i know you probably have SO MANY prompts to do because theyre absolutely phenomenal...but when you get the chance could you write your prompt for #46 from Andrew's POV? i think you could do it so well and i would die.
(god… ‘phenomenal’ ur such a sweetheart! I don’t usually like to write the same scene twice so I rlly tried to make it as different as possible outside of dialogue hope it works 4 u xoxo)
Andrew wheels around in the search-light sweep of laser projectors, suddenly aware of his place in the thicket of heat-pressed bodies. He turns his back on Roland and Aaron talking over the bar, Kevin knocking back shots with a regularity that makes him look like he’s on some sort of mechanism.
Neil’s heat is gone from his side. If he’s the buoy that saves Neil from drowning, he’s lost him to the swallowing water again.
He’d had his hand knotted around Neil’s wrist as a security measure, but he’d slipped it. Escape artist, Andrew thinks. Runner.
It would be okay if Roland hadn’t been pouring him free shots for 2 hours, if Andrew hadn’t been indifferently nodding Neil on, privately curious to see what the alcohol might do.
Turns out it mostly flushed his fair cheeks and loosened his hands, made his eyes look curiously like the pupils had detached from the irises. And now he’s wandered off like an untrained dog.
The crowd is a dangerous, forgetful place, and Neil is bad at pretending not to be drunk.
Andrew leaves the bar with a sideways look at Roland. He’s always uneasy when his responsibilities are split like this: Aaron trying to keep up with Kevin’s alcoholic appetite, Nicky long since disappeared onto the dance floor, Neil holding his liquor like a newborn.
He sidesteps a drunken bachelorette conga line, sweeping the room in uneven loops. Drunk people are unpredictable people, and Neil’s slippery on a good day. He can’t spot his familiar auburn head in the throng, and the lights warp and dull his colouring anyway.
He rounds back to Aaron and Kevin, watching them droop and laugh, and then he makes for the bathroom.
He’s just in time to watch Nicky and Neil topple into the bathroom counter, his cousin’s hands displaced from Neil’s narrow waist.
“Why do bad things always happen to me?” Neil says, the hand holding his weight up moving absently over the wall. He’d laugh, if he laughed, at Neil’s dramatic intonation, his body bobbing as if on water, his shoulders unselfconsciously back.
“You’ve got a mouth that gets you into trouble,” he says. Neil almost slips in his haste to turn around, his whole face twisting up even as Nicky has to re-steady him, huffing. Andrew’s chest throbs. “And you can’t hold your liquor.” He wedges his hands under Nicky’s and pops them off of Neil’s body.
Nicky knows better by now than to overstep with neil, and Andrew steps forward to remind him — but Neil stumbles suddenly, Andrew has to sidestep to catch him.
“Were you looking for me?” Neil asks, crowding into Andrew’s space with his breath moist and boozy on his face. He slips his hand up to cup Andrew’s neck, thumbing his pulse like a habit. Andrew watches Nicky so he won’t watch Neil; if the feel of him is too much, the sight of him is always worse. He has to get out of this bathroom.
The finish of the first women’s money in the bank ladder match was seriously WWE saying they’ll never treat the women as equal as the men as long as Vince McMahon and his yes men are still there.
But why should I be surprised? This is the same company, same people, that had women literally wrestle in a kiddy pool of mud or god knows what. Same people that had women pillow fight. And let’s not forget the bra and panties matches where in order to win the match was to literally strip your opponent’s clothes off to their underwear.
I guess I’m another frustrated wrestling fan venting on the internet but hey I’m a wrestling fan that wants everyone to have the same opportunities and pushes. Not just the women but black wrestlers. We are still yet to have a male black wrestler to win the WWE Championship. And this company has been around since the fucking 80s.
I swear this company can never be truly trusted until Vince McMahon and his guys like Kevin Dunn are gone.
replied to your post “Will you please please rewrite the scene where Mulder tells Scully…”
Oh and thanks for making me tear up again, @settle-down-frohike. You made that scene so much less awkward. Or at least understandably awkward. I get the feeling CC tries to cram too much in each ep and we miss what we need to make sense of their circumstances and move them past their issues.
Man. That scene frustrated me for so long. I was so bitter. Writing this was for sure cathartic. I have a brother who has dealt with some pretty serious PTSD and my talks with him definitely influenced this piece and increased my empathy for both him and Mulder.
Can you write Hermione x Pansy pairing please? I know you never write f/f so if it's out of your comfort zone, feel free to ignore this. Prompt : Pansy want to ask Hermione to a date, but everytime they meet, they always end up arguing.
(( DEFINITELY NOT OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE, I just happen to get more requests for heterosexual or male homosexual pairings <3 ))
The bell dinged, and the tell-tale click clack of heels followed. Hermione bit back an aggravated sigh, shoving the book she was holding back into its place and climbing down the ladder.
After quitting the Ministry (she’d never get those ten years of her life back, and they’d been utterly wasted on that sinkhole), starting up a bookshop seemed to be the next logical step. She’d insisted that Harry not fund it, but he’d counter-insisted, and before long she found herself with a little space off Diagon Alley that she promptly stuffed to the gills with books.
Her specialty was rare books and books that Flourish and Blott’s wouldn’t stock, and she was doing well. Not well enough to pay Harry back, mind, although she got the distinct impression that he didn’t really care about that.
The only thing that she hated about working in a bookshop was the customers.
Customers were pure, unadulterated terribleness wrapped up in failing nervous systems and given the sublime mistake of emotion. Most of them, she didn’t mind; they came in, found the books they needed, and walked out with nary a word.
If she had a knut for every stupid interaction she’d been forced to endure with some idiot utterly divorced from reality, she’d have enough change to pay Harry back with interest. And she’d only been open eight months.
But, like all terrible groups of people, there was always the Queen of the Hive. The one that made every other terrible person seem downright reasonable. The one who had been born of evil and hatred and lived only to consume the joy of others. The God of Making Hell On Earth a Reality.
And for Hermione Granger, that person was Pansy Parkinson.
“Hel-lo?” Her voice rang through the tiny shop like a crystal bell, equal parts disbelief and resentment. “Am I supposed to be helping myself, over here?”
Hermione came out of the stacks of shelves, glowering. “Relax, Parkinson. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone to fend for yourself in the real world. It’s probably enough of a shock that you went outside and realized having money piled all over the floor isn’t the norm.”
Pansy’s lip lifted in a delicate sneer. “Don’t they say that sarcasm is the last refuge of the poor and disconsolate?”
“That’s a big word, for you. Pick up a dictionary on your way in, did you?”
The dark-haired girl’s eyes flashed at the jab, and Hermione smiled benignly. She wasn’t sure why Pansy had taken such a liking to her shop – hell, she didn’t even seem to know what she was even looking for, most of the time, although she always bought something before she left – but while Hermione was not going to turn away the business, she had no intention of groveling to the brat.
Fluffing up the pile of fur wrapped around her neck, Pansy snapped, “Is this how you treat paying customers, Granger? No wonder your shop’s always empty.”
“No, it’s just how I treat you. And you always come in right when I open. It’s seven in the morning, of course it’s empty,” Hermione huffed, incredulously. Shaking her head, she shifted the pile of books on the counter to the cart, making a mental note to re-catalog them. “Look, what do you want, Parkinson? I don’t have all day.”
Pansy hesitated, glancing around. It seemed she’d already forgotten what she’d come in for.
When the silence stretched on too long, Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, if you remember what you need, please feel free to shout some more about how you’re not being helped,” she muttered, grabbing the re-shelving cart and pulling it towards the stacks.
“Wait!” When Hermione glanced back, Pansy hesitated again before drawing herself up haughtily. “You’re not going to try and help me remember?”
Blinking slowly, Hermione just stared, slack-jawed. “What are you talking about?”
“I spend a lot of money here,” Pansy ground out. “And as one of your foremost patrons, I think the least you could do is listen to me describe the book and then try and figure out if you’re stocking it. Honestly, Granger, who taught you about customer service, a troll?”
Oh, for Pete’s sake.
Sighing gustily, Hermione shoved the re-shelving cart back against the wall and leaned across the counter. “Alright. What’s the book about?”
Pansy’s eyes flicked around the bookshop for a second. “It’s… fiction.”
“Good start,” Hermione drawled, unimpressed.
Glaring daggers, Pansy continued. “It’s… fantasy. A fairy tale.” She was silent for a long beat, and just as Hermione was about to express her frustration, she spoke again, in a rush: “It’s about this girl who’s in love with another girl.”
Taken aback, Hermione stared up at her, her eyebrows drawing together. “Uh… I don’t think I have anything like that. Actually, I don’t think any wizards have written anything with homoerotic overtones,” she said, skeptically. “Is that just one interpretation of their friendship, or something, or is it pretty clear that she’s romantically interested in the other girl?”
“It’s pretty clear,” Pansy muttered, looking briefly flustered. “So stupidly obvious that any idiot could see it. Except the other girl, of course. She has no idea.”
“Huh,” Hermione said, racking her brain for a book – Wizarding or otherwise – that matched the description. “Well, I don’t think I’ve read anything like that. Can you tell me more about the story? You said fantasy, right? What kind?”
Pansy’s hands tightened on the fur around her neck. “Well, there’s magic. The oblivious girl works in a bookstore.”
Hermione canted her head a bit, snorting. “Magic isn’t exactly fantasy, here. Okay, so the oblivious girl works in a bookstore. What does the pining girl do?” she asked, grabbing a piece of parchment and writing down some notes on it. She was pretty sure she could figure this out, if Pansy could think of any other details.
“She… designs clothes,” Pansy said, softly. Hermione wrote it down. “Anyway, whenever the pining girl goes to talk to the bookshop girl, they end up arguing.”
“About what?” Hermione asked, absently, her quill still scratching on the parchment.
Pansy swallowed. “Everything, it seems like. They went to school together,” she added, suddenly. She watched Hermione write it down and wrestled with her own frustration. This obtuse idiot. “But they didn’t get along in school. They lived in different dormitories.” The quill was slowing as Pansy’s words penetrated. “And they come from very different walks of life, so sometimes just talking nicely can be… hard. Even when the pining girl really tries.”
Blinking rapidly at her own notes, Hermione slowly pushed herself upright again, momentarily speechless.
As her gaze rose to Pansy’s, Pansy swallowed again, her eyes flitting away to avoid contact. Two twin spots of bright red rose in her cheeks, betraying her mortification. “Maybe it’s not a book,” she muttered, quietly. “Maybe I’m thinking of something else.”
Inhaling shakily, Hermione set her quill down. Her fingers were trembling. “Why didn’t the pining girl just ask the bookshop girl?” she wondered, softly.
Pansy scowled. “Because the bookshop girl is always so difficult.”
Hermione ran her tongue over her lips, fighting down the urge to start hysterically laughing. Who would have thought? “Well, maybe she should give it a shot,” she suggested, casually. “I mean, weirder things have certainly happened, right? We were about two steps away from being ruled by a noseless tyrant, this is far from the strangest thing to occur in England.”
Startled, Pansy’s gaze jerked to hers, and she held her breath as they maintained it. Letting it out in a single, gusty go, Pansy half-shouted: “Granger, will you go out with me!”
“Okay,” Hermione agreed, without hesitation, and watched with satisfaction as Pansy’s eyes nearly exploded out of her head. “I close up at seven, so, how’s tonight?”
For a moment, Pansy just stared at her. For all she’d fantasized about Hermione finally saying yes, she had never planned the conversation after that point. “Yes,” she finally said, stammering a bit. It was the first time Hermione had ever seen her at a loss for words, and she bit back a smile as she waited for Pansy to sort out her thoughts. “Yes, that’s… that’s good. That would be…” Clearing her throat, Pansy drew herself up again. “That would be fine. I’ll just… come back at seven.”
Hermione nodded. “Alright.”
Swallowing, Pansy jerked a nod, looking awkward for the first time in her life ever, and quickly walked out the door and out of sight.
Left alone with her thoughts, Hermione grabbed the handle of her re-shelving cart and pushed it aimlessly around for a second. Then she laughed, bemused but a little excited. “So weird,” she whispered, a dumb smile lingering on her face as she went back to work.
Nagito is folding up an all-weather tarp repeatedly; as many times as
he can manage, it seems. He is struggling to keep its thick fabric kept
in place and wrestles with it in frustration. By the time he is “done,”
he has it compacted into an oddly-shaped ball. Nagito is pushing all
his body weight on it trying to keep its form. He looks at you for