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flowercrowngods · 1 year

Note

Suggesting/Requesting Eddie having a crush on the valiant knight Steve Dustin goes on about, not realizing it's Steve "the Hair" Harrington and the way he reacts when he realizes they're the same dude. Cue adjustment period.

hi! first of all thank you for the prompt 🥰 i slipped and kinda decided to take your ‘valiant knight Steve’ quite literally and made this a medieval/regency au with knight steve and bard eddie, kinda enemies to lovers. it totally got out of hand, so this is part 1, with all my apologies to your original prompt 🤍🌷

Eddie smiles as the fields and forest that surround Hawkins come into view, kissed by the early afternoon sun with more affection and richness than the city probably deserves. It looks different this time of year, the green seems deeper than he left it, and nostalgia paints him a picture of glory and welcome that would make any traveller linger at the sight.

He knows it’s only the magic of coming home, the thrill of having been gone so long that he needs to learn his town a-new, and the curiosity of a poet that makes his heart beat faster; but it’s his life’s blood to embrace all of that. So he spurs on his trusty horse to make it home even just a minute sooner.

The people’s reactions to his arrival come in multitudes, though Eddie can respect the healthy dose of mistrust with which they regard him. He has made a name for himself after all, a bard more than a jester these days, but most people don’t tend to forget the pretty face they chased out of the city on multiple occasions.

He lifts his head in greeting as he passes the elderly Wheelers as they’re tending to the flowers lining their windows, and grins with glee at both the disapproving scoff and the wary nod he gets in return.

He’s in good spirits. Great spirits, in fact, the sun shining down on him, welcoming him and lighting familiar paths for him to tread again after years of absence. Hawkins will see his glory, his success, his victory, and it will pale in jealousy and regret. They cannot chase him away this time, not with the title of royal bard and winner of the bardic competition three years in a row.

If his travels have taught him anything, it’s that he is pettiness acts as a wonderful motivation.

Of course, he shall also see his friends again. One of his saddlebags is half full with their letters that have accumulated over the years, all of which Eddie has kept for reasons of muse and a heart entirely too soft for his own good.

Most of all, though, even more than proving his worth and success to his city and its people, it is curiosity that brings him home.

Dustin and his friends have been mentioning a most valiant knight, waxing poetic about his glorious deeds and his kinder heart — or, as poetic as they get, which is hardly at all. Which consequently made Eddie write no less than five ballads about the stories they told him, three of which have made it into songs yet, one of which he was made to play in every tavern on his long journey back to Hawkins and to Princess Nancy herself on more than one occasion.

The Knightmærs, as he calls his little collection of poeterey, his pride and joy about a man he has yet to meet. Tales about maidens saved and brothers defeated, hearts stolen and retrieved with the gentlest gestures, and children protected against the evils of night, expecting naught but friendship. And friendship he got.

If Eddie’s heart picks up yet another notch at the thought of meeting this knight as the familiar city walls tower before him, he allows it for a second before announcing himself to the guards. They looked wary upon his approach and blanch now as they hear his name; Eddie does not hide his laughter this time and preens as he is told to ride on.

“Oh, Hawkins, old friend,” he mutters under his breath, not even bothering to hide his smile. “You and I shall have so much fun, shan’t we?”

~*~

He barely makes it to the home he has been sharing with his uncle since the ripe age of twelve with minimal fuss, unsaddling his horse and guiding her to the trough, when he hears it.

“Eddie!”

Halting in his motions the currycomb, he looks up from the rusty brown that shines red like embers in the sun and spots Dustin racing down the street towards him.

He lowers the comb and steps around his horse, grinning at his rapidly approaching friend.

“Why, good day to you, young traveller, what brings you to my humble abode?”

Dustin doesn’t falter in his approach, doesn’t even slow down, and Eddie braces himself for impact. Years of experience have made him quite practiced in handling tackle-hugs, but Dustin has grown quite a bit since he last saw him, and they both stumble backwards when Dustin’s arms wrap around Eddie in a way that seems to press all air out of his lungs. Eddie laughs as he hugs his friend back with as much ferocity.

“I’ve missed you! I was writing to you this morning when I remembered you said you’d come this week. I didn’t think it would be today!”

“I came as soon as I could. Such is the Munson way, or did you forget?”

Dustin shakes his head and finally lets go, though Eddie yearns for another hug. It’s been too long. The boy has grown. He’s hardly a boy anymore, though he shall always remain as such in Eddie’s heart. He smiles and ruffles Dustin’s locks, realising with a pang that they’re almost of a height now.

An ache like homesickness settles in his gut and wears on his heart heavily.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, smoothing out the curls he’s put in disarray. “It’s just been too long. And I’ve missed you, too. You’ve grown quite a bit since last we talked.”

“I have!” And he looks so proud of it, too, preening a little under Eddie’s faux scrutiny, and it’s what makes him pull Dustin against his chest again.

Eddie continues taking care of his horse, feeding her, combing through her mane, making sure she has as much comfort as he can provide after their long days of travel. Dustin sits on the fence and watches him tend to her, feeding her the occasional apple when he thinks Eddie isn’t looking. He hides his smile and pretends not to see.

God, but he has missed his friend.

Their twosomeness is rudely and entirely too quickly interrupted by Lord Harrington of all people, who hurries down the street in search of Dustin.

Eddie never did like the lord and his pompous appearance coupled with his rude personality. He always acted like a prince among men, subject to many a jest in Eddie’s younger days. On one memorable occasion, Eddie managed to steal the lord’s clothes and swap them with his own, making him walk about in linen rags and torn-up trousers.

Days later, all of his lute strings ripped just as he was getting ready to play at the tavern, and he never messed with Harrington again — even though there was a parcel three days later with new lute strings and his old clothes he had made the lord wear. No note attached to it, because Lords didn’t stoop down to converse with lowly peasants even for revenge.

So, seeing Harrington now on the very first day of his being back, it sours Eddie’s face and his humour.

“Why, Lord Harrington,” he speaks before the man can get a word in. “To what do I owe the displeasure of seeing you here? Have you suffered a fall from grace yet, or was it a hit in the head that left you disoriented, bringing you to my humble abode?”

Harrington frowns at him, though Eddie deems to detect confusion more than distaste.

And then he has the audacity of not even answering to Eddie’s ruse, simply ignoring him and instead turning around to Dustin.

“Dustin, Master Clarke is expecting you. I will not cover for you once more.”

“But—“

“Spare me,” Harrington says, hands on his hips now, and Eddie is starting to feel defensive over Dustin. How dare his lordship come and steal his best friend away when he hasn’t even been home for an hour yet?

Before he can get so much as a word in, however, Dustin is already jumping from his perch on the fence and trudging towards Harrington, rounding the man and leading the way up the hill towards the castle.

“I’ll come back later, Eddie,” Dustin says over his shoulder, and then he is gone, rounded the corner, out of his sight.

Harrington, however, lingers. Eddie raises his eyebrows in question and challenge, and the Lord scoffs a little. It’s like he wants to say something — but what could it be? What could Lord Harrington have to say to him, years after they last saw each other?

He does look stunning, Eddie has to admit with a grudge against his self and his integrity. The golden light of the afternoon sun catches in his hair, likening it to strands of gold that kings and queens pay alchemists across the world to procure. Eddie, for a moment, feels like he has found it in Lord Harrington’s hair and the skin of his face, but he quickly snaps out of it, cutting off that particular train of thought before it can run away form him.

“I hear you are a bard of great renown these days.”

The words catch him off his guard, for Eddie was sure that the Lord would not attempt to converse. Yet it seems that propriety still has a tight grip on him.

Does Harrington like his ballads, his plays, his poetry and sonnets? Has he heard them? Or has he heard of them? Has word travelled across the countries, telling of Eddie the Bard and his brave-hearted muse his soul yearns for and his quill bleeds for?

Eddie is not sure which option thrills him more, but whichever one it is, it makes him smile, feeling quite bashful and yet proud.

“So you hear,” he says, approaching the stiff Lord. “What exactly is it that you hear, my Lord?”

He swallows, following Eddie’s steps with his eyes, turning his head when the bard circles him slowly. “I hear you sing of beasts slain and brothers banished, a knight at the heart of your ballads.” Eddie smiles at that, knowing that Harrington has at least heard of two of his Knightmærs. I hear it sounds like mockery, the knight but an object of your hyperbolic fascination and flowery imagination, his pain and bravery nothing to you.”

He stops dead in his tracks, his feet planted right before Harrington. The Lord looks like he is taking personal offence to his works, and it irritates the bard.

“And what, Lord Harrington, would you know of fascination, pain and bravery? I cannot imagine you have faced a lot of hardship in your life, and the only acts of bravery you had to chance upon were mislead in the name of false honour.”

“False honour,” Harrington repeats, his words like poison, sharp and dangerous as the sword’s blade at his hip. “You would know something about that, I imagine, telling stories of which you have no idea. Immortalising glory where there should be sympathy.”

Eddie studies him, the frown between his brows, the hard line of his jaw, set and calmed to keep more words from spilling. Imposing, this Lord is. A sight for sore eyes even in his purely misplaced anger.

Eddie huffs, his eyes travelling between the Lord’s where they are standing so impossibly close.

“Sympathy,” he repeats. “Nobody, my Lord, wants a ballad of sympathy. It is glory that the people seek!” He steps back from Harrington, gesturing with his arms as he dramatically recounts the lessons he has learned over the years, passionate for his craft. “Glory, heroism, heartbreak and love! Yearning and longing and deeds of an aching heart, that is what the people want to hear. That is what deserves to be immortalised in art, in poetry, in song! I shall forgive you for being so painfully unaware of this, my Lord, but I shall not stand to be in your company much longer, calling my work lacking or a mockery when it is borne out of nothing but loyalty, fascination and love.”

They are close again, because Harrington did not step back when Eddie approached him once more, his feet planted like a tree, fierce and strong and unbudging.

It is intoxicating, though Eddie blames half of it on the passion and the rage, on the bravery that possessed him to send the Lord away, or the fierceness with which he came to his muse’s defence.

Harrington swallows again, his eyes wandering over Eddie’s face once more, lingering at his lips, both their jaws set in determination and perhaps a sudden tension.

“Forgive me for insulting you with my company,” he speaks at last, his voice nothing but a rasp. “You will find there is an irony to your words soon. I shall not rob you of that discovery. I ask you do not take it out on our mutual friends when you do, Munson.”

And with one last glance, Harrington turns on his heel and hurries up the hill, too, leaving Eddie puzzled and quite dazed upon the lingering warmth of their close proximity.

When did Harrington become so handsome? There was a fire in his eyes that Eddie got to witness for just the blink of an eye, but he wonders where that comes from, what it means, and what other secrets he holds.

Perhaps, if he cannot meet his muse, the knight Dustin has only ever referred to as Steve, Harrington might serve to inspire a ballad or two himself.

~*~

Harrington catches his eyes on more than one occasion over the next days. Eddie is invited to the castle to play for Princess Chrissy, though she greets him like an old friend and makes him sit close to her at the banquet. Right beside Harrington, who merely nods at Eddie, his fists clenched as Chrissy asks the bard about one of his ballads — the one about the valiant knight slaying a horde of monsters to keep the kingdom’s children safe.

The Lord must really hate Eddie’s work. It fills him with spiteful glee, for some reason, and he makes sure to play and recite all of his Knightmærs that night. Harrington excuses himself when Eddie hasn’t even made it halfway through his songs, and he doesn’t return that night.

He takes personal offence now and vows to make the Lord’s life as difficult as he can.

But still there is no sign of Steve.

Eddie is starting to get frustrated.

He was supposed to be here, stand tall and proud with a smile on his face upon seeing Eddie, sweep him off his feet, make him swoon, dare Eddie to fall in love with the face long after the name.

His mood is sour, and only sours further when Harrington rounds the corner and stumbles upon Eddie who is tuning his lute for tonight’s banquet. The annual royal tournament is set for the next morning, so everyone is in a good mood.

Well, everyone except Eddie. And Lord Harrington, by the look on his face.

“Munson,” he says, straightening before he bows his head in greeting. “Forgive me, I was looking for some quiet. I shall look somewhere else.”

And, somehow, that is enough to snap his patience that was already wearing thin. “Why can you not stand being in my presence, sir?” he asks, rising from his seat. “Does it disgust you so to be around mere peasants?”

Harrington looks taken aback, shock and confusion clear on his face before a frown takes its place and washes away all further emotions.

“It is not your presence that bothers me, nor the nature of your birth.”

“And yet you leave every time I so much as strum a tune, Lord Harrington, ready to throw both caution and propriety to the winds. Leaving me to wonder what it is that I have done to deserve such treatment.”

Eddie finds himself walking closer and closer to the Lord, coming to a stop not one foot before him. He is drawn in by his presence, his charm as alluring as his cold silence. Everything about Lord Harrington intrigues him, horrified as he is to admit it. But with Steve not around to catch his eye and captivate his heart and mind alike, he simply has to find inspiration elsewhere.

And the way Harrington’s face is taken over by a dangerous expression is the most inspiring, alluring thing he has seen in a while, even though it is directed at him.

“How can you have the audacity to feign confusion over my disdain, bard,” he hisses, and Eddie shivers slightly. Harrington does not even have the sense to step back, staying right where he is, so close, so improper. “How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own, singing songs and telling stories, making into nothing but a jaunty tale recited by drunkards with no regard to the blood it was written in.”

Eddie blinks, not quite catching up with the point Harrington is making.

“What—“

“You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean. Making a mockery of me, stealing from me every chance to tell my tale in my own voice, in my own tempo. Entire kingdoms will know before I will have had the chance to wake up from a nightmare, and they sing about it, sing about pain they did not have the misfortune to suffer, sing with a smile, with booming voices because you make them. And yet the only one without a voice remains the one who slew the beast.”

Lord Harrington speaks to him as though he takes offence at the content of Eddie’s ballads, offence at the reality of their background. But what right does he have to take offence when his songs are based on heroic deeds, recounted to him first hand by his very best friend. What right does Harrington have to question the truth behind them?

“If it is a matter of truth that concerns you, let me reassure you, my Lord, that all of my ballads are based on true events. I ask that you do not call me a liar, no matter how great your dislike of my craft.”

“It is not a liar that I call you, but rather a thief.”

Eddie gasps, offended now. “What do you suggest I have stolen, then?”

“A person’s right to their own story. To their own nightmares. A man's right to flee from the horrors he lived through, acquainting every tavern in this kingdom and the next with his horrific and desperate deeds.”

“How dare you call his deeds horrific,” Eddie hisses now, feeling protective over his knight. “How dare you accuse me of ill intent when every word out of my quill is written with nothing but love and admiration.”

“For whom?” Harrington challenges, disdainful and cold. “Only for yourself, your vanity, your overgrown sense of artistic ambition.”

“No,” he shakes his head, hands clenched into fists as he finds himself incredibly close to Lord Harrington, their faces only inches apart now. “It is love for this person I have never met, whom my dear friend has told me about. A man who has kept me awake at night as I was pouring over letter after letter, hoping he should be well. It is a love so strong it has to be turned into art, into song, love that should be sung in every voice of the kingdom.” He scoffs, stepping back to catch his breath. “I do not expect you to know such a love when all you have in your cold heart is disdain for all things beautiful. You would never know bravery if it looked you in the face, you would never know love if it was the very fabric that makes this world. It would slip through your fingers, my Lord, for you would be busy yearning for the day your life found its meaning.”

He is seething, heaving breaths, out of control over the words tumbling out of his mouth. Insulted in his pride and his muse, offended, hurt. Confused, still, as to why the Lord hates his songs with such vigour.

“Is that your opinion of me?” Harrington whispers, though even in that toneless voice of his lies so much that Eddie cannot begin to decipher.

“Yes,” he whispers back, the fight leaving him now, the very air sucked out of the room they share. “I believe I made that clear just now.”

Harrington takes one step closer once more, but Eddie does not budge.

“Then I suggest you forget that knight of yours,” he says, quiet and final. “And forget the idea you have of love. To love someone is not to turn his nightmares into song. To love someone is not to look him in the eye and insult his very existence even further. You love yourself, your craft, your mind. But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.”

Eddie huffs, just barely able to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “And what makes you so sure of that, Lord Harrington?”

A smile twitches his lips, though there is no mirth, no glee. “You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.” He takes a step back and evades Eddie’s eyes. “I believe you should return to the fest now. Good night.”

And with that, he turns around and leaves.

Eddie finds himself rooted to the ground, air returning to the room now but still he is unable to catch his breath, staring ahead as he is.

Words echo in his mind as the picture paints itself and a horrible, horrible realisation dawns on him.

You will find there is an irony to your words soon.

How can you pretend it is not my life you have taken and made your own?

But you do not love him. You would not recognise him if he shared the same breath as you.

You have just proven it to me, Mr Munson.

But… There is no way. There is no way that Dustin’s friend, Dustin’s knight and protector, his saviour, Steve, should be the same as Lord Harrington with his careful, quiet, disdainfully quirked eyebrow.

Except, Lord Harrington collected Dustin from Eddie’s home, speaking with him in a tone filled with such familiarity, they cannot be mistaken as anything but friends.

And Lord Harrington had listened with such rapt attention when Eddie played his jaunty tunes and the well-known classics at the banquet days ago, looking like he enjoyed Eddie’s play. His face had only soured when people started requesting his newer original songs, his fists clenched upon the opening chords of The Knight and His Nightmare, leaving the hall altogether when people requested more.

You sing your ballads, your histories, your Knightmærs like you know what they mean.

Eddie’s heart falls when he realises what he has done. How blind he was to the frowns and the tension, how deaf to the hints and insinuations, how ignorant he was of the pain he inflicted on Lord Harrington. Lord Steven Harrington. Steve.

His Steve. And yet not his at all.

He falls back onto the bench, dazed, as the weight of his realisation settles inside his chest.

onwards to part 2

#steddie #steddie fic #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #honey i’m so sorry you gave me a rather clear prompt and i went and disrespected it but i hope this is fine too??#this is also the part where we remember i’m german and am using this language like lego bricks on a playmobil set #dio words #this wasnt meant to be so dramatic but uh. apparently i write miscommunication tropes now. pride&prejudice made me do it #i am planning on a part 2 but i do not control the brain #knight!steve harrington #bard!eddie munson #bard/knight

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mausinly · 3 months

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BIG BURLY FLUSTERED MEN with a/o who takes one of their hands and kisses their knuckles - knuckles that have been covered in blood - and big burly man (I’m imagining König) just self destructs. Blue screens. Combusts.

Unwinding after operations is always a hassle. There's this limbo between finishing the mission and arriving back at base where adrenaline is still high, but you can't stay in one place long enough to come down from it.

Everyone is still milling about the building your unit is using as a temporary base. Counting your dead, if any, and treating the wounded before heading to the drop ships to fly back to KorTac's base.

You and König are holed off in a corner of the courtyard, you being seated on a bench with your back pressed against the wall while he sits on the ground between your legs. He rests his head back on your thigh, and you can feel the way he fidgets. Itching for something when there is nothing left to do but wait. His mask is still on, along with the rest of his gear. One of his hands idly tap your ankle, trying to find some way to release this anxious energy he has until you both can get back to base, where he knows it's safe.

You look down at him and remove your gloves, placing them aside before sneaking one of your hands under his hood and the balaclava beneath. Your fingers drag against the column of his neck, and your nails gently scratch his nape, making him groan and tilt his head back further to look up at you.

König let's out a grunt and fixes you a curious look. You hold out your free hand toward him. "Give me your hand." You murmur, and he does so compliantly.

He melts a little at the pleased little smile you give him, eyes darting down to where your hand holds his. His are so much bigger than yours, thicker too with the bulky material of his gloves. The fabric is stained red, speckles of blood still wet and crimson. He frowns a little at the idea of your hands becoming stained as well.

König thinks to rip his hand from yours, but falters when you begin to tug the leather off his fingers and down his wrist until his skin is released from the suffocating material. His hands are rough, pale and scarred and calloused. Your hands aren't perfect, but they are much more delicate and pretty than his in comparison.

You seem to disagree, though, with the way your hands trace the shape of his. You spread his fingers a little, dragging your nails along each callous and faded scar. It's almost devout in the way you study each line of his palm, the pads of your fingers so gentle against his skin.

You lift his hand up to your lips, tenderly pressing a kiss to each knuckle. You start at the base before moving down each finger, almost as if you don't want any of them to be left out. He would have laughed at the thought if his body wasn't frozen like a deer in headlights.

Your eyes fall down to his and your smile widens at the absolutely mystified look in his eyes, stormy blues flickering between yours and your lips against his hand as his pupils dilate.

His mouth opens and closes underneath his mask, but any attempts to speak die in his throat. How could you put so many thoughts in his head that he is unable to fabricate them into words? Do you have any clue what you do to him?

You let out a small chuckle and go back to kissing his hand, trailing your lips down across his palm and the back of his hand. You pull down the edge of his sleeve just to press your lips to his wrist. König groans as your affection doesn't let up, long and pained as his head lulls against your thigh and he drapes an arm over his eyes.

"Du wirst mein Tod sein, Engel..." He murmurs, thankful that his mask hides the stupid grin on his face.

#maus writes #i have no fucking clue what just came over me #i opened my ask box and posted my pinned post with the intention of replying to some brainrotting asks with like 2-3 paragraphs or smth #you got a whole drabble as a treat thank you for the most amazing prompt nonnie <3 #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #konig x reader #konig cod #konig mw2 #also sorry if the german is atrocious blame google translate 😔#im a sucker for some hand appreciation and i know konig would be too

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effervescentdragon · 10 months

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KISS PROMPTS!!!!!!!

I forgot the numbers but.

…..without a motive + sico

37) ...without a motive.

It's probably weird to be able to categorise every kiss Nico has shared with Sebastian, but Nico doesn't really care about being weird that much. It's all in his head anyway, and he won't make the mistake of admitting any of it out loud.

When Sebastian needs sex, he kisses wildly, like he can't contain the passion and the need to his body, like it has to come out somewhere. When he's needy, he is beautiful and a little pathetic. It doesn't take away from the appeal to Nico at all, because it always feels good to be needed.

When he's drunk, he kisses even more sloppily than usual. He likes to bite when he's sober, but when he's drunk, he likes to be bitten. Nico is hapoy to obey, especially if he can leave hickeys that will be noticable the next couple of days. It always sours Mark's expression and makes Jenson stutter. Lewis always notices, but he pretends he doesn't. Michael always used to laugh.

When Sebastian is angry, he doesn't want to kiss. It makes Nico laugh every time, and he enjoys not letting them cross the line into nakedness until Seb finally relents. Then he is placid, the rage bubbling under his skin, trembling on his lips. Nico enjoys those moments immensely.

They're on a yacht this time and the sea is calm. Sebastian is... calmer than he was two days ago, on Sunday after the race. He is calmer than he was yesterday, too, when he texted Nico with two words: Yacht tomorrow?

Sebastian rarely asks for things these days, not after signing with Ferrari. Nico thinks he doesn't dare ask for much more, since he got what he always wanted. The lyrics from Lewis' girlfriend's song come to mind often when Nico thinks of Seb and Ferrari. Be careful what you wish for 'cause you just might get it, indeed. It feels fitting.

So Nico indulged him, and now they're here, just the two of them. He doesn't know why, not really. Maybe because something is changing in the air very obviously, for all of them, and it doesn't feel good. It doesn't feel bad, either, but Nico isn't sure what it really is. He hates not knowing. Not knowing means he can't plan for it. Maybe today will give him more information.

Sebastian is pale, the German heritage obvious in his complexion. His hair is almost golden in the sun, but not as light as it was before, his hair like a crown that darkened with age. There is a light horizontal line on his left ring finger. Nico twists his own ring around with his thumb as he watches Seb sprawling over the couch across from Nico. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed behind those ugly reflective glasses, just like Michael used to wear. He looks... tragic somehow, Nico thinks. He also looks tired.

They haven't fucked yet today. They don't always fuck. Sometimes they don't even touch. Sometimes they just sit and talk, both shit and serious, depending on the mood. Sometimes they get high and laugh. Sometimes they are almost friends. Sometimes. Almost. It's okay; neither of them wants anything more. Neither of them is able to give anything more. Neither of them wants to.

A seagull caws somewhere, and it pulls Sebastian from wherever he was in his mind. He shifts on the couch, rubs at his eyes under the sunglasses slowly and then removes them. His eyes are almost the colour of the sky that frames him. Nico can't read his expression and it unnerves him suddenly. He can usually guess what's behind Seb's wide smile, since he never learned to hide himself completely. Must be the earnestness of his upbringing in Bumfuck Nowhere, Germany, in his big happy middle-class family. That sort of thing leaves traces that no amount of money and success and celebrity status can erase.

He can't read the small smile on Seb's face when he pushes himself off the couch and crosses the deck to Nico. Nico spreads his legs instinctively because he thinks Seb may drop to his knees. He does that sometimes, when he needs to stop thinking, but he doesn't do it now. Instead, he climbs into Nico's lap. His ass, bony as it is, digs into Nico's thighs. His sunglasses are still on top of his head when he leans in and kisses Nico.

It feels... different. Nico is bewildered, because he can't read this kiss. It's not too forceful, or too gentle. It's not thrumming with desire, or with anger. It's not anything. It just is.

Nico freezes for a moment, but Seb isn't deterred. He keeps kissing Nico, his palm tilting Nico's head a bit so the angle is better. He's half-hard against Nico's stomach, but nothing feels urgent. It's infuriating. It's weird. It's nice.

When Nico reaches for Seb's hair, his ring clips the sunglasses on Seb's head. They fall off, and Seb shuffles a bit, and Nico's other hand goes to the small of his back, naked and warm above his swim trunks.

Nico kisses back.

#idk what this is im nervous abt travelling and this wouldnt leave me alone #kiss prompts #sico #the german twincest #f1 rpf #effervescentdragonwrites #my writing #cheating #hope you like it #c tag <3

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readmypaws · 8 months

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Deeeeeeeeefinetly not for any upcoming project that I've been working on for 3 months now..... deeeeeefinetly not

#conlang #conlanging #langblr #worldbuilding #historical linguistics #196 #proto germanic #youtube #the great migration #tgmp #story #storytelling #storyblr #writing prompt #writing

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museenkuss · 5 months

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[onewordprompts] — Sandelholz

I. shimmering

II. composure

III. shadow

IV. mirror

V. footsteps

VI. coffee

VII. solitude

VIII. enclosed

IX. glove

X. silence

XI. bed frame

XII. hair

XIII. coromandel

XIV. leather

XV. elevated

#Museenkuss #bed frame isn’t cheating because it’s one word in German and this was translated #prompts #writing prompt #creative writing #writeblr #etc etc.#I was very desperate last night because I haven’t written anything in a while #so I wrote up very free and breezy prompts that leave a lot of room to play BUT they’re all delicately interconnected as a whole #so it was an exercise all in itself #and I wrote a completely different one first but it’s more spring like #so let’s start with sandalwood #writing

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save-the-villainous-cat · 2 years

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For the gays , I would adore some angsty childhood friends 😩

“You didn’t have to do this, you know. We were alright, you and I. God, we weren’t perfect, but we were fine,” the hero whispered. He didn’t dare to meet the villain’s eyes.

Something that was so easy, usually, seemed difficult now. Looking at the villain had been anything but years ago, when they were still friends. The last few years, looking at him was challenging, but concentrating all his wrath into staring made it somewhat possible for the hero.

Because somewhere deep down he knew that his friend was there, beneath all the layers of anger and sadness. Behind all the walls of insolence and isolation.

Now, looking at him was impossible.

“You didn’t have to betray me,” the hero whispered. “We were friends.”

“It’s not worth it to mourn the past,” his enemy answered. He walked up and down in front of him, as if he was excited to give the handcuffed hero to the supervillains of the city.

It made his guts turn, as if they were digesting themselves. The hero didn’t know what to do. He was tired of fighting, he was tired of resistance. Yes, he mourned the past. He wanted the simpler days back.

When both of them were chasing frogs near the outskirts of the city. Now, they were cutting out each other’s kidneys in hopes of being the one who would survive the night.

“You’re telling me none of it matters? It doesn’t matter that we trained together? That we were ready to die for each other? That we loved each other?”

The villain suddenly snapped, his voice raised his eyes full of anger and disgust.

“You turned against me! You decided to leave me. What is happening right now is just,” he spat, suddenly crouching down. He grabbed the hero’s jaw, fingernails digging into his warm skin. “Don’t you dare talk about the past. I know what happened—” his index finger moved up to the hero’s eye “—and I know what you’ve become, I saw it, I see it—” his finger pressed into the hero’s soft eye, squeezing it “—I know that you’re the one who was too weak to see the future.”

He continued to press down into his eye, making the hero whimper. It hurt. It made the hero fear he’d lose his eyesight. The villain would squash his eye like a grape.

His hands were still bound, so he could just sit there and do nothing. He wanted to lash out but all he could do was cry. It got to a point of unbearableness.

“Don’t blame me,” the villain warned, his sharp eyes boring into the hero. “It’s not my fault that you cannot evolve past your childish dreams of justice and righteousness.”

He whispered the last words.

And then, he finally let go of him, seemingly recollecting himself. He stood up straight, clearing his throat, taking a breath.

The hero however, gasped as soon as the contact faded, trying desperately to get his eye to focus. But all he could do was feel the intense pain and the uncontrollable tears rolling down his cheeks.

He wasn’t stunned by the villain’s violence anymore.

“They’ll kill me,“ he said eventually, still trying to force air back into his lungs. It was the last attempt at speaking to a micro fraction of the villain’s humanity.

“Good,” the villain answered.

But that made the hero look up.

“What?!”

“One problem less.”

#ok to all my German potatoes: tubeclash vibes #happy slay month #writing snippet #heroxvillain snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #an answer for an ask #request #m/m #childhood friends #angst

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shoshimakesstuff · 6 months

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WHEN THE WAR CAME — @shoshiwrites

#i wanted to make a toye thing but it got too late #and i found this in my canva drafts #I don't like it as much as the one I made for Lou (@floydmtalbert's oc) but #also ignoring the fact that the spelling of her name will most likely change #considering i knew nothing about german pronunciation in checks notes high school #nevermind that the title might also likely change.#anyway i'm writing a toye/warco oc her name is josie and i love her #her fic (rewrite) is in progress and i share posts/snippets/prompts in that tag #and way more stuff/aus/etc in her tag #would mean the world if any oc readers wanted to check her out #and she has other oc friends!#wip: when the war came #oc: jo brandt

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blueberrysnake · 1 year

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Fic Prompt for a Doc centric fluff Hermitcraft fic!

So I headcannon that Doc has a built-in German to English translator. So like he could be speaking in German and it gets translated to english, and everyone else speaks in English and it gets translated to German.

But what happens when it breaks?

Doc will not be able to communicate with people, because even if he can understand them, they can't understand him.

Example:

"Hey, Doc. What do you want for breakfast?"

"ein Kaffe und zier wurst, bitte."

"What the-"

Alternitavely, if it fully breaks:

"Hey, Doc. What do you want for breakfast?"

"Was der-"

"What the-"

lmk if you use this please! I want to read it!

#german #deutch #german character #blue-cannot-write #writeblr #prompt #fic prompt #assorted hermits #hermitcraft #hermitcraft doc #docm77

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were-my-demons-hide · 1 year

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I finished another may prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting fantastic may prompt list! So proud of myself :)

Now, buckle up, it's getting hot with our beloved dorks! <3

2. Adventure

“Let's… go on an adventure.”

Magna’s husky voice filled the gap between them. Which was mighty small at this point.

“If you haven’t noticed yet... Our whole fucking life is an adventure.” Yumiko hummed back to her, as she placed one hand on Magna’s knee.

The group of six had found themselves an old house to spend the night in. The first half of the night was Bernie’s and Kelly’s shift. The two of them, as well as Magna and Yumiko, were sitting on the floor, circling the few candles they had left.

On the other side of the room, Connie and Luke were already trying to get some rest.

“Oh yeah? Tell me about our adventures.”

The grin on Magna's face got wider while she was talking in a low voice. As soon as her gaze caught Yumiko’s, she winked at her. Her slinky intentions were absolutely visible to all of them.

Even though Bernie shot them with amused looks, he and Kelly didn’t seem to care. They were preoccupied with themselves, or at least they made it seem that way.

Miko leaned into Magna as she was whispering the words teasingly into her ear.

“Sickos coming from all directions to rip us apart... A constant need for supplies and food, not to mention clean water...”

“Oh shut up.”

Magna slipped a few inches away from Yumiko, who laughed in amusement.

“You’re really letting me down when I am trying to flirt with you?” Magna’s arms were shooting up to be crossed in front of her chest. And Yumiko grinned even more.

“Stop pouting, it doesn't suit you, gorgeous.” She tried to soothe Magna, but the tease didn’t leave her voice at all.

Yumiko’s hands were trailing up Magna’s thigh now. Featherlight movements which Magna only barely felt underneath her pants. It wasn’t enough to wipe the pout out of her face, but her eyes lit up. She stared at Yumiko’s lips and a deep feeling crept through her whole body. Magna would have loved to kiss Yumiko. Better said, she needed to kiss her.

“I think life with you is an adventure on its own.” Yumiko stated and took Magna’s hand in hers.

“I’m taking that as a compliment.” Magna whispered confidently. She noticed how Yumiko’s thumb drew an uneven pattern over her skin.

They locked their eyes together. Magna pulled Yumiko in, slightly touching her cheek with her free hand. Her face was directly in front of Miko’s.

Something between them shifted.

“Well Mag, then show me how much of an adventure you can be.” Yumiko quirked one eyebrow. Her grin was getting dirtier in seconds.

“Nothing sexual intended huh?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

The air prickled between them.

In a flash, Magna pulled Yumiko to her feet. They didn’t even notice how Kelly and Bernie gave each other knowing looks. Or how Kelly shushed Bernie in sign language.

They stumbled into the hallway. Thank god, they had cleared the whole thing hours ago. As soon as they closed the door to the living room, Magna pressed Yumiko against the nearest wall. Lips only inches apart from each other. Eyes locked together. The desire was showing in both of their gazes. Magna was definitely teasing.

“What kind of adventure do you want?” She enquired with that dirty smile on her face.

“Just… kiss me already…” Yumiko hummed a little out of breath. Her hands were playing with the hem of Magna’s shirt. Sliding her fingers over her skin just barely. She could feel Magna’s hot breath on her face, as the woman started talking again.

“Well, I think you need to beg for it.” Magna’s eyebrows quivered. The words sent a shiver down Yumiko’s spine. She loved when Magna requested things like that. She would not give her the beg that easy, though. Because Yumiko also knew how to mess with Magna.

Miko started pressing kisses down Magna’s neck. All the way to her collarbone. As soon as the fabric of her unbuttoned plaid shirt got in between her lips and Magna’s skin, she gently pushed it over her shoulder. Only to kiss the newfound bare skin passionately.

Magna’s breathing got heavier. Her head had fallen back as if by itself, eyes gleefully closed. She let out little sighs eventually and dug her fingers into the other woman's back. Slowly, her hands went lower and came to rest on Miko’s ass.

Yumiko’s hands were going wild on Magna’s body. Wandering up and down her sides, then off toward her chest. One hand kept the woman steady near her, the other cupped one of her breasts. It took every bit of her composure, not to dig under her tank top to feel all of that solemnly soft skin. Slowly her lips explored Magna’s decollete and shortly after that she trailed back up her neck again.

It felt like Magna melted inside of her arms. A little smirk flickered over Yumiko’s face.

She grabbed Magna by her hips and guided her toward the opposite side of the hallway. Now Magna was the one being pressed against a wall. Being kissed on her cheeks, jawline, and neck over and over again, she let out little moans. Which only cheered Yumiko on to continue her journey.

“Miko…” Magna sighed. “P-Please beg for it…” Her tone did not match her needs. Her big eyes were so desperate that Yumiko almost couldn’t keep it together herself.

“You think you are in a position to make demands?” Yumiko chuckled lightly as she pushed her leg between Magna's thighs. The touch was immediately acknowledged with a rough groan.

Teasingly Yumiko was strengthening her pressure against the other woman. With one hand, she caught one of Magna’s wrists and pinned it over her head.

“But maybe… I will do you the favor, babe.” Her other hand was stroking through Magna’s big curls now.

“Do you want me to do that?” Voice all soft and loving. But also teasing.

Yumiko loved to tease Magna. They both loved to tease each other and fight for the lead. Fighting for who was going to be top.

“Ugh, god. Yes, please. Please, Miko.” Magna whimpered. Pleasure definitely had taken over.

Miko cupped Magna's face with her free hand.

“Oh, Mag. Would you please… please kiss me?”

“Damn, I thought you’d never get that out.” Magna moaned softly, whilst a wave of goosebumps hit her.

And with that said, she finally crushed their lips together and got lost in their desire.

#creativepromptsforwriting #writing #writing prompt #writer #second language #german writer #may prompts #lets get creative #the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #twd kind of smut?#magna x yumiko #yumagna #they are each other's adventures

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