#ebie asks

…possibly Mumbo and Etho friendship in the Smalletho dating sim AU but I am also willing to accept literally any other AU related drabbles.

Lol sorry for not answering this for a bit, I was writing this and was procrastinating as usual. Thank you for voting Cub, we didn’t win but he won in my heart (team big b till the end)

Here’s a Mumbo Etho friendship drabble, that lowkey I might revise and add to the story later on lol. This was not proofread and was written over the course of many days so excuse me if it doesn’t line up great lol

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Etho sat on a bench as he watched Joel and his friends run around.

It was Etho’s third time coming to the usual “playdate” that happened at the Moon Estate and he just didn’t feel like he fit in. Sure he and Joel got along one on one after Joel’s trip to the palace, but now that there were other people they were the focus of Joel’s attention instead. Which was hard.

He wanted to be friends with them all, Etho really did, but they just already had a dynamic together that Etho was trying to squeeze his way into. They were all friends and Etho was just here.

With a sigh, he watched longingly as Joel laughed with some blond boy.

“So you like Joel, right?” Etho whipped his head around, shocked by the voice, to see a tall dark haired kid.

“What? Pft no, I uh-um…no.” Etho struggled to deny. The boy just laughed as he sat down on the bench next to Etho.

“Anyways, I’m Mumbo.”

Etho’s eyes widened with recognition. “Oh I’ve heard about you from Scar.”

“Good things I hope.” The prince tried to hide the disagreement in his expression, he wouldn’t necessarily say it was good things he’d heard. But it seemed Mumbo had caught on, laughing again. “Yeah I’m not too hopeful about it. Scar and I are friends though.”

Etho was skeptical about the validity of that statement but Mumbo continued on. “So anyways, you like Joel?” Making Etho choked again.

“You…don’t know that..”

“Well it’s clear you’re not here for Pearl or else you would’ve come sooner, and you keep staring at Joel. Also you invited him to go the palace, so it’s pretty obvious.”

Etho felt dread and embarrassment swell within him. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Yeah, but Joel’s pretty dense.” Mumbo patted Etho’s knee. “But if you like him so much why don’t you go play with them.” He gestured to the group Joel was in. The boy had a large smile on his face as he ran after the other of the blond boys.

“You make it sound so simple. I feel like he won’t like me being there.”

“Did you two not get along when he went to the palace?”

“Well..no. We got along really well at the palace, but it was just the two of us. When we’re in a big group there’s just so many more people for him to be with and I’m not friends with anyone else.”

“Then do you want to be friends?” Mumbo asked, catching Etho off guard.

“You want to be friends?” Etho tilted his head, confused.

“Yeah why wouldn’t I? Since you’re here might as well. You seem nice, I’m already friends with your brother and technically we’ll be in laws. It’s the perfect circumstances for us to be friends.”

Etho nodded along. “That does make sense. So then we’re friends?”

“Only if you want to be.”

Etho looked back at the group Joel was in. He seemed happy as he ran further away from where Etho was sitting. Would Etho be able to keep up if he was chasing Joel all alone? He turned back to Mumbo. “I do want to be friends.”

“Great! I heard from Scar that you like to make redstone contraptions? He says that you’re very good at it.”

“I do. But I wouldn’t say that I’m good at it, I’m just following projects I see in books.”

“That’s what I do too! I mean I find the books about doors the most interesting so that’s what I’m generally making. My dad doesn’t think they’re the most useful, but I’m having fun with it.”

Etho took one more glance back at Joel, who was still off in his own world with his friends. He couldn’t just drag Joel down when he was here, Etho needed to establish his own place and his own friends. Etho couldn’t just add himself to Joel’s life or else Joel would probably resent him. He was going to make friends.

Etho focused back on Mumbo. “Honestly as long as you’re having fun with it. My older brother is the one who taught me redstone originally and that’s where I started to like it. So what types of doors do you make?”

-Nora

OMG Thank you so much, Nora! I'm so sorry it took me so long to answer 🥲

I'm really happy that you like my playlists! I try to give it a homogeneous vibe that fits well with the characters. I love making them! 🥹💜

I just wanted to add that I am IN LOVE with your writing! Please, keep with the stunning work! 💜💜

HI!!

I'm so sorry I forgot to answer this 😅

Hmm, let me see. I think I probably would do something with a dark character, or someone morally gray.

Maybe with Murdoc. You're a young hired gun and you two meet during a mission, he sees potential in you and decides to teach you as his apprentice. But you're still too soft (for him), so he gets you a mission with the purpose of turning you into a 100% cold-blooded killer like him. When you're about to shoot the target, he gets closer, chest against your back and whispers in your ear:

"Breathe in and out. Don't look so tense. Remember, you and the gun are one, when that bullet hit the target you'll feel a heat in your chest…", he puts a hand in said place. "it's important, that you let it consume you."

Right now, my dear!

This is a little draft of a scene of one of the next chapters of Cornucopia (my lil father paul wip), this part was one of the first things I wrote of that wip, so I hope you enjoy it!

She slams her back on the switch and the lights go out, all she can see are his eyes, gleaming like a wild dog's orbs in headlights. Those bright, cold eyes, showing a thousand shades of red and gold that followed her everywhere. Tears pushed up from the waterline of her eyes, pure fear seeping behind the wetness of her orbs.

John is staring at her in the pitch black they were engulfed in, silver coins that gleamed in the dark, focusing on the blinding, swift glow of her veins. Her heartbeat was so fast that the smell of her blood coursing through her veins, under her skin, was almost enough to intoxicate him. He came closer, less than a step between them. Miriam was panting so hard, he could feel her breath rattling against his face. The fervent touch of his hand cradles her face, a shiver at the realization of his closeness shuddering through her body, the gentle touch soothed her.

That was John, her John, not the thing that stalked her in the dark. His thumbs caught the hot tears that ran down her cheeks. She soon realized that she had covered his hands — so large in comparison to hers — with hers. The name slipped from her trembling lips.

"John…?" it sounded almost like a sigh over her ragged breaths.

She had never called him by his name, his name. She had always referred to him as, Father Paul, Father and you. Even when she found out who he was, she continued to call him just that, sometimes adding the occasional "Monsignor". But never John. Until that moment, he had never been John to her. Just John. Hearing his name, his real name, escape those lips so inviting, broke the last link in the chain that bound him to caution. In one fluid movement, John Pruitt let his mouth taste the salt of her lips. Hot, hungry lips meeting trembling, panting lips.

@madsmilfelsen !!!

Thanks for the ask, beloved!

So since I've already posted little snippets of my two JT fics here and here, I'll give you an snippet from the draft of my Mr. Kidd fic!!!

Here it goes! I hope you like!

The tray was steady in her hands as she started up the stairs. Dolores had already taken care of most of the mess, except for the man passed out in her waiting room, flushed face and shiny bald head, it would be difficult to drag him up the stairs.

The corridors at that hour were still dark, she still hadn't had enough time to light the candlesticks. But stumbling around in the dark became the least of her worries when she heard, reverberating off the hallway walls, the sighs of a couple. Stopping her pace, Alma stiffened her posture. It was common for some guests to end up violating the nocturnal company rule at the inn, but normally they tried to be discreet, but this wasn't it.

She started walking again, her eyes meeting the shaft of light that was seeping through a gap in one of the rooms, no, not one of the rooms, his room. Alma didn't consider herself a prude, but she felt her face heat up as her eyes caught a glimpse of the mirror of the room number seven. The reflection was clear, the bedroom lights all on casting shadows across the face of one of the Saloon girls. The snapping of flesh against flesh, the grunts and loud moans pierced her ears. What she happened to see made her grip the sides of the wooden tray with such force that it almost made it squeak.

*excited noises* Uhhh three roses!!!! Hope you like!!!

First, this is from "Shiver" a John Tyler one-shot that is in my drafts for AGES.

He gripped the wheel tightly as he thought of Mary, of her arrogance and contempt for him. The way she treated him when he did her the favour of revealing the loopholes he knew so well that left women so exposed, so vulnerable to him. John hated the way she didn't even consider his proposal, his help.

There was a gulf between Mary's behaviour and what he had just witnessed. There was a pure, almost angelic kindness in how the nurse — Thomasin, he remembered — acted. The care and zeal she had for a dying old man who probably didn't have more than a few measly weeks to live. For a moment, John envied the attention the old man received from the young woman. John had noticed the affable familiarity between them. He wanted that for himself, that…affection.

John didn't even realize that he had already returned to the Twin Cities hotel, only when he parked the red vehicle did he realize how interested in the nurse he was. The lapse of the immaculate sparkle of the young woman's smile flashed in his mind. Something seemed to snap inside him, as if a key had been turned, or a switch pressed. John sighed in another attempt to calm down. A slight discomfort below the waist gave away something he already knew.

It would be a long night of meditation.

Second, a lil snippet from "Young American", my haimgruder short-fic, also lying in my drafts for some time now, it is staring at me from the docs page so here it is.

Sitting up, Eden took a deep breath, her well-cut nails painted beige as opposed to the usual cobalt blue, tapping against the zipper of her cheap little black leather bag that rested on her lap. If she was honest, and she always was, it wasn't not getting the job that scared her, but being surrounded by close-minded old men who most likely wouldn't be content to just stare.

Linda warned her about this.

Linda was her neighbour, friend and former owner of the position she applied for. She knew that Eden was in need of a job, especially after what happened, she thought about it a bit and they both talked about the possibility. Linda had told her that her typing skills would come in handy.

Oh, if Linda had known what she used to use those abilities for, she wouldn't even have suggested that her friend work with them.

The truth was, Eden March spent her mornings helping an old friend of her father's — an Irish gentleman who had lived in the US since being exiled as an unfaithful guerrilla ex-member of the IRA — named Declan. He owned a small bookshop, which at first looked like an ordinary bookshop owned by a nice old man, but which contained one of the most magnificent collections of books on Communism, Socialism, Bolshevism, and Marxism that Eden had ever seen. Declan had a space in his attic where he would meet with some young revolutionaries, and together they would run a newspaper column on social democratic politics.

That's where Eden's typist skills came in.

Working almost full time as a writer for a small left-wing newspaper was rewarding, she loved it, learned a lot, lived a lot, and it was great while it lasted.

Then Nell got sick.

Her sister needed her full attention, just like her nephew, and she had less and less time for her work as an unpaid pseudo-journalist. Too bad, she still wasn't able to take care of Nellie. Nell was gone, and she had no choice but to take the reins of someone else's life but herself.

The rustling of some sheets of paper brings her back to the present.

Inhale. Expires. She remembers Linda's advice.

And as a bonus, because I know you have a AMAZING Brice fic in progress, I'll share a piece of mine as an offering, bc you inspired me sm to improve my writing skills. This is from "If I Give My Heart to You".

Autoimmune encephalitis, the doctors said. Two misdiagnoses later and the disease was already in its final stages. Make her comfortable, stick around and say goodbye. It was the advice given.

Experimental treatments were considered, but the Catledge siblings didn't want to inflict any more suffering on their poor mother.

Brice felt the corners of his eyes sting with the memory of Grace's final days. He moved her to his room, where he could keep an eye on her. A desk by the bed and stacks of papers to sign. A cheeky tear slipped down the waterline of his eye. Many bad memories were made during the worst periods of the illness, but without a doubt the hallucinations she had with his father were the ones that shattered his chest the most.

On the last day, after a particularly severe seizure, Brice lay awake most of the night, sitting in an armchair beside the bed, trying to bring down his mother's fever with cold cloths, when she suddenly grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. Brice recalled with a shudder the lack of sparkle — of life — in the indigo of her confused eyes. Grace repeated disconnected phrases deliriously, babbling half-words, calling him 'Harry'. He said nothing, just leaned over, and gently held his mother's wrinkled hand, whispering sweet words each time she looked scared, or confused.

Later, just before sunrise, she fell asleep with heavy eyes and slow breathing, and he knew that this time, she wouldn't wake up again. So he hugged her and cried. He cried the hardest of his entire life. Until his eyes stung, and his throat itched, until the blue sleeve of Grace's nightgown was soaked with his sweat and tears, until the only things he was able to feel were the hot trails on his cheeks and the stinging pain beneath his sternum.

Icy splatters hit his skin, and he stared at the gray sky. The pouring rain drove him off the porch, as if it mourned him or was just tired of watching him grieve.

because I saw dark!Andrew Keneally and blacked out for a second 👀

Thank you for the ask, Peg!! 💜

Ohh that is a piece that started out with a very simple question.

What Andrew would be like if he was a manipulative bastard? And how he would react to a messy breakup where the reader (or oc) became emotionally dependent on him after getting out of a previous traumatic relationship?

Like, in the beginning Andrew was sweet and protective, and took care of the reader and of everything for them (as a way of gaslithing, but the reader doesn't know that), but as the reader starts to heal and becomes more independent, he starts to show yandere/obsessive/possessive behaviors and the reader knows they need to let him go if want to heal completely, so they decide to break up, let's say he doesn't take that so well.