#Rating: T

[desceros]

tries to sleep, fails, gets melancholy, copes by writing purple turtle fic donatello/reader, gn!reader, rated t, 1.6k. insomnia, friends to.... friends, (were you ever just friends? are you something more? what is love if not friendship shifted an inch to the left?), yearning, yearning, yearning, yearning—

Donatello is sleeping.

Hefting a fatigued sigh, you hover in the doorway to his bedroom for a moment. Staring at his face, taking it in. He’s gotten unfairly handsome as the years have gone by. Beautiful, even. Pretty angles, sharp defined lines, dark seductive eyes. Like this, unmasked, slack in sleep, it’s free for you to look as much as you want. More than you can during the day. A little secret thing just for your own heart’s keeping.

…Best friends shouldn’t want to stare at each other like this, you think with an ache.

It’s late. You can’t sleep. Lying down has provided nothing but racing thoughts you can’t quiet. Things to do tomorrow. Things to say when you see someone. Things to write down if you can hold them until the morning. Things, things, things. So many things in your head, ten thousand little voices like little snowflakes in your skull. Each small, powerless; but together, a force too mighty to outrun.

And Donnie is sleeping. Normally he’s awake. Fiddling, poking, prodding, studying, twisting, cracking, bending. Available to draw you into sleep. Always soothing, petting your hair, cooing at you until you drift off at last to the dulcet sounds of his low rumbles.

But not tonight. Tonight he sleeps, pretty in his sheets even as he’s all sprawled out and drooling. Cute. He’s cute. He’s cute and close enough to touch but so, so far away that you know you never will. Not like that. Not like that. 

It’s late. You can’t sleep. 

Slowly, not wanting to wake him, infuriated with yourself just at the thought that you’d risked it by lingering as long as you have, you peel away from his door frame and sneak into the living room. The couch greets you again. Inviting, soft. It smells like turtle ass. Popcorn. Movie night. It smells like family, like home. Scratchy beneath your cheek. You’ve been meaning to get them some new pillows. The way Mikey had laughed so hard he’d snorted his drink. Leo’s squawk when it got all over him. The weight of Donnie’s arm on your shoulder when he’d leaned on you while laughing until he got the hiccups. His cologne, new, smells nice. You should tell him tomorrow.

(You can’t tell him. There’s no way for a best friend to look at the other with pupils shaped like hearts and be the same. You can’t tell him.)

Heavily, you sigh. It’s late. You can’t sleep.

You sit up. Get up off the couch. Stretch a little before exhaling and walking around a bit to try and work off some of this excess energy. The darkness of the living room isn’t so much, anymore, what with how your eyes have adjusted. You can see the pieces of the evening strewn about. A pizza box that Splinter’s going to find in the morning and yell at the lot of you for not throwing out. Raph’s teddy bear, leaning against the other couch where he’d been pretending he hadn’t been using it to hide his face in the scary parts. Mikey’s cup, half-full, forgotten in Leo’s panic to find paper towels. And—

—Donnie, standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed, arms folded. 

“Why are you awake?” he asks, voice tumbling over your ears like rocks on a riverbed. Guilt strikes you like a blow. He’s exhausted. You’ve woken him up.

“I’m sorry,” you say as an answer, tangling your fingers in the shirt you’d borrowed out of his closet. The shirt you always borrow. The shirt that’s half yours, now. 

Donnie’s quiet. You sink your teeth into your lower lip and hope he’ll shrug and go back to bed. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’s got enough sleep juice in him that he’ll drift right back off and forget this happened. 

He doesn’t. “…Can’t sleep?”

The guilt burns your skin like sand in the wind. You smile and pretend. “I’ll be okay. Go back to bed, Don. You need it more than I do.”

He doesn’t. 

“…Please?” you try again. 

You’re met, instead, with a sigh. He rubs the back of his head where his mask would tie if he were wearing it. Lets his arm fall to his side—ah, except no. He’s holding out his hand, palm outstretched, inviting you to come close. When you don’t, his beak wrinkles. “Come here.” 

You take a few steps closer, but don’t take his hand just yet. “What are you doing?”

“Just come here,” he says again, curling his fingers a few times in an imperious grabby command. You come closer. He opens his tired eyes in a squint, mouth dipped into a frown, and his gesture gets more demanding. “Come here.” 

Stepping closer, closer, closer, finally you get within range. You realize he wants your hand the moment he loses patience with you, watching as he rolls his eyes and reaches out to encircle your wrist with strong fingers. They eclipse the bones there easily, tugging as he turns, pulling you out of the living room. 

“Don—” you start to protest, but he stops you with a breath.

“Stubborn,” he accuses, though there’s no heat to the word. The scoff is thick on the back of your tongue—Donnie of all people calling you stubborn—but you don’t let it out, knowing it’ll be too-loud in the pitch night. 

He pulls you into his room, the very room that had been such a sweet siren song to you earlier. He pulls you towards his bed. He pulls you in behind him when he settles in. He pulls you beneath his blanket. He pulls, pulls, pulls, until your chest is flush to his plastron and his arm is around your waist and his breath is in your face and your heart is in your throat.

It’s late. You’re not going to be able to sleep.

“…Go to sleep,” he says after a few seconds, doubtless able to feel the way your pulse is like a hummingbird against his skin. 

“Sorry,” you say in lieu of—anything else. You don’t dare try to say another word, unsure of what exactly would tumble out instead. Perhaps a sweet poem about the texture of his skin against yours. Maybe a lament that he feels the need to tuck his thigh between yours so so so close to where you wake in a pool of sweat dreaming of his touch. Or possibly a whispered confession that tastes like lightning and blood and sugar all at the same time; that you want this but not this, you want this but more. 

Gently, a forehead bonks against yours. Dark eyes open and meet yours, centimeters away. He studies you, and you watch the gears turn. More slowly than usual, lethargic even, because of his slumber. 

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs. Dumbly, you nod. “Need to talk about it?”

“…Yeah,” you admit, then, “…but I won’t.”

He doesn’t like that. A frown mars his beautiful, beautiful face. 

“Why?”

You swallow the incredulous laugh, the kaleidoscope of responses. They’re all irrelevant, impossible to share, save for one. “You should sleep.”

Donnie’s hand tightens, fingers curling in his—your—shirt in the small of your back. “So should you.”

“Yeah.”

“…”

“…”

“…I don’t understand.” The confession, rare, makes you sigh. 

“…I don’t either,” you tell him. And you don’t. Why did you have to feel this way for him? Why couldn’t it be someone easier that stole your heart? Why does it have to be the one person you can’t stand to lose? Why does he have to be so comfortable touching you like this and making it hurt even worse? Why can’t you stop feeling this way?

Why can’t you sleep? Why can’t you sleep? 

His fingers unfurl from your shirt. His hand dips beneath the hem, finding the skin of your back. Slow shivers spread like little earthquakes as he strokes along your spine, tectonic caresses that ripple and destroy. It's familiar enough a touch that you don't stop him; unfamiliar enough that it rends you inside out.

Donnie leans in. Ghosts his lips along your jaw. It’s not a kiss; you’re just friends, after all. But it’s a sweet caress that feels good, all the way to where he lingers at your ear, whispering there, quivering at the touch that's too close to something else to be fair. “Close your eyes.”

You have one rule: listen to Donatello. So you do; you close your eyes, let his nails drag down your back, let his mouth press warm into your pulse, let his chest rumble with churrs that fill the night air with something akin to a lullaby. His legs curl around yours, mixing, confusing, making the separation of you disappear. 

It’s… maddening. You hate this. You love him. You love him so much. You hate that he can do this so easily. 

“Shhh,” comes the gentle coo against your skin, like he can tell you’re pulling away from his intent. You obey that, too. Donnie says to be quiet, so you quiet. Thoughts, movements, words; all of them fall away at his beckoning. “Just like that. Good.”

Good, you think, feeling a little fuzzy. It feels good to be good for him. God. You’d be so good for him—but no. None of that, now. Not when you can pretend that these little presses of his lips are kisses. That the thickness of his thigh pressed to your shorts means something. That his hand scratching lines in your skin is something meant to claim as much as it is to calm.

“Making me work for it tonight,” you hear him mumble, half-conscious of the words, not sure if they’re real or part of a dream he’s built for you. “Good job, sweetheart. Just like that.” 

More brushes of his mouth. A slow glide of tongue. A lovely dream, you think, finally letting your muscles go slack. A dream of a Donatello who would hold you like this, talk to you like this. A Donatello who is more than just your best friend.

It’s late. Finally, warm and held and pulled into a sweet dream, finally, you sleep.

#me slurring with a voice thick with sleep: two best friends that are in love but too close to tell and so they dance like leaves in the wind #forever brushing close. darting about like little butterflies. gossamer wings catching the light and enchanting one another w each breath #but too close. too close. you can't see the scope of a painting when it's the single strokes that catch your eye. #.....................it's almost four in the morning. im sure there are errors but i shan't be fixing them now. have it as it comes #tmnt #rise #donatello/reader #my fic #rating: t

[eyesofshinigami]

You, Here With Me

Rating: T

CW: None

Tags: Established relationship, fluff, mentions of past violence, slight implication of sex

Prompt: From @steddieas-shegoes "Love is protection :heart: :wink:"

WC: 468

Written for @steddielovemonth Day 2

-*-

Steve has never had someone hold him before.

He’s always the one out in front, always the one standing between everyone else and whatever danger they’re facing. He’s the shield, the tank, the buffer.

It’s not like he minds. It makes him feel useful, like he matters. For so long he was wrapped up in himself, if only to protect the soft parts of himself from the rest of the world. It was easy to be an arrogant asshole who thought the world owed him something.

It was easier than admitting he’s a scared little boy who just wants someone to hold him, to put their body between him and the rest of the world.

Steve’s never had someone hold him. Not like that. Not until Eddie.

They’re laying in their bed, in their little apartment across town. It’s not much, but it’s theirs, and Steve wouldn’t trade it for all the mansions in the world. He can hear the crickets chirping, feel the warm beginnings of summer creeping through the space where the window doesn’t meet the pane.

And Eddie is pressed along his back, solid and warm and there.

They’re in that hazy place between awake and asleep, tired from work and sex and lazy from the feeling that comes with sharing space with another person. Eddie is slurring into his ear about his plans for when the kids come over the next day and Steve feels the warmth of his boyfriend’s hands against his stomach. Callused, big, real. Fingers dance along the scars on his belly and Steve can’t think of a reason to flinch away from the touch. They share these scars, proof they lived and protected each other to lay in this bed, together.

Eddie’s body is curved around his, bracketing him. It’s a weight that he lets sink into his bones, helping him drift off to sleep. He’s comforted knowing that when he wakes later, head filled with blood and death and too many images about all the times he’s been put between someone else and whatever is coming for them, Eddie will be there. Eddie will be the buffer, pressed up against him and reminding him he’s safe. He’s loved. He’s kept and cared for.

Eddie will keep him safe. Safe from the dark corners of his mind, from the nightmares he’s lived and the blood-soaked memories he can’t outrun most nights.

“I got you, baby. And you got me,” Eddie whispers, smearing kisses against Steve’s neck. His arms wrap around Steve and hold him tight, and only then does Steve let himself finally fall asleep.

He does. He’ll stand between Eddie and the world, if he has to. But here, in the quiet of their room, he knows he’s safe. And there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

#les writes things #steddielovemonth #steddie #fluff #rating: t

[rsbigbang]

R/S Big Bang Fic & Art: For Scientific Purposes, You Understand? (T)

Title: For Scientific Purposes, You Understand?

Author: @femme--de--lettres

Artist: @belleandsaintsebastian

Beta Readers: @greyeyedmonster-18 and @squintclover

Summary:

When Sirius Black agreed to drive his cousin’s boyfriend from Washington DC to Chicago, he’d expected at least one hiccup. A squabble over gas, different music tastes, a preference for the windows down. That sort of thing.

Instead, he gets a conversation that will change his life—and his outlook on love—forever.

read on ao3!

#r/s big bang #wolfstar #wolfstar art #wolfstar fic #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #fic post #2023 collection #rating: t #femme--de--lettres #belleandsaintsebastian

[hqmmzine]

🔎 ZINE RELEASE 🔍

Sharpen your pencils and polish your binoculars, the time has come — 40 contributors are bringing you 180+ pages of Haikyu!! themed murder and crime mystery adventure across 6 different cases, as well as a wide variety of digital merch.

📁 FREE DOWNLOAD HERE

Thank you everyone for your patience and support and we wish you a thrilling investigation — The StS Mods

@haikyuu-community-board @all-zine-apps @haikyuubulletin @fandomzines @zinefans @anizines @zinesunlimited @zine-scene

#hqmmzine #murder mystery au #fanzine #haikyū!! #rating: t #haikyuu fanart #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu!! #free zine #film noir #karasuno #masquerade #pretty setter squad #dinner drama #haikyuu girls #scifi #wakutani minami #johzenji #80s movies #buddy cop comedy #msby black jackal #msby4 #humor #seijoh #aoba johsai

[lockwood-fic-recs]

my heart's on fire & the flame grows higher

by menina123 on ao3

Rating: T | Category: F/M | Relationship: Lockwood/Lucy

“Yes, I suppose it is just the two of us,” Lockwood said. “We can’t reschedule on this late notice. Everyone else will just miss out on the fun then, won’t they, Luce?”

“Yep.” Lucy’s mood instantly brightened at the idea of an adventure with Lockwood, and she smiled at him.

After the rest of Lockwood & Co. backs out at the last minute, Lucy and Lockwood escape to a cottage in the countryside for a celebratory Christmas weekend on their own. Christmas activities ensue (and yes, there's obviously only one bed).

#rating: t #category: f/m #fic rec #ship: locklyle #character: anthony lockwood #character: lucy carlyle #canonverse #canon divergent #book spoilers: major #book spoilers: teg #book spoilers: tcs #misc: one bed wednesday #misc: christmas #lockwood-fic-recs #lockwood & co #lockwood and co #lockwood and co fanfiction #status: completed #length: oneshot #author: menina123

[merlincinema]

Author: HadrianPeverellBlack (@evadne01) Title: The screams of the innocents Rating: Teen and Up Pairing: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon Characters: Merlin, Arthur Pendragon, Kilgharrah, Cedric Warnings: N/A Word Count: 3048 Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53965219 Summary: Merlin, an FBI recruit, is tasked by his boss with drawing up the profile of a dangerous criminal. But it's never that simple. Author's Notes: Hi! This is my first entry for Merlin Cinema, inspired by Silence of the Lambs! I wanted to thank Sariel_Nightthorn and smartypantsflute for the amazing beta work they did! ❤❤❤ Also, since I am very proud of this, I will use it for my Merlin Bingo fill t6 - imprisoment I hope you'll like this!❤❤

#merlin cinema #merlin cinema 2024 #participant submission #fanfiction #merthur #cw: creator chose not to use archive warnings #merlin #arthur pendragon #kilgharrah #rating: t #author: HadrianPeverellBlack #cedric #movie: The Silence of The Lambs

[nickelkeep]

I'll Give it to Someone Special

Pairing: Dean/Cas, Charlie/Dorothy Rating: Teen and Up Word Count: 2100 Warnings: No Major Archive Warnings Written For: @susyrose-fanart as part of Destiel Inc.'s Secret Santa. On Ao3

Summary: It's been a year since Castiel's ex-boyfriend dumped him on Christmas Eve. Will this be the year he gives his heart to someone special?

So, you all know how I got that beautiful piece of fanart from Susy for Destiel Inc.'s Secret Santa? Turns out, that I was writing a fic for them for the same thing. I hope you enjoy it. <3

#destiel #modern au #rating: t #nickel writes

[workingdownthewordmine]

Love Thy Neighbour - Chapter 1 Behind Closed Doors

Set adrift by his own choosing, Bucky goes home to the abandoned apartment he grew up in, but perhaps it isn't as abandoned as he first thought.

Read it on AO3 here.

Chapter 2

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes Rating: T CW: blood, threat Prompts filled: Fandom-Free Bingo Frosty Edition (card 1): Cuddling to stay warm @fandom-free-bingo Fandom-Free Bingo Flight Edition: Anonymous gifts Fluffbruary: Day 2 - Scent, Day 16 - Neighbour @fluffbruary Seasonal Delights Language of Flowers: Calla lily @seasonaldelightsbingo Multifandom-Flash Round 1: A scar to remember @multifandom-flash

Dividers by @cafekitsune

“The Bible tells us to love our neighbors, and also to love our enemies; probably because generally they are the same people.” 

G.K. Chesterton 

Bucky came and went via the fire escape that he’d carefully mangled on his second night back there, a relic of his childhood now inaccessible to anyone who couldn’t bend cast iron or jump 6ft straight up. Didn’t account for at least half of the people he actually knew, sure, including the guy he’d most often climbed it with, but seemed effective so far at keeping out random squatters. Not real charitable, he guessed, locking down an entire apartment building to himself somewhere so many people lacked even a roof to call shelter but he never signed up for them to be his problem. And he liked not being disturbed. Other things he liked included not thinking too hard about some of the stranger aspects of the building he was once again calling home. In spite of the housing shortage, he guessed it might not be so weird that no one had gotten round to tearing the place down in all these years, and to judge by the disintegrating newspapers he’d found tacked up as draft excluders the building hadn’t been inhabited since the 80s. But why was the gas still connected? No electricity, far as he could tell without knocking more holes in the walls than he thought the place could take without crumbling, but the water was still running.

Those mysteries had come clearer after he found the first camera. It had been pretty well camouflaged by a dense cobweb that looked dyed black by half a century of city smog – fuck knew how the asshole had managed that. He’d never have spotted it if he hadn’t caught the whine of tiny servos or something when he passed it. He’d panicked, smashed the thing, torn around the building searching for more. As he bore down on the third, it spoke to him. “Hey Terminator, point’s taken. Quit breaking my stuff. Drop the others in the mailbox and I’ll have them picked up.” He had dropped them in the mailbox. But he’d taken a certain joy in crushing them as small as he could before he did so. Oops. Sorry, Stark. It made him itchy for a while to think of Stark having anything to do with his habitation – hadn’t he turned down a space at the compound because he wanted out of barracks controlled by someone else? But, fuck it, if the nerd had nothing better to do with his billions than pay Bucky’s bills he might as well let him. And now he was back, he didn’t fancy leaving. 

This last week his resolve was being tested. It had started with the smell. He knew the odours of sweat and blood well enough, and he knew that neither had been coming from the back apartment when he left for work. He’d been back there, of course, on his initial homecoming perimeter check and again on his hunt for Stark’s bugs. The place had been as deserted as the rest of the building, inhabited by nothing more sinister than rats, roaches, and a few pigeons. He needed to check again. He also needed to stop and fucking think. He was half way over the sill before he remembered it had taken an hour’s scrubbing for him to get more than a bit of half-assed light through his own apartment’s grimy windows. From the outside? No chance. It would have to be the hallway. 

With the generator humming and the wireless playing (somehow even now he struggled to think of it as the digital gadget it was), giving all the impression that he was still in his own apartment, he edged out into the hall. He winced at the minute change in the air pressure when he opened the door. But the only people likely to drop-by unannounced who would notice something like that would either have taken more care with their smell or would have said hi. Unless it was deliberate bait. Ten feet to the next door. A longer step over the cracked floorboard that had groaned ominously the first time he’d crossed it.  

The smell of the intruder grew stronger as he approached the door. The ancient lock hadn’t given him much difficulty when he took his original look around but the door was heavy and he shifted it with care. He wished he’d thought to oil the hinges, or pulled the door right off them. Aging lino crackled silently beneath his feet. His own heartbeat filled his ears and gradually he remembered how to breathe and move, even blink, in time with it, aligning the sounds he made so anything that fell outside the rhythm would instantly draw his attention. He remained alone with the soundtrack of his own body.  

He knew he was just short of silent as he passed from room to room, every sense trained for the least disturbance... so when the affronted pigeon erupted from behind the bathroom door raising a fetid cloud of feathers and dust, it took him effort not to swallow his own tongue. He tried to inhale as little as possible of the heavily pigeon-laced air while he let his heartrate settle and watched the bird panic at the narrow window until it finally burst out into the gathering evening gloom. The bird’s distress must have been audible to anyone else in the otherwise silent apartment but nothing and no-one stirred. He lowered his guard a degree as he made his way around the few other rooms. His search was thorough, every cupboard opened, the sparse remains of furniture eased away from the walls. No one.  

The thought that it might have been his imagination haunted him from hall to kitchen. He shook the hair from his eyes and touched a cold wrist to his forehead, trying to remember exactly. The smell lingering in the hall. He was sure. Wasn’t he? He shivered. But the air in here felt disturbed, didn’t it? By more than a pigeon and his own cat-like steps? There was a taint on the air – garbage? He crossed, moving more quickly now, to the window that overlooked the alley and its tideless sea of detritus. The smell hit him harder as he stepped into the cold air that hung in front of the window. The glass was uncracked and no draft would be creeping around that deeply dirt-caked frame. He tested the sash. Grime and old paint wouldn’t resist him but it might hold out longer than the decrepit frame. A little more pressure. He hissed between his teeth when the window rose, barely sticking or rattling in its grooves.  

He was crouched below the sill before conscious thought could catch up. 

Fuckfuckfuckfuck. Dumbass.  

How long had he been stood in full view of any of half a dozen rooftops and twice as many windows? Long enough for a whole squad of snipers to take their shots. Again he let his pulse regulate and raised his head a fraction. No one had shot. And as thorough a survey as he could make of the surrounding area, stopping to scrutinise every spot he would have selected for his own firing position, showed him nothing suspicious – not a movement or a shadow out of place. Nothing, in fact, to cause him concern. Until he drew his gaze back into the room, and down over the smear of blood on the peeling paper below the windowsill. He sank down. A knee had brushed the wall as the other leg lifted to the sill. And, yes, now he could see the pattern of new chips in the old paint where a foot had braced. He returned to the blood. A fair stain. The size of his palm. A significant wound, but not enough to keep the victim from climbing or to force them to staunch the blood with a hand. He gave the window another look as he closed it. No trace of a bloody fingerprint. 

Bucky returned to his own apartment troubled. He could nail up the windows as he’d done downstairs. He had enough supplies for that, sure. From his seat where Winnie Barnes’ spotless kitchen table had once stood, he glanced at the stack of salvaged wood in his mom’s bedroom. She’d be spinning in her grave if he didn’t get it cleared out of there soon. And with a bit more work he could probably make the windows virtually unreachable by climbing too.  

He picked up the M38 that stood on its stock beside him and began checking it over again. The thing was... He found himself picturing the boarded up back apartment – dark and silent rooms in which his neighbours had once laughed and rowed and rushed to get out the door for work. The thing was... that, if he forced whoever had gone to the trouble to climb into the second floor of his building to move off permanently, they were unlikely to lose interest. He would either have to hunt them down – so much for the quiet life – or he would be waiting for a bullet through the head or worse until they made themselves known one way or another. That didn’t exactly sound like a peaceful retirement either, did it? And the thing was... he’d felt his heart beating back there.  

Whatever he did about apartment 4, he wasn’t as safe in here as he’d let himself believe for a while. That needed fixing tonight.  

This was his last stop, rucksack already bulging. He heaped the coils of fishing line and bungee cords on the clerk’s desk. The guy’s eyebrows rose when Bucky dropped a couple of handfuls of personal attack alarms on top of the pile. “Stocking fillers. For my self-defence class,” he offered. His cheeks heated a little when the man glanced at the glossy and explicit calendar behind his shoulder which read “February” without offering the least apology for the embarrassment caused. Bucky followed its example and stared blankly, defying contradiction.  

Supplies secured, he disregarded his fire escape and entered by his bedroom window, hauling his way up by the well-concealed handholds he’d made on his way out, scooping out lines of mortar with Vibranium fingertips. He paused on the windowsill to delicately pluck the rudimentary tripwire free and by-pass the edged weaponry that would otherwise have made a spirited attempt to ruin his good looks. He’d considered using a few grenades, but decided it wouldn’t be worth the clean-up. He had enough structural damage to repair around the building as it was. He did a quick round of the other possible entrances, but all were untouched, their makeshift defences untriggered. Finally, he wormed his way up inside the crumbling wall cavity to retrieve one or two personal items he hadn’t been able to leave on display to any sightseer or would-be hit squad but could also not carry freely around Brooklyn, his rifle chief amongst them. He’d read a couple of Stark’s James Bond novels when he’d been insufferably bored in the Tower. Why did that guy’s weapons all fit up a sleeve or his ass or something? When his requisitions came through the British civil service? Stark, SHIELD, and Hydra should all be fucking embarrassed to be lagging so far behind.  

With the limited supplies he’d had on hand, protecting his personal domain had taken precedence. Once he’d made a more professional job of his fortifications, he loaded up some materials and headed back into the corridor. And stopped.  

Something was on the floor outside of number four. Something whose colour and life stood out in the dingy shadows. He went closer and looked down at the leafy plant in its bright striped pot, its three white trumpet-like flowers gazing right back at him. Surely, only a lunatic or a child could like a combination of sunflower yellow, electric blue, and that alarmingly neon pink? A folded paper dropped as he picked up the plant. The handwriting inside was almost as childish as the colour scheme, printed in biro comfortably rounded and neat – something about it made Bucky momentarily picture the writer’s tongue poking out between their teeth as they worked. 

“Hey neighbour, sorry if I bothered you this afternoon. 

Got you a housewarming present as an apology. Hope you like it!” 

It was unsigned, though they’d made no apparent attempt to disguise their handwriting. He glared at the door. It hung slightly askew, and would do – of course – until he was done with the repairs to his own place and made a start on the rest of the apartments. Well, if he was honest with himself, he’d have to get started on his own apartment first of all. Nothing stirred beyond the door. He tucked the note back into the pot and went thoughtfully back up the corridor. He found the plant a spot by a window and stood staring at it for a full minute, waiting for an explosion or maybe some kind of toxic spore cloud – though maybe the latter was kind of cartoonish even for his usual enemies. The plant did nothing sinister. Its dark glossy leaves shone slightly in the light of the sunset.  

Bucky took his M38 up to the roof with him that evening and stayed low for a few minutes, circling in a crouch and checking out his surroundings, but in the end the distant roar of the city lulled him just as it always had. On his third circuit, he touched his fingertips to the chimney stack where he and Steve had scraped their initials, taking turns with Bucky’s new penknife. Smog and pigeons had done their best to obliterate the deep, angular “JBB” and the lighter, neater “SGR”, but Bucky had done his best to restore them the first time he’d come back up here. They’d huddled together against the stack for warmth, watching the stars and hoping Stevie’s dad wouldn’t turn up to drag him home this time, Bucky’s arm usually wrapped round his best friend’s skinny shoulders to stop him shivering. 

He’d dismantled the lower part of the fire escape after his search for the intruder but when it came time to remove their old route to temporary freedom... no, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Fuck it, anyway – anyone determined enough to get onto his roof, with no way to cover the first twenty feet, wouldn’t be put off by a little thing like a missing fire escape. So, he wondered as he settled down with his back to the long-cold chimney and let his gaze wander out over the Hudson, who would got to so much trouble to infiltrate his safe house, just to leave a smear of blood and a goddamn house plant? “Neighbour”? If they were a local, why had he never had any inkling of someone interested in the place? He’d been vigilant enough. Passers-by mostly treated the condemned and wire-fenced pile as though it wasn’t even there. Like it was as invisible to them as it was irrelevant. Just a relic. Hah. A ghost story.  

A last glimpse of the sunset flashed off his fingers. He rolled his shoulders and hissed between his teeth. It was bad tonight, but he would have to do without the pills. If there was still someone prowling around he wouldn’t risk being caught sleeping too deeply. He eased his left shoulder; knotted scar tissue stretched like exposed sinew, raw as a live wire. No, he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. No fear on that score. He tapped his knuckles against the wall and knocked free a triangle of cement. He bounced it on his palm. He and Steve had thrown so many of these it was a wonder there was any building left. Steve’s had almost always fallen short of any mark he chose, of course, though Buck had sworn blind he’d seen them hit more than once when his buddy’s spirits needed a lift. Hundreds had dropped into the alley below, sometimes raising angry shouts that sent them laughing into cover before anyone could spot their faces silhouetted overhead. The fragment exploded into dust against a raised air vent three buildings over and Bucky grinned to himself as he swung over the edge of the roof and returned home.

For @heretherebewolves, my inspiration.

#written by Bug #actual writing #fanfiction #fandom: marvel #Bucky Barnes #Rating: T #fandomfreebingo #seasonaldelightsbingo #languageofflowersbingo #fluffbruary #multifandomflash #round 1 #day 2 Engagement/Scent/Jam #day 16 Neighbour/Desire/Horse

[hp-fanfic-archive]

A Reflection of Yourself by Maeglin_Yedi Pairing: Harry/Ginny, Hermione/Ron Rating: T Word Count: 3k Podfic available here Read by: Maeglin_Yedi Length: 10-30 minutes Harry has a soulmate who lacks a soul. Hermione has a soulmate who is a twat. Ron has no soulmate at all.

find the full podfic library here

#hinny #romione #harry/ginny #hermione/ron #hermione/draco #dramione #harrymort #soulmate au #unhappy ending #trope subversion #rating: t #hp fic rec #hp podfic #less than 5k words #angst #lightning era #hurt/comfort #friendship #canon compliant

[contritecactite]

OK I know I said I was gonna do something funny for fic #69 but perhaps the actual funniest thing I could have done was. not do that and instead post this one that @u3pxx and I accidentally collaborated on in the tail end of last year :> Just a little return to their bad omens (a roleswap au). They made lots of lovely art again that you can see in the fic or over on their blog soon and I'm still crying about the last one!

Title: Flesh and Stone Alike (link!) Rating: T Tags/warnings: 5+1 things, demon!Aziraphale, angel!Crowley, Too Many Footnotes Desc.: 3.5k. Five times Aziraphale steals something just to gift it to Crowley (and one time Crowley does it instead).

#good omens #rating: t #wc: <3.5k #my fic #den's bad omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands

[simperoniandcheese]

The One Time I Wasn't There- TJ/Cora fic(The Good Cop), angst(check tags!)

TJ has always made sure he's been there for her.

But, he thinks as he sits over her sleeping form, on the verge of tears as he bites down on his tongue (which, by the way, was a teeth-clenchingly fruitless method of trying not to cry), that was far from the truth now.

He sighed again, his thumbs darting from side to side against the hard plastic of the hospital bed Cora lay in, a distraction from the frantic pacing of hours ago, before Burl had left, Ryan following suit a while after.

Now, TJ was left in the dimmed light of the early morning hospital, his gaze unwillingly drifting to her soft hands, covering a thick swathe of bandages near her torso. He bit back a sob as he realised that yes, that was blood showing through the once crisp-white texture, and that he should probably alert someone.

But for now, TJ just stayed seated.

"It should've been me." He choked out, his voice breaking. "You don't deserve this, not after everything you've been through since I let you in."

Continuing, he bit his lip to avoid a small chuckle. "You would kill me if you heard this, but a part of me wants to say that it's my fault for hiring you, roping you into danger, when you could've stayed safe as my dad's PO."

"But we're here now. I can't change that as much as I wish I could've avoided my feelings for you."

How pitiful this must look to anyone listening. A detective in an induced coma to reduce the pain, her boss, her clean-shaven, neat freak, stupid, STUPID boss watching over her, a creepy owl like one you would've found as the bad guy in a children's book, long limbs accompanied by large, unblinking eyes.

"I wasn't there for you when the building collapsed, or when you got shot--" he stopped himself with a tear rolling down his face, his eyes slamming shut as he fought for breath against the wave of grief.

He couldn't save his mother then, and he couldn't save Cora now.

Sitting back down, he slumped into the large chair facing the bed and curled in on himself.

He'd better get some sleep.

#tj x cora #the good cop #cora vasquez #tj caruso #josh groban #monica barbaro #rating: t #tw: blood #tw: gun violence #someone sedate me #love yall #original fiction #mostly dialogue agh #lemme just #sob very violently #that is all

[desceros]

me, innocent, a victim: [goes to look for something in my phone's photoroll] me: [is violently assaulted by gb art] donatello/reader; gn reader; rated t

When you open your eyes, you see, to your shock, Donatello. 

Well. It’s hardly surprising that he’s in your bed, considering he’s been getting pretty good at the whole mind-melting orgasm thing. Maybe half of the nights of your week lately have ended up with your eyes drinking in the sight of him caging you in, your wrists aching with the tightness of his fingers holding them above your head, and your ears singing with the sound of him whining your name when he comes. It’s incredible—he’s incredible—and you’d be pressed picking a time in your life you’ve been happier.

But this. This is… new. 

He’s not wearing his mask. That’s the first thing that catches your attention, once you’re able to move past the totality of his presence in the gentle rays of dawn streaming through your window. He looks… softer, somehow. Different. There’s a closeness to him, physically, literally, that makes you tremble a bit in your very skin. Like you’ve never really been with him before, absurd as it sounds even in your own head. He’s touched you the way no one else has—the way no one else ever, ever will, if you have your way about it—but this. This. 

God. He’s beautiful, you think, gazing at each inch of his uncovered skin and searing it to your mind. You’ve always been attracted to him, but here, it takes your breath away. The curve of his beak beneath his eyes, the angle of his jaw, the squish of his cheek where he’s sleeping on your pillow, the little puffs of air that snooze out with each breath; all of it entrances you, making your lips quiver. 

Slowly, gently, almost hating yourself for it, you reach out. An impossible temptation to resist. The very tips of your fingers on his face, tracing from temple to chin, over and over as you memorize this unseen part of him. Odd, how it feels like you’re pining, yearning for him, when you still feel the aches in your body from how thoroughly he’d had you last night. 

…Though, you suppose, that was him having you. And this is—

—this is you having him. 

Donnie’s lips curl at the corner, and you know you’re busted. Suddenly shy, you fight the urge to pull away, to pretend you weren’t consuming the sight of him. It’s a vulnerable feeling, but you’re rewarded when he opens one eye, blearily meeting your gaze. 

“…Aren’t you usually the one nagging me to sleep?” he says in a mumble, causing you to smile sheepishly. 

“I… couldn’t resist,” you admit quietly, your touch garnering a bit of weight now that he’s awake.

“Had to check and make sure I was real under my mask?” he teases, and it’s tempting to follow him down the path. Tasting bravery on your tongue, you resist. 

“Too handsome not to,” you tell him honestly, cupping his cheek with your palm. You feel the hitch in his breath, the warmth that spreads onto his cheeks even as his scales don’t allow for a blush. “Needed to.” 

Donnie stares for a moment, then gives a breathy laugh, reaching out to grasp your hand from his face and bringing it so he can press a kiss to your palm. This, too, is new—this quiet, non-sexual intimacy. It makes you feel warm, a bit like you’re the one who’s been basking in the sunlight, not him. 

“You’re obnoxiously romantic in the morning, huh?” he murmurs. He doesn’t sound displeased. Giddily, you wiggle closer, feeling him reach out to slide a hand to your back to help pull you close, until only a sigh separates your face and his, your legs so tangled together only the roughness of his scales tells them apart.

“…I could be obnoxiously romantic all the time,” you tell him, looking between his eyes as the other opens, seeing the tender expression on his face. “…If you wanted me to.”

A comforting, familiar, possessive hand cups your nape, his thumb tracing the soft skin beneath your ear. A dazzling glissando of sensation runs along his touch, making your eyes flutter for a moment before you lick your lips and focus on him again. 

Finally, he smiles, an honest little thing that transfigures your heart into a tiny hummingbird. “Yeah,” he says, his tone as warm as the coming morning. “That… sounds great.”

And then, as if sealing a promise, he pulls you close for a kiss even softer than the sheets that ensconce you both. Humming into it, you melt, nuzzling his beak with a lustrous glow beneath your skin. Then—slowly, gently—your fingers again find unmasked skin, loving, claiming, confident now in the long rays of dawn.

#i. i dont even remember what i went in here to look for anymore 8| #the eternal catch-22 of Needing to have all of their art at my fingertips. but also. oh dear god it's always there. hovering. haunting. #i just. snapped and wrote this. im. im so sorry. i couldn't contain myself #tmnt #rise #my fic #donatello/reader #rating: t

[eyesofshinigami]

Eddie and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Rating: T

CW: None

Tags: Established relationship, Eddie Munson loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington loves Eddie Munson, very very mild sexual content (blink and miss it)

Prompt: For @lihhelsing "Love is helping them unwind after a rough day"

WC: 852

Written for @steddielovemonth Day 19

Eddie knew it was going to be a bad day as soon as he woke up. He managed to stub his toe twice on the way to the shower. His waffles got burnt in the toaster and they were out of syrup. He missed the bus by a minute, watching it drive away from the stop just as he ran up to it. It started raining while he was waiting for the next bus, so of course he got drenched.

He hoped that it had ended there, but no. Eddie got to work fifteen minutes late due to a traffic jam, wet and hungry and already done with today. His boss yelled at him and put him on tape-sorting duty, marking down the new shipment of tapes. Of course, halfway through, his pen exploded and covered him and the sheet he was using, so he had to start over.

By the time the end of his shift had rolled around, Eddie was tired, had a headache the size of Montana, and he was ready to throw himself into the void. Mack, the other guy on shift, patted him on the back and all it did was make his skin crawl. 

The journey home wasn’t much better. The bus was late again, and Eddie couldn’t find a seat so he had to stand. The bottom of his sneaker apparently acquired a random hole and he had to walk back to their apartment with wet socks.

Eddie was done. He was so fucking done that all he wanted to do was crawl into the bed and cry until he couldn’t anymore. He also hoped that Steve wasn’t home yet from work; he was scared that something bad would happen, like they would end up arguing or not speaking to each other.

What Eddie didn’t expect was to come home to a house that smelled a little like heaven. It was warm and he called out, “Steve? That you?” 

“Yup! In the kitchen!”

Eddie toed off his shoes and stripped out of his still damp jacket and hung it up on the rack. He still felt really keyed up from the day he had, so he steeled himself against his own feelings and headed into the kitchen. 

Their table was set. A lasagna was cooling in the center, set on a potholder right next to a spray of daisies. Two beers were set beside their plates, still cold enough that condensation was gathering on the glass. 

Steve himself is dressed in comfortable clothes, bent over the oven and pulling out what looked like cheesy garlic bread. Fuck, if it wasn’t all of Eddie’s favorite things wrapped up in one beautiful little scene. “Hey! I must have timed it just right!”

Eddie felt tears starting to gather in his eyes. “How… how did you know?”

Steve set the garlic bread down on the stove and pulled off his oven mitts before he reached up to cup Eddie’s cheek. “I heard you this morning. And then Mack called me before you left, saying you’d had a pretty shit day. So… I got home a little early and wanted to surprise you with something good.”

Okay, yeah, Eddie was absolutely going to cry now. “For me?”

“Of course, baby. After dinner, I figured we could take a bath together and I could wash your hair? Then we could crawl into bed and watch that new Beetlejuice movie? I grabbed it on the way home.”

“Steve… that…” It sounded incredible. It was perfect. So why was Eddie blubbering like he’d just been told his dog died? 

But Steve, wonderful, beautiful Steve, seemed to just understand. “Because you deserve it. You had a bad day, and I just wanted to make it better. You’d do the same for me, have done it in the past. Let me take care of you, okay?” 

What else could Eddie do but nod?

Dinner was delicious, Eddie ate until he couldn’t anymore, realizing he’d forgotten to eat lunch in the midst of the rest of his terrible day. He listened to Steve talk about what he’d done that day, letting his boyfriend’s words wash over him. 

The bath was just as nice. Even if they were two grown men, they managed to squeeze themselves into their tiny tub. It was ridiculous, but it made Eddie laugh and he felt light for the first time since he’d woken up that morning. Steve had washed his hair, took his time rubbing conditioner through Eddie’s curls, and then it ended up with them wrapping hands around each other’s cock and Eddie panting into Steve’s mouth.

Fuck, but he loved this man so much. 

Loose from the bath and from his orgasm, Eddie crawled into bed with Steve and curled up as the movie started.

“Love you, Eds,” Steve murmured, kissing the top of his head. He grabbed the remote from the bedside table to fast forward through the previews.

Ed smiled into Steve’s collarbone. The day might have started pretty fucking awful, but Steve had turned it right around. Now, it felt like the best day ever.

#les writes things #steddie #steddielovemonth #rating: t

[merlinfic]

Find Me In The Future

Author: Malus_sieversii

Rating: T

Setting: Canon AU

Word Count: 97,706

WARNINGS: Violence

Summary: 

A few months after Morgause and Morgana's failed coup, Arthur is doing his best to run the kingdom; Gwen is caring for Uther, a broken man, confined to his chambers; and Merlin is still juggling three jobs as manservant, physician's apprentice, and secret guardian angel to a seemingly oblivious prince. As all three grapple with the reverberations of Morgana's betrayal and look anxiously towards the future, the future comes to them in the form of Arthur and Merlin from a decade later, accidentally plopped into their past. Together, they set out to return the pair to their proper place in time, confronting mistakes, secrets, and an unexpected peek into what the future holds. Featuring teasing, arguing, crying, roughhousing, more teasing, innuendo, and a sneaky little horse named Hengreon, join this cast of confusingly named characters for an attempt at humor that became a harrowing emotional journey featuring: Arthur, Uther, Arthur, Merlin, Merlin, Gwen, Gwaine, Gwyn?!, Morgana, and Morgause.

Reader’s Comments: This was such an amazing read, featuring Merlin and Arthur from 10 years in the future showing up on the doorstep of Merlin and Arthur around the beginning of season 4, there are revelations about feelings and magic and all that jazz, plus bonus morgwen! Very very cute and plot-heavy in a good way as the future M&A struggle to get back to their own time.

Thanks to @merthurmagic for sending in this rec!

#other: readers recs #merlin fic rec #merthur fic rec #rating: t #90k100k #setting: camelot #relationship: established #theme: time travel #merlin: court sorcerer #theme: magic reveal #theme: arthur knows #merlin: powerful #poprec: bamf!merlin #arthur: smart #arthur: powerful #relationship: get together #theme: fluff #theme: angst #~ #mod danielle

[theothermaidoftarth]

Exposure

T | pre-Cregan Stark/Nettles

Takes place between chapters 1 and 2 of World on Fire. A small ficlet in Cregan’s pov.

Word count: 1,444

Cw: ableism, angst, complicated relationships, family dynamics

When would he stop for breath?, Cregan thought, looking at his son in mild amusement. An amusement which waned as he heard Rickon speak of ‘Missus Nettles’ for the third time in as many minutes. It would have been of little note had he not also done as much the day before while visiting his grandmother. Cregan could feel Lady Gilliane glancing at him with increasing amusement. 

She laughed at the last thing his son had said, hands flapping in his excitement, a gesture she never thought twice of from him. Had it been Cregan... “The undercrofts. Fine place for snares. But would our guest think so? Do you mean to send her running south so soon, my lad?”

Cregan only just held back a snort, though he knew his mother to be japing. Of course a young woman who claimed a dragon the size of a small keep was not faint of heart. Mistress Nettles’ diminutive stature belied her mettle. On the first night of her arrival he saw as much firsthand, many times over. Much of that in his study as she sat before his desk in that ridiculous dress which hung from her like a set of drapes, or a shroud. And he, cold-hearted scoundrel that he was, chose to proceed as if she were not the spirited girl from Jacaerys’ last letter, giving free reign to his ire when their circumstances were no more to her liking than his. He looked at her in the way which had made grown men quail since he was four-and-ten and she looked back with not so much as a startled blink.

It was his undoing. He only acknowledged as much to himself after she came across him in the hot springs. And by then it was too late. He had fallen, hard; his every other thought of her, her wants, her needs, her comfort. Her hopes and dreams and future plans…

Cregan forbeared to cease his son’s babbling; it would only look the worse for him, fermenting his mother’s suspicions. If he had nothing to fear, why put a stop to the boy’s chatter? It was not as if it reminded him that Rickon still had no mother; that Arra was dead and gone, never again to grace the world with her cutting wit; that the young woman whose kindness had so warmed his son could not stay; that Nettles could not remain a part of Rickon’s life. Not as his mother, not as Cregan’s wife. Why would she want him, Cregan was not Osric; he was not as Brandon had been or even Elric.

It seemed no time at all when the lunch hour approached and Bessa bustled Rickon away, leaving Cregan quite alone with his mother. Terrance Snow would be here soon with her medics and mayhap Hollys to tidy the room but for now it was just them.

“I hear you still seat her to your right.”

And who had told her that? There were too many fucking answers. “Should I not? Last I knew she was still a envoy.”

Gilliane knew every one of his silences, every one of his stony looks. Just as he knew her hums and tuts, mysteries it had taken half his life to solve.

“If you were not you, shall I tell you what I would suggest?” she began and he grit his teeth around his ire. Not the first time she had said so. At least twice in his memory, mayhap not as much as other mothers in her place would have but each time it was a blade in his gut. If you were not you; if you were different. 

His father never said similar when he lived but the way he looked at Cregan told it true. Would that you were the younger son and Willam the elder. Or worse, would that you had died and he had lived. Centuries before the dragons came, Northmen used to leave unwanted children out in the snow to die, exposed upon the mountains. Cregan wondered sometimes if Lord Rickon would have done so, had the practice still thrived by the time of his birth, a too-quiet babe who squirmed away from all touch as if being branded, who hardly responded to his own name or smiled or laughed or babbled. He knew this because of his mother, some from servants’ whispers but mostly his mother who told him straight to his face. He wasn’t sure if he loved her more for such honesty or not.

“You will tell me all the same,” he said now.

“Take her to your bed. Or go to hers, whichever.”

He stood at once. “Good day to you, Mother.” He did not even stop to bow as he crossed to the door. A few paces from the door, he halted but only to turn and say, “Do not think that Mistress Nettles is only her dragon.”

His mother affected a look of mild affront. “Oh now you insult me. I thought nothing of the sort. But such a look in your eye, as if you’d fall on even your own sword in defence of her… Is this how it is then? Ah, fine, do not answer. But you know as well as I, he would turn in his crypt to see this.” Father. The man he’d tried to honour all his life. Had he been proud of him at all at the time of his death, even a little?

Cregan flexed his jaw. “Then let him do so. He does not dictate what I do, how I live my life.” He’d accept if Nettles didn’t want him and let it be, but to cease for the sake of a ghost? To never be touched by her, body and soul for the sake of a dead man who half despaired of him in life? No, Cregan would not live his life so. He might well be dead himself then.

Gilliane smiled then, small and sly. “No son of mine ought do any less.”

“Are you winning?”

He turned from the mannequin, startled, to see Nettles just at the edge of the training yard. She had seen him naked and he had not been as flustered. He was in his element here, steel in hand and muscles aching. He did not need to worry she’d be impressed; most who saw him were. But still he was flustered, like a boy at his first bout. She had not seen him here before; he had not expected to see her now. And they were alone, as they had been by the hot springs. It gave the moment an unexpected weight. There were no judging eyes to stare, or mouths to smirk behind hands if his wits proved too dull, his tongue too graceless.

He did so want to say something to make her laugh. He wanted to see those dimples of hers again. Laughter limned her voice more oft than not but rarely lit her eyes; she was more serious than she first appeared. Less so now than her first night here. He had been happy to see it, to bask in the rays of her joy. To be touched by her again.

“If you came afore midday, you would see me win against men of flesh and blood.” He rolled his shoulders backwards but she did not look at his muscles, did not giggle, bite her lip, glance up at him through her lashes with a smile. Was he doing this wrong? He had not done so with either Arra or Jacaerys. Things fell into place differently with them both. He had been different; with her, and with him and now.

“Tomorrow then,” her smile was small, sad. “Tomorrow is…” her last day. His stomach roiled. So little time. Nettles smiled brighter, counterfeit gold. “Tomorrow is a fine time for me to experience the north in full. Bring everything full circle. I shall see your finest sword,” she tipped her head to him and he felt hot blood sweep up his neck to his cheeks, “dance my last jig, mayhap find a shadowcat to tame.” As she walked backwards, she grinned at whatever look must have passed across his face. “Think I couldn’t?”

“I think you could. That’s what worries me.”

“And then when I triumph, you will feel awe instead.” 

She was too far away to hear when he said, “I already do.” Do you not know what you have already won? He would tell her, would overcome his clumsy tongue and find a way to tell her until she knew without doubt. In my eyes, you are crowned in glory.

Read on ao3

#asoiaf #f&b fic #f&b au #cregan stark #nettles #nettles x cregan stark #cregan x nettles #cw: ableism #pre relationship #rating: t #rare pair #rarepair #oneshot #part of a series

[lockwood-fic-recs]

can't leave the night

by synestheticwanderings on ao3

Rating: T | Category: F/M | Relationship: Lockwood/Lucy

Quietly, he got out of bed, taking a glance at the clock on his bedside. It was 4am. This was becoming a habit, since Lucy came home, checking to make sure she was still there, still alive, still breathing. Checking to make sure she really had come home, that the one good thing that came out of that iron circle hadn’t been a dream.

(Lockwood has been sneaking up to the attic after the events of The Creeping Shadow to make sure Lucy’s really home safe at Portland Row. One night, he’s finally caught.)

#rating: t #category: f/m #ship: locklyle #warnings: none #book spoilers: major #book spoilers: tcs #length: multichap #status: completed #fic rec #part of a series #character: anthony lockwood #character: lucy carlyle #misc: sharing a bed #misc: nightmares #misc: fluff and angst #canonverse #pov: lucy carlyle #lockwood-fic-recs #lockwood & co #lockwood and co #lockwood and co fanfiction #author: synestheticwanderings