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belle--ofthebrawl · 3 days

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Any Aether/Ifrit thoughts?

One time I shattered a jar thinking about Aethfrit.

I think...Ifrit's an instigator. I think he likes to tease and play and wrestle as a way to bond, very physical with his affection. Grabby. Oohs and aahs over Aether's vessel, compares hand sizes and squeezes his biceps to get a feel for his strength and Aether allows it with a sheepish grin. (He might be peacocking a little bit for the pretty water ghoul watching the antics nearby as he smokes...)

"We're pretty matched!" Ifrit says. "Wanna arm wrestle for top bunk?"

Now Aether's more than happy to just give it to him if he asked but there's a light in Ifrit's eyes that's begging for a challenge, and he's scraping his shoe across the ground like a bull about to charge. Aether doesn't need his quintessence to tell him Ifrit's got way too much energy to sit still on that first long flight and a couple rounds might be just the thing to help him settle down.

Ifrit's palm is fever-hot against his skin, his grin reckless and wild as Mist counts down. Aether can already tell it's going to be close as she signals them to start and they push against each other. Aether can't help but grin right back at Ifrit when he realizes they're not using their full strength. It goes on for what seems like forever; one will lose an inch, the other will take it back. Ifrit's palm grows hotter with exertion, Aether calls on the chill of the void to fight back. Steam erupts where their hands meet, they're locked eye to eye, heedless of the world around them until someone yells and the whole table shatters; burnt black on Ifrit's bench, frozen brittle on Aether's. They look at each other through the rubble and burst out into laughter, helping each other up.

"Looks like we're sharing that bunk." Aether teases, taking Ifrit's now significantly cooler hand in his own warm one. "Not claustrophobic, are you?"

'I don't mind a tight squeeze." Ifrit says with a wink.

Now you know damn well what's under this cut

They run into each other in the abbey hallway later that night on their way to the other's room. Ifrit snickers, not unkindly, and catches Aether's hand again. Swings it as he walks and the casual chatter easily erases any awkwardness as they head back to Aether's room. Aether opens the door for him like a gentleman; Ifrit shoves him through and kicks it shut before tackling him on the bed in a kiss that's more teeth than lips. Biting him everywhere Aether encourages, leaving pretty bruises around his nipples that Aether mirrors on him when he realizes how much Ifrit likes his own pectorals lavished with attention. Maybe Aether wouldn't have found out about his own preferences as fast if Ifrit hadn't mapped out every sensitive point on his body that night.

Ifrit doesn't have the majority of his tattoos I like to think he has, but he's definitely gotten started. Some are mundane, just for visual appeal but there's one in particular he's started just under his belly button. When Aether touches the tip of his tongue to the ink, it tingles and Ifrit's cock flexes where it's pinned under Aether's chest.

"Ticklish?" Aether teases as Ifrit squirms in delight.

"Little more than that." Ifrit huffs, and tries to shove Aether down further, bucking his hips and leaving pre smeared on the soft underside of his chin. So naturally, Aether has to pin those hips down so Ifrit doesn't go buck wild and gag him when Aether sucks his cock. Ifrit squeezes his legs around Aether's torso in revenge, Aether reaches up to tweak a nipple and somehow they're wrestling again. Pushing their cocks together, rutting against strong thighs. Ifrit's devilish fingers poke and prod the rolls of Aether's stomach, get him wheezing as Ifrit whispers, "Now who's ticklish, huh?" as Aether's tip starts to leak steadily. "Big guy like you and it's all undone with a few fingers."

"I'll show you my weak point I'd you promise not to use it against me." Aether breathes and when Ifrit's fingers wiggle their way inside, warm and wet with lube, the fire ghoul kisses him so sweetly they both forget it started out so violently. It's a test of Aether's endurance next as he rides first Ifrit's fingers and then his cock, bouncing slow and gentle, saving his stamina to see how long they both can last.

Knowledge Aether is infinitely grateful for when he finally tumbles into bed with Dewdrop later on.

#throwing this in the queue because i wrote it at an insane hour and no one might see it otherwise #aether ghoul #ifrit ghoul #aether x ifrit #ficlet

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miasmaghoul · 9 months

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miasma i have been yearning for mean rain and the most well-behaved mountain you have ever seen. (he's on his knees.) will you indulge me? )

oh man rain's real mean you guys :(

(cw for slapping, spitting, a little blood, piss and rough oral. all consensual, dont worry, mountain is SUPER into it)

It's an ache Mountain can't describe that brings him here.

On his knees in Rain's room, fully dressed with his legs spread as far at they can go. He keeps his arms folded together at the small of his back and his eyes forward, watching dust motes float through the beam of silvery light pouring from an open window. The sun had been up when he first knelt, but Rain's space was meant for moonlight.

Mountain doesn't know how long he's been here, truth be told, and it doesn't matter. That ache demands he stays put regardless, forces him to stay still and silent. It makes him wait for something he can't put words to. Makes him yearn, makes him itch in a place he can't quite scratch. It makes him want.

And so, he waits.

And waits.

When the door finally creaks open, he thinks it's the holiest of hymns.

Rain slips into the room with a fluid grace Mountain could never hope to replicate. He moves like water, his lithe frame draped in the gauzy fabric of a flowy white top he'd no doubt stolen from Cirrus. It suits him just as much as the skin-tight black pants he's paired with it, as stark a contrast as his dark, loose curls are against his pale skin. Bathed in moonlight, he looks like something out of a dream.

Mountain would worship him always, if he could get away with it. Would lay himself bare for Rain to observe, to inspect. He'd endure agony, ecstacy and everything in between if it meant earning Rain's touch, his attention. If it meant pleasing him however Rain saw fit. He'd give anything, give everything.

Rain closes the door, and does not acknowledge him.

The ache grows.

Mountain doesn't move. Doesn't dare to so much as breathe too loudly, lest Rain become irritated and shove him out the door. He can't risk it, not with the singular sort of need that's been eating at him all day. He listens, though. Tracks Rain's careful footsteps as he makes his way across the room. He's in no rush, ever casual as he clicks on a bedside lamp and rifles through a drawer.

Mountain's cock stirs in the confines of his jeans. He's gone from soft to hard and back again more times than he can count during his endless wait. If he glanced down, there would probably be a stain on the light denim. He couldn't help it, but he knows Rain won't approve.

Hell, that's half the reason he wore these particular jeans.

"How long have you been here?"

The words cut through the silence like a razor, smooth and sharp. Mountain shivers with them, hungry ears finally blessed with the first hint of what he's been craving. He shrugs, eyes still locked on the bedroom door. He can practically hear Rain's eyebrows scooting upwards.

"You don't know?"

Mountain shakes his head. If he had to say, it would be something between five hours and a hundred years. He'd wait a thousand, if Rain asked him to.

Behind him, Rain hums. It's a pondering sound, as though he's wondering whether or not Mountain is worth his precious time. It makes his stomach hurt. He wants to beg Rain to let him stay, wants to plead with him to soothe the ache in his gut. Wants to grovel at his feet until Rain sees fit to relieve him of his need.

But Rain hasn't given permission to speak, so he doesn't.

Again, Mountain waits. Stoic at a statue despite the stiffness in his jeans, the stabbing pain in his knees and the tension in his back. Everything hurts.

He hopes Rain makes it worse.

It's ages before Rain moves again, before his boots thud against the hardwood and the other ghoul reappears in front of him. Mountain keeps his gaze resolutely forward, his eyeline even with Rain's torso. The fabric of his top sways in a nonexistent breeze, more than a few of its buttons popped to expose the creamy skin of his chest. It's speckled with bites and bruises, evidence of what, exactly, he'd been busy doing while Mountain waited his turn.

"Have you been just like this?" His tone gives nothing away. If anything, Rain sounds...bored. "On your knees for me?"

Again, Mountain nods. Rain hums once more, that same sound of almost dismissive contemplation. He brings both hands up, idly twists one of his rings, and the rustle of his shirt brings with it the scent of the lake on a summer evening. It's accompanied by a waft of spiced woodsmoke, and Mountain knows exactly who had been busy fucking up Rain's perfect skin.

"Are you growling?"

Mountain mutes himself immediately - he hadn't even realized he'd started. He didn't mean to, he swears it, but even if he were allowed to speak he knows Rain wouldn't want to hear it. He chews on the inside of his cheek and hopes his remorse is evident in the way his shoulders sag just a hair.

"Let me guess," Rain lilts, reaching out to fiddle with a loose lock of auburn hair by Mountain's ear. Even the ghost of his touch is electric. "You need me."

He makes it sound like a taunt, and Mountain's stomach burns. He nods again, slow and deliberate. Squares his shoulders again before Rain can chide him for his posture. The other ghoul huffs out a sigh.

"How pathetic," he chides, and oh does it sting. "Sitting here for hours when you could have been making yourself useful."

Long fingers cup his jaw and Mountain lets his gaze be guided upward. He finds Rain watching him with mirthless cerulean eyes, his mouth set in a hard line. Mountain gulps even as his cock throbs, and before he can stop himself,

"I'm sorry -"

He hears the slap before he feels it, a sharp backhand that makes his head spin and his chest tight. The sting hits soon enough and Mountain bites his lip, hoping to draw blood that he can offer in penance. Rain grips his chin in that same cruel hand, guides him back, and Mountain can already feel the fuzz creeping into the edges of his mind with the look on his stunning face.

"Lucifer, you're pathetic," Rain scoffs, dragging his other hand through his own stylishly disheveled curls. "And here I thought you were going to be good for me."

I will, Mountain wants to scream. I'll be good, I'll be so good, please -

"I suppose I'll just have to put you in your place."

Mountain can't help the way his eyes slip shut at the merciless tilt to Rain's voice. The one he only uses when he can tell exactly what sort of cruelty Mountain craves, when he wants to belittle and shame. It settles heavy in his gut, makes him just dizzy enough that Rain has to give him a little shake to bring him back.

"Eyes on me," he orders, and it's an easy command to obey. Mountain may be edging towards hazy, but focusing on Rain keeps him grounded enough to maintain his pose. The hand on his jaw threads into his hair instead, grips a nice handful. "Show me your tongue."

Mountain does - of course he does - despite how dry his mouth feels. He opens wide and lets that pink appendage hang down over his chin. Rain's hum carries more weight now, the slightest hint of approval enough to make Mountain throb. Rain yanks him back by the hair, makes him suck air through his nose, and leans over him, eyes sparkling.

"You look thirsty."

Mountain can't hold back the groan that bubbles up in his chest when Rain spits directly onto his tongue.

"Don't you dare swallow," Rain threatens before Mountain can so much as move his tongue. He wasn't going to. He knows better.

It's tempting anyway.

He curls his tongue instead, makes a nice little home for Rain's generous gift. Rain releases his head with a derisive snicker, standing back with his arms crossed.

"I think you enjoyed that a little too much," he admonishes, eyes squarely fixed on the wet spot Mountain can feel on his thigh. Less than an inch from the head of his sore, ignored cock.

He's so hard. Always is, for this. Rain probably won't even let him cum, if experience tells him anything - or maybe he'll make him cum over and over until he's empty and weeping. Either way, the suffering is what matters.

Mountain twitches when the toe of Rain's boot presses into his thigh, a hair's breadth from his throbbing length, and it's work not to swallow the mess on his tongue.

"Someone's excited," he taunts, nudging the swollen ridge of the head less than gently. Mountain gives a fervent nod. "You were messy before I even walked in, weren't you?"

He applies more pressure and Mountain pitches forward just enough to accidentally drool Rain's spit onto his own shirt.

Oh shit.

Rain's next slap is expected, and somehow all the worse for it. Same cheek, same hand. It cracks through the room with a sick echo, and Mountain tastes iron.

"Useless," Rain sneers, unceremoniously shoving two fingers into Mountain's mouth to wrench out a gag. When he pulls them back they're tinted pink, and watching Rain lick up his blood and saliva makes every inch of him sing. "All you're good for is making messes, isn't it?"

Mountain sniffles, eyes wet at the corners, and nods. Rain rolls his eyes.

"Use your words," he says as though Mountain is very stupid. His cock spits against his thigh.

"S-sorry Rain, I didn't -"

"Sorry who?"

Mountain shudders.

"I'm s-sorry, Sir," he breathes, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to make a mess, I -"

"Liar," Rain interrupts, and Mountain gives him a bewildered look. "I know you came here because you want to be a wet, filthy mess."

Mountain can't stop staring up at him. He doesn't want to.

"In fact," Rain croons, reaching for his belt, "I think you want me to make you one."

His intention is clear as crystal, and the moment it settles into Mountain's skin he bites his tongue. He swallows thickly, trying his best not to sway as he watches Rain slip his belt from its loops and toss it aside. Silently, Mountain hopes Rain plans to use it on him later. He grips his own arms tight behind his back while the other ghoul unzips, every inch of him twitchy and quivering in anticipation.

"What do you say?" Rain asks, low and sultry over the splash of his own piss.

Rain's only half hard when he pulls himself out, maybe less, but it doesn't matter - any time he gets to see Rain's cock is a blessing, as far as Mountain is concerned. Rain gives himself a few languid strokes, pushes and pulls his foreskin the way he knows Mountain likes best. Makes him drool. He fattens up so quick, gets nice and stiff right where Mountain can see but can't touch. Anyone else would want to stay soft for this, but Rain?

Well, there are advantages to being a water ghoul.

Rain cants his hips just enough to slap the head against Mountain's cheek once, twice, three times. Enough to leak a little bead of pre and leave a sticky spot behind.

"Say please," he commands. Mountain feels so very dizzy.

"Please," he manages to slur, barely a whisper. Rain snorts.

"Say it properly," he smears the tip over Mountain's lips just because he can, and Mountain's eyes roll back at the scent of him.

"Please, Sir," he breathes, staring up with heavy lidded eyes, "please...please get me wet. Get me messy."

Rain offers an unkind smirk, milks out one more bead of pre that slides onto Mountain's lip. He doesn't lick it up. Hasn't been told he's allowed. Rain pulls back, takes a deep breath, and aims.

"Whore."

The first drops hit Mountain's knee, impossibly hot, and then a perfect golden arc hits him square in the chest. It forces a wave of the deepest sort of shame through him, makes his stomach flip and his balls tighten up. Mountain gasps when it really starts to soak in, and he can feel real tears gathering in his lashes when Rain smiles down at him.

"Th-thank you, Sir," Mountain gasps, fighting every muscle in his core that's trying to make him pitch forward. "Thank you."

Rain hums, pleased, directing the stream wherever he likes until Mountain's shirt is well and truly drenched. He feels like he's burning from the inside out, like his brain is leaking out onto his thigh and soaking into stained denim. He's panting by the time Rain's done, watching in a daze as he pushes out the last few squirts, lets it dribble out to speckle Mountain's thighs.

"Open," he orders, and like the good boy he is, Mountain does.

Rain shoves his still-leaking cock down his throat with no hesitation, and Mountain chokes on it just enough for the tears caught in his lashes to track down his cheeks. Rain purrs, smearing them all over with mean thumbs.

"Gonna put this mouth to good use," he drawls, "and you're gonna take it."

The way he says it is completely at odds with the punishing pace he sets. Brutal thrusts that stab at the back of Mountain's throat, sure to leave a bruise. Every one answers the call of that singular ache, and in no time at all he's floating. Lost in the gross, wet sound of Rain taking his pleasure and the slap of his balls against his chin.

Maybe later Rain will sit on his face and he can well and truly drown.

Mountain hopes he does.

#miasma's work #the band ghost ficlets #ish #its a lil long lmao #mountain ghoul #rain ghoul #mean rain #sub mountain #mountain/rain #mountain x rain #mountrain #these two are such pissboys you cannot convince be otherwise #dont worry tho rain gives him the normal kind of shower later #I HOPE YOU LIKE IT RICO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG ♡♡♡♡♡♡

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lettered-mind · 9 months

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Kakashi is shocked the first time someone tells him why he lets Gai follow him around like a lovesick puppy. He looks at the stupid, severely surprised.

I'm sure it's the other way around, Kakashi thinks, but obviously doesn't say it. He just looks at the ninja in front of him and tells him to mind his own business.

That conversation was almost completely forgotten in Kakashi's mind until a month later, Tenzō asks him almost the same thing, more politely. Kakashi is spared the answer when the youngest and most promising member, Itachi, begins to praise Gai's abilities with clear admiration and possibly a small crush.

Kakashi just walks away from the scene, thinking there's no need to say anything else, but he can't stop thinking about it.

Is that what people see in his relationship with Gai? That Gai is Kakashi's big fan who follows him everywhere while Kakashi just puts up with him? He's not going to kid himself and say it wasn't that way in the beginning, but it certainly didn't last that long until the places were swapped.

Gai always liked to be effusive with everyone, and that was normal for him. Kakashi wasn't really a special case, just a down-on-his-luck bastard with genius, and a slight obsession with his optimistic rival, who has a dangerous attraction to anything that leads him to get hurt.

Kakashi doesn't know how people don't see that it's Kakashi who chases Gai, trying to meet him on the street "by chance", reaching under the table when they eat so he can touch him with his feet, taking care of him when Gai comes badly injured from a mission and Kakashi's only thought is to kill the bastard who touched him. When the first thing he does when he sees him is greet him and approach him, and if Gai wins and approaches Kakashi first, he always leans into him, brushing their shoulders and sometimes the backs of their hands. Sometimes he feels like he's a hair's breadth away from being accused of stalking when he's on surveillance and watching him on cameras or spying on him from the trees, but he really can't help it.

He follows Gai, he needs Gai. Gai is the unreachable sun and he is just a cold mountain, never worthy enough to receive more than its rays of light.

They all have it wrong.

#kakashi hatake #naruto #maito gai #might guy #ficlet #kakagai #kkgai #kakashi loves gai so much and nobody can't convince me that is otherwise #hatake kakashi #i love them #my personal headcannon is that itachi has a crush in the best friend/sort-of-boyfriend of his captain

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chapel-of-rizztual · 11 months

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am I late? maybe

sending you this one anyway

#14 phantom and rain

sending also a lot of love

-🪻

In all honesty, Rain should have knocked. He knows from experience that just walking into someone’s hotel room, especially after a show, was a bad idea.

He heard it first, which should have been his first indicator, little choked off whimpery moans. He was a fool to ignore them, he should have turned back then and there, but for some reason his brain wasn’t working.

By the time he saw it, it was too late to turn back. Phantom was on the floor, on his knees, a thick white pillow wedged between his legs, as he rutted his hard cock against the soft fabric, with two fingers shoved deep into his mouth.

“I-shit, Phant-I’m sorry.” Rain stutters, feeling his cheeks heat up with a blush.

Phantom looks up at him with wet tear filled eyes.

“R-rain.” He whimpers around his fingers. “Help.”

Rain can’t help the way his cock twitches in his pants. He drops to his knees in front of Phantom, watching as his cock drools onto the pillow.

“What, what do you want-“

“Wanna cum-fuck- wanna cum, please.” He pulls his spit soaked fingers out of his mouth. “Rain, please.”

“Yeah? You wanna cum, baby? Feels good to rut your cock into that pillow like that?”

The tears that had welled in his eyes spill down his cheeks and he nods, shoving his finger back into his mouth, rolling his hips harder into the pillow.

“That’s it, baby. Doing so good. So so good for me.”

Phantom bites his lip, feeling heat pool in his belly.

“Look at you, baby. Got me so hard just watching you, so hot.”

Phantom moans uncontrollably, his head rolling back and his mouth drops open.

“So desperate to cum, aren’t you?”

Phantom whimpers around his fingers, pushing them deeper into his mouth, making a gargled sound.

“Why don’t you touch yourself for me, hmm? Make yourself feel even more good for me.”

The look Phantom gives him reminds him a little of startled deer.

“I-I can’t- I don’t- I’ve never-“ He stutters, his red cheeks deepening.

“You’ve never even touched yourself? Ever? Not even once?”

Phantom shakes his head.

“Just use a pillow, feels good.” He pants around his fingers.

“Okay, keep going, just like that. That feel good?” Sucking harder on his fingers, phantoms hips fall into an unsteady rhythm. “Oh, such a good boy. You gunna cum, baby?”

Phantom nods, letting out a small growl, rutting his hips onto the pillow In a steady rhythm. “Yeah-yeah, please.” The heat that pooled on his belly springs tight, tight, tighter, until Phantoms thighs are shaking and he’s whining madly around his fingers, looking at Rain with big wet eyes.

“That’s it, that’s my good boy, come for me, darling. Make a mess, baby.”

All it takes is four thrusts onto the pillow and Phantom is spilling hotly onto the soft fabric and over his thighs a little. He cries through his orgasm, letting out desperate wet sounds and Rain coos at him, brushing his hair from his eyes.

“That's it, my good boy, aren’t you? Did so good for me.” He’s still sucking on his fingers as he comes down from his high, looking at Rain with tear-blurred eyes , rutting his softening cock onto the cooling cum on the pillow.

Rain smiles sweetly at him. “How about we get on that bed over there and I’ll show you how to touch yourself properly, hmm? I’ll show you what you’ve been missing?”

Phantom blinks, clearing the tears from his eyes. He pulls his fingers from his mouth, a string of saliva connecting to his lips, and he smiles. “Yes please, daddy.”

#the band ghost #ficlet #ghost headcanons #nameless ghouls #phantom ghoul #rain ghoul #ghost band fanfic #ask game #asks me stuff #so if you see a mistake no you didn’t #Phantom is a pillow humper and you can’t tell otherwise #my writing

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pluto-rainstorm · 13 days

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Little bucktommy / madney ficlet cause I remembered that I'm a fic writer!

After dinner at Maddie and Chim's house, Tommy and Chimney have a heart-to-heart

‐-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The hum of music filled the air, emitting a soft atmosphere in the Buckley-Han house. The low lighting of the lamps made the kitchen-dining area warm and homey.

Plates clacked against each other as the Buckley siblings worked together to clear everything off the table, their quiet conversation was carried all the way to the kitchen sink where they moved in years of practice motion.

Both Tommy and Chimney were left at the table, nursing their drinks in their hands and watching their respective Buckley's. Chim then whipped his head round to look at Tommy, a burning question he's had for weeks now was bubbling up and this was his opportunity to ask away.

"I'm sorry, I just gotta ask, so you've been gay this whole time?" Chimney burst and broke the silence that had previously settled over them.

"Um... yes?" Tommy raised his eyebrows and torn his eyes away from Buck to give Chimney a questioning look.

"What about that girlfriend you had when you were at the 118, the one Gerrard always wanted to come make us dinner?" It's been eating at him ever since he saw that smudged soot all over Buck's face at his and Maddie's wedding.

Tommy laughed, clearly amused by this conversation. He hadn't imagined for a conversation like this one for desert, they just finished dinner.

"I'm guessing you never caught on to the fact that whenever he asked me what day she was coming," he gave him a pointed look "the day would always change."

That's when it hit Chim, all the talk of Tommy having a girlfriend back then but never actually seeing her? Tommy saying single is better? Not understanding the Kristen Stewart hype? It all made sense!

"Oh my god... how did I not notice that we never actually met her!"

Tommy just laughed again, one thing he loved about telling the truth to old friends he knew wouldn't judge him was their reactions to the little details. It made him feel seen in a way.

"Yeah, I made her up," he scratched the back of his neck and scrunched his nose, "well, she was my ex, but we broke up years before and I just didn't tell anyone."

"Why?" Chim said, he just wanted to understand his old colleague turned long time friend.

He shrugged, "It was easier to hide that way, and no one seemed to care when she didn't show up, we were always too busy," he lifted his drink and emptied the last bit before continuing, "that speech that Hen gave really put things into perspective for me, so I put in that complaint about Gerrard, I wanted to do something for others for once instead of just protecting myself from him or anyone else from the boys club we had going on."

Tommy put the glass on the table and looked up to spy on Buck and Maddie animatedly speaking to one another as they leant against the kitchen island, "All of that was also the reason why I was such a douchbag."

Chimney huffed an airy laugh, his eyes followed to where Tommy was looking, "Ay, you weren't that bad." He said sincerely.

"I could've been nicer." He felt ashamed, the guilt form someone he used to be, he turned to smile tightly at Chim.

"You were though," Chim waved his hand around, his eyes met Tommy's, "I mean eventually, and you hung out with me and Hen a lot after too, you're our friend tommy."

They shared a smile.

Tommy had a lot of time to dwell over his past crappy actions for years, and after everything he managed to make a friend for life in Chim, which still baffled him. Chimney just had a heart of gold and he admired that.

"Ya'know, I've known I was gay since I was a kid, I always had that feeling and all I did was push it down and away, far from who I wanted to be," his eyes drift back over to Buck as he laughs at whatever silly thing his sister just said, "and then Hen did her speech and I thought, maybe I just need do except it, it did take me a while though, I mean we're talking about unravelling years upon years of hiding within lies here, moving to Harbour was my fresh start where I didn't have to tell those lies anymore cause no one knew the past me."

He smiled, "It felt really good."

"I'm proud of you, man" Chimney clapped him on his shoulder, his smile contagious.

Maddie and Buck chose that moment to walk back to their seats, more drinks in their hands.

"What are you two talking about?" Buck questioned as he sat in his chair next to Tommy. He passed him a beer.

"Just reminiscing." Tommy reached out and rubbed a hand along Buck's arm.

The smiles didn't leave their faces.

"Aw, how sweet!" Maddie chimed and leant against her husband.

Life was pretty good for Tommy and Chimney, they had their Buckley's and that's what really mattered.

#ao3: plutorainstorm #i stand by the fact that chimney and tommy are good friends and you can't convince me otherwise #i wanna see a madney / bucktommy dinner at least once... please #i just wanted to write tommy and chimney having a heart-to-heart! sue me!#it's literally 2am and i need to sleep but i needed to get this written first #bucktommy #madney #911 abc #911 #evan buckley #tommy kinard #chimney han #maddie buckley #911 ficlet #this was not proof read and i'm going to sleep now... goodnight

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zmediaoutlet · 2 months

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Well, Sam wasn’t wrong. The panic room wasn’t any kind of paradise to be locked in, no matter how much the occupant needed it. Cot’s a piece of crap, too. Dean knows Bobby doesn’t go for the softer things, much, but man. Given that being shut in here had a pretty decent chance of turning into your last night on earth, he could’ve at least sprung for a mattress pad. A decent blanket. Something.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed. He turns his wrist against the handcuff and looks at the underside, the blue veins. Knows he could pick it if he had any damn thing left on him to pick it, but Sam didn’t leave him much but his boots. Knows he could pull, and bleed, and dislocate or even break his thumb and force his way out that way, but Sam’s locked him pretty tight and he’s not positive he could drag his way out, and if he screwed it up then he’d just be in a bunch of pain, and Castiel’s probably too mad at him to heal it. He could just bleed out. He turns his wrist in the cuff again, grips the edge of the mattress with both hands. Easy to imagine. The blood sluicing down—and it’d take a while, unless he hurried it along somehow—snapping a spring off the bed and making the wounds jagged and wide and red—making the world slow and slide and shut down, hopefully permanently, so he wouldn’t have to bear it anymore. So Bobby and Cas and everyone who ever relied on him wouldn’t have to bear it, anymore. Except of course it wouldn’t be a solution because he can’t. Everything he was ever taught flooded up against that last lead door and stopped. More’s the pity.

The panic room door opens, creaking. He keeps looking at the floor.

“You want some water, or something?” Sam says.

Dean smiles at the iron between his boots. “I’m good.”

Drag of metal on metal—Sam pulls the desk chair over, sits a yard away from Dean. Not far enough away that Dean couldn’t grab him, if he made the lunge. If he wanted to. He doesn’t know why Sam isn’t worried about it.

“What’s in the box?” Sam says. Dean smiles at the floor. “Don’t make a Brad Pitt joke. The box you had, in the motel in Cicero. I put it in the trunk before I drove the car back up here.”

Dean looks up. Sam’s watching him. Small frown but he’s not mad. He doesn’t even seem disappointed, even if Dean’s been—everything he’s been.

“What I had,” he says. His voice is rough and he clears his throat. “Just… stuff. I thought maybe you’d…” He shakes his head. “Feels stupid. Talking about, you know, crap maybe you’d remember me by, except here I am. Just stuff. Dad’s jacket, my gun, my keys. Wrote a letter.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “A letter.”

Dean shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, now.”

Sam looks like he’s not sure about that. Dean wishes he hadn’t mentioned it. Imagines Sam ripping off the duct tape and reading the stupid crap he’d written down and thinking that it was all Dean had wanted to say. Felt too messed up to leave without even a note but he couldn’t—formulate it, not out loud and not in writing either, turned out, especially if Bobby or someone else might see it too. How much he loved Sam and resented him and needed him and how this hole in the center of his gut that had started who knows how long ago had just gotten bigger, and bigger, and he’d worried that what he felt for Sam would fall into it and get lost but it didn’t seem to work that way, somehow. The hole got bigger and what him-and-Sam meant got bigger, too, and stranger and stronger and more unwieldy, until there were days that Dean thought he’d suffocate under it, or drown maybe, or that he’d lose his mind with worry, or that he’d—start to hate Sam, maybe, for making him this terrified. For being this thing he couldn’t stand the idea of losing and yet that had been lost to him over and over. Until the hole felt like it took up all of him, just this absence held vastly empty under the barrier of his skin, and what him-and-Sam meant was going to destroy the whole planet, and it felt more right to just—simplify the equation. Subtract the thing by half and maybe there’d actually be something left, afterward. Even if Dean weren’t around to see it then at least there’d be something.

“I wish I could make you believe it,” Sam says. Dean refocuses. The spinning shadow of the fan above cuts random light over Sam’s face. His mouth tucked up on one side, sorry. “I don’t know how. There’s not any—evidence I can show, or logic. It’s not a case. It’s just something I know and I can’t make you understand.”

“Guess I shouldn’t have dropped out,” Dean says, and Sam smiles in this weird flat way that doesn’t look like smiling at all, and Dean can’t make him understand, either, how sorry he is, and how little it matters that he’s sorry. That he has to say yes to Michael because there is no other way he can think of in the world to save as many people as they can but also to save Sam, from Michael and from Lucifer and from himself, most of all, and to save Dean from having to see that, too. He’s thought about how it’ll go. When they got to talk to Jimmy Novak he explained that being possessed by an angel was like being chained to a comet: terrifying, absolute, a blaze of blinding light, and Dean thinks—hopes—that that’s true, that with an archangel it’ll be worse, that he can close his eyes and sink into it and there’ll be pain, he’s sure, but he’s been through hell and pain’s nothing he worries about, if he won’t have to see his brother fall.

“I’m kinda jealous Cas got to beat you up,” Sam says. Dean snorts. Then Sam leans forward, quick, takes Dean’s face in both hands. Dean stiffens but Sam doesn’t—hit him, or choke him, or kiss him. All equal possibilities considering the day. Sam only looks him in the eyes, with this expression like—he’s five years old and wishing for answers Dean can’t give. Dean reaches up with his uncuffed hand and grips Sam’s wrist. His pulse fast under Dean’s thumb. Sam takes a deep, shuddery breath in, closes his eyes tight. When he opens them they’re damp but he doesn’t look five anymore. “We’re going to save Adam and you’re not going to say yes. I don’t care if you don’t believe it. I know.”

This year’s been too terrible for the empty pit in Dean to feel any smaller. “Okay, Sam,” he says, because it’ll get him out of this room. Sam nods and stands up and goes for the keys. Dean watches him, tall and broad and beautiful, and wishes he had faith.

#happy wincest wednesday #my writing #ww lottery #a random ficlet for episode 100 #and what an episode it is #dean's ultra turbo mega depressed #and who can blame him honestly #but sam's an absolute hero through this thing #...he sounds like an idiot every time he talks to adam #but otherwise. hero.

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existingonthisplane · 2 years

Text

The party playing truth or dare and Dustin, in his utterly unhinged era, decides to give someone a fake dating dare.

Realizes that Will, to his knowledge, is the only one who hasn’t dated.

Him and Lucas are already in relationships and El is Will’s sister so absolutely not.

Decides it’s up to their good pal Michael.

“My dearest buddy, Mike-“

And Mike tenses immediately cause Dustin’s got that tone he uses when he’s a little too excited about an idea. So Mike is just sitting there staring nervously.

And Dustin is like “I dare you to date Will for a week! Our boy deserves a good time.”

Will’s eyes widening comically large at the statement and Mike looks like he just got dunked in cold water.

“If he’s okay with it of course” Dustin adds on quickly at the end. Noticing Mike and Will’s reaction.

“I’m not sure about that one, man” Lucas pipes in adjusting his position next to Max so she can lean on him more comfortably.

“Fake dating? Isn’t that just normal dating?” El says, confusion thick in her voice turning towards Max who’s hand she’s holding.

“It’s stupid that’s what it is. But I guess it works for a dare? Not sure if I’d pick Wheeler of all people.” Max throws in lifting her head off of Lucas’s shoulder and shaking it.

“Doesn’t matter what you think Max, it’s about Will. So,” Dustin turns back facing Will again,”what’ll it be?”

And the whole group just turns towards him waiting for an answer, save for Mike who looks like he’s trying to remember how to function.

Will just starts stammering not really sure what to make of this at all. Of course Dustin would dare the ONE person who Will would actually like to date if that was possible.

Dustin hearing the lack of replies would go on to explain a little further how Mike is honestly the perfect candidate which Will honestly can’t argue with the logic of it because going from Dustin’s perspective Mike is Will’s best friend, hanging out regularly is already something they do and they like a lot of the same things.

It wouldn’t be that different from how they are now, Dustin honestly just wants Mike to hold Will’s hand and take him on like date nights or something? “Give him the experience” as he put it so lovingly.

“I mean, I guess I’m okay with it. It’s just a dare and this is honestly the closest I’ll get to actually dating someone since I’m not all that interested.” Will says, a little cautiously. If his friends read into it a bit they don’t say anything.

Mike is very very quiet still and it’s a little concerning so Will looks over at him. Trying to check in with his eyes. Mike looks far away though, lost in thought. At least his face doesn’t look like he’s in agony, he’s just blushing? A lot actually.

“Well I need you to know. I’m not going to dare him if you don’t want to.” Will looks back over to Dustin who’s got his eyebrow arched.

Dustin glances back over at Mike and Will realizes that they’re both thinking the same thing of giving Mike an out. If Will says no, then Mike is spared. All they need Mike to do is actually look and give that signal that he’s uncomfortable.

Mike glances up at Will. Probably because he could feel the eyes on him.

“So are you sure Will?” Dustin repeats, more for Mike’s sake than Will’s at this point.

Mike’s gaze is steady and something determined flits between his eyes. Will’s pretty sure his face is on fire.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, yes I’m sure.”

“Sick! Okay Wheeler, I dare you to date Will for a week! I want you to pull out all the stops too! Full blown dates, pay for his meals!!! Tell him he’s the cutest guy you’ve seen or something! No holding any punches, got it?” Dustin rattles off like he’d been planning it the whole time.

“What happens if he doesn’t pull all the stops out?” El asks from behind him.

“Oh right! If you don’t complete the dare in a satisfactory way you’ve got to read the whole party that one poem you absolutely refuse to let any of us see.”

A collective gasp rings across the room. Not even Will had seen that supposed poem! They’re not even sure if it exists. These are high stakes here.

Mike makes a face that’s got too many emotions to decipher though but Will thinks it makes him look constipated.

“You wouldn’t-“ Mike starts

“Oh but I would. And I did. So what’ll it be Wheeler?”

“Fine! Not like I was going to chicken out anyways. I’ll be the best god damn boyfriend any of you people have ever seen.” Mike says. Cheeks puffing out in annoyance.

“I’m not sure about that one considering your track record” El mumbles but everyone still hears.

Max starts cackling and Lucas has a fist covering his mouth looking away to keep from laughing himself.

Dustin has doubled over at the comment and Will is trying and failing severely to keep it together.

“El!!” Mike shouts, face a whole new shade of red and El just shrugs in reply.

Mike turns towards Will, betrayal written over his features and Will thinks it’s cute, mouthing a quick “sorry” though his laughter.

Mike rolls his eyes, plopping down next to him and leaning near his ear.

“I don’t know why you’re laughing considering I’m yours for a week now.”

That sobers Will up almost instantly. Mouth clinking shut before he turns his face towards his best friend in disbelief. Their noses brush at the movement and Will makes the weakest effort in existence to move back to give some space.

He goes to reply when Dustin pipes in with a quick

“You guys getting started already? Damn, I guess he was serious.”

The room is back to laughing eventually dissolving into regular conversation. Mike smiles quickly at Will before looking back at his friends joining in leaving Will reeling.

Will’s face is red for the rest of the night.

#byler #byler ficlet #byler fanfiction #byler fanfic #will byers #mike wheeler #stranger things #this takes place like late highschool or college I’d assume?#very subtle elumax #elumax #they’re together here and you can’t convince me otherwise #even if it’s just Elmax and Lumax and then platonic LuEl #personally I’m partial to them all liking each other though on all sides but that’s just me

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alleiwentcrazy · 1 year

Text

Eddie Munson finds great joy in collecting strays. That’s obvious.

With people, it’s quite pronounced. He treats the word “freak” like an acclaimed royal title, not some low insult. Eddie loves his freaks – he treats them with care, understanding and unmistakable devotion, always offering some sort of safe haven and an outlet for both their sadness and glee. Everyone who knows Eddie knows that.

It’s a bit less pronounced with other creatures. Although Eddie’s adventures with wild, sometimes even feral (or simply interdimensional) animals still present a sore spot for him, he’s never stopped caring about them and trusting them. Eddie has a whole clowder of half-domesticated cats wandering around the fields behind his trailer at all times, because he can’t seem to accept the fact that it’s impossible to efficiently help each and every one of them just like that. Sometimes their constant presence, walls-scratching and low mewling spawns some unwanted pictures and dreams in Eddie’s head, but he will never admit to that.

What’s even less obvious—even to Eddie himself, it seems—is that his relationship with all kinds of strays is, more or less, a two-way street.

Eddie takes after his strays more than he’s aware of. For example, he’s just a little more sarcastic when he’s back from hanging out with Max. He’s a little more excited about basketball when he picks up Lucas after his practice, even though he considers himself a sports’ sworn enemy. He’s a little more tentative and reflective when he gives El some advice about regrowing her hair, because he’s well-versed with how much of a pain in the ass it can be. And so on, and so forth.

It’s the same with his cats. He takes after them a lot.

Usually, it’s Steve who notices it first. He’s also the one who falls victim to Eddie’s cat-like habits.

The first time it happens, they’re “studying” for Eddie’s exams. He’s been forced to retake his senior year once again, but this time he’s doing everything in his power to get through it unscathed. Usually Nancy plays the role of his tutor, but Steve takes over when she can’t make it. He’s more like moral support than anything else, since Eddie studies best when he has someone to talk to, and Steve isn’t too confident about his academic skills to really tutor him, so he’s just happy to help and listen.

But it’s starting to get late, he had a morning shift and he’s finding it hard to fight off the drowsiness, especially because Eddie’s voice is deep, raspy and warm, and it makes him feel like he’s listening to some type of bedtime story.

“...so that’s why, I think, trig kinda sucks. But I’m getting the hang of it, I guess?”

He barely registers the meaning of the sentence. He’s so comfortable sitting under the blanket on Eddie’s bed everything loses importance. Moving his mouth seems to be an impossible task, so Steve just hums. When he cracks one eye open, Eddie’s looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“I’ll make some coffee,” he says, but Steve doesn’t even see him leave. He slides down and buries his face in the pillows.

He knows when Eddie comes back because the smell of coffee infiltrates his sleepy haze, but doesn’t motivate him enough to get up.

“Budge up,” he hears. Then a hand squeezes his shoulder, so he moves closer to the wall with a whine, squishing his cheek further into the pillow. Something warm settles beside him and he thinks, simply, that it’s really pleasant to be this cozy and comfortable before he drifts off for good.

When he opens his eyes in the morning, he’s welcomed by a very curious sight.

Eddie Munson sleeps like a cat.

He’s lying on his back, long hair only slightly tangled where it’s splayed over the pillow. When sunrays hit his face, he instinctively turns his head in the right direction and Steve almost expects him to make a noise—a noise that would most probably remind him of purring. Eddie’s limbs are spread out all over the bed and his whole body seems to be twisted to the side, but he still takes up a lot less space than anticipated. His left hip is pressed to Steve’s right, but it’s the only point of connection between them.

Steve has seen this sleeping position only once, when he met Robin’s cat, Biscuit. Biscuit supposedly hates Robin, but somehow trusts Steve, because he sleeps with his tummy out when Steve’s around. Just like Eddie.

Steve raises his brow and looks at Eddie’s sunlit face again. He’s peaceful and relaxed, unbothered by the noises coming from outside. When the sun moves again, Eddie moves with it, pressing his bony hip a little closer to Steve’s.

That’s curious indeed. Steve doesn’t want to dwell on how it makes him feel at the moment, so he just looks. It’s quite a sight.

Weeks pass, Eddie’s peculiar habits get more and more frequent—or maybe after that one night spent at the trailer Steve’s just more focused on taking note of them. His hypothesis that Eddie’s a lot like his animal companions of choice is being confirmed time and time again, mostly when Eddie falls asleep.

After some time, Steve notices that on top of preferring weird sleeping positions, Eddie also makes a habit of seeking other people’s warmth whenever he wants to take a nap. Steve honestly doesn’t think it’s anything personal; Eddie will fall asleep on anyone’s shoulder if they let him, but he seems to have a preference. The preference being Steve.

When Robin tries to comment on that, Steve silences her. Half because he doesn’t want to confront that yet, half because he enjoys it and doesn’t want to spook Eddie away. Sue him if he likes being needed, right?

The only time he kind of regrets letting Eddie cling to him is when they go to the beach with the kids.

It’s not even a real beach, but they’re set on enjoying it as much as they can. Eddie takes his van, Nancy takes the wagon, they pack everyone inside and get the hell out of Hawkins for a full day. The weather is perfect, the grass is green and soft, the lake is nothing like Lover’s Lake at home. If only because there are no horrible memories attached.

Steve’s off babysitting duties when Nancy announces lunch, everyone wolfs down their sandwiches and lounges lazily around the lake in the scorching afternoon sun.

There aren’t many things Steve enjoys more than good sunbathing. At home, he can’t really do that anymore. He can’t stand the pool and the chlorine, he can’t stand the sound of unnatural sloshing of the water. It all makes his head spin and before he knows it, he’s back inside, fully dressed and calling Robin to ease the panic.

It’s different here. He lays down on his fluffy towel and enjoys the sun, listening to Dustin’s happy squeals and Lucas’ joyful giggling.

Until he has to hiss, because glacially cold droplets of water hit his sternum and a shadow obscures the light. When he opens his eyes, Eddie Munson grins at him despite the glare he’s being welcomed with.

“Hiya,” he says, shaking his head like a dog. Steve scowls some more. “Move over, beauty queen.”

“Don’t you have your own towel?” he grumbles, but makes space nonetheless, all while desperately trying not to catch Robin’s eyes at the same time.

Eddie plops down beside him, immediately making himself comfortable in the sparse space Steve has left him. “Yeah, but yours is better. And you wouldn’t starve a man of his rightful summer afternoon nap, would you, Stevie?”

Steve closes his eyes, not letting go of the frown. “Stop yapping or I’ll throw you into the water again.”

“Will you carry me to the shore princess style this time? Because—Hey!” He finally shuts up when Steve elbows him.

When Robin wakes him up again, Eddie’s on his side, so close to Steve he can feel his steady breaths on his shoulder. Eddie’s both arms are thrown over Steve’s chest—because of course, even his side sleeping must be cat-like.

“Wake up, tiger,” she says, barely holding back a smirk. Steve knows this face too well.

“What are you…” Robin points at the sun and then at his chest. Steve’s brain is still a little hazy from his nap, so it takes him a while to understand what she means. When it hits him, his eyes get so big Robin can’t contain herself anymore. She lets out a loud cackle that soon transforms into a full laughing fit. Steve can’t even blame her for it.

Eddie stirs beside him. Slowly, he sits up and yawns. While he’s rubbing his eyes, Steve looks down at his chest in agony. It’s all red and scorched – all, aside from two pale stripes where Eddie’s arms were lying across his skin.

He sighs at it in disbelief while Robin cackles some more.

Overall, Steve quickly finds out that he really doesn’t mind the fact that Eddie includes him in his every nap when they’re together. In fact, he learns that he enjoys it so much he can’t imagine napping all by himself at this point.

But it’s all okay. And it’s not that unusual, right? They’ve all gotten really close since Vecna—even Nancy and Robin have some kind of secret proximity contract going on between them, it seems. It’s the magic of shared trauma and shared secrets that keeps them together and pulls them closer to each other every day.

At least that’s how Steve explains it to himself. That’s how he explains the comfort and sense of safety he gets every time Eddie’s back is pressed to his chest, when they’re breathing evenly and in sync. That’s how he sees it when he absent-mindedly reaches for Eddie’s hand when they’re falling asleep on the Munsons’ worn-out sofa. That’s how he feels when Eddie’s arms pull him closer.

Deep down, he knows it’s not usual at all. He’s had enough dates and romances to recognize when things cross the line, but he purposefully closes his eyes to that for the time being, letting himself enjoy the comfort and the safety of it all.

He learns the hard way that while both him and Eddie decide to stay oblivious, not everyone else does. And the fact that they never talk about it doesn’t help.

As per usual, when their monthly movie night with Nancy and Robin – the original Upside Down Bat Squad – comes, Steve and Eddie squeeze themselves into one loveseat. Eddie’s head drops to Steve’s shoulder almost immediately and he folds himself into a small human ball, pressing his side to Steve and going to sleep instantly.

Steve would love to take a nap himself, but the movie is just interesting enough to keep him in the half-dazed lethargy between sleep and consciousness. When he finally drifts off, it’s not for long.

He opens his eyes again when he registers the sudden lack of warmth beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie leave through the glass door in his living room. He wants to call after him, but before he does, he finally notices the muffled talk in the corridor. Nancy’s voice cuts through the silence first.

“...yes, but isn’t it kind of… Strange for them to be like that without acknowledging it in any way?”

It’s quiet for a bit, as if the conversation is being actively processed by both participants. “You mean the, uh… The closeness, or…?” Robin tries to keep her voice steady and neutral, but her cover blows a little bit more with every word.

“Yes! You clearly can’t be this intimate with someone if you don’t care about them deeply. There’s always a reason to be so close to each other, right? And you’re Steve’s platonic soulmate, so it’s definitely not like that between them.”

So many things come to Steve’s mind so suddenly he has to close his eyes—things concerning not only him and Eddie, but also Nancy and Robin. Things they were all too blind to notice.

“You mean, um,” Robin swallows so loudly even Steve can hear it. “To be as close to each other… As we are, sometimes?”

He gets up, then, deciding that he’s heard enough. Robin will tell him everything either way.

When he opens the glass door and catches the sight of Eddie, sitting on one of the lawn chairs and smoking, he realizes that they’re both going to have a lot to confess to each other at work tomorrow.

He sits down on the chair next to Eddie’s and lets the silence envelop them for a second. Eddie passes him the cigarette and he takes a prolonged drag.

“Robin and Nance woke me up with their babbling. Sorry for waking you up too,” Eddie says without looking at him.

Steve doesn’t really know how to approach it. It would be difficult enough if only one or two of them were having a revelation this evening, but since it’s all of them—well, that complicates things. He’s only a little bit surprised that his revelation doesn't hurt him at all, though. It’s not making his stomach churn or his eyes water. He still feels safe within it. When he glances at Eddie again, he can’t help but hope, even though their situation has more layers than either of them has had a chance to discover.

“It’s alright,” he reassures, passing down the cigarette. “I wasn’t really sleeping.”

Something sour flashes on Eddie’s face, but it’s only temporary. He smiles again, then, although his eyes stay dim. “Bet you don’t get good sleep at all when I’m all over you.”

“Actually,” Steve says, making sure to time it perfectly. When he reaches out to take the cigarette from Eddie, he lets their fingers stay pressed together for long enough to make some ash fall to the ground by itself. “It’s the other way around. I like it. I like when we do that.”

Eddie frowns, but his expression is as far from sour as possible. “You do?”

“Yeah. It’s just… It’s calming. I feel safe. Far away from the monsters and shit.”

Eddie smiles and huffs. He lets go of the cigarette gently. His fingers drag down along Steve’s skin. He’s not too willing to admit that, but this simple gesture gives Steve enough goosebumps to last him for life.

“Monsters and shit,” Eddie says, smiling. He turns and presses his knee to Steve’s.

“Yeah, exactly,” Steve presses back. “Monsters and shit.”

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ineffable-baker-street · 11 months

Text

Merlin had been gone for five days. Arthur had been in bed for those five days. Well, technically he got out of bed on the first day, but then he'd tried to dress and bathe himself, had had to walk around the castle trying to find the kitchen to get food, and decided it wasn't worth it and climbed back into bed.

The crown prince had not spoken in Merlin's absence, and though he hadn't yet said a word, the kingdom, and certainly the royal household knew why. His servant was gone. Though servant was a word used lightly by most, just Merlin's formal title really. Anyone who had seen them together knew he was far, far more than that. Not just Arthur's friend, nor even his simple lover, but his soulmate. More than a soulmate in fact, Merlin was truly Arthur's other half. The two walked in step beside each other, them and only them, lost in the world they'd built to surround each other, a coin that flipped through the air, travelling from place to place, both sides always next to each other, never once straying apart.

But now, one side was gone, and a coin is not a coin with one side missing. A coin with one side is... well it's nothing. An unformed mass, doomed to being cast aside, with no use and not worth a second glance. And that was now Arthur. He had no purpose without Merlin, no future, no destiny. There was nothing more for him to achieve in this world, for Merlin was his destiny. From the day they had met, Arthur had known his life served no purpose without Merlin by his side. No matter what plan was formed, what decision was made, what path he walked, Merlin was beside him through it all, from today, and into the beautiful abyss of forever.

And so Arthur knew where he was next headed, where he had to go to find the other side of the coin. In the dead of night, as the sixth day was arriving, Arthur mounted his horse, wearing the cloak Merlin had once lent him, drawing it around him as tightly as possible, holding nothing but the Horn of Cathbhadh. It was all he needed, for it would take him home. He rode out of the gates, not sparing a glance back, his heart becoming more desperate the closer he got, his eyes fixated ahead of him, until the Great Stones of Nemeton finally come into view. And peace flooded him, over his skin and through his blood, knowing he was almost there, that he had very nearly escaped this grief, a torture he had never had to endure before. Arthur lifted the horn to his lips and blew, every second spent in this world without Merlin unbearable.

Once, all he had cared for was Camelot, and he had thought nothing would come between his duty and loyalty to the kingdom. How unbelievably wrong he had been, proven the day a young boy stood up to him, in a way no one ever had. And how he had been proven wrong every day since then, as he became intwined with Merlin, with every aspect of him, with his very being, until they were one, and finally he was whole. Every moment with Merlin came back to him, and he dropped to his knees an sobbed in agony. Because it hadn't worked. He was still here, and Merlin was still gone. And he reached the end of his memories, to the very last one where Merlin held his face and whispered,

"I love you."

But it was louder, louder than everything else, and then he felt arms around him, pulling him up and drawing him in, and finally, as the whiteness grew brighter and brighter, and the world behind him faded, finally Arthur was home.

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pastafossa · 1 year

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Hi Pasta!! I have a question 🙃 What do you think Matt and Jane got each other for Christmas? I cant stop thinking about it. They’re so cute 🥹

BEHOLD. Like 1.1k so rest is behind a see more, but this was in my drafts for what their gifts would be. I didn't have time to get the whole scene done with everything, but I figured this would do!

It didn’t take long for Matt to make use of some of his Christmas gifts, and you found yourself standing by the couch less than an hour later, staring down in amusement at the happy, melted puddle that was Matt Murdock beneath the glow of a Christmas tree.

He’d burrowed down into his new hoodie, his eyes closed and his nose tucked down into the velvet-soft alpaca wool that lined the inside—some of the softest wool you’d been able to find, and something you’d searched long and hard for. Wrapped around the rest of him was a rich, red alpaca wool blanket, thick and warm and equally soft. You had a feeling that, under the blanket, he’d likely also slipped into his new fleece-lined sweats and fleecy socks, ninety-five percent of his body now cradled in soothing, warm comfort.

“So is that a yes on those?” you said softly, relieved now that it was obvious you’d chosen right when it came to this. It had been… a while, since you’d given anything for Christmas, much less given a gift to someone who meant as much to you as Matt did. Soft had seemed a good road to take, and you’d spent ages hunting for something that he’d be able to wear even when his senses ramped up to the point of pain. “Soft enough?”

A quiet sigh, almost a moan, was his response, followed by a glutted “Mhm,” before he lazily lifted his arms out from under the blanket, opening them to you. You quickly took up the invitation, climbing into his lap and letting him wind his arms around you. You dropped your head against his shoulder, reaching over to run your palm across the velvet-soft fabric covering his chest. His reaction was instant, arching up into your hand as he purred and melted further into the couch at the sensation of the fabric sliding on his skin, his head lolling back when you nuzzled in past the collar of the hoodie so you could press your lips gently to his pulse. Briefly, you passed over the new necklace chain he wore, the little braille pendant reading ‘Always Loved’ hidden somewhere beneath the fabric, its color a match for the key around your neck. That, at least, you knew was a success, but the rest...

“You really do like the clothes, don’t you?” you asked him, relaxing a little, curling your fingers to scratch a little as you ran them up and down his chest. “I had a good feeling on the necklace, but for these… I wasn’t sure.” “Why not?” he asked sleepily, fumbling one hand up until he could slip it up under the back of your shirt, palming the line of your spine like you were stroking his chest. You weren’t surprised; he always tried to reciprocate, or maybe he just... liked having an excuse to touch you back. “These are probably the softest things I own now. They’re perfect. They feel amazing.”

“I was worried it was too… I don’t know. Impersonal.” You drummed your fingers a little against his chest, tucking your legs up until you were more comfortable. “But you shouldn’t have to wear things that hurt on your bad days, or at all really, so I-I guess I just—”

“The hoodie smells like you,” he murmured, tipping his head to lay it atop yours. You went quiet, still and unmoving as he continued, “I can tell that you wore it for me a little after washing it, and that it made you happy to do it, because your scent’s different when you’re happy and when you love someone. And every time I move, nothing scratches. Nothing hurts. All of these feel soft and gentle, like how you touch me when I’m bleeding, and when I need you most.” His chest expanded and then dipped on a contented sigh, and then he reached up, brushing his thumb over your cheek, his thumb coming away wet. His voice dropped to something even softer, low and tender. “So much of my life is pain, sweetheart. How could the way you touch me, the way you want to take away some of that pain from me, be impersonal?”

You wound yourself a little tighter around him, hiding your face against his neck as you let out a shaky breath, and he pulled you in tighter with a soothing noise. You’d been so… so terrified you’d fuck this up, that you’d do this wrong after so many years of dodging it, of being alone, of being forced to avoid anything like a holiday, anything like friends or love. The idea that you’d gotten it right on your first try…

And you weren’t the only one.

You leaned away from him just far enough to pick up one of the two photo frames on the coffee table where it had been set atop a massive pile of books you’d wanted to read for years, years in which you’d been forced to pass them by, story by story, cover by cover until Matt hunted down those stories and placed them back into your hands. You laid back against his chest again after you’d brushed your fingers fondly over the books, and instead, you focused once more on the photo inside the elegant black frame.

Foggy had taken it at Josie’s at some point—a candid of you and Matt crammed into a booth, his arm draped around your shoulders as you leaned into him, a bright grin on his face, your head tipped back as you laughed at something he’d said. The warmth in your eyes and his smile was obvious as you stared fondly up at him beneath the dull glow of the bar, at the very same table Foggy had once worked at to ensure your friendship with Matt was mended. There was no disguising what this was. And…

“I can’t believe I can put this on my desk now,” you whispered, tracing your fingers over the frame.

And you didn’t… have to disguise it, did you? There was no need to hide, not anymore. You could have his picture on your desk, could hold his hand as he walked you home, could kiss him when he came to see you at your office or you at his or when you were both out in the rain. And he could do the same with the second picture, one destined for his own desk, all so that he could proudly gesture towards it whenever you came up.

A… a real life.

He lifted one arm and you sniffled, crawling back around to wrap your arms around him in return, burying your face against his neck as he held you close. Held you here at home—a home for you both, for your tree, for your books, for an actual life, lived fully and completely and wholly for the first time.

“I love you, so much,” he whispered. "Merry Christmas."

“Love you, too. Merry Christmas.”

There was no bigger gift he could give you.

#the red thread #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock x reader #daredevil x f!reader #daredevil x reader #daredevil #matt murdock #reader #fic #ficlet #fanfic #x reader #fluff #christmas fluff #basically the two of them trying to give each other what they feel might mean most to the *other person*#jane looks for something that will help him hurt less and something that will remind him that he's cared for and ALWAYS loved #even when the dark voices say otherwise #and even when those voices (THAT SOUND LIKE FUCKING STICK) tell him he doesn't deserve the soft things that make his skin hurt less #now he'll be able to argue back 'she gave it to me because she loves me' and sort of circumvent it by latching onto #'she gave it to me so it's only right that i use it and i don't have to feel bad or weak'#and he gets her things she's missed out on while on the run #books she's always wanted to read along with a picture she can finally put on her desk to publicly say 'yes he's mine and i love him'#and he can do the same #there's also a very large stuffed penguin that matt put one of his shirts on so she can hold it while he's gone if she has a panic attack #but didn't really have time for that so prob just gonna work that into TRT

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topsyturvy-turtely · 1 year

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OTP challenge - day 15

here it is! part 2/2! (because i simply suck at keeping myself short) -> link to part 1

[link to day 14]

TW: detailed description of needles and stitches. knife wound.

15: teaching each other how to do something

(pt. 2/2)

[Last sentence from part 1: But soon this something, that danced in the room to the tone they had played together, was interrupted by the thunder of upstairs-running kid's feet.]

***

That was last week. Tonight John had invited Sherlock over for dinner with him. Rosie had a movies night with her aunt Harry. (John seriously wasn't sure who whorshipped whom more. These two were soulmates, no joking.)

The doctor was determined to make Sherlock a nice proper meal. He didn't cook often, but he ought to get better at it, he can't keep ordering takeout with a kid at home. What if Rosie will never eat anything homemade?! That could end up into an embarrassing situation at a friend's house...

Lost in his thoughts he prepared his 'easy but fancy meal' (no, he hasn't googled this). He had ended up with Lasagna. The bechamél sauce was the difficult part about it, but he was confident it would work out. He heard the bell ring and - wiping his hands on the ridiculous apron Harry got him (it says 'BAMF' in pink, purple and blue colors on it. According to her that means 'bad ass motherfucker', which he thought was absurd, but, well, he didn't wanna get his shirt dirty) - he went to open the door for a very early Sherlock. Who has apparently just been in a massive fight.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! What happened to you?"

"Idiot brought a knife to a gun fight. Still managed to cut me however, that imbecile."

"They cut you? How deep? Where? Let me see.", John Watson was in immediate doctor mode.

"Not that deep.", Sherlock said waving his hnd dismissively.

"Oh no! We are not doing this! Go sit down somewhere, I'll get my doctor's kit.", John commanded and went into the bathroom to wash his hands and get the kit.

When he came back, Sherlock was sitting on the couch, no coat and jacket on, limps spread out around him, right hand to his side, the blood running through his fingers.

"Jesus. Sherlock.", John was frozen for a second, anxiously staring at his friend, regretting he couldn't protect him anymore whenever he decided to run after a serial killer.

Then the feeling faded and with his usual professional tone he told Sherlock to take his shirt off. The great idiot detective sighed but obeyed. Meanwhile John put on surgical gloves and poured disinfectant onto a cotton ball. When he looked up and stared at his friend's freed stomach he gulped. Not because he hasn't seen worse, but because it was Sherlock who was the injured. What if he wouldn't get away so easily next time? John wasn't sure how he would take another one of Sherlock's funerals. A real one this time. Internally John shook himself and focused on his task.

"I'm gonna clean the wound and see if it needs stitches now.", John told his patient. When he started disinfecting, he heard Sherlock take in a sharp breath. That, and a few seconds of cleaning, made him realize, "Sorry, mate, but the wound is deep enough for sutures. I'm gonna call an amb-"

"No!", Sherlock immediately protested and his face was a mask of pain. "It's you or nothing at all."

John stared at him, he had done that often before, back in the days, but how could Sherlock still insist on John stitching him up? With a resigned sigh, because he knew there was no reason in arguing, he took off his gloves. "Alright, I'll get you some ice. It will help with the pain and the swelling."

When he came back, he sat back down and put on a fresh pair of gloves. "Listen. I hate you getting injured, and I am honored you let me have you stitch up but you will have to learn to do this yourself. I am not available 24/7 and I can't risk you passing out while having a fever dream from the blood loss, simply because you refuse to seek medical attention like a child. So you gonna watch, listen, hell- observe while I am doing this. You got me?"

Sherlock had a neutral facial expression, but stared deep into John's eyes. "Yes, sir."

"You already know who is in charge here, that's a good start.", John smirked. Then their eyes met and just how it always has been, there was a connection between the two men which took actual willpower to break. When they did, John started explaining, "Step one: sanitize and examine the wound. Deeper than half an inch? Sutures are needed.

"Step two: if the wound is swollen, ice it.", John nodded at the ice on Sherlock's stomach, while he disinfected the needle and thread.

"This will provide a numbness as well. Helpful, when there's no local anasthetics available."

"Step three, actually- step zero: wash hands, and wear gloves to prevent infection. Always wash your hands and wear gloves, hear me?", John fixed his gaze on Sherlock. The detective was determined to show no pain but he couldn't fool John. A simple nod satisfied John.

"Good. Step three: Disinfect needle and thread and the rest of the equipment. I use a needle holder, to ensure no infections will occur. Holding it with your hand may easily cause them." John was glad Sherlock had his voice to focus on. That he had given that genius brain something to fixate on, to save into a room or a file or whatever in his mind palace with every little detail. Because the stitches - even with the ice - are gonna add another pain level.

"Step four: with your forceps" - John grabbed them - "check the skin and determine what needs to be done.", John did as he was explaining, wishing he had a mask to further protect Sherlock from a possible infection.

"Step five: punctuate the skin and make sure the needle penetrates the skin up to 0.5cm, exit on the other side of the wound. The needle needs to be held perpendicular to the skin and you rotate your hands clockwise.", when the needle sank into Sherlock's skin, his patient groaned in pain. "For this you'll need to release the needle holder by pulling it right with your ring finger-", John did as he was explainig. "-and pushing it left with your thumb.

"Step six: hold the needle holder and pull the thread. Leave 3-5cm on the side of the wound. Step seven: hold the thread with your right - in your case left - hand and wrap it around the tip of the needle holder. Catch hold of the thread on the left of the wound using the needle holder. Make the wrapped thread pass out of the needle holder and tie it around the loose thread and then cut the excess thread.", John was glad Sherlock was a genius because when he had first learned this, he still had had a million questions.

Satisfied John looked at his work. "This was it - you had made a secure knot. Now, step eight: repeat this process by moving up the wound about 0.6cm to perform the next suture."

Sherlock was making pained noises while John performed step eight. "Do you think you can focus on my hands and describe what I am doing? Might be a good distraction.", the doctor suggested.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, nodded and did as he was told. Indeed, his pained sounds decreased and his observation-mode was turned on.

After a while John said, "There. Sutures are done. Now the final step is putting a sterilized pad and bandage on. Here, sit up."

Sherlock did and John wrapped the bandage around Sherlocks rib cage; tight but not too tight. His breath gave Sherlock's skin, that had broken out into a sweat during the suturing process, goosebumps. John followed them up... over side, arm, chest, nipple. John licked his lips. Then he cleared his throat and stood up. "I'll look for a shirt that will fit you. You hardly can wear that one over there." John pointed at the ripped and blood covered dressing shirt on the ground.

"Your clothing choice is a rather interesting one, too.", Sherlock countered, a hint of a raised eyebrow visible on his carefully controlled face.

For a second John was confused, but when he looked down at himself he remembered his 'BAMF' apron... John's eyes widened.

"Fucking hell!", he swore. John ran into a kitchen and already saw smoke coming through the oven. "THE LASAGNA!"

A bunch of further curses escaped John's mouth while he took the burnt piece of pasta out. Sherlock followed him into the kitchen. He leaned on the door frame crossing his arms over his bare chest. "Apparently bisexual Badass Motherfuckers can't cook.", he stated.

Waving around with a kitchen towel and opening a window to get rid of the smoke, John was busy with other things. But when Sherlock's words sank in he slowly turned around. "I'm sorry- what?", he asked incredulously.

Sherlock nodded at John's garment. "Your apron. It's in the bisexual pride colors."

With oven mittens on, palms up, John stared down at his apron. "Oh. Oh, Harry that absolute-"

"-genius lesbian with her evidently accurate observations regarding sexuality?", Sherlock finished, pushing himself off the wall. He slowly walked over to John.

"Hold on one second! How many times did i say I am not-"

"-Gay? No, but bisexual you are, my dear Watson.", with that Shelock stood in front of him, his upper body only wearing a bandage John had put on him only a moment ago.

The blogger shook his hands in denial. "I- I am not..."

But he didn't get further because Sherlock pressed his lips against his and John forgot what he wanted to say. Soft, cupid bowed lips, rested against chapped, thin lips. Until John pulled back and stared at a rather precarious Sherlock. And without another thought he ripped his oven mittens off and clasped his hands around this face, this familiar beautiful face and kissed Sherlock again. He was moving on pure instinct, none of this was his brain's doing, it was all his body's. It knew what it had wanted for years and now wouldn't let the opportunity slip. They kissed and gasped and pulled and moaned. Until Sherlock hissed in pain, because John had eagerly pulled him close and it hurt his freshly sutured wound.

John loosened his grip and they let air drift between their bodies again. "I- you-", John tried.

"Harry and I might have a point?", Sherlock said with cocky grin.

John sighed, laughed, and let his forehead drop into his hand. "Yeah. I suppose you might."

They caught their eyes and then started giggling, like they did after their first case.

Sherlock's gaze fell on the burnt lasagna behind John. "Takeout?"

"Starving", John replied with a soft but genuine smile on his face.

---

this time i have to thank my lovely friend (lol are we even friends?!) @safedistancefrombeingsmart for 1. telling me that John can't cook and should teach Sherlock how to make proper stitches instead. And 2. for her genius photoshopoed bi-colored BAMF sweatshirt. This oneshot would have been a lot less fun without you. Thank you, smartin'! ;)

this part required a lot of research (as i am an absolute no-hoper at anything medical). i must admit i partly directly quoted from the site. check it out if you're interested!

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed 💚) @catlock-holmes @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @boredsushi @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @7arantellgrrl @ssmeowl123 @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @pansherlock @the-smol-bean-libby-blog @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @almosttinycowboy @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee

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psychangels · 2 months

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happy trans day of visibility! here's some transfem chai hcs :]

(if you interact with this post, please use she/her pronouns when referring to her, thank you!)

she tries out multiple different hair styles and colors before eventually settling on one she likes. at one point, her hair is long enough to reach her thighs, which is where she ultimately draws the line—by shaving it all off

she experiments with pronouns for a bit

she wears skirts and dresses over jeans

skorts! :]

hair pins! barrettes!

korsica and her trade hair ties and scrunchies sometimes

ponytail(s), braid(s), twintails, bun(s)...she does it all!

cnmn makes her a bunch of dresses and skirts to try every so often, and they have a little fashion show

any time she's supposed to wear heels for some sort of event, she tosses them and puts on her nicest pair of sneakers

peppermint makes/gets her a trans pin for her scarf and a sticker for her guitar

she writes a bunch of songs about her experience and journey, but is too nervous to actually perform any of them for a while

korsica and peppermint give her some of their clothes that they don't really wear/don't like

macaron calls her little gal :] (also still calls her little guy since she's okay with it)

trans lighting at concerts!

custom guitar with the trans flag on it!

she does her own makeup for concerts and just whenever she feels like wearing it

#hi fi rush #chai hi fi rush #angeltalks.txt #didn't realize it was tdov until the day before #otherwise i would've written a ficlet for Segmented‚ Connected‚ Enlightening #oh well

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coconi · 2 years

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Atop a rickety old shed overrun by the elements, Link nibbles on an apple and watches a herd of horses frolic about. It's a peaceful afternoon. The sun is warm on his skin and the fields sing with the breeze.

Yet his heart grows cold with something he cannot place — a persistent, frigid chill that leaves his eyes burning and his throat tight.

Link presses a hand to his chest, focusing hard on the four gifts therein. Three thrum quietly against his heart as usual, warm and subdued and comforting, but the fourth—

The chill flutters like candlelight, as if someone were desperately, angrily trying to snuff it out.

Ah.

His snack forgotten, Link crouches precariously and summons Revali's Gale once, twice, thrice in quick succession. Revali comes to his aid without delay, averting his gaze the first time, then gaping at Link, then outright squawking at him as his indignation mounts ever higher.

Link only smiles at the green flames, offering no explanation.

By the time Revali's gift depletes, all nearby horses have spooked and scattered, and the cold in Link's chest has begun to thaw.

#revalink #revali/link #my writing #botw #breath of the wild #this was originally meant to be one of my a-z drabbles but it got longer than intended so i'm posting separately #it's based on a little idea i had last night before falling asleep:#what if link got vague impressions of the champions' state of mind through their gifts? since they're a part of him now?#and the gifts are fragments of their souls technically speaking #what if he grew better at reading said impressions as time went on?#and tried to offer comfort/visit them/offer a distraction when necessary #would it go both ways?#i'm not the happiest with this ficlet but hey gotta shake rust somehow otherwise my sheikah zine fic ain't getting written #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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starkstruck27 · 1 year

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I graduated tonight, so here's a tidbit for you in celebration!! 🎓💚

It's Billy's graduation day, and he can feel daggers being stared into him from all sides. He was named Valedictorian (he has no clue how he achieved that), so Nancy Wheeler is glaring from across the stage in the chair reserved for the Saluditorian. His dad was off somewhere in the stands glaring at him, and he was actually surprised he came to see him walk the stage at all. All the kids he beat up or messed with, even if he apologized, were glaring, pissed off that they had to follow his every move to know when to stand and sit on his command. All in all, it seemed like everyone there hated him.

But there was two people that were there rooting for him, even if no one else was. He could still see them, smiling and shouting his name and waving around these embarrassing homemade signs they made to make sure he'd see them. Max was wearing a homemade shirt with a picture of his face printed on it, and it was the least flattering picture ever, from his freshman year where he was mid-sneeze when the flash went off, but he couldn't help but smile when he saw it. Steve was standing next to her and screaming loudly, unashamed of anyone watching him. He had a shirt that said "I ❤ BH", like those stupid tourist t-shirts from New York, only with his initials instead. He was waving around a giant shark plushie that had a little graduation cap sewn on it, the stitching job no doubt having been done by either Joyce Byers or Claudia Henderson.

He didn't know it yet, but both ladies were also in the audience, along with Will, El, Hopper, Dustin, and Lucas, all there to cheer on Billy and Jonathan as they both walked the stage. Mike was sitting somewhere else with his parents and little sister to cheer on Nancy, but his mother eventually let him go off with his friends once Nancy finished giving her speech.

She was the first one to do it, getting the honor of speaking first, followed by the class president and the class historian. Billy was the last one to give his speech, and as the historian sat down, his heart began to race a little as he walked up to the podium. He had his speech written on a few note cards, but he'd been sleep deprived from finals and entirely too nervous when he wrote them, so they were near incomprehensible. So he didn't even bother to get them out, deciding instead to just wing it. He'd bullshitted his way through it anyway. And nothing could be worse than the class president's speech, which the poor kid had stuttered through and barely spoke into the mic at all, so he was impossible to hear. At least Billy would be able to be heard if his speech was awful.

"Friends, family, teachers, staff and guests," he started, trying to keep his tassel out of his face, "You're probably all thinking that I'm feeling so honored to be standing here as the vedictorian of the class of 1986. I know that you probably think that this is the highlight of my high school career. Hell, our saluditorian would probably kill to be standing where I am right now."

At this, a little laughter bubbled up from the crowd, and Billy allowed himself a second to enjoy the way Nancy's face went bright red before he continued.

"But you'd all be wrong. True, I did get here halfway through my junior year and still managed to build myself up to this point with little to no support, but that’s precisely the reason I don't feel honored to be making this speech right now. It's not that I think I don't deserve it, because I do. I've worked myself half to death to get here right now, to prove to myself that I was not a complete failure and that I was good for something. So I took the hard classes, I turned in all the work, and I did the best I could to put myself where I'm standing right now. But I'm still not honored to be here, because I didn't do it for recognition. I didn't do it for praise or to prove that I'm the best or anything shallow like that. I also didn't do it out of love for school or my classes. I did it out of survival. I did it because if I didn't, I might not be accepting a diploma at all today. I did it because I had no other choice."

As Billy continued speaking, a confused murmur went through the crowd. The audience was wondering where he was going with all this, and the rest of his classmates and the staff were all wondering what happened to the other speech they'd had to listen to him reciting for the past two days at practice. All in all, everyone seemed lost, but Billy didn't care. He took a second as they recollected themselves to look up and see if his dad was still in his spot on the stands. He wasn't, so Billy kept going.

"Most of you here know that I'm not a perfect person. I'm a dick, really. If someone gets in my way, I have no qualms about punching them in the nose or making them cry as they run home to their mommies to have them make the boo-boos feel better. I'm not proud of this. It's just a part of who I am and I'm trying to work on changing it. As I'm getting older and getting closer and closer to leaving this town, it's getting easier to do that. But so far it's been a slow process, because I didn't have any reason to change. That's another reason I never quit and threw myself into my studies, because as I get closer to getting out of here, I'm finding more and more reasons to change. For one, my little sister Maxine deserves a brother that she can be proud of, not one that she dreads admitting relation to. For another, as soon as I get my diploma and decide where I'm going to college, I'm gone. Out of this town, out of this state, and especially out of my father's house. Believe it or not, there are actually people worse to others than me, and if you want an example, well, my father is the best one you'd ever find. As soon as I get my diploma, I get to be rid of him forever if I want to be, and that's exactly what I want. And finally, I met somebody. None of you probably want or need to hear about my love life, and I'll spare you the dirty details, but just know that this person is my reason for everything. For living, for working so hard, and for wanting to change. It's for these reasons, and there are probably more if I put my mind to it, I want to change out of the jerk I was and into a person that would be honored to be the best student in their class. It's for these reasons that I'm even here in the first place, why I pushed so hard to make myself survive and earn it. I'm not the best Valedictorian that this school will ever have, I'm far from it. But hopefully, now that you understand why I'm here, you won't think I'm the worst one, either. You'll understand why I'm here, what I had to do to make it happen, and why, even though I'm not feeling honored by being here, I'm more proud of myself than I ever have been in my life."

Billy had been nervous about giving a speech he didn't practice, but so far he seemed to be fine. He could see Steve on the verge of tears off to the side of him, and it made him remember that even if he was a total flop and didn't make any sense, at least a few people would be proud of him. So he decided to finish strong.

"And to my classmates, the graduating seniors of 1986, I want to say this: I didn't get here on my own. I had help, from a lot of you. I'd like to address some people who really helped on my journey here at Hawkins High, short as it may have been, and helped either directly or indirectly in my success. Heather Holloway, you've taught me to be confident and given me your friendship, which is an invaluable gift that I truly treasure every day. I love you, forever and always you'll be my best friend. Robin Buckley, you've shown me that it doesn't matter who I am or what I'm like, that there will always be people like me in the world and that if I find those people, I don't have to be afraid of what they'll bring out in me. Eddie Munson, you've taught me to be confident in all things, that it doesn't matter if the world is watching, as long as I believe in what I'm saying and doing that someday, I'll make it through and make it out, even if it takes a few tries. Chrissy Cunningham, you taught me to be sweet and kind. Jonathan Byers, you taught me that sometimes I need to see life through the lens of someone else's camera. Nancy Wheeler, you've taught me that you don't have to like a person to be proud of their accomplishments. And finally, Steve Harrington, even though you're already graduated, you know why I'm thanking you, and you know what you taught me. As we move forward throughout our lives, myself and the rest of the class of '86, I implore all of you to take these lessons with you and actually practice them. You'll be successful in whatever you choose to do with your time if you do so. Learn from these people, you don't have to like them, but learn from them. And if you do, I promise you, you'll beat the odds that are seemingly stacked against you."

After Billy finished his speech, he went back to his seat and sat down, waiting for whoever was speaking next to say whatever they needed to. He wasn't paying attention, rather looking over to Steve and Max again, who were both crying and clapping for him.

When the principal finally stood up and read out the names of all the seniors and handed them their diplomas, Billy stood up to receive his first. A shy smile on his face as he listened.

"William Felix Hargrove, class of 1986 Valedictorian," the principal read out like a robot, already tired of having to read out the names of the 236 graduating seniors after the first one. Billy stood and walked over to him, taking his diploma and shaking the man's hand as he smiled for a picture. He was sure he'd have to fake smile when he was told ther would be a photographer there, but because of the screams and shrieks he could hear coming from Steve and Max's direction, he found he didn't have to fake it. As he turned to walk back to his seat he saw them still crying and cheering, making such a scene that Billy was almost afraid the audience wouldn't hear it when Nancy's name was called, but then they quieted down.

They stayed quiet through the rest of the ceremony, except when they needed to make noise, and as soon as Billy was allowed to go and find them, they were on the field with him, both wrapping him in the tightest hugs they could manage. Max was practically squeezing the air out of him, sobbing into his graduation gown that she was already proud of him and she always would be, drawing a few tears from his eyes in the process as he muttered a "thanks, shitbird" into her hair. Steve had let them have their moment, having gone off to talk to Robin and to give her her present and a hug, but now he was walking back over, holding out the shark plushie and smiling from ear to ear.

"I got you this," he said as Billy took the animal, his own grin creeping onto his face. "I figured flowers would just die and you could eat chocolates. I wanted to get you something that would last."

"Thanks, pretty boy. I love her." He said, his face heating up as Max went to talk to her friends and Steve began to back them up until they were hidden from sight behind the bleachers.

"I'm really fucking proud of you, you know that?" He asked as they walked, keeping an eye out to make sure no one was looking as they slipped away. "And I was so surprised when you mentioned me in your speech. You didn't plan that thing at all, did you?"

"Was it that obvious?" Billy asked, but he laughed.

"No, but I just know you. You only get that look on your face when you're determined to do something completely on the fly. It was still fantastic though." Steve replied, finally finding them a quiet, dim little nook to hide away in.

"Thank you. For everything, and I really mean that, Stevie. I wouldn't have made it without you. You're everything to me, you're the main reason I did all that stuff like I said in the speech." Billy said, his voice weighed down with emotion. Steve could hear it, too, and his smile only grew wider as he leaned in real close.

"You saying you love me, Hargrove?" He asked, and the question honestly surprised Billy. Neither of them had ever said it before, even if they had felt it, so it just seemed too casual. But Billy had meant the things he'd said in his speech, about confidence and being himself and all that, and he wasn't giving up on those lessons now. He lunged forward and kissed Steve with all his might, wanting to tell him not only with words, but actions too.

"Yeah, I am. I love you, Steve." He said as they parted, his heart racing as he went in for another searing kiss. He really did mean it when he said it, too. He loved Steve, and he always would.

When this kiss was broken, it was like everything and nothing had changed. Billy was still afraid to hold Steve's hand once they left the cover of the bleachers, but until they stepped back out into the setting sun, he did it. He let Steve adjust his cap and gown before they went out to take pictures, and he let him insist on as many as he wanted to commemorate the occasion. They still couldn't do much in terms of physical contact, but every brush of fingers or press of a side that managed to take place as they snapped picture after picture was like a tiny little press of sunshine to their skin. It was different, but that was okay by them.

"Oh, and by the way," Steve asked as Joyce geared up to snap the next shot, "Since when is your middle name Felix?" And when the flash went off, all you could see what Steve looking puzzled as Billy cracked up laughing.

#billys middle name is felix and i wil not be told otherwise #billy hargrove #harringrove #steve harrington #stranger things #billy hargrove x steve harrington #ficlet #graduation #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #eddie munson #heather holloway #chrissy cunningham #jonathan byers

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zmediaoutlet · 1 day

Text

This world without apocalypse—or demons, or angels, or magic of any kind, as far as Dean can tell—is… fine. It's a craphole for all the normal reasons, what with climate change and war and gas over three bunks a gallon. But—as far as Dean can tell, if he went down to the ghost highway in Nevada it'd really just be a dumb story kids tell each other at summer camp and not something that'd get his lungs torn out through his throat. If he went down to a crossroads and buried his face and name in the midnight dirt, he'd just be down a decent fake ID.

It's not like the dream he had all those years ago, when the djinn tried to give him a fantasy that was rotten through its core. This world is sterile. All the problems it has, problems of its own making, with no fate or angels or anyone trying to load the dice. You die here and—you die, and that's all. Your body rots into the earth and grass grows from the dirt above and there's no heaven or hell and no deals to be made and no responsibility to things beyond the concrete meat in front of you. Freedom, more bare and wild than anything he'd ever imagined.

He's gotten through about half the bottle, eyes dry and sore from reading, when Sam reappears, looking harried. "Hey there, People's Sexiest Man 2010," Dean says. At least there's Sam's face, when he hears it. "You think they send you a plaque or something for that?"

"If they do, this guy's probably got it in a trophy room," Sam says, revolted. His eyes drift down from the terrible gigantic version of himself behind Dean's back and to Dean's face, which for some reason makes him frown even if Dean's just—what, he's sitting here. "What?"

"How was—" Dean gestures vaguely at the ceiling. He wandered through the house while Sam was doing his own search, saw the master bedroom with its california king mattress and the his-and-hers bedside tables and the gallon-sized bottle of Wet in the drawer. Sue him, he investigates shit for a living. "You were gone a while."

Sam's mouth gets thin. Prissy bitch. "Don't laugh," he says, and ignores Dean immediately saying no promises. "Said I had a headache. She applied, like. Essential oils. Said we needed to re-align my chakras."

Dean sits back in his chair, something tense that had been wrapping itself around his spine slowly uncoiling. "Tell me she used a crystal," he says.

"Amethyst," Sam says, grim, and Dean whoops. "Dude, this world sucks."

"Oh, I dunno," Dean says, kicking his boots up onto the desk. He lifts the glass of stupid-expensive scotch he's nearly drained. "Got some perks, at least."

Sam comes around the edge of the desk, takes the glass out of his hand, and drains it. Dean would sock him one but, hey, he had some not-Ruby weirdo alpaca owner trying to align his chakras with a purple rock. Instead he leans over and pours Sam another inch or two of liquid gold. He expects him to knock it straight back but Sam only sighs, leans his hip against the desk next to Dean's boots. His thigh against Dean's calf, warm. Real, in a way all this strange day has hardly felt. Like he's been walking around a dumb Hollywood set, like if he threw a punch it'd crack through cheap painted cardboard, but then here was Sam and—there was the world, as it should be. More or less.

"People's Sexiest Man?" Sam says, after a few seconds.

Dean snorts. "People's Choice, too, for… something or other. Looks like we don't win real awards but the fans are into it. Probably for all those abs." Sam rolls his eyes, sitting back on the desk. He sets a boot on the chair next to Dean's ass so their legs press against each other, hip to ankle. "I don't know, man. It's… look, you're rich, you're a movie star or something, you're married. Demons are a crappy special effect. It doesn't one hundred percent suck."

"Genevieve says we had an affair," Sam says. Dean chokes on air, coughs, and Sam hands the glass of scotch back over. Smiling slightly, the bitch. "She wanted to use positive language about—healing with honest communication, or something. We had a huge fight but I guess they managed to cover it up and now you basically live in your trailer. Well, not you—Jason Ackles, or whatever. She thinks I've been trying to make up with you."

"Can't resist this even in an alternate universe," Dean says, when he's recovered his air. An affair. Jesus.

Sam sighs at him. "I hate this house," he says. He slides his hand under Dean's calf, pressing their knees together. "I don't care about alpacas. I don't want to be People's Choice for anything. I'll take all the crap that comes with it if I have to but I want to be home, where I've got my own name and you've got yours, and we're—who we are. Sound good?"

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. Sam raises his eyebrows, waiting. "Yeah, okay," Dean says, voice miraculously clear, and gets Sam to squeeze his calf, to lean forward. His hand sliding up Dean's thigh, his eyes steady on Dean's. Dean swallows, catches Sam's fingers. This free thing spreading wings under his breastbone. "Just—Sammy," he says, and Sam hums, eyes dropping to his mouth. "Maybe we can steal that bottle of Wet before we go?"

#happy wincest wednesday #my writing #ww lottery #a random ficlet for episode 119 #genevieve being determinedly Enlightened about her husband fucking a man made me laugh #what can i say #otherwise this is just some words strung together #streak unbroken

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