#fic rating: t

[blackthorn-faerie]

Shout out to the middle aged man who was eagerly (and not very subtly) reading my aventio fanfiction over my shoulder this morning on the train. I hope you can find it later so you can finish it, king

[steddieunderdogfics]

I Wanna Kiss You (But I Want it too Much) by xiaq

@xiaq

Rating: Teens and up

13,607 words, 5/5 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: POV Outsider, everyone is queer because i said so, Gay Wayne Munson, Steve Harrington is an idiot (affectionate), boys being stupid, no beta we die like Eddie definitely did not, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Supportive Wayne Munson, POV Wayne Munson

Summary

"I knew I liked girls," Robin says, "because I wanted to kiss girls.” “Yeah. But how did you know it was more than the normal amount?” “…the normal amount,” she repeats. “Well, sure.” Steve scrubs a hand through his hair. “Everyone wants to kiss everyone a little bit, right? Like. How did you know it was more than the normal heterosexual amount?” Robin cannot believe she’s going to have to say this out loud. She glances around the empty store just to make sure no one has somehow teleported in during the last two minutes. “Steve. Steven. There is no normal heterosexual amount of wanting to kiss people of the same gender.” He crosses his arms. “Well, that can’t be right.”

Thanks for the rec!

This rec is a part of Challenge Monday. The challenge this week was Fics featuring Will Byers.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[desceros]

tries to sleep, fails, gets melancholy, copes by writing purple turtle fic donatello/reader, gn!reader, rated t, 1.6k. insomnia, friends to.... friends, (were you ever just friends? are you something more? what is love if not friendship shifted an inch to the left?), yearning, yearning, yearning, yearning—

Donatello is sleeping.

Hefting a fatigued sigh, you hover in the doorway to his bedroom for a moment. Staring at his face, taking it in. He’s gotten unfairly handsome as the years have gone by. Beautiful, even. Pretty angles, sharp defined lines, dark seductive eyes. Like this, unmasked, slack in sleep, it’s free for you to look as much as you want. More than you can during the day. A little secret thing just for your own heart’s keeping.

…Best friends shouldn’t want to stare at each other like this, you think with an ache.

It’s late. You can’t sleep. Lying down has provided nothing but racing thoughts you can’t quiet. Things to do tomorrow. Things to say when you see someone. Things to write down if you can hold them until the morning. Things, things, things. So many things in your head, ten thousand little voices like little snowflakes in your skull. Each small, powerless; but together, a force too mighty to outrun.

And Donnie is sleeping. Normally he’s awake. Fiddling, poking, prodding, studying, twisting, cracking, bending. Available to draw you into sleep. Always soothing, petting your hair, cooing at you until you drift off at last to the dulcet sounds of his low rumbles.

But not tonight. Tonight he sleeps, pretty in his sheets even as he’s all sprawled out and drooling. Cute. He’s cute. He’s cute and close enough to touch but so, so far away that you know you never will. Not like that. Not like that. 

It’s late. You can’t sleep. 

Slowly, not wanting to wake him, infuriated with yourself just at the thought that you’d risked it by lingering as long as you have, you peel away from his door frame and sneak into the living room. The couch greets you again. Inviting, soft. It smells like turtle ass. Popcorn. Movie night. It smells like family, like home. Scratchy beneath your cheek. You’ve been meaning to get them some new pillows. The way Mikey had laughed so hard he’d snorted his drink. Leo’s squawk when it got all over him. The weight of Donnie’s arm on your shoulder when he’d leaned on you while laughing until he got the hiccups. His cologne, new, smells nice. You should tell him tomorrow.

(You can’t tell him. There’s no way for a best friend to look at the other with pupils shaped like hearts and be the same. You can’t tell him.)

Heavily, you sigh. It’s late. You can’t sleep.

You sit up. Get up off the couch. Stretch a little before exhaling and walking around a bit to try and work off some of this excess energy. The darkness of the living room isn’t so much, anymore, what with how your eyes have adjusted. You can see the pieces of the evening strewn about. A pizza box that Splinter’s going to find in the morning and yell at the lot of you for not throwing out. Raph’s teddy bear, leaning against the other couch where he’d been pretending he hadn’t been using it to hide his face in the scary parts. Mikey’s cup, half-full, forgotten in Leo’s panic to find paper towels. And—

—Donnie, standing in the doorway, bleary-eyed, arms folded. 

“Why are you awake?” he asks, voice tumbling over your ears like rocks on a riverbed. Guilt strikes you like a blow. He’s exhausted. You’ve woken him up.

“I’m sorry,” you say as an answer, tangling your fingers in the shirt you’d borrowed out of his closet. The shirt you always borrow. The shirt that’s half yours, now. 

Donnie’s quiet. You sink your teeth into your lower lip and hope he’ll shrug and go back to bed. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’s got enough sleep juice in him that he’ll drift right back off and forget this happened. 

He doesn’t. “…Can’t sleep?”

The guilt burns your skin like sand in the wind. You smile and pretend. “I’ll be okay. Go back to bed, Don. You need it more than I do.”

He doesn’t. 

“…Please?” you try again. 

You’re met, instead, with a sigh. He rubs the back of his head where his mask would tie if he were wearing it. Lets his arm fall to his side—ah, except no. He’s holding out his hand, palm outstretched, inviting you to come close. When you don’t, his beak wrinkles. “Come here.” 

You take a few steps closer, but don’t take his hand just yet. “What are you doing?”

“Just come here,” he says again, curling his fingers a few times in an imperious grabby command. You come closer. He opens his tired eyes in a squint, mouth dipped into a frown, and his gesture gets more demanding. “Come here.” 

Stepping closer, closer, closer, finally you get within range. You realize he wants your hand the moment he loses patience with you, watching as he rolls his eyes and reaches out to encircle your wrist with strong fingers. They eclipse the bones there easily, tugging as he turns, pulling you out of the living room. 

“Don—” you start to protest, but he stops you with a breath.

“Stubborn,” he accuses, though there’s no heat to the word. The scoff is thick on the back of your tongue—Donnie of all people calling you stubborn—but you don’t let it out, knowing it’ll be too-loud in the pitch night. 

He pulls you into his room, the very room that had been such a sweet siren song to you earlier. He pulls you towards his bed. He pulls you in behind him when he settles in. He pulls you beneath his blanket. He pulls, pulls, pulls, until your chest is flush to his plastron and his arm is around your waist and his breath is in your face and your heart is in your throat.

It’s late. You’re not going to be able to sleep.

“…Go to sleep,” he says after a few seconds, doubtless able to feel the way your pulse is like a hummingbird against his skin. 

“Sorry,” you say in lieu of—anything else. You don’t dare try to say another word, unsure of what exactly would tumble out instead. Perhaps a sweet poem about the texture of his skin against yours. Maybe a lament that he feels the need to tuck his thigh between yours so so so close to where you wake in a pool of sweat dreaming of his touch. Or possibly a whispered confession that tastes like lightning and blood and sugar all at the same time; that you want this but not this, you want this but more. 

Gently, a forehead bonks against yours. Dark eyes open and meet yours, centimeters away. He studies you, and you watch the gears turn. More slowly than usual, lethargic even, because of his slumber. 

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs. Dumbly, you nod. “Need to talk about it?”

“…Yeah,” you admit, then, “…but I won’t.”

He doesn’t like that. A frown mars his beautiful, beautiful face. 

“Why?”

You swallow the incredulous laugh, the kaleidoscope of responses. They’re all irrelevant, impossible to share, save for one. “You should sleep.”

Donnie’s hand tightens, fingers curling in his—your—shirt in the small of your back. “So should you.”

“Yeah.”

“…”

“…”

“…I don’t understand.” The confession, rare, makes you sigh. 

“…I don’t either,” you tell him. And you don’t. Why did you have to feel this way for him? Why couldn’t it be someone easier that stole your heart? Why does it have to be the one person you can’t stand to lose? Why does he have to be so comfortable touching you like this and making it hurt even worse? Why can’t you stop feeling this way?

Why can’t you sleep? Why can’t you sleep? 

His fingers unfurl from your shirt. His hand dips beneath the hem, finding the skin of your back. Slow shivers spread like little earthquakes as he strokes along your spine, tectonic caresses that ripple and destroy. It's familiar enough a touch that you don't stop him; unfamiliar enough that it rends you inside out.

Donnie leans in. Ghosts his lips along your jaw. It’s not a kiss; you’re just friends, after all. But it’s a sweet caress that feels good, all the way to where he lingers at your ear, whispering there, quivering at the touch that's too close to something else to be fair. “Close your eyes.”

You have one rule: listen to Donatello. So you do; you close your eyes, let his nails drag down your back, let his mouth press warm into your pulse, let his chest rumble with churrs that fill the night air with something akin to a lullaby. His legs curl around yours, mixing, confusing, making the separation of you disappear. 

It’s… maddening. You hate this. You love him. You love him so much. You hate that he can do this so easily. 

“Shhh,” comes the gentle coo against your skin, like he can tell you’re pulling away from his intent. You obey that, too. Donnie says to be quiet, so you quiet. Thoughts, movements, words; all of them fall away at his beckoning. “Just like that. Good.”

Good, you think, feeling a little fuzzy. It feels good to be good for him. God. You’d be so good for him—but no. None of that, now. Not when you can pretend that these little presses of his lips are kisses. That the thickness of his thigh pressed to your shorts means something. That his hand scratching lines in your skin is something meant to claim as much as it is to calm.

“Making me work for it tonight,” you hear him mumble, half-conscious of the words, not sure if they’re real or part of a dream he’s built for you. “Good job, sweetheart. Just like that.” 

More brushes of his mouth. A slow glide of tongue. A lovely dream, you think, finally letting your muscles go slack. A dream of a Donatello who would hold you like this, talk to you like this. A Donatello who is more than just your best friend.

It’s late. Finally, warm and held and pulled into a sweet dream, finally, you sleep.

[moonyinpisces]

Romancing Mr. Fell by moonyinpisces

rating: T wordcount: 8k TAGS: regency era, too many bridgerton references, humor, innuendo, gentlemen's clubs, crowley torture simulator, fandom trumps hate complete

[enjoythesilentworld]

more than just a minute

in honor of 500 (!!) kudos on one of my favorite things I've ever written, just if for a minute, aka the fake marriage-friends to lovers au, here's a short little drabble I wrote about what those two (not) fake married boys are up to now 💜 and thank u so much for 500!!! wtf!!!

“Baby?”

Simon’s voice comes back slightly muffled from across the apartment, “Yeah?”

“Have you seen that blue button up of mine?” Wille calls back, shuffling through their mess of a closet. “The nice one with the stripes?”

There’s a pause, then Wille hears a loud sigh and the quiet pat-pat-pat of Simon’s socked feet on hard wood. One moment later, the exasperated face of his darling husband — husband! — appears in the doorway.

“Wille,” Simon says softly, as if speaking to a naughty child. “Darling. Light of my life. It’s a beach vacation. Grab two pairs of swim trunks and call it a day.”

“It’s not just a beach vacation,” Wille pouts.

With another small sigh and fond shake of his head, Simon steps fully into the room and loops his arms around Wille’s neck. Though Wille is still pouting slightly, it’s mostly for show, and his hands find their place on Simon’s waist, thumbs slipping under his sweater to rub small, gentle circles into warm skin.

“You’re right,” Simon nods, tucking his face into Wille’s neck. “It’s not just a beach vacation. But seeing as it is our honeymoon, that makes clothes even less of a necessity.”

The teasing tone in Simon’s voice and small nip of teeth on the sensitive skin under his ear pulls a giggle from Wille, and he buries his face in Simon’s curls, inhaling the calming scent.

Two months. Two months since their wedding, which had started out fake and very nearly been a total disaster but was saved at the last minute by a long-overdue (and luckily mutual) love confession. Two months since their wedding, which is altogether not very long at all, in the grand scheme of things, even if they had technically been in love with each other for the past few (many) years.

As such, the fact that Wille is standing here, in the bedroom of their shared apartment—shared before but is now shared in a wholly different way—with Simon, his husband, all wrapped up in his arms still makes his head spin. And, technically, it’s their second bedroom, formerly Simon’s bedroom which is now more of an office space—also, the very handy storage place for summer clothes while they’re in the thick of Swedish winter.

The words husband and shared and honeymoon swirl around in Wille’s brain as Simon wiggles out of his arms and turns to search for the shirt Wille’d asked about. Simon is right, it’s a beach vacation, and though they have been married for two months, the holiday season has been a whirlwind, and Wille has not been able to have Simon all to himself as much as he’s wanted to. This honeymoon will finally allow them to have that, a week and a half in the sun and sand, clothing optional.

“Did you pack that new sunscreen I bought today?”

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to bring clothes, but you can bring seven tubes of sunscreen?” Wille teases, following Simon as he slips out into the hallway and across to their bedroom, with their bed, that they sleep in every night together. His husband.

“The fact that you’re not allowed to bring clothes,” Simon retorts, “is the reason for all the sunscreen, Dracula.”

“Hey!” He pinches at Simon’s hips, then gets tackled back onto the bed in retaliation.

They roll together over the winter quilts, laughing and wriggling fingers under sweaters to tickle at soft spots of skin. Simon yelps when Wille gets him on the bum and quickly manages to win the wrestling match, pinning Wille back to the bed, wrists over his head and pressed into the pillows. He hovers over Wille, cheeks flushed pink and chest heaving, a big, proud grin on his face.

Wille smirks at him. “This is not the win you think it is,” he says, glancing down at where Simon has settled into this lap.

Fondly, Simon scoffs and rolls his eyes, starting to move away, which simply won’t do. Using his newly freed wrists, Wille loops his arms around Simon’s waist and flips them, wrapping himself around his husband like a koala.

“Wille!” Simon squeals, squirming and giggling. “We’ve got to finish packing! Our flight is in the morning!”

The last few words get partially cut-off by breathless laughter, but he stops trying to get away when Wille murmurs, “Just a minute or two more,” into the skin on Simon’s neck, nuzzling his face there.

They’ll probably stay there a bit longer than a few minutes, but they don’t mind. Simon is right, anyway; it’s their honeymoon, being clothed is way further down on the list than just being in each other’s arms as much as possible.

[aashiqeddiediaz]

to kiss the cook

love @captain-hen for beta-ing this to me, and this post for inspiring this fic.

Pairing: Evan “Buck” Buckley/Eddie Diaz, Evan “Buck” Buckley & Christopher Diaz

Rating: T

Chapter: 1/1

Word Count: 6,828 words

Snippet:

Unfortunately for Buck, Eddie chooses that exact moment to open the kitchen door, pinning him with an unimpressed look. “I don’t pay you to sit around and chit-chat, Buckley.” He lets out an astonished laugh, Christopher’s laughter joining in. “Uh, excuse me, you don’t pay me at all, Diaz.” He’s wearing a fuckass apron with “Your opinion wasn’t in the recipe” scrawled over the front that Buck bought him as a gag-gift, his hands are propped on his hips and Buck’s pretty sure there’s flour in his hair. Music still spills from the door behind him, something that Buck is absolutely going to make fun of him for later.  (Well, Buck had intended the apron to be a gag-gift, but Eddie wears it religiously, pointing towards the words on his chest every time Buck or Chris try to interject when he’s the one cooking.  Buck loves him so much he doesn’t think his heart can contain it.) The amusement in Eddie’s eyes brightens as he looks towards his son. “Chris, you want to taste-test for me?” “Heck yeah,” Chris says, reaching for his crutches. “Be right there.”

[Read on AO3]

[affixjoy]

Oh beautiful, doomed Edith Keeler, you deserved the world

And if you couldn’t have the world, you at least deserved some really fantastic sex.

Featuring! Spirk getting together! Edith being remarkable! A threesome! Canon appropriate amounts of sadness because fuck this is a tragic episode!

Thank you @ncc1701ohno and @twinkboimler for beta reading this for me! This is one of my favorite episodes and having you assure me I didn’t fuck up the tone before posting was much needed! ❤️

[hp-fanfic-archive]

Unlikely by ObsidianPen (@obsidianpen) Pairing: Harry/Tom Riddle Rating: T Word Count: 2k “Like all magical people, you will get a soul mark when you get your wand,” the genial wizard explained after calmly lighting Tom’s wardrobe and sense of self-preservation on fire. “Unless, of course, your soulmate is younger than you. Then your soul mark shall appear whenever theirs does. They are always on one’s chest, right over your heart. Usually, they are somewhat vague and take time to interpret correctly. Phrases such as ‘Rival to Lover’, or ‘Instantaneous Love’… But they always make sense in the end, and it becomes apparent whom the great, wild magic intended you to be with.” Tom Marvolo Riddle lived his entire, long life thinking that he - Lord Voldemort - was the exception to love. Harry learned at eleven that he would never escape the damnation of Tom Marvolo Riddle. (translation available in Русский)

[chunkypossum]

WIP Wednesday I guess 😭😭😭😭… Jesus. This one hurts. I have been working on it all day and I … actually recommend no one reads it. I’m writing it bc I have to.

Question for the class. Is dead dove appropriate for hurt/very little to no comfort, major character death(s) … like… what I tag is what you get with this one

Anyway. Here is a snippet if you’re brave (under the cut … and a little peek at the art I made for it…unedited …

“Your hair is getting long.” Like the observation alone would be enough to break the curse on them, Azriel’s hand rose. He reached out to touch a stray strand that had fallen over Eris’ face, to tuck it behind a pointed ear as he had once done. Before he could feel the resistance that tore his heart to pieces each time he met it, Azriel let his hand drop.

Eris watched his hand fall and looked away without saying anything.

“I’m sure Beron hates it.” Azriel tried again. Hoping to lighten the mood before Eris had to leave. It would be dawn soon and Eris could not be caught sneaking in and out of the Forest House.

When Eris still didn’t say anything, Azriel’s brows drew together in frustration and he sat up. His bones ached with the need to reach out and take Eris’ face in his hands, to shake him and force their eyes to meet. Anything.

Azriel rubbed his scars absentmindedly, and waited.

“Do you remember the last time we were together before…” Eris started, his words quickly trailing away.

“Of course,” Azriel said in hushed tones, afraid of disturbing their small bit of peace with his shaking voice. “That, I could never forget.”

“Before you left that day, you brushed your fingers through my hair.” Eris’ voice, already at a whisper, faltered and Azriel lay back beside him.

“Eris.” Calling for him, Azriel blew a small puff of air toward the other male. The hair he had aimed his breath at lay unmoved. Not even his exhales could enter Eris’ space. “Look at me.”

Azriel waited patiently for Eris to respond, counting the breaths by the rising and falling of his chest. His own chest hurt. After a while, Eris did turn back toward him, eyes glistening with unshed tears. He blinked and let them fall.

“It was the last thing you touched and I-I can’t bear to have it cut.”

The air left Azriel’s lungs and distantly he knew he should be filled with some kind of emotion, rage, sadeness, despair. Yet, there was nothing. Or rather, there were too many feelings coursing through him he couldn’t pick one to focus on. His grief was a coat of thorns, the roses all torn away by time and cruel hands. All of the pain, none of the beauty.

Holla at ya boi if you want on or off the Azris tag train :

@talibunny30 @iftheshoef1tz @born-to-riot @fell-in-luvs @fieldofdaisiies @aktrain @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @secret-third-thing @acourtofladydeath @pippsmcgee @youvereachedthenearest-lovergirl @baileybird71 @skyesayshi @yanny-77 @areyoudreaminof @unanswered-stars @futurehunt @ninthcircleofprythian @matrixsss @going-through-shit @c-starstuff-man0 @jules-writes-stories @the-darkestminds @krowiathemythologynerd @cauldronblssd @hieragalbatorixdottir @yourlazykitkat @hellolordling @christeareads @climbthemountain2020 @lilah-asteria @shadowsandlint @acourtofbatboydreams @theeternalstruggle @christeareads @molcat07

[forasecondtherewedwon]

After the Horse Has Bolted

Fandom: My Lady Jane Pairing: Jane x Guildford Rating: T Word Count: 1899

Summary: Though they escaped execution, Guildford continues to struggle with his transformations and, worse, with dreams of losing Jane. A frank conversation with Susannah might help more than he expects it to.

He loves her like this, watching her move about the camp at twilight. She isn't the only person here with medical knowledge, and she lacks the experience to deal with more severe battle wounds, and some of the Ethians are steadfastly distrustful, but there are enough willing to let Jane close, and enough minor wounds, and, generally, enough patients to go around. Her skills are badly needed.

As Jane tends to people, Guildford feels a bit useless. Though he did try to help, he quickly realized it was all too unfamiliar for him to be of much use. Besides, these people don't extend the same welcome to him as they do Jane. He doesn't have her bedside manner, he supposes. Fuck them for finding him slightly jumpy and suspicious after one of their own (technically, one of his own, but fuck) attempted to murder him with iron manacles. But he thinks this without heat. These people are their allies—almost their only allies—and he's trying to see what Jane sees.

Mostly, he just likes seeing Jane. Jane in the early morning, scavenging in the woods for medicinal plants. Jane winning over strangers by sitting at their side to cut the thread of their stitches with her teeth instead sitting on the throne to sign a document they may never feel the benefit of. Jane alive. Guildford hasn't told her yet that he sees her differently when he closes his eyes. He sees her pristine white dress across the square, the black strip that blinds her. In his dreams, he watches helplessly as she kneels and the axe swings down. That's when he wakes up screaming her name.

Yeah, maybe that's another reason these people feel a little uneasy around him.

Except Susannah. Susannah's been marvellous. They've sort of met before—him below the stairs with the beautiful woman he would next see walking up the aisle of a church, her rushing down those stairs to warn Archer about the guards, then the night of the attempted assassination outside the old Ethian camp—but Susannah makes more of their acquaintance than it really is. She does it so the others will trust him, because they clearly trust her. They listen to her. It isn't long before Guildford learns it was Susannah who mustered the rescue party that saved his and Jane's lives, though he suspects as much even before it's confirmed. He sees their bond. He's grateful for it.

How grateful though, is the thing, when Susannah plonks herself down on the log where Guildford's seated, and follows his eyes, smirking to catch him gazing at Jane.

"D'you ever let your wife ride you?"

He can't look at her as he responds, "Just the once, escaping execution."

"Ah, y'know that's not what I mean."

"No, I don't know that," Guildford says stubbornly.

Susannah hunches forward and catches his eye.

"How come you're blushin' then?"

"Piss off."

"No."

He looks at her, and she's grinning. While Jane was raised a lady and Susannah supported herself in service, Guildford's found them to be cut from a very similar cloth. They're both unflinchingly bold when they want to be. Cautious, at other times, but not timid. Not everyone can tell the difference. He's been learning Jane, and is beginning to know Susannah, and he can tell she's teasing him for a reason. It might be friendly, or a protective test of Jane's husband's mettle, or something else. Whatever it is, Guildford realizes he's probably better off not trying to shut her out. They're persistent, these two women.

"Want to know why I'm asking?" Susannah prompts.

"I'm guessing you'll tell me."

"Very good!" She shifts closer and lowers her voice. "It's 'cause I've heard you screamin' your feckin' head off the last three nights."

"And you thought Jane was responsible?"

"Yeah, I hoped she was ridin' you like there's no tomorrow. Two reasons for that. You want 'em?"

"Terrific," Guildford says flatly.

"One," Susannah says, holding up a finger to show the count, "because back when Jane and I lived under the same roof, I was beginning to have serious concerns that she was never gonna let herself enjoy herself. It was a virgin you took to your marriage bed, Guildford, no question."

"You are nosy, aren't you?" He scowls at her, but Susannah stares back, unfazed.

"It's the same for her with me. If your hair wasn't curled already, she'd have stories to tell you that'd do the job."

"Please just get to your second reason."

Susannah sighs.

"If it's not Jane, somethin's troublin' you, and it can't go unaddressed. We can't have that. You'll either attract trouble to our camp or somebody already livin' in it'll stab you themselves to keep you quiet. Probably your wife."

Guildford sags. He knows she's right—the last thing he wants to be is a liability. He doesn't want to get anyone else hurt or killed. Especially Jane. Jane, who was sentenced to death for marrying him. Jane, who stood in the fire with him, the bond between them even stronger than the rope that wouldn't split. She would die for him. Without question, without thought, without hesitation. But he wouldn't survive getting her killed.

Susannah has fallen silent, apparently waiting for him to suggest a solution. Guildford doesn't know if this is an Ethian thing or just a Susannah thing: allowing that the person with the problem probably knows themselves best. He thinks it's likely that she's wrong in his case, believing himself the picture of stunted self-knowledge and repressed memories. He takes a deep breath. He can't be that man anymore. It doesn't do anyone any good, himself included.

"I keep dreaming she was executed. You and the Ethians don't come, and I can't get free of the ropes, and I see her beheaded." His own throat feels painfully thick as he forces the words out.

"I can see why that'd be botherin' you."

"It nearly happened," Guildford agrees.

"That's not why. I don't think it's about Jane."

"Of course it is!"

But Susannah's shaking her head.

"It's not her who's powerless, it's you. In the dream, you're tethered. Outside the dream, what is it you feel you can't control?"

Slowly, Guildford understands what she's getting at. He answers, "My transformation. My Ethianism." He narrows his eyes at Susannah. "You're very insightful."

"I'm not, actually. You just have a very straightforward problem: mental impotence. See it all the time in men. Tragic affliction."

He catches sight of her smirk and wants to shove her off the log.

"Have the two of you been able to fuck since the near-execution, by the way?" Susannah asks.

"Thank you for the advice, doctor," Guildford says sarcastically, head cocked to one side, "but that is really none of your concern. Try meddling in your own relationship."

"What relationship would that be?"

He frowns.

"Are you and Archer not...?"

"Archer?!" Susannah catches herself and continues more softly. "In his dreams. Not to be insensitive," she adds, making Guildford roll his eyes. "But no, definitely not. Trust me, if he'd been lucky enough to have me in his bed, he wouldn't have been lookin' at..."

It's far too obvious that Susannah has just caught herself again, but Guildford's glad she did. His trust in his wife is absolute. That doesn't mean he would appreciate Archer attempting to come between them. He rises, deciding to forget Archer and focus on Jane.

"Try the sex thing," Susannah says on their parting. "It might help, is all!"

"Try the minding your own business thing!"

Guildford actually does plan on trying something thanks to this conversation, but it's not sex. (Yet. Later? Gods, yes.)

He doesn't try to sleep that night, not yet. He lies on his back in the dark, listening to the low murmur of conversation from the lookouts tending the campfire, to the sound of his own even breathing. He stares up at the trees, their shapes black against the blue-black night. Sometimes, he stares past them at the stars.

Before dawn, Guildford gently rouses Jane from where she sleeps beside him. Between treating the injured and being startled awake by his screams, she hasn't been getting as much rest as she needs, but he hopes she'll understand. Taking her hand, he leads her to a clearing a short distance from the camp. Someplace they'll be able to see the sky change colour ahead of sunrise. They walk with soft steps. The yawn Jane can't stifle has the round, open notes of birdsong. Soon, real birds begin to sing. He wonders whether any Ethians are among them.

Gradually, everything brightens.

"Stand here," Guildford says, taking Jane's hands in his plea, then dropping them and backing off to a safe distance.

She doesn't argue. He's told her about his mother.

Before the light of day can rush across the horizon, Guildford closes his eyes and concentrates. There's no risk of imminent death to compel him now. He has to know if he can do it anyway. Instead of resisting thoughts of the past, he permits himself to recall how it feels to change, concentrating until the sensation is alive in him. Instead of disconnecting from the present, he inhales the earthy scent of the forest, shifts his boots on the ground, knows without looking that Jane is standing where he left her, waiting for him, trusting him.

He changes just before daybreak.

In this form, his hearing is keener, keen enough to pick up Jane's quiet gasp from across the clearing. His own steady breathing expands his strong lungs, drawing in details of his environment that are beyond his human senses. What he likes best is Jane's smile as she approaches him, the soothing strokes of her hands on his face. He stands there on four legs, enjoying her gentle touch and the heat of the sun on his flank, then, closing his eyes to the world once more, Guildford changes back.

He's stumbling forward into Jane's arms before he realizes he never moved away from her before trying to transform. Obviously, his human form is smaller and therefore less of a hazard, but Guildford isn't convinced that was the ruling instinct. It felt more like... he just knew he could do it. He was sure of himself, in that body and in this one, and in whatever he is during the fleeting moment in between.

"Guildford! How did you do that?" she demands, full of awe and urgent curiosity. "I haven't seen you control it since the night we escaped the Tower!"

Yes, that's true. After bearing her away from that place, he turned back into a man. That's how he was when the Ethians found them, and how he remained through the night. At dawn, he despaired, once again becoming a horse against his will. It persisted. Day, horse. Night, man. The terrible dreams. This morning has been Guildford's first time taking the reins, so to speak. It's a colossal relief, and he looks lovingly into Jane's eyes, knowing she understands that much, even if she can't yet explain the rest.

It seems to him that the best words to say are, "I've always wanted to kiss you at daybreak."

"That's a lot of effort for a kiss," Jane observes.

"Then you'd better make it worth it," he retorts with a grin.

And he holds her, and she does.

[fic-recs-by-lulu]

Title: rabbit heart

Author: iriswords

Fandom: Batman

Rating: T - Teen and Up Audiences

Category: Gen

Content Warnings: Child Abuse (Past)

Word Count: 10,758

Summary/Excerpt:

An uneasy feeling settled in his gut as he waited for the police to come. His heart refused to come down from the fight’s adrenaline. It was almost like panic, except Damian had nothing to panic about. He tried to focus on other matters. Like the fact that Father would be disappointed that Damian had gotten injured so stupidly.

*** Damian gets unknowingly dosed with fear toxin and, convinced he'll be punished for having been injured, hides his sprained ankle. He spirals into fear and panic until he can't hold it back anymore.

[steddieunderdogfics]

Do You Have a Mirror in Your Pocket? by blipblot

@blipblot

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

4,779 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Tags: One Shot, Pre-Season/Series 03, Fluff, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Protective Eddie Munson, Bullying, Flirting, Terrible pick up lines, Steve getting humbled by his own past actions yet again

Summary:

Eddie listens closely as a disbelieving scoff echoes across the bathroom and then more wet footsteps in the opposite direction as if the person is searching for something. “Fantastic,” the voice says bluntly. “Great. Just what I fucking needed.” Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up as he recognizes the voice as none other than the recently dethroned Steve Harrington. “Alright, ha ha, very funny you guys,” he calls out. “Give me back my fucking towel now, please.” Eddie hesitates for a moment, looking quickly around the locker room and seeing no other person or a spare towel in sight.

Thanks for the rec! This recommendation is apart of our Writer's Wednesday! All of the recs today are written by @blipblot. Want to nominate an author? Fill out this form!

You can submit fic recs to our asks or the submission box!

[desceros]

one more (link to ao3 here) 2.1k

Man, she's so tiny, he thinks.

f!reader, rated t. meet-cute, pre-relationship. basically the "what if the tiny/raph meetcute from amaranthine, but this time it's a raph fic." for my friend @justalotoffanfiction HAPPY BIRTHDAY im sorry it's so late

[polutrope]

The music enchants, but it is the minstrel’s silks that enthrall Maglor. Silver-green like starlight meshed in moss, they ripple like water— nay, like thick cream, tempting both eyes and tongue. The cloth loves the one it clothes; lives as though the tiny creatures who spun it sacrificed their spirits in its making. 

It is as soft as cream, too, between Maglor’s fingers. So soft Maglor bares himself first, which he has done for no one since landing on these shores. He bares the scar that loops around his ribs: the mark of a Balrog’s whip. A strange scar, patterned like chainmail, for the metal grew so hot it singed the flesh it was meant to protect. 

Maglor’s skin burns otherwise now. He hungers for luxury. Hungers and takes, lowering the length of himself over the prone body beneath him. 

“Have you no silks in your Blessed Realm?” Daeron’s chuckle is a playful breeze on Maglor’s throat. 

They do, they did — but not like this. Ah, how Maglor wishes he could tell him: they are gone, all his gowns, all his trailing robes and winged shawls. More we shall make: so his father had spoken. But there are no such materials in cold Beleriand – none save these that have come out of the Girdled Kingdom, draped upon the shoulders of a nightborn bard with a voice like rain, like rivers, like the vast dark spaces between stars. 

Maglor’s silks are left behind and lost, but these— but you— “You are here,” Maglor says, nonsequitur. 

Daeron asks no more questions, and that is well, for Maglor can give no answers. He kisses Maglor’s mouth and shrugs out of his silks, and at the touch of skin on skin, warm and supple skin, Maglor’s hunger is at once renewed and sated. It is not his silks, but Daeron for whom he hungers; Daeron who is his luxury, his comfort, his home.

Inspired by @jouissants' Doriath silk monopoly worldbuilding in arrangement for flute and harp

[nine-one-wanton]

Prompt: School

rated: t | pairing: bucktommy | for @118dailydrabble

“Please, Mr. Kinard,” Evan whined in a sultry voice Tommy didn’t think a student should ever take with a teacher.

“Professor Kinard,” Tommy corrected him. “Or.. ‘Doctor’, I guess?”

“We can do patient-doctor stuff another night.” Evan easily straddled him in his loose-fitting basketball shorts.

“Professors have PhDs, right?”

“Riiiight,” Evan chuckled. “Wouldn’t wanna discount all that higher education you struggled through getting that doctorate..”

“I just don’t want to feel like.. a high school teacher!”

Evan plucked the glasses from the bridge of Tommy’s nose and settled them on his own.

“Well, I’m going to lose my college basketball scholarship, professor,” Evan smirked. Leaning in to husk, “If you don’t trade me an A for this D..”

Check out the whole series of prompted drabbles on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61942660

[ttm-rayllum-baby-au]

piece of your heart, ch. 4

Rayla realizes she needs a job…and refuses to recognize why she's been feeling so unwell.

chapter 4 content warning: references to underage sexual content, teen pregnancy, morning sickness, a brief mention of sexual harassment

After half a summer spent growing closer and closer with Callum, Rayla knows she has to keep him safe in the aftermath of their misadventure at the Moon Nexus—and that means she has to go. Little does she realize, though, that more than just a piece of his heart is coming with her.

chapter 4 of 34

word count 3.6k

Mornings are hard—even harder than usual since she’s been on her own—and this one is no different. Rayla groans and pulls her cloak out from under her head, draping it across her face instead, trying to block out the sun. The grass will do just fine as a pillow if she can just doze for a little while longer, before… …the tell-tale swirl in her stomach that she knows will just get worse when she sits up, especially since she has exactly nothing in her pack to settle it. No leftover Silvergrove snacks, no fruit she’d saved from the edge of the forest, none of the rations she’d snuck from a compartment on the ambler’s saddle… Nothing. She’d even take moonberries again at this point, even though the thought alone of her once-favorite food now sours her— —stomach.

Read Ch. 4 on AO3!