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inourtownofhawkins · 10 months

Note

Babe, wake up, new prompt coming!

I found this cute image on Pinterest and it had me thinking: what if reader spends a whole afternoon crafting these little messages and then she sneakily hides them around Eddie's stuff. Every time he finds one, goes to reader and gives her a kiss, then stores it in a tin box 🩷💋

𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓼

Summary: You make love letters for Eddie.

Author's note: Mea I'm so sorry it took me forever to write this request! I hope you enjoy it! Also thank you to @eddiemunsons-missingnipple, @ryan-waddell11 and @orchidmunson for their endless encouragement <3

CW: None, just a whole lotta fluff and Eddie being a dork.

Word count: 1.2k

Any hate will not be tolerated, constructive criticism is welcomed.

Being at Eddie’s apartment alone while he was away working wasn’t an uncommon thing for either of you, he had given you a key to his apartment for a reason, after all. Although you two hadn’t made the full step of moving in together yet, you still spent a lot of time at his apartment whenever you could fit it into your schedule.

You were sat at Eddie’s kitchen table with every kind of stationary imaginable scattered all around you; every shade of pink and white paper, felt tip pens, glitter and endless amounts of glue.

Since Eddie’s phone had broken several days beforehand and he was far too busy with work and couldn’t fit it within budget for the month to get it fixed, you decided to make love notes for him to read every day. You made notes for every occasion; if he felt sad, if he did something amazing, he missed you or even just needed to be told he was loved.

Although your arts and crafts skills weren’t perfect and you ended up with far too much glitter and glue all over your fingers, you were still proud of the notes you were able to make. You knew your art teacher from primary school would be proud of what you’d made, even if when you had lessons with her she hated your guts.

You had almost finished the final note and put them in a jar by the time Eddie walked inside, you felt him gently scratch the top of your head before wrapping his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Well this is a nice surprise to come home to.”

You felt the warm burn inside your stomach as you squeezed his arm, happy to be back where you felt like you belonged. “I missed you, of course I’d be here.”

It had only been a couple of days since you last saw each other, but it always felt like an eternity. Being with Eddie was the only place you truly felt safe, it was like coming home every time he brought you into his arms.

Before you and Eddie had gotten together; you’d never believed in that kind of stuff, that home could be a person instead of a place and you thought the people who said that stuff were talking nonsense. But now you understood them, and you just had to wait to find your person.

Eddie glanced over at the mess on the kitchen table, not daring to touch anything with his dirty fingers from working on cars all day. “Whatcha doing here, princess?”

You leaned into him, rubbing his arm with your hand. “It’s a surprise.”

He placed a hand over his eyes once you revealed it was a surprise. “I’m not looking, I swear!” he moved away from you, keeping his hand over his eyes, causing you to laugh. “I’m gonna go have a shower, you wanna order a pizza?”

“Sure,” you answered through your continued laughter as Eddie felt around his apartment to get to the bathroom, hitting his feet and legs on various pieces of furniture along the way. Your boyfriend was an absolute dork, but you loved it far too much, although you knew he acted like that just to make you laugh and he couldn’t ever get enough of that laugh.

You waited until he was safely in the shower to finish the last note and put it into the jar before promptly hiding it in your backpack, being sure Eddie would never find it accidently, not that he’d ever go through your belongings, but you were still cautious. After washing your hands thoroughly, you cleared the kitchen table of your project and grabbed your laptop to order pizza.

Sure, phoning Dominos to place your order was easier but Eddie’s pizza orders were always special to put it simply. That man couldn’t settle for a simple margarita pizza to save his life, nay, he had to have some weird combination that changed in a frequent basis. His current favourite pizza? Tandoori chicken and burger sauce with stuffed crust. As odd as it sounded, you did have a slice and it was pretty good, so you couldn’t exactly hate him for that.

You’d just finished placing the order when Eddie came out donned in just a towel, another towel in his hair trying to dry it before lowering it to cover his face completely. “Is it safe to come out?”

You let out another laugh, nodding your head. “Yes, you muppet, it’s safe. Pizza’s been ordered and it should be here in a bit.”

Taking the towel away from his face, he smirked at you and began to slowly walk across his apartment towards you, deliberately allowing his towel to slip down his body. Watching him with a smirk matching his, you shook your head. “Don’t even think about it, mister, we got pizza coming and I don’t wanna get interrupted by the doorbell again.”

He pouted and pulled up the towel, sulking his way into the bedroom. He came back a few minutes later in his usual jeans and dark red hoodie, one you’d frequently steal from him to wear when the weather got a bit cold.

You closed your laptop lid as he wrapped his arms around you again, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head once you rested your back against his chest. The pair of you stayed in content silence until the loud knock on the door to signal your pizzas had arrived. You began to get up, but Eddie placed his hands on your shoulders to keep you seated, “I’ll get them baby,” he murmured into your hair before answering the door.

Eddie had fallen asleep after devouring his pizza and watching a season and a half of Derry Girls while cuddling with you on the couch, his head nestled into the crook of your neck, feeling his breath on your skin with his arms wrapped tightly around your middle, keeping you close to him.

You slowly got out of his grasp, being careful not to wake him up, although Eddie was quite a deep sleeper and not a lot of things woke him up. As quietly as possible, you moved around his apartment, tidying up the pizza boxes before turning off the TV and putting a blanket over Eddie.

Getting the jar out of your backpack, you began to place the notes around Eddie’s apartment; on every table, in some books, in the wardrobe, on the fridge and in every single pocket you could think of. Once you’d finished, you gently shook Eddie awake just enough to get him in bed and properly asleep before you followed him soon after, cuddling into him as you easily fell asleep.

In the morning, you were woken up by an endless amount of kisses all over your face, lips, neck, chest, and hands. At first, you were too sleepy and groggy to fully realise what was happening but as you slowly started to wake up, you moved Eddie’s kisses up to your lips and kissed him back. “What’s all the kisses for?” you whispered against his lips.

Eddie gave you a couple more kisses before answering your question. “I found some of your notes, and I thought since my girl was being so loving with her notes; I thought I would be loving back and wake her up with as many kisses as I can give her before work.”

#spilled ink #requests #lunatictardis #stranger things fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction

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weekly-welsknight · 12 days

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[141]

There’s barely a fight, this time. He’s on top of his wits, the training strong in his muscles. In less than ten seconds, Ren is back on the ground with a blade to his throat. “Do. You. Yield,” he forces through his teeth. He’s breathing heavily now, dizzy from blood loss. The scratch on his cheek is nothing compared to what’s soaked his clothes, and he’s sweaty and covered in dirt and he’s buzzing with the fight, with the taste of revenge.

more fic recs yayyy!!

today's fic art is for fire in my soul (rise up, like glitter and gold) by @seth-kia :D

#hermitcraft #welsknight #rendog #king ren #weekly-welsknight #fic recs #mod sock

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munsonthings86 · 1 month

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forever imprinted

you and steve carve your initials in a tree ₊˚⊹♡

warnings: fluff, soft!steve, 0.5k words

an outtake from this fic

romance took a human form in steve harrington. sure, you were well aware that he was charming and a total dreamboat, but you would've never guessed that he was so open and loud with his affection. everything steve did, he did to woo you, or at the very least, to see that smile that he desperately wanted to tattoo on his mind.

that’s why you were currently sitting in a tree, watching as your boyfriend struggled to climb its length.

"just don't fall, you idiot," you laughed from where you sat, auburn leaves tickling your dangling legs. “me? fall? don’t insult me,” he scoffed, adjusting his feet on a branch that swung gently in the night breeze. steve rested his arm in your lap, patting at his back pockets with the other.

“this is so corny,” you snorted, fingers finding your boyfriends tousled brown hair, lightly scratching at his scalp. he hummed under your touch, finally finding his keychain. “nothing corny about it. gestures like these date back to the caveman era, babe,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, not a hint of irony in his voice.

the folding knife on his keychain finally had some use, he thought, using its sharpness to etch into the bark of the tree. his eyebrows scrunched and so did his nose and lips when the knife proved to not be the best tool for this little art project. this was a lot harder than it looked. “need some help there, caveman?”

steve tried not to laugh but the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth gave him away. he stole a glance at the smug grin on your face, diverting his eyes back to the sloppy heart he managed to carve, “you’re hilarious.”

you giggled that sweet giggle that you always did and steve swears it’s the cutest sound he’s ever heard. you adore the way his tongue juts out a little when his focus intensifies, carefully marking the tree with the first letter to your oh-so beautiful name. his fingers resting on your thigh rub light circles to your soft skin, humming a tune that, though you don’t recognize, you sway to anyway.

“ta-da!” he whispers, so proud of himself, a smile that’s wide and bright and glittering adorning his features. “do you like it?” he looked at you with big brown, puppy eyes that glimmered in the moonlight. he was so pretty.

steve’s usual penmanship wasn’t the best, and it wasn’t much better here either, but it still managed to look so perfect. both of your initials imprinted into nature, forever. and you hoped that it was just how long you and steve would last. “i love it.”

he smiled, cupping your cheek and running his thumb along your jaw. “i love you, sunshine,” a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “so much,” a kiss to your plump lips that he could never get enough of.

“i love you too, stevie. forever”

“now look who’s being corny this time,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. you roll your eyes, and steve’s lucky that he’s quite literally balancing on a tree branch, or else you would’ve given a shove to his shoulder.

💌 1 new message from jojo: had a dream abt steve last night and couldn’t not write this. sobbing. inbox is open!

#jojo’s outtakes ☁️#steve and sunshine #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fic #steve harrington x black!reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington blurb #stranger things #joe keery

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hotsingledragon · 7 months

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HOTSINGLEDRAGON’S KINKTOBER

A’ONUNG X FEM READER

MDNI

art by @cinetrix 🖤

handjob - oloekytan aonung x tsahik reader

Maybe yall are mated and just enjoying a nice morning in ur home :)

aonung’s sat outside your mauri, overlooking the coast that stretches hazily into the horizon. sunlight filters through the leaves, and there is a light breeze lifting his curls and cooling his back. it’s so serene, and aonung drifts in the comfort of the warm morning.

you move into his peripheral, and instantly his eyes are locked on you, pitched low as he trails your figure.

you’re a dream this morning. your skin glitters with a sheen of sweat, and the intricacy of beads and shells accentuates your body.

aonung’s gaze settles on the thin string of your tewng stretching over your plump hips. his signature smirk only grows as he catches the sway in your step; he knows that saunter, that sway in your step and the slight arch in your back that speaks of desire.

“yawne,” aonung mellows, his voice syrupy and dark. “won’t you sit with me?” he calls, less of a question and edging on a demand. he extends an open palm towards you

and when you are close enough, he’s pulling you into his lap, a large hand gripping at the juncture just under your bum at the back of your thigh. you nearly fall on top of him, catching yourself with his shoulder. the muscle flexes under your weight, and aonung steadies you with a large palm at your waist. you lean into aonung, knees propped on either side of his thigh. aonung is relaxed with you above him, head tilted back and watching you, an easy and handsome smirk gracing his lips.

Your breaths pant against one another, and aonung’s eyes track over your cheeks, the glow of your tahni and finally your lips.The powdery blue of his irises are flooded by dark, dilated pupils. “You’re so beautiful, tsahik.”

aonung’s hand slides up your back, grabs and squeezes the nape of your neck as he drags you in for a heated kiss. immediately his tongue is swiping over your lip and you’re making out, aonung’s fingers indenting the flesh at your hip and pulling you into him. you can feel his half hard cock pushing against the fabric of your tewng, and you settle into his lap, distributing your weight to press against his cock.

he bursts with a moan, one that’s whining and desperate, and you lean back to take in the sight. aonung is debauched after only a bit of grinding, breathing rapidly and cheeks blushing. His lips are plump and slick, and eyes cloudy with lust. aonung looks at you as if you’ve hung the moon.

there’s that sensation clawing deep inside of your belly. This is one of your favorite versions of aonung, his need making you possessive, wanton, and bold.

You lean in for another kiss that slides wetly over aonungs mouth, and let your nail scratch lightly down the center of his abdomen. aonung hisses at the sensation, and your palm flattens as you trail lower, pressing down on his lower abdomen and feeling the muscles tense under your fingers. as your hand glides towards his cock, his hips buck beneath you.

“Shhh, just let me take care of you, okay?” you say in that voice, slow and warm like honey as you loosen the string of his loincloth.

You love the sight of his cock, the gradient from cerulean to dusty rose at his tip, accentuated by two thick veins and his glowing tahni. precome is already beading at his slit, and the sight makes your mouth water.

Aonung’s breath hitches as you take him in hand, spreading pre over his shaft even as you smile innocently at him. he hums at your enthusiasm, his palms find your waist and he sighs as you give him a firm stroke from his root to tip

You pump his length at an even pace, twisting your fist on the upstroke, watching aonung as his eyes flutter and he blows a puff of air from his plump mouth

Aonung begins to grow impatient with the pace you’ve set, whimpering and grappling for your flesh, wanting to use you as leverage to fuck into your fist. but you deny him that pleasure, completely taking your hand away each time he gets a little too excited. Aonung cries out, a desperate whine spilling past his lips.

“Stop your teasing, my love, you’re driving me crazy,” aonung pleads, voice wrecked and his baby blues glossed over.

“Nuh uh, baby, be patient,” you say, twisting your fist torturously around his swollen tip.

“Ah! Shit-“ he curses. You love having him like this, reduced to whines and pleads for your touch. He needs you bad, always trying to kiss your lips and buck into your hand but you deny him every time.

“Baby, please, you’re being mean,” aonung whimpers, his eyes watering with frustration

“Shh, it’s okay, just tell me what you want. You wanna come like this?”

Aonung whimpers helplessly, so caught up in his pleasure that he can only give you a vigorous nod of his head. He even leans up to kiss you, lips puckered cutely. You indulge him with a small peck of your lips against his, and aonung whimpers at the fleeting feeling. You can’t help but smile at your husband’s demeanor

“just a little more, baby, doing so good,” you praise him, leaving a kiss at the corner of his open mouth. you whisper in his ear, taunting him and telling him how good he is, what a good man and leader he is.

“Fuck! Oh fuck I’m gonna come,” He cries out for you. The sound of his voice and feel of his fingers gripping your flesh brings you so much pleasure, so much that you can feel the slick slipping between your folds.

You slow to a stop, placing one hand at the base of his cock. You collect saliva in your mouth and let the string drip onto his slit. Your other hand envelopes the head of his dick, fucking it over with quick, sloppy strokes. You tighten your grip, sending aonung into a hysterical fit of moans.

“Gonna come, baby? S’it feel that good? Show me how good it feels,” you taunt him, working over him with building ferocity. You finally let him thrust into the tight space of your slick palm, watching his hips stutter, his eyes flutter closed.

You take one of your hands from him, grabbing his chin. “Look at me, aonung, look at me when you come,” you tell him, holding him gently as your other hand works over him furiously.

Aonung’s brow is scrunched, his eyes shining and pretty as he gazes into your own. “Fuck,” he says weakly, enamored by your beauty and touch, coming with a punched out moan.

You coo at aonung, encouraging him through his orgasm with a steady hand on his dick, smoothing his hair and wiping the sweat from his brow. You chance a look downward, watching his come leak over your fist. you wear a satisfied grin, your own arousal spurred by aonung’s release. He’s panting to catch his breath, eyes closed and lashes dusting the top of his cheeks.

Your heart skips a little when those eyes are suddenly open and watching you, pale blue and determined.

Then aonung has his hands under your ass, lifting you and walking into your home. He throws you gently into the bed, climbing over you and knocking your knees apart. He holds you open with his palm at the back of your thigh, pushing it to your chest.

“That was good, paskalin,” aonung says, and he’s back to sly self, a lecherous smirk stretches his lips and revealing his sharp canines. his fingers tease at the knot of your loincloth, slowly pulling the length of leather strap to unravel at your hips.

Aonung pushes the cloth away, eyeing the slick between your puffy folds and careful not to touch your just yet.

“But I can do better,” he rumbles lowly, teasing the tip of his cock on your slit, delivering three rough taps against your clit.

notes: woooahhh first time participating in kinktober post and first day! this was so fun to write, i love writing for aonung he’s just so mmmhmhmhmm. Prompt pulled from luna’s KINKTOBER!

tagged: @pandoraslxna

please reblog, like, and comment if you enjoyed and want more aonung!

#yay first post for kinktober!#my work #aonung #avatar the way of water #avatar 2009 #james cameron avatar #aonung x reader #aonung smut #aonung fic #kinktober #lunaskinktober2023 #avatar smut #atwow ao'nung #atwow fanfiction #atwow smut #metkayina

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bloodofvoid · 4 months

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Quietest Girl in Town Christmas Special!

I'm sorry if this seemed rushed, (I also noticed some people were doing secret santas and I just- didn't join for some reason, so uh- consider this my gift to all my lovely readers!)

Though you weren’t always a fan of the cold, you always loved one thing about your town: the snow. Now too much, not too little. Small white flakes floating down to the ground, decorating the houses and streets with glittering snow.

You loved it, you loved it so.

It was actually snowing right now, a gentle snowfall outside the Blackwood’s bakery. Constance had invited you in after it closed, exclaiming that she had an idea. And that idea was Christmas themed cookies.

About a week ago, Ocean had decided to host a Christmas party with the choir. She had proudly declared that everyone must contribute something to help set everything up.

You had already played your part, meeting up with Ocean at Noel’s house, setting up decorations with the flamboyant singer. His mother was delighted that Ocean wanted to have the party there.

Noel had decided to set up games as you and Ocean worked, conspiring with his mother about what to do. After you and the soprano had finished setting up, he had declared that cards and board games would be played.

Ricky had gone to you, him and Penny deciding to make a bunch of hand-made gifts for everyone. Ricky was a talented crocheter, his works of art had always amazed you. Penny meanwhile had a knack at making jewelry, her creativity appalling others.

Then there was Mischa. Your rough loving boyfriend had basically sobbed to you about his worries of not knowing what to do to help. Initially, he was going to bring over heavy alcohol for everyone, but Ocean was quick to scratch out that idea.

So, with your help, you had gotten Mischa to work with Rick and Constance’s mother to cook a lovely dinner. Surprisingly enough, he had quite the charm in cooking. Ukrainian dishes were delicious, and you were delighted you got to try them.

“-ed or green?” Constance’s voice knocked you out of your thoughts, and you tore your gaze away from the window.

“Sorry, what?” you asked, rubbing your hands together.

Curse your luck, and that you forgot to bring warm clothes. Of course the heater had to break the moment you got to the bakery.

“I was asking if we should use the red or green box for the cookies,” she repeated, offering a light smile as she gestured to the two boxes.

One was green, with darker speckles. Though if you looked closer, you notes that they were mini designs of wreaths, small, barely noticeable bows adorning the leaves. There was also small prints of snowflakes outlining the clear part, where one would look inside to see the awaiting treats.

The other one was red, with a mix of designs that included: candy canes, santa hats, and reindeer.

Reindeer. That reminded you of a fun time. It was early December, and you were arriving at Mischa’s house to help him with homework. He had come to you, panicking about his grades.

You were pleased to see he cared.

You had helped him out, and went back home. Easy as pie. But unbeknownst to you, Mischa wanted to pay you back. So one day, when you came to visit him, you were met with the Ukrainian in the backyard with a reindeer.

To say you were flabbergasted was an understatement. Now you had a reindeer, being boarded at the local barn in town. You had shown the owner the furry creature, and although confused, she allowed you to keep him there.

You named him Mikey.

A soft smile graced your features, before you picked up the red box, turning back to Constance with a smile.

“This one,” you told her, flashing a toothy grin.

She nodded, taking the box and skittering over to the cookies. They were a mixture of sugar cookies, snickerdoodles, and chocolate chip cookies. You and Constance had to check with everyone to make sure that they liked those kinds of cookies.

With combined help, the both of you had packaged them into two of the red boxes, topping them with a green bow. Now, all you had to do was get to Noel’s house, where everyone was most likely waiting.

“My fingers are gonna freeze off,” you complained, holding the first red box closely to your chest.

“Not my fault you forgot to bring gloves,” Constance joked, giving you an amused look. “We could always share mine.”

A small laugh bubbled from your throat, but you were quick to wave her off, politely declining.

As you two left the bakery, you shared a small, quiet, conversation. The snow continued to fall, decorating your h/c locks with small, white flecks. While it would do the same to Constance, she had a fluffy, pink beanie on, so her hair was covered.

The snow crunched from underneath your fluffy boots, leaving a trail of footprints as you strode towards your friend’s home. It was a basic house, white paint, and smoke slowly trailing up into the cloudy sky.

Constance came up to the door, shifting the box in her arms to free a hand. She then rapped her knuckles against the wood, making a quiet, yet noticeable sound. A few moments later, it opened up.

Noel’s mother, or Michelle, greeted the both of you, a bright smile adorning her lips. She wore a mustard yellow sweater, with blue jeans and ugg boots. Her brown locks framed her face perfectly, doe-brown eyes glinting cheerily.

“Hey you two!” she chirped, beckoning with a smile. “Come on inside, you two must be frozen by now!”

You were quick to oblige, rushing in after Constance. Thankfully, the dining room was near, and you were able to place the red box down. The house was warm, easing the frost that had gathered on your lashes, the red in your skin slowly disappearing.

“I feel frozen,” you commented, giving Michelle a smile as she helped set out the cookies.

As you blew warm air into your palms, you failed to take notice of the footsteps slowly approaching from behind. You only realized someone was there when you felt two large arms wrap around your waist, and the firm chest pressed against your chest.

“You’re as cold as ice,” Mischa mumbled, his voice slightly muffled as he nuzzled into your hair. “Why don’t you have any mittens, or a sweater?”

Amusement crossed your face, trying to look up at your boyfriend to no avail. You brought one of your hands up, gently pressing it to his cheek, causing him to recoil. A warm laugh slipped, and you rolled your eyes.

“I forgot to bring one,” you admitted, smiling out of embarrassment. “Was in a rush.”

Mischa hummed disapprovingly, pulling away from your figure. You were able to turn around and face him, seeing the Ukrainian dressed in a thick green sweater, one that had ‘Happy Xmas!’ embroidered in red. He also wore a white beanie that had fluff at the top.

He immediately grabbed at the hem of the sweater, pulling it off of his figure to reveal a messy t-shirt underneath. Mischa then grabbed your hand, opening up your fingers and placing the sweater in your palm, pressing it to your chest.

“Keep it,” he insisted. “I’ll be fine.”

You paused, before giving him a huff, puffing your cheeks. Though you wanted to protest, you knew there was no point in arguing with him. It was practically impossible with Mischa.

You gently slid it on, a rushed scent of pine, honey and smoke washed over your nostrils. It offered a certain kind of warmth that was perfect, keeping you cozy inside the fabric.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, reaching down to gently hold Mischa’s hand.

He replied with a nod, guiding you throughout the house to where the rest of the choir was.

As soon as the two of you got inside, you were met with chaos. Penny and Ricky were in the corner, panicking as Noel tried to open all his presents. Meanwhile Ocean was trying to get Noel to stop, handling him like a dog. And there was Constance, who stood in the back, giving you a nervous smile.

Thankfully, Michelle managed to get him to stop, with Noel whining like a kicked puppy. As the chaos died down, Penny and Ricky took notice of your presence, smiling and waving you over.

You gave Mischa a pat on his arm, before quickly skittering over to the duo, smiling brightly.

As soon as you got to Penny, she presented you with a little bag stuffed with tissue paper. You blushed, taking it with a quiet thanks. You dug inside, bringing out a small, yet cute green beanie that had a little ball of fluff at the top.

“Goodness Penny,” you breathed, smiling as you fit it atop your head. “This is adorable, thank you, again.”

“Of course,” she replied, patting your shoulder.

It didn’t take long for Ocean to call everyone together, her voice booming and loud. Everyone was quick to gather around, all sitting next to each other in pairs. Penny and Ricky, Constance and Ocean, Michelle and Noel, and you and Mischa.

Michelle had made some hot cocoa, and the piping hot liquid was the perfect warmer for your hands. You held the purple mug in your hands, keeping it close as you gently blew onto it.

Mischa basically hovered over you as everyone opened their presents, draping his arms around your torso. You had received a few gifts, and you loved them all. A pair of mittens, a record, and some clothes.

Though now it was the end of the day, with only one present left. It was a small box wrapped in green wrapping paper, topped with a white bow. Your brow furrowed as she came forward, picking up the box.

It was for you, from Mischa.

“I thought I said you didn’t need to get me anything,” you told him, turning around to face the Ukrainian.

Your boyfriend shrugged, gesturing for you to open it.

With a sigh, you obliged. Your fingers carefully worked through the paper, trying your best not to rip it. Underneath was a white box, with a simple top. You gently took it off, peeking inside.

It was a ring, small and gold, with a peridot in it, the gem well cleaned. It instantly clicked for you, it was a matching ring to the one Mischa wore on his pinkie, with his birthstone engraved into it. (This is something I like to call a man's gift.)

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed, giving him a gentle, thankful smile. “Thank you Mischa.”

You gently strode over to him, but he already had whirled around your backside, giving you another behind hug, resting his head upon your covered head. His form was relaxed, opposite to his usual tense nature.

Constance smiled giddily, trying her best to not explode. She was quick to grab Ocean’s hand, rushing over to your left side and giving you a side hug.

Penny grabbed Ricky and Noel, joining the massive group hug. Soon enough, Michelle joined after some convincing from her son. You felt warm, at peace. No more games, no more death.

All you needed was your family.

“Merry Christmas, everyone.”

#ride the cyclone #mischa bachinski #mischa bachinski x reader #mischa rtc #female reader #ride the cyclone x reader #christmas #Technically canon but like- not apart of the main timeline

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blueberrymffn · 2 months

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A fic for @the-centennial-husbands-bigbang I had the pleasure of working with @temporary-lover for the art on this fic! Pairing: Dream/Hob

Rating: E Word Count: 48k Tags: Friends to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Soul Marks, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Eventual Happy Ending, Hob Gadling POV, Soul Mates.

Read On Ao3 or Dreamwidth Summary:

When Hob Gadling made a drunken deal with a mysterious man in a pub, he didn’t expect anything to come of it. Waking up the following morning with a golden mark on his wrist was a shock, though less than finding out that he couldn’t die. Who had he made a deal with, and what did he want? His Stranger was far from forthcoming, so he’d have to figure it out himself. That his mark was not just a passkey to an underworld of supernatural beings but the sign that he wasn’t meant to spend eternity alone was enough to send him down paths he never knew existed and ask more questions than were answered. Who, or more importantly what was his Stranger, and did the mysterious man know who Hob was destined for?

(An AU where only immortals have soulmarks that mark their species/type as well as their partner, and Hob has something no one has seen before) Chapter 1 below

When Hob Gadling had woken up, hungover and sore, sleeping in the straw of the White Horse’s stable he had thought nothing of it, save that he’d drunk through all his coin again, or his friends had. The memories of the night were slow enough to return, but the central focus of them had been the mysterious lord who had taken his boasting and jest with great seriousness. The man hadn’t batted an eye when he’d promised to meet him 1489, as if it were entirely normal. A fool, clearly, as most of the gentry were, or having him on. It didn’t matter, in any case. They’d both be in the ground by then, try as he might to avoid it.

It wasn’t until hours later, having bartered a ride on the back of an ox cart headed toward his family’s stead, that he noticed the mark on his wrist - and only then because it glinted in the sun. He squinted against the brightness, turning his arm so the mark was in shadow. The thin skin over the veins of his left wrist now bore a strange, twisted mark that he couldn’t identify. He thought perhaps it was a letter, one he didn’t recognise - not like any brand for thieving or darker deeds, and in the wrong place besides. Plus it didn’t hurt; it looked painted on, like gold accents in church art. Scratching at it had no effect whatsoever, though he tried more than once during the hours in the cart.

Not until the glint of it in the flam of a candle caught his eye again at home that evening did he put this strange design and the strange lord together as a possibility. Had he sworn some service to the man that he was too drunk to remember, was this a mark of a bondsman, somehow wrought in gold? Had the man somehow been serious about meeting again?

Had he even been a man at all, and did he now bear the devil’s mark?

Sleep came uneasily that night and for many more after. Hob took to tying a strip of fabric around his wrist to hide the mark but in the course of heavy labour it dislodged often enough. He needn’t have worried; long hours spent in the sun tanned his skin and bronzed the strange little sigil until its glittering dimmed and none would look askance at it, if ever they noticed it was even there.

In time he forgot about it entirely, until one sleepless night somewhere in France in the stinking war camp of an idiot king, he realised with a start that he’d been to and from this war for far too long. The way the mind wandered when sleep threatened illuminated many things, and he thought about the young man who’d been rationing out bread. Familiar, he was, so Hob had asked his name and the lad gave it and his town. At the time it had meant nothing, his mind had accepted that knowledge without incident until now when he realised that the John Hooper who’d come all the way from Ipswich to sell his sword had looked like that… decades ago.

Somehow the understanding that the strange lord had not spoken in jest did not feel like a sudden recognition, rather something to which Hob’s innermost self simply reacted with ‘well, that does explain a few things’.

That devil’s mark protected him through to the end of the Hundred Years’ War.

Luckily in the times that followed, the fashions of the day hid the golden mark from the world. It was for his eyes only; a gift from the stranger he had now seen thrice and of whom he knew little more than at the start. Hob had stopped thinking of it as a mark of Satan, as the devil itself seemed a strange concept when you were immortal. What threat was damnation when you’d never pass under the earth? Fae then, perhaps, or some god or power he did not yet understand. It mattered not, and was a constant reminder in the mornings when he dressed of how immensely lucky he was.

Until he was not.

London never seemed so positively dreary and constantly sopping wet when Hob had seen it all from the inside of a carriage. He had looked down these narrow, dark alleys with disdain from his high horse and gave no thought to those that scrabbled for their very existence amongst society's dregs. Would that he had known of their plight, done something for them, when he was a man of means. It was difficult to see how he ever could be again, having pawned the last of his precious belongings, stolen from the Gadlen estate, nearly a year ago. The warm cloak he had bought with that money had been stolen from him by two young, strong lads not a fortnight past. Tonight it would have been a blessing.

Hob was soaked to the bone, curled up with his knees to his chest against a brick wall that seemed warmer than others that he’d made his bed against these last few years. A kitchen was on its other side, or a good hot fireplace. Oh what he would give for mere moments beside a crackling fire - but he had nothing left to give. No one on this street had, they only clustered here because the overhanging roofs above the alley offered some small semblance of shelter from the downpours of this most rainy summer.

Sharp, angry voice hollered from where the alley met a larger way, echoing on the stone and brick but not going far through the dampness of the air. Drunkards, seeking a short way home. Brave ones, to walk where angels feared to tread. He heard laughter, closer, and then the panicked begging of a man he knew by voice more than sight; old Nathaniel was mad as a hatter and twice as daft. His unintelligible protests ended in a strangled cry, followed by silence broken only by the pattering rain. Then footsteps, coming closer.

There was hardly any light in the alley, most of the moon’s glow dampened and bare candles near windows did not much at all. Even so the darkness became darker still as two men emerged from the gloom, looming over him. Fighter though he had long been, Hob hadn’t eaten in four days, drunk clean water in half again as many, and even the idea of trying to fight off robbers or murderers or drunkards looking for sport filled him with a bone-deep weariness and a deeper apathy.

One of the men forcibly hauled him up by front of his ratty, soaking wet shirt and hissed something to his compatriot in a language Hob didn’t understand. The other man laughed and Hob belayed whatever action the start of his movement implied by raising his hands to cover his face. He’d been beaten before for what he now was, he could take it again, but he had half a mind to keep his face intact.

The second man gasped and said something to his fellow in a hushed tone. He grabbed Hob’s forearm with a grip like iron that made him gasp and held him up, high enough to strain his shoulder. They conferred together for a moment and then simply released him, dropping him back to the ground and hurrying on their way.

Hob collapsed back against the wall, panting in relief, and felt over his arm for signs of a break. There were none, his bones seemed sturdy enough, but the flesh was tender and already bruising though he couldn’t see it in the dark. He could see the sigil on his wrist, however, visible to the naked eye despite the gloom even though it bore nothing so sinister as a light of its own. Had they seen it? More intriguingly, had they known it?”

Questions kept him up until morning came and with it a stop to the rain. Hob gathered himself up to head off and seek food, or work, or anything really besides sitting alone with his sorrows. A new place to sleep was paramount, as this one was no longer safe. Mad Nathaniel’s old, skinny body was discarded on the cobbles near the mouth of the alley, his face unnaturally pale with more than death although signs of blood or injury had long since washed away in the night. There was nothing he could do for the man except ponder the nature of mortality, and the value of his gift.

Hob spent weeks trying to find work to no avail, too weak for manual labour and none believing him when he spoke desperately of education or skills. The night of his meeting with the stranger approached steadily and in this year of 1689 the White Horse was no tawdry establishment; it boasted fine foods and foreign wines for finer, foreign guests. It was no tavern where a homeless lout could buy a penny ale. His only hope was to catch his stranger outside and, failing that, sneak in through the kitchens.

He had not expected his stranger to stand up for him, to command that he be unhanded and allowed to stay. The coldness in the mysterious man’s eyes seemed to have settled into something less distant even as he listened to Hob’s tale of woe with similar detachment as always. Nonetheless, every time a barmaid passed by he raised his hand and politely asked for more food for his guest.

Their meeting was over as swiftly as ever and with it the warmth and safety of a roof over Hob’s head for the first time in near thirty years. He stood as his stranger did and made to follow, to slink back out into the darkness. The stranger stopped him, grabbing his wrist and pushing him back into his seat with a strength Hob had not expected from the lithe, little man.

“You will stay, and recover. None will assail you,” he said curtly, “Dream well tonight, Hob Gadling.”

Then he was gone, and Hob sat in abject confusion. His wrist ached like he’d been stung by a bee and he wondered perhaps if some strange magic had passed between them, from his stranger to that strange mark. It occupied his thoughts until the barmaid returned with a pasty and another mug of ale. She seemed to look right through him although her words were polite and serviceable enough. So he stayed, until the crowd thinned and the innkeepers began cleaning up around him. The same woman who still seemed to look over his shoulder at nothing bid him follow and, to his astonishment, showed him to room above without question of payment. Hob was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, no matter how mysterious, and he learned again two of life’s simplest pleasures; a hot bath and a good night’s rest.

He resolved to ask his stranger by what means he had arranged such courtesies when next they met. As years passed he became ever more thankful for them. Something so simple as clothes washed and a good shave had opened the opportunity again for hiring, allowed him the ability to rise back up from the mud and put all that he had learned before to work rebuilding his life and better planning for the future.

It also granted him the gift of boldness for their next meeting. Hob was centuries old, he should by now be so inured to life that the ghostly memory of the stranger’s touch on his wrist did not drive him to madness in the dark and quiet moments before sleep. Yet it did. Nearly every night, it did, and when he was alone and not dressed to the standard of the day he would roll up his sleeve and stare at the golden sigil on his wrist. The nature of it still eluded him, save that it was something of a protection, or luck - maybe it was the source of his immortality itself. Yet another question to ask of his mysterious stranger.

As all good plans of men, his machinations had swiftly gone awry. Hob left the White Horse with all due haste after the confrontation with Lady Johanna’s men, quick on the heels of his stranger who had said neither yes nor no to finding a new venue. Their banter had never had chance to give way to his tales of the century, or anything deeper. So many questions still unanswered in a meeting cut short to minutes rather than hours. That could not be all he had for a century, it couldn’t. Yet when he exited the tavern mere seconds after his stranger, the man in black was nowhere to be found.

He cursed a string of oaths so foul and befuddled by lifetimes of vocabulary as to make a sailor blush in any century.

But he was not one to be deterred by hardship, not by a long shot, and the stranger’s words as always weighed heavily on his mind. All of them had, both of a personal nature and not. Liquidating his assets in the shipping business was one matter and more than a handful of his peers thought he’d gone mad - perhaps he had, but not for the reasons they presumed. If his stranger would deign to give him advice, he would by all means take it. If his stranger would bid him take caution, he most certainly would do just that.

Having Lady Constantine investigated was a simple matter when one had the means. Both would-be detectives and scoundrels were easily hired in scads about London these days and he had the money to invest in both quantity and quality. Hers was a storied family it seemed, if troubled, and Lady Johanna was the most vicious of the lot in generations, if rumours held a grain of truth.

Hob had long since sought to ignore the supernatural, a fool’s errand for an immortal, perhaps - but barest hint of witchcraft about him had him tied to a millstone and breathing pond water for days. That amorphous time until he became used to the suffering, the fading into nothingness and rising to awareness over and over, enough to shred the rope upon the stone between deaths was as real to him now as it had been over a century ago - enough so he had never taken to sea on any of his own ships, nor crossed the channel recently, and the very memory brought a cold chill with it. Such things were enough to dull a man’s interest in what lay beyond the mortal realm.

Now it seemed the realm of witches and witch-hunters had come for him.

That was how he had found himself in the plainest clothes he owned in a disreputable area where he was still well-dressed enough to catch the eyes of those he’d rather not. Being shanked in a dark alley was not in his plans for the day but seeming more and more likely by the moment.

His surveillance upon Lady Johanna and her cohorts had lead him to several strange places and stranger people; a madwoman who crowed about gods and demons but nonetheless knew more than she let on, a vicar who swore upon all that was holy that angels existed and he had witnessed the glory of god - of little use, in the end. Lastly, a man who sold goods he claimed were not of this world and asked for ephemeral things in exchange; concepts and thoughts and hopes for the future. Hob gave him nothing but his time for asking questions, as time was something of which he had no shortage.

In the end it had been Lady Johanna himself who had led him where he needed to go; a storefront that looked surprisingly well-kept for the area but equally well shuttered. His spy had assured him here was no password or secret sign. The Lady Johanna had merely knocked and been let in with hushed words and secretive looks, and all other comers had been passing strange as the urchin had put it. Hob had passed it a few times since, he was nothing if not patience, and never seen anyone about the place - it looked like no one had done business here for years, but then so did the entire street. If rumours were true, this was the centre of all occult practice in London. Hob would have thought they could do much better.

The third time was the charm and he had finally worked up his nerve to knock upon the heavy oaken door. It seemed to dampen the noise enough he hardly thought he’d been heard and was about to try again when the metallic dragging noise of a deadbolt sounded from anon and the door creeped open a hand’s span, held to the jam by a heavy bronze chain to keep it from opening wider. Whoever stood beyond, a proprietor perhaps, remained to the side of the door out of view and it took every fibre of Hob’s being not to lean in and try to catch a glimpse of them.

“Your hand, sir,” A woman’s voice said sharply from within.

He hesitated only a moment, before reaching his right hand in to the open space as if to shake hands with the woman. That earned him an exasperated noise in response.

“Your other hand, numbskull,” she snapped.

Hob, chastened and feeling entirely out of his element, offered the other hand instead. It was grabbed from within the shadows and his sleeve pulled up to bare the wrist. The mark on his skin had faded with the genteel and indoor nature of his work these days and stood golden and glimmering against paler flesh than usual.

The woman made a soft hum as if she were considering what she saw. “Well that is a strange one indeed,” she said and, with no further warning, dashed a tiny silver blade across his wrist.

It wasn’t deep enough to hurt and hardly drew blood, no deeper than a papercut, but he yanked his hand back in shock.

“Bloody hell, are you out of your mind?” he exclaimed, yanking the cuff of his sleeve down.

“Can’t be too careful these days. Come through, then,” she replied, nearly closing the door so she could unhook the chain to let him in.

The door was bolted and barred behind him which was none too comforting. Inside the shop belied its exterior entirely. It was not well-lit but was well-appointed with cases of curios and weapons that would not be out of place at the British Museum among the pharaonic masks. Part drawing room, part exhibit hall the place was immaculate and high-ceilinged - the floor above having been gutted for height and left with only a narrow balcony encircling the edges of the room. He was the only one there.

A sharp throat clearing noise brought his attention back to his erstwhile host. She was younger than he had expected; plump and dour and none too impressed with his existence. Her clothing was far more rich than the neighbourhood outside would imply, but he figured now little here was as it seemed.

“What are ya, then?” she asked, the lilt of her accent catching him off guard now; it had shifted to something older that he hadn’t heard in a good minute. Or century, perhaps.

“Uh… Name’s Robert,” he answered - stupidly, he realised, even as he said it and she gave him a nonplussed look.

“Nay. I mean, what are you,” she replied, “Your blood’s wrong, but the mark’s real.”

“I beg your pardon?” Now he was really feeling out of his depth.

“What turned you, and sent you here,” she said slowly, like he was a bit daft and he was starting to think he might be, “Cause it’s not a vampire, or a wolf, and your sigil doesn’t have traits of anything I bloody know.”

“No one sent me, I uhm… I found you through a mutual acquaintance, as it were,” he replied, trying to regain some of his composure and deciding not to name drop the Lady Johanna in case the two were friends, or something worse.

“Ah, so… You’re new, and you have no bloody idea. Wonderful,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “I’m Marie LaFontaine, and I’m not fucking French.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Hob said, eyeing her curiously. It had taken a moment but he had placed the accent and it shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did, given the strange words that had so recently come out of her mouth. “York, mid-1500s?”

Marie’s obvious appraisal of him grew in consideration at that. “So you’re older than you look, then,” she replied, nodding her head.

“Much.”

“And you’ve just now decided to drop by?” she asked, “Must be nice.”

“It has been, sometimes, yes. Sometimes, not so much,” Hob replied with a smirk, starting to enjoy this little back and forth now that he was reasonably certain he was not going to be shanked in an alley or anything else even cruder. By this point in his life he was at the very least a good judge of people.

“Why seek us out now, if it’s going so well sometimes,” she said dryly.

“Because I was… accosted, as it were, by some sort of witch-hunter,” Hob replied, feeling it was best to leave his stranger out of it, “So I have been looking for answers, of a sort. Or at least information on such things. I have no desire to be caught in a jar and studied like a bug.”

“Man after my own heart,” she said, leaning back against a long counter that looked equal parts apothecary and bar top, “Constantine?”

“You know her?”

“Yes, she hardly knows me,” Marie replied, “And I like to keep it that way; Constantines have been a thorn in our side for centuries, for some more than others.”

“Right. You keep saying ‘our’ and I fear I really don’t know who you are,” Hob admitted, “Pretend like I am new, and just sent to you, like you thought; and explain to me as such. You… you knew what my mark was.”

“Well, I don’t know what your mark is,” Marie corrected him, “Bit singular, that. Usually they’ve got a signature to them that’ll at least tell me what you’re meant for, you know, angelic, demonic, fae, vampire, they’ve all got their little quirks.”

“I apologise, meant for?” Hob asked, blinking rather stupidly at her while simultaneously annoyed by her nonchalance.

Clearly she had the answers to questions he had pondered for millennia and they were so simple to her that she had no idea how to break the concept down for the uninitiated. The result was like pulling teeth.

“It’s your soulmark, idiot. You weren’t born immortal, were you?” she asked, and it sounded more like an accusation.

“No.”

“Then that cropped up one day, and you just never questioned what it was for?”

“Of course I questioned it, but I can ask myself in the mirror all I want and it won’t give me the bloody answers!” Hob snapped, exasperated by the back and forth.

“Whoever turned you is a right prick.”

“Yes, well… He’s a bit of an odd duck,” Hob said, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. Somehow her calm answer made him feel even more of a mess, but he wasn’t about to apologise for snapping at her. “Are you going to tell me what it’s for?”

“Well, practically speaking; gets you in where mortals fear to tread. They can’t be proper faked, you see,” she said, “Show it to another of our kind and the old laws say to help you, or at the very least they can’t hurt you.”

Hob thought then back over a century to a night spent shivering in the rain, and those men he’d thought drunken youths. They had backed off, upon seeing his arm. The beggar man, whose name he misremembered now, had not been so lucky. Had they been immortals too? Hunting for something perhaps, if what Marie hinted at was true and there really were vampires or demons or god knew what skulking about London after dark.

“So others, like us… they’d show mercy on seeing it?” he asked curiously, “Stop what they were doing.”

She raised an eyebrow at him and he did not grant the unspoken request for details. It was long enough ago that he had none, in any case. Immortality had not granted him the ability to see in the dark; he wouldn’t have been able to describe the men even the morning after.

“They certainly should,” Marie answered, “Especially if they don’t recognise the mark; if you were bound to some house they had quarrel with, perhaps not.”

“Bound?” he asked, automatically looking down at his wrist, “I’m not bound to anything, that I know of that is.” His stranger had always made it very clear that it was Hob’s choice to live, and nothing more.

“More’s the pity, I hope you find them,” Marie replied, pushing off from the counter to head around behind it. She drew out a rolled up piece of what looked like parchment, tied with twine, from beneath it and rolled it out on the counter. “Come on then, I don’t bite.”

Hob approached and looked down at the scroll. Whatever it was he had expected, it wasn’t a map of London - and seemingly an updated one at that.

“Take a proper gander, memorise the red marks. Those are all places your mark gains you admittance, and aid if you seek it, with the promise that you’d do the same,” she said, glancing up at his face, “Maybe you’ll find your match there if you look around a bit.”

“My match?” he asked, focused intently on the map. He was a fair hand at memorising things, but it was a lot.

“Aye, do you really think you’ll face the slings and arrows of this world alone for eternity?” Marie asked incredulously, “None could. Someone out there has a mark like yours, or at least something like it. You’ll know it when you see it, or when they touch you.”

“Right…” Hob said slowly, nodding as if what she had said wasn’t completely insane, “And they’re meant to be what, exactly?”

Marie now clearly thought he was an idiot, and likely unworthy of his immortality, if the look she were giving him was any indication. She gave a longsuffering sigh and began rolling the map back up despite him having hardly gotten a look at it, but he knew a few of the red marks and committed them to memory - the one by King’s Cross was, he was reasonably certain, a rather exclusive gentleman’s club that never solicited new members. Apparently this was why; it was full of… of what? Immortals? He couldn’t imagine that everyone was like him, human and a bit blessed with longevity, because now every rumour and old wive’s tale of vampires, werewolves, and the bloody fae were crowding in his mind.

“Your soulmate, of a sort,” she said eventually once she realised he wasn’t just having her on and was legitimately out of his depth, “Usually romantic, sometimes not - more’s the pity for them folks, then.”

“Ah… Would’ve liked to know that a few centuries back,” he replied, those rumours and tales pushed out of his mind immediately by the thought of Eleanor, and their son.

“Yes, well, like I said; whoever as turned you is a right prick.”

“Or maybe, maybe he’s simply not around much?” Hob offered, unsure if he was on to something there or if he was going to sound like a numpty again, “I only see him every hundred years and he wants to know about… society, I suppose. Is there somewhere else he could be?”

“Aye, could be a fae save that your mark isn’t any of the high courts. A demon, but your mark isn’t that either,” Marie replied with a shrug, “There’s probably other things, but I’m no scholar. Look, we got a vested interest in protectin’ our own. Politics are a bit shite and all, but you made it this long you’ve got some sense. Muck about a bit, you might find someone as knows more than me. Doubt it, though.”

“A glowing recommendation of your own superiority,” Hob said dryly, some measure of wits returning to him at last as things began to slot into place in his worldview.

“Indeed. You know where to find me.” Hob knew a dismissal when he heard one, but hadn’t been given one that felt so final since Queen Elizabeth last sent him from court. With a jaunty wave, he slipped out of the building and couldn’t help but look over his shoulder as he took a circuitous route through the disreputable part of town. The world had grown quite a lot larger all of the sudden and with so many unknowns swirling about it, his security in his own safety was a bit shaken. His stranger, his maker, he corrected himself with the now more appropriate term had been very clear ‘you can be hurt, or captured’. It had seemed long odds when he was one man dithering about and becoming his own son but with a whole secret society, or underbelly of London, full of those like himself, perhaps exponentially older than himself, he had bigger things than the Constantines to worry about.