

Billy turned to see Steve rushing towards him down the hall. His cheeks were pink and he was beaming.

He thrust the assignment from last night into Billy's hands, and there was a big red A- on the top.

"That's my best English grade, like, ever. Thank you! Seriously, Billy. Thank you so much. I'm taking you out for dinner this weekend, okay? To say thank you. I'll buy you a burger and a milkshake, and anything you want."

"Nah, man. Your mom paid me last night, it's okay."

Steve shook his head, his hair flopping onto his forehead, and he pushed it back, still grinning. Fuck, he's so pretty.

"Can it. We're going to the dinner and you're gonna eat fries until you puke, okay? We're going Friday."

Friday.

Billy's supposed to help Susan trim all the hedges on Friday.

Okay, if he wakes up early, he can do the front before school, and if he comes home during his free period, he could-

"Sure, Pretty Boy. Friday."

-

He was up before the sun, cutting hedges.

He had to shower before school, which he fucking hates doing, because he doesn't have enough time to properly do his hair in the mornings.

But he finished them.

He finished them all.

And he told Susan such when she handed him his pity packed lunch that morning.

She thanked him, and his dad narrowed his eyes.

"Why?" He barked.

Billy tried to act casual.

"Couldn't sleep, thought I'd just get it out of the way."

Neil didn't stop staring suspiciously at Billy until he and Max had closed the backdoor behind them.

"Why did you really do all that this morning?" Max asked when they were safe in the car.

"Jus' have plans after school."

She rolled her eyes.

"Oh, that's rich. You're going on a date."

Well, he hopes so.

But that's never gonna happen.

The school day seemed to pass as slowly as fucking possible. He was anxious all day, fidgety and nervous, and a tiny bit sweaty.

Steve was leaning against his car outside when Billy finally stomped away from the school, and he smiled brightly at Billy.

"Should we just meet at the diner?"

"Yeah. I gotta drive Max, so." He gestured lamely.

"Okay. See you in a bit." Steve tapped the hood of the Camaro, and normally Billy would've threatened to bite anyone that knocked into his car like that, but Steve can kinda do whatever he wants as far as Billy is concerned.

Billy made sure to idle in front of the house, making sure Max got inside alright, and making sure his dad watched him drop her off.

He'd be in worse shit if Neil thought Billy made Max walk home by herself.

But he sped back into town the second the screen door slammed closed behind her.

Steve already had a booth when Billy arrived, and he waved Billy down enthusiastically, as if Billy didn't hone in on him the second he walked through the door.

"Hey, man! Glad you could make it," he said, as if he didn't insist that Billy make it.

Billy grunted at him, shuffling into the booth on the other side of Steve.

"Thanks again, dude. My grades have never been so good. My dad even said I've been doing alright, which is, I think, the nicest thing he's ever said to me."

"Yeah. It's no problem."

"Why don't people know you're smart?" Steve's question took Billy off guard a little bit. "You act like you're a dumb jock, like me."

"You're not dumb. And it's just self-preservation, I guess. I don't need every pretty boy in this school to know I'm a good tutor. Already got my hands full."

Steve's cheeks went the faintest bit pink, and if Billy didn't know better, he'd say that Steve's casual shifting of position was more like a little squirm.

"I guess that makes sense," Steve mumbled, picking at the edge of the menu in front of him.

Their waiter came at that moment, and Steve ordered right away, rattling off what he wanted like it was second nature.

"So the usual, then?" The waiter winked at Steve, and Steve flushed a little deeper, looking shyly at Billy.

"I'll have the same." The waiter nodded, and swept off with their menus.

"So, you're here a lot?" Billy didn't want to look too far into it, but he was ravenous for little scraps of information about Steve. A little peek into his life.

"Yeah. I come here for dinner when I'm home alone a lot. Cooking for one person is kinda lame, and I like being somewhere that's not so. Quiet."

"How often you home alone?"

"Every few weeks. My mom travels around with my dad a lot, but she feels bad about leaving me on my own. Doesn't really stop her, thought." And Steve looked positively glum, like a pouty little cat caught outside in the rain.

"Well, next time you're alone let me know. I don't have too much going on. Usually."

Steve brightened, looking at Billy with a tiny mile on his face.

"Yeah? You don't have better friends then some dumbass you tutor?"

"I don't tutor a dumbass. And in case you hadn't noticed, I don't have many friends. Only been in town for a few months."

"I've been here my whole life, and I don't have many friends, either."

"That's their problem, then."

Steve beamed at him.

#Billy just absolutely getting his bell rung but being like 'its ok bc steve scored 🥺' is my love language #I've been working on this for such a long time and idk how to end it so it's jsut kinda......open #yikes writes #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #i haven't written anything in a million years

[moonchild-in-blue]

Okay I know I said I was going to stay offline for a while because headache, but I just had the most horrible thought and have to share.

You know the piano on Drag Me Under? The rhythm at which the keys are pressed? Is it just me, or it sounds eerily like a heartbeat? HEAR ME OUT.

I'm not saying it's supposed to sound like that, and I'm aware the tempo is slightly off from the normal/usual heartbeat rate BUT. What if it is? What if you look at it from that perspective?

In the lyrics, Vessel says that they are lying down together. What if this is his/his lover's heartbeat, like when you rest your head on someone's chest and can feel it echo in you?

If he is indeed being dragged down, maybe this is the final moment before the descent? Into Them or down under, I'm not sure. "To merely behold you" - what if this is him remembering their last encounter before They abandoned him? Before Atlantic took place? Since they can't be together? Since the rhythm bleeds nicely into Blood Sport, their parting song? The one before the Big Sad? Does this make sense or am I crazy??

#hello i am once again being crazy over Drag Me Under. it's been a while but OH BOY #I am shifting into full ST mode again #note: i am lying in bed and listening to them with my speaker close to where my pillows/head rest are #that's why the heartbeat chest thing came to me. i feel like I'm literally lying on someone's chest #I KNOW THIS SOUNDS VERY ALL OVER THE PLACE. I HAVEN'T WRITTEN ANYTHING IN A LONG TIME #but like??? yeah ??? Do you feel me??? #aaaaaaaa i feel a little insane rn ngl #sleep token #sleep token lore #darya is unhinged

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Three (m/m, cold)

And now, for something completely different.

Well, not completely - it's still a cold fic lol. This one is specifically for @ghostlychill who has asked for more Matt and Mark. This is basically the saga of how they ended up together, and it is certainly out of my wheelhouse because it actually has romance lmao. A pre-warning, this is plot heavy (for me) and a little sneeze light. There are a few Greyson cold sneezes, and Matt is sick for the latter half, but it's more of a romance sickfic than a true snz fic. But I hope you like it if you read it; let me know if you all want more Matt and Mark. They were honestly really fun to write, and I banged this monster of a fic out in just a few hours so the muse was musing.

Ok, done rambling. Enjoy :)

CW: Male, M/M (not sexually explicit, just kissing), colds, contagion, coughing, fevers, light mess. 4.3k words under the cut.

Three

Their first kiss was an accident.

Post-brunch. Pre-holidays. “Grab a beer?” Mark had asked as Matt stuffed his dirty chef coat into his backpack. It had become a bit of a ritual for the two of them to grab a drink after a long shift in the past few weeks; usually it was under cover of darkness, but this brunch had been particularly brutal and Matt was craving not just a beverage, but some commiseration. He shrugged, hoisted his backpack onto a shoulder.

“Sure. You’ve got first round.”

One round had quickly turned to two, then three, and before five pm hit they were drunkenly crashing their pint glasses into each other and talking much louder than the half-full pub required to be heard. Matt drained his fifth beer and looked to Mark, smiling sloppily. “One more?” he asked.

Mark pushed his hair out of his face and leaned his head into one hand, taking the other man in. “If it’ll keep you in my line of sight,” he said, emboldened by booze, “I’ll stay here all night long.”

When the bartender finally kicked them out around eight, the two men were so drunk they had to use one another as walking sticks to get down the block.

“We’re way too drunk to be on the street,” Mark laughed, putting a hand over one eye. “I’m seeing, like… quadruple.”

“That’s wild, ‘cause I can’t see at all,” Matt said, looping his arm through Mark’s. The two of them laughed and stumbled until they hit a bench near well-lit central park and flopped down.

“I can’t remember where I live,” Matt admitted, placing his head on Mark’s shoulder. Their arms had stayed looped. Mark gently placed his head atop Matt’s.

“Me either,” he said. “But… can I tell you a secret?”

Matt looked up. Nodded.

“I don’t want to go home,” Mark said, letting a slow smile spread across his face. Matt felt his cheeks flame; he let a beat pass before he smiled back.

“Me either,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Later, they wouldn’t remember who initiated it. All they would remember was when their lips pressed together, everything else melted away.

***

“Oh! Oh, shit, fuck, sorry guys I didn’t -”

“Chef, shit! Oh, fuckin’ hell -”

Greyson slammed the door to the bathroom shut, leaving Matt and Mark to stare at one another, eyes wide as saucers – the silence between them thick as the cigarette smoke that hung in the air outside that little room.

Finally, Mark broke the silence. “Um… do you think he saw anything?”

Matt couldn’t help it; he barked out a laugh. Mark slapped a hand across the other man’s mouth, making him laugh even harder. He really didn’t know what he’d been thinking following Mark in here in the first place.

Much like the stupid party they were hiding from in the bathroom, their second kiss was clearly a mistake.

The New Year’s Eve party had been Elijah’s idea, much to the surprise of literally everyone at the restaurant.

“What?” Elijah had asked when his announcement during pre-shift had been met with a stunned silence. “I thought you all loved parties!”

The servers and cooks eyed one another in a way they all hoped wasn’t completely obvious, until finally Greyson said what everyone was thinking. “Boss, yeah, everyone loves parties… except you.”

Elijah had scoffed at this. “You guys obviously don’t really know me; I love parties.”

Of course, Elijah didn’t love parties and it ended up moving from his roomy condo to Greyson’s tiny Brooklyn apartment at the last minute. Post-service on New Year’s Eve, Matt helped his boss load extra bottles of champagne, vodka, and tequila into the back of the restaurant’s van all while Greyson grumbled about Elijah.

“Fuckin’ Elijah,” Greyson said for about the fiftieth time that evening. “Why the fuck would he even mention a party if he wasn’t a thousand percent sure he wanted to ho – hh-”

Matt glanced up at his boss, who held an arm midair in anticipation. This was the real reason Greyson, who threw parties at his place at least three times a year, was pissed about having to host the work shindig: he was sick.

“Hh-! HhhITSZZH-ue!” Greyson folded over into his elbow, sniffled, and cleared his throat.

“Bless,” Matt offered, placing the rest of the alcohol into the back of the car. “Chef, I’m sure that everyone will understand if you don’t feel up to having twenty people in your apartment. There’re tons of parties right around here, why don’t you just… call it off?”

Greyson, stubborn as ever, just shook his head. “I said I’d do it. They’re already on their way.”

So Matt loaded into the van with Greyson, and Mark got in Elijah’s car with the GM while the rest of the staff hopped on the subway for the party that no one really wanted to be at. Greyson, who’d been able to keep his illness at bay for most of the shift thanks mostly to the Sudafed he kept slamming, started coming down hard the moment they began their drive to Brooklyn.

“Hh...hhITSZZH-ue! Huh-! ETSZH-ue! Fuck mbe,” Greyson muttered, using his sleeve to wipe under his nose with one hand while he drove through the busy Manhattan streets with the other.

“Um… do you want to pull over so I can drive?” Matt asked, a little more pointed than his boss was used to him being. Greyson shot his sous chef a look.

“Ndo,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

Matt was hardly a germaphobe – working in a kitchen bred that out of you pretty quickly – but he couldn’t help but cringe away with every sneeze and cough that came from his boss’s side of the car. He found himself thinking about Mark; they had plans to hang out in just a few days, plans that both of them had been forced to cancel multiple times already, and Matt could just feel Greyson’s germs making themselves at home inside his body. He really didn’t want to cancel on Mark again; he wasn’t exactly sure what they were, what he wanted them to be, or what Mark thought they were, but whatever it was, he didn’t want to fuck it up. Matt was entirely too good at fucking up a good thing.

“HRRSHH-ue!” Clearly, that one snuck up on him, because that time Greyson barely covered his mouth. Matt shrank into the door and considered pulling his shirt over his nose and mouth in a desperate attempt to keep his boss from infecting him. Greyson glanced over at Matt and coughed out a laugh.

“Sorry, kid,” he said, patting Matt’s leg, “but you’re probably already fucked.”

Eventually, they made it to Greyson’s walk-up and after what felt like an eon, they got everything inside. Elijah immediately recruited Mark to help pour champagne for everyone, and Greyson left his sous to go outside and smoke on the patio – Matt had no choice but to just start drinking.

By the time the cooks and servers made it to Greyson’s apartment, Matt was half in the bag. He floated sloppily from group to group, telling jokes and prompting everyone to take shots with him, all while keeping one eye on Mark at all times. Elijah had been keeping his liege busy; Mark was bartending, putting appetizers in the oven, picking up trash… everything except hanging out with Matt. So when he finally got to take a bathroom break, Matt threw back his tequila soda and, emboldened by liquor, followed behind him.

“Hey, it’s occ-” Mark started to say when the bathroom door opened right on his heels – but he was cut off when Matt swung him around, grabbed his face in both hands, stood on his tiptoes, and pressed his lips firmly on the other man’s.

Mark certainly wasn’t pulling away; in fact, the moment their lips touched, Mark grabbed Matt by the hips and lifted him onto Greyson’s tiny vanity to make the kiss easier on both of them. Matt pulled away for just a moment to look at Mark – his black-framed glasses were askew, his hair was wild from Matt’s hands coursing through it, and his face was flushed with lust. Matt was sure he’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

“What was that for?” Mark asked, his voice low. Matt’s face cracked into a smile.

“I haven’t gotten to spend any time with you tonight,” he said, pushing Mark’s hair away from his face. “And I’m probably gonna have to cancel our plans on Monday.”

Mark’s brows knit together, confused. “Why?” he asked. “Is this, like, a fare-thee-well, this is the last time this will happen kiss situation?”

Matt laughed, shook his head. “No,” he said, cocking his head towards the door, where the party rumbled outside. “I’m, like, 99% sure Greyson infected me with his disgusting illness on the long-ass drive over here. I wouldn’t force you to hang out with me when I’m inevitably sick.” He shrugged. “So I figured I’d sneak some time with you where I could.”

Matt didn’t wait for Mark’s response about his impending doom; he just leaned in again. This time, Mark parted his lips and slid his tongue in to meet Matt’s. Matt allowed a quiet moan to escape his lips, let his hand feel its way down to Mark’s shirt, and began unbuttoning when the door flew open once more.

“Oh!”

Greyson.

***

“Chef, I am not in the mood today.”

“Oh c’mon, if I can’t poke fun at your drunken antics then what’s even the point of living? You make fun of my drunken antics all the time.”

Matt put down his knife and gave his boss a pointed look. “Yeah, maybe for like a day after they go down, but New Year’s was three days ago. Are you planning on ever letting it go?”

Greyson shrugged as he pushed onions into a deli container and snapped the lid shut. “Probably not. I mean, it’s just too good – caught red handed in my bathroom. Like, it couldn’t have happened more perfectly if I wrote it myself.”

Matt rolled his eyes; while Greyson living for his embarrassment was annoying, it was kind of the last thing on his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about Mark – after the bathroom kiss situation went down, he’d slipped out of the party and hadn’t mentioned anything about it to Matt since. Matt assumed he wanted to put it out of his head. Maybe the kiss – both of the kisses – hadn’t felt to Mark like they did to Matt. Maybe Mark was put off by how drunk Matt had been both times. Maybe he just wasn’t into him.

All Matt knew was, he desperately wanted to talk to Mark – but despite working the same hours in the same tiny restaurant, Mark had managed to avoid him like the plague.

Speaking of which.

“HTSHH-uh! Hh! Hh’ITSHH-uh! ETZSH-ue!” Matt turned away from the food to sneeze into his shoulder, then his hand, then finally his elbow. Greyson stepped over and plucked Matt’s knife out of his hand while the younger man was compromised.

“You’ll take someone’s eye out that way,” he chastised, placing the knife on Matt’s cutting board. The sous rolled his eyes, sucked in through his nose, and trudged to the sink to wash his hands.

“I don’t want to hear it from you, Chef. You’re the fucking plague rat of this restaurant,” Matt murmured, pulling a hand down his face. This was the other issue: Matt and Mark were supposed to hang out tomorrow, but just as he predicted, Matt had been gifted the cold Greyson had on New Year’s. If Mark didn’t want to talk to him when he was healthy and just a few steps away, he certainly wouldn’t be traversing the city tomorrow to hang out with Matt when he was fever-addled and snot-ridden.

“Rude,” Greyson said, continuing his prep. “But not entirely untrue. Sorry you’re sick.”

“Whatever,” Matt grumbled, his bad mood amplified by his pounding head. “Can you just drop the bathroom situation?”

Greyson bit his cheek to keep from smiling. “I can certainly try.”

Matt knew that meant ‘no’, but he’d take what he could get. He picked his knife back up to start chopping broccoli, but almost cut himself when Mark slipped into the back kitchen.

“Chef?” he asked, prompting both Greyson and Matt’s heads to shoot up. Matt’s face flamed when Greyson swiveled his head to meet his sous’ eyes with a cheeky grin – he put his head back down, pretending to focus on his work.

“Yes, Mark, how can I assist you?” Greyson asked, wiping his hands on the towel next to his cutting board. Matt felt Mark shoot a quick glance his way; his cheeks burned with the knowledge.

“Elijah is looking for you. Says he has a question about tonight’s ten-top with the prixe fix?”

Greyson rolled his eyes, but abandoned his prep for the moment. “When doesn’t Elijah have a question about a prixe fix?” he asked to no one in particular. “I’ll go talk to him. Thanks.”

The chef exited the back kitchen, leaving a sniffling Matt and a stuck-in-place Mark in his wake. Matt was the first to break the silence – unwillingly.

“Hh-! NTSHH-uh!” The sous attempted to stifle a sneeze into his palm, but only succeeded in making a mess of himself. His face reddened impossibly deeper, and he was forced to put down his knife and head for the sink.

“Bless you,” Mark said as Matt pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and blew his nose. Matt swallowed painfully, washed his hands again, and nodded.

“Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat.

They lapsed into silence once again, neither one looking at the other. “Um,” Mark said, finally, “are you -”

“I have to get this work done,” Matt interrupted, though he couldn’t explain to even himself why he wouldn’t let Mark ask if he was okay. “Have a good shift, okay?”

Mark blinked, taken aback, but nodded. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and turned to leave the back kitchen without a word. Matt didn’t let himself watch the other man go.

***

It was like watching a train wreck.

“Matt,” Greyson called from his spot at the expo board. “Where are we at on the halibut for 63?”

Mark’s eyes darted behind the line where Matt was doubled over, coughing into the collar of his chef’s coat. The sous chef had started the evening looking very much under the weather and quite a bit worse for the wear, but now, at nine PM he looked like he was ready to keel over right there on the line. Mark bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything.

“Matt!” Greyson called again, and Matt stood, shakily, to place the likely-overcooked halibut onto its plate. He pushed it through the window and gave his boss a pointed look.

“The food has to cook, Chef, you gotta give mbe a minu – uh! ETSZCH-uhh!” Matt collapsed once again into his collar, righted himself quickly, and sucked in through his nose. “A mbinute,” he finished, his voice cracking.

“Halibut doesn’t take twenty minutes to cook, Chef,” Greyson snapped, snatching the plate from the line. “I expect my number-two to be able to keep ticket times under fifty minutes so the fucking restaurant doesn’t shut the fuck down.” Greyson handed three plates to Mark, who took them wordlessly and slunk out of the kitchen.

Mark dropped the food at its respective table, the guilt of not saying anything to Matt slowly eating away at him. He counted the tables left in the restaurant who still needed to eat – definitely more than he was hoping for. He really, really didn’t want to go back to the kitchen.

“Hey, Lij?” Mark said, approaching his boss at the host stand. Elijah was moving reservations from table to table on the iPad, configuring the remainder of the night.

“Hmm?” Elijah murmured, only half paying attention. Mark pursed his lips, weighing whether he should say anything.

Finally, he said, “Do you think you could ask Greyson to kind of… cool it with Matt? I mean, he seems like he’s really sick and Chef is like… totally berating him.”

Elijah raised an eyebrow and looked away from the iPad to meet Mark’s eyes. “You want me to ask Greyson to stop yelling at Matt… now? In the middle of service, when there are tables who have thirty-plus-minute ticket times?” The GM huffed out a laugh. “Man, Greyson told me about the whole bathroom situation, but I figured you guys were just drunk. I didn’t realize you were down so badly for him.”

Mark’s face flushed crimson; Elijah smirked at him, and turned back to the iPad. “Matt’s a big boy, Mark,” he said, not looking the floor manager in the eye. “He can handle Greyson yelling at him.”

“Yeah,” Mark muttered. “Okay.”

Mark trudged back to the kitchen to grab more food, the sound of Greyson’s frustrated voice hitting him before he could even step foot through the swinging doors.

“Order in! Two filets, two tofu, one halibut! Matt, I swear to God I had better see table twenty-six up in the next three seconds, Chef, it’s already at twenty-two minutes.”

“Yes, Chef,” Matt mumbled, barely loud enough for anyone to hear.

“I can’t hear you, Chef,” Greyson yelled back, tweezering herbs onto a dish.

“Yes, Che – ITZSHH-ue! HRETSZH-ue!” Matt ducked down below the line to sneeze, the sound painful and desperate. Mark could hear the crackling cough he was trying to hide all the way from where he was standing; his heart sunk. He wished like hell that he’d had the balls to say something – anything – to the other man this week. He wished he wasn’t such a fucking baby when it came to his feelings, or relationships, or standing up for himself or anyone else. He wished he was anyone but himself.

“Bless – Chef, do you need to switch spots with me?” Greyson asked, his voice finally softening at the sound of Matt’s coughing.

“Ndo, Chef,” Matt managed, standing. “I’mb fine. Twenty-six, up,” he said, slamming the plates onto the pass.

“Great,” Greyson mumbled. He garnished the plates and shoved them into Mark’s hands. “Twenty-six, go,” he said, not looking at the floor manager.

Mark nodded; he took the plates out into the dining room and dropped them; as he did, he made a promise to himself and, silently, to Matt: maybe there was nothing he could do or say during the shift to make Matt feel any better, but he would figure out a way, post-shift, to do something to help him. He would grow some balls, if it killed him.

While Elijah was still busy looking at reservations, Mark slipped into the bathroom and pulled out his phone. He put in a grocery order, to be picked up at ten the next morning. He typed out a text to Matt, scheduled it to send at the same time he would be picking up the groceries so he wouldn’t be able to wimp out and unschedule it. Then he put his phone back in his pocket, opened the door, and went to finish the shift.

***

His phone was ringing.

Matt groaned as he came to; he was covered in sweat, he could barely breathe, and he was stiff as a fucking board from passing out on his couch. Who the fuck was calling him? It was his one day off, could Greyson not leave him alone for one fucking day?

He grabbed the phone off the coffee table, ready to throw it across the room, when he realized the name on the screen wasn’t his boss’s.

Call from: Mark, Work.

Matt’s stomach jumped into his throat. The phone continued to ring while he squinted at the clock in the corner: ten twenty-three AM. Had he and Mark spoken last night? He could barely remember a fucking thing about the previous night, other than being utterly and completely miserable. The two of them definitely hadn’t spoken; he remembered giving Mark the cold should before service started, remembered the pitying look Mark had given him as Greyson screamed the restaurant down, remembered flying out the door the moment Greyson told him to go. They hadn’t spoken, their plans were obviously off, so why the hell was Mark calling him?

The call went to voicemail. Matt coughed into his elbow, a chesty sound that he really didn’t like, especially since he didn’t have health insurance. After a minute or so, another notification popped up: one new voicemail.

Curiosity got the better of him. Matt opened his phone and hit ‘play’.

“Hey, Matt, it’s um… it’s me. I know this is super weird, like I don’t know why I did it at this point weird, but, uh… I’m outside your building. I texted you, but now I’m realizing you’re probably asleep. Uh… I mean, if you get this I’m gonna, like, hang out out here for a bit. I brought soup! I can’t cook, so it’s from a deli, but I figured you might need something to eat, and you probably don’t want to cook since you’re sick. Your place is nice, by the way. Um. Okay. If you get this, cool, if not, I’ll uh… I’ll leave in a little bit. Okay. Bye.”

Matt felt his heart near-explode in his chest. Mark was sitting outside his building, with soup? What was this, a Hallmark movie?

He did it without thinking; he pulled up his text conversation with Mark and typed, hey, im awake. sorry I missed ur call. ill buzz you up :)

Mark was up the stairs in record time. He knocked, and Matt stood from the couch, forgetting until he was vertical that he was still in his work clothes from last night. Gross, he thought, but it was too late to change now – he took a few shaky steps towards the door and opened up.

Matt barely recognized Mark at first; he was only used to his floor-manager getup, button-downs and ties and slacks, his hair gelled back. Today, Mark wore jeans and a jean jacket over a Brighton University hoodie – did he go to college in England? - with black high-top converse. His curly hair was in his face, and he was carrying two full grocery bags. Mark smiled.

“Hey,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“Yea -” Matt attempted, not realizing his voice was completely shot until he tried to use it for the first time that day. His hand flew to his throat and he attempted to clear it, to no avail. “Shit, sorry, apparently I can’t talk,” he whispered.

Mark pursed his lips, obviously concerned. “That’s okay,” he said, stepping through the front door. He placed the bags on Matt’s tiny kitchen table and began pulling out supplies. “I come bearing gifts.”

There was the soup, like he said, but Mark also pulled out dayquil, and sudafed, and cough drops. He pulled out a box of tissues, bags of tea, and cough syrup – quite literally the whole nine yards. “I didn’t know what you had, so I figured I’d grab one of everything,” Mark said, embarrassed.

Matt didn’t know what to say. “Mark, I – hh! hhIGTSZH-uhh! Hh’TSHH-ue!” Matt crumpled into his elbow to sneeze, hard, and lapsed into a fit of coughing. Mark pushed the cold supplies towards him, smiling a bit.

“Bless you,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re so sick.”

Matt took a moment to blow his nose and uncapped the cough syrup. He chugged a bit, righted himself, and shrugged, embarrassed. “Not your fault,” he croaked. “Thank you for bringing all this.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Mark said, not looking into Matt’s eyes. “I’m really sorry for ignoring you the past few days, Matt. I… I mean, I don’t want to scare you off or anything but I haven’t really had, like, a real relationship in a long time. Like, a really long time.” He looked up, caught Matt’s red, watery eyes in his, and gave up the whole truth. “Like… ever.”

Matt nodded slowly, processing. “So… you don’t hate me?” he asked, the fever tossing to the wayside any filter he might have once had. Mark’s face colored; he laughed.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like… I really don’t hate you. I – I mean, I really, really like you, Matt.”

It was Matt’s turn to flush bright red. “Even like this?” he asked, coughing into his fist. Mark smiled.

“Even like that.”

The two of them stood there, smiling twin goofy smiles, for a moment before Matt ducked once again into his elbow.

“Hh – ITSZHH-ue! Guhh.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, not caring how disgusting he looked. “I, umb, I really like you too, Mbark,” he said, coughing again. “Like… probably mbore than is normal or rational.”

This time, it was Matt who was caught off-guard. Before he knew what was happening, Mark had his hands on either side of Matt’s hot face and was tipping Matt’s head up to meet his. This one was different; while the first two kisses felt hungry, dangerous, this one was soft; an invitation. A promise of a future yet to come.

Matt pulled away to catch his breath. “You’ll get sick,” he muttered, eyes closed and hands around Mark’s thin frame. Mark tipped Matt’s head up, pushed his sweaty, dishwater blond hair out of his eyes, and pressed their foreheads together.

“I know,” he said, and pressed his lips against Matt’s once again.

Their third kiss – well. That was the one they would tell everyone at the wedding about.

#whiskeyswriting #snz #sickfic #snzfic #coldfic #snez #snzblr #male cold #male snz #m/m #male ocs #contagion #mess #i'd love to hear any feedback good or bad on this one bc i haven't written romance anything in a very long time lol #and idk if this sucks or not lmaooo

[thedeathofduty]

Talisman

Summary: King Viserys I dies, sending the royal family and your own life into disarray. When Aemond is sent on his way to Storm's End and your betrothal is called off, the Queen promises to do right by you as soon as she is able. That night, your fears, memories, and insecurities get the better of you.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x UnspecifiedHouse!F!Reader

Warning(s): Very, very brief mention of sex

A/N: Thank god that more talented people than I have already gifed every second we've gotten of Aemond otherwise I would've had to put a super pixelated screenshot down there instead. How do you guys make these? Here's part two!

Queen Alicent had insisted on speaking to you alone, without even your father or the Lord Hand as witnesses, which set your already frayed nerves to what felt like their very breaking point. Your hands were clasped tightly together in your lap and still, you could not stop their trembling. The two of you were sitting in her chambers and her handmaiden was pouring the two of you some tea before quietly leaving the room. You had known, of course, that something was wrong. Just a mere hour ago, your father had been all but dragged from his study and corralled into the throne room with all the rest of the High Lords and Ladies. No matter how desperately you cried out, none of the knights of the Kingsguard would tell you where they were taking him or what was happening.

And now here you were, sitting across from the Queen who regarded you with kind, sad eyes. She had never looked at you like this before. "Lady Y/N," she started before clearing her throat and glancing down at the small cup in front of you, "please, before we begin. It will help with your nerves." You nodded quickly, grasping the cup in your hand and hissing when some of the tea spilled on your fingers as you brought it up to your lips. "I tell you this now with the utmost confidence in your ability to be understanding... and patient." You looked at her over the rim of your cup. She pressed her lips together, refusing to meet your gaze for a moment before closing her eyes and sighing deeply. "The King is passed."

"Wh-what?" Your cup clattered against the table as you clumsily set it down.

"Please," she murmured and you held your tongue. "He named my son Aegon as his successor and, though my father believes in the inevitability of war, I do not. I am trying my best to tread a different path, to do what needs be done without bloodshed. There is no reason why thousands should die, why the Princess and her family should suffer, why the dragons should be turned loose. Do you understand?" You opened your mouth, but she continued. "There is a better way, Lady Y/N. I can see the path towards peace so clearly now. But..." She sighed, pushing her own cup aside and reaching across the table to grab your hands. "Even peace is not without sacrifice. Have you seen Aemond today at all?"

"No, Your Grace. I tried looking for him, I was hoping he could lend me some clarity, but I could not find him." You had even gathered your skirts and run to the training grounds where Ser Criston usually was, hoping maybe he could tell you where to find your betrothed, but the area was deserted. That was where a guard had found you and brought you before the Queen. "Do you know where he is?"

"I do, yes." She sighed again, her eyebrows drawn together, looking like each word was cutting her tongue on its way out of her mouth. "Lady Y/N, you must understand. I hold you in the highest regard. I cannot think of a young woman more suited for my son. You are dutiful and kind. I know he was quite taken with you, but whether there is to be war or not, we must strengthen our house. We must forge difficult alliances to persuade the Princess Rhaenyra to accept this new order. Gods, do I wish it could be different. Would that I or any of my children had been married for love and not politics." Your breath hitched.

Your betrothal to Aemond had been announced only a few short months ago, but he had caught your attention the moment you entered King's Landing a year ago. You remembered everything your Lady Mother had told you back when she was alive about how making a man fall in love with you was almost like casting a spell. 'You have to bewitch him, be the very air he breathes,' she'd told you one night shortly after you'd bled your first moon. Back then you were unsure of what she had meant, but you accepted the bottle of lavender oil and rose petals she had given you then. Years later when you would sit and pretend to read at the edge of the training grounds under the trees there, you still wore it on your neck. It made you feel womanly and powerful and more confident than you really were. Eventually, he noticed you, too.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and you looked out the window, wishing a stiff breeze would pick you up and carry you home. Surely, she couldn't possibly mean...

"Aemond is to be betrothed to one of Borros Baratheon's girls." There it was. You tried to tug your hands away, but she only held them tighter and stroked the back of them with her thumbs. "But I swear to you, Lady Y/N, that you will not be cast aside. I know of the affection you both had for each other and I am sorry that it must be this way, but I promise that as soon as the Princess accepts our peace terms, I will personally secure a betrothal befitting a woman of your station and quality. I swear this to you." She squeezed your hands again and you swallowed the burning lump of coal in your throat. When the two of you locked eyes, you weren't ready to see that they were just as tearful as yours felt.

"What will happen to me?" Your voice trembled and broke at the edges, your mind racing with images of yourself next to or beneath some old, perverted Lord. You thought you would be one of the lucky girls. How stupid you felt. Fresh tears sprang into your eyes as one finally fell.

"Nothing, my dear girl. You and your father will both be safe and well taken care of here." The Queen reached up and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, her eyes mirroring your own.

None of the people at court were even allowed to go to the Coronation. It was a pageant reserved only for the smallfolk, to make sure that they saw Aegon as their one, true King. You cared not for any of that nonsense, the politicking of it all, the "stinking, bloody outrage of it all", as your father had shouted at supper that night, slamming his fist on the table and forcing both your cups to spill. For once, you said nothing about his outburst, focusing instead on moving your food around on your plate until it was too cold to eat anymore.

"Queen Alicent told me she would find me another match."

"Another match," he scoffed, shaking his head, "What could be a better match than the Prince?"

What indeed.

You excused yourself early, leaving your father to puff and fume as uselessly as he wanted. He may complain within the confines of your four walls, but you knew he would never push for you and you could forgive him for that. He would never raise a hand to you and he loved you enough most days. On some of those days, you even felt sorry for him. He was all alone in the world, with only you for comfort and you were destined to leave him behind to start a family of your own someday.

As you lie in your bed that night, your eyes glued to the ceiling, you tried to quiet the drumming of your heart enough to find some semblance of rest. You had seen Aemond only last night and though you knew thinking of him was the last thing that would help calm you, you could do nothing to stop yourself. The apartments you shared with your father overlooked the gardens, a step up the ladder that Aemond had facilitated for you out of a desire to see you elevated to the status he'd said you deserved. Were you to lose even this now that you had lost him, too?

Aemond had arrived in a foul mood after the dinner with his family. Though it went against the rules of propriety, you knew your father was willing to bend or even break those rules for you, as he made clear when he allowed you to take Aemond's arm and lead him into your chambers. It had nothing to do with trust or faith and everything to do with status. Maybe some part of him even hoped the Prince had already deflowered you and you were with child so the Hightowers would have no choice but to go forward with the wedding. As you gently closed the door behind you, you felt... lucky, more than anything.

'What troubles you, My Prince?' You almost never called Aemond that anymore, except maybe in jest, but you had not seen him this cross in a while. He stood in front of your small fireplace with his back to you, his arms crossed over his chest and his head bowed. Every line in his body was taut as a bowstring and while you ached to reach out and smooth a comforting hand over his back, fear stayed your hand.

When he turned to you, there was a faint smile on his lips and he beckoned you over with a welcoming hand. 'I am not so troubled that you have to resort to naming me with titles, my love.' You sighed gratefully and leaned into him as his arm curled around you. The two of you stood there for a few moments and you finally rubbed your hand on his back like you had ached to just moments before. 'You see it, do you not? My nephews.'

You hummed, your mouth twisting in discomfort. 'Yes, they are...' You struggled to find the right way to phrase it. Imposters? Proof of the Princess Rhaenyra's indiscretions? Not of Velaryon blood? All true.

'Bastards.' He stepped away from you then, clenching his hands into fists. 'Unfit to rule over even a patch of rock in the Isle of Faces and yet one is to be King someday and the other Lord of the Tides.' One hand brushed against his eyepatch, his face souring. 'It is an absurdity. And I alone am regarded as the problem, for-for speaking the truth others so spinelessly ignore!'

'You know why, Aemond. Your father,' you paused and snorted, 'is hardly your father.'

'Even my mother stood against me tonight.' When he looked at you, you could see the sorrow in his shining blue eye and you could not stop yourself, you brought your hands up to caress his face, your fingers tracing his scar. You leaned up on your toes and drank his sadness from his lips as he gripped your waist so tightly, you thought he meant to breathe your soul in like it was a plume of smoke and vapor. 'Are you with me, my little talisman?' he'd asked as soon as he gave you a hair's breadth of space to answer him.

It almost hurt that he asked. Did he not know? But you understood how he liked to hear you swear your allegiance over and over again. 'I am with you, my love.'

To think that was only one night ago and now here you were, alone in your room with nothing but memories and your heart flying away to be claimed by some girl for the sake of a war that you had no personal stake in. Never had you thought you would be so lucky as to be allowed to marry for love, but for a moment it seemed that the Mother had smiled upon you with all her mercy and warmth, as your own mother no longer could, only for everything to be cruelly ripped away from you without even so much as a goodbye or an apology from the man who was to be your husband. You knew he loved you even if he never said those exact words aloud. It shined out of every inch of him like starlight. You had never needed to hear it until now.

Would he find the Baratheon girl he was to be promised to quite beautiful? Would she "bewitch" him too? Would she become his new talisman, the one thing he swore by for every scrap of fortune in his life? He used to tell you the gods had been kind enough to leave him with one eye so he could look at you. Would he tell her that?

You stomach turned as you imagine him and some other girl... together, in the way you had been craving from him for so long. You had never wanted anyone in such a way, had never even touched yourself until you met him. It was like he had lit a fire inside you and he was the only one who was meant to put it out. The gods are cruel.

You flipped over onto your stomach, listening to the wind blowing through the gardens outside your window. Though you longed for him, for his comforting words and loving embrace, even for his body in bed beside you, for once, just once, you also hoped that you would never have to see him again. The thought of seeing him like that, with a pretty little wife hanging off his arm, sent a wave of tears to your eyes. You were alone now. There was no need to hide from anyone and, even if your father was awake, he had never interrupted you when you were despondent like this before, not even after your mother's death. With the hope of lightening your heart's heavy burden, you unclenched and allowed yourself to sob into your pillow.

#mine #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd #aemond fic #this was actually supposed to be way longer but #i haven't written anything in a long time and i'm scared that if i try to bite off more than i can chew #we will all end up with nothing so here you go #bone apple teeth

[mycupofrum]

Monday snippet

Nobody tagged me but I just wanted to share a snippet. I originally wrote this fic in 2021 when I came back to the fandom after a long hiatus, and I finally started translating it into English. So, here's James and Sirius in the Quidditch changing room. Includes voyeurism and horny teenage boys. Nsfw-adjacent.

__

At first, it was purely coincidental. James realised he had left his shirt in the Quidditch changing room and returned to retrieve it.

The sound of running water from the adjacent room caught his attention just as he was ready to head back to the castle. Sirius stayed in the shower.

James intended to let Sirius know he was there and would wait for him in the changing room. But when he got to the shower area, he was met with a view that made him completely change his mind of cracking a clever joke.

A normal person would have walked away as quietly as possible and never addressed what happened with the person in question.

Of these two things, James only did the latter.

As time passed, he kept returning to the shower room. He watched and listened, eager to devour more of it with his eyes and ears, his cheeks burning with guilt and satisfaction. If he'd seen himself, he might have been surprised by the hungry stare reflected behind his glasses and perhaps understood what it all meant.

But all he could see was Sirius leaning against the tiles amidst the steam, his back arched, eyes closed, black hair sticking to his scalp under the steady stream of water, his bottom lip disappearing beneath his teeth, and it was too much for James.

Each time, he promised himself he wouldn't return to the shower room anymore. It was just weird, a little perverse.

Get a life, he would tell himself. The kind where he didn’t have to watch his best friend jerk off in the shower and wonder why he couldn’t stop staring.

__

#yes there will be shower sex #just wait #prongsfoot #bambibelle #snippets #my writing #i haven't written anything new in a while #so i started translating this one #as i've been meaning to do it for a long a time

[theheirofthesharingan]

tolkien said sam was the chief hero of lord of the rings. also frodo wouldn't have made it out of the shire without him. sam carried frodo on his shoulders in mordor and fought shelob all alone.

tolkien said sam was the chief hero of lord of the rings.

He didn't, apparently. The chief hero quote is a heavily misquoted, perverted phrase LotR fandom has perpetuated without using any critical thinking because it serves their bias. The entire quote, within the context of the letter, means and says something else entirely.

Since we now try to deal with 'ordinary life', springing up ever unquenched under the trample of world policies and events, there are love-stories touched in, or love in different modes, wholly absent from The Hobbit. But the highest love-story, that of Aragorn and Arwen Elrond's daughter is only alluded to as a known thing. It is told elsewhere in a short tale. Of Aragorn and Arwen Undómiel. I think the simple 'rustic' love of Sam and his Rosie (nowhere elaborated) is absolutely essential to the study of his (the chief hero's) character, and to the theme of the relation of ordinary life (breathing, eating, working, begetting) and quests, sacrifice, causes, and the 'longing for Elves', and sheer beauty. But I will say no more, nor defend the theme of mistaken love seen in Eowyn and her first love for Aragorn. But altogether it would hardly amount to the excision of a single long chapter.

People miss the whole context. Here, the theme is that of Love. The characters in question are Sam (rustic, simple love) being compared to Aragorn (higher, nobler love). Tolkien also mentions Éowyn because of her feelings towards Aragorn. It's not a comparison between Frodo and Sam. LotR is a story about the hobbits and all four serve a purpose in the story. They all start out as fairytale heroes but only three return with a gain. Frodo is the tragic hero of the tale.

Furthermore, in many of his letters, Tolkien talks about Frodo as the central character.

Here is a small consignment of 'The Ring': the last two chapters that have been written, and the end of the Fourth Book of that great Romance, in which you will see that, as is all too easy, I have got the hero into such a fix that not even an author will be able to extricate him without labour and difficulty. Lewis was moved almost to tears by the last chapter. All the same, I chiefly want to hear what you think, as for a long time now I have written with you most in mind. (letter #91).

Many people think since Sam is the only one (physically) present there, Tolkien is talking about Sam; but in truth, the one character who is in 'fix' here is Frodo. The main objective of the story is how will Frodo, with Sam's help, go to Mordor and destroy the Ring. Since Sam abandons the idea of destroying the Ring and chooses to follow Frodo's 'dead body', hence endangering the fate of the world, I doubt it has to be about him. We need Frodo to save the world. And we need Sam to save Frodo. Without Frodo, Middle-earth is doomed and the story and the plot cannot go any further than this.

In another letter to David Masson (1955), Tolkien says this:

'Surely how often "quarter" is given is off the point in a book that breathes Mercy from start to finish: in which the central hero is at last divested of all arms, except his will?

(emphasis is mine)

Frodo is the one who divests himself of all arms. And it's his will that's repeatedly talked about throughout the story. The central hero Tolkien talking about here is him.

In The Silmarillion, Frodo is the only character mentioned from the Fellowship. Gandalf is mentioned as Olórin, not Gandalf. Surely, it's a bird-eye view of LotR, but the sentence that was phrased as 'Frodo with the help of his servant destroyed the ring' could also have been said differently with Sam being in focus instead. In the letter #246, JRRT goes in extreme detail regarding Frodo, his heroism, his contribution to the quest, and his relevance in the story thematically. Frodo was the antithesis of Sauron and fought against him singlehandedly. The battle of wills, not any physical battle. In the Field of Cormallen, both Frodo and Sam are honoured, but Frodo is still bestowed with the highest honour for his service (they sang 'Frodo of the Nine Fingers in his honour). Tolkien's words on this:

Frodo deserved all honour because he spent every drop of his power of will and body, and that was just sufficient to bring him to the destined point, and no further. Few others, possibly no others of his time, would have got so far. The Other Power then took over: the Writer of the Story (by which I do not mean myself), 'that one ever-present Person who is never absent and never named' (as one critic has said). (Letter #192)

also frodo wouldn't have made it out of the shire without him.

It's been many years since I read the book, so my memory might betray me, but if I remember it correctly, Sam helped them in the Old Forest because he was the only not under the spell of the tree (Old Man Willow, I suppose). In other instances Frodo took precautions himself. He knew whom to trust. The rest was handled by Merry and Pippin while they left their home and met Strider. Frodo saved his friends from Barrow Wight at the Downs, was the only one to summon courage enough to get back at the Nazgúl while the other three hobbits were terrified. Are you sure you aren't making any overstatements in your comments?

sam carried frodo on his shoulders in mordor and fought shelob all alone.

His contribution in helping Frodo and getting him to Mordor, even on his shoulder, are undeniable. He has a long list of accomplishments, for which he was generously rewarded in the end. But his accomplishments don't make him the 'true hero of LotR', definitely not greater than Frodo.

I can't recall the taste of food, nor the sound of water, nor the touch of grass. I'm naked in the dark. There's nothing — no veil between me and the wheel of fire. I can see him with my waking eyes.

This was Frodo's condition while they were nearing Orodruin. He still didn't give up. No one else, I repeat no one else, was put through these conditions, not even Sam. There comes a time when the Ring physically forces Frodo to put itself on. He resists it and then finds Galadriel's phial. When Sam carries Frodo on his shoulders, he states Frodo hardly weighed more than a hobbit child. It was either Sam was rewarded for his kindness or Frodo had actually lost so much weight that he didn't even weigh more than a child at that time.

'All gave some and some gave all' is a quote I read somewhere. Frodo was the one who gave all he had. He was the kindest, bravest, and most selfless hobbit. Tolkien might have meant Sam to be the chief hero/main character, but that means that for a 'supporting character', Frodo is far more heroic, relevant to the story, because without him, the story wouldn't even exist.

___

I hope this answer was convincing enough for you, anon. Thanks for reminding me why I grew to dislike LotR fandom so much. Apparently, anything pro Frodo must be responded with "sam is the true hero" and "tolkien said so" without looking at the context of the phrases because it helps you with your own bias.

#frodo #lotr frodo #frodo baggins #tolkien #jrr tolkien #lotr #ask #anon #i don't write for anything other than naruto on this blog but this ask had me do it #i gave up on LotR fandom a long time ago for this reason #and haven't written anything for years #for a fandom that has tons of scholars and the books that inspired modern fantasy literature lotr has some of the dumbest fans #though sometimes exceptions are necessary i guess #anyway if you love frodo we might be best friends already

[kizunarae]

a mismatched mess: a fitz and molly essay

In my re-read of ROTE, I am struck again by the profound mismatch between Fitz and Molly. Neither complements the other, and their relationship is fraught with tension and incompatibility. However, what really compels me to write this is what seems to be the prevailing sentiment within the fandom that places the blame squarely on Fitz’s shoulders. I believe that this perspective is an oversimplification and rather unfair to Fitz. The demise of their relationship was not unilaterally caused by Fitz; rather, it was a shared unraveling.

I will be focusing solely on events up to the end of Royal Assassin, avoiding spoilers for subsequent books. I will put it under a read more as it will be long...

I want to disclaimer that while I may appear fairly critical of Molly's behavior, I do not think she did anything particularly wrong and do believe her emotions and reactions are largely justified. It is just precisely because of who she is (and who Fitz is) that I believe they are a bad match. Additionally, I think Fitz's wrongs have been hashed out extensively so I will only briefly touch on points I disagree with and not elaborate overmuch on his failures in their relationship.

I will begin with their first reunion in Royal Assassin. Fitz has just returned to the Keep after being on his deathbed for several months. Each person he encounters barely recognizes him through his wasted and sickly appearance. Fitz, embarrassed by his weakness, pulls a foolish move: he claims to be drunk when a passing serving girl—none other than Molly—crosses his path. His attempt to save face and avoid interaction turns futile. And yet, despite the evidence that Fitz is clearly sickly in appearance, Molly's first reaction is not concern. It is not to hear his side of the story nor to find out how he has been, nor consider anything that he may have gone through. Instead, she is focused only on her own experiences, and her own feelings and thus responds only with pure outrage and begins firing off accusations with misplaced anger.

Without basis, she accuses him of courting her and then abandoning her. I think many take this claim at face value, because "Fitz should have known what he was doing" (as Patience also intoned). However, let's consider the books have established a three-year age gap between Fitz and Molly. Thus, in Assassin's Apprentice, Fitz would have been begun "courting" Molly at around the age of 13-15 while Molly was 16-18. Even without viewing this through a modern lens, this claim feels like a stretch to me. Imagine expecting a young boy, barely schooled in social norms, to understand that strolling through town with a childhood friend equals courtship. No words or actions passed between them that indicated anything more than friendship. I believe Patience's scolding and instructions were fitting and commendable. However, Molly’s internalization of this narrative against Fitz seems misplaced and unfair, given her knowledge of their shared history and relationship.

Then, after he shares his concern for her about what he saw in his dream. She accuses him of purposely scheming and attempting to deceive her; that he must have heard her whole story in the tavern and is just making fun of her. This is again a very unfair characterization for her to place on Fitz; nothing she knows about him should indicate that he would do something like this at her expense.

She has a right to be upset that Fitz kept his true identity from her. But he also had a right to do so. She gave him no grace and despite his apparent weakened state, she did not allow him to give any explanations. Worse, because of how Fitz is, he immediately accepts her view of the situation and berates himself for not realizing the courtship, despite having had no tools of his own to recognize that. This pattern continues throughout their relationship.

And this, in essence, is what makes Fitz and Molly such a toxic pair. She accuses him of things he does not intend or cannot change, and he, like a sponge, absorbs them as truth, eroding his own perspective and identity. And on the other side, I believe Molly deserves someone who will challenge her. Someone to stretch her boundaries, broaden her horizons. A companion who could wholeheartedly dedicate their life to a family and business together in partnership. Because, while not necessarily a flaw, she has blinders on and focuses largely on her personal happiness and fulfillment. She does not want to bother with thinking of the realm, the raiders or the help other families may need. This is a chasm between her and Fitz, whose heart bleeds for his people's misfortune and feels a duty to his station and Kings. Instead of embracing and appreciating Fitz's compassionate heart and will to make the Six Duchies a better place, she frequently berates him and minimizes his feelings by accusing him of only being a mere king's pawn unable to think and choose for himself.

Especially as readers, we know this isn't the whole truth. We’ve witnessed Fitz’s tears for a dead child cradled in his arms, felt the fire of vengeance burning within him against the raiders. Molly has not, and yet, it does not seem she cares to know. To each of Fitz's explanations, she complains and argues. While we only get the taste of a few of these encounters, Fitz comments that it is a frequent topic of contention between them.

Molly wants Fitz to fit into her mold and she wants what makes her happy to be what makes him happy. She longs for the days when Fitz was only Newboy. She says she just doesn't understand the things he tells her, and yet I feel this is the same "not understanding" that Fitz employs with the Fool; in fact, it is very much understood, it is just not what they want to acknowledge as truth. Because Fitz is not Newboy, and because she subconsciously blames Fitz for not being Newboy, she thus does not put in effort to know and accept Fitz for who he is. I do not consider her calling Fitz as Newboy throughout Royal Assassin a simple nickname; to me it speaks of Molly desperately trying to reverse time and put Fitz back in the box she liked him best in.

I think exactly how little Molly knows Fitz is further illustrated by the Nighteyes-as-Fitz scene. It is a weird and, in some ways, humorous scene, but what struck me is how Molly appears to know Fitz so poorly that she did not sense anything amiss about an intimate encounter with a literal wolf in Fitz-clothing.

Returning to Fitz's identity and 'lies' throughout their relationship, I personally do not believe that Fitz owed her the truth of his identity from the beginning. It was a deeply personal matter and I believe it was not wrong for him to keep it private. As a young boy, he felt his status as a bastard was deeply shameful, and it is no wonder he would not share it. In my opinion, he would have a duty to disclose if he had truly begun to court her, however he was never given this chance.

So, did he continue to lie after his identity was revealed to her? I do not believe so. He shares much with her about what he does, and about Verity and King Shrewd. It is not a question to me that he would not be able to disclose every detail of what he knows; his knowledge of his kingdom's affairs and his identity as an assassin are not entirely his secrets to share. There are surely modern equivalents of this as well. It is hardly unusual to be unable to share some portions of one's work with one's partner. However, Molly deems this as unacceptable and unforgiveable, despite her lack of interest in what he does— a further inherent incompatibility in their relationship. Instead of offering understanding and support for the isolation that Fitz must feel for being in such a position with his Kings, she resents him for things he has no real power to change. Keep in mind if he had left the Kings' protection at the time, his life would surely have been threatened as Chivalry's was lost. Molly should be able to understand this, and yet she cannot see past her current unhappiness.

In her time at the Keep, Molly also puts a large amount of pressure on Fitz. She is out of her element, she has had a traumatic experience, she knows no one at court. And so, she often complains to Fitz that he doesn't spend more time with her. In a very unhealthy way, she attempts to force him to be everything for her at the Keep— her only social outlet, her support, her protector. Due to this, her resentment for Fitz and his choices grows with every moment he is not with her, and she spends much of their time together asking him to turn away from who and what he is to start a life together.

In the end, both hold the other up as idealized versions one could never hope to fulfil; Molly wants Fitz without his royalty or passion for his people. Fitz yearns for Molly, stripped of independence, her self-driven, entrepreneurial nature tucked away. In their relationship, they offer only moments of fleeting comfort punctuated by feelings of sadness and blame. They cannot fulfill each other's expectations. Molly is unable to bolster Fitz's confidence in himself and the peace and acceptance he desperately craves remain elusive. And likewise, Fitz cannot offer Molly purpose or allow her the sense of security she desires under which to prosper her business and family.

And so, these two are ill-matched and ill-fated, clinging through each other to the last vestiges of a childhood they wish they did not have to leave behind. 

#i do like her as a character #im just am confounded people see it as a true romance #she never really does anything for fitz? #and he only is with her for what she represents to him imo #i also have a lot of feelings about neurodivergence #and everyone just expecting fitz to Know Things #maybe i will write about that another time #i think generally people really cut molly too much slack throughout royal assassin #she was lonely and traumatized and wanted fitz to be her everything #she didn't want to be a servant #she wanted him to go help her start her livelihood again #all very understandable #but not healthy or romantic imo... #kizuna rereads #rote #realm of the elderlings #assassin's apprentice #royal assassin #fitzchivalry farseer #i won't tag this as molly #since it is critical #also be nice to me #i haven't written something like this in a long time #i also have quotes to support my conclusions but i didn't include bc it was unwieldly and unpleasant to read

[lilyharvord]

RQ Week 2 Flash Fic Friday

... a scene taken from a series of scenes for a fic I wil probably never write.... Bonswa my loves, I have returned (: @nortaeventcouncil. For RQ flash fic fridays (prompt 1 secrets)

“Would you have given them to me?”

            Mare glanced up at him with wary eyes, hearing the way his voice betrayed the nonchalance with which he asked his question. Somehow, she knew he would ask her at some point. It had really just been a matter of when for weeks now. Being at the cabin always seemed to loosen lips, and now was no different. The last thing she wants to do was open this can with him though. She had already suffered his presence from the moment it arrived, and all she wanted to do was stay in the tranquility of this moment for as long as she could.

            “Given you what?”

            His cheek twitched at her avoidance, but his eyes softened at the edges. Glancing away, he stared out the frosted window at the viciously falling snow. On the back of the plush chair, his fingers curled into claws on the blanket draped there. The storm had come violently midday and had stayed well into the night. Travel was impossible, leaving was impossible. She felt like a fish trapped in a tank with a shark.

            “Would you have… given me children?”

            Mare’s hand stilled on Coriane’s curls, and she had to forcibly keep herself from possessively wrapping an arm around her to pull her closer. The question wasn’t directed at Coriane at all, but something about the idea of it made Mare’s hackles rise. He hadn’t made any overt threats toward Coriane yet, at least none that Mare knew of. Maybe her threat had worked that first night, or maybe he had been telling the truth when he told he that he had nothing against her daughter. Given the past, the former had to be true.

            Slowly she returned to stroking Coriane’s damp hair, and considered her as she did so. Fresh from a warm bath, she dozed peacefully. The firelight bathed her in orange and red; the perfect colors for her palette. For half a second, she imagined her with different features, the more angular ones that used to haunt every one of Mare’s nightmares. She imagined her with blue eyes instead of mellow amber. Something in her stomach clenched tightly at the fact that she could not picture her daughter laughing with those blue eyes. She swallowed subtly before saying the only thing she could.

            “They never would have been ours. They would have been your mother’s.”

            His exhales whistles through his teeth, telling her she hit the nerve that has always made him curl in on himself.

            “That’s not true.”

            “Look at me and say that. Look at me and tell me that you really think I would have been allowed to raise them, that she would have let me.” She stared him down across the space, her hand stilling on Coraine’s head again before slowly guiding her closer. She wouldn’t be able to fit in her lap much longer, but it was the only way Mare felt like she could keep her close right this second.  

            He raised his chin at her, those icy blue eyes practically glowing in the low light of the dying fire. His cheek twitched again, and he curled his fingers into a tighter ball on the blanket.

            “I would have made her stay away from them.”

            Mare couldn’t help but laugh. The movement and sound made Coriane shift, and curl tighter against her. Cutting the sound off harshly to avoid waking her, Mare shook her head in exasperation. The least he could have done was say something believable. “You would have tried,” she admitted quietly, when Coriane had sighed and relaxed again. “And you would have failed.”

            His entire being went still as stone, and Mare felt the undulating waves of heat he tried to contain wash over her as softly as the waves on the lake shore. She watched him tear his eyes away from her, and gnaw on the inside of his cheek for a moment. The odd kinetic stillness she remembered settled over him as he began to tap a finger against his knee. Slowly he molded himself back into the blasé image he had been maintaining up until this conversation.

“You think I wouldn’t have loved them.”

            There wasn’t a hint of a question in his words, and Mare pursed her lips at the accusation. A part of her wanted to keep twisting the knife deeper, to inflict the pain she had always been able to with him. The other part, the one that had grown out of the bitter, resentful girl she had been stayed the blow, and ultimately won out.

            “I think, she wouldn’t have let you love them. Or me.” She added the last part quietly, but it still struck home like a blow.

            His finger started tapping again, and even in the low light she could see the nail was bit to the quick. The others were probably no better, so she didn’t bother looking at them. Before it had been easy to just remember the man who had been on the other side of cell bars taunting her and pulling at old wounds. It had been easy to remember the manic energy in his eyes when she had chased him down in Whitefire. Potentially facing the young man he had been underneath all that made her shiver. Her eyes slowly fell, and she dropped her voice to a whisper as she said, “There are no more secrets, not anymore.”

            “No more secrets.” He echoed the words mockingly under his breath before rising and slipping back into the shadows of the house. The fire popped loudly in the grate, the only residue of his emotions, while the wind howled outside and thunder rumbled faintly.

#rq flash fic fridays #this has lived for too long on my computer #this scene in particular sparked the fic #along with a few others... #but mostly this #time to do a tango with the devil while a child is involved (: #too bad I dont have a plot for this #could maybe be good #red queen #glass sword #kings cage #war storm #broken throne #post broken throne #I haven't.... written anything for RQ for sometime... #I'm sorry #it's been a long long long time #but flash fic helps... #mare barrow #maven calore #don't mind the plot holes and plot dust #he's back #and he's cause chaos as he always does #while coriane blissfully sleeps through it

[holocene-sims]

next // previous

august 16, 2021 11:00 p.m. grandma ong's house

there’s a strangeness to a quiet enclave in a bustling metropolis, unexpected in the same manner as grant and henry’s long, unbroken brotherhood. nothing about the baseline rustle of neighbors carrying in paper grocery sacks and kids kicking a soccer ball resembles the eternal merry-go-round of life–max-capacity subway cars, clueless and loud tourists, and locals who drift through their day–just down the road. and yet above this neighborhood–and the entire sprawling city–hangs a common thread, a bluish hazy night sky.

“that was wild,” henry says, suppressed laughter bursting forth from deep in his chest, “all day everyone’s defaulted to speaking english because, well, look at you, and you even had me fooled. i actually forgot you kind of speak basic korean."

“the inner machinations of my mind are an enigma.”

henry rolls his eyes dramatically but in the same split second, throws an arm around grant’s shoulders.

“i was afraid that soup was going to fly out of your mouth.” grant returns the gesture, though it requires him to lean down so as to not smother henry’s face instead. “too close for comfort.”

“well, in my defense, i was not expecting you to reply to my grandma asking me, “daehyun, i haven’t seen your friend since your wedding. how did you meet again?”

grant shrugs. “we met on a playground twenty-four years ago.”

“on my very first weekend as a resident of the semi-good ol’ US of A. in the opposite situation. i remember being so pissed that my parents made me go out to ‘make friends’ that weekend. not moving, mind you, but making friends. i guess they were psychics, though, because apparently, it didn’t bother you that i didn’t speak your language for at least a couple weeks.”

“people say i could talk to a wall.”

henry laughs again. “you could. you’re very chatty.”

“did it bother you that i wrote you some really, really, really shitty letters in korean in the early days based on online translations i found?”

“no, that was sweet.” no question about it–the joy in henry’s eyes is determined. “they were definitely horrendous, but it’s the thought that counted. you could do better now. oh, and i think i still have all those letters. i should. i did box them up when i moved out of my parents’ house.”

they were, all things considered, never very much alike, beyond the fact they both liked cats but weren’t allowed to have any. henry’s mom was allergic, but grant’s parents despised pets. otherwise, they were polar opposites. grant always liked math and science, wanted to work with airplanes, and preferred to spend his free time with others playing tabletop RPGs and computer games; henry always liked art and history, wanted to be a photographer, and preferred to be left alone to his vintage film camera and pottery. grant’s parents raged when he selected aviation over medicine; henry’s parents and grandparents, all artists, were delighted by his dreams of photography. moreover, grant selectively speaks his mind, while henry rarely minces words.

and still–

the shrill honk of a car off in the distance disturbs grant’s thoughts.

“you really could talk to a wall, but hey, why did you approach me on the swing set that day? you were already busy hanging out with your sisters. and your cousins. why me?”

and still, the two have fused into one. the world turned upside down; grant paints these days, henry has long been a willing dungeons and dragons player, and separation from one another is like losing half your body. if henry walked away now–ended this messy half-hug early–grant would turn to ash.

“well,” grant begins, drawing out the suspense with an exaggerated sigh, “first of all...”

#ts4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 #sims 4 story #sims 4 storytelling #simblr #hlcn: everything the stars promised #holocene.docx #holocene.png #hlcn: grant #hlcn: henry #it's been a WHILE since i've done a text-based update on this story so i apologize if the tone is off at all #then again this story has undergone quite a few stylistic changes and there's nothing wrong with that #btw i haven't even written anything outside of academic papers in so long i just have not had the spark or energy for a long time #so i'm kind of proud of this bc it took more effort than usual #wow i miss creative writing being 100% instinctual to me jdsfdsklfds burnout is so real y'all and it's got HANDSSSS #insert a NONE OF THIS IS ABOUT THIS PARTICULAR MOMENT IT'S ABOUT THEIR WHOLE FRIENDSHIP comment #hehehehe i love setting up future posts :3 i love foreshadowing :3 #also yes we wait to find out the answer to that last question :) but it's coming #aaaaand we will find out more about henry i promise this isn't it

[skeltarune]

Y'ever look back at your old writing and think...damn, I used to be so good at this.

#like i'm shocked at how decent my old writing was #and now i look at the things i've written and...it's just. #i guess it's bc i've been writing a lot of private commissions #things i don't genuinely enjoy #for a very long time now #and i haven't had time to write something i wanted #for a very very long time now #it's like that spark has disappeared #how do i bring it back #i want it back so bad #the commissions weren't anything ut or dr related #they're private commissions #i really don't like doing them #but i need the money

[notesbutnotfromunderground]

If Aziraphale does lose his memory ...

“I used to be like you are now, so innocent and pure, angel.” Crowley choked. This was the last thing he wanted, for Aziraphale to see him like this. Then he gently closed his eyes as Aziraphale held the burning sword above his head.

Crowley realized a while back that Aziraphale had lost all of the memories they made together the moment he stepped foot back in heaven. There was no going back from this. And Aziraphale will never forgive himself if he remembers. So he did the next right thing to do—stopping time.

“Promise me one thing,” he looked at straight into the Metatron’s floating head. “Aziraphale never remembers me when all of this is done.” He didn’t give the Metatron a chance to talk back and restarted time. After all, if Aziraphale remembers everything, who knows what he will do to Heaven. And that is something the Metatron wouldn’t want happening.

Crowley’s eyes drifted back into that moment in the bookshop. He slowly closed his eyes, carefully remembering every detail of Aziraphale’s being, no longer able to hold his tears. Aziraphale’s Archangel eyes bore deep into his soul. Almost. We had it almost. Angel.”

Aziraphale tightened his grip on the burning sword, watching the tears fall from the Demon’s yellow eyes. This Demon they talked about, he wondered why he was strongly bent on stopping the Second Coming. Why were the humans so important to him? But Heaven is never wrong and the Demons are meant to lose. The humans have had their run according to the ineffable plan.

Aziraphale held the sword higher in a stance, ready to banish the Demon Crowley for time and eternity when he heard that familiar voice on the back of his mind. “Almost. We had it almost.”

The Metatron stopped floating and went to stand beside Aziraphale, “Well, go on Aziraphale. Heaven’s victory is ours. And we can begin eternity.”

Michael and Saraquel were about to say something but the Metatron looked at them. Even Michael was questioning her intentions. This was all wrong she figured it out. She opened her mouth and was about to say something but she wasn't able to.

Crowley opened his eyes just to take a look at Aziraphale for the last time. When he did, for the first time in more than 6,000 years, he could see clearly. The veil has finally been lifted from his eyes.

Time stopped again. But not for Aziraphale and Crowley. And neither of the two noticed it.

Aziraphale’s memory came rushing back to him. “Almost. We had it almost.” Aziraphale began to sob.

Aziraphale finally remembered everything. From when he heard the first Archangel’s call out in the space to when he first saw him again as the Demon Crawley up until the time when Crowley’s kiss was all brand new. His angel heart shattered into a million pieces when he realized he wasn’t able to keep the promise he made when he left the bookshop. To protect Crowley. To correct heaven that they can finally be at ease together and just be an us. He can still see and hear Crowley's heartbreak.

The flaming sword fell halfway to the ground. A palm to his mouth. “Almost,” continued Aziraphale as tears began to flow from his eyes.

Every memory repeated back in his mind.

“Oh, Crowley. Please forgive me,” Aziraphale whispered, almost lost in the air.

No more, he thought. Faster than fast, he knelt down beside him and grabbed Crowley’s right hand in his left, pulled his collar and pulled him closer to him. Their lips met.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and for the very first time of his entire existence, he let himself go. He kissed Crowley the way he wanted to kiss him back at the bookshop.

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand in his hair, gently pulling. He let go of Aziraphale’s hand and reached out to cup his face with his hands. Something he didn’t have the courage to do at the bookshop. Their tears continue to fall as Aziraphale pulled them even closer together.

Both desperate and yearning.

Hurting and healing at the same time.

The kiss went on until they were both grasping for breath. When they finally pulled away, Crowley was the first to speak before Aziraphale shamely gazed away.

“I forgive you.”

Aziraphale was about to say something when Crowley gently shook his head.

Crowley silently took Aziraphale’s hands and held on to them for dear life as they pressed their foreheads against each other.

“Well there they are again,” God thought to herself. A cheeky grin on her face as the nightingale on her shoulder started to sing. She could watch this forever but they all had work to do and an ineffable game to finish.

[Fast forward to something like this:]

Artwork by: cliopadraart

#ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #ineffable lovers #aziracrow #crowley aziraphale #crowley #good omens #crowly x aziraphale #good omens season 3 #ineffable bureaucracy #ineffable love story #demon crowley #angel crowley #archangel crowley #archangel aziraphale #fuck the metatron #good omens 2 #be nice i haven't written anything like this in a long time #they deserve a happy ending #good omens supremacy

[blooming-cecilia]

thinking about cult au, wherein they discover that their beloved creator has disabilities and so of course, everyone gladly accomodates and provides them what they need and more

idk if wheelchairs are a thing in teyvat but whether or not they aren't, they'll make a more special one just for you

you could describe the concept of a wheelchair to them if they don't know, or you could also describe the kinds of wheelchairs we have in our world, like those ones that could be controlled by a joystick

i feel like they could make one of those with machines easy but again they want it to be ✨ special ✨ and more fitting of your status, so what do they do?

make a floating chair out of some plaustrite (the material used to make the jade chamber float) and, like the jade chamber, implement some sort of controls for it to allow you to move it wherever you want, and also control the elevation: if you wanted it to float higher or stay close to the ground

it'd be really useful if you wanted to get up a flight of stairs or maybe just reach something from the top of the cabinets and didn't have anyone to help

alternatively, if you did have access to elemental abilities or any otherwordly powers as the god of this world, you'd probably have no problem controlling it without those controls

just. floating chair like in sci-fi movies but except it's fancy and made with magic rock LOL

i can also imagine the fact that their creator is disabled will also encourage accessibility for the pwd's and senior citizens, bc honestly have you SEEN the amount of stairs in mond and liyue. not everyone can have a fancy floating magic rock chair

mond has so many stairs, especially the way up to the church?? i'd get tired climbing all the way up there, what more for seniors and pwd's?? they don't even have ramps TT

liyue also has lots of stairs, and even the way to the pharmacy is a bit of a climb

and i guess liyue does have some ramps? but they're a bit too steep to actually. pass through i think

on another note, i also wonder if there are options for prosthetics in teyvat?

like, it wouldn't seem like such a stretch considering they have all of these robots and that people still actively research it

some of the human enemies seem to have robotic arms/enhancements for combat and as armor too

but part of me wonders if they have just simple prosthetics just for everyday use

and also, if disabled people with visions are able to use those visions on themselves

i'm thinking of like... people with dendro visions with twisted vines and branches for missing limbs

maybe cryo can be used to sculpt a limb, and maybe it can be moved in a similar way these sculptures do?

and i wonder if people with visions can make prosthetics with elemental abilities For others, and only have to come back to the maker for maintenance or to somehow replenish the elemental energy in these prosthetics?

anyway yeah, just me thinking about disabilities in teyvat + using elemental abilities for things other than combat

if anyone has any thoughts to share about it i'd love to hear them!! i just think it'd be interesting to think about :]

(and if i did get something wrong, please tell me! admittedly i don't know a lot about disabilities other than what i've seen with a relative of mine so do forgive me and [politely] correct me 🙏)

#tulip brainrots #sagau #cult au #genshin cult au #genshin sagau #i forgot what tags u use for this... i haven't written anything for cult au in a while #this actually isn't even exclusive to cult au but just in general #but i did have that idea of the plaustrite wheelchair and thought that someone would only ever get such a fancy chair #made of rare materials #for someone truly special #so cult au it is #ive had these thoughts for a long time now but i only got to writing it now

[cerise-on-top]

what if the 141 boys had a ridiculously tall husband. like. a little bit taller than konig, probably. and he's really scary to people, actually!!!! but not his s/o , nuh uh, he's disgustingly sweet to his beloved.. sorry i'm rambling, i think (jokes and idiocy aside i adore your headcanons <3)

Hey there! Thank you, that's very kind of you! Also thank you for sending in a request for a male reader, you're one of the first ones and I was very excited to write about a male reader for once :D

TF141 With A Very Tall Husband

Price: He didn’t really think he’d ever be dating someone much, much taller than him. Sure, he doesn’t particularly mind, but he’s not short either, with him standing at 1,88m himself. It makes him feel small at times, especially if you’re pretty muscular too. He doesn’t get insecure about it in the slightest, oh no, but it’s weird to be so much shorter than your loved ones. However, he’s pretty used to scary people by now. Ghost isn’t exactly a delight to have around at first when you don’t know him either, so he knows how to deal with scary people. Might ask you to tone it down a little bit when you’re scaring other people too much, he doesn’t particularly wanna attract attention like that. But you being a sweetheart towards him? It melts his heart. He knows what you’re like towards people that aren’t him, so it makes him smile that you’re willing to do just about anything for him just to spend some time with him. You wanna trim his beard? There’s a good chance you’ve got some experience with that anyway, so he really doesn’t mind it as much. Hell, he probably trusts you more than his own barber at times. Besides, it’s a nice little bonding activity. If you have a beard then he’ll offer to trim it for you as well. Price isn’t really opposed to being the little spoon, or just being held in general. Quite the opposite, you being this tall sometimes puts him in a cuddly mood where he just plops down into your arms. Gently scratch his scalp and there’s a good chance he’ll even fall asleep on you. He’s so used to being everyone’s protector, it feels nice to be protected for once. But he won’t always settle for being held either, it’s his job to make you feel safe and sound as well, and thus he will take on the role of cuddler as well. Will fight you for that role, actually. Price is a real sweetheart towards his loved ones as well, so I think the two of you would fit well together. His mere presence demands respect in the right people, which can sometimes scare others. So, from time to time, you might both scare other people together. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes unintentionally.

Gaz: He makes so many jokes about you being this tall and feigns being hurt about being much shorter than you are. You’re his behemoth, his leviathan and his ziz. Loves calling you the names of monsters that are said to be pretty big, it’s endearing to him. Besides, you’re scary enough that some people call you a monster anyway, if just for your height. If anyone ever were to call you that in front of Gaz, then they’ll end up with a black eye. No one gets to call you a monster but him. While he won’t always approve of you scaring everyone, Gaz does have a few friends that he wants you to get along with, he won’t particularly do anything about it either if that’s just what you’re like. Might try to make you seem a bit less scary by being a bit more affectionate with you in public. Holding your hand, giving you a peck on the cheek, giving you a hug. Those kinds of things. He actually loves you being this tall since that means you can pick him up and spin him around. He’s not been picked up ever since he was a little boy, so he definitely wouldn’t mind you showing off to him just how strong you are. Is also always looking for an excuse to hold your hand. Oh, seems like he forgot just how big your hand actually is and how much it engulfs his. Remind him for a moment and hold his hand, will you? Gaz is a sweetheart towards his loved ones anyway, if you look past the fact he will sass anyone to show his affection, so he loves that you’re so sweet towards him. Though, sometimes he wishes you were about the same height so you could actually share each other’s wardrobe. But hey, at least he gets to wear your extremely oversized shirts and hoodies, one of his favorite things to do. Another thing he also adores is just sitting in your lap when you’re home together and will also place your hands so that you’re holding him in your arms. If you’ve got really warm hands then he’ll place them atop his thighs to keep himself warm. Gaz isn’t the warmest person out there, but that just means you get to warm him up yourself. Is actually a lot cuddlier because you’re this tall and will become your personal blanket.

Ghost: He feels kind of perplexed about you being so much taller than him. Ghost is 1,95m, he towers over pretty much anyone, so how dare you be so much taller than him. Pretends to hate you being this tall, actually loves it. Sometimes he dreams of sparring with you under the moonlight to assert his dominance, even though there’s really no need to since you’re such a sweetheart towards him. He probably just needs to ask and would get anything from you. He really doesn’t mind you scaring pretty much everyone off, he has the same effect on people he doesn’t know. That just means there’s less people to worry about in his life for the time being. You’ll be spending a lot of time alone with each other that way, which he really likes. Though, maybe don’t scare his teammates too much, he genuinely likes them and wants them to be well too. Though, it’s kind of hard to properly scare them anyway. Ghost is usually a pretty quiet man when there’s no need for chit chat, but he doesn’t mind hearing your voice. In fact, he might get worried if you suddenly stop talking and will ask you what’s wrong. If you’ve got nothing to talk about then he’ll ask some questions so he can continue hearing your voice. He also blushes from time to time when you suddenly give him some sugary sweet compliments. He’s a grown, scary military man, he really shouldn’t be, but it’s just so endearing, especially when you, even bigger and scarier, call him your little honey bunny. It actually motivates him to do house chores. Not that he won’t do them anyway, but you calling him embarrassingly domestic names makes him just a tad bit soft, which leads to him trying to be a good husband. You may cuddle him since he trusts you, but he will also want to hold you from time to time. Life is a constant give and take, so prepare to be cuddled. Won’t particularly ask for cuddles, though, since he’s kind of too embarrassed to admit he’s touch starved. To you it’s blatantly obvious, though, which is why you initiate those cuddling sessions. Ghost appreciates it and sometimes hides a smile in either the pillow or your neck. As long as you don’t see him being silly, all is good.

Soap: He used to hate you being this tall. Soap may “only” be of average height, but he’s the tallest in his family, which he was actually pretty proud of. He towered over his father, even. And then he joined the military, where quite a few people were taller than him. And then you had the audacity to introduce yourself to him. You, the tallest man he’s ever met. It hurt his ego. Ever since you got together, though, he slowly got over it. You’re just such a sweetheart, how could he hate you over something as trivial as this? However, nothing could ever stop him from trying to pick you up and spinning you around. Soap is a pretty strong lad too, he’ll make it work somehow. You will feel tiny and cared for too. There’s a good chance he can’t reach your lips to kiss you. Yes, he could just ask you to bend down, but where’s the fun in that? Climbs you like a tree instead. He’s also always thinking of that one post where, instead of asking their boyfriend, the person should just punch him in the stomach. He won’t do it, but he remembers it every time without fail. He doesn’t mind you being scary either. Hell, Ghost is also a pretty scary guy to have around when you don’t know him and he’s one of Soap’s closest friends. Besides, he knows better anyway. You’re a total goof and the biggest sweetheart this world has ever seen. You being scary towards others just means that he’s got you all to himself all the time. Soap is a clingy guy, so you can expect him to cling to you like a koala from time to time. Actually, that was a lie, you should expect him to jump at you and hold onto you very often. Cuddles over safety. You’re likely also one of the only people on the planet willing to hear him out when he’s talking about his passions. And he could go on for hours every time. Explosives, weapons, whatever show you’re watching together, all is fair game. See, you’re one of the biggest sweethearts to him because you actually listen to him, despite him going into great detail about it all. You may not always be able to understand him when he’s talking chemistry again, but you hear him out anyway, and for that alone you’ve won his heart. He also sits on your lap while talking. You’re his little throne now that he takes immense pride in.

#cod #cod x reader #john price #john price x reader #price x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #I doubt anyone cares but I HC Soap to be 1.78m and Gaz to be 1.81m I just forgot to mention it #m!reader #I know I'm biased but I feel as though I'm actually more willing to write about male readers than fem readers #90% of all things I see in this fandom are with a fem reader there's barely anything for male readers #still thinking back fondly on that one time I got a request for a ftm reader #but that was an eternity ago and I feel as though I'd write that request better now and with more content #I tried to write a lot for this because I was really looking forward to it #besides it was a pretty cute request too. I've actually got a request that's similiar to this one too #it's with Laswell and a reader that's roughly as tall as König #and then I've got something for Nikolai and Price as a couple #I'm gonna write some HCs for that alone and then write some more with added reader as a bonus #I know I never mentioned it anywhere but I do try to be a reader centric blog. but I can write charxchar as well #I just haven't done so since middle school I think #wait no I've written charxchar not too long ago for madcom and tf2. good times #not sure if I'll continue writing today though. I started a new anime and I'm enjoying it a lot so I might watch that instead

[lenievi]

I'm not sure if my writing changed or if it's because I haven't written for a while, but it feels different and idk if I like it. On the other hand, I like McCoy's reaction because yeah lol

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McCoy closed his eyes, palms pressed against the cold surface of his shower wall panel, and let the water fall hard on his head and back.

I’ve decided to retire from Starfleet, Jim’s words echoed in his mind.

McCoy shook his head and rubbed shampoo into his hair, nails scratching his scalp. Retire. Jim couldn’t just retire. He didn’t belong on earth. He’d be bored in two weeks.

McCoy hadn’t stayed quiet. He should have. He could have enjoyed a relaxing drink and conversation in good company instead of feeling miserable in his cold cabin. And Jim was so sincere when he’d told McCoy about his plans: picking up horse riding and buying a dog. A dog! McCoy should have hauled him into sick bay and run a full diagnostics.

#or maybe it's because I haven't written anything from mccoy's POV for a long time? hmmm #my writing