#i know another short fic

[writeouswriter]

The curse has lifted (finally wrote more than like 10 words on something)

[rintoki]

when you sleep at night

characters: kafka x dom!reader

tw: somnophilia, dubcon, nothing too crazy actually relax

a/n: i guess this can be considered a second part to my first kafka smut, its like the exact same setting and dynamic.

MINORS DNI

the door opens easily as kafka steps into the entrance way, slipping out of her heeled boots and quietly making her way through the dark living room. all the lights in the house was out and it was eerily silent, through the dim lighting kafka strains her eyes to check the clock hanging on your wall.

11:37pm

you couldn’t possibly be sleeping this early yet. but, alas, you proved to be unpredictable to her once again as she turns the knob to your bedroom, pushing it open to reveal your sleeping form on the bed. her feet padded softly on the floor; taking slow, deliberate steps closer to the bed that you laid on.

kafka clicked her tongue, a tinge of annoyance blossoming in her chest when she sees that you were indeed fast asleep and not just pretending to mess with her. not that you were the type to do that anyway. she felt her finger twitch unconsciously, standing foolishly by your bed as she is once again reminded of how little you cared for her. despite her now regular visits to your residence, you never once welcomed her, nor have you ever made any type of accommodations towards her.

the woman breathes deeply, your familiar scent permeates the room and her body is quick to react to it. reminded of all the late nights spent together, how warm your body felt next to hers, and how good you made her feel. kafka shuts her eyes for a moment, deciding on what to do now. part of her knows that the right thing to do is to leave and come back another time, preferably informing you beforehand like you had asked of her.

but instead she remains in her spot; unmoving as she watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, your soft breasts hidden underneath the thin material of your pyjamas, and how easy it would be to simply unbutton it right now. kafka finds herself getting lost in her thoughts, eyes raking over your body as she thinks about everything she could do to you now. but more than anything, her purple eyes finally land on your hands; the same hands that brought her orgasm after orgasm. the very ones that hugged and caressed her body, how she wanted to feel them again.

and as if in a trance, kafka pushes her jacket off her shoulders, letting the expensive coat fall to the floor without a care. normally unheard of with how much she loves her coats, but now there’s no one here to see that. and there’s no one to witness as she peels off the layers of her clothing, her belly tightening with every passing second and soon the woman stood in nothing but her panties.

kafka crawls gingerly onto the bed, careful to not wake you as she eyes your hand resting by your side. she tests the waters, nimble fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling it away from your body. when you show no reaction does the excitement bubble up within her, her pussy already beginning to ache with need

inch by inch, she shuffles closer. until your relaxed fingers lay just underneath her clothed pussy, a wet spot now forming on her panties. kafka’s breathes deeply, trying to keep it even as she lowers herself onto your hand, feeling your fingers fold naturally under her weight.

a shaky breath escapes her at the feeling, slowly moving her hips back and forth on your curled fingers, not caring how awkward the position was. kafka watches your sleeping form carefully, but you showed no signs of waking up, still blissfully unaware and deeply asleep.

a small part of her was annoyed—that you didn’t wake up and catch her in the act, that she won’t get to see your reaction. but the larger part of her is now pushing off her panties, letting her bare pussy rub against the palm of your hand. it was warm, and the ridges brushed perfectly against her swollen clit. kafka shudders, her breathing turns heavy as she continues the slow rutting of her hips, allowing herself to enjoy the sensations until your hand was sufficiently lubricated from how much she leaked.

and with shaky hands, she positioned your fingers upright, aligning it with her hole before sinking down upon them. kafka nearly whines, biting back any sounds as your fingers penetrates her tight walls. she grips your wrist, holding them in place as the woman lifts her hips once again, this time pushing your fingers into her pussy. again and again, your fingers sunk deep into her warmth and kafka pants quietly. her mind was feeling dizzy from the entire situation, the fact that you weren’t even conscious now and yet you still managed to reduce her to this state. how even just your fingers was enough for her pussy to twitch and push back so desperately against your hand.

she squeezes her eyes shut, her head hung low and nearing the verge of her orgasm as she angles your wrist so that the tips of your fingers brushed against her spot. the sensitive patch of nerves singing in response as it felt like shocks ran through her body. kafka gasps loudly, unable to hold back her moans now as it almost felt like your hand was moving by itself. too far gone to put the pieces together even when your fingers begin to curl and thrust inside her, or when your thumb has suddenly begin to press against her clit at the same time.

her mouth hung open, panting breathlessly as her body felt like it was on fire. her hand wrapped helplessly around your wrist even as it moved by itself and her back arched, muscles flexing and her thighs trembled terribly. kafka was right on the edge, just a little more… just one more stroke, just one more thrust…

“agh…! fu—fuck, wha…!”

the woman felt every sensation in her body stop cold. before she’d knew it your hand was already ripped from her body, and her orgasm had come to a screeching halt. kafka nearly chokes, scrambling to her senses as she finally raises her head to face you.

from her flushed expression to her bare body, your cold eyes finally landed on your soaked fingers, covered in her wetness after having used it for her own pleasure. kafka watches with wide eyes; somewhere in her mind she understood that you had probably been awake for a while now, that you’d probably purposely fucked with her. brought her to the brink of an orgasm before ruthlessly ripping it away from her.

her heart pounds in her chest, an unfamiliar feeling as she waits for your next move, your next words. what will you with her now? she’s not that shameless to ask you to make her cum again after begin caught like that, but for whatever reason she could feel her pussy tightening again, waiting with anticipation of what you might do to her now.

[nico-di-genova]

strollonso + marriage proposal.

Genuinely, thank you so much for sending this, it is such a simple request, and yet the idea of them married has now fully consumed me.

Warnings: NSFW, they are fucking nasty style.

The thing about them is that they’ve never been normal. Not when Fernando kissed Lance for the first time post Bahrain, all sweaty and roaming hands, crowding Lance against the door of his hotel room and then standing before his father the next day saying Lance was already like family. Not when Lance went down on him for the first time, choking himself on Fernando’s cock while the man sat on the phone with his engineer discussing set-up of his car. Normal was not something that came to them easily, Lance supposed their proposal wouldn’t be any different.

He just hadn’t expected Fernando to ask him right as he was bottoming out.

Right as Lance was muffling a moan into his pillow and gripping the plush material in his hands with white knuckles.

“Marry me,” Fernando grunts, and Lance hardly hears him over the blood rushing through his ears.

He moans as Fernando thrusts with practiced ease.

“Yes or no?”

Lance cannot even follow the question. He’s too busy thinking of how Fernando’s cock feels inside him, too busy arching and pushing back for more. Fernando gives it to him, leans forward so he can rest a hand on the mattress next to Lance’s face pushed into the pillow, his other hand gripping Lance’s hip tight enough to bruise.

When Fernando begins thrusting at a brutal pace Lance lets him. He lets punched out noises fall from his lips and tangle in the sweat soaked sheets beneath them.

When he comes, it’s with the shape of Fernando’s name in his mouth.

"You did not answer,” Fernando muses afterward. Lance’s head is resting on his bare chest, his fingers threading through sweat soaked strands of jet black hair.

“Answer what?” Lance mumbles, fucked out and limp against Fernando – like a sack of potatoes Fernando had once teased, boneless and immovable. He was falling asleep, his voice groggy with the promise of it.

“Marry me,” Fernando says again, a statement instead of a question.

“Later,” Lance grumbles, curling closer to Fernando.

He is rarely the little spoon, what with the size difference between them, but his thigh slots perfectly across Fernando’s hips and his head can rest nicely beneath his chin if he maneuvers enough. He can feel Fernando’s come dripping out of him, his own drying against his stomach, but the need to give into the oblivion of sleep is stronger than the need to shower.

“But yes?” Fernando asks, to which Lance makes a noise that might have been agreement, at least he aims for that.

It’s not romantic, certainly not how Lance thought his proposal would go. For one, he did not think he would be the one proposed to. In his mind there had been an expensive trip to Bali, rose petals in the sand, a girl who he’d get down on one knee for with a prenup and a ring. But the girl never had a face, nothing distinguishable about her other than the dress she wore that would flutter in the breeze and her giggle when Lance slid the expensive rock onto her finger.

This is better, half asleep against his childhood hero with his limbs still aching from how hard the man had drilled him into the mattress. Feeling warm, content, wanted – not just for his trust fund but because he was also really good at sucking dick.

Maybe it was a self-deprecating thought. He didn’t care. He falls asleep like that, with Fernando’s fingers in his hair and wrapped in the scent of him. When he wakes, it’s to the man easing him out of the bed and into the warm bath that waits with steam rising in tendrils from the water. It’s easy to let himself be taken care of, to let Fernando massage the knots from his shoulders and clean the come from his body. Easy in the same way it is to let a nameless driver cart him around Montreal or let the rotating staff dust his frequently empty loft, different in that Fernando presses kisses to his neck, his shoulders, his spine, the crown of his head and tells him how good he was.  

Lance rests his cheek against the curve of Fernando’s neck while water is poured down his back, soap lathered into his hair, whispers of praise warm against his ear. Fernando uses his own shampoo, his soap, so that Lance no longer smells of sex but of citrus and sandalwood.

Fernando doesn’t mention marriage again, but he does dress Lance in a pair of his own boxers and eases him into bed with a gentleness that Lance has learned to associate with post-coital bliss.

It’s the sun that wakes him up next, and Fernando’s hand thwacking against his face when the man shifts in his sleep. He smells of Fernando and is wearing clothes are too small for his frame, and it’s familiar. At some point, it became almost normal.

A month later he gives Fernando a ring, a silver band rimmed with a strip of carbon fiber from his own car and his name engraved in Hebrew on the inside. It matches the font that’s inked across his ribs. Hurt a hell of a lot less though and cost him significantly more. His dad’s accountant questions the amount, asks Lance if he bought a new place, and Lance just shrugs it off – says he bought a snowboard or a car or a race track just to see the way the man’s lips press into a thin line as he jots something into the books.

“I’ll marry you,” he says, when he slides the ring in its velvet box to Fernando across the table of the taco place they’re at. It comes to a rest beside the chips and salsa.

Fernando stares. There’s a stray piece of cilantro sticking to the corner of his downturned mouth.

“If, uh, if you still want me to. I’ll marry you.”

“A ring?” Fernando asks, motioning at the box with the overfilled end of the taco in his grip. A stray piece of carne asada falls, plops onto the paper lined basket beneath him.

“Yeah, it’s stupid, but you know-“

“It’s not stupid,” Fernando cuts him off, annoyance lacing his tone as he sets the taco down next to the escaped piece of meat, “Don’t say that. It’s not stupid.”

Lance blushes, ducks his head, stares down at his own untouched taco and the box that Fernando still has not reached for. There’s chip crumbs sticking to the velvet. His dad would have a conniption if he saw, the same way he did when Lance would show up to events in a suit that was too big on him with an untucked button-up peeking out from beneath the oversized fabric. His dad would hate that they were even eating here, which is maybe precisely why Lance had chosen it. Something bold, something his, something that wasn’t stamped with the Stroll name and wrapped in a pretty package.

“It’s not stupid,” Fernando repeats, “But it’s for me?”

Lance feels his palms go clammy, feels suddenly like he is getting hit by a bus. His appetite leaves him with the whoosh of breath from his lungs. They hadn’t talked about it since Fernando proposed the idea when he was balls deep inside him. When Lance was moaning his name into the pillow and choking on his own tears from the pleasure. He feels suddenly stupid, hollow, the same way he feels when reporters ask him why he bottled it into the wall on the easiest part of the circuit with condescension lacing their tone. Like they could do any fucking better.

“You- fuck.”

“Lance?”

“You didn’t mean it did you? Oh, man, uh. I’m- fuck.”

Lance doesn’t cry, at least not in public. He’s become well trained in blinking back tears and biting off the quiver in his voice that gives him away. But he comes close, feels the stinging heat of them building in the corners of his eyes and has to blink violently until his vision clears. Fernando watches him, watches as he fights against the rising tide of not good enough, stupid, never enough that rises inside him suddenly and rapidly and threatens to drown him while he swallows down the bile and sour cream taste that’s building at the back of his throat.

It takes him longer than it should to stop the shaking of his hands.

“Sorry,” he says when the world settles a little beneath his feet, when he doesn’t feel like he’s going to say something spiteful just so he can see Fernando’s expression twist with the same hurt he feels. It wouldn’t work anyway, Lance has thrown nearly every well aimed bullet Fernando’s way and they land, but they never seem to hurt.

“Let’s just- let’s just forget about it, yeah? It was a dumb thing, I don’t even-,” he reaches to grab the ring box but is halted by Fernando’s hand over his own. Fernando’s fingers wrap around his wrist, strong, sturdy, unyielding.

“Stop calling it that. Let me answer, yes?”

Lance nods, braces himself for the inevitable rejection, for the floor falling out feeling and the rush of wind in his ears and the impact of his body against the pavement. It’s not a strange feeling, to be dumped by his hero and hung out to dry, doesn’t hurt any less the second time around though. He just wishes Fernando would be mean about it, the niceties hurt more, he’d rather it just be quick – it’s what he would have expected from the man anyway – a sharp dagger to the side or the bite of a blade against his throat, not the gentle press of the knife sliding between his ribs in some false semblance of mercy.

Fernando brushes his thumb along the inside of his wrist, over his pulse point, parallel to the surgical scars left from his accident. He sometimes gets phantom twinges, the memory of a snapped bone, but nothing now. Now he just feels empty.

“I did not ask you properly,” Fernando explains, sounding, strangely, sad.

“I didn’t answer properly,” Lance counters, nodding to the box that still sits between them, unopened, next to the chips and a bottle of hot sauce like it is another spare condiment. It cost him a quarter of a million, and Lance threw it down like it was the spare jalapeno sauce the waiter had left them.

“I should have,” Fernando presses, exasperated, like he’s frustrated that Lance is not understanding him, “it’s important to me. This. Us.”

Us.

Lance feels like that twelve year-old boy standing in the Ferrari garage when he says, “I don’t understand.”

Like he’s watching the race unfold with noise muffled by the earmuffs over his head and his father’s hand heavy on his shoulder. Like he can see it all, close enough to smell the rubber and the gasoline, but far enough away that it still seems unobtainable. Fernando may as well still be in that car, separated by a screen and Lance’s idolization for all the difference it makes now.

“You want to marry me, yes? Honest. This is- this is you? Your choice?”

“Who’s else would it be?” If Lance has a gun held to his head it’s one that he hasn’t spotted yet, metal pressing against his temple, and he’s somehow mistaken it for a kiss.

Fernando’s lips press into a thin line, the curl of his lips curving further downward.

“I’m sorry, Nando.”

“Stop being sorry. You do not need to be sorry. I am sorry. How I asked, when I did, it was…wrong. I should have waited. I should have asked correctly.”

Fernando’s grip on his wrist tightens, instinctively, enough that Lance winces when it shifts something beneath the skin, and he feels the hint of pain. More of a familiar ghost than anything real. Fernando pulls away anyway, sudden, leans back in his seat and tucks his hands beneath the table like his touch has somehow burned Lance.

Slowly, Lance understands.

“Wait- you- baby did you think I wanted a proposal? Like down on one knee ‘will you marry me’, proposal?”

Fernando arches an eyebrow, “You do not?”

The floor stabilizes slightly, stops feeling like it’s going to fall out beneath him. Lance breathes and when he exhales a laugh accompanies it.

“No, Fer. Fuck no. Please no, actually.”

“But you got me a ring,” Fernando points out, points at the jewelry itself, like rings and proposals must always go hand in hand. Like they’re supposed to be the blushing bride and groom. Like there’s not a seventeen year age difference between them and their first kiss wasn’t accompanied by Fernando spitting the name ‘princess’ into his mouth like it was a slur.

Lance can’t stop laughing.

Fernando still can’t seem to find the joke.

“This is not funny.”

“It’s kind of funny.”

Funny that his boyfriend became his fiancé when he was fucking him so hard Lance probably wouldn’t have even remembered his own name. Funny that he bought a ring before they’d even discussed it when their dicks weren’t out. Funny that Lance mistook Fernando’s chivalry for abandonment. It’s funny in a way that isn’t, and so he can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him in heaving breaths and spills across the table, the floor, the whole of the crowded restaurant. He knows what he must look like, wide grin and crinkling eyes, and the familiarity of his face nagging at the brains of those who turn to stare at him.

He doesn’t care if they recognize him, or, more realistically, Fernando. He doesn’t care and it’s one of the first times that he thinks it and realizes it’s probably true.

“Stop laughing.”

“I can’t,” Lance wheezes, “We’re both so fucking stupid.”

Fernando rolls his eyes, shifts in his seat, waits until Lance’s laughs fade into breathy little huffs and passes the time by picking at his now cold taco. Lance watches him, watches the twitch of his lips and knows Fernando is biting back laughter too.

Finally, he leans forward on his elbows and says, “I want to marry you. Of course I want to marry you.”

He pushes the ring box further along the table with an index finger, until it’s touching Fernando’s plate. The man looks from the velvet box to Lance’s finger and travels along his arm until there’s nothing between them, but the table and the chips and Lance’s name engraved in Hebrew on a solid gold band.

“Do you want to marry me?”

He doesn’t have to wait for Fernando’s answer, it comes in the darkening of the man’s expression, his pupils blowing wide with want and the way he hooks his foot around Lance’s ankle beneath the table.

“Come with me. I will show you how much I want to marry you, Lance Stroll.”

Three months later, Lance wears a matching gold band, Fernando’s name engraved across the inside and resting warm against his skin. When people ask if he’s married, always as a joke, always assuming the impossibility, he laughs and tells them yes. Fernando wears his on a gold chain tucked beneath his nomex. It is the last thing they take off before getting in their cars, the first thing they put back on when getting out.

“Mine,” Fernando will whisper to him at night, Lance’s fingers pressed to his lips and warm breath ghosting along the ring.

“Yours,” Lance will say when he loops Fernando’s chain around his index finger and pulls until the man comes to him, and there is no separation between them at all.  

[small-spark-of-light]

some kc glows and co in these trying times

[mamawasatesttube]

one thing that is kinda wild to notice is the way fic seems to have gotten a shorter and shorter lifespan over the years. granted, i only have my own anecdotal experience to go by, and there's plenty of factors that can contribute to that, but it's wild because like i remember posting fic in like 2015 would get so much more engagement over time than posting fic today. in 2015 if i posted something i generally would get comments and interaction with it for a week or so before it tapered off into obscurity. today, its like. you post a fic and after 24 hours its dead in the water. odd.

[whumpbug]

HERE IS THE PART 2 OF THE KIDNAPPING FIC!

sorry guys the boys had too much fluff and needed angst to balance it out

i decided to post this now instead of during the whumperless event because. this scenario is inherently not whumperless. SO PLS ENJOY and as always ignore any medical inaccuracies as well as the fact that i sort of lazily wanted to get the whumpers out of the way as quickly as possible (ʃᵕ̩̩ ᵕ̩̩)

tags: @whumperofworlds @gala1981

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Archie’s head was going to explode.

It was the first thing he noticed when he started the slow process of regaining consciousness after.. after what?

What had even happened?

Archie groaned. It was a sickly sound; it bubbled up from his chest and came out as more of a choked sob.

He automatically took stock of his surroundings. 

He was on the ground-- concrete, by the feel of it. There was a stale breeze around him, but it didn’t feel like he was outside. It felt more vacant and empty.

Where the hell was he? How did he get here? He could have sworn he had just been on patrol, as usual, when he received a broadcast message about..

Simon.

Archie felt his heart sink. His eyelids flew open.

He immediately recoiled at the harsh overhead fluorescent lighting. He was gaining his wits about him, one by one, but it was happening so slowly. His mind felt so foggy. He felt like he couldn’t form a coherent train of thought, but he knew one thing. He had to save Simon.

With great difficulty, he managed to roll over to his side and brace himself on his elbow. A wave of nausea rolled over his body, one that did not feel like it was caused by a typical concussion.

No, it felt more like an uncomfortable wooziness coursing through his veins. It felt vaguely like time when he woke up after his emergency appendectomy, like his brain wasn’t catching up with reality.

He lifted his head the smallest bit and stopped in his tracks.

That was when he saw it

The bruises on his knuckles. The bloodstains on his hands and down his forearms, and subsequently, the unconscious bodies sprawled around him.

No. No, please. No.

His breath felt like white-hot fire in his chest. He began to hyperventilate. 

This couldn’t be happening. Not again. Please let them be okay. Please just make it stop--

“--mph! Mmph!”

The muffled voice caused Archie's head to whip up from where it was hanging towards the ground in a daze. His eyes met the source of the voice and--

Oh god, Simon.

Archie pulled himself together so fast it nearly gave him whiplash.

Simon was bound to a metal chair, arms and legs tied and a gag placed around his head. By the look in his eyes, he was awake, aware, and vehemently trying to talk to Archie.

Archie let out a strangled whimper as he reached an arm out, trying his hardest to begin the arduous crawl towards Simon, but he found his limbs were moving as if through molasses. 

Still, he was determined. Even if it took everything in him, he was going to free Simon. He could deal with the blood and bodies in a second, he just needed Simon to be okay.

He placed one arm in front of the other, yanking his bruised and battered body across the cracked cement. Tears pricked in his eyes. He felt so weak. Everything felt like he was in some hazy dream, and the lack of control he had over his limbs made him feel sick.

Eventually, his fingers found the leg of the chair, and Simon’s ankle. He began to clumsily work out the knot of the ropes, thankful the captors hadn’t had the foresight to use a more complicated one.

Once Simon’s legs were free, Archie pulled himself up on the chair with immense effort and yanked off the restraints around his wrists. At that point, his body had decided it had had enough, and he collapsed listlessly beside the chair, whining lowly in his throat.

His vision was swimming. He could only vaguely see Simon rip off his gag before he rushed to his side and crashed to his knees beside Archie.

“Archie. Archie, hey. Look at me. Eyes open, okay? Eyes on me,” Simon blurted, voice more desperate than Archie had ever heard it. A shaky hand found Archie’s carotid artery.

Archie obliged to the best of his ability. He gripped Simon’s arm, not caring that blood smeared on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Wh… wha’ happened..” Archie slurred as Simon gently propped him up on his knee. “The blood..”

Archie laboriously motioned a hand towards the unconscious bodies around them, feeling his breathing start to pick up again. Simon bit his lip and cradled Archie’s face with a gentle hand.

“It was a trap. I was the bait. You.. you fought them off.. they stuck you with a tranquilizer, but you were only out for a few seconds before you were fighting them again. I think.. well.. they were going to take blood samples and stuff. They had syringes. You uh..” Simon trailed off.

Archie didn’t need to hear the rest to know that he was the one that did this.

He had lost control. He had seen the needles and they were just reminiscent enough of that day in the alleyway to set him off. He shuddered imagining what he looked like, red and furious and blinded by panic.

Maybe it was the drugs still coursing through his veins, or maybe it was the fact that Simon had seen him in such a state, but hot tears began running down his face. Once the dam broke, he couldn’t stop.

He leaned towards Simon, utterly defeated. He tried so hard not to let his trauma run his life-- to try and move past it-- but god, he feared all it did was make him a rabid animal at the smallest sign of danger.

He wept.

Simon leaned down and gathered Archie in his arms, gentler than he’d probably ever been in his life. He brushed a blonde curl from his face and thumbed away stray tears.

“Shh.. It’s okay.. Archie, it’s okay.. you did what you had to do to protect us.. it’s okay,” He soothed, holding Archie close to his body.

Archie clung to him like a lifeline, digging his nails into Simon’s shirt. He felt so out of it, so emotionally and physically exhausted, but Simon was so steady and present. Suddenly, a thought crossed his mind.

“Th-they didn’t hurt you, right?” He whispered, scanning Simon up and down with drowsy eyes.

Simon huffed a small laugh. “No Archie.. I was just bait. You got here before they laid a finger on me.. I’m perfectly fine, see?”

Simon brought Archie’s head to his chest in a secure hug. He knew Archie didn’t need to get that close to hear his heartbeat, but he figured the closeness couldn’t hurt.

Archie visibly relaxed at the rhythmic sound of Simon’s heart beating in his chest.

At least he’s okay. At least it wasn’t all for nothing.

“Let’s get you somewhere safe while we let this tranquilizer run its course, okay? I’ll call the police about this place on the way.”

Archie nodded almost instinctively, lifting his arms to drape around Simon’s shoulders.

Simon smiled fondly, and leaned down to pick him up, holding Archie close to himself. Archie buried his face in the crook of Simon’s neck and let out a soft sigh. 

He could deal with the mental gymnastics of trying to decipher his feelings about the situation later. Now, he just wanted to close his eyes and let his worries wash away for just a moment.

He was okay. He was going to be fine. He was safe now.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[rorywritesjunk]

hi please put a stop to me because now i want to write a fic of buggy being changed into a kid but still being buggy

"why am i so small??"

"no i am very very scary. don't call me cute!"

"why am i tired? i don't need a nap!! naps are for babies!" and he's out like a light the second you turn your back on him.

"i'm hungry and need a snack" "you can have fruit, buggy." "i want cookies!" "after you eat some fruit" "*sulks*"

[gintrinsic-writing]

Trust, and Its Destruction

CW: violence

--

Lightning streaked across the sky amid black, cascading clouds. Where it struck, no living thing remained. 

“Fall back!” Warriors roared over the clamor—over hungry gibdos’ screeching, thunderous booms, and ringing steel. Burn marks covered nearly half of his torso. They promised to be lethal if not treated soon. “Four! Fall back!”

But how could he? How could Four simply run when it was a friend—a brother—whose blood fed the darkness they faced? Never again, came the thought, and it echoed in his mind four separate times. 

Eyes flashing violet, Four slashed through the belly of the nearest monster, then raced toward the center of the courtyard. Fire singed his hair as dodged magical attacks, and he struggled to breathe through all the smoke. Not thirty feet to his left, Wind tried to drag Legend’s unconscious body away from the mayhem. Time covered them, dimly lit by Nayru’s Love. Even from a distance, Four thought he could make out Legend’s left lung in the crater of his chest. 

“Four, you can’t save him!” It was Sky, this time, who called for a retreat. Sky, who fought swiftly and brutally, but who couldn’t last against the sheer numbers sent their way. Defending Sky’s back, drenched in the blood of monsters, Twilight snarled like the wolf he was as he decapitated a bokoblin. Wild was nowhere to be seen.

Can’t save him, can’t save him, can’t save him! It lingered like a curse, a seed sprouting past and present failures, dooming Four to grief before he even had a chance to make a difference. Still, he didn’t let it stop him. He slashed his way to the courtyard, using the Roc’s Feather to leap past debris in the way. Forks of lightning struck at his heels, near-deafening in their proximity.  Four ran, and he stabbed, and he hoped, and then he came face-to-face with the person at the center of it all. 

Sparks ignited above each of Hyrule's fingers as he prepared another devastating attack. His sword still dripped with Legend’s blood. 

“Snap out of it!” Four pleaded. “I know you’re still in there, Hyrule!”

Hyrule paused, tilting his head to one side. His dispassionate eyes stared from within a haze of dark power. “It makes no difference,” he said simply. Uhurried, unbothered.

“It makes all the difference!” Four argued, unable to keep from flinching when he heard Warriors cry out in pain from somewhere behind him. “You aren’t Ganon’s puppet. Fight him! I know you can.”

Hyrule smiled, and somehow that was worse than the emptiness he’d shown before. “I’d always thought that my blood could revive the King of Evil…” Suddenly, the sparks above his fingers erupted into white-hot flames. “But as it turns out, power like that can attach to any soul.”

Dread pooled in Four’s gut. “No. No, this isn’t you! I refuse to believe it.”

“Believe it or not,” Hyrule purred, and the darkness around him surged. “I’ll destroy you all the same.”

[livv-watkins]

Mike gets vecna’d and it’s that one concept where vecna shows him what his future with Jane would look like vs Will etc etc. Enjoy!!

All of a sudden he’s in this life that he promised himself he’d never be in, mirroring his parents with a sad and loveless relationship. The dying flower field gone from his vision in a blink, replaced by the buzz of a small tv in front of him.

Mike rubbed his eyes tiredly, he was wide awake a second ago, watching Hawkins fall, but now he was sitting on a familiar la-z-boy with a newspaper article long forgotten in his lap and a knot in the back of his neck from sleeping up right.

The sound of food sizzling came from where he assumed the kitchen was, followed by the distinct sound of breakfast sibling rivalry. It reminded him of when he would dump syrup on Nancy’s eggs.

Nancy…

He sprung up quickly, only to immediately regret it. His back ached and he dizzied slightly, as if he had aged 30 years in the span of a second.

What had happened? Where were the others? Will, El, Nancy, Jonathan, Joyce and Hopper and Will. Where had they gone?

“Sweetie! Get up, breakfast has been ready for almost 10 minutes.”

Sweetie? Was that El?

He moved towards the sound quickly, the house he was in resembled his own, but was not quite the same. Walls were filled with photos of unfamiliar children and cheap plastic trophies obviously won from kids sports.

As he entered the room he immediately froze, El stood by the stove before moving to place more food on the table. She looked much older, with the long curls that she had so recently lost flowing from her head and a tacky apron around her waist.

“You fell asleep in the living room, again.”

She sounded disappointed, a tone he commonly heard his mother use on his father when he did the same as he just had. There wasn’t even a hint of the stiltedness in her voice, gone from years of real world experience.

“El, whats going on?”

She looked at him confused.

“El? You haven’t called me that in years, Mike. Are you alright?”

This was creepy, so so creepy. What would he call her other than El? Why was he here? Who were these kids? What is happening?

“El, don’t mess with me. What’s going on? Where’s Will?”

Her expression saddened, quickly glancing over at the children at the table.

“Our Will or your best friend Will?”

“My best friend Will is our Will! El, what’s going on? We were just on the Hill not even two minutes ago and—“

Somewhere in his small monologue the youngest of the children had already started crying, obviously worried by the man’s behaviour. The eldest was already half out of her seat, and who he assumed was the middle child sat visibly confused by the ordeal.

“Mike, what are you talking about? That was 20 years ago.”

“20 years?!! No way, El, where is Will?”

El sent him an incredibly worried glance, before shooting away to shush the girl that kept crying. 20 years was too long, way too long. This had to be something to do with One, but Will said he was still resting. Will. Where was Will?

With the child in one arm, bouncing her up and down as a way of comfort, El placed a steady hand on the side of the spiraling boy’s shoulder. She asked him over and over if he was okay, if something was wrong and reassuring him that it was over, but he couldn’t believe it. He kept asking where Will and the others were, he asked and asked, but El wasn’t giving him a straight answer and—

“He’s dead, Mike. He died saving us.”

…what?

“what? El, what do you mean—“

He could feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes, but he blinked them away as quick as he could. He couldn’t cry, not here, not like this.

“Damn, I didn’t know dad had emotions until now.” The middle child exclaimed.

“Will!” Both the eldest and El scolded at the same time.

Will? That was not Will. Will would never say something like that, especially not to his family. Will was kind, and selfless and amazing and —

and dead.

Will was dead.

He couldn’t do this anymore, he had to escape. So he just blocked his ears and closes and eyes and prayed. He prayed that this would end, that he could go back and make sure everyone was okay. He prayed that Will was okay.

Then all the muffled noise stops, there’s no more children crying and El wasn’t grabbing his arm and begging him to tell her why he was acting like this. Instead, the family’s panic is replaced by a familiar voice.

“Mike? You okay, babe?”

Immediately he opened his eyes again. Though he was still freaked out and terrified and confused because the boy in front of him was much older than he was 5 minutes ago, Will was there and he was safe. Will was safe and okay and he just called him babe and—

wait what?

“Mike. What’s up?

He was still in a kitchen, just not the same one as before. It was smaller and cozier and over the counter there was a large window that stared down at the surrounding city.

The space was open, just in front of the window sat a yellow sofa with a small stained coffee table. It faced a slim tv, much slimmer and modern than the one he had at home. The tv was perched on a light yellow shelf that matched a decent amount of furniture in the house.

He kept staring off at the apartment, noting things like how there was an accent wall that was almost the same blue as his room and how books and papers were sprawled over the table and how —

“Mike, say something. You’re being extra spacey today and it’s worrying me.”

Mike quickly snapped out of his haze and stared at Will, with an older face and stubble marking his jawline, he looked good.

‘you okay, babe?’

Will opened his arms toward Mike, inviting him in to hug, and who was Mike to say no? This was okay, he and Will were okay. He could live like this a little longer.

So he walked towards Will and slumped his head into his shoulder, before putting his arms around Will and snuggling his face into the crook of his neck. Will’s hands wrapped around his torso, the coldness slightly seeping through his shirt to his bare skin. He paid no mind to the faint sound of music he heard, too immersed in what was Will Byers to care.

“You scared me, y’know. It’s like you teleported into the room.”

Mike only mumbled in response, taking Will’s presence and practically eating it whole. Will pulled him back a bit, before putting an unexpected soft kiss on his lips.

Though Will’s lips were almost freezing, Mike burned up like a flame. Will just kissed him and it was really nice. It was really nice, so he ducked down to return the favour, but Will’s hand wrapped around his face to stop him from going any further.

To your soul

To your soul

“How disappointing.” Will spoke, but it was not his voice. His eyes practically glowed white as he stared Mike in the eyes and gripped onto his face tighter and tighter.

Mike tried to run, but he was stuck in place. His feet glued to the floor and forcing him to watch the man in front of him slowly mold himself into a monster as he shook in fear. The distant music from before was louder, the lyrics slowly starting to blare in his ears.

He could see something out of the corner of his eye, through the large window across the room. A portal floating a foot away from the building. Through his tears he could see his body slowly start to rise as vecna’s claws latched onto his face, and he could see someone’s hand desperately grip onto his ankles as he flew up.

“MIKE!”

“I will take away your suffering, Michael. You won’t have to live the life you never wanted to live longing for the one I just showed you.”

…The love that you need will never be found at home

run away, turn away…

“MIKE PLEASE”

“It is time.”

“MIKE, ITS ME. PLEASE, I-I LOVE YOU, OKAY?? DON’T LEAVE ME, I CANT LOSE YOU.”

…run away, turn away…

“No.” He spoke, before reaching to the side and grabbing a kitchen knife on the counter, cutting a vine clean off of his body.

He didn’t dare look back, running towards the window and unlocking it as quick as he could.

No, you never cried to them, just to your soul

Vecna glared at him as he slid the window open, but he paid the monster no mind. On the other side of that portal there was Will, begging him to come back and telling him he loved him. On the other side of that portal there was the boy he loved telling him that he loved him back.

Run away, turn away, run away, turn away…

No vine could stop him as he leaped towards the opening with no hesitation, only a second away from falling 30 floors down.

Instead, he fell into the arms of the boy on the swings. He fell into the arms of the boy he went crazy with. He fell into the arms of the boy he had loved before he even knew what loving was, and he was okay.

Sitting in the dying flower field, surrounded by the people he loved and cared for the most. He was okay.

[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

[todayisafridaynight]

I’m fairly new to the fandom, but I do have a question if you can answer it! Why do people ship Daigo with Aoki / Masato? I tried looking to see if they’ve interacted before, but couldn’t find anything! Sorry for asking I’m just </3 dumb AND I LOVE YOUR ART OF THEM!!! Nerd looking ahhhhhh

hi ! welcome to the community i hope you're having a lovely time so far and ty for enjoyin my stuff :) no need for apologies it's a very fair question to have :]

i cant speak for everyone (all. ten people into masadai anyway) but Personally To Me i just think the idea of them together is very funny. thats quite literally it im afraid..

[pikkish]

idk if this is a good prompt but put doomguy in myhouse.wad I think he would find it enriching

Right, so I've been mulling on this one for a little bit now, n I'm not opposed to writing something for you, I'm just not... entirely sure what to write? Because the thing is, myhouse.wad doesn't actually really have anything to do with Doom as a story. Sure, Doom is important in that it's the vessel through which the story is told and one of the connections between the narrator and his dead companion. But as far as Doom itself goes, and the story about a man who was too angry/stupid to die, fighting demons and saving earth, none of that is at all relevant to myhouse.wad and its story. For all intents and purposes, Doomguy isn't actually a character in myhouse.wad. So I'm not really sure how exactly to fit him in there.

[theflyingfeeling]

fanfic rambling in the tags, nothing interesting really, just me talking to myself lol, okay to ignore or read as you please ✨

[autumnrory]

woooo my niece took 5 of my 13 lego sets, one of which was one of the three larger ones, so that's one huge box out of the way and i'm just glad she wanted them because like they ARE twenty years old and they look fine ofc but sometimes kids aren't gonna want stuff that isn't new and shiny ya know, but she did seem to want everything which would've been fine with me but i knew there was no way they would take all that with them, and at least i still have stuff of my own to sell, plus should get at least a cut of my brother's stuff for doing the inventory and putting together that stuff that wasn't already done

[amee-racle-ofmyown]

I don't wanna be perfect (I just want to be good enough for you)

Heist!Mark x reader (can be read as platonic or romantic) | Words: 694

You are curled into your heist partner's side in the living room area of your shared base, mindlessly scrolling on your phone, when he asks you something out of the blue.

‘Do you think– are we… good people?’

You turn to face him, shutting off your phone screen, and raise an eyebrow.

‘Who are you and what've you done with Mark?’

‘Come on, I'm serious.’ You give him a baffled look and he sighs. ‘I never really thought about it all that much, I guess. I think I always just sorta accepted it? I sorta fell into this profession because it was fun and it paid the bills — I mean, don't get me wrong, I love what we do. I love the thrill, and I love the satisfaction of getting away with our loot scott-free. But I dunno… Recently I've been thinking. Is it bad that I enjoy this job? Am I a good person?’

It's a fair question, you suppose. You understand where he's coming from, but you're sure you both knew what you were getting into when you started this lifestyle, and once you've been doing it for so long it's hard to even begin to think of doing anything else, let alone the difficulty that would come with becoming an honest, working citizen without getting caught and sentenced for your many transgressions.

‘I mean, we're thieves, Mark — regular, organised criminals. We're not exactly heroes’ — you jab him lightly with your elbow — ‘as much as you like to act like one.’

He chuckles at that. There is a light-hearted smile on your face that is soon replaced with a more thoughtful expression. You cast your gaze away from him as you continue.

‘I think good and bad are kinda relative and subjective. The average person probably wouldn’t consider us good people, and yeah, I can't say we're necessarily good, but I don't think we're terrible either. I mean, I wouldn't want to actually hurt anyone. Would you?’

‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘No… Unless someone gave me a reason to.’

‘Well, that's fair. I think that's the same for most people.’

You pause, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. You don't recall at what point your fingers involuntarily found the edge of his clothes, but the familiar texture grounds you. ‘Yeah, we might not be good people per se, but I don't think that makes us bad people exactly, either.’ You meet his eyes again, with all the earnestness you can. ‘I don't think you are, at least,’ you add softly.

‘I don't think you are either,’ he says, and his tone is gentle but unwavering. You feel warm.

You offer a good-natured smile, attempting to turn the conversation in a lighter direction.

‘You know, in our defence, we mostly rob museums and super rich people. I don't think we need much justification to steal from the hella rich, and most stuff in museums is stolen anyway,’ you say matter-of-factly.

He laughs, loud and genuine, and the sound only warms you further.

‘Y'know, you're not wrong…’

‘But seriously,’ you ask, ‘what got you thinking about all this?’

‘I…’ he starts, voice low again, hesitant. ‘I don't know.’

But he does know, he thinks to himself, as he looks into your eyes. He often finds himself wondering what kind of person he is in those eyes.

It's you, he thinks. It's all you.

You break the entirely-too-long and yet far-too-short period of eye contact in favour of returning to your former position, nestled into his side. You lean into him and he places an arm around you, his thumb gently brushing wherever it can reach. You don't think all that much of it, but he's warm and comfortable and safe, and the way you fit together feels like home.

He thinks you're probably right; the idea of a good or bad person isn't something set in stone. And his and your standards measured against anyone else's would certainly differ.

But he finds that he doesn't really care what anyone else thinks of him.

As long as his best friend, his partner, still likes him enough to keep sticking around, that's enough for him.

[majicmarker]

well i think the problem is that i want to write something that makes me happy, but i'm Not happy, so trying to access that feeling is... murky.