#600 words

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Winding Down

The witch heard a crash, and a scream. She slams her book shut and rushes to where she heard it, the first floor kitchen. There, she sees her doll, collapsed around a puddle, cradling the key snapped off of its back.

"Miss... It hurts..." the broken toy looks up, apologetic.

"Oh, Lullaby!" Norae kneels down, gently cupping the doll's hand in hers. "Please, show me where it hurts."

The good doll does as it's told. It turns from its side to its front, arching its back as it supports itself with its elbows. Its hair falls down in its face, dishevelled from the fall.

Miss feels along where the key should be, finding the brass implant that should reach into the doll's clockwork motor. The base of the key broke off, warping the opening and lodging a piece into place. If the warping extended further inward, then it needed a lot of pieces remade and replaced so it could be wound again.

"It's... okay, it's okay, this is... fixable." The witch takes one of the doll's hands in hers, wrapping the other around its frame. "C'mon, we need to get you to the workshop. Please tell me if this hurts..." They slowly rise together, the doll only putting some of its weight on its Miss. "It's fine, Miss... thank you."

They stumble in tandem through the halls. With every step, Lullaby seems to get just a bit heavier. "When was the last time you wound yourself, dear?" It hesitates for just a second too long. "This one suppose... it was supposed to do it earlier, but it... could wait until it was done, and it jus' got carried away, and..."

The witch pulls it closer, steadying its support. "Shh, it's okay, don't worry. Find stillness for me, okay? We'll have you fixed in no time."

Lullaby tries to reaffirm its loosening grip. "Yes, Miss. Thank you Miss."

The witch can already hear the ticked getting softer.

Her mind starts to buzz. This was her fault, wasn't it? She should've been there, she shouldn't have overworked the poor thing, she shouldn't have let it wind itself...

Through the double-doors to her ornate clockwork workshop lies an operating table surrounded by tools, mundane and magic in equal frequency. With heavy, groggy steps, and with some lifting from the witch, the doll climbs up the stool and collapses onto its front, just as asked.

A brief moment of stillness. It's not the stillness this one is used to, it's not a clear-minded pleasantness. It's a heaviness, the doll's mind too weighed down to move.

The witch places a hand on the doll's back. "Are you still with me, Lullaby?". The doll lifts its head, craning its neck to look back at Miss the best it can. "I... won't be able to fix this before your core stops. It'll just be like... being asleep. Do you remember that from before you became?"

It lets its head slump against the pillow, looking away from its witch. There is a long stillness.

Norae shook it, ever so gently. Please, not yet. "...Lullaby?"

"Mmn..." It slowly blinks. "No... S'rry Miss..."

"It's okay, please don't be sorry." The witch walks around the table, kneeling to meet her doll's face at the front. Its eyes are lulled, and the witch can't hear its fading ticking over the sound of her own heartbeat.

"I'll see you soon, okay?" The witch holds its face in her hand, rubbing a thumb across its cheek. Lullaby shifts its weight to feel closer to the touch. "I love you very much, and I won't rest until I can wind you up again. I promise."

"...Thnk'you Miss." Barely above a whisper. "Luhv..."

With a smile, its body becomes completely still.

[rockingrobin69]

red-eye

Harry got home a little after two in the morning, bleary-eyed, mouth bitter with the taste of airport canned-air and mints. Rolled the suitcase as quietly as he could, probably making a racket: two in the morning, and he was dizzy-tired, all emptied out from the long layover, and the two-hour wait on the runway, and the taxi ride he absolutely insisted on when his flight was delayed yet again.

Gently, gently opening the door, which creaked so loud the whole world had to have heard. Sneaking inside his own apartment: Draco would be fast asleep, would need to be up at half-five tomorrow for work. Harry’s chest squeezed at the thought, Draco all wrapped up in their duvet, rumpled and sleep-warm, and—

On the sofa, all twisted in between the cushions, arresting and lovely and still in his fancy trousers. With his mobile clenched in his fist. His neck’s going to kill him, and Harry forgot how to breathe.

“Darling,” barely able to swallow the grin. “Draco. Darling.”

“Hmm?” long eyelashes blinking. “Harry? What’s the—fuck, I fell asleep?” grumbling himself up into sitting, flushed and so, so, sweet. “I was going to stay up.” Frowning. “I was going to pick you up!”

“Sorry,” laughing, wrapping an arm around him, trailing kisses down his nose, cheek, neck. Draco’s scent, warm and lemony and familiar, intoxicating. “Silly creature. You have work in the morning.”

“I haven’t seen you in ten days,” Draco yawned into his neck. “Did you bring me anything.”

Still laughing, “Of course. C’mon, let’s get you to bed. It’s so late and you’re—darling, come on.”

To Draco’s grey eyes blinking up at him all sparkling with delight. “Gift first. You know the rules, Potter.” There was a mark on his cheek from where he rested it on his wrist. Harry felt lightheaded with it, a rush of fizzy, scorching affection.

“All right, but don’t get your hopes up. It’s truly a small one this time.”

Leaning away for his case with Draco hanging on to him, smile so thick it hurt his face. “You’re not making it easier,” mumbled into his hair, and a kiss on top of his head, irresistible. “Here, darling.” From the front zip pocket he produced the tiny stone, dark grey with a thin white vein crossing it. “From an actual river this time. I woke up at five the last day of the conference and hiked up the hill.”

“You’re mad,” Draco said, but his smile gleamed. “It’s hideous. I love it.”

“I’m the mad one,” herding him up and then down the corridor, “it’s three in the morning, you absolute knobhead. You’ve no time to sleep.”

“What a tragedy,” Draco said, then turned to pull on Harry’s tie, to pull him closer. “Suppose you’ll have to find a way to keep me up.”

Harry was knackered. He hadn’t slept well in ten days and the flight, and the delay, and the layover. In his own bedroom, with the sheets that smelled like heaven, with the soft light and, god, his bed, his real actual bed, so inviting and so—looked at Draco, felt this warmth sizzling in his belly and growing only warmer.

“Suppose so,” he conceded with a grin, and kissed him again.

It’s been ten days. The plant on the cabinet grew at least three new leaves. Harry missed this place so badly he was sick with it: now, with his partner in his arms, with his back muscles screaming and a no-sleep headache—now he was happy enough to melt. Did, a little, in Draco’s arms.

Home.

(For flufftober day 23. Find the soft AO3 collection here).

[frankthesnek]

Unspoken

McShep, Rated G, first kiss, fluff, getting together

Post shrine. Because Rodney running to John's room meant more to both of them than they admitted. And they both knew it. (inspired by this post from @johnsheppard-assshaker)

John sat at his desk, staring at the cursor blinking on his screen. Mission reports sucked. Mission reports detailing the near death and stupidly risky brain surgery of your best friend? Those sucked ten times worse. He already couldn't get the images out of his head. Rodney's dazed expressions and awkward movements as his body and mind were stolen from him. Taking a deep breath, he looked to the ceiling, staring at the light there until dots danced across his vision in an attempt to chase away the thoughts.

A swift rapping came at his door and he shut his eyes, rubbing his palms into them in an effort to correct his vision. "Come in," he hollered.

It was Rodney. Alive and well, granted very tired looking and with a bandage still across his forehead. "Uh, hi."

"Hey," John greeted back and stood walking around to be next to his friend. "She released you? I hadn't heard."

The scientist humed softly, not quite meeting John's eye as his hand drifted up to lightly touch said bandage. He seemed off–nervous but not in the panicky way his nerves normally presented.

"Everything okay?" John prodded shifting closer and thinking the door closed.

"I, uh, this is awkward," Rodney started and cleared his throat. "About when I was sick, I remember a lot of what happened actually, and about that night…"

John swallowed tightly as a lump settled in his throat, choking him off. Yeah, he remembered too. Was trying really hard not to. It hurt, it hurt too much.

Rodney rushing to his room, pounding on his door, bursting in and holding onto him like he–John–was the only anchor left to his sanity. How frantic Rodney had been about waking up without him there. The unspoken things that had passed between them in that short conversation, that had hung high and loft above them as they sipped beer together under the stars.The evening hard and touching, intimate and depressing all at once.

"What about it?" John made himself say and he knew it came out tight and froggy.

"I'm sorry for how I acted, for running here and– I mean because that was ridiculous, right? Acting like that, like you were–" he drifted off, the last few words being spoken softer, sadder as he lost momentum.

"No," John rebuffed quickly, taking a half step closer. He wanted to reach out to grip Rodney's shoulders just like he had that night. Wanted to say so many of those unspoken things, but he didn't know how.

Rodney met his eyes, and John knew he didn't have to say anything. He couldn't pretend like things hadn't shifted between them, and if the soft nearly pleading look in Rodney's eyes was any give away he couldn't either. So John did it–did what he'd wanted to that night and held back because Rodney had been sick and vulnerable, and it wouldn't have been fair.

Dipping in to kiss the other man was easy for multiple reasons. One because he was already so close; and two, because Rodney didn't put up a fight. Stood there and let it happen, meeting him halfway, head subtly inclining to John as he moved.

"Did I say something I don't remember that night?" Rodney asked when they parted. His tone was thoughtful, and John got the impression that he was asking himself the question more than anything.

"No," John supplied, bringing his hands up to hold Rodney like he had that night. Hands on his shoulders squeezing with reassuring and possessive fingers. "You didn’t have to say it."

"Maybe I want to," Rodney said back, but those were the last words said for some time as John pulled him in for another long deserved, well overdue kiss.

[sammialex]

Babel

The grey, pebbled wool of your oldest sweater slips down over your hands as you type, words flowing out of your fingers and across the keys of your computer. Live and let live, you plead into the void. Vitriol spits back at you. Naive, the kind ones say. Idiot, say the rude. Traitor, say the rest.

You close the computer with a soft click, and spots burst in front of your eyelids as you press the heels of your palms into hollow sockets. Darkness has crept into the room while you were absorbed in the screen's blue brightness, and shadows loom from potted plants, various towering stacks of papers and books, and furniture that is cozy in the light of day.

No one listens. Every day you put out another letter to the editor. You write another blog. You post another picture. Every day you turn on the news and see another disaster, another shooting, another suicide, another law called FREE that will only limit freedom.

It's enough to turn someone to drastic action, you muse, and you're joking, really, you are, but some tiny part of you wonders what that drastic action would even look like. If the pen is not mightier than the sword, and surely it isn't if none of the articles and posts and memes make any sort of difference. If the sword is not mightier than the pen, and surely it isn't, if all of this violence can be caused or calmed by a word from the right person.

You don't have an answer.

The stairs creak beneath your feet, slow shuffling steps carrying you higher, closer to your bed. A slice of silvery moonlight through the window crosses your pillow, and you lean against the sill, just looking out at the sky. Stars struggle to peek through the light pollution from the nearby city, and you strain to see the brightest—there, Orion's belt. The hunter. There, his faithful dog, forever at his heels.

They watch over the sky, proud and sure, chests thrown out and blazing. Do they fear for us? You wonder. Do they know how much less we look to the sky, how hard it is to see them if we glance up? Do they resent our cynicism as it grows, generation after generation, scoffing at gods while looking to the false idols who live among us?

Perhaps they are unsurprised, watching another cycle of struggle and loss. You remember a quote you once heard, that the Earth is littered with the ruins of empires who believed they were eternal. You think of the boneyard your home is built on, the blood that was spilled to make room for your life.

The curtain grates over the rod as you close it with a sharp jerk, plunging the room into darkness. What would it take, you wonder as you crawl into your warm bed and feel guilty that you have one at all. What would it take, for humanity to stop acting the ouroboros, wrapped around and eating itself alive? Have we always been this way? Or did we climb too high, a species of Babel, meant to tear itself apart at the seams?

Your head hits the pillow, cool sheets against your cheek. Your eyelashes drag against the fabric as you blink once, twice, and then leave them closed.

What would it take, you wonder. You see how easy it would be to turn to violence, to let this helpless rage seep into action, to try and grab something, anything with two hands and do something people would have to acknowledge. You know how useless it is, that your name would be lost to the next one, and the next, day after day as the violence continues to mount, endlessly escalating.

Your sleep is uneasy.

The sun rises. Another day.

also posted on ao3 here.

[boycritter]

"you shouldnt use ai for schoolwork because its not actually helpful" this is true "and anyways if you cant even write a 600 word essay then you're stupid and an idiot" well now i think we've gone too far in the wrong direction.

[funkle420]

Turbo Granny blunt rotation WIP

[steveseddie]

coffee and contemplation

for the @steddiemicrofic prompt “dress, 350 words” | rated: t | cw: none | tags: pre-relationship, steve pov, good uncle wayne, he wants eddie to be happy and stop pining

Steve slips out of bed quietly. Eddie stirs but after nuzzling into Steve’s pillow, he falls back asleep.

Smiling softly, Steve dresses in yesterday���s clothes thinking he’ll need to go home and change before work, or Robin will be insufferable.

Not wanting to wake Wayne either, he tiptoes down the hall—

And finds him at the kitchen table, sipping coffee.

“Um, good morning.”

“Mornin’. Going somewhere?”

“Just work, sir.”

“Got time for some coffee?”

Steve checks his watch. Not really, he thinks but whatever. “Sure.”

“Help yourself.”

So Steve does, joining him at the table with a Garfield mug.

After a long silence, Wayne speaks, “Listen, kid, you don’t gotta sneak outta here, I got no problem with you spending the night. What you two get up to in there ain’t my business.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Mr. Munson, we’re not—”

“Only ‘cause my boy is too chicken to do anything. Ed is as brave as they come, but he’s got a soft heart. It’s up to you to make a move ‘s what I’m saying.” He stands up, clasping Steve’s shoulder. “Just do this old man a favor and make it soon?”

Stunned, Steve nods just as Eddie saunters in.

“Mornin’, old— Stevie?” Noticing Steve’s spooked expression, Eddie’s smile falls. “Wayne, what did you say to him?” He asks, but Wayne’s already gone.

He turns to Steve. “Whatever he said, I’m sorry. You okay?”

“Just thinking,” Steve says, finding his voice. “Um, do you wanna go out tonight? Like on a date.”

Eddie squeaks. “What did Wayne say?”

“He suggested I make a move—”

“Oh God,” Eddie whines, covering his face. “That’s fucking embarrassing. He knows it’s not like that—”

“It can be, Eddie, I want it to be.”

“Oh.”

“So will you let me take you out?”

“Y-yeah.”

Grinning, Steve leans in— only to be stopped by a hand on his chest.

“Sweetheart, I wanna kiss you stupid more than anything but I won’t do it with morning breath and my uncle eavesdropping.”

Steve snorts. “Tonight then.”

“Tonight.”

“Bye, Eds.” Then louder, “bye Mr. Munson!”

“Call me Wayne, son!”

[hungharrington]

okay steve definitely wouldn’t care about body hair, but i just know that man goes feral over your freshly shaved, smoooooth legs

i took this to make him a sillay boyfriend 🫶 sorry if u wanted HAWTNESS this is just silly LUV…. forgive me

The sheets feel cool against your bare legs.

You can feel the scratch of your hair tucked against your neck but you’re too content, all but sinking into the mattress, to be bothered to move it. Your legs are tucked up, your arms splayed wide across the bed. You’ve just done the hard job of an everything-shower and lying down is your well-earned reward.

Across the room, Steve pulls the curtains to cover the window. Shadow falls across the room, banished after a moment when Steve pads to the bed, turning on the lamp. Amber coats the ceiling.

It’s balmy tonight. You feel warm without even being under the covers. Dozing off sounds like a pretty amazing idea right now.

“Not falling asleep with me, are ya?”

You smile at the sound of Steve’s voice, lifting your heavy eyelids to gaze at him.

He looks scruffy the same way he always does at the end of the day. His hair has lost some of its magnificent volume and he’s wearing a ratty old t-shirt from high school. You can see the beginnings of his five o’clock shadow on his jawline. He’s gorgeous.

And you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. The thought makes you smile wider.

“Mm,” you hum, definitely giving away your sleepiness. “Nope.”

A warm hand touches your knee, Steve’s hand reaching out and rubbing it tenderly. He tsks playfully. “You’re not fooling anyone, baby.”

You huff a quiet laugh and let your eyes fall back closed. Steve’s touch has always had a magnetic property, drawn to you whenever he’s near. It has a similar effect on your heart, which always feels like it’s surging forward in your chest to reach him.

The touch shifts, skimming down your shinbone. You expect him to maybe begin a half-hearted massage on your calves— he’s prone to giving them to you— but then, unexpectedly there’s another touch added to your legs.

You lift your head, peering down at him with squinted eyes. He’s crouched down beside the bed and he’s rubbing his cheek against the smooth skin of your legs.

When he knows he’s been spotted, he only grins, shifting his cheek again. “You’re so… smooooth.”

There’s definitely awe in his voice. You laugh, a real laugh this time, and shake your head. You should really stop being surprised when Steve’s a dork — he’s proven to be one time and time again. If you didn’t know different, you might assume this was his first ever relationship.

“Mhmm,” You hum. “That’s part of the appeal, handsome.”

Something glitters in Steve’s eyes at your pet name for him and his grin melts into something softer. His hand on your shin moves again, stroking softly up your calf. His face shows his bewilderment at your supremely smooth skin��� and then betrays the look of mischief that crosses his face.

Your brows furrow instinctively. “Steve—” You warn.

He does it anyway, turning and licking one big stroke up your knee. You squeal, surprised at the sensation, and jerk your leg away from him.

“Steve!”

“What!” He mimics your tone, finally getting up onto the bed and crawling up to meet you. He’s smirking, looking terribly proud of himself. He plops himself down, half of his weight pressing into your shoulder as he nuzzles himself into your neck.

“S’just wanna a little taste, that a crime?”

His breath is hot and almost tickles against your neck. It’s impossible not to dissolve into quiet giggles, leaning into him. He snakes an arm around your waist, pulling the two of you closer.

“You’re a dork.”

You can feel the little puff of air he lets out in a laugh as well as the smile that spreads on his mouth. He pokes his tongue out, a minuscule touch against your neck that has you shrieking again— except this time, Steve’s holding you too tight to squirm away.

“Mmhm,” He says. “Your dork.”

You grin, turning to nose against his temple and make a noise of agreement. “Absolutely.”

[mediumgayitalian]

"Don't worry about me."

"I'm allowed to worry for people when they are doing stupid, foolish things."

"You worry about everyone."

"False. I've never worried about Cecil Markowitz a day in my life."

Nico snorts, tugging on his boot and yanking on the laces. "Right," he drawls, "and the insistence on walking him fourteen entire fucking miles to the bus stop at the end of camp was because..."

Will flushes. "Because he's stupid, okay. He's actually unwell. I checked his brain and everything. If I leave him alone too long he'll get kidnapped, and then what?" He cocks a hip to one side, crossing his arms and tapping his foot and generally just looking like a carbon copy of his mother. Nico mourns his lack of camera. He needs to send Naomi another snapshot for the Wall of You Do Act Like Me, You Little Shit. "What am I gonna do if he dies, huh? Resort to off-brand Twizzlers? I'd rather kill myself."

The frayed ends of his laces cooperate, finally. He desperately needs new combats but the thought of having to break in a new pair makes him want to strangle the nearest karpoi. Any one of them would do.

Nico pushes himself to his feet, cupping both sides of his boyfriend's scowling face and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, holding there until he feels them soften. He smiles, snickering at Will's huffy pout.

"I am doing one errand," he says, exasperated. "Just one."

Will throws his hands up. "You know who else did one errand?! Orpheus! That's right, dumbass, and he died! So!"

He waves his hands again, because obviously he cannot simply make his point with his words alone. Oh, no. His whole body needs to get involved, or else there is Not Enough Emphasis.

Gods, Nico loves him to death.

To death, and then some.

"You are more dramatic than your father," Nico says, kissing him again before pulling away. "You know that?"

"I thought you loved me," Will grumbles. "I thought you loved me, and then you go around saying such insulting things. Don't you love me? People who love me would never say that to me."

"I have actually heard that exact speech come from Apollo's mouth. Twice, at least."

"I'm about to commit a felony. It rhymes with shmassault and battery."

"Shut the fuck up," Nico says, but he's grinning. Will is scowling hard but doing a very bad job of it, and Nico can actually see the don't you dare fucking laugh you're mad at him you have to stay mad at him flashing around in his eyes.

Nico swipes his thumb gently over his freckled cheeks.

It does not take very long for him to cave.

"I'm just worried," he admits, sagging into Nico's hold. His head, as it always has, fits perfectly in the crook of Nico's neck. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to his temple.

"Knew it."

"Shut up." The quick curve of his exasperated smile twitches against Nico's collarbones. "I just mean. Gods above, Nico. It's all the way across the country."

"I shadow travelled all the way across the world, once," Nico reminds him. He runs a hand through fraying curls. "I was fourteen at the time."

"Yeah, and you almost fuckin' died."

Will pulls away, agitated, and Nico lets him. The fraying curls get worse with every tug of his twitching hands, and the sound of his own echoing pacing makes him jump. The bags are deep and black under his eyes.

Nico sighs.

"Will," he says, and words hard to keep the frustration out of his tone, "Will, sweetheart, you cleared me."

But Will isn't listening. The mumbling has started, and so has the fidgeting; the bandages around his arms twist, and twist, and tug, leaving red marks on his bruised wrists.

"Monitoring hymn," Nico hears him mutter. "Or a lifeline..."

Nico checks his watch. He's -- well, he's late, technically, but he's never been punctual even one time, so it's fine. He's got time. He flops to the marble floors, leaning against his bedpost. He watches his boyfriend, notes the flicker and flash of his glowing freckles, of his spattered burn scars.

You and I both know you will be fine, Chiron had said. He had sighed, long and aged and hard, and stared at his buzzing, fritzy student. It will be good for him. Exposure.

"Will," he calls, eventually. "Tesoro."

Will stops. He blinks, coming back to himself, to the cabin. He searches around, eyes settling on Nico's comfy spot on the floor.

He sighs, shoulders sagging. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. He stands there a long while, still except his breathing, tense.

"Everything is -- green," he says eventually, voice small. "I don't know how to stop it."

"You know how to make it worse," Nico points out, as gently as he can manage. "You've been spiraling for weeks."

"Not -- weeks."

"Since the start of the month."

"Yeah, only a few days."

"It's the thirtieth, Will."

He looks up, eyes wide. "No." He blinks. "Actually?"

Nico's smile is small and sad. "Yes."

"I thought -- I thought --"

"I know."

He doesn't really. He's watched it for years, but he doesn't -- understand, not in the way he understands the depression, the anger, the grief. He and Will have more things in common than they don't, but he doesn't spiral. Not like Will does. His pain has always bubbled and burst its way out of him, tingeing the edge of his vision red and igniting the curl of his fists. His pain has made him quick. His pain has made him quick, it has made him bitter, it has made him miserable, but it has always pushed him forward.

Will's pain gets curled up endlessly inside him, twisting his insides to knots.

It robs him, sometimes.

"Come here."

Will does. The fight has drained out of him, and there are tears in his eyes, even as he tries desperately to blink them away. His bandages lay limp at his sides, fluttering in the breeze from the still-open door.

"It's not that I don't trust you," he says, somewhat desperately. He turns so they're facing each other, criss-crossed knees knocking. "I do."

"I know," Nico says. He manages a small smile. "I always know that, Will."

"Good." His bright eyes soften in relief, fingers rubbing at his sternum. "You -- you're powerful, Death Boy. More than anyone I've ever known."

Nico raises his eyebrows. "Careful with that, Sunshine. You're going to get smited."

"Smote."

"Don't correct me when we're having a vulnerable moment."

"Don't need correcting, then."

Nico's smile widens. Will's, this time, matches, dimple flashing on his left cheek. Nico presses his thumb there, relishing in the sudden heat of Will's face and accompanying rolled, flustered eyes. He lingers, and stares, and stares, even as Will squirms, as the glow turns into something hotter than blood heat.

"I'm going to be okay, my love."

"I know."

"It's one jump. Hazel is waiting, unicorn draught at the ready in case I start swooning like a damsel."

"I know."

"Even my dad knows."

"I know."

"I would actually have to try to die, Will. Like there would have to be real effort on my part."

"Just --" he scrunches up his nose -- "I don't know what you could say that would make me less scared of it. Of losing you."

"I mean it would kind of suck if you did." He tilts their foreheads together, because it looks stupid as shit at this angle, and he knows Will'll laugh. He's right. "Since you love me and everything."

"I suppose it's one of those conditions," Will allows. "The whole caring if you up and die thing."

"Yep."

"S'a real pain in the ass."

"You're telling me. I was just fine being an emo loner, not giving a fuck about anything, and then you had to go ruin it. Now I gotta stress about your wellbeing and shit."

"Must be exhausting."

"Miserable." He reaches for Will's hands and squeezes, hard, until Will squeezes back. "It is the most important thing to me, though. Ever."

Will swallows. "Okay."

"I love you, Will Solace. Even when you are annoying about grammar and when you are prodding me about my iron levels and when you are so far in your head you're losing time." He pulls back slightly, just enough to press a kiss to Will's knuckles. "Especially then."

"I love you, too." Will swallows. "You'll be okay."

"I will."

"And you'll IM me when you get there."

"I will."

"And I'll be okay. Waiting."

Nico smiles softly. "You will be."

Will takes a deep breath. He nods. He stands, pulling them both up, and walks to the darkest corner of the Hades cabin, shoulders tense but face brave. He turns, exhaling slowly, and brushes invisible lint of Nico's shoulders, hands lingering.

"I will see you when you get back," he says.

"When I get back," Nico echoes. He kisses him again. "Worrier."

Will huffs, and Nico laughs, and he lets go, and Will lets him, and he steps into the familiar darkness, and the last thing he sees before the shadows envelope him is the trust in Will's light eyes.

[rockingrobin69]

Routine

“Harry, wait, you’ve—your bloody jacket,” stopped him at the doorway with a roll of his eyes, this long-suffering look that failed to hide a smile. “Getting a little forgetful in our old age?”

“Shut up,” Harry laughed, deliriously fond. “I wouldn’t have to rush out if someone didn’t take so long in the bathroom.”

“Did you believe all this happens naturally?” shaking his long, lovely hair in emphasis. Harry, who’d seen this trick a thousand times before, drank the sight hungrily: Harry, who’d seen Draco when he just woke up this morning, knew the statement for the rubbish it was.

“Cute. You’re stalling, and I’m going to be late.”

Draco quirked an eyebrow. “Not exactly holding you here by the tie, am I.”

Disappointedly: “Hmm. I suppose not.” Rectifying immediately with a step closer, arms wrapping around Draco; inhaling deep the sharp smell of his aftershave, of his fancy face cream Harry still occasionally had to lick.

“Now who’s stalling,” but his voice was soft, punctuated with tiny kisses to his jaw. “Harry. You’ll be late. And you’ve got that lecture today, the one you kept droning on and on about.”

While he had one arm around Harry’s shoulders, a hand threading through his hair. “It’s only, I’m a little entangled here. See, I’ve got this partner who keeps insisting he’s not clingy.”

“Surely he’s not. Did you consider the fact you’re extremely touchable? And besides that he’s maybe a bit gone for you, and cannot be blamed. Not so early in the morning. What? Stop looking at me like that, you started it, and I wouldn’t take so long to wake up if you hadn’t insisted on staying up late last night, with your,” stopped to laugh, croaky and loud in Harry’s ear, to shake his head with his eyes all grey.

A burst of it in his chest, star-bright. “You love me,” Harry said, stupidly, helplessly happy.

“Shock and awe.”

“You love me,” grinning like a fool, crushing Draco closer by the hips, peppering his face with kisses: “you really do.”

“Every bloody morning,” but he was laughing too. “You’re a ridiculous man, Harry Potter.”

“And you still love me.”

Draco, in his arms, dramatic and fidgety. “And yet I somehow still do.”

“Darling,” giddy with it, rubbing his nose against Draco’s cold one. “You’re freezing. You should get back inside, get some sleep.”

“I would, only there’s this brute who won’t let me go.”

The thought of him back in bed, wrapped under a warm duvet was slightly devastating. Trying for a brave smile, “Well, did you consider you’re very touchable.”

“Am I? That’s news to me.”

A huff, and affection tearing through him, impossibly tight: “Right, okay,” forcing his hands away, his legs a step back. “I really have to go.”

“Wait,” Draco said, forehead crinkling, “aren’t you forgetting something?”

“You already brought me my jacket.”

“Fuck your jacket. Something actually important.”

“Oh!” sweeping him in his arms once again, delighting in the way his head tilted up, expectantly, for a kiss. In delivering one at a time, deliberate. “I love you. I love you so much.”

Draco allowed this for a moment longer, then pushed Harry away, flushed and awfully dear. “All right, off you go. Did you know you’re an utter sap.”

“Only for you.”

The long-suffering look. “Oh, the things one is willing to put up with.” But he stayed there, bracing a bare shoulder against the doorway, and it was morning-cold outside, and he couldn’t really hide the smile.

“Yes, poor you,” Harry said, and kissed him again just because.  

(Flufftober day 3. Find the soft AO3 collection here).

[ennard-is-near]

>Be me

> Just moved to neighborhood in Hurricane, Utah

>At a welcome party thrown for me

>Party is fun

>party suddenly stops and neighbors say they have to tell me something

>what?

>they give me a heads up about Michael.

>I ask what the deal is

>he’s not dangerous, you’ll know him when you see him. He’s just Michael.

>confused.png

>Few months later

>see a literal decaying body walking down the street.

>it’s just Michael.

[cruel-hiraeth]

꒰ TOO SWEET ꒱ OKKOTSU YUUTA X READER

cw: mdni. yandere yuuta. yutamaki poly hinted at. vague discussion of death. implied suicidal ideation (yuuta). canonverse. reader is a civilian and probably (most definitely) has stockholm syndrome. a/n: this was supposed to be a normal hurt/comfort drabble, but then i remembered how strange and off-putting yuuta is…it spiraled from there.

“Do you ever think about dying?”

The evening air lulls, hushed in anticipation. Tucked in the safety of your bedroom, you both lounge atop wrinkled cotton sheets, silhouettes washed a dusky blue. His voice is soft when he speaks, chin resting in the hollow of your rib cage—an uncomfortable pressure.

(It feels claustrophobic: like each inhale will yield less and less oxygen, like the world will close in on you, like you will be trapped inside your skeleton, beneath him forever.

But you would do anything for Yuuta, you think. And you’re certain he would withstand any pain to comfort you—quicker than the beat of a hummingbird’s wings.)

His hair messily frames his face, partially obscuring his vision; you comb your fingers through the silken strands and push them back. His irises—midnight, wide and unflinching as the velvet sky—drink you in.

You’ve long grown used to his disquieting stare.

Knifelike, it slits and peels back your skin, lancing muscle and cracking bone to expose your inner self: all your emotions, secrets, and fears. Through trial and error, you’ve discovered that it’s safest to answer his questions truthfully; whether you like it or not, he always gets at the marrow of your being.

“Sometimes,” you finally reply.

Blinking slowly, he hums. “That makes sense.”

Before you can untangle the threads of his thoughts, he adds, “I used to think about death all the time, especially before I understood what happened to Rika.” He draws invisible shapes on the ridges of your ribs, lithe fingers leaving rippling gooseflesh in their wake. “Even after—when I realized I had unwittingly turned her into a curse—I wondered if I would be better off dead.”

(It’s easy to forget that Yuuta is a special-grade sorcerer—though you have no conception of what his position entails. “Jujutsu,” “sorcery,” and “curses” are just a few of the words that are strictly prohibited in the sanctuary of your one-bedroom apartment. You only know of Rika because she saved your life alongside Yuuta and Maki.

While you can’t parse why he’s confiding in you, you stay quiet. You shudder as you imagine how Maki would react to such talk at home.)

“I’m sorry,” you finally murmur, unsure of what else you can say.

He chuckles, lips curling into a smile, eyes crinkling in amusement. “You’re too sweet for your own good—you know that?”

Shaking your head, you admit, “No one has ever called me sweet.”

Lifting himself to his hands, the crushing weight on your sternum instantly melts away; he crawls up your body and drops to his elbows, forehead pressed to yours. His hair curtains your face: all that you can see, hear, smell, feel, and taste is Yuuta.

“Well I have,” he pouts before dotting openmouthed kisses across your neck, breath molten—cloying—as he reaches the familiar curve of your jaw. “That’s why you’re here with us. Your soul is too precious for the ugly world outside.”

Yuuta pulls back to contentedly admire your expression, now flustered from his praise and caresses. “For many years, I didn’t value my life. But after meeting Maki-san, then you…I found my purpose.”

A cool palm cups your cheek, skilled digits splaying out, sensing the life thrumming beneath your flesh. He resumes: “I don’t fear death, and I don’t long for it—not anymore. However,” his thumb smooths across the plush vermilion of your lips, teasing tenderness as his gaze darkens, “if anyone tries to hurt you, they shouldn’t fear death. They should fear me.”

[tiredeg]

All I have are smoking guns (George/Alex, outsider POV, 600 words)

“It was so funny,” Lando tells them all, “I went over to Williams earlier to say happy birthday, and it literally sounded like they were having sex. It was all moaning and grunting, I actually thought Alex had a girl in there until he said George’s name.” 

Kimi hasn’t really been paying Lando too much attention, more focused on debating whether he still has time to pee, but maybe this is something he could use on George. Maybe they were fighting, maybe George will be distracted in the car. 

“That would give it away, yes,” Alex says. He’s sipping from his straw like he doesn’t care, like he’s happy to stand here and listen to Lando tell his little story to half of the grid. 

“Except,” Lando keeps going, “it was more like Georrrrge” — he throws his head back and moans dramatically. Netflix aren’t here this weekend, Kimi doesn’t think, but they’d have loved that one. Might even have made the trailer.  

Alex laughs, so Kimi lets himself snigger too. He stops when he sees George coming. Alex doesn’t. 

“Chaps,” George nods as he steps in behind Alex. There’s not much room where they’re huddling behind the barriers until they absolutely have to go out for the parade. Not much room, but probably enough to accommodate George in the circle. He doesn’t move. 

“We were just talking about you,” Alex leans back into him. It makes him lose some height, makes it so that he has to look up at George. They probably aren’t having a fight then, just wrestling over something. Damn. 

“Oh yeah?” George leans in, obviously interested. 

“Lando here was just telling us how he overheard our life-changing shag earlier in my room.” 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Lando cuts in, “nobody said anything about life-changing, don’t give yourselves too much credit.” 

“I wasn’t life-changing?” George gasps, one of those little faux-shocked things he loves to do when somebody makes a joke about him in a meeting. It always works—Kimi’s been thinking of trying it out, but it probably won’t land the same for him. 

“Eh, you were fine,” Alex wiggles his hand in a so-so gesture. 

“Fine?” George’s voice is higher now—he’s good at this. “I come all the way over to Williams to give you a birthday seeing to, and all you can say is fine?” 

“Hey, I could have been seeing to you,” Alex has been doing a good job at keeping his voice steady before, but now even Kimi can hear the smile seeping through.  

“Not likely,” Lando snorts. 

“Oi!” 

It devolves from there until they’re finally called outside. Kimi manages to get up next to Max as the parade starts, nice. He isn’t half as much of a dick as George likes to paint him—whatever’s going on there isn’t Kimi’s problem. Honestly, he likes talking to Max anyway, but he especially likes the little wrinkle between George's eyebrows whenever he catches them talking.  

Speaking of, where—oh, George is over talking to Nico. He looks happy enough, giving little waves out to the crowd every now and then, as if anyone is looking at him when Lewis is in red beside him. George’s face changes as Kimi watches, flowing from bland politeness to something warmer. Nico might not have noticed, hasn't had to spend as many excruciating meeting room hours with him, but Kimi can tell. Besides, it's only Kimi at the correct angle to see Alex’s foot, small in his boot, run along the back of George's leg. They're lucky Mercedes aren't in white this weekend, or there'd be a mark. Though, he supposes, even in plain sight probably nobody would notice. 

[yurislotusgarden]

ʚїɞ Not just a little crush ʚїɞ

ʚїɞ Port mafia!Dazai Osamu x Gn!Reader

ʚїɞ Keep in mind English is not my first language, so you may find mistakes!

ʚїɞ word count: 1k

ʚїɞ Tw’s: literally nothing, just pure fluff of him being down bad

ʚїɞ This is literally just 1k words of Pmzai being down bad, whipped, even lovesick, for his crush🤷‍♀️

How did he end up like this?

The youngest executive in Port Mafia’s history, The demon Prodigy, one of the most feared people in Yokohama if not the whole of Japan, Dazai Osamu has fallen in love.

He tried to tell himself that it wasn't that. That the nice feeling he got whenever he was around you was just because of him standing near, or spending time with a friend, a close one, but denial can go on only for so long.

The brunette at first thought that his crush, as Chuuya had called it when he had caught onto Dazai's more than normally weird behavior, was one-sided. After all, there was no way that someone like you could love him, that just wasn't a possibility in Dazai's mind, yet you decided to go against his calculations once again, you seemed to like doing that and causing him to freak out.

It wasn't too long before he realized that, just maybe, you did at least like him in a romantic way, some acts just couldn't be brushed off as a friend gesture.

One thing he just couldn't brush off, as well as it being the reason he realized his crush may not be one-sided, was him remembering one of the times you cooked him food, even though you were aware how picky he could get with that matter.

///////////////////////////

A figure with brown-haired locks could be seen walking on the deserted sidewalk. Moonlight shone on him as he arrived at his destination, your house.

You always greeted him so sweetly, especially when compared to all the people in his life. Welcomed him like he was a classmate, a friend, a normal person that you both knew he wasn’t. He wasn't treated like a superior, like someone who would kill if the smallest mistake was made around him, and Dazai knew that he liked it from the very start.

Dazai had thought before how would it be if you somehow were in the PM, but to his surprise, he realized he hated, even despised that idea. Something about the concept of someone like you, a person who in his eyes could be an angel for all he cares, being in a dark place full of violence and death like the Port Mafia, was just absolutely not right.

Dazai had arrived at your door, not having to wait long after knocking for the door to be opened by you.

“Dazai?”

You. Oh, the lovely little thing that you were in his eyes. Innocent compared to him, a civilian who somehow met and befriended a feared mafioso without the slightest care in the world.

He had no idea how he managed to get where he was, but he had no regrets.

“Yes, me! Now let me in, it's damn cold!”

///////////////////////////

You disliked crab.

In fact, you disliked most seafood, he was perfectly aware of it, and yet, you did this just for him. 

A crab that could as well look like it was made by a restaurant chef laid in front of him on the table. It looked well-seasoned, the crab’s shell was purely gotten rid of, and the smell wasn’t overwhelming like a lot of food tends to be like to him… you really thought it out carefully. 

“What is this?” It was kind of a stupid question, but he wanted to know your reasons.

“What do you mean? I thought you liked crab?”

“I do-”

“Then shush and eat, you stick.”

What did you just call him? Did he hear it right?

“...’Stick’?” You turned to look at him as he said that, stopping the cleanup you were doing just moments before.

“Yes, have you seen yourself? When was the last time that you ate a proper meal, dear?”

Oh. Goddammit. Don’t get him started on the pet names. He was aware that you used it on people you considered close to you, as long as they agreed, and he’s been lowkey embarrassed ever since you asked for his permission to use them on him, or more like embarrassed on how fast he agreed to that. Dazai didn’t know why he liked it so much, maybe it was because of how no one ever referred to him as such, maybe it was the way you sounded when you addressed him with them, or maybe it was entirely just the fault of your voice but he simply didn’t care anymore.

“I think we both know that you’d rather not know the answer.” His answer caused you to let out a soft sigh, but what he said was kind of true. In truth, he would answer that it was the last time he ate at your place, which on one side wasn’t that long ago, but otherwise, he barely eats anything. You and Chuuya were the only ones getting any kind of nutrition into his body, which he supposed he should be thankful for… not like he’s ever going to voice it out.

“Right. Now eat, I don't need you collapsing on my floor.”

“But I don't wanna!” If any of his subordinates saw him like this, whining because of food, they would be dead on the spot, but he's alone with you, and he’s been over being embarrassed about his behavior with you a long time ago.

You sighed, and he knew that you were about to use the biggest thing you have on the brunet against him, just to get him to eat… Not like that wasn't Dazai’s plan from the start, he's gotta get his fair share of you, doesn't he?

“You eat the most you can and you get cuddles.”

“With you playing with my hair?”

You smiled softly and said, “I'll even add head kisses to the mix.” knowing damn well that it’s gonna win him over.

You knew what you were doing, you had to, and he didn't mind as long as you kept your side of the deal. He's gonna finish that damn plate if it means affection from his favorite person will be solely on him for as long as he wants it.

Hearts, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated

[rockingrobin69]

English Summer

Rated E, NSFW.

It’s scorching hot in the back of the shed, half-hidden behind Mr. Weasley’s van, with his back pressed into the shelves. Draco’s sweat-soaked, mind empty, muscles fizzled and turned into mush, into lava: it’s Potter’s hands all over him, under his greasy shirt and tugging at the band of his boxers.

“Hngh,” is what Draco manages to say, weakly, into Potter’s mouth. It means: more, it means, please, it means, god oh god oh god oh fuck. The day’s roasting and sunlight filters through the grimy window, lighting and re-lighting the fire running down all his nerves. Potter is so beautiful, his pink lips trying to devour every sweaty inch of Draco’s skin, the way his eyes go blinding-hot, go molten. They’re both supposed to be working; there’s no chance they’re going to stop. Melded together between Mr. Weasley’s tools—there’s a wrench jabbing into his hip and oh, god, something else jabbing but it’s soft as flesh and hot and glorious and oh, oh, oh, oh!

“Shh,” Potter croons as he licks a bead of sweat off Draco’s neck. “Oh, darling, fuck—”

All he can do is whine, and grind forward in desperate, frantic motions. It means, now, it means, fuck, it means, we could have been doing this all summer, should have been doing this always. It’s England and the weather turns in seconds, sun shifting, making way for cloud to cover: Draco doesn’t care, can’t. They’ll get soaked on the hike back to the farm—so they’ll get soaked. It’s all wild, giddy pleasure, it’s all feral, impossible happiness. That his week at the Weasley’s became a month, became an apprenticeship, became—this.

The wrench really fucking hurts. Draco howls when Potter’s slick fingers graze just the right spot, legs both kicking up, catching around Potter’s waist.

“Mmhm,” Potter says, and peppers burning kisses up and down Draco’s collarbones, “yes, so good for me, fuck, Draco, so fucking hot,” and the wrench—and the world—and the rain, pelting the grimy window, exaltation up to high heavens—

“Po,” Draco tries, “Po-tter, ah, ah, please, plea—”

Tongue, fuck, in his ear, melting his already-smouldering brain. “You can take it, sweetheart, yes, just like that, perfect, you’re just,” hammering mindless praise into his skin and fisting his raging-maddened-bursting cock, relentless, merciless, pushing Draco further and further back into the shelves, into the wrench, into a frenzy—

It’s full-on raining, inside and outside the shed, fucking English weather, fucking brilliant. Potter’s sticky fingers and his wild eyes, his pink lips: he could die of this. Might just. Just as well: his knees shake as he detaches, but he manages to drop to them anyway. Supplication that turns genuine, him and Potter at the back of the shed in the end of summer.

“Draco,” Potter whispers. It’s reverent and debilitating, it’s everything he wants.

“Shh,” Draco hums from between Potter’s legs. He always gives as good as he gets. Peels Potter’s trousers down, kisses the tacky skin left bear: “You can take it, sweetheart.”

(It means: let me give you everything).

Outside the rain stops. Draco doesn’t care. In here he’s perfect, filthy and sated and uncomfortably hot, nestled between Potter’s thighs. Potter truly is sweet, and who could have guessed, who would have ever, that they’d end up here. Draco’s ravenous, and revelling in it, in being allowed.

Can he take it? Probably not. Will he, is the question, and of course, of course he will. In the back of Mr. Weasley’s roasting-hot shed, a wrench falls from its shelf with a clang! and they both start laughing.

For the brilliant @oflights who prompted me a billion years ago.

[bizarrelittlemew]

me when i outline