#fic title: in the line of love

[diazheartsbuckley]

🚨 🚨 🚨

So I got a few people who requested this and im so excited to reignite the passion I have for this story so im gonna give you a little bit more than a few sentences 🥹

🚨Cop!Eddie x Doctor!Buck au (where Bobby and Athena are Buck’s adoptive parents)

TW!! Mentions of gun violence

Buck leans back against Eddie’s desk, arms folded tightly across his chest and his lips curls into a straight line as he waits for his boyfriend to finish the last of his paperwork.

Ever since the shooting at the hospital, Buck had felt extremely uncomfortable and anxious, crawling out of his skin at the slightest bit of loud and sudden noise. And a heavy door slamming shut in the distance raises his pulse almost instantly, his entire body flinching and he swallows harshly, trying to swallow down the tears that were forming in his eyes. He didn’t even feel safe in a police station, surrounding by armed police officers. He didn’t even feel safe next to his boyfriend. Buck barely had time to digest that thought, Eddie’s hand gently made its way onto his lower back.

Buck also hadn’t been back to work yet. He tried. He even tried more than once but all he could think about was seeing several of his friends and colleagues lying dead on the ground in a blood of their own blood. He had known some of these people since med school and now they were just…gone. And despite the fact that he had seen people die before, it had never been like this. And he had never held a dying coworker in his arms, begging him to help her. Molly is-…was his friend. And he could feel the weight of her dead against his when he woke up in the middle of the night. He could feel and see his white coat being soaked in a loved one’s blood.

“Hey. You wanna go?” Eddie says gently, noting Buck’s heavy breaths and far off stare.

“Maybe I should get a gun” Buck turns to look at him. Maybe it doesn’t make sense. Maybe he shouldn’t get a gun but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

Eddie blinks a few times as he stands up, searching Buck’s eyes for an explanation that never comes. “Buck, that’s not a good idea. The last thing this city needs is more guns in the hands of untrained civilians” Eddie tries to reason.

“But you could teach me, right? You’re an instructor” Buck points out.

Eddie wants to argue with Buck’s logic but he’s also right. He is certified as an instructor. But Eddie has to put his foot down even though he hates it. He knew that Buck was scared. He knew that he was barely eating or sleeping, even after seeing a psychiatrist. But this wouldn’t help at all.

“I could” Eddie takes a deep breath in before he continues. “But I’m not going to. I know you’re scared, I know that you feel helpless-…”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before Buck cuts into the middle of it. “Then help me!” It comes out louder than anticipated and has a few of the surrounding officers looking at them. “Help me, Eddie. Please, I-I-I can’t spend the rest of my life feeling like this” Buck’s bottom lip quivers as he speaks but he doesn’t care who can see or hear him.

He needs this.

He needs to feel safe again.

He needs to be able to protect himself and his friends and coworkers.

He needs to not feel like a nine-year old defenseless kid again.

He needs to not feel scared ever again.

Make me write ✍️

Using this as my tease tidbit tuesday (even tho it’s technically wednesday here 🤫)

Some of y’all also requested it in my asks so consider this your tag for both the story and ttt/wip wednesday 🥰

Tagged by @wikiangela @weewootruck @dangerpronebuddie @hippolotamus 💕

Tagging!! @tizniz @theotherbuckley @watchyourbuck

@honestlydarkprincess @elvensorceress @wildlife4life

@thewolvesof1998 @bidisasterevankinard @butraura

@giddyupbuck @daffi-990 @actualalligator

@actuallyitsellie @spotsandsocks @steadfastsaturnsrings

@devirnis @jeeyuns @jesuisici33

@slightlyobsessedwitheverything @fionaswhvre 🦋🩵

[stvharrngton]

caramel

a/n: just a lil angsty prompt. i didn’t mean for it to be this long lol but oh well!!! i kinda wanna write a part 2 for this maybe? but i’m not sure

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: 1.9k

warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of steve’s shitty dad

prompt: My roommate/ex/family kicked me out into the rain. I have nobody else to call but you - you and steve are broken up but he’s stuck in a storm as has nowhere else to go.

requests are open!

“Get out of my house.” the older man spat.

“My fuckin’ pleasure, Dad!” Steve retorted right back, voice dripping with sarcasm. The boy snatching his jacket and car keys from the dish on the table by the door.

He swung the front door of the house open, stepping out into the cold Hawkins air, “And don’t come back until you figure out how to be a real man!” his so-called father shouted after him.

Steve could only scoff before slamming the door behind him, “Fuck!” he screamed, voice hoarse before his fist collided with the solid brick of the house. Knuckles now bruised and bloody.

Wincing in pain as he cradled his injured hand to his chest, crouching down to sit against the wall, trying to think of some way to get outta this down and away from his Dad.

The faint patter of the rain began to hit the ground and then the heavens opened. It was pouring now - lashing down with violent thuds to the pavement and the cars that lined the street.

Shit. Steve was stuck. He sure as hell wasn’t going back inside to grovel to his Dad. His car with barely enough gas in the tank to get outside of town and his wallet in the confines of his bedroom. Double shit.

Maybe he could swing by Robin’s house? No, her Mom would kill her. He couldn’t go to Dustin’s - it was a school night, and that would be totally lame to seek shelter from a 14 year old.

Steve was left with one option and it was his least favourite option. He stepped out into the rain with a sigh, jogging across the drive to his car. The engine rumbled as the BMW pulled out, rain thrashing the roof of the car.

~

The TV crackled in the background of the room, the picture the only light illuminating your features. The thunder rumbled as the rain hit against the window of your living room. Your parents out of town allowing you to claim the comfiest couch and the softest blanket as you sprawled out.

Your brows furrowed as you noticed a pair of bright headlights turning down your street, absentmindedly throwing popcorn into your mouth. You turned your attention back to the TV until you were startled by a knock at your door.

Jumping up you padded over to the window, peaking behind the curtain to see who it could be. Your eyes wide when you saw the familiar burgundy BMW that belonged to your ex-boyfriend sat in your drive.

“What the fuck?” you whispered to yourself, wondering what on earth could be bringing Steve Harrington to your house at 12:38am, in the middle of a storm no less.

You sighed opening the front door, your mouth hanging agape at the sight of the boy before you. Hair drenched and sticking to his forehead, clothes sopping wet. Tired eyes and a glimpse of his bloody knuckles as his hand came to drag down his face.

“Steve? What are you-“ you cut yourself off, seeing his bloody and scraped hand, “are you okay?”

“I’m perfect.” voice dripping with sarcasm, “Look, I just- I’m sorry for just showing up, but I have nowhere else to go.”

You shot him a sympathetic look, lips downturned in a frown. You desperately just wanted to wrap your arms around him, to hold him and tell him it’ll all be okay - but that wasn’t how you acted around each other anymore.

Nodding, you stepped to the side to let the boy cross the threshold, shutting the door firmly behind him. “I’m gonna go grab you a towel and a change of clothes,” fingernails tapping against the railing of the staircase, “I still have some of your things… just- just wait here.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, thanks.” Steve muttered back, hand coming to scratch the back of his neck. He sighed as you disappeared up the stairs. Everything was so awkward between you, tension thick and atmosphere heavy.

You were gone no longer than a few minutes, appearing back in front of Steve towels and clean clothes in hand. “Here,” you spoke handing them over, “you still know where everything is?”

He nodded, how could he forget. Your home once his second, your home preferred to his own, “I do,” a soft smile sent your way - your stomach churning at the sight, pushing the butterflies back down.

“Right,” you nodded, eyes refusing to meet his own, choosing to linger on something else, anything else. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”

You busied yourself by making hot tea for the boy upstairs. Although Steve always ran hot like a furnace he would be sure to catch a cold standing in the wet material of his clothes for so long. You still cared for him, of course you did. No breakup could switch off your feelings for Steve.

His sock-clad feet padded back into the living room now, complete with an old pair of sweats you never gave back and a Hawkins Phys Ed t-shirt you kept. He sunk into the sofa, the opposite end to you, a hand raking through his still damp hair.

“I made some tea,” you muttered, gesturing to the steaming mug sat on the coffee table.

“Oh, thanks, ba- uh, shit,” he fumbled, “I mean, thanks. Thank you.” Steve cursed himself under his breath, cheeks flushed and neck hot. The heavy tension returned.

“So,” he cleared his throat now, “how’ve you been?” eyes burning into the side of your face. You refused to meet his gaze, eyes locked on the buzz of the TV.

“Steve,” you scoffed, “why’re you here? What happened?” you didn’t mean to come off so abrupt, but you weren’t in the mood for niceties with someone who broke your heart.

“Right,” he clicked his tongue, hand gesturing at the thin air before him, “right. Sorry.”

A deep breath. A sigh.

“Well, you know how my Dad is, right?” he asked. You nodded. A man with a cold heart and not an ounce of love or parenting know-how in his body.

“We, uh, got into a fight, again. A big one this time though,” Steve sniffled and you winced, “told me I was no good, doesn’t think my life choices are good enough, I guess.” he shrugged, “told me to get out and not come back so here I am.”

You reached out to rub your fingers up and down his back but stopped yourself short, fingers curling in on themselves, “I’m sorry, Steve.” you muttered. There was so much more you could’ve said, that you wanted to say. Refusing to toe that invisible line.

Steve shrugged then, “It’s whatever,” eyes drawn to the liquid in his mug, “nothin’ I haven’t heard before.”

Your heart shattered into pieces at that. Steve always thought so bad of himself, you knew that, and it clouded his judgment at times. But he was good. Steve was a good person. His father was just cruel.

His features twisted in a grimace, eyes a little sad, like he was thinking about what he was going to say next. You wished the awkward feeling in the room away.

“Hey,” Steve spoke, “what happened to us?”

Was he being serious? You couldn’t tell, his gaze lingering on you, eyes lacking their usual spark, a flint of hope glossing over. A hope for resolution for this situation you both found yourselves in.

“What?” you gawked, “What’re you talking about?”

He shrugged, “It used to be easy,” he said, “now you can’t even look me in the eye.”

Steve stared at you like you held all the answers, why his life seemed like it was caving in on itself. Why he broke up with you, why he let the best thing in his life go.

“Steve,” you blinked, baffled, “you broke up with me.” Your tone was accusatory, but you were simply stating a fact, “What do you want me to say?”

He sighed, fingers tugging at his hair, something you knew he did when he was on edge. He inched closer to you on the sofa now, “I don’t know, okay? Fuck,” Steve cried, “I messed up, I know that, got too caught up in my own head, but I’d do anything to make it right.”

Steve was insecure. So desperate to be loved and to have someone to look after and care for, it often made him push people away. Especially the people who cared about him most. Like you.

You looked at him now, properly. Tears prickling your lash line, threatening to spill over, “Steve,” you spoke softer now, tone hushed and cautious, “what are you trying to say?” you asked.

“That I want to start over,” he reached for your hand, taking it in his own and you let him. His voice almost a whisper, “Us. Tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.” he spoke, dead cert.

Your eyes flitted down to where your hands were joined, then back to the boy’s face. His eyes boring into yours, gaze all warm honey and hoping, wanting.

Steve was all you wanted, all you ever wanted. He was warm hugs and soft kisses, boyish charm and addictive smile. Steve was sweet lemonade on a hot summer’s day, the smell of fresh coffee in the morning, the promise of forever. He was your soulmate, you were sure.

“Steve,” you sighed his name for what felt like the thousandth time tonight, “I…” you trailed off. Your head was a mess, you half wondered if the boy had come to your house for other reasons, not just because his Dad kicked him out in the dead of night during a storm.

Your hesitation was like kick to the stomach, Steve’s heart dropping to the pit of it. He gave your hand a squeeze before he dropped it, fingers coming to scratch at the back of his neck, “Maybe I should get going,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry- uh, for dropping in on you like this.”

You knew the apology was sincere but those words carried weight; sure he was sorry for showing up to your house unannounced, but you knew he meant he was sorry for breaking your heart, for pushing you away, for making you cry for days on end wondering what you did wrong.

He moved to stand then, making his way to the front door, “Hey, wait,” you reached after him, delicate fingers clasping around his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. “Don’t go,” you whimpered. Steve’s brow furrowed, concern lacing his features.

“Okay.” you spoke, nodding.

“Okay?” Steve’s eyebrows quirked, eyes scanning your face.

“It’s not a no, but I need time, Steve,” you hushed, fingers trailing down his hand until they were laced with his own, “and I can’t let you go back out in that storm.”

His lips turned up into a soft smile, sticky sweet and all fond. He wouldn’t mess it up this time, he could never, he swore to himself.

“We can go as fast or slow as you like,” his free hand came to brush your hair over your shoulder, fingers caressing the supple skin of your cheek, “you won’t regret this, sweetheart. I promise.”

You nodded, you knew there wasn’t an ounce of dishonesty behind Steve’s words. Glancing at the clock on the wall over his shoulder, the time reading 1:49am.

“I think you should get some sleep,” Steve’s eyes heavy, dark circles adoring the space above his cheeks, “guest room’s all yours, Harrington.”

Neither of you would sleep that night, itching to cross the invisible boundary you had set to crawl into bed with each other. To dream of what forever looked like.

[crossbackpoke-check]

it’s all the rest of what i want with you

connor dewar/brandon duhaime :: 8k

Summary:

“Brandon,” Connor says with a sigh. “There’s no baby in there.”

“Not yet,” Brandon says. Connor feels his stomach twist, almost like what he would imagine a baby kicking to feel like.

in these trying times of dewvorce, may i offer you 8k of pwp inspired by @stillfertile’s wonderful art which i had. several breakdowns about 🫶 anyway please enjoy!!!

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

top 5 wips you’re most excited to write? :D

AH …. anon my beloved 🥺🥺🥺 tysm for giving me an excuse to talk about them!!!! i have a whole bunch but here are the ones i’m most excited for/planning to write soon :3 hopefully

TITLES ARE STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION BTW but if you know where any of them are from you get a big gold star ⭐️

it’s your touch that i need

the best friend’s brother!satoru fic that i’m planning on posting next….. i’m . Unsure if i’ll have time to post it this week but :’3 i’ll get it done!!! honestly i just think bfb!toru is insanely attractive so this is mostly an outlet for that but . i have a plot mapped out kind of… the unrequited love trope is just perfect for him but it’s Me so it’ll probably be less angsty and more funny/bittersweet !!

here’s a snippet from it <3

”you’re a good kid,” he says, and his smile teeters on the edge of something apologetic. mostly, it’s pitying. ”there are lots of people out there for you.” the weight of his palm on your head is usually a comfort, but like this? it’s a specific kind of torture. he ruffles your hair, as affectionate as ever, the same as it’s always been. not a trace of any romantic intent. there are lots of people out there for you. (i know, you want to tell him, but your voice is raspy and your throat feels sort of dry. i know. but i want you.)

hunter, you were human

my neglected mer!sugu fic…… our beloved fish man….. one day. i’ll write it out. i’m having some trouble deciding the order of events + general formatting of the outline so 😭😭 i’m a bit stuck. i’ll get there though!!! this au has angst potential but it’s Me so trust that this will be fluffy and nothing else. lots of banter and cutesy moments. i have a lotttt of thoughts about this au and character/reader dynamic so….. i’m. really excited to eventually write it all out!!! i love him sm :cc

“i don’t really like freshwater.” … your eyes widen. his voice is silky, smooth, like a silver river running from the forked tip of his tongue; a melodic lilt that makes you think of the lullaby your mother used to sing you to sleep with. a long, slow moment passes you by, like the rocking of a rusty ship. silently, your tongue forms around a bundle of words, your mouth gaping like a fish out of water. staring at the merman in your bathtub. “you can talk?!”

consider the hairpin turn

THE BELOVEDEST OF THEM ALL …… my extremely neglected best friend’s brother!kenjaku fic T_T my magnum opus even . i started writing it out a while ago but had to stop bc i can’t decide how to format it …. i think it’d be best to tell the story through a lot of flashbacks but it’s difficult to decide where to put what flashbacks in a way that doesn’t disturb the flow, yk??? but i do have everything outlined and i’m super excited to finally post it :33 someday… bfb!kenny is the actual loml i have so much lore planned for him. this fic is just a whole bunch of yearning and tension… the tiniest tiniest bit suggestive bc he truly makes me ill.

nervously, your gaze trails towards the stairs. worried, your teeth gnawing at your bottom lip. kenjaku notices. a large palm cradles your cheek; making sure your eyes stay locked onto his own. ”don't worry about him,” he soothes, a rough thumb smoothing down your skin. ”it’s just us here… just you and me. why don’t you take a deep breath for me, hm?” (you do. without thinking. as if your body was waiting for instructions, waiting to satiate this gnawing desire to impress him, make him proud. be good for him.)  “now,” he exhales, in tandem with you, molecules mingling together. “do you want this?” 

only in the next world

ANOTHER DEARLY BELOVED WIP that’s been rotting in my drafts for a while ….. 👉👈 i think that out of all of these fics this is the first one that i wrote the outline to?? probably even before i made this blog. it’s basically just a canon-aligned au where gojo navigates his maybe-possibly-feelings for you, a new teacher at jujutsu high!! sooo really just my attempt to write what i view as a more canon-aligned gojo and his feelings towards love :3 mostly character-centered fluff and slowburn… some office au vibes…. i’m very fond of this reader!! and i love this version of gojo so bad i really hope i can do him justice…

“they’re a softie, huh?” shoko exhales — smoke drifting past her lungs, mingling with the cold air, a stench of tobacco that makes him crinkle his nose. ”they are,” she hums, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. a dangerously knowing look. “it’s not often someone captures your attention.” gojo smiles. ”is that what it seems like?” he drawls, almost a chuckle. closing his eyes and thinking of you, the fading scent of your perfume. ”well, who knows.” (certainly not him.)

signs of affection

my sickeningly fluffy cult leader geto fic <333 bc i’m spreading the agenda that he is a puppy of a man towards his s/o. this one is just meant to be funny and sweet!! i adoreee the thought of him dating a retired sorcerer with a normal ass job so in this one the reader works at a preschool…. and they’re meant to attend some kind of event for the preschool + is offered to bring a plus one. mild chaos ensues (geto doesn’t want to be anywhere near your non-sorcerer colleagues but he also wants to support you so he’s having a bit of a crisis rn…..) i LOVE this one and i’m so excited to write it out <333333 i think this geto is the most endearing man alive.

suguru blinks, eyelashes fluttering, gleaming under the shallow light of the lamppost just behind him. illuminating the peach-dyed flush dusting his ears, those wide pupils. and his lips, glossy with something cherry-flavoured, soon to curl up into a smile — fond, fond, fond. melting into your touch, basking in your long-sought attention. if he were a cat, you’re sure he'd be purring. he places one big palm over yours, where it rests on his cheek, and he stares. silently, like you’re the only thing worth seeing; dreamy galaxies inside his eyes, all honey and star clusters, leaking adoration. a milky way of love. ”… another,” he pleads, nosing at your fingertips.

[fallenstarzz]

any stuart crumbs for us tonight?

I haven't really worked on it lately because I've been trying to focus on the fest fic (and coming up with a million other wips on the side to distract me from the fact that I cannot for the love of me get that fucking opening right). Buuuut here's a snippet from the funeral scene:

I feel like Neil and Stuart's relationship has a lot of potential, though it doesn't really get explored past the basic on this fic (at least not in my plans). I don't think they could ever see eye to eye in any universe that was not drastically different, and there is something to me that just feels right about this limbo they settle on, where Stuart is still protecting Neil from a distance but neither of them really have anything to do with each other, kind of like a mafia guardian angel. They both had one thing in common, and it was Mary, but even then she meant very different things to each of them. Now that she's gone, though, they remain connected by having been two people that loved her – and I think that does impact the fact that they won't let their relantionship evolve past being Mary's brother and Mary's son, as if they are preserving some part of her by refusing to let those versions of each other go, and allowing themselves to get closer as who they are now would shatter that illusion.

Also, I went through the last book and in his appearences after Baltimore, Stuart doesn't call Neil by name (granted, they have only one on-screen conversation), and in Baltimore, he calls him Nathaniel and not Abram – so though I do think Stuart refers to him as Neil in their conversations, in his mind Stuart will always think of him as Nathaniel. Because I think that while he doesn't resent Neil personally for it, Stuart is very aware of whose son he is.

(In a similar way, Stuart thinks of Ichirou as Ichirou even though he refers to him as Lord Moriyama most of the time before they get closer, because I do think fitting that a British man has some bones to pick with the class implications of the Moriyama's hierarchy and no one is stopping him from being blatantly disrespectful inside his mind. There is a pretty good case to be made in canon for the fact that Stuart doesn't really respect Ichirou at all even if he knows to fear him and that's a very fun balance to navigate).

It was also pretty fun to describe Andrew from the perspective of someone who is soooo indifferent to his existence. He's just a little guy to Stuart.

There's probably more I could say but I should really sleep now. So... Bone apple teeth?

[gallifreyanwriter]

Desolation

They were the ones that picked up their arms and their legs and carried on. And it’s a good job they did, because there was no one else left.

The oldest living human in the universe, and the oldest dead human in the universe, stranded together on an orange cliffside, overlooking a magenta ocean.

It wasn’t their first choice of real estate, but being the only survivors of the crash meant they didn’t have much of a choice. They could only drag their salvaged materials so far, after all. So they settled in for the long haul, and used their scraps and some white wood from a distant forest to build their home atop the great orange cliff. 

There wasn’t anything they could really...do, about the wreckage of the Red Dwarf. Neither of them could swim to it, obviously, and there was something about the local ocean water that made Lister kind of itchy, anyway. So they left it alone, as a great, big reminder of everything, and everyone, they’d lost.

Sometimes pieces would break off, sometimes other pieces would wash ashore, and sometimes, those pieces would even be useful. Sometimes Lister, bleeding heart that he was, would just walk outside of their house, stare into the horizon, and weep.

Bloody tosser, Rimmer would think, with tears in his hologramatic eyes.

There’s a special kind of loneliness, being the only life you know of on a planet. It’s not the kind of loneliness when you’re in the corner of a party and no one will speak with you, oh no. It’s more like when you’re in the corner of a party and no one is speaking to you but all the people who aren’t speaking to you are at least a million light years away, and your only way to even have a hope of a drink thrown in your face is half-submerged in this strange pink ocean, hazy in the distance.

Ah well. They were probably a bunch of smegheads anyway.

But they carried on, with the slow acceptance that they were well and truly lost. No enemies, sure, but also no friends—except each other.

And then, erm. Perhaps a bit more than friends, actually. Not sure when that happened, honestly, but who was left to judge? That’s right, no one, so mind your business, please.

They would often look to the sky. The sky, color of fresh mango juice. The rings that surrounded the planet always bisecting the vast expanse, creating some truly interesting sunsets that Dave was always LOOKING THE OTHER WAY FOR, COME ON-

Oh, they had their moments. But neither of them would ever be the same. They walked slower, lived slower, sat quieter. They had both existed since three million years in the past, and something deep in their cellular DNA seemed to know it. Imagine if you were three million years old and got launched into a new planet that seemed to only have plants on it, and see how you fare, eh? You’d have to become a vegetarian.

And when they succumbed to the cold orange earth, and their house fell into disrepair, and every broken and rusted piece of the Red Dwarf had succumbed to the sands of time...the microbes that had set up shop in Lister’s dead bones had evolved to the point of arguing with each other over whether there was a God or not.

Wish I could tell you, dear reader, that their conception of religion was based on dear old Arnie and Davey, but it wasn’t. They lived on this planet, and died on this planet, without anything of sentience to even know their names. Both of them were well and truly forgotten, and there’s no coming back from that.

But hey. They had still mattered.

[wistfulwatcher]

i feel like your roman candle; misty/nat, 8k, explicit

written in response to a series of tumblr erotic prompts (since i ended up getting many more than i was expecting, i have combined the ones that fit!).

prompts used: caught masturbating, torn lace, against the wall, fingers (@igotreallyreallytiredofmyoldurl), “do that again”, hair, panting, love bites, taste, restrained, desperate, tease, on the edge, and in public (if you squint)

read here on ao3

[kanerallels]

Me: *is watching the "it doesn't just feel like pretend" scene in 5x01* My sister: Somewhere @hecckyeah is screaming

[rowanisawriter]

12 poems for 2024

i’m learning a poem by heart every month this year, may’s poem is shakespeare’s sonnet 15

And all in war with Time for love of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

january’s poem

february’s poem

march’s poem

april’s poem

[martianbugsbunny]

I love Wayne Visser for accidentally writing the most Kalluzeb-coded poems I've ever seen:

It's really giving Bahryn to me. Gentle embraces in the midst of pain especially; there are so many moments in the Honorable Ones (besides the obvious life-sparing one) when Zeb is clearly putting the fact that Kallus is injured ahead of the fact that he's an enemy, and he's not so rough with him as you might expect. And of course it was a night of anguish for both of them, as they recounted the most scarring moments of their lives side-by-side with their enemy, in the freezing cold, but there was the contrast of hope, of understanding, just like the contrasts in the poem.

This is giving post-Zero Hour. A whole lot. Courage blossoms in the midst of fear—I mean come on, Kallus just turned his back on his entire life up to this point to join a rebellion that may or may not succeed, but he still did it. And now he and Zeb are no longer mortal rivals, but friends and compatriots, and whatever healing either of them has yet to do can be done together, as two wounded warriors fighting for a better future.

This is just...very Kalluzeb. This is them. Their lives during the Rebellion, when they're not always together on the same missions; their lives after the Rebellion, when they've found peace and they have to adjust to not being at war anymore; their lives together at all knowing they used to be enemies, but also that they were somehow pulled together by the Ashla for better things.

The poem is called Kismet. And how could they believe that it took anything less than an act of fate to bring them together, with all the history they had? How much more blessed could their union be, if destiny itself worked on their behalf?

[lululeighsworld]

and for Gunter's birthday fic this year I finally ended up writing Leigh's love confession to him; I promise his birthday is relevant!! 💜❤️

Read the story here on AO3

[definitelynotshouting]

everything i loved and feared (first 1k)

hello scarianblr beloveds this is the unedited very beginning of my completed scarian fic that im posting for the hell of it. fic is 7k rn but that will likely expand after the final draft rewrite<3 so this is just a funky little teaser thats gonna be rewritten anyway, hence why i dont mind sharing.

CWs for: blood, graphic injury, implied character death. Enjoy :]

Grian’s eyes are red now.

It’s an odd color on him– not because it doesn’t suit him, but because it suits him far too well. Like a glove, Scar thinks past the hazy, heady fog settling over his mind. Red like his tattered sweater– like the blood that beads between Scar's neck and shoulder, clouding the water he kneels in. Red like life.

Red like love.

That’s the fog settling thick over his senses. Love, the amalgamation of it, something so beautiful and terrible that anyone else wouldn’t– shouldn’t– look at it head-on. But inside Scar’s chest is a warm purr; he has rolled the die, shown his hand, and now Grian stands over him, vibrating red, red, red. He’s gorgeous like this, all righteous, trembling fury. Scar wants to pull him close and kiss him until they’re both dead.

“You can kill me” he says, and his voice shakes with the cost of this victory. “Grian. You can kill me.”

Above him, an avenging angel falters. Grian’s sword, so swift with its raging swing, lowers by a noticeable fraction. “What? No.”

“For everything you did to me,” Scar says, breathless, “to keep me alive this long– you may slay me, and take the enchanter.” He lowers his head, until his forehead brushes against cool, rippling water. It feels like benediction. It feels like a curse.

Grian will win. It is both the least and most Scar can do for him.

When Grian speaks, his voice is small. “No– no, I can’t. I literally can’t. Scar–”

“Do it,” Scar insists, that eager haze billowing through his veins, unfolding to rest with steady pressure against his bowed spine. Distantly, he wonders why nothing is singing. There should be war horns, trumpets, a blazing, crescendoing melody. Birds, at the very least.

Instead there is only miserable silence.

Grian sucks in an audible breath. “I’m not–” he starts, then breaks off; Scar lifts his head to watch him struggle, how his grip loosens on the hilt of his sword, how his eyes pinch around the edges. Grian flinches, presses his free hand to his head, eyes going middle-distant.

“The spectators want a fight,” he says at last, hollow.

And this is what he's waited for, this moment of realization; the other shoe dropped, the culmination of the game they've waltzed around. Scar smooths his voice, curling it around the two of them with gentle, insistent pressure. “It’s okay, G. You can kill me. You can be the winner.”

For one, long moment, Grian holds his stare, expression flayed open for only Scar to see. Raw and wild, his eyes gleam in the dawning sun– thin strands of hair curl around his ears, damp from their earlier struggle in the pond.

Slow, so slow it’s almost imperceptible, Grian shakes his head. Clenches his jaw. “Scar, they want blood.” Something in his face shifts– some beetled brow, a muscle jumping before smoothing out. He’s shaking: ripples blooming around him as he wavers on his feet, as if adrenaline has finally retracted its claws.

Scar’s shaking too. Even in this, they are together.

Scar opens his mouth– to push, to press, to snap him out of whatever spell holds him in suspension– but Grian beats him to it; his sword lifts from its helpless stance, glittering bright and blue in the sun. His mouth twists, tired affection curling the corners of his lips.

“Scar,” Grian says, “no matter what happens, we can claim this as a double victory. Right?”

The words are a cool caress against his fevered skin. Scar sinks into them, eyes drifting shut– because even now, with victory dancing through his veins, he can’t look Grian in the face when he kills him. “Yes,” he breathes, and braces for the blow, the cut of diamond against his carotid–

It never comes.

Instead, a rush of air as the sword comes down; the sharp, wet schlck of a blade entering flesh; a choked-off, gurgling yelp. Scar’s eyes fly open just as Grian falls to his knees with a splash, and–

And blood is tumbling from his gut in great scarlet waves where his sword is buried, slicking around his hands where he grips the hilt. Grian’s teeth are stained as he grins up at Scar, sharp and feral, eyes alight with more fire than Scar has seen in them since he knelt to die. “You win,” Grian hisses, and shudders, one hand flying out to sink into the silt of the pond they’re both kneeling in. Like a toppling tower, the rest of his body follows suit, falling sideways into bloody water.

The fog clouding his mind is ripped away in one fell swoop. Scar isn’t sure if he screams– all he knows is that one moment Grian is collapsing, and the next Scar is holding him, breath stuttering in his lungs.

“Grian– Grian, no, hang on. Wait, wait, wait, no, no– no, no, no, no. Grian.” His hands find the hilt of Grian’s sword, but make no move to pull it out– that would just kill him faster. It's like he's been punched– the bright, earnest rays of the sun have missed their mark, gilded the wrong death in stunning, flagrant gold. “What are you doing?” he chokes, like that will reverse everything.

Grian was supposed to win. Grian was supposed to be the winner.

“They never said what kind of blood,” Grian says, hazy. His lips wobble. “I can’t– I couldn’t, Scar. I couldn’t kill you.” When he coughs, blood bubbles on his lips. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Scar whispers, fingers shifting to catch in the wet strands of Grian’s hair. “You did that on purpose– Grian, you were supposed to win.”

He’d done everything– cast the die, folded his cards, offered up his life, because Scar knows himself; he could never handle being alone. Not in that emptiness. Maybe it’s selfish, how he’d planned to let Grian take that fall instead– but Scar is selfish. And more than that, he’s in love: awful, truthful, scarlet love, with a man now dying in his arms.

“You weren’t supposed to die,” Scar wails, terror thick in his lungs, despair a weight around his ankle. He leans forward, brushing his forehead against Grian’s, until the trembling puffs of breath from Grian’s lips fan over his own. “Grian– how could you?”

When he pulls back again, Grian grins at him. The sun slips across his face, revealing the pale, faded remnants of freckles scattered over his cheeks. Scar has always wanted to count them. He’s never gotten close enough until now. “Guess I’m just not cut out to be a winner,” he murmurs, one hand lifting to rest, delicate as a butterfly, over Scar’s cheek.

He does not say I love you. He does not say anything at all. Instead he guides Scar’s head down, until their lips brush, the taste of copper flooding Scar’s tongue. Then his hand drops, breath hitching, head lolling back–

Scar wakes up choking on his own desperate scream.

[wren-of-the-woods]

Now I'm having feelings about the parallel between "A red sky at dawn is giving a warning / You fool, better stay out of sight" from Her Sweet Kiss and "His choice was made aside the sea, a twilit red horizon / For she had finally made him see his place among the sirens" from A Little Sacrifice.

Both have the red sky, but of them is a warning at dawn in a song about the end of a relationship and one is a resolution in the evening in a song about the growth and perseverence of a relationship. Both are love songs, but one of them is about the destruction wrought by a kiss and the other is about the victory of embracing each others' sacrifices.

Maybe it has to do with Jaskier's growth and change of perspectives through the seasons, maybe with the context in which they're written, or maybe I'm reading into nothing, but it makes me emotional regardless.

[22degreehalo]

SO in the wake of regaining entry to Livejournal I've started saving the fics I read there for posterity, which given that this is almost entirely a pre-AO3 zone means going through the Very nostalgic process of continually highlighting the given chapter's text, copying and pasting it over to a Word (well, Libre Office) document, and saving n.n;

I had the journal when I began my House/Wilson phase, so that is the clear majority in terms of fics recced there, haha. (I even completed a rec_50 challenge with them!!) And so far, I've been able to save almost everything I linked there, which is honestly amazing! (Albeit with some searching around for mirrors e.g. on fanfiction.net or squidgeworld or just good ol' Wayback Machine.)

So, I should have no reason whatsoever to complain!

...except. :')

There is this one PARTICULAR House/Wilson fic that, for whatever reason, just... lodged itself into my brain, and even all these years later I still think about it sometimes. It wasn't long (only a few thousand words long), or all that original, but it the emotion in it was just so perfectly captured! A very particular kind of emotion that I can only really fully appreciate now that I know I'm aro!!!

Except I... just can't seem to remember the name of it?! (I remember so many other fic's names...) And from what I've seen so far - and I'm making serious headway through them - none of the linked fics look like they are the one I am thinking of... :')

which. How exactly do you ask for help finding a fic published almost fifteen years ago?! I have no idea how to contact the House/Wilson fandom who would've been around back then... I do not think that anybody is checking the comms anymore :')

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: February 17

“DYWTYLM” by Sleep Token

[tiffanyachings]

If not by faith, then by the sword I'm going to be restored