#Saving the Light side ficlet

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Monster

Kinktober Masterlist

Pairing: Orc!Bucky x Sacrifice!Reader

Kink: Teratophilia (Monsterfucking)

Summary: You draw the devil’s coin in the village lottery, you will buy another season of peace for your people—but you don’t want peace.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Monsterfucking, References to past violence, References to past murder, Witch Burning, Forced Marriage, Dubious Consent, Violence, Revenge, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Darkfic, Dark Fanfiction

A/N: as a note, this story does NOT share a universe with my other Orc story, Brave. this is another version of Orc!Bucky that i cooked up for kinktober. speaking of which, i hope you all enjoy the first installment of my 2023 kinktober ficlets and drabbles! mind the warnings, and enjoy!

Your wedding day dawns bleak and cold. The snows have come early this year, snuffing out the brief, brittle green of summer with icy finality, blanketing the hills in thick layers of white.

Your death day.

“Up with you.” You aren’t asleep, but Thera rips the blanket from you anyway. “Come. It’s time you prepare for your... husband.” There is no pity anywhere on her wrinkled face as she grimaces at you, her eyes dark with disgust. “Witch.” She mutters the last part like a curse you aren’t meant to hear. You do, though, and you bare  your teeth at Thera like an animal in response. You are satisfied when fear settles over her features, her rheumy eyes widening. 

“If I were a witch,” you hiss, “You would not stand whole before me, Thera Truthspeaker.” This time it is her name that burns in the ear like acid. “You would lay at my feet in pieces.”

She slaps you for the threat, and you taste blood in your mouth as your head jerks painfully. Thera grasps your chin, and you turn dazed eyes toward the old priestess.

“You speak with as foul a tongue as your mother,” she spits.

“Pity you couldn’t burn mine out of me like you did her.” At this, she looks regretful, cutting her eyes at you angrily.

“Lucky for you Demon King likes his brides whole.” She squeezes until you grunt with pain. “And unspoiled.” She tosses your head to the side before standing away from your cot before brushing her hands down her long, thick robes as though wiping your taint from them. “Save your venom, little snake. It is by my grace you were not put to the torch two seasons ago with your witch mother.”

You almost wish they had, instead of forcing the scarred coin into your hand. At least you can serve the light like this, the priest had said, his grim face illuminated by the firelight. You have not forgotten the way your mother’s body burned bright, her head turned heavenward, her mouth open in silent scream as the flames leapt from her blackened lips.

At least you can serve some good when he comes.

Despite her age, Thera’s grip is strong as she forces you up out of the narrow cot. The stone floor of the chapel is like ice on your bare feet as you stumble after her. There is an old metal basin in the chapel’s meager kitchen, and Thera instructs you to strip before ushering you into the steaming water. You hiss at the burn, but it’s the warmest you’ve been in weeks. Months, more-like. She scrubs your skin raw with rough fingers, and tears through your hair with the comb until your scalp stings. When you wince, Thera cracks her open palm against the back of your skull.

“Be still!” Your ears ring from the force of her blow. “This is an honor—a great privilege you have been afforded, though you are tainted and unworthy.” 

The laugh that bubbles from your chest is bitter. “This is not your pulpit, Truthspeaker, and I am not your sheep.” 

Thera paints the symbols for fertility and prosperity on your damp shoulders in perfumed oil before rubbing them into your skin. She combs the oil through your hair, too, braiding gold thread into it as she pins it up away from your face. As she is closing the bridal robe around your shoulders, the door flies open.

The priest practically falls through it, his face shining with sweat despite the temperature. The charcoal around his wide, fear-bright eyes runs dark on his pale skin, like dark tears tracking down his gaunt cheeks. His terror is catching, your own heart pounding against your ribs. 

“He comes! The Demon King comes! He rides for the village!” Thera glances at you, her thin lips curving into a cruel smile. 

“And his bride waits.”

—

You have seen a bride taken, once. You were young, six seasons, perhaps? Seven? You saw the Demon King ride away with her, her long, black veil whipping behind her in the icy wind.

Mother had told you not to go, not to watch—It’s barbaric, my love, we needn’t take part—but you couldn’t help yourself. She is lucky, she is blessed, the townspeople murmured amongst themselves as they watched her go. Chosen. She’d drawn the coin from the bag, the same pitted, pocked metal that the priest had forced into your trembling hands as you’d watched your mother burn.

Life for life.

The rope bites into your wrists as you tug uselessly at your bindings. Your breath leaves your lips in frantic clouds of white as you pull and pull. Your only victory is the creak of the rope as it tightens. Your teeth chatter as you stare into the fog. It rolls out between the trunks of the bare trees like tendrils, creeping along the snow-covered ground until it fills the air, obscuring light and sound until all around you is dim as twilight.

“Your bride awaits you,” the priest’s muffled voice trembles. “Take her and honor our agreement, as it has been, and as it shall be.”

For a long time there is no answer from the thick, swirling fog. You count each second, your aching arms stretched above you, the rough wood of the post digging into your back through your cloak. The cold eats away at your bones as you shiver. It’s not snowing any more, but the loose drift blows up into your face as the wind rips at you. The priest’s voice trembles as he begins again.

“Take her and honor our—”

“Silence.”

 The voice vibrates powerfully in your very marrow, in your head and all around. He is near. You can barely see a foot in front of you, and now you are glad for it, glad you cannot see the face of your death. The mist swells, roiling angrily around you as your skin prickles with his closeness. You know not what the Dark King looks like, but you know what you have heard murmured in the dark corners of ale-soaked taverns and in the pews of every chapel of the Holy Light—he is darkness, he is devil made flesh and set upon the children of light so that they might know fear. 

That the price of flesh paid by your people is all that keeps him from loosing his terrible fury upon the valley—

But you do not yet know you believe.

You are afraid, that much you can tell from the thundering of your heart and the staccato sound of your own breath. You cannot see him, but you know he circles you, like a wolf, just behind the curtain of smoke and mist. The silence is deafening, and for a moment you wonder grimly what the Truthspeakers will do with you if the Devil himself does not take you—

“I accept this offering.”

 He steps sideways out of nowhere, the air simply parting like a curtain to reveal him. The Orc regards you silently, watching your breath cloud the air and disappear. He reaches for you and you flinch, but he doesn’t touch you. Instead, he pulls at the ropes. The priest knotted them tightly around the post, but when the Orc pulls lightly, it comes away easily, as if undone by his touch. 

His face is more human than you expected, fierce blue eyes set above chiseled cheekbones. His tusks poke out from beneath his bottom lip, but only barely, more evident as he grimaces. You wonder if he is displeased with you, as he looks you over, and you flinch when he reaches out with one massive, gloved hand. He grasps your chin firmly, turning your head this way and that before sighing. 

“Come.” 

 This time, his voice does not echo through the clearing as if spoken by a dozen men. He reaches for you again, this time drawing the dark veil down over your face. His horse is as large and dark as he is, and the great beast paws the ground as you near, and you see your own fearful face reflected in its strange red eyes. He chuckles at your reluctance.

“Afraid, little bride?”

You are. Truly afraid. Of him. Of the village. Of the way forward, wherever it led. But you would not be like Thera, like the cowering priests in their chapel. Your fear would not rule you. 

You grasp the reins and fit a foot into the stirrup. 

“I am afraid.” Swinging your leg up, you climb into the saddle. “And I am more than fear.” He smiles, the sharp, white points of his teeth gleaming as his lips part.

“Good.” He steps up behind you, and your face flushes with heat as he fits you against his front. 

“What are you called?” He hesitates, and you wonder whether or not he will tell you the truth.

“James.”

—

The sun is low in the sky by the time you see the encampment, nestled in the dark, snowy hills like a glowing ember. You tense as you see it, going rigid in the saddle.

“I did not know you came to collect your bride price with an army.” You reply, and behind you James chuckles. 

“How else would I make sure it was paid?” 

You feel small and alone as you ride into camp, your veil still pulled low over your eyes. The sounds of music and conversation die as the king approaches, the garrison watching with curious apprehension. The pack parts for you, people stepping away from James’ horse with a respectful bow. He is King here, of that there could be no doubt. A great fire blazes at the heart off the encampment, and James rides close enough to feel its heat before dismounting. He holds out his hand to you with a thin smile. 

“Come, little wife. Lay aside your fear and let us know your fate.” You return his grim smile with one of your own. 

I suppose I always knew it would end in fire.

You take his hand, and James helps you down. For a moment, there is no sound other than the roar of the flames and the shrill whistle of the icy wind. 

“She is small.” The voice is heavy with age, and rife with irritation. “It will not be her.” You turn to see the stooped Orc step out from the crowd of onlookers. She leans heavily on the staff she carries, the top adorned with an assortment of feathers and tiny, white bones. James does not look away from you. 

“The fire will tell.” 

He pushes your bridal robe from your shoulders, undoing the tie around your waist. The cloth falls to the ground, leaving you naked. You are not cold, though, not this close to the fire. The veil he leaves on, and the fabric whispers against your bare ankles. The old Orc hobbles closer, peering at you with her one good eye. 

“You know what to do.” 

You do—you step into the fire. It burns—burns hotter than anything you have ever known—

But there is no pain. You open your eyes. All around you is light, beautiful, glorious light. You lift an arm, and flames dance along your skin, leaving trails of radiant heat. You raise your arms above your head with a shout. They should have burnt me in the village. You imagine the streets burning bright with your flames. 

Something is changed in you, something opened, something broken free, something you’d never even known was caged inside you. You are the fire, it is you—

The old Orc slams the staff against the ground with a sound like thunder,  and the flames cool to embers as you drop your arms, panting. You are giddy with power, your heart beating in your chest as fiercely as the flames. 

“Fire-sign.” She draws symbols on your face in red ichor, and matching ones on James. Her scarred mouth twists into a smile as she pulls the veil from you. “Burn brightly.”  

James gathers you in his arms, lifting you with ease. He makes for one of the tents, pushing aside the heavy canvas hanging over the opening. James spills you unceremoniously onto the furs by the small fire, ripping at his clothes as he sets upon you with his hungry hands and mouth.

“Knew it would be you,” he mumbles as he lowers his mouth to yours. “Could smell the smoke on your skin.” 

Gods you burn as he kisses you. You are no longer standing in the fire but you feel it in your veins still, like it’s part of you. Your head swims as though you’d drunk your share of mead, James’ touch only adding to the dizzying rush of sensation. He kneels down between your legs, his eyes dark as he drags them down your writhing body. He licks his lips.

“My fire-sign.” He cups your cunt with one massive hand, trailing a thick finger along your slit. From the bits of hushed gossip you’d overheard from the older women in the village, wifely duties were to be penitently endured, you were to feel pain and discomfort, not this, this—

Fire.

James parts your thighs until they are wide enough to accommodate him, and he bends low. The whites of his eyes barely visible as he stares at your slick center. 

“What better wedding gift?” He says lowly, tugging your hips roughly forward until you can feel his breath on your cunt. 

You lick your lips. “And what is mine?” You ask, and James laughs. You keen as he licks a long, hot stripe up your soaked slit. 

“What would you ask of me?”

“Burn the village.” There are two voices coming from your throat when you speak. There is you, the you you know, the you you have always been—

And there is the fire. 

The thing of smoke and passion and rage in your skin now, too. 

“Leave nothing standing.”

James lowers his head to your sticky core, and wraps his arms around your thighs anchoring you to his face as he feasts. His tongue slides hungrily through your slick folds, and your eyes fly open a your hips roll of their own accord. You come apart then, shuddering and whining, but he doesn’t stop. Your hands tangle in his dark hair, pulling at his ceremonial braids as he tastes you till you’re dizzy. James finally relinquishes his hold, and when he rises his chin is wet with your pleasure. 

“You wish me to wage war, little wife?” He asks, reaching between your bodies to palm his cock. You can’t look away. “To spend fire and blood for you?”

You nod. 

“For that, I will require more than a marriage of convenience,” he replies, and you shiver as he taps the head of his cock against you with a slick, sticky noise. You whimper as he circles one of your nipples with his thumb. “I want more than just your body, understand, little bride?” His hand spans half the length of your belly it’s so big, and you stare wide eyed down at his cock. 

“I will have all of you.” James growls down at you. “Not part.” You whine as he pushes against you, the blunt head of his cock pressing inside with a pop.  Your lips fall open, a strangled moan escaping them. James’ claws dig into your hip, and he utters a curse. You’re already so full of him, you don’t know how more can fit, but James works his hips against yours, rutting shamelessly against you until you swear you’re choking on him. 

The ache is so sweet it brings tears to your eyes. 

“Y-yes!” 

He draws out, leaving you almost empty before filling you with a hard thrust. James moans low in his throat, his head falling back. He cups your face with one hand, dragging his thumb across your lips. You rake your fingers over his muscled chest and he grits his teeth, driving into you harder, curling over you as he presses your knees against your chest. 

Your breaths escape you in choked little mewls, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he drowns you in pleasure again, and the fire in your veins swells, consuming you. Behind him, the fire blazes more brightly than ever before, and  James looses a low growl, his cock pulsing inside of you.

“Then you will have war, little queen,” he says, nosing down the side of your jaw. He nips at your throat, hard enough to bruise.

You smile. 

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #sebastian stan #sebastian stan fandom #boxofbonesfic #boxofbones #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #kinktober week 1

[carolmunson]

the boy is mine (carol's edition)

you know i had to do it to 'em. if you'd like to take a crack at the 'the boy is mine' writing challenge, you can check it out here. you can also see the masterlist of everyone's works here. a/n: for me, how eddie was fleshed out in FOI has always been how i see him. hurting, but goofy, but snarky, but sweet, but loving, but scared, but all that. eddie 'has taken care of himself since third grade' munson just makes sense to me. in this ficlet, our romantic night in gets muddled when eddie doesn't know how to just let someone love him right. i've also always have written eddie as older than he actually is, so here -- he's 25. argue with the wall. tw: 18+, angst, hurt/comfort, some smutty references but no smut, references to smoking and drinking. some arguing but nothing crazy.

The day was hard on his shoulders and back, no one should be hunched over the hood of a car for this long -- and even being young isn't saving him from the grimace he makes every time he gets out of his bed with a decades old mattresss. Eddie cracks his neck each way while he chugs down the road leading to Forest Hills, slick and shiny with rain from the afternoon. The orangey yellow headlights on his beat up '71 Chevrolet bounce cheerily off the darkened asphalt, but the scrape, clatter, and growl of his engine and whatever else was a stark reminder that this van was on it's last leg. As bright as the headlights were, the gloomy purpled evening sky was a perfect match to his mood.

Today is Eddie Munson's birthday.

For the past few years, Eddie has spent his birthday working double shifts at the auto shop and then meeting the guys at the Hideout to get so drunk he can't see. Can't be sad about your birthday if you're too drunk to think about how your mama's dead and your dad won't call. Can't be sad about how you won't ever get to hear her sing you happy birthday, or put on a record, or dance with you in the living room. Or have your dad make dinner and put the six pack away if only for that night. To not run out on 'a job' or 'work a late shift' where he won't come back for days afterward.

He'd drink and drink until you had to hold him up to get him out of the bar, piling him into the back seat and having the guys follow you home to help load him into bed. He always looked forward to the greasy diner hangover breakfast in the morning where it could be just the two of you, and not his birthday, and not all the awful things he thinks he is.

The gravel groans and crunches when he pulls in at the side of the trailer he used to share with Wayne. With another roll of his head and shoulders he kills the ignition, hopping out of the van and leaning over to grab his bag. It's only when he slings it over his shoulder that he notices the warm glow of the kitchen light on, passing muted through the small curtains. He hip checks the door shut and makes his way up the steps that need repairing -- another thing to add to the list for 'Spring Cleaning' in a couple weeks that he knows he'll forget to do until you remind him or one of the boards rots out. Eddie's ring tap against the metal handle and he braces for the screech of the door, only to be met with the cozy blend of garlic, onion, and rosemary hitting his nose first. He swallows while he kicks off his work boots, turning the corner to see you in the kitchenette, putting the lid back onto the one large pasta pot he has and turning the burner off. "Oh!" you jump when you see him, shock turning into a smile, "You're earlier than I thought you'd be. Hold on!"

"What're y--" He's interrupted by you hurrying into the fridge, glass clinking when you pull out a Mionetto bottle that was already opened to reveal the cork.

"Surprise!" you ring out, popping the bottle with a little flourish, "Happy birthday!" He stands there, unsure at first what he's looking at, trying to take it all in. You in the kitchen with an apron on, the table set nice, a cake set on the counter to cool with a covered bowl of what looks like home made vanilla frosting next to it. To the side, a familiar small notebook lays opened to a buttercream recipe -- his mom's buttercream recipe, still scrawled in her loopy handwriting on yellowing pages with fading blue ink.

"Melvald's didn't have any like, nice cups," you say with a scrunch of your nose as you pour two glasses of prosecco into flimsy plastic flutes, "Is that okay?" "Uh..." he snaps back to reality when you hand him the cup, "Y-yeah that's okay." "Happy birthday, handsome," you smile, raising your drink before you take a sip, he follows suit.

"What is all this?" he asks, voice sounding like it's coming from someone else. Objectively, he should be falling to his knees right now, crying with adoration for you. Sobbing over the clear effort you've put in for a romantic night together at the trailer. "Um," you suck in your lips quickly, and release them, eyes lowering to the scuffed linoleum, "I uh, I made braised short rib and mashed potatoes, some broccoli. Wayne told me that um, that your dad used to smoke them for your birthday but we don't have a smoker so..."

"Why?" The swell in his heart builds from genuine affection to suspicious bitterness, this was way too much.

"Did you not check the calendar today or something? It's kind of a big day," you try to lighten the mood with a laugh, taking the apron off and hanging it on the hook by the hallway, "Sit, sit." He follows your direction, sitting at the table where the place setting is the best it can be with what you have. You even folded up the paper towels nicely. He silently sips on the bubbles, uncomfortable on the makeshift throw pillow cushion on the chair, while you take the plate in front of him and begin serving.

"I should um," he starts, voice gravelly, "I should wash my hands and uh, and change or..." "Yeah," you nod, voice higher pitched than expected, "Go, go ahead. It'll all be ready when you're done washing up." He leaves the glass behind, thudding into the bedroom where he notices a Frederick's of Hollywood bag sitting at the end of the bed. A small pile of gifts in shiny blue paper lay stacked up pretty on his dresser -- a card front in center 'Eddie My Love' - you write it in the same way you sing it to him absentmindedly every now and again. Flipping the lyrics every time. He swallows again, pulling in his cheeks and biting down while he peels off his coveralls and slips into what he was planning to wear to drinks later -- a band tee and some worn jeans. It feels cheap to wear this now, now that you've put in all this effort. Now that you're looking all sweet and put together in the kitchen for him. He rolls his shoulders again, trying to stretch the frustration out. He doesn't wanna be mad at you, you didn't do anything wrong. He doesn't wanan feel so sick in his chest over it -- but he does. All this work for what? Eddie takes his rings off to wash his hands, using the same Dove bar soap to wash the remaining grime off his face from work. Big inhale, big exhale into the towel on the door before making it back to the kitchen where the dinette table was ready for dinner, two tapered candles lit in old holders on the side. He sits across from you, your eyes glittering in the light of the flame.

"You didn't have to do this," he says quietly. Your lips twitch into a half smile, head cocking slightly to the side. "I know, but it's your day...it's a big one, too. The big two-five," your voice doing its best to soothe, "Can't just, I dunno -- get plastered at The Hideout every year..."

"Sure I can," he shrugs with a quirk of his brows, pushing the mashed potatoes around with his fork. He watches the melty pat of butter ooze off one of the edges like a volcano, pooling in next to the broccoli. "And you like that? That's fun for you?" you chuckle before noticing he's just playing with his food, "You gonna eat?"

"Getting plastered at The Hideout is like, tradition," he mutters, looking at the clock over the cabinets, "And we're gonna be late meeting the guys."

"Ed..." you say, a vapor of disappointment floating through his name when you say it. He winces.

"Like I said, babe," he says, "You didn't have to do all this -- y'know, spend all this extra cash on dinner and --"

"I know I didn't have to, but I wanted to -- I wanted to do something nice so that your birthday could be sp -- " "Okay, well I don't need my birthday to be special, it never is," he snaps, he doesn't mean to, "I didn't ask you to do this for me." You hold your soft gaze at him, shoulders round down while you rest a cheek on your palm. If Eddie's mama was still alive, she'd tell you to get your elbows off the table.

In the flame, your glittering eyes turn glassy. You let a soft breath out through your nose, a sulk clear in your posture. "You're right," you mumble, a soft squeak of a sound while you slowly stand, shaking your head, "You're right, you didn't ask. I shouldn't have assumed that you..."

You trail off while you flick the lights on in the kitchen, leaning forward to gently blow out the taper candles. Your hand swishes away the smoke and soot, pushing out out of the cracked kitchen window before the smoke detector catches it. The cabinets creak while you take out some Tupperware from the top shelves, the good stuff that the ladies in the park sold Wayne back in the 70s. They click and clack as the bowls and trays and their tops hit the formica counter top.

"Well--well, wait -- you don't have to pack it up, babe," he says, sitting up a little taller in the chair. When he hears the shudder in your breath he stands, "You don't have to put it away."

"No, it's fine," you assure, a small strain coming through from your chest, "It'll be like -- you'll be so excited when you get home and there's all this food. I just gotta call the guys and tell them to just go to the bar instead of coming here."

"Whaddayou mean, coming here?"

You turn around, eyes wet now but not crying, a tug on your brow and taughtness in your jaw from where you try to hold it back.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," you shrug, "But like, it's not important. Lemme just pack this up and I'll get it figured out." "What's the surprise?" he asks, tilting his head to get a better look at you. "Well I..." you let out another breath, lower lip wobbling; an action your stop with a sharp inhale through the nose. "Well I thought it would be fun if the guys came over and did a birthday oneshot campaign with you. I helped Gare and Jeff write it and Jeff was gonna DM," you let out in one breath, "And it was gonna be like, a silly drinking game version." "You were gonna play?" he asks meekly. You nod. You rarely play, always watch. Always make snacks or help him clean up the trailer, always order the pizza because Eddie forgets to. Always add extra mushrooms on one because Richie likes extra mushrooms. Always make sure to get one with white sauce cause red cause doesn't sit great with Dustin.

"Did a, um, did a character sheet and whatever," you say, defeated, while you open the utensil drawer to pull out an extra pair of tongs and a serving spoon, "Drew her -- it's in your card."

You start to pack up the food and the tears start up again, welling in your eyes but still not spilling over. Eddie steps forward, getting between you and the pots and pans on the stove.

"Hey, wait," his voice bare audible, "Babe, don't."

"It's okay," you sniffle, "I just have to call them."

"No -- baby, stop," there's an edge now, ring hand falling on your wrist, "Stop packing it up."

"It's fine--"

A waltz between you, him, and the tupperware on the counter.

"Don't make me..." he huffs, trying to maneuver the tongs out of your hand, "If you don't stop, we're gonna have a pr--"

"Ed, enough! We will go to the bar, it's fine," you urge, anxiety heightening in your chest where it bursts, you start to cry, "Please, let me put it away. It's fine. I just -- fuck --"

"I feel like such an asshole," you sigh, breaking. You relent, letting go of the tongs where he takes them and leaves them between the burners on the yellowed stove.

"Don't be like that, you're not," he soothes, closing in on you against the counters edge, "You're not, I'm sorry."

"I really just wanted your birthday to be special," you weakly murmur, wiping at your eyes.

"You know how I get," he says, rough hands coming up to cup your face where he leaves a soft kiss to your cheek, "M'just not great at bein' fussed over."

"You deserve to be fussed over, doofus," you garble out, his thumbs replacing your fingers to catch the tears as they fall.

"It's hard, babe," he nods, "You knows it's hard for me. Y'know with my mom's stuff gone and my dad being...who fuckin' -- who fuckin' knows. The Hideout just makes sense. That's y'know -- that's what I deserve."

"That's not even true," you shake your head, "Don't be stupid."

"Well, I barely graduated so," he offers you a peck to each salty, wet cheek, "Stupid's my middle name." "Don't cry, sweetheart," he breathes, leaning in with a slow kiss. A kiss drenched in apologies and thank yous, breaks away just to kiss again. And again, and again, and again until you're both breathless under the sickly yellow green glow of the overhead kitchen light. "How about I change into something nicer than this, and we'll pop these plates in the microwave and start over," he asks, a smile toying on his full lips, "'Kay?"

You nod back, getting another peck stolen from you, and following him down the hall. "Oh, yes, yes, allow me to slip into something more..." he announces with flourish, posing half sexily half awkwardly in the doorway to his bedroom, "Uncomfortable." You snort, giggling while you follow in after him, settling on the end of his bed, "You don't have to dress up fancy." "'Course I do," he tsks, brows furrowing, "M'going to a five star restaurant doll, I can't look like a slob." He pulls out a pair of slacks from a funeral he went to two years ago, discarding his jeans and sliding them up over his pale legs. To your dismay, he plucks the t-shirt with a screen print of a tux out of his closet, and exchanges the worn Dio tee with that. You'll always prefer the Dio tee. "Classy," you tease. He winks, and that's enough to make you okay with the tux shirt. His fingers trail over the stack of presents and land on the envelope.

"Can I open the card?"

"Sure."

"Am I gonna cry over it?" he asks, looking at you over the dull paper when he flicks open the top.

You shake your head, "Nah, it's not sappy. You're the sappy card writer."

"I'm so sappy," he agrees, pulling out the card, "I gotta work on that, huh?"

"No, I like when you're sappy, ya sap." You watch him read the card, blush evident in the warm wash of gold from his bedside lamp. You're not a sappy card writer, but you always know how to make him feel like a kid with a crush. When he opens up your character sheet his bottom lip tucks between his teeth. "Shit," he grins, "Rogue tiefling, huh? You tryna kill me?"

"I thought it could be fun," you titter, standing up to look at the pages next to him, "Chaotic evil. Look at me."

"Ugh, baby's first villain," he gushes, "I love it."

"Look at the picture," you bounce on the balls of your feet while he goes to the next page. A much quieter 'shit' falls from his mouth. It was not a drawing that was for the rest of the guys to see, a sketch of a tiefling version of you in an outfit meant for his eyes only. "So you are trying to kill me," he asks, fingers tracing the curve of 'your' hip on the page where the outfit digs into the fat of 'your' hips.

"No, that'll be later," you smirk.

"Hm?' his brows raise.

"What do you think is in the Frederick's bag?" you ask, faux innocence smattering into your tone.

"Ah, you put a little costume together for me?" Eddie's mouth waters at the thought, brain fuzzy as he looks at the picture and then at you.

"Something like that," you tease, making your way back out into the hallway. "Something like that?!" he repeats back, hurrying back out to pull you into a searing kiss before you can make it back into the kitchen. The kind from the movies where he dips you down toward the faded carpet. As he pulls away, he nuzzles your nose against his, staring at you through lowered lids, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," you nod, both of you making it back to full height, "Happy birthday."

You relight the candles on the table and nuke the plates of food, topping off each others plastic flutes with the left over Prosecco. There's three cases of beer in the fridge and you know Gareth is bringing Absinthe and it's something you pray doesn't mess your boyfriend up too much.

Dinner is the best meal Eddie's had in years, unable to keep his eyes off of you in between bites while you rehash your day and him, his. You're picking up the dishes off the table when the boys show up and they deliver. Taking the heat off you, they provide the snacks and even more extra booze. Jeff passes out party hats that make you all look ridiculous -- Eddie can remember laughing this much on his birthday, not even when he was a kid. Not even when his mama was alive.

After the oneshot completes and everyone is ankles deep in a tipsy haze and the smoke from a few joints lingers in the air, you walk in with the cake that is finally frosted -- the 2 and 5 confetti colored candles dancing in front of him while the rest sparkle in the middle of the coffee table. He makes one thousand wishes that he knows will come true because his friends are all still there with him and so are you. You're one room right over, cutting the cake and plating it up, and you'll be there when the boys leave in your skimpy nerdy costume that you bought just for him. And you'll be there while he sleeps and you'll be there when he wakes up. You'll be there across from him the next morning when he feeds you fries dipped in chocolate shake at the diner.

Today is Eddie Munson's birthday. And his mother's buttercream frosting is the sweetest it's ever tasted.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fan fiction #eddie munson fanfiction #the boy is mine challenge #eddie munson x y/n

[gatorbites-imagines]

Hi!! Hope everything is going well!

Could I Please ask for some bottom buggy (mayhaps with some watersports since I saw you had a interest) or some ftm crocodile being fucked into submission!

Have a nice day.

Ftm Sir Crocodile x male reader

Ficlet

I love Sir Crocodile so much 🗣️ 🗣️

Reader is part of Buggy’s crew, cuz I thought that would be hilarious. Reader doesn’t have a devil fruit, but is still super kickass. Hes kind of the information gatherer, smuggler, etc, for the Buggy crew. Reader is also normal human height.

Mixed terminology for Crocs bits. Also, breeding/pregnancy? kink warning ig. but its just mentioned for the fantasy.

The Cross Guild appeared great for any outsider or lesser in the know members, which was most of them. They all saw your captain as someone great and almost godly, thinking he was so much more than he was, but you had been with him for many years, even before the Buggy pirates had even been created. Shortly after the execution of Rogers, Buggy had stumbled into your path and had accidentally saved your life, and from then on you had been by his side.

Most people thought of you as something akin to an accountant or treasurer, wearing an outfit that looked very much like that of a ringmaster, long red tailcoat and top hat and all. You were always one of the first to run away, giving you a reputation of a coward who couldn’t fight.

The only one who truly knew how much of a threat you could be, would be your captain and his inner circle, which you were also part of. You might not have been the strongest physically compared to someone like Mihawk, but no one could gather information like you could, smuggle like you could, or have someone “disappear” like you could. Your network was so extensive that even the one they called Joker, who you knew was none other than Donquixote Doflamingo, was jealous.

That was why you knew everything about Sir Crocodile and Mihawk before the day was over when the Cross Guild was formed. You cowered off to the side, keeping up your weak act as you flinched at their raised voices or the light reflecting off Crocodiles golden claw.

They believed you a weak fool who’s only worth was your quick mind and ability to calculate numbers quicker than most computers, which resulted in them mostly dismissing you. It was a role you basked in and felt comfortable, using it to keep your true identity under wraps. That was until they pushed your captain too far, as Crocodile especially seemed to take great pleasure in antagonizing and hurting your captain.

You were protective, most pirates were, if they felt any sense of loyalty to their captain. It was because of that, that you dug up a trusted contact, a celestial dragon with greater access to seastone than anyone else you knew. Using measurements from the moment’s clothes had to be made, a pair of cuffs in just the perfect size soon arrived to you with the post.

It was easy to press Crocodiles buttons, to get him worked up by acting stupid and pathetic, just the way you knew made his blood boil. It was even easier to enrage him so far that he chased after you, so blinded by his anger that he didn’t even notice how you kept avoiding his sand, or how you were leading him further and further away from the rest of the guild.

When he finally caught up, Crocodile caged you against the wall, hook digging into the drywall as he almost snarled down at you, cigar crunched between his teeth as his purple eyes blazed. But mild confusion crossed his face as your fearful expression dropped, his body straightening as your eyes met his head on. Before Crocodile could order an explanation, a feeling of weakness crashed through his body, making his knees buckle enough that you had to catch him, supporting his towering weight and bulk.

His vision swam as you started dragging him along, his feet dragging along the floor because of his height compared to your own. Crocodile felt dizzy and mildly nauseous, his eyes finally catching the heavy bands around his wrist, the one he still had left. “ssseastone?” he slurred out, voice lighter than the growl you were used too, cigar long forgotten somewhere along the journey.

In the beginning, you had planned on torturing him, the blades strapped to your person burning at the thought, but as you threw him down almost carelessly on a barely clad bed, a different through passed through your mind.

A slight thrill ran down your spine as his purple eyes burnt into you, his usual anger still present, but mixed with something else, something deeper and hungrier. Soft pants left Crocodiles lips, sounding faintly struggled as the seastone drained the power from his body, leaving him limp and pliant.

You could see the heat rising to Crocodiles cheekbones as you started stripping off your usual getup, tailcoat slid off your shoulders and neatly folded, top hat placed down with care. “What the hell are you doing…” Crocodile rasped from the bed, his pupils blown as an unfamiliar need unfolded inside him, the familiar thrum of pleasure running through body.

Maybe it was his weakened state, but he swore his cunt was pulsing with need, especially as you unbuttoned the stark white shirt you always wore, revealing a tightly muscled and heavily scarred body underneath, leather straps adorned with vials and weapons stretched across your torso.

Crocodile tried to shuffle his legs, maybe to squeeze his thighs together, or to spread them further apart, he wasn’t sure, but all he could do was a minimal twitch and jolt. “I planned on cutting you up, making you beg for mercy. But from the looks of it… you wouldn’t mind some other kind of discipline” you murmur, almost stalking towards him where Crocodile was splayed out on top of the white sheets.

You could see all his muscles tense as you let your hands climb up his legs, up his thighs and stomach, traveling all the way up his arms towards his hook. A choked off noise leaves Crocodile as you remove his hook with ease, like you had done it a thousand times before, placing it off to the side with care.

“Behave yourself” you tell him, squeezing the sides of his jaw to make his lips part. Crocodile tried to growl or snap a threat, to snap his teeth at you or somehow fight back, but his body was mostly unresponsive, his tongue feeling thick and useless in his mouth.

A shiver of anticipation ran through Crocodile as you moved again, settling between his thick spread thighs. Your eyes met as you reach for his belt, your brow lifting as if asking if he wanted you to stop. You may be a pirate, but you had class and manners, at least when it came to stuff like this.

But when all Crocodile responded with was a sour expression and glare, you make easy work of his belt and slacks, tugging them down his hips and legs, throwing them off to the side with little care. Your disregard for his clothes made Crocodile grumble, but the noise was quickly silenced as you pressed your entire hand against his slick underwear, fingers teasing his hard t-cock and soaked folds.

“Tsk tsk, look at you, bet you just need someone to put you in your place, is that it?” you mumble in an almost mocking tone, looking up at him with an almost feral hunger in your eyes. Crocodile chokes on the words that want to form in his throat, some kind of rebuttal perhaps, that he would never want someone as low as you to do anything to him, but as you pinch his cock between your fingers, it morphs into a shaky moan.

Crocodile’s boxers as easily pulled off, thrown to the floor with a damp plap, making his face redden further as you only find amusement in the obvious sign of his arousal. Kicking off your pants and boxers, you crawl up the bed and sit between his thick thighs, pushing them further apart to expose where he only grows slicker, hole clenching around nothing as if begging you to fill it.

“What would they say, seeing the great Sir Crocodile, spread out like this, ready to take the cock of a feeble weak treasurer” you taunt, pressing your hips closer to his, so that you could drag the tip of your cock up and down through his folds. The act has Crocodile arching as good as he can with the cuff on, his eyes squeezing shut as he clenches his jaw, a breathy noise leaving him, folds only growing slicker around you.

Maybe it was your size difference, with you being average human size, compared to Crocodiles almost 9 feet, or maybe it was his gut deep arousal, but his hole didn’t need much prep for you to be able to fit inside.

That didn’t mean you were just gonna give it to him, since this was supposed to be a lesson. A stuttery moan spills almost silently from Crocodiles lips as your fingers rub through his folds, barely pressing against where he wants you the most. He had never imagined himself in a situation like this, splayed out and dripping for you, someone he had always just seen as a nuisance, but here he was.

“Come on Crocodile… ask nicely” your tone is almost cruel as you push only two fingers inside him, barely felt because of his size, but just enough to rub against his wet gummy insides and leave him aching for more. Crocodiles jaw clenches, barring his teeth as his head weakly rolls to the side, as if to hide his face into the sheets.

“Or… I could just leave you here, thighs spread open, cunt glistening with want. Im sure someone will pass by, and who wouldn’t want a chance to fill this” as if to exaggerate your point, you push two more fingers into his slick hole, burying them as deep as possible into Crocodiles wet insides, punching a gasp out of him.

Crocodile seems to debate it, if he wants to put his pride aside for someone like you, but his thoughtprocess is knocked off course as you pinch his cock with your free hand, twisting it cruelly. Had he not been wearing the seastone cuff, his thighs would have clamped shut and a shout would have left him, but now all his body could do was tense up as a wet keen tumbled out of him.

“P…please” Crocodile finally mumbles, voice small and almost shy, but it can barely be heard over the wet slick sounds of your fingers thrusting in and out of him, his wetness running down your palm and wrist in the process.

“Hm?” you hum, the questioning tone in it clear, as if you didn’t hear him at all, giving his cock another twist just because you could. “fuck me… please…” is gasped out, Crocodiles insides clenching around your slick fingers as they rub and prod around inside him.

Your fingers movements slow to a stop, silence filling the room long enough for Crocodile to peek an eye open and look down at you. Your eyes are intense as they bore into his, the predatory flare in them making Crocodiles insides quiver. “Normally id demand better than that, but I’m starting to pity you” you scoff out, withdrawing your fingers from his hold with a slick noise.

Instead of wiping them off on the sheets, you use the large amount of slick that had gathered in your palm to slick up your shaft, releasing a huffed exhale as Crocodiles eyes widen at the sight. “I’ve thought about making you ride me, so you’ll have to make yourself take it, but we can’t do that right now, can we” you eye the cuff around his one wrist, making Crocodile growl and spit out a weak warbled “fuck you”

His insult carries no heat, clearly only for show, his glare quickly wiped off his face as you finally push inside him. Crocodile needs little time to adjust, resulting in you almost immediately setting a bruising rough pace, drawing in and out of him with loud wet slick noises, his hole gripping onto you as he gasps and moans.

Reaching down, you push his shirt up just enough to splay a hand across his lower stomach, a foxlike grin spreading across your lips as you watch his hips weakly roll into your own. “If you weren’t such an asshole, I could fuck you whenever. Imagine that Crocodile, walking around, cunt leaking my cum, as you try to play tough.” You chuckle darkly, tone thick and hungry in the way only a predatory animal could possess.

As your cock rams into that sensitive spot inside him, Crocodile is finally starting to realize you are truly more than you seem, his cunt drooling a wet puddle under him on the sheets as you take him with a new hunger, a glint appearing in your eyes as your hand presses down harder on his stomach.

“I could knock you up you know, right here.” Is hissed out as you bottom out inside Crocodile, the words making him tighten up and shiver in want. “No one would find you so scary then, would they Crocodile. Waddling around, fat with my kid” you purr, letting both your hands splay across his stomach. It was all fantasy, but by God did it make Crocodile wet and wanting. Something about the fantasy of you, some lesser subordinate knocking him, Sir Crocodile, up, had him seeing double.

The seastone didn’t help with his woozy state, all attempts at forming words only becoming half formed and slurred, Crocodiles eyes going wet and glassy as that familiar feeling spread through his body. “in… inside me…” Crocodile slurs as you curse to yourself, clearly close to the finish line as well. Had it not been for the cuffs, he would have thrown his legs around you, squeezing you against his body to keep you inside him, but all he could do now was beg.

Crocodiles pride crumbled as your fingers squeezed his cock one last time, a pure orgasmic expression crossing his face as he gasped and moaned, his entire body twitching weakly as he came, wetting your cock and the sheets even further as the feeling thrummed through his entire body.

With a deep groan you bottom out inside Crocodile for a last time, letting your eyes squeeze shut as you spill inside him, coating his insides in a thick coat of white. Crocodile whimpers weakly at the feeling, trying to squeeze around you as if to milk your length for more.

He slumps against the sheets further than he already is, eyes falling shut in a relaxed exhausted expression. Crocodile barely notices as you pull out, white leaking out from between his folds to join his own mess on the sheets. He barely even notices you cleaning him up, only twitching and gasping softly when you clean up between his legs.

Its only when the seastone cuff leaves his wrist that Crocodile returns to himself somewhat, as the familiar feeling of his devilfruit washes through his body again. Squinting his eyes open, he catches sight of you getting dressed again, tucking on your shirt, then your coat, and lastly placing your hat on top of your head.

Even with his devilfruit returned to him, Crocodile still feels weak and exhausted, but the good type of exhausted one only gets after a good fuck. Part of him wants to ask you to stay, to hold him and pet his hair, to maybe mumble more dirty fantasies about knocking him up, and how you’d make him live as your pretty little housewife. But instead, Crocodile just grunts to get your attention, his attempt to demand to know where you are going.

“I have to get back to the others, since ill be taking over your duties for the rest of the day and tomorrow” you say, voice resolute and not allowing any denial or struggle. And normally Crocodile would have growled and rejected anyone taking over his duties, but for some reason, the idea of you taking care of him made him relax deeper into the bed, muscles lax and thoughts empty and calm for once.

Approaching him, you press a soft kiss to his forehead before telling him “this room is hidden away from everyone else, so take all the time you need. Ill check up on you later” as you pat his cheek. After telling him where the bathroom is, where he could find towels and replacement sheets and blankets, you were on your way, leaving Crocodile on his lonesome.

It took a while, but he finally pushed himself into a seated position before getting to his feet. The feeling of your cum trickling down the insides of his thighs as the familiar heat of arousal burning inside him once more, making Crocodile shuffle towards the bathroom you had pointed him towards. Even though you had just left, he could still get himself off a few more times from just the memory alone.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad to be disciplined by you, he wondered how you’d react if he caused issues with your smuggling routes. The idea sent a line of heat up his spine as he stepped into the shower, hand quickly traveling between his thighs, fingers burying themselves into his still sensitive hole, fantasies of hungry glare and cruel fingers filling his mind.

#male reader #one piece #sir crocodile #ftm sir crocodile #op #breeding kink tw? #pregnancy mention tw? #one piece imagine #one piece headcanon #one piece x male reader #one piece x reader #sir crocodile imagine #sir crocodile headcanon #sir crocodile x male reader #sir crocodile x reader #ftm sir crocodile x male reader #ftm sir crocodile x reader #ftm sir crocodile imagine #ftm sir crocodile headcanon #op imagine #op headcanon #op x male reader #op x reader #one piece smut #sir crocodile smut

[strangersteddierthings]

Daily Ficlet 7

I’m challenging myself to write a little ficlet every day, using the prompts from this list. Today’s prompt is recipe book.

-

Steve finds Wayne in the hallway, pulling what items he can from the closet there.

"Need some help?" Steve asks as Wayne struggles with a bigger box that seems wedged in pretty good.

"Sure. Just get yer hands up here and ready to catch," Wayne answers, shimmying the box to and fro while Steve moves to follow his instructions. The box isn't by any means light when it falls into his hands, but it's not the heaviest thing Steve's had to catch -don't think about it, don't think about Eddie's limp body awkwardly shoved through a gate. Don't-

"Thanks, son," Wayne climbs back down the stepladder he was on and takes the box from Steve' hands, walking down the hall to place it on the counter. The front half of the trailer is missing, the gate took it, but a decent amount of of the trailer remains (Eddie's room remains) and the government has finally allowed Wayne to return to pack up what he can.

It's better than starting over completely.

"What's in the box?" Steve asks, because it's the only item Wayne hasn't just demanded he load into the moving truck outside.

"It was supposed to be Eddie's graduation gift," Wayne says softly. "'Suppose it'll have to be a 'glad you woke up from yer coma' gift instead."

"Yeah," Steve says, even if he doesn't believe it. Eddie's been asleep months now. They saved the world, killed Vecna, closed the gates, Max woke up, and the kids have started Sophomore year; Eddie remains comatose. "Can I get a sneak peak at the present?"

"It's not much, and ain't nothin' new," Wayne says, opening the box and beginning the process of pulling things out. It looks a bit like the contents of a hope chest. Things to start living on your own with. Robin's mom has one for her that Steve's seen, and even contributed to. There's an envelope of $500 tucked along the side of Robin's chest.

"This was his grandpa's. My dad's," Wayne says, pulling out a belt buckle. "And my ma made this, not for anyone in particular, mind you, but just because she liked to keep herself busy." It's a blanket, thick and a little scratchy when Steve touches it. "And this. This is the most important." Wayne pulls out a binder from the bottom of the box, handing it over to Steve for inspection.

He takes it carefully even though it looks sturdy. Holding it in one hand, he flips it open. He was thinking maybe it would be a photo album or something but it's not. It looks like a recipe book. All the recipes are hand written on looseleaf paper, with post it notes sticking out randomly. "What makes this special?"

"That's his mom's handwriting," Wayne smiles but he sounds sad. "Eddie lost her when he was five. She got real sick, y'know, and never got better. But she wrote out all them recipes. I'm amazed Al kept the thing, but I guess I shouldn't be. No real value in a binder of recipes 'cept to the people close to the author."

Steve looks back down at the binder. He still has both his parents, however distant they might be, so he doesn't know if he'll ever fully understand the significance of getting this piece of someone back. "Does he not have anything else with her writing on it?"

"No, not writing. We got plenty of things they used to own. Eddie's caseworker let us go through the whole house, after Al'd been shipped off to the penitentiary, to gather anything Eddie might want or need. Was supposed to just be his stuff, mind you, legally speakin', but I think that lady knew if we didn't take other stuff, Eddie'd never see it again.

"So, Eddie's got things that were hers. But nothing that's uniquely hers. There's jewelry, and a coupla blankets, but all that stuff is replaceable and not... Well, I dunno what I'm tryin' to say, but that's just stuff that was hers. But this. This was her. Y'understand?"

And Steve does. There's a difference between having something that belonged to someone once, and something that really feels like them when you hold it. Steve doesn't have anything like that, personally, but he knows there will come a time when the difference matters. When everyone grows up and scatters into the future. He imagines a hand written letter from Dustin will mean much more for him to find after a long time of no contact than it would to find his old Roast Beef t-shirt in the back of a drawer or something, moth bitten and musty.

"I can't wait to find out if Eddie's an angry emotional, or a sad one."

Wayne laughs. "He can be both."

#wayne and steve #daily ficlet #just a lil thing for if eddie lived but didn't like... live #bittersweet #my fic

[christinesficrecs]

These are also very classic but I feel like they're a little more well known. If you managed to miss it, Bones Straining is THE fic to read, followed closely by Reach Out. Also, forgot about this ficlet if you're up for a tiny bit of angst.

The Time Traveler’s Prerogative | 9.2K | Explicit

After the events of “117”, Derek doesn’t magically transform back into his twenty-five-year-old body. Instead, he’s stuck as a sixteen-year-old for an unknown amount of time. So the pack has to learn to deal with it.

Reach Out  | 20.2K | Explicit

In Which Stiles Falls in Love Twice…With the Same Person

Released (From Behind These Lines) | 15.9K | Explicit

Stiles was the first one. He doesn’t know how it started, what’s wrong with the house to make it like this, but he knows that he’s the first of them. The next one was Boyd, then Lydia, then Erica, and lastly, Isaac. It seems a habit, anyone who ever moves into the house leaves someone behind. But no one’s lived in the house for the last ten years.

Until Derek Hale.

See Me In Hindsight by weathervaanes, wishingonalightningbolt | 19.6K | Explicit

Stiles is 18 when he finds out exactly what’s going on in Beacon Hills. He has a few months left before he goes off to college, has a while to help Scott become the best werewolf he can be - and also to get into Derek Hale’s pants. And his heart.

Bones Straining Under the Weight  | 15.6K | Explicit

One of Stiles’ favorite things about life is Derek Hale’s food blog. He never expects to meet the man in person.

JEALOUS ORCHARD, THE SKY IS FALLING  | 5.8K

Stiles is away at UCLA for school. It may only be a few hours from Beacon Hills, but Derek still only visits every once in while. Suddenly, every time Derek even talks to Stiles, the boy just can’t help but bring up his new college BFF, Tara. When Derek visits, jealousy strikes. And make up sex ensues.

Can’t Be Saved (Not So Frail)  | 16.3K | Explicit

In which Kira is Derek’s ward, Stiles is Scott’s brother, and omega heat cycles are good for everyone.

This Kind of Luxe by horchatita394, weathervaanes, wishingonalightningbolt | 15.1K | Explicit

As they have for almost every US President since the 1910s, the Prime Minister and the royal head of their country pay a visit to the United States after inauguration. Which is why, when President Jonathan Stilinski is elected into office, Queen Talia Hale of Norland plans their trip.

For Love is Not Ours to Command | 18.5K | Explicit

Where Derek's skills at thinking on his feet mean that he and Stiles have to act. For the sake of Stiles' dad, of course, for the sake of the pack. No personal interest interference at all, whatsoever. Right.

Like Heaven Catching Lighting | 41.5K | Explicit

Prince Stiles of Cor has always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was never truly going to marry for love. Fighting it has only made it worse. Now, presented with a choice between two children of the Hale family of Ignis, Derek and Cora, he must make the decision to determine who will rule by his side. If only it were that simple.

Sweet Dreams 'til Sunbeams Find You | 9.2K | Mature

But that’s when it happens. Stiles is on a down stroke when Derek opens his mouth against Stiles’ neck and says, “What do you think about having kids?”

Whispers in the Dark | 6.9K | Explicit

Stiles Stilinski would call himself a starving artist except for the simple facts that he is neither starving, nor does he know anything about art (unless you consider a novelist an artist, which Stiles only does sometimes). So when his best friend insists he accompany him to a show in the city, Stiles thinks it will probably be the most boring evening of his life.

Enter Derek.

#sterek fics #sterek #ficrecs #fanfic writers #sterek fandom #author appreciation #author spotlight #weathervaanes

[raayllum]

Do you have any headcanons of callum being protective/considerate/thoughtful with rayla? I'm so in love with how gentle he was with her this season.

Callum planting flowers from the Silvergrove in the castle gardens as a surprise and then convincing her to take a 'moonlit' stroll with him one night once they're ready so he can show them off

It's non traditional but he knows the main reason she hates the water is because she always feels unsteady on her feet so he gets her a grip mat for the tub so she can feel more centered

Redoing her braid for her whenever it comes undone and stitching up little tears and frayed edges in her clothing/cloaks because he knows how to sew

On that note: getting her a new cloak because her old one is tattered and doing up the clasp for her / tugging her in close by the hood for nose and mouth kisses if he's not smiling too much

Him and Ezran collecting a whole bunch of things during the timeskip to save up to give to her so that the castle can feel like home

So many forehead kisses and just gentle hand squeezes. Three squeezes means "I love you" and he'll trace the words onto her back or side sometimes when they're just laying together

He definitely talked privately to Opeli (and probably the guards) after the 5x01 throne room debacle and gave them a piece of his mind / new protocol to follow when it comes to them being concerned about Rayla's actions (ficlet here)

For that matter: absolute death glares to anyone who gives her a hard time at the castle / any diplomatic function (and probably almost causes a political incident or two over it)

Him murmuring the sappy love poetry he's read in her ear even when she rolls he eyes and can't quite hide her smile, working up his nerve to write personal poems of his own for her

Little things he did this season like being the one to handle the reigns of their mount the bulk of the time as soon as they started sharing because he knows she's not a morning person and is a light sleeper, so she holds onto his middle and he lets her doze for most of the day whenever he can

Requesting mints at inns they stay in that don't have any already / using magic to carve the soap into little shapes if they aren't that way to begin with and leaving them, once again, as little surprises for her to discover

If/when Rayla wants or needs time away from Stella (sparring perhaps) the cuddlemonkey is almost always with Callum and he makes sure she's cared for too. She's fussy about getting brushed and hard to pin down thanks to the six hands, so he'll usually help get her sitting still while Rayla does the actual grooming

Him using cooling spells for her when it's hot on summer nights (like in 4x07) and heating his hands to lay on her tummy when she gets period cramps

Normally he'd never throw his weight around as a prince, but he absolutely will on her behalf, whether it's getting something she wants from a servant tea/food wise or making sure they are treated well / have a nice place to stay while travelling

"It's none of your concern--" "It very much is her concern, and watch your tone."

Giving her his scarf whenever it's cold, of course

Making sure she's not overworking her bad wrist and giving little massages to that and her ankles when she's been doing a lot of jumps/movements that day, especially as they get older

His sketchbook is equally hers (even if she uses it far less often of course) and there's a few pages near the back designated for her to leave notes or doodles or whatever she wants when she's bored and/or he's not using it (he's very proud of how her drawing has improved)

Getting heavy duty enchanted blinds from Lux Aurea for her room so it can keep the sun out so she can sleep in / can give her room more of a twilight light quality so it can remind her of the Silvergrove (if she wants)

There are some meetings he can't get out of as crown prince but they're long and boring so he does his best to convince Rayla to go and spend her afternoon doing something she wants. (She usually stays for at least the first half anyway to support him and Ez)

Drawing memories and stories she tells him about her family and then giving her the pages so she can hold onto / remember them

Rayla still having a hard time articulating how she's feeling sometimes and getting upset/angry/embarrassed when it comes out wrong, so he takes her hand and gets her to take a steadying breath and start over with a gentle "Try again. What are you meaning to say?" if she says something obtuse/that comes out wrong

Ofc taking care of her when she's sick no matter how disgruntled or snotty she gets and reading to her quietly/stroking her hair until she falls asleep

Taking her to his favourite places in the castle/kingdom/Pentarchy for dates and private times to hang out alone, insisting on carrying their picnic basket because he's a Prince, Rayla, and chivalry isn't dead

Callum working very hard to learn traditional Moonshadow elf (no matter how much she teases him for his pronunciation) so he can use it to propose to her

#rayllum #headcanons #leftboob #requests #mine #thanks for asking #pining!callum #tdp #the dragon prince #supportive callum

[flowercrowngods]

dio. 🤍

ao3 • writing tag • time travel au tag (stories & snippets) steddie drabbles & microfics ☕️ ko-fi vibes only. mostly steddie, sometimes clarkson.

🌷 WIPs & multi-chaptered stories

➤ i’ll try. i’ll try. (but i couldn’t be better) WIP M | 74k | 12/? | time travel au, angst, steve whump Sent back to 1983, Steve tries to save his friends from everything that's coming and takes on the battle against the Upside Down alone with El by his side.

➤ nice to meet you, where you been? T | 12k | 3/3 | tattoo shop au, pure fluff, trans eddie Chrissy sends Eddie to check out a tattoo shop. Little does he know it belongs to Steve Harrington, or that they’ll both be falling for each other at lightning

➤ untitled knight!Steve / bard!Eddie WIP T | 10k | 2/? | tumblr: part 1 | part 2 | ... regency au (freeform), enemies to lovers Eddie is a bard of great renown who returns to Hawkins ready and willing to spite the people who cast him out all his life. He is in search of his muse: the knight Dustin has been writing to him about who has inspired his greatest ballads and poems. Dustin’s Sir Steve is nowhere to be found, but Lord Harrington seems to hold a grudge against Eddie and he wants to find out why.

➤ see the stars shining through the cracks of my broken heart | steddie week fic T | 14.7k | 3/3 | tumblr: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 in which Eddie and Chrissy get engaged and Steve is heartbroken. yearning ensues. a story about love requited and unrequited, breaking and healing, and hope (steddie & buckingham)

➤ shattered on the cliff’s edge, trapped by the tides WIP M | 5.8k | 2/7 | tumblr: part 1 | part 2 | ... A steddie ghost story. Steve Harrington, disgraced and disowned by his father for moral insanity, has been haunted by eerie dreams of a mysterious lighthouse ever since he was a little boy. His lighthouse quickly turns from recurring night terror to gruesome reality when his superior delegates him to fix the broken light and be the new keeper. But he soon finds out that it is he who is being kept.

➤ tales of blue | who did this to you? WIP M | 13k | 3/4 | tumblr: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | Eddie POV, pre-s4, injured Steve, hurt/comfort One summer's day in 1985, Eddie finds a very injured Steve in the boathouse, and even though he doesn't want the kind of trouble that this might bring, he can't just leave him there. So, scared though he is, he takes Steve to the one person he trusts to always make everything better.

➤ untitled kas!eddie / steve WIP M | 5.3k | 1/? | tumblr: part 1 | post-canon, hurt/comfort, enemies steddie The extent of his brain injuries and the intensity of his migraines is something Steve has been keeping secret from everyone. When he goes to Kas to let him feed, however, the sudden blood loss gives him a migraine. Kas decides to take care of him.

one shots & ficlets under the cut (ao3) -> ao3 link in the tumblr fic post

🌷 fluff & floaty

floor time fic (ao3) Eddie POV, falling in love, fluff, neurodivergent steddie

eddie likes Good Words (ao3) Steve POV, stablished relationship, neurodivergent steddie, echolalia

rambly Steve in love Eddie POV, established relationship, love confession

soft insomniacs (ao3) Eddie POV, short trans Eddie, soft Steve, bickering, established relationship

3 am phone call (ao3) Steve POV, soft, pre-relationship

car ride in love Eddie POV, floaty, boys in love, Andante, Andante

stargazing Steve POV, floaty & soft, boys in love

sick fic Eddie POV, domestic fluff & silliness, steve is sick, eddie is in love

first kiss Eddie POV, floaty, boys in love

loving eddie munson (is a full body experience) (ao3) Steve POV, floaty, boys in love, introspection, love confessions

floaty steddie date hours Eddie POV, established relationship, date night, marriage proposals, softness, dancing in the rain

sick fic 2 (woollen bat hat) Eddie POV, sick!Steve, soft boyfriends in love, cuddling, Eddie reads Momo to Steve

🌷 yearning

✨yearning hours (a-side) (ao3) Eddie POV, heart-wrenching yearning, light imagery, (mis)communication, vulnerability, first kiss

✨yearning hours (b-side) (ao3) Steve POV, insecurity, trauma, darkness imagery, vulnerability, first kiss

✨yearning hours (bonus track) (ao3) Eddie POV, light imagery, vulnerability, getting together

summer nights were made for steve (ao3) Eddie POV, yearning, getting together, the stars are pretty but steve is prettier

✨yearning hours (hidden track) (ao3) Steve POV, floaty music, getting together, sudden love confession, pining, A Flock of Seagulls

✨ high yearning make-out fic (smutty) (ao3) Eddie POV, recreational drug use, dry humping, coming in pants, so much yearning, so much kissing, spicy six as friends

🌷 hurt/comfort

insomniac eddie & human weighted blanket steve Eddie POV, developing relationship, comfort

Eddie being inexperienced at relationships Eddie POV, established relationship, dramatic eddie, boys in love, cuddles

spiralling writer eddie Eddie POV, established relationship, comfort, emotionally intelligent steve

‘You’d be a great dad’ Eddie POV, established relationship, insecure Eddie, comfort

steve has seizures (ao3) Steve POV, angst, self-isolation, seizures, post-s3, found family, background steddie

nonverbal steve gets a hug (ao3) Steve POV, established steddie, nonverbal steve, caring eddie, touch starved steve

sensory overload steddie Steve POV, soft boys, building relationship, nonverbal steve, touch-averse eddie, floor time as the cure

🌷 angst & hurt/no comfort

spiralling steve Steve POV, traumatised steve, nonverbal steve, established steddie, eventual comfort

breakup Steve POV, steve is not okay, breaking up

My Boy Steve POV, major character death, post-s4, inspired by My Girl funeral scene

memory wipe musings Steve POV, post-canon, established relationship, breakup-ish

post-breakup steddie Steve POV, a follow-up for @steddieas-shegoes prompt-fill | years after breaking up with steve eddie writes him a letter and they talk, mentions of drug abuse and rehab, starting over, 2nd chances (it's hopeful but it's kinda really sad)

knightmærs Eddie POV, prince!steve, traitor!eddie, lovers to enemies who are still lovers but it's intrigue, brainwashing, torture, eddie whump, manipulation, open ending, violence & threats of death

🌷 smut(ish)

steve wants to hear eddie Eddie POV, established relationship, anal sex

sexytimes in a tent Steve POV, trying not to get caught, established relationship, hand jobs

sub!kas eddie (drabble) (tag for more) Steve POV, good boy kas, soft dom steve

school reunion sex Eddie POV, chubby!steve, dom-ish top steve, belly kink, light degradation kink, multiple orgasms, semi-public sex, reunion sex, good boy eddie

misc. & gen

steve and nancy finally have A Talk Steve POV, apologies, communicating like adults, making up, platonic stancy

steve and mike coming out to each other (ao3) Steve POV, bisexual lighting, established background steddie, mike & steve sibling relationship

why'd you jump? (ao3) conversation at the quarry, coming out (kinda), working through trauma together, steve & mike sibling relationship, big brother Steve | cw: could read as suicidal tendencies or intrusive thoughts

a study in grief: steve and mike talking about barb (ao3) Steve POV, Barb's death anniversary, Barb was Mike's friend, grief, mourning, big brother Steve, Mike character study

stobin arsonist tendencies (drabble) Steve POV, robin wants to burn down steve's car and house, fucked up platonic besties, neurodivergent swag

🌷 i'll try-verse (time travel au) oneshots

steve takes el to see her first meteor shower

el calls steve magic

eddie finds nonverbal steve

tina's party steddie hug

steve meets wayne

clarkson fics

meet-sweet | kids duty (ao3) clarkson origin post with @unclewaynemunson. Wayne POV, first meeting, slow burn, pre-relationship, soft

coursework, caffeine and cuddles (ao3) teacher student!steve, domestic fluff, established clarkson & steddie, found family

if i fell in love with you (ao3) Scott POV, soft, established relationship, domestic fluff, If I Fell

home. (ao3) Scott POV, comfort, floaty, established relationship, after-school car ride, domesticity

quiet. (ao3) Scott POV, hurt/comfort, domesticity, established relationship, wayne doesn’t like how quiet scott’s house gets

don’t let go (i won’t) (ao3) Scott POV, hurt/comfort, found family, post-s4, shared trauma, steddie, established relationship, wayne gets a bad flashback and scott calls steddie for help

ronance fics

snow angels for @thefreakandthehair's spicy six winter fic challenge, Nancy POV, pining, first kiss, getting together

yearning hours (ao3) Nancy POV, pining, yearning, realisations, pre-relationship, semi-floaty

#steddie #clarkson #flowercrowngods masterlist #masterlist #all my fics are just vibes tbh #there are some misc ficlets in the writing tag still but eh these are the ones i think are okay

[thesassypadawan]

Repost (Knight Anakin x RealWorldFemReader)

Notes: Based off this wonderful pic made by @offthethirlwall!  Thanks so much for letting me write this ficlet to go with it!

Summary:  Nothing to do on a Friday night?  Might as well summon a sexy jedi to help solve your problem!

Warnings: Thirsty reader, grumpy Ani, and just a little bit of the dirty.

‘DO NOT REPOST THIS IMAGE OR HE WILL APPEAR IN YOUR ROOM AT 3AM’

The words stood out like a bright, red warning…or was it a challenge?  Either way, with the day you were having, you said ‘kriff it’ and hit repost.  Besides, it might be nice to actually have something fun to ‘do’ on a Friday night.

With that said, you started to prepare for your special guest’s hopeful arrival.  A bottle of wine and two glasses.  Candles scattered all around your room, accompanied by some ‘inspiring’ music.  You even slipped into that skimpy, little thing; the one you had been saving for an occasion like this.

The mood was set perfectly.  Now all that was missing was HIM.

You watched the clock intensely, as the seconds slowly passed by.  Until finally the magic hour was here and…

Nothing.  Absolutely nothing happened.

 You sat there patiently waiting, like some lovesick puppy.  But as one minute became thirty and then turned into an hour, you began to feel a bit silly.

 Letting out a sigh of frustration, you fell back against your pillows.  Of course it wouldn’t work, that’s the kind of dumb luck you had.

Deciding to not let all your hard work go to waste, you grab your tablet and crawl underneath the covers.  There had been a few particularly interesting stories you had read earlier today that you wouldn’t mind revisiting.

Just as you got to a rather spicy part, a rustling sound came from within the depths of your closet.

Slowly you sat your device down on the nightstand and cautiously peered into the darkness.  The sound came again, but this time it was accompanied by a beam of blue light and a very frustrated looking jedi.

“That’s the fourth time this week, angel,” Anakin grumbled, stomping into your bedroom.  “I was heading to an important meeting regarding Grievous’ next attack.”

“And?”  You asked coyly, biting your bottom lip.  He was so cute when he was being all grr.

“And I can’t always drop what I’m doing every time you hit that repost thing,” he added, voice gravely and oh so sexy.

“I’m not too sure about that, Ani,” you say not so innocently.  Sitting up on your knees, the blankets slip down your body.  Allowing the sweet baby boy to see you in your entire lacey gloriness.  “The way I see it, you most certainly will.”

His eyes went wide, and you could practically see that lest shred of his resolve melt away.  “I hate you,” he growled, tossing his saber hilt aside and making quick work of his clothes.

“Love you too,” you giggle, as he hungerly pounced on top of you.

Wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs his waist.  You grind your soaking core against his bulbous tip teasingly.  “Now, why don’t you be a good Skyguy and stay awhile.  Or else I’ll be reposting again tomorrow.”

“Is that a warning or a challenge?”  Anakin chuckled darkly, yanking your panties to the side and burying his fat cock deep inside you.  Stretching you deliciously and pounding relentlessly.  Making you scream his name over and over again, until your throat was raw.  All through the night and well past sunrise.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x reader #star wars anakin #sw anakin #anakin fanfiction #anakin skywalker fanficiton #star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars prequels #star wars smut #ahsoka #anakin smut

[azureseacloud]

Stage Lights

Ghost (band) ficlet

Part 3

Pairing: Swiss × reader

Warnings: swearing

Words: 1,110

Another part in this one!! This part mainly stars Dew being typical Dew :)

I’ve figured out the rest of the plot, so I can tell you that there will be two more parts, possibly three!

As always, please feel free to message me with any requests :)

You sat alone in a corner of the hotel room, absentmindedly strumming your guitar. You were deep in thought, your mind constantly circling back to last night and what had happened with Swiss.

The fucking asshole.

He’d been nothing but a pain the entire trip to the hotel, constantly teasing and making subtle side remarks until your face was burning. Even with the mask covering, Swiss knew the reaction he was getting from you, and you absolutely hated it. Some of the others had joined in too, though Rain had stayed out of it, the water ghoul shooting you sympathetic looks.

It had been so hard to control yourself. To laugh along instead of beating the Multi ghoul up like you so badly wanted to. But Papa had been there, and you knew how he felt about his ghouls getting violent.

You’d escaped into your hotel room as soon as you could, taking solace in your guitar to calm down. You’d finally been able to remove your mask, since Swiss wasn’t around to see his work. The mark was properly bruised now, and it was a dark blue and purple. Bitch.

You didn’t bother looking up as the door opened, a low whistle sounding.

“Nice bite mark,” Dewdrop teased in a way of greeting as he walked into the room. “Swiss really did a number on you, huh?”

You threw the pick at him, smirking as it bounced off his goggles. He flipped you off.

You’d been paired up together for the night, a regular system to save money rather than everyone having their own rooms. This was better for you anyway—ghouls were pack creatures and staying in a foreign place alone was highly unpleasant, to say the least. You’d all ended up sharing rooms anyway, which was how the buddy system was created.

Dewdrop was good company most of the time, although he had moments where he could be a real ass. That night Swiss pissed him off—you’d spent the entire night trying to stop him from breaking things around the room. You’d been successful—well, mostly. That vase didn’t count.

Dewdrop looked down at where you were sitting in the corner of the room, resting his hands on his hips.

“He really got under your skin. Haven’t seen you this pissed since Phantom broke the strings on your favourite guitar.”

You sighed, frustratedly thumbing the strings. “Is it that obvious?”

Dew gave you a look that said it was very much that obvious. You groaned, burying your head in your hands. So much for not letting anyone notice.

“So, how are you planning on getting him back?” Dew knew you too well, knew that you needed to get Swiss back. You looked up to see him sit down beside you, peeling off his own helmet and mask.

“I don’t know. Swiss isn’t easy to fluster, he’ll just turn anything I do back around on me” You sighed, frustrated. “Any suggestions?”

Dewdrop tilted his head, considering.

“I would suggest choking or biting him back but I think he’d enjoy that too much.” You glared at the fire ghoul.

“Yeah that’s not going to happen.”

Dew shrugged. “If you want to really piss him off, I could help you.” The offer sounded normal enough but there was a suggestive tone to his voice that told you otherwise.

You gave him a look, not thinking he was actually suggesting what you thought he was. His stare didn’t waver.

“You can’t be serious.” Dew shrugged in response. “I don’t think Swiss is the type to get jealous, Dew.”

“I think you’d be surprised how jealous he can get when it comes to you.” You froze, tearing your gaze back off the guitar in your hands to look at Dewdrop.

What the fuck did that mean? He didn’t…

Dew snorted, looking up and rolling his eyes. “Fucking hell, you mean you don’t know? You haven’t realised how desperately Swiss wants you?”

You laughed, seeing what he was trying to do, and because you were definitely not going to consider what Dew had just implied. That was ridiculous. There was no way that Swiss—absolutely not.

“Funny joke, Dew, you almost had me there.”

The fire ghoul shot you a bewildered look. “I wasn’t kidding. He’s obsessed with you.”

It was your turn to roll your eyes, running a finger across the strings.

“Dew, he’s obsessed with pissing me off, same as you. He wants the crowd’s attention, and since we get the most of it he tries to steal that,” you explained. It was obvious that Swiss liked being the centre of attention, and that was why he annoyed the two of you especially. Nothing more.

Dewdrop snorted. “You are so oblivious it’s painful.”

You flipped him off, rolling your eyes. “And you’re just trying to make a whole deal out of something that isn’t even there.”

“Oh, like your own feelings for him? I’ve bitten you before, sweetheart, and you never reacted that way.” You turned a glare to the fire ghoul as he leant back against the wall, a wry smile on his face.

“I. Don’t. Like. Swiss.” You hissed, feeling your temper rise again at the accusation that Dew had completely nailed. Fuck. “He is an attention-seeking asshole who seems to think it’s his job to fuck me over.”

Dew raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure he thinks about that often. Fucking you over, that is.”

Without thinking, you growled, lunging for the ghoul. He rolled to the side, dodging you as he sprung to his feet, fangs bared and the excitement at a fight evident in his orange eyes.

“Fuck off Dewdrop.”

You grabbed your guitar, moving to return it to its case in the other room, fighting the urge to get violent. Maybe a good fight was all you needed—but not here. Papa would be disappointed, you told yourself, trying to calm down. Dewdrop followed, leaning against the doorway as you clipped the case closed.

“I thought you wanted my help.” You huffed at that. “I was serious about helping you. I still need to get the fucker back for the show last week.”

You stood back up, narrowing your eyes at Dewdrop. You wanted to tell him to fuck off—but if it did work, well you really really needed to get Swiss back. Yet you had no better idea that Swiss couldn’t use against you. And if Dewdrop was right…

“Fine,” you answered, your will to piss off Swiss winning. “But if this doesn’t work I swear to fucking Satanas—“

“It will work,” Dew replied assuredly, his smile growing devious. “I know it will.”

#ghost band #swiss ghoul #nameless ghouls #swiss ghost #dewdrop ghoul #nameless ghouls x reader #the band ghost #dewdrop ghost

[vicsy]

in the light of recent breakdown (Fernando taking photos of Lance like they're married), here's a tiny ficlet, ~ 970 words that I wrote in a spiral ✨

It's always more endearing than annoying.

Lance almost knocks the phone out of his hand. Fernando barely avoids it, laughing openly, bumping his shoulder against Lance's, his face all scrunched up, feigning faux irritation. He still breaks out in a smile, no heat behind his eyes, and Fernando makes sure not to have this touch linger. Too many people around, he can't help it. 

But he opens his camera roll, following further into the air-conditioned hospitality, Lance just ahead of him and on the screen of his phone, a fresh batch of oblique photos he'd never post; Fernando caught his profile and the back of his neck. 

He tries not to think that the bite mark there faded already. 

Lance would give him grief later, after they get through practice and share some dinner, perhaps when they finally pass the threshold of the hotel room that doesn't really belong to just one of them. There is something about Lance and being photographed that Fernando doesn't get but he stares at the screen and–

It reminds him of two days ago, eight am always too early for Lance to function, so he shoved back at the phone in Fernando's hand, whining and turning the photo blurry, but Lance still gave him that lopsided smile, all sleepy, with pillow creases across his face. They slept in despite obligations, despite Fernando remaining fully awake and simply breathing in time with Lance, content and warm, the race week yet to begin, and no bothersome cameras around. 

And then it reminds Fernando of a photo he took the weekend after Chloe's wedding, in the private comfort of just the two of them, dining at the secluded restaurant overlooking the shore. Lance sitting in front of him, a plate of half-finished duck pappardelle forgotten in favor of leveling him with an impish look, fondness written brazenly all over his face where a sunbeam kisses his cheek. In the soft, orange light of the Italian sunset, Fernando let his heart crack open and feel. 

There's even a bigger secret than the ones Red Bull has, a folder locked under an insane password on Fernando's phone, the prized collection of moments that spark a fire under his skin and in his memory when Lance is too far away but on the screen, they're joined together, even if the lighting is wrong and the angle askew. Supple skin under Fernando's palm, pearly-white droplets on Lance's stomach, an angry red mark on his asscheek; bruises on his pale neck and Lance's kiss-swollen lips; him staring up tearily with those big, brown eyes, so nicely from his knees and his lips wrapped snugly around Fernando's cock.

All that, in the palm of his hand.  

But if Fernando scrolls up to the beginning, a lonely photo of them together under the stale, fluorescent lights of the Aston Martin meeting room, Mike standing in the middle, unsmiling. It just reminds him of what he's no longer missing; that unadulterated gratification replaced the hollowness that followed him around since Ferrari and the day the title slipped through his fingers. That Fernando is no longer racing against time, trying to outrun something but rather racing ahead, bolder than ever, and the rearview only blinds him. 

Something gave way inside of him. Fernando should blame Lance entirely for it but–

He's got one photo saved, one that Jimmy sent him the day after Monaco, saying he might like it. Sometimes Fernando loses it on the myriad of screenshots, pictures of flowers and views and family; of Lance, no matter how much he protests, when they don't have to pretend or hide. And it's Lance, in that sole photo, watching him lift a trophy on the podium, his hand splayed over his chest, pressed firmly to where his heart beats, an awestricken expression painted on the side of his face that Fernando can see.  

Lance probably has no idea the photo exists. Fernando keeps it secret in the fragility of a bubble they created. He'll claw and tear for it never to burst, holding himself back from what he longs for in the secrecy of his own mind. Loss is a petrifying thing and Fernando knows it close, like an old friend. So he holds on to the photos for they are his, his, and like Lance once whispered into a feverish kiss, I'm yours, yours. 

And his hands, they are still heavy with a burden that never seizes but, still, Fernando squeezes the steering wheel and finds the strength to drag himself over the finish line high enough to have his arms strain under a weight of a trophy; turns on the camera of his phone to show what he can't put into words, to hold dearly in his hands the snapshots of someone who found a key to the lock Fernando believed to be destroyed with rust. 

There is victory and joy, other things he can't bring himself to name but Lance's name is written all over them. Other times there's anger and resentment, old and wretched like a house that burned down, and Fernando balls his hands into fists when abhorrence seeps through him as if from a broken vase but– 

A tentative touch to his knuckles, then to his shoulder; a peace offering in a form of a smile, a pliant body, a flutter of moans and hushed whispers. And all seems to dissipate. 

This is when Fernando remembers. 

He used to think it was the entire world that had to fit in the palm of his hand, so he could carry it around in his pocket, be a perpetual winner, a loner with means to an end but it always gets lonely at the top. Fernando has no use for it all anymore.

Now that he holds Lance in his arms instead.

#genuinely sorry for this but i had this idea about Nando collecting photos of Lance #and it turned into this because #I am forever sappy and I KNOW they are deranged for each other #there is so much hidden underneath #it's about giving yourself away and letting yourself trust #it's in the little things that help you realize stuff #even if you are a 41 year old war criminal #strollonso #alonstroll #lancenando #fernando/lance #vicsy writes #fernando alonso #lance stroll #f1 rpf

[ghostofskywalker]

Hi! I just saw your winter ficlet request thingy, and I decided to ask for some! (Even though I read through the guidelines, I hope I do this right, never actually sent a request 😅)

So uuuh, what about

“Am I your favorite?” with Crosshair?

Like, it just screams his name, in my opinion! 🤭

Sending you love! 🫶🏻

i absolutely love that prompt with him, you're so right!! and it's also fitting that this was the first request for winter ficlets, im honored to be your first request! i changed the prompt a tiny bit, but i hope you enjoy it :)

words: 769

summary: For the first time in a long time, the crew of the Marauder gets to spend a little time relaxing, and you joke around with the squad's resident sniper.

A Quiet Moment

clone troopers masterlist

For the first time in who knows how long, things were quiet on the Marauder. The last few jobs that the squad had taken had all been completed, deliveries and retrievals for some of Cid’s more shadow-y clients (it was something of a miracle that everyone made it out with all their limbs, if you were being honest). It wasn’t anything near the luxury and decadence as a vacation on a more tropical planet would be, as the ship was currently parked in the middle of a forest on a nearly empty Outer Rim planet, but it was still something of a blessing for you, Omega, and the rest of the boys to be able to take a step back and relax for a few days. 

You were sitting under a tree, staring out in the direction of what you knew to be the closest village, though they were nowhere within eyesight. As you mind quietly drifted from topic to topic, you turned to watch Hunter, Wrecker, and Omega chase each other around the grassy field, while Tech and Echo kept score from the sidelines and called out bets on who was going to catch the others first. 

The sound of feather-light footsteps caught your attention, and you turned to see Crosshair making his way towards you. His hair had begun to grow out in the time since he had returned to his brothers, and he was looking more and more like his old self by the day, save for the scar on the side of his head that you knew would never truly heal. “Finally tired of the smelly ship?” you teased, smiling as he sat down next to you. 

“One could never truly be tired of that stench, you just get used to it,” was his deadpan response, but the barest hint of a smile began to peek through his gruff exterior. That was another thing that was returning about him: his sense of humor. While you were never quite sure what your exact relationship was with the squad’s resident sharpshooter, you were certainly sure that he chose to spend more time with you than anyone else on the squad. 

“So you were bored then.” 

He raised his eyebrows at you. “And you think that if I was bored I would come here, to talk to you?” 

You laughed, sensing the joking tone in his voice. “Point taken, but I have some bad news for you about your current location, grumpy.” 

A sigh escaped his mouth at the newly-appointed nickname, and he plopped down to sit next to you, both of your backs now resting against the trunk of a sturdy tree. Silence fell over you two for a fleeting moment, and you finally decided that you were going to ask him something. “Why do you spend so much time with me?” 

He stopped, turning to you with a slightly shocked expression on his face. “What do you mean?” 

“I don’t know,” you said, suddenly self conscious about the can of whuffa worms you may have just opened. “Like right now, you could be spending more time with your brothers and sister. Why are you over here with me?” 

A beat of silence fell over the space before he spoke in response. “Because you’re the calmest,” he said. “It’s more difficult for me to get back into that frame of mind sometimes, the way my brothers are able to let go and be goofy whenever they want. And besides, you’re my favorite.” 

As much as you would have liked to assure him that his brothers were experiencing similar worries and that they had also been changing with the galaxy, the last sentence he spoke completely caught you off guard. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” he said slowly, looking as though he was suddenly second-guessing the admittance. “Why, am I not your favorite?” 

“I don’t know, Gonky’s pretty much got the position on lock,” you said, a quiet laugh escaping your mouth. 

Crosshair turned away in mock annoyance, but you knew he wasn’t actually offended. Taking a big risk, you reached out to grab his hand, a smile growing on your face when you realized that he didn’t pull it away. Moving it into your lap so that you were holding his hand with both of yours, you gently coaxed him to lay on your shoulder. 

Yeah, maybe he was your favorite person on the ship, and maybe it was totally obvious to anyone with a little bit of insight, but you didn’t care. He needed someone right now, and you were more than happy to help out where you could.

- the end -

i no longer have a taglist! if you're interested in being notified when i post, you can follow my library blog @ghostofskywalker-library and turn on notifications!

#winterficlets23 #tbb crosshair x reader #crosshair x reader #tbb crosshair x you #crosshair x you #tbb crosshair #crosshair fanfiction #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch fanfiction #star wars x reader

[cod-dump]

Tbh imagining Price, who’s never questioned his sexuality (but has always been a relaxed person & ally to his queer buddies) slowly falling in love with Nikolai to the point where he’s both shocked & joyfully surprised (think: crying) that he’s been/is queer…IDK, it makes me happy. Like, yeah, he had healthy relationships with women & his identity/sexuality is valid regardless of what happens next, but…him finding his soulmate (who just so happens to be a man) when he’s past being a kid…it’s fucking romantic to me! 😌

P. S. IDK if you heard but I’ve decided that NikPrice’s official ship name is Nickels, hehe

(Nickels is fucking adorable I might start using that)

Soulmate

PriceNik ficlet

___

It hit him after a successful mission. Everyone went out to celebrate drinks and all the food they could eat. Price was sitting in the corner by himself, happy to watch everyone laugh and smile after such a long and gruesome mission that none of them thought would ever end. He was nursing a beer when Nik came over, sitting next to him with a loud groan.

"Tired?"

"Exhausted."

Price laughs as Nik leans back in his chair, closing his eyes and just relaxing. Price couldn't help but stare at his friend, heart warmed by his presence. He wasn't sure how he would've gotten through this mission if Nik wasn't there. Sure, Nik was an extraordinary pilot and Price trusted him to get him and his team to wherever they needed to be and to be there to save their asses when needed.

But Nik just being there, at his side supporting him, that's what helped Price push through. Apparently he was staring too long, long enough for Nik to notice. He cracks an eye open, smirking at Price. Price felt himself grow hot in the face as Nik sits up straighter, Price choosing to look away and take another drink.

"I wonder, John..."

"Wonder about what?"

"If you're in love with me."

Price chokes on his beer, coughing heavily. It draws attention to them. Nik looks at those who chose to stare and they look away. Finally, Price's coughing slows, him turning to look at Nik.

"What?"

"You're not very subtle. Kate and I have been talking about it."

Price's face was on fire, he wonders if his face was a shade of red that matched the heat.

"What-What makes you think I'm in love with you?"

Nik chooses to stand instead of answer. Price stares at him as he leaves the pub, mind stirring with confusion. Has he really been giving off the impression he was in love with Nik? How come he's never noticed or why hasn't anyone brought it up before?

Price quickly climbs to his feet, all but running after Nik. He finds him outside, leaning against the side of the pub. He has a cigarette between his lips, lighting it. Price dumbly walks over to him, feeling like he was looking at Nik at a new angle that he didn't even know existed. Nik takes a drag from his cigarette, sighing as he blows out the smoke. For the first time, Price wasn't looking at him as just a friend.

"This is what I mean by not being subtle. The way you look at me..."

Nik speaks softly, coaxing Price to come closer. Price obeys the unspoken request, coming up to Nik's side. Price finds himself lost in Nik's deep brown eyes. They were so full of emotion. With uncertainty and hope.

"I wondered if you even knew. With your girlfriends you were never afraid to flaunt around."

Price could hear jealously in Nik's voice, something he's never heard before. Price breathes out, leaning on the wall next to Nik. He could tell that Nik was trying to not look at him, instead focusing upwards at the late evening sky.

Price could finally see it. What's been in front of him this entire time.

"I think I am in love with you."

Nik quickly looks to him, his cigarette almost flying out of his mouth with how quickly he turned. They stared at each other for a moment, neither saying anything or daring to make a move. A minute passes before Price reaches up, taking Nik's cigarette and putting it to his mouth. He takes a drag, holding in the toxic fumes for several seconds before finally releasing it. When he breathes out the last of the smoke, Nik moves.

Their lips press together, slow and uncertain. But it doesn't stay that way. Out of all the women Price has kissed over the years, this was the first time he felt that spark everyone talked about when kissing the one they love. Fireworks going over, feeling like he found that missing piece, the end of the red string--

He feels like he found his soulmate.

#call of duty #cod mwii #modern warfare ii #john price #cod nikolai #nickels #pricenik #wtf is nik's surname? i don't remember it ever being mentioned in game or on the wiki #'bout to be nik price #thanks for the ask <3 #ask #ficlet #fic #fanfic

[triniteevee]

Pacify Him

(arven x reader ficlet)

(notes: kinda crackfic, less romantic, mostly humorous, academy shenanigans, reader and arven are adults, perspective shift but no first person pov lol; warnings: suggestive themes, spoilers re: clavell)

tagging @superstition13 and @wyverndollface96 for requesting and @snartalacarte for sending in that ask about arven content (✧∀✧)/

“It’s not what it looks like!” is quite possibly the worst thing you could have said in this situation.

Fortunately, it was not what you said.

Unfortunately, it was what Arven said.

A loud choking noise that could best be described as a mightyena’s laugh escapes Dendra. The rest of the professors whip their heads in her direction, which gives you a quick second to spare an incredulous look at Arven.

He returns a look that conveys, ‘I panicked.’

Not that what you two were doing goes against academy rules. There may have been some light… brawling, but neither of you really punched or kicked the other. Your little disagreement just escalated a tiny wee bit. It definitely did not require such an audience.

It went like this.

In preparation for midterms, the two of you commandeered the Home Ec room during free period. Arven, in particular, had been anxious to improve on his Meal Points. Within the first five minutes of your session, you had made one too many jokes at your classmate’s expense, and he retaliated by raising your ingredients above his head. In an attempt to secure your precious prosciutto, you may have tickled his surprisingly sensitive sides. With his free hand, he pushes you away in the face, and vision obscured, you wildly flail your arms. You’re not entirely sure with the details, but somehow you found yourself laying with your back flat against the tile floors caged between Arven’s arms.

Nurse Miriam almost sounds innocent, but you’ve hung out with her enough times to detect the twinkle in her eye. “What does it look like?”

Dendra cackles.

With that, Director Clavell ushers out the rest of the staff, save Professor Jacq. An almost strict parental aura emanates from the normally stoic man. Clavell turns his steely gaze at Arven which makes your companion honest-to-Arceus flinch. The gaze you’re given is somehow kinder.

“I know and trust that you two are sensible adults. I respect whatever choices you make regarding pursuing relations…,” he coughs. “Err- relationships.” You stifle a groan, and Arven stiffens in fear beside you. “However!” Clavell’s voice pitches up. “We have to respect that this is an institution for learning. Kindly display some decorum.” Almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Your dorm rooms are yours to use as you please.”

You’re nodding in an attempt to get him to move things quicker, but Arven would not shut his trap as word vomit after word vomit of “That’s not what—,” and “I would never—,” leaves his mouth.

This just serves to further incense Clavell. “Young man, do you see me a fool?”

The poor backtracking from Arven draws a sliver of pity from you, and you decide to put him out of his misery.

“Clive, my man.” Arven looks at you like you had gone absolutely mad, but Clavell stares curiously. “Me and this dude weren’t boning in here. Nor were we planning on boning.” The director has a poker face on, but you can see all his hostility earlier has vanished. “Bro, you know I’m a bit of a rebel — that’s why you and I vibe — but I would never do something so shameless.”

Arven gapes like a magikarp at the two of you. You’re patting the Director’s shoulder like you were best buds. The man is nodding enthusiastically, and whispering, “I see,” over and over again.

He flushes when you look back to send a quick wink, before sharing some (Oh, Arceus) ‘hot goss’ with Clavell— or Clive. He honestly didn’t know anymore.

A tap on his shoulder reminds him of another presence in the room. Professor Jacq is smiling sheepishly, Arven could only offer a grimace in return. The man’s next words slightly tempt Arven to just drop out of the academy forever.

“Misunderstanding aside. If either of you have any questions, remember that I’m not only your thesis advisor, but also a Biology professor.”

Unintentionally going in for the kill, he offhandedly mentions, “Oh, and Miriam texted me to remind you the nurse’s office has protection. Just ask.”

Right on cue, Arven realizes he had just stepped on some ham. Right. A deep sigh leaves him. Somehow, everyone seems to think you and Arven were making more than just sandwiches.

While picking up wasted ingredients, he flushes when he recalls how he had accidentally pinned you on the floor. The white tiles shine mockingly up at him. He focuses his gaze on the occasional pop of color alerting him of scattered bell peppers. He tries not to listen too attentively to your voice as you excitedly swap stories with Clavell and Jacq.

You were always good at that.

Winning over people naturally, that people knew who you were even before you met them. He was, after all, one of those people. Everyone knew who you were, and they all wanted to get to know you. Yet, despite that, you still pay attention to him. You could, by all accounts, have the more powerful and influential classmates eating at the palm of your hand, but here you are in an almost empty classroom essentially wasting time because he asked you to be here.

“Alrighty, y’all. Respectfully, get out! We got sandwiches to make, and a class to pass!”

Who even are you? Speaking to the staff in such a manner would have any other student marched down the steps of the academy, but the two older men simply jovially chuckle. Arven feels himself smile despite attempting to restrain it.

You walk back to your table, just as Arven is getting up. You offer him your hand, which he demurely accepts.

Smiling, you ask him, “What were we making again?”

He snorts. “Well according to the staff groupchat, a scene.”

You let out an even less dignified snort which draws a chuckle from your friend. Soon enough, you’re both deep in belly laughs to the point of tears.

Professor Saguaro doesn’t know what to do with himself upon returning and finding his two students heaving, and a table full of unused ingredients. A lone plated piece of bread sitting pathetically in the middle.

When Arven gets called out in class for not knowing the very thing you were meant to tutor him on, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He feels you kick him in the side from your seat. Nope. He does not mind at all.

#pokemon scarlet and violet #arven #arven x reader

[apuckishwit]

“I appreciate the effort but this is all wrong.” For whoever you choose

(also I know I send a request in last time so feel free to ignore this if you have too many💜)

Bruh, I don't even KNOW where this came from. But I like it. Little bit of Steddie, but this mostly ended up being a Steve and Eleven bonding ficlet. Also, word could got away from me, sorry!

“I appreciate the effort, but this is all wrong,” Eddie sighs, flopping onto the couch beside Steve and making a gesture that seems to encompass Steve’s entire body.

Steve hides a tired smile behind his drink—some unholy cocktail Hopper’s friend Bauman cooked up that seems to be mostly straight vodka. “What do you mean?”

“This! You! We just beat Vecna, man! Won the day, saved the world! And you’re sitting here in a dark corner, brooding over your drink.” Eddie leans close, his expression shifting to something dramatic and serious. “A strange-looking, weather-beaten man, sitting in the shadows near the wall,” he intones.

Ah. Steve remembers this one.

“I am not strange-looking,” he says, and then tips his cup towards Dustin, who is dramatically recounting some part of the fight to Lucas and a bored-looking Erica, as though they were not right there with him. “I am, however, listening intently to the hobbit talk.”

Eddie reels back, a shocked, delighted smile lighting his face. “Stevie! Stevie! Did you, Steven Timothy Harrington the third, king of Hawkins High, dreamiest of the all-American dreamboats…just quote Lord of the Rings at me?” Eddie’s got a bruise on his temple, blood and dirt crusted in the creases of his skin because he hasn’t had a proper shower yet. Steve wants to kiss him, wants to bury his hands in the wild mass of Eddie’s curls, wants to curl into the warmth of his body and never leave.

“My middle name’s not Timothy you weirdo, and I’m not even a junior, let alone a third.” He dares a nudge of his knee into Eddie’s and leaves it there, their legs touching from knee to mid-thigh. He watches dark eyes dart down to where their bodies are touching and holds his breath, only letting it out when Eddie lets his weight shift a little closer so that their shoulders are brushing as well.

Not the closest they’ve ever been on this night, at this party—and it is a party this time, a celebration, he loves it when they are celebrating and not clinging to each other in broken, sobbing huddles, too many empty spaces in between their reaching arms—but close. Close enough that he can feel the other man’s heat through the layers of their clothes, feel the solid weight of him. Eddie is hardly ever a casualty anymore, but nothing is foolproof and he never takes Eddie’s presence at his side when they get here for granted.

He lets himself sink against the couch in his living room, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. Eddie’s eyes will follow the motion, he knows, those quick, clever eyes flicking over the line of his throat before landing on his lips and darting away again. There’s something between them, now. Something curious and fragile, but crackling with electricity. Heat. Possibility. He wonders, when he’s feeling particularly self-destructive, how far they could run with that possibility, if they ever get the chance. He’s kissed Eddie. More times than he can count anymore. Hell, he’s slept with him—quick and desperate fucks in hidden corners, longer, slower explorations when they manage to buy more time than usual. He knows Eddie’s body in a way that should feel wrong, he thinks, because Eddie never, ever remembers.

Steve’s past pretending he’s not desperately, stupidly in love with him.

His chest aches at the thought—pain that has become so familiar he barely notices it anymore. He opens his eyes, the ache turning a little sweeter when he catches Eddie’s gaze darting away from his lips and looks out over the people crowded into his house, helping themselves to his food, his alcohol, his bathrooms and blankets and guestrooms. Everything. They’re welcome to everything, he’d give everything in this cold, cold house if they could just stay here. Now. In this moment.

They’ve all made it through this time. All of them. Max is slumped tiredly against Lucas’s side with nothing worse than a broken arm. Robin is curled up on the loveseat just across the room, fast asleep, but not pale and limp and dead. Dustin’s excited voice carries above every other conversation and Steve could listen to it forever because now he knows what it sounds like when it trails off into a wet, gurgling rattle. They’re all winding down, eyelids drooping, shoulders slumping. Nancy and Jonathan have already wandered off to the guestroom he pointed them to, Hopper and Joyce having long ago vanished into his parents’ room. The kids are gathering blankets and pillows to just create a giant nest right here on the living room floor and Steve is debating whether he wants to carry Robin up to his room or take the risk that sometimes pays off and invite Eddie to follow him to bed when he catches Eleven’s eyes across the room.

“Hey, I’m gonna go get some air,” he says, reaching down to grip Eddie’s knee. Wants it to be his hand. “I’ll be right back.”

Eddie just nods tiredly, his eyes kind of glazing over with exhaustion despite his earlier brightness. Steve stands and stretches, slipping from the room while the boys are arguing over the truly hideous (but very warm and fluffy) knitted blanket his great-grandmother made right before she died and that his mother refuses to get rid of, even though she won’t allow it to sit out anywhere it can be seen. He steps out onto the back deck, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he makes his way to the edge of the empty pool. He’s never gotten around to covering it, but he never keeps it filled when he has the choice in the matter.

He is unsurprised when he hears the door slide open behind him a few moments later. Tilts his head up to stare at the brightly gleaming moon and just lifts one arm in invitation. El burrows into his side seconds later, her thin arms winding tight around his waist as she presses her face into his chest. He doesn’t speak, holding her tightly as she just breathes. She never cries, but somehow the deep, shuddering breaths are worse.

“I’m still good to go again,” he whispers, when the shuddering breaths quiet, and he can no longer feel her shoulders trembling. He ruffles a hand through her short, bristly hair, his heart hurting at the feel of it, the way it always does. El loves her long hair. Loves what having it long represents to her. He hates to see her lose that so often.

She nods against his chest, but makes no move to let go. He bites his lip, resting his chin on top of her head. “We’re getting closer. You felt it this time, right? He almost…he almost let go of Will.”

“He did,” Eleven agrees, her voice no louder than Steve’s had been. “Almost.”

Eddie is wrong, is the thing. They haven’t beaten Vecna. Not for real. Not for good. The Upside Down isn’t gone.

It’s not over.

As a matter of fact, in just a few short hours it’s all going to start over again. All the way over again.

Steve is going to go to sleep tonight, eventually. Maybe curled around Robin, clutching his best friend’s hand and counting her breaths as he struggles to calm his own. Maybe tangled with Eddie, sweaty and sated and biting his lips bloody against all the things he wants to say, all the things he’s discovered and realized and come to know for truth as he’s come to this point over and over and over. Maybe this will be one of the times he and Eleven won’t be able to bear to go back in to the people they love knowing their happiness and relief is about to be ripped away all over again, one of the times they’ll sit and talk and try to keep each other awake for another hour, another minute, another second. It won’t matter.

When he wakes up again, it’ll be 1983. Eleven will be waiting for him in their prearranged meeting spot so he can bring her food and some warmer clothes before she leaves to find Mike and the others, so small and young again, with eyes that grow more and more haunted each time he looks into them. Will Byers will be missing. Max will be somewhere in California. Eddie will hate him, if he thinks of him at all. His kids won’t know him.

And he will be standing right back at the beginning of a path he would sell his fucking soul not to have to walk again.

And again.

And again.

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve done this. Lost count of how many times they’ve lived through this hell, lost count of how fucking old they are at this point. Does a year really count against your age if it’s erased over and over again? He tries not to think about it too hard. It might drive him crazy.

Maybe it already has.

They can’t change anything, they’ve discovered through more trial and error than he cares to try and recall. Nothing more than tiny differentiations. He can’t just cancel that goddamn party and save Barb. They can’t open another gate and bring Will home themselves. They can’t bring the lab down before Nancy and Jonathan get to it. Can’t warn Hopper about the tunnels and the mayor and the fucking Russians. Can’t tell Joyce how to break the Mind Flayer’s hold over her son. Can’t stop Hargrove from becoming a puppet, can’t save his life and at least spare Max that complicated, complicated pain. Can’t avoid the Russians. Can’t keep Hopper from being kidnapped. Can’t save Chrissy Cunningham. Can’t stop Eddie from becoming involved.

Can’t, can’t, can’t.

Things…wobble…when they try. Eleven feels it more than him, understands it better than him, but when they try to change things, it felt like the time he and Tommy decided to go ice skating on the pond near Tommy’s grandpa’s house too early in the season. He’d gotten out onto the ice first, had skated away from the edge as fast as he could, but as he got further out he could feel the ice change under his skates. Had felt it grow thinner. Weaker. Start to splinter under the blades. He’s lucky he’d still been small at that point—thin and bony and small. If it had been Tommy who raced out first, he probably would have fallen through. But that’s how it feels to him—like something is weakening and thinning and breaking around him and it would be a very bad thing if it broke all the way.

Things aren’t completely the same, of course. They’ve learned to skirt that breaking, thinning, weakening—but the little bits of pain they’ve been able to spare their friends and family are tiny. Crumbs. Nothing in the face of all the things they have to let happen.

The things they have to let happen over and over and over…because they know how to close the Upside Down, now. They know what they have to do to make sure it can never hurt anyone ever again. They know what they have to do to free the people they’ve come to love like family.

They know the price they have to pay. And they know they will never, ever take that step.

It has to be purged, is the thing. Every scrap, every bit, every awful, disgusting spore has to be cleaned from their world before the opening can be closed permanently. Every bit of it.

Even the bits that have infected people they love. The bits that have infected them.

It all has to be in the Upside Down when the gate is closed for the last time. If they can’t find a way to sever the connections between them and Vecna, Will and Max have to be left behind in the Upside Down when the gate is closed for the last time.

He and El are both in agreement. That isn’t a price they’re willing to pay, unless the only other choice is to let Vecna completely loose to rampage across the world. In his heart of hearts, Steve isn’t so sure they’d even be willing to pay the price then.

Will is El’s brother in every way that matters. They might as well be twins. And Max…

Well.

Neither of them are willing to live in a world without Max Mayfield in it.

Steve doesn’t know why he and Eleven remember all the times they have come to this point before, but Will and Max don’t. He has his suspicions. Theories that he has had ample time to turn over in his mind…and he knows he’s not the smartest person in their group, but even he can solve a puzzle if you give him enough time. He thinks it has something to do with how their connections to the Upside Down formed vs. how Will’s and Max’s were forced. El didn’t mean to, didn’t know what she was doing…but she was the one who ripped into the Upside Down in the first place, kicked up the hivemind like a hornet’s nest. And he…

He thinks of the thick, rotten-tasting fluid that fills his mouth every time he bites that fucking bat to get it to let go of him. The way it always slides down his throat before he can spit it all out. He’d forced his way into a connection too, hadn’t he? Even after all this time, he can’t decide if he’s glad he accidentally took part of that fucking place into himself that first time or not.

He’s glad Eleven isn’t alone in this. Glad he can be there for the girl who’s just as much a little sister to him as Max is, now. Glad he can remember all the moments he’s had with Eddie in all these endless loops. But oh sometimes he’d give anything to have his blissful ignorance back.

He’s lucky in some sick way, he thinks. He has the choice. Will is already infected every time they start over. The thing that makes Max vulnerable to Vecna is something they cannot change. Steve, though, can choose not to take that mouthful of rotten, rotten blood. He can suck in an extra mouthful of air before the things bring him down, give himself those few extra seconds for Nancy, Robin, and Eddie to come charging to his rescue. He can release himself from the knowledge he’s living these same hellish years over and over again any time. El has begged him to, many times.

He glances down at the girl in his arms, clinging to his waist and trying to brace herself for yet another round. Knows he never will. They’re in this together, no matter what. He can’t let her carry this burden alone. He’s going to sink his teeth into that fucking bat every time, until they’re sure they’ve figured it out. Until they know how to free Will and Max. Until they can save everyone. Then he’ll let himself out of the loop. Only then.

Then maybe he’ll finally get to see what the possibility that hovers between him and Eddie will grow to be.

“What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” he asks, like the sun is going to come up on them here. Like he’ll stumble down to the kitchen, carefully stepping over sleeping bodies to start coffee and pancakes. Like it really is over, instead of about to start again.

“Breakfast burrito,” El says, and they both ignore how tired she sounds. How defeated.

There has to be a way to save them all…there has to. They just have to hang on until they find it. He closes his eyes and thinks of Robin’s laugh. Dustin’s loud voice. Eddie’s pretty, pretty eyes. One more time. He can do it one more time. They’re close. They have to be.

“Breakfast burrito. Bacon, eggs, cheese, peppers, no onions.” He squeezes her tighter, and her fist tightens on his shirt. “And something soft and pretty to wear.”

“Pretty,” she agrees.

“We’ve got this,” he says, and wishes harder than he has ever wished for anything in his life that he isn’t lying. “One more time.”

El takes another deep breath. Straightens, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. She slips out from under his arm, but keeps hold of his hand. “One more time,” she says solemnly. He doesn’t know how many times they have made this promise to each other.

He lost count a long time ago.

#stranger things #stranger things fic #steddie #background but it's there #Steve Harrington #Eleven (stranger things) #jane hopper #I don't have the patience for a real time loop fic so have a condensed one #my writing #fic prompt

[pinklume]

aw thanks for the follow!! I'm here because your Lyall Lupin takes are immaculate 💓 A couple days ago I was actually looking for a little ficlet/drabble you posted on tumblr so i'll take this opportunity haha. It was a little something about Sirius standing at the door and talking to Lyall and basically he is asking for Lyall's blessing sksksk and Lyall shuts the door in his face because no one is good enough to date Remus. It was so good!! Do you happen to have it somewhere?

!!! A fellow good dad Lyall Truther!!! I love our little community sm HE IS A GOOD DAD. And of course!! Here you go:

“Mr Lupin-“

“No.”

“Mr Lupin, I would like-“

“No.”

Sirius' face, smooth from its usual haughty arrogance, wrinkles in strained annoyance.

Lyall Lupin raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” Sirius says, through gritted teeth.

He’s sixteen, liberated from the shadow of his parents, which means he’s finally allowing himself to freely pursue the adorable, pretty, wide eyed boy of his dreams. Sirius sees those brown curls each time he closes his eyes, and he wants, badly.

“I have some notion,” Mr Lupin says, scowling, “and the answer is no.”

“What would make someone good enough to date Remus, then?” Sirius challenges, straightening up. He’s only slightly shorter than the towering form of Mr Lupin, and his brown eyes, the same shade as Remus’, are far less friendly.

“Nothing.”

The peeled door to the Lupin’s quaint cottage slams in his face.

Sirius runs a hand through his hair, and sighs.

“Fuck.”

When Sirius’ arrives at the Lupin’s, the side gate is already open. There’s a pleasant aroma of herbs and spice in the air, trailing along with a cool, summer breeze.

He follows the sound of loud laughter to the backyard, where Hope stands chuckling, watching fondly as a small line of ducklings follow resolutely after Remus. He’s got their mother, Chilli, under one arm, and when he spots Sirius, leaning casually against the fence, his face lights up.

“Sirius!”

From the low hanging bench swinging between two trees, Mr Lupin snaps his newspaper closed, and purses his lips distastefully.

Hope greets him with a flash of white teeth and a warm hug, rubbing up and down his back as she gestures towards a sizzling barbecue.

“Dinner will be along any minute now. Vegetarian Kebabs.”

He takes a seat at the circular table along the cobbled stone, where Remus joins him a second later, two ducklings in hand.

“This is Oregano,” Remus says, holding him out on an outstretched palm.

Sirius takes him gently, and settles its fluffy butt on his own hand.

“Chilli got busy,” Sirius muses, as a tittering flurry of ducklings congregate around Remus’ ankles.

“Cariad,” Hope calls, “would you mind helping your father set the table?”

“Of course not, mum,” Remus replies, but Sirius stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll do that,” he says quickly, even as Mr Lupin frowns.

He passes Oregano back to Remus, and dutifully follows broad shoulders into the kitchen.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr Lupin,” Sirius says politely, when the silence turns stiff.

“You too,” Mr Lupin replies gruffly.

Sirius opens his mouth again, determined to thaw the ice, when Remus shuffles in, holding aloft a poop covered hand.

“Remus,” Mr Lupin says, in a tone very different to the one he saves for Sirius, “when are the rest of your friends arriving?”

Remus twists the tap on, and glances back at his dad with a bright grin.

“Oh, they couldn’t make it.”

He frowns to himself, muttering under his breath:

“I’m not entirely sure why, though.”

Slowly, Mr Lupin turns to Sirius, and glowers.

Sirius clears his throat.

“The Potters send their love?”

——

“Here they come,” Sirius hisses, “shut up. Shut up.”

“I’m not even talking,” James huffs back, but he plasters on his most winning smile, leaning back against the wall as the Lupin’s break through the raucous crowd. Platform 9 ¾ is alive with hundreds of bustling students, but Sirius only has eyes for one.

“Congratulations, Padfoot,” James says loudly.

Remus comes to a stop in front of them, grinning.

“What’s all this then?”

James beams, clutching Sirius’ shoulder with brotherly mirth, “our dear, talented, smart-“

“Tone it down a bit, mate-“

“- friend has been granted permission to start an Amnesty Club at school.”

Remus raises an eyebrow suspiciously.

“And why’s that?”

Behind him, Mr Lupin looms above his son, eyeing Sirius with consideration.

“It’s important to advocate for equal rights,” Sirius says, trying not to sound like he was preaching to his half-blooded, werewolf friend, who faced more discrimination from the first page of the Daily Prophet than Sirius ever would in his entire lifetime.

“Right,” Remus says, a smile creeping back onto his lovely cheeks. They’re flushed red from the cold, and Sirius knows he’s won when his favourite dimple appears.

“Sounds interesting,” Hope says, winking at him.

Mr Lupin hums.

“Very noble,” he agrees, “unless it’s a ploy to impress someone, rather than something you’re genuinely interested in.”

“We just love to advocate,” James cuts in, grinning.

Sirius nods very fast.

“Can I join?” Remus asks, so earnestly that Sirius has to hold back a leer. There’s something dangerously alluring about his large eyes, framed by lashes that resemble spindling little fairy wings, fluttering for him and only him.

“Of course,” Sirius says, “you can tell your parents all about it.”

Behind Remus, Mr Lupin’s left eye twitches.

——

“He hates me,” Sirius moans.

“It’s cause’ you kept staring at Remus’ ass the entire time we visited during the summer after fourth,” Peter supplies, around a mouthful of jelly beans.

“Have you considered,” James muses, “just asking Remus out, and dealing with his dad later?”

“He might just go ahead and murder me,” Sirius mutters, bitterly.

James rolls his eyes.

“Padfoot, who is the one person that the Lupin’s wouldn’t dare deny anything?”

Sirius jerks to his feet.

“Prongs,” he says, grinning, “you’re a genius.”

——

Hope Lupin is ecstatic. She holds Remus’ cheeks between her palms, kisses his forehead, and reaches for Sirius to do the same. It’s lovely, and an incredible warmth settles contentedly in his stomach.

Mr Lupin’s scowl breaks through it with an icy stab.

When Remus turns to gauge his father’s reaction, Mr Lupin plasters on a smile, and pulls his son’s head into his chest.

“I’m very happy for you,” Mr Lupin says, genuinely.

Sirius blinks.

“But,” he continues, with a deceptively cheerful smile, “I think Sirius and I will be needing to have a nice, long chat.”

Fuck.

#wolfstar #Lyall Lupin #my writing

[serenescribe]

i don’t have a specific prompt, but maybe something with malleus being soft for sebek, perhaps post-book 7? thanks in advance! i love ur writing!

[✐] ficlet frenzy (thank you for your kind words! ;v; i'm always surprised and happy that people enjoy my writing so much)

Malleus knows better than to complain after everything he’s done, especially when said complaints concern such mundane yet essential duties. There is plenty of work to be completed with handling the aftermath of his overblot, especially considering the absolute scale of it all — a monstrously massive dome of thorns that slowly, ever so slowly, began to envelop the entire world. Had it not been for a handful of heroes — the Shrouds, for one, but also Malleus’ loved ones: Lilia, Sebek, and Silver, along with the child of man and their direbeast — he would have undoubtedly succeeded.

Damage control is essential in these critical moments after his overblot. Plenty of magic and technology, though Malleus lacks a complete understanding of how the latter works, are being employed to clean up his mess. Malleus himself, though, is busy with meeting after meeting, day after day. Of conferring with the headmage, discussing matters with the Shrouds, and, perhaps most embarrassingly enough, needing to be lectured over and over again by his grandmother, who travelled personally from the valley.

He is still allowed to stay in Diasomnia throughout all this, though that is more because of convenience than anything else. It doesn’t mean much when all the students give him an even wider berth than before, his loneliness taken to a new extreme. Sure, Lilia has changed his mind and will now stay with him, and Malleus is still close to him, Silver, and Sebek, but…

The guilt eats at him nonetheless.

Regardless, there is little they can do on the side of diplomacy, save for giving their testimonies and standing up for him, an action that Malleus deems more merciful than anything else. Malleus is largely alone for most of these days as he wrangles this mess with everyone else, while the others return to their regular schedule of classes and studies as though a world-shattering incident had not just occurred.

So it comes as a surprise to him when he returns especially late one night, entering the dorm in the wee hours of the morning at a time when even Lilia wouldn’t be awake, and sees Sebek fast asleep on the couch.

Malleus can only stare for a while, blinking in utter surprise. Sebek is one who is typically early to bed and early to rise; had he passed out here somehow? It doesn’t occur to him until he gives it some thought that perhaps Sebek had only fallen asleep here because he’d been waiting for him — and it is with that realisation that something clicks, memories of seeing Sebek on this couch night after night whenever he comes back, sitting with the other two, rising to the front of his mind.

“Your neck is going to hurt, sleeping in such a position,” Malleus murmurs, leaning over Sebek and taking in the peaceful expression of his face, the light snore that escapes his parted lips. He doesn’t even think about it before he summons a spell; green sparks fly around them as, in the blink of an eye, they are whisked to Sebek’s room, filled with the snores of his fellow roommates who, thankfully, do not stir at Malleus’ intrusion.

Gently, he lowers Sebek on the bed with the help of his magic. The mattress dips under his weight, and Malleus busies himself with fluffing up the pillows (to prevent any stiff muscles in Sebek’s neck), and straightening out the blanket, snapping it wide open in the air with the flick of his wrist before draping it over the sleeping Sebek. He steps back, surveying his work for a moment, a swell of warmth blooming in his chest.

This is good.

He reaches out with a hand, hesitating before stroking his fingers through those tousled, green locks. “Rest well, Sebek,” Malleus whispers, his voice hushed. Sparks dance around his fingertips, and the sleeping boy’s face smooths out into utter bliss; “May you have the sweetest dreams.”

After all, it is only what Sebek deserves, after everything he has gone through to save Malleus from himself.

#my writing tag #ficlet frenzy #tumblr drabbles tag #twst #twisted wonderland #twst spoilers #twisted wonderland spoilers #twst ch7 #malleus draconia #sebek zigvolt #twst fanfiction #twst writing #i actually wrote this a couple hours ago but i'm posting it before others i've written bc uhhhh #stares at mid december ch7 part 6 update #yeah. yea