#i'll never write an outline for anything ever again

[maybege]

btw i am still alive now that i have recovered from swiftkirchen and i hope you are all doing super well this summer! i am FLYING through my reading list atm which is amazing and i am feeling more and more inspired for things (footballer!paz anyone? roommate!paz as well maybe?) so hmu in the inbox it is TIME TO THIRST

[menagerofmischief]

I rarely indulge in these kinds of things but I love your diner and I have to place my own order!!

Served by Lando Norris

Starter - artichoke dip (thinking Fewtrell reader cause Lando had been WANTING reader)

cold appetizer

Main dish:

Sausage rolls

Sushi

Ceasar Salad

Veggie Burger

Drinks:

Fanta

Apple cider

Vodka soda

Dessert - yes

Fav GP is Singapore or Vegas was fun last year! (Im a whore for a good night race)

Dia's Diner Menu

artichoke dip brother's friend cold appetizer rough sex sausage rolls "I'll make it fit" veggie burger "Feel how hard you make me" sushi "Better quiet down you don't want them to hear us" ceaser salad "Lie to me again and you're not gonna like what happens next" fanta size kink apple cider spitting vodka redbull squirting dessert aftercare + moussaka "You look your best covered in my cum"

Lando Norris x Fewtrell!reader

TW: unprotected sex, fingering, squirting, spitting in mouth

WC: 2.3k

A/N: I kid you not, I screamed when I got this request. I was so happy to write something for you, hope you enjoy it!

❀

“You’re like a fucking dog, Norris!” I say, bringing my hands up to shield by face as Lando shakes his head, droplets of water from his wet hair spraying onto me.

Lando has been best friends with my brother, Max, for practically as long as I can remember. He was always there and he was everywhere. From family dinner to family vacations, you name it, he’s attended it with my brother.

He’s been around for every awkward phase of my life and every especially embarrassing moment. I wasn’t blind, I’ve always thought he was attractive and it would be a lie to say I’ve never had feelings for him. 

But I never dared to say anything. He was Max’s best friend which meant he was off limits or my brother would throw a hissy fit. And I’m sure he had received a speech about how I was off limits from my brother as well.

Not that it ever stopped him from letting his gaze wander over my body, studying every curve and looking way longer than he should have. Or giving me one of his infamous smirks whenever I caught him doing it.

We were currently on a summer vacation with Max and his girlfriend Pietra. It was summer break for Formula 1, so Max insisted on taking a trip with Lando and dragging me along. Summer trips meant warm places with beaches and beaches with Lando meant getting sprayed with water while I was laying on the sunbeds.

Lando laughed, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “Should I bark then as well?” He asked, his lips stretching into a smirk. 

“You try that and I’ll call animal control to pick you up.” I said, rolling my eyes at him. I moved my eyes back to the book I had laying open in my lap, trying my best to focus on the words on the page instead of him.

He was still wet from the water and I couldn’t decide which part of him I wanted to look at more. His chest, with drops of water sliding down and catching along his happy trail. Or his thighs, the way his wet swim trunks hugged his muscular thighs, making them look extra delicious.

Not only that but the outline of his dick was very clear and practically begging me to look at it.

“You like what you see?” Lando asked, the tone of his voice teasing. Slowly I dragged my gaze back up to meet his, feeling my cheeks heat up a little from the embarrassment.

“The only thing bigger than your ego is the iceberg that sank the Titanic.” I told him, quickly returning my attention back to my book. Lando only laughed in response.

✿ ✿ ✿

Later that night, back in the hotel, I was laying in my bed bored out of my mind. I scrolled Instagram enough for a warning to pop up that I spent too much time on the app and then scrolled TikTok until the videos became repetitive.

At first I thought I’d go to Max’s room and annoy him but then decided against it in favor of giving him and his girlfriend some alone time. After another five minutes of fatal boredom I dragged myself out of the bed and set my way towards Lando’s room.

The door swung open after only one knock, leaving my hand still in the air as I faced Lando. He was shirtless, with a pair of shorts low enough on his waist to show just a hint of the waistband of his boxers. His hair was damp and his room just a bit steamed up - he must have showered recently.

“Expecting someone?” I asked, giving him a smirk.

“Yes,” he said, a smile stretching over his lips. “I was expecting you.”

He moved to the side to let me get into his room and closed the door behind me. I hummed, “I’m sure you were.”

“I was actually,” he said, throwing himself onto his bed. He put his hands behind his head, stretching himself and the muscles in his arms flexed.

Lando may not be the tallest guy, but he was taller than me, that’s for sure. And his build, along with all the muscles that his extensive training had formed on his body made him look even more deliciously bigger.

I was staring, my gaze fixated on his movements. This time I didn’t even have the courtesy to look ashamed of doing it.

Lando moved so quickly I barely saw it coming. One of his hands grabbed mine and pulled me onto the bed, making me land right on top of him. I gasped, bracing my hands against the mattress and looking at him with wide eyes.

In this position he was so close, closer than he’s ever been. I stared at him, my mouth slightly open as I breathed, my breath mingling with his. “Lando,” I whispered, not daring to speak at full volume, afraid the moment was just going to disappear.

His gaze went down, his eyes fixated on my lips. I didn’t allow myself any time to overthink, knowing I would end up chickening out - so I leaned down and tentatively brushed my lips against his.

Lando groaned at the contact, his hand grabbing the back on my neck and forcing me towards him even more, crashing my lips against his in a bruising kiss. His tongue stroked mine and I couldn’t help but moan into his mouth, unaware of the fact that I was grinding against him.

We finally broke apart, both of us gasping for air. My cheeks felt like they were burning and there was a hint of redness on Lando’s as well.

“Fuck,” I whispered, the curse rolling off my tongue. “We shouldn’t be doing this. It’s wrong -”

Lando cut me off by thrusting his hips upwards, his bulge rubbing against my clothed core. “Feel that?” Lando asked, his breath hot against my face. “Feel how hard you make me? Feel how good it is to have me rubbing against you?” I nodded breathlessly, unable to form words. “Something that feels this right, definitely can’t be wrong.”

And he’s right. It feels good, it feels right. I like him and for once I stop thinking about what everyone else wants and what they’ll think and focus on myself.

I find myself nodding along, leaning down to kiss him again. It’s desperate, passionate, full with need and longing that it seems both of us have been trying to suppress. 

“Let me take this off, yeah?” Lando asks, pulling away and reaching for the hem of my top. Wordlessly I lift my hands up, making it easier for him to slide it over my head.

I’m not wearing a bra, so the second my top is off my tits are bare for him to see. My nipples harden and I hiss when Lando palms my breasts and teasingly runs his thumb over my nipple before pinching it.

“Prettiest tits I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles, not wasting a second longer before he’s diving down, his lips wrapping around my nipple and rolling the bug with his tongue. A moan slips past my lips and I wrap my fingers around his locks, keeping his head in place.

“Lando, please,” I whine, my voice breathy and desperate. “Want you to fuck me.”

He doesn’ need to hear more than that, suddenly he’s flipping us over, towering over me. He presses a quick kiss to my lips before going down and taking my shorts and panties off with one go.

He blows air on my pussy, making me whine and playfully slap his arm. “Stop teasing, it’s mean.”

He chuckles, his fingers slipping through my arousal and circling my entrance. “Tell me baby,” he whispers against my skin, his lips pressed to my collarbones. “How many times did you touch yourself just like this, imagining it was me instead.”

I shake my head, not wanting to admit the truth. “Didn’t,” I manage to murmur out.

He huffs, and then his fingers pinch my clit, making me buck my hips and moan at the mix of pain and pleasure. “Lie to me again, and you’re not gonna like what happens next.” His voice leaves no room for argument and I know he really means it. “Now, I think I asked you a question.”

“Too many!” I admit, a moan slipping out when his fingers begin to rub my clit in fast, harsh circles. “I don’t know! Don’t keep track of how much I do it.”

“There we go,” Lando hums, the expression on his face looking satisfied. “See how good you can behave.”

He slips two fingers in me, sliding right in with no resistance, thanks to how wet I am. Through the whole process he keeps rubbing my clit, and suddenly the pleasure doubles when he starts to thrust his fingers into me, grazing my G-spot every time.

“Lando, so good,” I moan out. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth I wish I didn’t say them because the pleasure that was building up is instantly gone as Lando pulls his fingers out and away from my clit. I’m left gasping, looking at him with a glare.

“Fuck sweetheart don’t look at me like that,” he says, his voice is hoarse. “I’ve thought about this so many times. The first time I make you cum I want it to be around my cock.”

He lifts his hand, his fingers covered in my arousal, and pops them into his mouth, sucking them clean and groaning at the taste. “Taste so good, sweetheart, come on open up.”

Instinctively I open my mouth, thinking he’s going to push his fingers into my mouth for me to taste myself. Instead he leans over me and spits into my mouth, and though barely, I can taste myself.

I moan when it hits my tongue, and lock my eyes with his before swallowing. He groans, his fingers grabbing my chin, “God, you’re such a good girl. Perfect little slut - and just for me.”

“Just for you,” I repeat, nodding my head. “Now please fuck me, Lando, it’s too much!”

Lando takes off his shorts and boxers, leaving himself bare in front of me. My eyes are instantly drawn to his cock, standing proud, the tip leaking pre-cum. My eyes widen at the size of it, he’s bigger than anyone I’ve been with before.

He must see it on my face because he cups my cheek with one hand while nestling himself between my thighs. “Don’t worry, sweet girl, I’ll make it fit.”

He pushes in slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size, pushing inch after inch inside of me until his hips are flush against mine. He looks at me for confirmation and I give him a nod to go ahead.

While he was really sweet by starting gentle and going slow until I was ready - now that he’s fucking me, he’s anything but. Lando’s thrusts are rough, pulling almost all the way out and then pushing back, deep inside, his hips hitting mine over and over again.

“Lando, so good, fuck!” I moan out. My voice is high pitches and my moans are becoming louder as I am unable to control them, or think anything much in general.

Lando’s hand presses down against my mouth, instantly muffling the sound of my moans. “Better quiet down,” he growls into my ear. “Max and Pietra are in the room next door. You don’t want them to hear us do you?”

I shake my head no and Lando removes his hand. Without his hand covering my mouth it’s much harder to keep the moans and whines coming out of my lips down. 

“Lan, I’m gonna cum, please!” I plead, feeling the pleasure build up, unlike anything I’ve experienced before.

“Go on,” Lando says with a groan and I feel him twitch inside of me. “Cum for me baby. Cum all over my dick.”

His words topple me over the edge and I come harder than I’ve ever cum before. It’s not until I look down and see Lando’s abdomen and half of the bed wet that I realize I squirted. Lando groans, his fingers rubbing through my fold for a moment before he brings them up to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“That was so hot baby,” he says. He thrusts into me a few more times and then pulls out, cumming all over my stomach and tits.

He looks down at me, trying to catch his breath and his eyes sparkle with a hint of something. “You always look so damn gorgeous,” he says, his fingers rubbing gentle comforting circles into my hip. “But you look your best covered in my cum.”

I stared at the ceiling, still a bit out of breath. “That was the best orgasm of my life,” I said, with a laugh.

“Guess I’ll have to give you many more then,” Lando said.

“I don’t how you’ll survive,” I teased.

“I’ll make do,” Lando replied, leaning down to kiss me sweetly. He reached for his suitcase that was next to the bed and got a what I assumed was a dirty shirt and used it to wipe his cum off my body.

After that he got another T-Shirt, this time a clean one and helped me put it on. He put his underwear back on and then crawled into the bed, next to me. He wrapped one of his arms around my stomach and placed lazy kisses on my cheek and neck.

“Want to watch a movie and order room service?” He asked, rubbing his nose against my neck.

“God, you’re perfect.”

“Thanks, I know!”

“Just play the damn movie, Lando.”

[yawnderu]

Lorelei — Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | Part III

Spoilers for MW3 ahead.

1 2 3 4 5 6

Short chapter to keep the writing inspiration going, next one will be longer.<3

''Si?'' You ask softly as you see the brooding figure on the doorframe. He's standing so still you would think it's a cardboard cutout, though the way his chest moves up and down gives him away. He doesn't say anything, simply walks up to you slowly, footsteps oddly quiet for someone his size.

You do nothing but sit up in bed slowly, looking at the familiar figure crouch down next to your bed, the black balaclava still on. You barely manage to see his eyes before he looks down, though you can recognize that haunted look in his eyes easily.

''What happened?'' You ask softly, hand on the back of his masked head as he rests his head on your lap. You see him take a few deep breaths, trying to hold himself together.

''Johnny's gone.'' Is all he can manage to say, voice raspy and weak. You've seen Simon lose comrades throughout the years, but Soap was a brother to him. He was the closest thing to Tommy he ever had, and losing a brother again felt like having his heart ripped out a second time. You hold him closer, hands applying light pressure on his back and he gets the message, climbing in bed with you. It's dark— you can't even see anything other than his outline, but you can feel him.

''I'm sorry, Simon.'' He stays quiet, simply allowing you to hold him close, his masked face seeking shelter on your warm chest, your hand running up and down his back while you console him. He removes his mask, knowing he never has to cover up around you, the feeling of the warm skin of your chest on his face slowly grounding him. You rock him gently, planting a soft kiss on his short hair,

''I'm here.'' He nods weakly, arms wrapping around your waist as he holds you as close to him as possible, fitting so perfectly like a missing puzzle piece. Despite the heartbreak from when he left, your pride is put aside to care for him, holding him in the same motherly way you held your baby when she was born.

''I'm sorry.'' He doesn't have to specify; you know what he's talking about.

''It's okay.'' You both know it's far from okay, but you push it to the back of your mind, for now.

''She awake?'' You shake your head, mumbling a small ''mm-mm'' in reply. He nods, arms wrapping tighter around you. The last thing he wanted was to wake up his little girl, always making sure he was being quiet as Ghost, despite being Simon as soon as he stepped into your house.

After years of knowing Simon— yes, Simon Riley, before he became Ghost, you know better than to ask what happened or press for details. You were there when he lost his family, watching him become Ghost, and you supported him along the way. This isn't any different. The night is spent with both of you holding each other, limbs intertwined. You don't even notice when you start drifting off, head slowly leaning back to the side and eyes growing heavier, though you don't fight it, the mass on top of you heavy and warm enough to feel like a second blanket.

''Hey, big guy.'' You greet tiredly, fingers running through his short blond hair as he looks up at you. The whites of his eyes are now red, veins painfully visible, and it's just a confirmation that he didn't sleep at all, simply focusing on watching you in your sleep and being too into his own head.

''Let me take care of you. I'll be here till you're right, Simon.''

[PREVIOUS] [NEXT]

taglist: @skulfan1 @survivalshxt @ghostslittlegf @yaebaal @thecubanator2 @juliediets @shescabob @kenz-ee @lothiriel9 @dragonstoneshortcake @lunamoonbby @alfie2401 @perfectus-in-morte @mxtokko

[theereina]

Never Coming Home

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Plus Size Fem Black!OC

Wordcount: +1.4K

Warnings: MDNI (18+) mature content, such as cursing, no smut, heavily dialogue-centered, death, angst, heartbreak, murder, Rebel Ridge alternate ending, religion mentioned

A/N¹: This is a single one-shot with no planned sequels.

A/N²: I'm open to critiques. I am a little 🤏🏽 sensitive about my writing. Please, don't be too harsh.🥺 Feel free to bring my attention to any typos. Divider by @firefly-graphics. Also, this work is not to be plagiarized or reposted (on any site other than here on Tumblr). I do NOT give consent for any form of republishing or rewriting.

Masterlist: 🔥🔥🔥

1 month ago

ring ring ring

ring ring ring

ring ring ring

“Mmm… fuck,” I groaned, turning over in my sleep. I yawned as I reached to grab my cell phone from the nightstand. I looked at the phone to see a number I didn't recognize.

I answered the phone and slowly raised it to my ear. The digital clock by the lamp read 3:24 a.m. “Hello, Lily speaking. Who is—”, I said before being interrupted. The loud sound of rustling came through the phone. “Is anyone there?” I asked, becoming a little worried.

I could hear someone on the other end breathing heavily. It sounded like they were running. “Fuck!” I heard the person say through the phone. Was that— Terry? I sat up in bed, throwing my legs over the side. My feet hit the floor with force. “Terry, is that you?!” I yelled, clutching my chest.

I stood from the bed. “Lily!” he shouted into the phone. I could still hear him panting. “Baby, talk to me!” I screamed as worry filled my heart. I began pacing the floor back and forth. I could hear the sounds on the phone beginning to drown out. He was losing signal wherever he was. Static was crackling through now.

“Lily,… I… lo… you… I'm… ry,” Terry tried to say. It was so broken that I was struggling to understand him. It sounded like he said he loved me. “Honey, I love you, too!” I said, pausing to hear him speak. “I should… lis… to you. Just… kn… I'll… al… love you,” Terry said, sobbing.

Terry and I had been together for over 4 years and married for 1, and I had never heard him cry. He was in serious trouble, and I couldn't do anything about it. Before I could speak again, I heard three loud popping noises.

pop pop pop

Gunshots!

“Terry!” I yelled. “Shit!” Terry grumbled. He was panicking and sounded absolutely terrified. This absolute rock of a man was scared for his life. “If… don't ma… home, —,” Terry began before more shots rang out. I could hear what sounded like the phone hitting the ground. Leaves began rustling and boot steps were closing in. Terry's breathing became erratic and raspy, and I could hear a gurgling sound.

“Marston, he's right here. He's hit!” yelled a male voice. “Good! That'll teach that fucker,” said a second male voice. I could hear the sound of leaves rustling and twigs snapping as someone got closer to the phone. I muted the phone before letting out the loudest cry I ever had. There's no way I just heard this. “Check his pulse,” said the second male voice. “He's—,” said the first male. “Oh, well!” laughed the second male.

hawk tuah

“Good riddance. See you in hell, bud. Hahahaha!” laughed the second man. “Marston, don't you think that was a little dumb? I mean you did just spit on his dead body,” said the first male. “Spit on who's body? Ah, hell. Marston, you dumb fuck! You were supposed to catch him not kill him,” said a third man. “Too late for that Chief Burnne, hahaha!” he laughed.

Present Day

“The body’s in here. All you have to do is identify it,” said the medical examiner. “I don't think I can do this,” I said sobbing.

Just looking at the white sheet made my heart shatter. The outline of the body made me sick to my stomach. I knew it was him, but due to formalities, I had to say it was. I was being forced to face the one thing I had avoided for the last month. The realization that Terry was dead.

Entering this room would seal my fate. My husband was gone, and he was never coming home.

The fluorescent lighting illuminated the cold white room. The air inside was suffocating and intolerable. As I was standing there, the medical examiner walked around me. He approached the body slowly. Upon passing, his arm shifted the sheet. It pulled it down just enough for me to see the top of the head to above the eyebrow. Before I could close my eyes, I saw the healed scar on Terry’s forehead. It rested at the front of the right side (his right, my left) of his hairline. A small scar he got from an accident a few years ago.

It was him. As much as my heart wanted to deny it, there was no denying that. It had been a long gruesome month filled with nothing but crying, screaming, and pain.

“I can give you a moment,” the medical examiner said, peering over his glasses at me. “No!— Let's… let's… I feel like I'm gonna vomit. Let's just get this over with. I don't think I can take this any longer,” I said. My arms were crossed over my abdomen. I closed my eyes tightly as I was dreading this moment. I knew whatever was under this sheet would replace the most recent image I had left of Terry.

I could hear the rustling of the sheet being pulled back. I shuddered at the thought of what came next. My breath felt sharp and heavy. I could feel the tears falling from my eyes. I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders. I needed to get this over with and put this all behind me. “I'm okay. I got this,” I whispered, opening my eyes.

The sight before me broke my heart even more. After all this time of guessing and assuming what Terry would look like, nothing could’ve prepared me for what I saw. His face was almost unrecognizable— swollen, bruised, and battered. An array of blues and purples plastered his brown skin. His face and chest were covered in small cuts from running through the woods. The top of a large exit wound rested at the edge of where the sheet stopped at his chest.

This! This would be the final image I had of my husband. Never in a million years would I have thought this would be how I lost my husband— murdered. To think that Terry went through hell in his last moments hurts me— beaten, chased, and shot like an animal. I always told Terry his big heart and demand for justice would be the death of him. Now, he was never coming home.

I slowly approached his body. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I couldn't. My hands were trembling. “It's okay. Take your time. I can leave for a moment if you tell…,” he said. “Yes, it's… it's him,” I said. These were the words I had been dreading for a month. The medical examiner nodded before leaving the room. This feeling of— trepidation overcame me. My heart, mind, and body were all collapsing simultaneously. As I got closer to Terry's body, I was overwhelmed by the smell of antiseptics and flesh. It was clear that the time between the murder and now had taken its toll on Terry's decomposing body.

I reached out again, touching his cheek. It was cold and hard. I pulled my hand back. There was nothing familiar or sentient about him. His once radiant face was stiff and unbalanced. That once joyous smile was replaced by a permanent scowl. He had been reduced to nothing more than the aftermath of someone else's wickedness and immorality, a rigid pile of flesh and bones.

Anger began to course through me at the thought of why they did it. How could you do this to someone? All in the name of corruption and ego. A sob escaped my throat, festering with rage and sadness. The sound I let out released only a fraction of the emotions I felt in the last month.

I couldn't believe that I was alone. I would have to deal with all of this myself. Our plans no longer aligned with what I was being forced to live. How could Terry do this to me? The amount of hate in my heart had reduced my faith to absolutely nothing. Why did God let this happen? Even after all of my praying, I was left with this— no husband, no family, and a broken heart.

I looked down at my belly as I rubbed my hands across my abdomen. The tears streamed incessantly down my face. It became too surreal as reality set in. The numbness of the feeling that I would have to raise a child alone was unbearable. A child we planned would never meet their father, and why? How did I deserve this? How did WE?

Taglist: @brattyfics @avoidthings @5headsupremacist @creartivefairy @cocooned-butterfly @ariiijestertheklown

@miyuhpapayuh @armandosbabymama @megamindsecretlair @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaxwrites

@jimmybutlrr @lovey-3 @curvyambitions @gg-trini @vivaalenaa

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[the-kr8tor]

for fluffy friday do u think u could write a fic where hobie takes u to an appointment while pregnant with the twins to find out the gender (obvi hobie is rooting hard for a girl) not knowing ur having twins and thennnn surprise!!!

Aahhhh I love this prompt sm 🫶 thank you!!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, reader is pregnant, Billie and Ramona au, dad! Hobie, FLUFF.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

You lay on an elevated cot, back straight as you anxiously wait for the doctor to do the ultrasound. Hobie looks cool as ever, save for him tapping his boot relentlessly on the linoleum floor of the hospital.

You look at Hobie, he gestures for you to exhale deeply. You follow his instructions. He nods, squeezing your hands as they lay on top of your growing stomach. Anxiety bubbles in your gut, you don't know if it's just because you're pregnant or you're worried what the doctor will find on the ultrasound. It's your first time getting it since finding out you're having a baby, add it with the fact that you'll be finding out the sex of the baby, it's safe to say you're properly worried.

"What do you think the baby will be?" Hobie cuts the silence in an attempt to ease your anxiety. He secretly hopes for a girl that's a perfect mix of you both with a carbon copy smile from you.

"Don't know as long as the baby's not a spider hybrid having eight arms, I'm good" you gnaw at your bottom lip.

He rubs your lips to prevent you biting it till you bleed. "The baby won't have eight arms" he reassures, you smile appreciatively at him. "They'll have eight eyes and organic webs"

"Hobie!" You slap his arm weakly.

"I'll love them the same, lovey. I'm sure they'll look cute with eight eyes"

"Not funny" you pout, blaming your pregnancy hormones with how your leg bounces against the bed.

"It'll be fine, yeah?" He places his hip right next to the cot to get closer to you. Hand placed lovingly over your stomach, tracing the circular pattern on your maternity blouse. "Doctor won't find anything wrong with you or the baby" Hobie's last comment was more of a reassurance for him, he keeps telling himself that everytime he goes out on patrol, repeating it like a mantra in his head, keeping him afloat.

The doctor knocks, she peeks inside with a polite smile. "Hi Mum, are you and dad ready?" Hobie has never heard someone else call him that title except for you occasionally, his stomach somersaults.

"Hi, doc. Please start, I'm dying out here" you joke that has Hobie snickering in agreement.

The doctor prepares the device, putting on some kind of jelly on the ultrasound wand. She wheels it closer, prompting Hobie to leave your side for a brief second. You reach out to him instinctively, he circles around the machine to get to you as fast as he can.

Back to your side, Hobie clasps your hand again.

"Excuse me, Mr. Brown" the doctor moves closer to you. Hobie raises a brow, you stop a laugh from escaping with your palm. He sees the smile on your eyes, he makes a face that says: do I look like a Mr. Brown?

You let out a snort, already embarrassed at the sound you made. Hobie smiles widely at your reaction while the doctor lifts up your shirt with your permission.

"Inhale deeply for me momma" she instructs.

You follow, cold jelly hits your skin that makes you shiver. Squeezing Hobie's hand tighter. He blames your unusual pregnancy strength with how his knuckles are aching from your tight hold. He can't imagine how strong your grip will be when you actually give birth.

Faint heartbeat hits your ears, you already know whose heart it is. The doctor swivels the ultrasound closer so you could see the screen. Even though the picture is grainy and grey, your heart soars at the first picture of your baby.

"Look at her" Hobie says in amazement, the low quality picture shows the outline of your baby moving around in your belly.

You look in awe, sparing Hobie a glance, you're glad you did because of the rare expression on his face. It's awe and love mixed together, your eyes are glossy at the sight. You knead his palm with your finger nail affectionately since you probably can't form a coherent sentence right now.

"Dad's right." The doctor looks at you both with a smile, "you've got a little girl. Congratulations"

You chuckle breathlessly while Hobie kisses each of your knuckles. He asks for your sakes, judging by how you look like you're about to burst into tears, he concludes you won't even remember to ask the question.

"Is she okay? Healthy? Only have two eyes and a human nose?"

The doctor laughs at his joke, while tears stop spilling from your eyes for a second.

"Seems everything's fine– wait" the doctor stops in her tracks, squinting at the grainy picture, moving the wand all over your stomach.

"What do you mean wait?" Your heart leaps at your chest, Hobie stops you from sitting up with his hand, massaging the skin right under your collar bone. "Is she okay?" Your face snaps towards Hobie. "Hobie?" He sees desperation on your face, the last he ever wanted to see.

"Oh"

"Oh? Doc don't keep it a secret" Hobie sounds angrier with every word he utters.

"There's two babies" she answers quickly.

"What?!" You and Hobie yell simultaneously. Fear evaporates from your body, replaced with something you can't quite name.

Then he hears it, a second heartbeat.

"Yeah," the doctor nods with a smile. She moves the wand further down to show you. "And she's quite shy"

Your eyes are glued on the screen, sure enough, another figure moves right behind the first outline. You gasp in astonishment. She hides with her miniscule movement behind her sister, but you can clearly see her now with her knuckles closed tightly in a fist.

More tears flow out of your eyes, you're sobbing right in front of your doctor. She holds out a box of tissues, you thank her with a wet smile.

Hobie hasn't moved since he spotted and heard his second daughter. Like a statue, his eyes never left the screen. Flabbergasted, his heart feels like escaping his chest.

"Hobie" you call out to him through tears. "We're having twins" you can't believe it yourself, sliding your hand to his elbow to get his attention.

"Girls," he says in awe, "we're havin' girls" Hobie doesn't spare a second to press a chaste kiss over your forehead. You hum in happiness. His hand drops to the side of your stomach, imagining he's holding his girls' hands.

You can't wait to meet them.

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just… I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is: thisapplepielife! @thisapplepielife has 37 works posted to AO3 in the Stranger Things fandom and 24 of them are in the Steddie tag!

Our anonymous nominator recommends the following works by @thisapplepielife:

Tuesday's Gone With the Wind

Take the Money and Run

You Oughta Know

Never Not Mine

Let the Boy Be Merry

"They are my favorite Corroded Coffin writer. I found by accident their fic “Tuesday's Gone With the Wind” and loved everything they wrote since!" -- Anonymous

Below the cut, @thisapplepielife answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

Steve Harrington. I found myself not connecting with S4 when it premiered, and decided that I probably just needed to rewatch the other three seasons again first, since it'd been a while between seasons. Well, Steve was always my favorite, but I left that re-watch with his voice fully lodged in my brain. So, I had to write something for him, just for myself. That was You Oughta Know. We all knew Eddie identified as a runner, and that just felt like the story to tell. Then somehow, for some unknown reason that I still cannot possibly explain, I decided to actually post it. I still don't know what possessed me to do that, honestly.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

I love a good second chance fic: A divorced couple that eventually rekindles. A missed first chance that they get to take another crack at, later in life. I also like a good heartbreaker of a fic. I know, I know. Don't get me wrong, I still love happy endings, but I don't require them. Break my heart. Do it.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Slice of life? Is that considered a trope? I know I like to write about things we all deal with in real life, from the small and inconsequential: a mattress with a bad spring. The delight of clean sheets. Or the bigger: the real life heartbreak of unavoidable loss and grief.  And older Steddie is my favorite, I think. I love to spend time writing for them. These boys that turned into men, who made a full life together, and it's great. Maybe not perfect. But they wouldn't trade it for the world. That makes me happiest.

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

The One in Which a Time Loop is Fucking Exhausting by badpancake is the one I think of that grabbed me first, and did not let go. I still need to read the final part of the trilogy! My fic TBR is so, so long because I definitely struggle with writing and reading at the same time. I know there is amazing work out there that I've just never read yet. But I look forward to it, absolutely. It's just something I've never figured out how to manage well. Joining Tumblr has helped that immensely, though! Reading the shorter fics here has been wonderful, and I've enjoyed it so much. There are amazing things being posted every single day! And I gotta say that don't start (too late) by Ark is one of the best "first time" fics I've ever read in any fandom. Eddie's inner voice is wonderful. I believe every word he thinks while he experiences this brand new thing with Steve.

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

It's not brand new to me, but there's a found family one that I've been tinkering with for a very long time, and that excites me.  And I do love events for tossing me situations or prompts to write for that I may not have thought of, independently. @steddiemicrofic especially has been so, so fun. I think it was the very first event I wrote for on Tumblr, and the challenge of having a very limited amount of words, but still trying to make it feel like a whole story has been told, has been a blast. Thanks to @wynnyfryd and @steddieas-shegoes for challenging us all each month!

What is your writing process like?

I don't outline or anything. I just write, and edit, as I go. And I'll edit obsessively. I'll tweak and change small things over and over, ad nauseam. And even then, I know I still miss mistakes. But my mistakes are my own, I have no beta, because I kind of like being solely responsible for anything I write. Right or wrong. Here it is, take it or leave it. I also talk things through things in my own head a lot, especially dialogue, or I'll open a document, and just see where that takes me. And if I'm writing a long fic, like Tuesday's, I write totally out of order when scenes come to me. I wrote on every single year of that fic all at once. Then kept writing until they'd stitched themselves together into a full story. That's my last part of writing. Putting in the transitions from one scene to the next, when needed.  Sometimes ideas are more fully formed before I start putting words to the page, and other times I literally just start and figure it out as I go. There's one fic I wrote for Steddiemas last year where I sat Steve down at a mall food court and then just started writing. I had no idea what that was going to be. (It was Eddie turning up as the Mall Santa.)  Also: Research, research, research. I love the research aspect of writing. I'm curious in general, and if I can even think to look something up to see if it's true, or of the right time period, I will. And I like to add mixed media to my fics. That was a huge part of Take the Money & Tuesday's. All the newspaper articles and such. I felt like they were needed to make it feel like this really happened to these characters we all love so much. I did newspaper articles all throughout writing Tuesday's. In fact, I think that main article, the one at the top, was written and designed very early on in the writing process. They weren't all done at the end, they were done as the story needed them.

Do you have any writing quirks?

Short paragraphs. I love 'em. You'll pry them from my cold, dead fingers. Also see: Long sentences.  Honestly, I do like to throw out the rules, a bit. I write by feel. How does it sound, to my own ear? If it works, for my character, my fic or just me in general, I'll use it. "Don't use two "ands" in a sentence." Okay, but sometimes I'm gonna when that flows the best. Or: "That's a run-on." Okay, but I like the way it reads. "You don't need a comma there." But, I like the way that it breathes, so it's getting one. All this is especially true if writing from someone's POV. I know I don't always think in proper grammar, and I don't expect them to either. I don't want things to feel hard to read, but I do want them to feel natural. If that makes sense. I walk around, pacing as I write or edit on my phone, as if the moving somehow lets me see it differently. I think it does! And I don't know if this is a quirk, but some of the characterizations formed while writing Tuesday's have stuck, hard. Gareth is Gareth Jones, and where you find him, you'll probably find Di. Freak is Goodie. Jeff is Jeff Williams. These things have been decided in my brain, and now I feel compelled to take them with me, fic-to-fic. I didn't intend to build a headcanon I wouldn't be able to shake, but here we are.  I feel like I can transplant Steve and Eddie anywhere, into anything, and be comfortable changing things up. But the Corroded Coffin boys are cemented, as they were created, for the most part. Maybe that's because I did have to do so much shaping for them. Steve and Eddie, we know. We're all working off a decent amount of canon content. Corroded Coffin only had a few moments on screen to help flesh any of us flesh them out into real characters. And now that I've made my choices, for good or bad, they're here to stay.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

Finished, definitely. My three long fics were all mostly written before I started posting, and I still struggled to get the last part of All of Across the Universe out in a timely fashion. Tuesday's was posted over one week, one chapter per day, and I really enjoyed that fast schedule. It didn't give me any extra time to overthink the finished product. It was going out, and that was that. I had to trust that I knew what I was doing when I deemed it finished.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Tuesday's Gone With the Wind. I truly thought I was done after Take the Money and Run. And then this idea slapped me in the face, and I spent five months just lost in their world. These versions of the characters came so naturally, and they are still with me today. I feel like most of what I've written since then is shaped by those versions. Also, that was the last fic I wrote without anything else coming down the pipe. The last one before I joined Tumblr. The last one that had my full, and utter, undivided attention. It's really special to me, and I'm beyond grateful to everyone that has embraced it and recommended it to friends. I know it's got some scary warnings, but for those that have dove in and let me know that it spoke to you in some way, you've made me so happy. It spoke to me, too.

How did you get the idea for Tuesday's Gone With the Wind?

By watching the documentary "If I Leave Here Tomorrow" about the band Lynyrd Skynyrd. As I was watching it, there was an interview section where one of the band members spoke about their assistant road manager, saying: "He was like a bartender roadie. Where he took care of us really good, you know? Anybody who was sick, or needed a little more attention, he was just there for you. He was like the big brother, and sister, and your mama and everything." My brain whispered, Steve Harrington.  And that was that. Corroded Coffin were going to get Road Manager Steve Harrington, and he was gonna take care of them as they headed towards this unavoidable disaster. I wrote like 5k words the first night. It was just in there, waiting to spill out, somehow. And I think it's also an anomaly for me, but I'm fairly certain I started that fic with what turned out to be the opening. That first bit of Eddie's first interview section. I think that's where I started telling the story, and it held throughout. That's pretty rare for me. (Fun fact: I wrote all the interview bits in a separate document, and then just fit and tweaked them into the story, as needed. But not that opening. That was the launch pad into everything else.)

When writing Tuesday's Gone With the Wind, what was something you didn’t expect?

It's not exactly a Steddie answer, but - Gareth! Gareth Jones, my beloved. I wasn't on Tumblr when I wrote Tuesday's or any other social media in a fandom way. I was in my own bubble, doing my own thing. So, I didn't know the fandom had given him a fanon surname. I chose my own, and now he's just Gareth Jones to me, and always will be. He's also Eddie's best friend. I've pondered on more than one occasion on if Take the Money and Run would be different if I knew that first, lol. Just exploring my version of a character that had so little screen time to work off was incredibly fun. And has remained fun. Gareth is definitely gonna show up again in my future works. He's to Eddie, as Robin is to Steve in my head now and forevermore.

What inspired Take the Money and Run?

These lyrics from the song "Me and Paul" by Willie Nelson: Almost busted in Laredo But for reasons that I'd rather not disclose But if you're staying in a motel there and leave Just don't leave nothing in your clothes I had a literal shower thought that made me laugh. And thought, well, why are they even in a motel? Oh, they must be on a road trip. So, I wrote that little scene mainly in my head, but jotted it down, just in case, and assumed that was the end of it. But then I just kept writing it. Until I was knee deep in maps and mileage and research trying to figure this road trip out from a logistics standpoint. All because I thought it'd be funny if Eddie left weed in his pants and Steve got all put upon because of it.

What was your favorite part to write from You Oughta Know?

I loved getting to include all the fun 90s things, since that's when I was a teen, and can remember a lot of it very distinctly, first-hand. And I loved getting to use El's powers to look in on Eddie, so while they might not know where he is, they did know that he seemed to be doing okay out there in the world. Also, if I could go back and change one thing about it, I'd fix that I said Eddie's never had an acoustic guitar. I didn't notice his acoustic in his room until my re-watch. Oh well. This version of Eddie didn't, I guess, lol. (This might be from the second part, Eddie's POV. But still. It's my Roman Empire. I think of this mistake at least once a week and beat myself up. If I'd been on Tumblr at the time, I feel this would have never happened, because someone would have blogged about it, drawing my attention to it, surely.)

How do/did you feel writing Never Not Mine?

This one is heavily inspired by the Taylor Swift song imgonnagetyouback. It was fun to dig into a slightly angstier world for a bit. Because things don't always work out, or if they do, not always the first time around. I like to think they'll find each other again, in any universe, but they might not take the easiest path. They aren't perfect, and that's realistic.

What was the most difficult part of writing Let the Boy Be Merry?

Crying while writing it. This one slapped me around a little while writing. Life isn't always as romantic as fic leads us all to believe which, the audacity, honestly, lol, but the kind of love and relationship in this fic? That feels real to me. Old, and familiar, and even as well as you know a person, you can't read their mind. You don't always get what the other needs immediately, you don't get how important things can be to them, but figuring out how to compromise is love. Real, lasting love.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

This question was hard! I'm gonna pick two from Tuesday's: For the first, I cried while writing and then cried again while editing the scene where Eddie and Steve hash out how serious their relationship is, and realize they've kind of been on different pages. There are two scenes in Tuesday's that got to me, and made me cry while writing them, over and over, and I don't even know why. (The other is Gareth picking that fight with Steve. Yeah, yeah, I know. Neither of these parts are the saddest parts of Tuesday's. But they stripped me raw, for whatever reason.) And a second, more fun, favorite: I'm gonna go with the scene where Eddie's naked and tripping on mushrooms in the backyard while Steve hangs out with him, and Eddie thinks they've written "Tom Sawyer" by Rush. That was so fun, and just a feel good write, if that makes sense. That whole summer they spent at the lake I look back on writing fondly. They are so in love there. They are all happy. And this scene is carefree in a way that they won't always be, due to circumstances coming down the pipe.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

I run @corrodedcoffinfest and I've got a whole list of planned pop-up events coming up over the next few months for that. Steddie is absolutely welcome, so if anyone would like a little more Corroded Coffin works in their life, consider coming to join us! I also finally updated my masterlist, so everything I've written for Stranger Things is finally gathered together. There's a lot that's still only on Tumblr and not on Ao3 at this point.

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Thanks so much for including me and my works in this! And to the person who nominated me, thank you, thank you! You really made my day. It was fun to think about these fics again, and answer these questions. I've really enjoyed writing for Steddie, and I've also enjoyed making friends in the fandom. Thanks for welcoming me. Thanks for showing my fics love, and commenting or leaving kudos or reblogging. Just, thank you all so much. And I'm sorry if these answers were too long, lol. As a habitual "end notes" kind of writer, that's just the way I roll. 

Thank you to our author, @thisapplepielife, and our anonymous nominator! See more of thisapplepielife's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[milliesfishes]

꣑ৎ౨ৎRight Where You Left Me꣑ৎ౨ৎ

[fem reader] contains: grief, miscarriage, mentions of death, terrible amounts of angst pairing: billy the kid x fem reader author’s note: sorry guys it was the voices Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

"It's you and me, m' love."

Lifting your head from his chest, you sleepily opened your eyes to look at Billy. A quiet grin lifted the corners of his lips as he gazed at you, bare and smooth and stretched out against his body. The love in his eyes was never just a spark. It was a wildfire.

His hair was messy, eyes crinkling as he smiled. "It's you and me. Always." Billy had one arm around your shoulders, holding you sideways against him, but his other hand came to twine its fingers through yours. Squeezing once, he leaned down, nosing a kiss into your hairline.

It was like he was made for you. As if someone had crafted him so the contours of your body would be able to fit against his like puzzle pieces. Your curves were balanced by his muscle, and it was so unexplainably divine the way you were able to hold each other.

You wanted to write your name on his back and kiss its trail. Or meld yourself into him until you were one. Or both. Settling for tracing the outline of each of his fingers, you whispered, "You and me?"

"Forever." The way he said it sounded like a promise. "Don't know a better word for us, baby." Billy kissed the space between your eyes lightly, then the tip of your nose. "Why would they make a love like ours if it wasn't for all time?"

Stretching your arms out, you gave him a knowing look, and he smiled, hands on your hips tugging you to rest on top of him. Your legs were nestled between his, and you laid your head back down so your ear was over his heartbeat. The thump of it was as steady and solid as he was. Your Billy, firm and unmoving.

With his line of work, danger breathed down his neck at every turn, whispering things to him that you couldn't hear. But you could see how it haunted his eyes. The fact of it made you keep such memories as of now close to your heart, stored for when he wasn't near.

Now as you were skin-to-skin with him, you traced hearts on his shoulder and let your hair fall onto his neck. Billy was your oasis, your heaven. Everything was perfect here, when you were tangled in the sheets with your love on pure display. In your bed, he was utterly yours, and you gave yourself to him holding nothing back.

He settled a big hand at the crown of your head, just holding you to him. You knew this meant as much to him as it did you. He dug his nose into your part, inhaling once and nudging a kiss to the spot. "Always. I'll always love you."

You looked up at him, and he gave you one of his squinty, lovey-eyed smiles, pulling the sheet to rest over the two of you. That made you smile, and you bent your head, kissing his collarbone. "I'll love you forever, Billy. And then some."

Arms squeezing around you, he shifted a bit. Then he kissed your head again. "Just us, baby. Forever 'n ever."

Wanting him had to be enough on the days he was absent. When his work took him far from your reach, you dwelt in your memory, lost in the melancholy of it all. The only thing keeping you going was the possibility of his homecoming.

You spent long, solitary nights trying to sleep without him holding you. Billy always ended up pulling you into him one way or another, and in the mornings you'd awaken to your face in his chest, one of his hands tangled in your hair.

That thought plagued you on a particular night that changed everything.

Your little pains and the lack of appearance from your womanly blood had amounted to something. A new life, safely stored in your belly, a product partially of Billy's doing.

Splaying both hands on your stomach, you looked at yourself in the mirror, trying to imagine you round and full of his child. What would he say? How would he react? It was hard to imagine anything but joy- he loved you so dearly and had spoken of a baby with you before.

So, eagerly, you practically sat by the door for the familiar sound of his bootsteps, ready to throw yourself into his arms and share the news. But the frame remained empty.

Days, you awaited him. It was now well past the time frame he'd given you as he left, kissing you tenderly and whispering he'd hurry home. You knew these kinds of jobs had a potential to drag on longer than expected, but you would have thought he'd at least sent word. Maybe he was on his way.

Lying on the chaise, one hand over your tummy with the other flailed toward the floor, you studied the ceiling above you, watching the dust that was visible when leftover sunshine hit the air. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. It was almost taunting you.

Where was he? Your curiosity turned to worry. Had he gotten hurt? Been ambushed? You didn't let your mind wander too far. He's on his way home. He said he would come back.

It echoed in your mind over and over. He said he would come back. He said he would come back.

The letter sat opened on the table. Your hands started to shake as you re-read that fateful sentence, the one that smashed your world and collapsed your heart.

Suddenly your legs didn't work. They weakened and sent you to the floor as your hands flew to cover your face. Ragged sobs burst forth from your lips, and searing, choking pain came in waves. Just when you thought it was over it crashed into you again.

He wasn't coming home.

Somehow, you'd always known you were on borrowed time with Billy.

He was half-lost to the next life for most of his, toeing the line and then trying to hold you with one foot on each side. The hourglass wasn't out of sand, it had shattered.

They asked you to come identify the body, and you did so with weighty steps and a heavier heart. Nobody came with you. The only person whose hand you wanted to hold was pale and cold and stiff on the table in front of you.

You were allowed to take home his personal effects, and you spread them out on the floor, kneeling and touching them, glimpses of the past bursting forth with each one. His gun belt. His pistol. His hat.

How many times had you seen him get dressed and sling the belt around his waist? Or hold the pistol with expertise, aiming at a can on the fence? How many times had the brim of that very hat poked your forehead when he leaned down to kiss you?

Gathering everything back up, you shoved it all onto the chaise, turning your back. If you looked at it, it was almost like an inanimate version of him.

Tossing and turning that night, you were angry that your tears wouldn't stop coming. You'd cried enough for several lifetimes at this point, enough that you hoped his spirit wasn't watching you.

Hand falling to your stomach, a fresh bout of sobs spilled from your throat as you thought of the child he would never meet. And he hadn't even known. For a moment you were angry with him; for leaving you here with a baby to raise and care for all by yourself.

But then your mind lightened. He'd left you with a piece of him. Something to have and cherish, something born of his love for you. Tears falling like rivers, you tried to imagine what he'd say.

"It's gonna be okay, angel."

Hugging your belly, you drew your knees to your chest and squeezed your eyes shut. It was his gift, a blessing. You could build yourself back up and live for someone, even if it wasn't him. Sleep came easier after that, your protective arms around yourself the way his would have been.

Within days, it was over.

You woke early, stretching and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, trying to ignore the pang in your chest at the sight of his empty spot next to you. Padding into the bathroom, you felt something leaking down your thighs.

Horror overtook you as your mouth opened in a silent scream. Now there was pain, sharp, encapsulating pain, like fingers reaching from your core. Crying out in agony, your arms covered your middle, fingers gripping your sides like a vice. On your knees, forehead resting against the cabinet as the last of him died within you, the only thing you could think of was how much you needed him.

And he wasn't there.

You longed for him to bundle you in his arms and tell you everything was okay. That he was here, and he always would be. Forever hadn't been as long as you thought it would be.

Someone riding nearby heard your scream, and they sent for help. You wished they hadn't.

In the aftermath, you wished for death. You resented the fact that your poor, tired body had lived, keeping you from him in another place.

What sweet torture was this? To live without the one thing living for. For your greatest love to be your greatest loss. Grief ate you from the inside, translating to utter weakness out. You ached for him, for a touch, a sign that he wasn't lost to something he couldn't come back from.

The days passed hazily and blurred together to create a mass of time only identified by what it lacked. You saw his ghost in the corner of your eye. He was everywhere in this house, but when you turned to see, there was nothing.

Every night you collapsed into his side of the bed, burying your face in his pillow and inhaling. It eerily still smelled like him. Anguish was heavy in the air as each second uncovered something new to mourn.

The baby he'd left you was gone. The last physical part of him had been ripped from your body and spirited away to some unknown place. You were miserable over your heartbeat whenever you woke up, cursing higher powers for not letting you follow him.

How many years had you lost? How much time was thrown to the wind now that he no longer occupied the space of your living? You whispered these questions every night into the air as if he could hear you. Your pain was an extension of love.

His pillow started to lose that musky scent you'd found comfort in. You cried over that too. Billy was fading completely from your life, and you were grasping at straws. You couldn't let him turn only into memory. Then you wouldn't be convinced you hadn't made him up. In your mind you were going crazy, convinced that you were the only one remembering him the way he really was.

So, you opened his drawers. Started to wear his clothes. Your favorite of his shirts swaddled your body every night as you fell asleep, and his hat was perched on your head whenever you exited the house. Nobody had told you what became of his horse, but whenever you rode your own, you belted a pair of his pants and tried to imagine them on him.

In the early hours of the morning when your mind wasn't fully awake, you could feel his silhouette curled around you. Was he there? Was he holding you from some hidden layer of existence? Imagining him kissing your hair, whispering that he loved you, you somehow always managed to fall back asleep.

The sayings about soulmate deterioration hadn't been exaggerated. Without his arms keeping you on earth, your body grew infirm, your condition hurried along by the unrecovered from loss of the baby. There was a marked difference between living and surviving.

Weight fell from your body. When you looked in the mirror you no longer saw Billy's pretty girl. She was replaced by a gaunt reflection that stared somberly back at you. Once rosy cheeks and bright eyes that he so often praised were now replaced by almost permanent tear tracks, bones jutting out as if your skin had been stretched over them. You slept little and ate less. The light was all burnt out.

Wandering into the woods, your feet somehow carried you to the spot where he'd been buried. The grave was crude, a single cross marking its spot. Not even a name.

You were in his shirt and pants, hair loose, hat covering it. Lifting one sleeve to your cheek, you pretended it was his arm covered by the fabric instead. It worked for one minute longer than you thought it would.

Catching sight of your shadow, you almost did a double take. The silhouette was nearly the same. Two people had died that awful day, but only one was fully gone. He didn't need a ghost, you were it.

Trudging forward to the earth where he lay, you fell to your knees, your body following their path to lie on the ground. You rested one palm flat on the dirt, an ear pressed there too. Resting atop him, but he wasn't holding you back.

A thousand dead tomorrows passed before your eyes. You saw him in the forefront of your mind, with that sleepy grin and easy laugh. "My girl...my beautiful girl..."

Closing your eyes, you felt an unfamiliar exhaustion creep into your bones. So many nights of wanting to join him and now you were finally getting your wish. Two halves of a whole held together by their hands.

You and him, forever.

[bloodinwine]

Warning: Whiny AF post This is gonna come out all messy and shit and a complete overshare because I'm emotional and I know it's a bad idea to write things and share them when you're emotional. But whatever. Writer. And what the fuck ever. People advise I take breaks all the time, but the thing is all I ever want to do is write. I want to disappear into Effy and Astarion's world. It's supposed to be my happy place but tonight instead I'm literally just staring at this screen trying not to cry like a bitch because FUCKkk after chp17 my brain is being so freaking hideous to me. It's usually like this after a chapter drop, but this has been just the worst. I already have chp18 outline complete and on one hand I'm happy with it right? Like I'm excited to write this chapter. But I also now have this fear of like...putting in what will probably wind up being 2 months of effort only to feel like I've failed. I wish I had tougher skin and I know I've definitely come a long way. My relationship with writing prior to fandom was even more fragile, but then again I never really shared my work. I knew this was going to be hard but I didn't realize how much. I do my best to be my own cheerleader but I can't say things like I don't give a shit or I won't let this get to me, because I do care so so much. This isn't just a hobby to me. Ah man...but I don't want to be like this you know? I want to focus on the good and the positive things. I went back and just spent some time reading so many of the kind words people have left. Read some older things I wrote and tried to just enjoy Effy being dumb lol.

Anyway, all this to say. I think I might need to fade away for a bit or take some steps back from fandom. I should be happy about sharing the chapter but I have to admit I just feel incredibly low right now and I don't think that's right. I promise I was so incredibly happy with it before I hit the post button. I never post anything I'm not happy with. That's why feeling all these ups and downs about it is so confusing and annoying for me. I think a lot about the advise I've gotten from others about building confidence around my writing. It's better, but man I'm just not fucking there yet. I don't know if I'll ever be. I really hope. I'm trying.

But no matter what I will never give up on UY. A piece of my soul is literally in that story. I will never give up on writing. I just can't deal with myself when I feel like this.

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Risen under false dragons

Viserys iii x fem!reader

warning : mentioned torture of Viserys, mentioned death, fear, hurt/comfort, cuddle, tiny tiny emotional, i try not to make it too ooc hope it works, no y/n

Summary : A golden crown full of pain he had gotten the death he should suffer for being there for his sadness. But if he was dead, where did the screech of a dragon come from? Where did a female voice come from? And why did his life come back to him in the form of a female dragon rider? Had he sinned enough to finally be free?

info : I've been meaning to write for Viserys for a while, I like him and even though he sucks (like everyone in asoiaf) I feel sorry for him because he was manipulated and taken advantage of from an early age. Now have fun reading as always ;)

masterlist

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Pain and love are two things that are very close to each other. Pain came in many forms - pain in childbirth for the mother, for a queen without a kingdom, a queen who died giving birth to her daughter Daenerys and at the same time caused pain to her young son Viserys when there was nothing left of her but the crown.

A crown he was always supposed to wear, he was always whispered to a child, a young man, and ever since he could remember, the world had been brutal and harsh to him. For him, a dragon who could fly above them all, he was the blood of a dynasty of several hundred years.

And yet and yet here he was in a camp of travelers from the wild, a group that had to take him further to his crown that his sister had brought into play in the first place. Her existence is pain and love he always thought when he saw in his little sister the expression of his mother - those violet eyes a little brighter than his own, those soft features, that smile he had seen so rarely in his sister as in his mother.

But this line between jest and love was something the prince was in danger of drowning in. The hatred grew with each passing day as he saw his sister's echo in this wild evil, as the lies he told himself about how he had been told grew weaker each day.

It was his birthright that was taken away by this right to the throne. How long would this go on? His sister had him this leader and he? He had a sword and himself he had nothing...he was the pathetic pitiful product of a dynasty of dragons defeated by a fat king now feasting in King's Landing.

A fact that left him silent at night, even shedding tears as he looked at himself in plated silver plates. ,,I'll bring us dragons back to the throne I'll take my birthright and if it kills her the army is mine" he muttered knowing what he had to do knowing that he had to force his sister to hurt her. A resolution that ended in a pain that punished him for life.

Pain inside him was something he carried with him but physical pain was something he had rarely experienced but not when the golden whip with the claw-like end heated up again and again, the gold burned away the right side of his face and his screams echoed in his own ears as everyone around him laughed.

But it was his sister who hurt him the most that night. He was no dragon, fire can not kill a dragon words that hurt him worse than anything he had experienced that night. But did it even matter if he closed his eye and hoped that when the Khalasar moved on and he simply died, he would simply disappear from a world that would never have him without him.

But then in the sea of darkness the sea in which he was to sink forever not buried with his ancestors he heard something. Something far away, something worthy of his home, it was a whispering of the wind, as if the air was coming back to him. When something shook the ground a scream a scream like he had always imagined. Dragons.

His heavy eyes opened wide even from the light of the stars he saw only outlines but he saw it saw the wings, the size saw the bite with the teeth and saw it. His savior. He wanted to say something, but before a word left his lips he fainted again and sank into his own mind full of pain, hope and fear.

The night lay over the endless grass more the heat gave way and it became pleasantly cool in the middle of this endless expanse - an expanse that seemed to have no end. Flew on her companion flew on these beasts almost endlessly without a destination until her flying animals smelled him. ,,He is a relative of yours... a prince of the pure Valyrian blood," she told her two creatures, who snorted and looked disdainfully at the man lying on a homemade mattress made of soft grass and other things.

The sight was ugly and handsome, it had taken her hours of the night to carve the gold from his head with a heated knife, injuring him even more and bandaging his right side as best she could. He's blind in the eye such a beautiful violet she thought and bit into the torn sheep meat they had stolen out of the air that night. She saw Vaes come a little closer, the darker and taller of the two nudging the stranger and scowling as he smelled the wounds.

Smirking and pushing him away slightly, she saw Braen looking at the Targaryen with green, interested eyes as if waiting for something. Reaching for the small bowl of water and grabbing the cloth to take care of his wounds, she knelt down next to him and was about to start on the wound on his arm when she saw him open his eye. It was only a moment before he realized that he wasn't dead and hastily tried to get away, which barely worked as he hissed and landed on his wounds.

Raising her arms and shaking her head, she first spoke in Dothraki but realized that this only made him even more nervous and insecure before she pointed to her heart and spoke in a mean tongue, ,,Calm down I found you I helped you you are badly hurt" and pointed to his body.

She saw how realization gripped him again, how his eyes showed fear, anger, grief and despair. Things she had felt and still felt, saw his fingers digging into the sandy earth and his lips trembling slightly as he tried to understand why he was being punished to live as a cripple. ,,Why? Why didn't you let me die?" came only a few crickets chirping and the stars shining in the sky after minutes of silence.

A question she knew very well, a question she had asked herself. All she had to do was look at herself, the marks still visible. They didn't kill me... maybe it was my destiny to save him? she asked herself and reached over to the campfire where the meat was sizzling and held some of it out to him.

,,You're not from here, stranger, your hair, your eye, you're a Targaryen, a dragon right?" she asked, ignoring his question for the time being and seeing how he didn't respond to the food, in contrast, he still didn't seem to understand.

But before the violet-eyed man had a whale of a time, she put the meat in his hand and told him to eat. ,,I can't let the son of my former king die," she murmured, running her hand over the golden drachma coin she wore tied to leather around her neck.

The symbol of the dragon back when she was a little girl all seemed so long ago. She didn't have to look at him to know that he was looking at her, that question and curiosity graced his gaze...the fact that someone in this world really stood up for him and didn't lie to him.

Viserys hastily wolfed down the meat and turned to her, still keeping his distance, but still seeing the golden coin. ,,You are from Westeros! Were you part of the court?" he asked louder, full of excitement, as if the Targaryen dynasty was in front of him.

But she just shook her head with a tired smile before she duetted at him, ,,Not quite my father was your father's ally...a now extinct house and now a former slave who has escaped," she said and pulled up the sleeve of her blouse, the brand from the Free Cities adorning her skin.

Hiding the pain under the fabric again, she saw how his face changed as the prince thought about how a ruler should do it this time and not just start marching. ,,I'm sorry my father couldn't protect you, I don't have the means to give you anything back," he said in a whisper and shuddered to the ground as his hand ran over his bandage.

But she just shook her head as she came a little closer to him, ,,We're even, you couldn't save me and I couldn't save you," she said and took the wet rag to remove the dirt from the wound.

But Viserys was quicker and grabbed the rag, surprising her with his stubbornness, but she didn't mind.

She had only heard rumors from the last two dragons, rumors and stories but he was a dragon and arrogance was part of it, ,,I can do it myself" he mumbled and she rose understandingly to reach for her leather drinking bag the water would run out soon anyway it had to be drawn further so she might as well give it to him. ,,Thanks," he had the decency to take a sip after he had finished and his body seemed to be more than a little shaken.

,,Your sister, where is she?" she asked as she wondered why she would leave him alone and in such a state. The last two dragons were always together but now what had happened? But this question she had asked showed her enough of a reason to reach for his sword at his side, which he pulled out and rammed it into the ground beside him. ,,She is one of those wild ones not a dragon! She owes everything to me and now she has betrayed me!" he almost shouted with rage as he was reminded of the events with a thud. She saw exactly how he tried to get up again to help him but he pushed her away which was not firm but she let him do it.

He had the build of a warrior rather than a nimble young inexperienced fighter he was not like his brother he was like a coin of the gods but his grip on the sword was firm and determined. ,,She will regret it...it is my throne" he hissed and she saw his gaze go over the horizon towards the sea beyond which, after a long time, was King's Landing.

A fact that made her smile and then laugh - her house destroyed, he a broken prince and his sister on the best way to gain power here. ,,What's so funny?" he asked, raising his sword against her, trembling but determined. A portrait of his betrayed father, it flashed through her mind as she came up to him and made a playful curtsey.

Before she looked at him again, ,,It seems to me that the song of the king without courage fits you or the night that ends," she replied and pointed towards the horizon where the sun would slowly appear in a few hours and bathe the fallen dragon in new splendor.

They would probably start a new chapter of history together. She saw how he took this as an insult at first, but to her surprise, he gave a serene impression of himself and put his sword away before looking at her again. ,,Prince Viserys without a crown and a fallen high lady is this how my journey is to begin?" he asked into the night, probably speaking his thoughts aloud, and she slowly stepped closer.

She stretched out her hand and slowly placed it on the edge of his sword and saw in his violet eyes that something had changed. The acceptance of his death had disappeared, the chance they had both been given should be used. ,,I follow you my prince as our ancestors did" she assured him and she saw the nod he gave her before his hand squeezed hers ,,Be my royal hand Lady Wyvern" he replied proudly and she agreed with a slight bow before looking behind her in confusion. She saw that he had distinguished Wyverns from dragons with a simple glance.

This made her laugh and she broke away from Viserys as she walked to her dragon-like creature Vaes who was waiting curiously. She stroked the warm leathery skin and still saw the uncertainty in Viserys. ,,Wyverns are wild and native to Sothoryos, what are two of them doing here and still tamed?" he asked, keeping a distance everyone knew in Westeros and beyond how dangerous wyverns and wyrms could be.

But even if she knew this was true, ,,Not for the two of them, they were also captured ones, I freed them and we escaped...but Braen seems to have taken a liking to you," she said and pointed at the slightly smaller greenish dragon, he was young but brave. She let go of her wyvern and grabbed Visery's hand, feeling the warmth emanating from him even afterward, and pulled him towards the green dragon-like creature.

She heard the sword fall as the prince touched a piece of his family for the first time, at least one of his ancestors. She saw joy flash in his violet eyes for what must have been the first time. ,,A creature full of mysticism and power you are," he spoke to the non-fire breathing creature and let his hand move over the body, stroking the leathery, shiny skin and his violet eyes looked at the green ones.

It pleased her, it pleased her that he could feel such joy despite the pain, a fact that made her heart beat faster. ,,How about a flight with your prince...an order of course my lady" he added hastily and pressed lightly on the back and Braen and it actually gave in.

At first she was afraid that he wouldn't be able to hold on because of a his wounds, but then the euphoria and the dream of a dragon seemed to spur him on. ,,If you wish, my prince, let's go," she stopped and swung herself onto Vae's back before rising first with her dark wyvern, seeing Viserys follow her only moments later and counting a broad, sincere smile on his face.

For the first time, he felt no pain and ignored even the injuries, ,,It's unbelievable!" he shouted, letting out a free roar as he flew through the dark night. She saw how he sometimes flew slower and sometimes faster, holding his hand in the cool air and praising the Wyvern, which both creatures shrieked joyfully and gave their rider a good time.

She followed him herself, rejoicing with euphoria that she was finally no longer aimless, that she had finally found someone...that she had someone to love her and that he was being loved again. ,,I thank you Viserys!" she called to him and saw the Targayren look behind him, a smile adorn his lips and he gave a ,,I thank you with all my heart for the faithfulness of a new beginning, my lady!" before he gently lent his wyvern to her and they knew that she would spend many hours in heaven.

The hours passed up here and indeed they flew towards the rising sun before retreating from the heat to old ruins they had seen. The wind had ruffled her hair and she smiled, wanting to leave it that way when Viserys, leaning against the ruined wall, told her to come here, ,,My mother always did it, it suits you," he said, pointing to her hair after she realized that he had braided a few strands as best he could and looked at her tiredly.

Returning his gaze, she leaned against the wall next to him and slowly leaned her head on his shoulder in exhaustion. She mumbled a ,,Thank you“ but fell asleep after a few more moments. Leaning against her prince. While the Targayren tucked the simple blanket a little more over her both and gave her a fond look before looking up into the sky that held a new day.

The heaven in which something blossomed between them, the heaven in which they would both eventually find the throne that was his. But who knows every prince needed his queen at some point and maybe she would be the one as they flew through the air into a future with hope and without pain.

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Maybe I do a part do I need to see ;)

[lost-in-lamentation]

hi! i am new in your account and i really loved your writings! * chef kisses * i was wondering if you could do some comfort fic for mc comforting a crying solomon and mc like uhhh hiding his face in the crook of their neck and pats him? thx🫶🏻

a/n: heheh hi anon ♡ one sad sorcerer, coming up!

content: this is an implied anxiety attack on solomon. just a lot of comfort from you to him.

warnings: solomon is a sad boi (again). it's a lot of physical comfort rather than verbal.

hurt/comfort. solomon × gen!reader (you/yours).

word count: 1.1k.

the sound of pen against paper echoed quietly throughout your room, accompanied by the occasional sigh and the sway of the music that played out from your d.d.d.. you sat at the table close to the foot of your bed, textbook open in front of you and flash cards fanned out in your hand as you cross referenced your notes. meanwhile, solomon sat cross legged on your bed while leaning against the wall, head in his hands as he tried to comprehend the extra work that the professor had given him. it was a pattern you had grown accustomed to; these after RAD study sessions with the sorcerer. but today, you couldn't shake the feeling that solomon looked more tired than he usually did. you snuck glances at him every so often, worry amping up when you realised he hadn't moved for the last 20 minutes. silently, you slid out of your seat, heading down to the kitchen to grab a snack and some water for the both of you. solomon still hadn't moved by the time you returned, and a part of you wondered if he had fallen asleep like that. 

"solomon," you called softly, sitting on the edge of the bed in front of him. "you should drink something. here, i brought water." concern gripped at your stomach when solomon made no move. "solomon," you said again, placing a hand on his knee this time. 

startled, solomon snatched your wrist and pulled it up, frantic eyes meeting yours. his mouth hung open briefly, incoherent stammers and cut off words unable to make their way out. "MC, i-" panicked, he released your hand. solomon dropped his gaze down to where his legs crossed. a few beats of silence later, solomon forced a laugh, subtly wiping the corners of his eyes. "sorry, i must have scared you," he struggled to keep his voice stable. "i should head home so you can get some real studying done." solomon pushed past you, never raising his face to look directly at yours. 

"wait, sol-" 

"i'll see you tomorrow at RAD, hm?" his head remained lowered. 

"solomon, just hang on a second," you pleaded, scrambling off the bed to catch him.

the witty sorcerer, quick as ever, slid away from your grasp, a feigned smile resting on his features. "i'll be excusing myself-" 

"solomon!" you shouted at him, voice bouncing off the walls. when he finally looked up at you, you saw the red that outlined his eyes. your heart fell, a mix of confusion and sadness infusing into your expression. exhaling a sigh, you reached for his arm, taking him by the elbow and leading him back to your bed. the mattress creaked under the added weight as you shuffled to lean back against the headboard. you kept your grip on solomon's arm just tight enough, pulling him to lay flight on top of you when you adjusted yourself comfortably. only when he resigned himself to you did you finally release his elbow from your hand. "you could have said something, you know," you stated, voice firm, but still soft around the edges. 

solomon didn't say anything in return, instead choosing to curl his fingers into your clothes and hold tight. if it weren't for the unspoken anxiety that solomon was battling, you would have enjoyed the way his head rested on your shoulder. 

"tired?" you asked through a whisper. 

the nodding of his head was barely noticeable. he was barely moving other than the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. 

you sighed into his hair, legs wrapping around his and hands massaging the small of his back. "rest, then." you stole a glance at his face, just catching the way his eyes blurred with tears. holding solomon close, you brought him up just a bit higher so he could hide his face away against your skin. 

one tear fell first, and a second. before long, a full sob broke from his throat as he bowed his head into the crook of your neck. you rested your chin gently atop his temple, shielding him from the outside world. his hands tightened around the fabric of your shirt as he burrowed himself deeper into your touch, longing to be surrounded by you and only you. you drew him in even further, as far as you could, until his tears seeped into your clothes and marked your skin with sadness. solomon shuddered against you, his sobs tearing into his body. 

"breathe, solomon. i'm right here," you reassured him, taking one of his trembling hands in yours. slowly, you pried his clenched fist open so that you could slip your fingers in between his. when you did, solomon tightened his hold on you, gripping onto you like you were a lifeline; and you were. your other hand fell to his waist, rubbing circles ever so softly into his side while you waited for him to calm down. his tears changed from individual droplets to gradual streams as he let himself go. 

solomon hated this part of himself; the one that didn't know how to stop himself from completely shattering. but he knew another part of him wanted this, wanted to be stripped away of his walls and barriers and be laid bare, heart on his sleeve as he released an eternity's worth of emotions into the open. into you. 

he'd find another day to tell you everything, but for now, with your fingertips ghosting up and down his spine and your voice echoing the words he needed to hear, he rested, and he gave his whole being to you. 

you hugged him tightly when you felt his breathing begin to even out, pulling your head back to see if you could look at his face. "do you want to talk about it?" you prodded gently. 

"... not today, please," solomon whispered out, shutting his eyes. "just let me stay here." 

you hummed your approval, nuzzling onto the crown of his head. "take as long as you need. i'll be right here." 

the sorcerer gritted his teeth, desperate to stop the tears from overflowing once more. much to his disappointment, he could not, but perhaps this time, it was okay. after all, you were right there to catch them when they fell. you were always there to catch solomon when he fell. you had done it today, and you'd do it again in a heartbeat. solomon knew that, and at the thought, he smiled for the first time that day. 

and for the first time in a long while, solomon felt loved.

a/n: solomon gets the highest form of affection; putting him through pain and suff-

[lululawrence]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers! Spread the self-love 💞

HIIIII omg I love whoever started this going around so much and THANK YOU for sending this to me!!! I also got this from @haztobegood and @allwaswell16 so thank you to ALL OF YOU really! I love love love this kinda thing and hope I haven't missed all of your lists... i'll have to be sure to look for those here soon hehe

Anyway, in no particular order, here are my fav fics I've written... (I think... lol favorites are HARD):

I'm Praying (that you don't burn out or fade away) - This was my big bang for this year and man it was a JOURNEY to write. I first came up with the idea as almost a crack fic idea back when I first was listening to Satellite... you know... when it was first released. lol I just didn't have the time or energy or anything to write it but I held onto the idea for ages and had it mostly brainstormed and everything! And then the time came to write it and... I couldn't find my notes. Anywhere. No idea what happened to the fic idea or my ramblings about it so I just did what I could with recreating it from memory and I still didn't know where or how or when it would end exactly, I just knew their journey would be over when it was over, and they spoke to me. When their story was done, I knew. And I am still so fucking proud of how it turned out and @moon-sun-thyme made the most incredible and gorgeous art for it, truly. Just. Probably gonna forever be one of my favorite fics I've ever written.

What I Have With You (I don't want with anyone else) - ohhhhhhh THIS FIC OKAY. It's my aspec alpha babies fic. I wrote it as a collaboration with @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed for @1dreversebang a few years ago now and it is still so special to me. I got to really delve into the aspec identities by embodying both Louis and Harry with one of those identities (aro Harry, ace Louis) and then added some non-traditional omegaverse dynamics (alpha/alpha) AND one of my all time favorite tropes, FAKE DATING! It was also a journey to write this fic and I worked so hard to make sure I really felt like I was doing justice to our identities and trying to give good and valid and understandable representation to them, and I really think I was able to achieve that. Some of the comments have been the most thoughtful and humbling and just beautiful I've ever gotten as well, which is just the cherry on top, right? So yeah, this baby defo gets to be on this list for sure hehe

You Don't Care About Me (One More Night) - This fic is one of those instances where you write what you want to read, you know what I mean? I had been craving a fic like this one, and I'd read some similar ones but I wanted MORE. The more I thought about it, the more the idea shaped up, and before I knew it I had (I wish I was joking) something like SIX PAGES of brainstorming with the timing laid out and what would happen when to make sure it was slow burn enough but also character development at the right pace and also just... everything I wanted, you know? I've never outlined a fic to that level before and I probably never will again, but after outlining it like that, I then went and wrote this fic, which was the longest fic I'd ever written to that point, in less than a month. It just flowed from me every time I sat down at my computer. It turned out exactly as I had hoped, and it is one of the few fics of mine that I have gone back to read repeatedly. I've not actually read it all the way through repeatedly, there's usually just bits and pieces I'm craving at the moment, but that's still far more than I generally do with my own fics. So I'll take it hehe

a moon, a rainbow, and a carnation - Okay okay okay, there's a lot about this one that makes this one something I'm super proud of, even though it feels ridiculous because it was a fic I wrote for this year's @wordplayfics, but there's a lot of reasons why I really am proud of it lol For one, I'm still new to writing Oscar and Pedro, and I love them SO much but I've only written them in one fic previously (and it isn't even out yet lololol) but!!! Its only the second fic I've ever written with a decent amount of Spanish in it. The lovely @nouies has been so kind as to cheerlead me about the pairings as well as help me with the Spanish, and we have had SO much fun omg. She helped me SO MUCH with this fic, and I so appreciate it and am so happy with how it was able to turn out because of her help! I also tried a new footnotes thing with the translations that turned out to work even better than I anticipated, and that just makes it even better, right? So yeah. I'm proud of it because I did all of that AND ALL WITHIN A WEEK. YASSSS

'Cause What I Want Came True - Okay so once again this one is one that Lou indulged me on because who doesn't love Diego Luna, hmm? lol but I was struggling with Wordplay again and suddenly I came upon a few quotes and an entire soft and hazy idea presented itself that I just HAD to write. It is almost semi-stream of consciousness while also not being quite that way, and I just really REALLY love how it turned out. I've actually already gone back and reread this one and the previous one on this list since publishing, and they've only been out for a week or two at this point. That's impressive and very rare for me. So yeah, quite proud.

I am missing some others that I would probably say are favorites, but you did limit me to five. lololol and These were the five I thought of off the top of my head haha so they will do for now hehe THANK YOU SO MUCH for asking and letting me ramble about my fics for a little bit!! sorry this got so looooong....

[jazzy-man13]

IDW Megatron x gn cybertronian reader

Dunno what this is, but I was kinda inspired by the song Dream Sweet in Sea Major and I've been trying to write more to get me out of writing block// TW-suicide attempt

Hiding behind the corner of a nearby pillar, Megatron waited for you. You came here every night, standing by the railing of an old bridge. The bridge held its shape, untouched by war. The only signs there was anything amiss was the faint city in the distant view. The city was dark, yet restless. There were only very faint lights that could be seen illuminating outlines of abandoned buildings, the ruins that survived the war. You'd sing the same song each night, staring wistfully at where the old city meets the dark horizon.

It had become a ritual of sorts. He couldn't help it, your voice nearly put him in a trance the first time he heard you. It was a relaxing familiarity, standing there, silently listening to you sing the same tune each night. Right on time, you walk over and position yourself on the bridge, arms crossed on the railing. As per usual, you sang the same song.

Alone at the edge of the universe

humming a tune

For merely dreaming we were snow

As you sang, you pulled yourself onto the railing, carefully and slowly. You put one hand on a beam for support, straightening your back and standing tall over the city.

Megatron continued to watch, a pit of worry growing in his tanks. You had never done this before, this was new... and quite frankly, it was concerning. You finished singing and took a deep breath. 'This is it', you thought to yourself. Hesitating only for a moment, you lifted one foot out in front of you, letting it dangle high off the bridge.

Watching as you slowly leaned your frame's weight forward, Megatron's vents hitched. He had seen hundreds, if not thousands of bots take their lives during the war, but this time he didn't plan on watching you fall. Not when he had the chance to change your fate.

He sprung out, running over and quickly grabbing your waist as he pulled you back. You landed in his arms with a surprised yelp, frantically looking up to see who grabbed you. You saw pain flash across his anxiety stricken face as he gently held you. You recognized him, obviously, as Megatron. Everybody knew him, but the two of you had talked once or twice before about poetry at a bar. You were by no means friends, but you were accustomed to one another.

He said nothing, gently shifting down to his knees, still cradling you in his arms. Clinging to him, you wailed and sobbed as you let your broken spark grieve everything you had lost. You grieved for your friends. Your family. Your home, the life you knew, everything that could've been, but wasn't. You cried and cried, and Megatron held you the whole time.

He longed to soothe you, to heal the pain that he had indirectly caused. Knowing he couldn't do more than he already was, he continued to hold you tight, letting his em field do the talking for him. You felt his love, his sorrow, his own grief and regrets. It surrounded you, embracing you with all that it was, all that it is, all that it ever will be.

His optics told you more than words ever could, and for the first time in centuries, you didn't feel alone. You knew you'd never be alone again. Life would begin anew, you would heal, and you would grow. Not today, not tomorrow, and not the day after that or a week from now... but one day you'd be okay.

Uhhh sorry again to all the requests decomposing in my inbox, I'll get to you eventually

[ddarker-dreams]

Hello! Do you still do Bucci gang stories or do you plan to continue their stories in the future? I really enjoyed your jjba-related work <3

hello hello!! thank you very much 💖💖 idk why but this ask made me remember a bruno drabble that i wrote at like 2 am a while back. i've been meaning to dust it off. i do have a scarlet ribbons main story that's the bucci gang x reader, but lord knows when that'll be finished, the outline is rather long. the bucci gang will have my heart eternally, i don't think i'll ever completely stop writing for them. it's just a bit more sporadic.

anyway, here's the drabble!! the only warning is that there's some not SFW implications.

If you were divine, then there’s no doubting that Bruno Bucciarati is your most pious follower.

For years he worshiped you. In his thoughts, words, and actions. It was only by the band you so graciously allowed him to put on your finger that he realized he had a lifetime of reverence awaiting him. The vows he spoke aloud the prior evening were nothing new — he had internally sworn them to you time and time again. Even when he didn’t know you’d reciprocate the sentiment, he engraved them deep into his heart, so that it’d bleed into everything he did.

The lips that brush over your bare shoulder smile.

How could they not, when for the first time in ages, he is to live under the same roof with another who shares his surname?

There’d be no more waking to a silent home or hastily consumed breakfasts at a table with empty chairs. There’d be you, and you are warm; you are the light that keeps the darkness that breaths down his neck at bay. To him, your value is infinite. No quantification could come close to defining it.

Bruno’s fingers dance up and down your side.

Your body is a storybook that he couldn’t read enough of. He sees the blooms of color on your neck from where his mouth praised you, the lines on your hips from when you begged him to give you more. He’d never been one to deny you anything you wanted and it was no different then. Still, he hopes no aches will accompany you when you wake. He’d hate to see pain in those pretty eyes of yours even if it had been induced during the throes of passion.

Goosebumps follow the trail his fingers leave, but you still don’t stir, likely too worn from last night’s events. He took no issue with the wait. Pursuing you for as long as he did taught him patience and many other virtues alike — although his longing for you was too carnal to be attributed the description ‘pure’. Bruno wanted you at your best, your worst, and anything in between. For allowing him this privilege he’d make you the lone living being he showed the same. He didn’t have to be a Capo, or Napoli’s sweetheart.

He could finally just be the fisherman’s son who fell in love with the sea.

[creatoriginsane]

CoachCaptain!Oliver + FormerAthelete!OC anyone?

I've been thinking about how Oliver is ranked #1 at "Who is most likely to succeed as a coach?" here, and I wanted to try writing something about it!

(and I'm going to borrow one of my OCs from my TokyoRev series because I want a certain kind of "so bad it's life-threatening" dynamic, yeah.)

consider this my NaNoWriMo 2024 project (that will of course not be completed within the month), because it's already got an outline (below the cut) and it will be posted here. of course, since this is just an outline, it's not the full summary, lol.

so if you've got thoughts, let me know! those aged-up AUs and HCs are gonna fuel me to write this to completion before I post it.

(please be warned the below summary/outline is for legal and mature audiences!)

i can tell it hits (hits, hits, hits)

(and she tells herself she's not gonna answer the call because she's got a nice dick in her mouth, but she answers it anyway) 

does it turn you on (when I turn you around)?

(and she's driving him, she's driving him and it's only right that he doesn't recognize her) 

(not tryna) be romantic

(and is it really car sex if they're gonna fuck in front of her car, not inside it or on top of it?) 

i'll hit it (from the back)

(and she doesn't wanna kiss him or touch him or even see his fucking face, but she likes this and knows this is fine, this is great, this is enough) 

don't get attached (yes, yes, yes)

(and she thinks about everything else, anything else, about the one she really wants, the one she really loves, and what she could've been if she wasn't the rabid bitch) 

(you bite my lip) just for the taste

(and she knows she has a type, she knows he's not her type, she knows she isn't his type either) 

take the heat (and with such grace)

(and she's playing a bet with herself when she asks him if she could charge her phone upstairs, win or lose, she's going to have him like a dog will have its chew toy) 

(you say we're done) but here you stay

(and she doesn't think about the next morning, or next mornings and afternoons or even late nights, because this is fine, this is enough, and she doesn't give a fuck) 

you said you're scared (i'll let you down)

(and she doesn't want to get to know him the way she thinks he wants to get to know her because neither of them should be tied down by the icky, icky strings of the couple experience, and yet here they are) 

just stick around (and you'll find out)

(and she's thinking about what to wear when he asks if he can come over because he ought to return the favor and mess up her place once in a while, or twice, or thrice, really give her someone to deal with)

do I stress you out? (can i help you out?)

(and she considers this convenient and not complicated because the boundaries are set and the limits are clear, but she considers this complex because she doesn't understand how can he stand being with her when he has everything and everyone else)

can we make a scene? (can you make it loud?)

(and she doesn't mean to scare him off, or maybe she does, she doesn't know because all she's ever wanted isn't in him, because he's incomplete and rough and jagged and as solid as a fucking wall she can't bat her way through and destroy and rebuild again) 

(i like) the way you kiss me

(and she can tell this isn't a game he wants to play because his field will never be her diamond, he kicks and she bats, he runs back and forth and she runs in a square, she was never the star and he was never the loser, and this is how everything works out in the end) 

i can tell you (miss me)

(and she tells herself it's because she's here in his hometown and it's fucking cold, and he's got flowers for her as a welcoming gift because it's almost her birthday, Christmas is a month away, Valentine's is three months away, that she breaks)

[lilac-critters-asks]

((NOTE: I am currently working on an improved version of the descriptions, so this may be subject to change))

"Maybe its too dangerous...I mean, do you KNOW what could happen?! That place hasn't been explored in forever! What of you get trapped, hurt, or even worse killed?!" .... "*sigh* I guess you're right. After all, what could POSSIBLY be in there besides like, trash and stuff. But be careful anyways, alright?" .... "Here, before you go, take this." *You obtained a walkie-talkie!* "If anything happens, call me. Ill be there in a flash." *you nod your head*

"Good luck" *You step in, and hear the heavy doors close behind you. You cant remember anything afterwards* *BAM*

*Your ears are ringing when you start to open your eyes again* ???: ".....and maybe its just fate that-" ???: "GUYS! They're waking up LOOK LOOK LOOK!!!" ???: "LEMME SEE!" ???: "Back off you 2 give them some space!"

*You begin to open your eyes to see the outline of 8 blurry things standing around you. When your vision focuses, you see that they remind you of...them. The Smiling Critters. But these ones are...different. You can identify a fox, some kind of dinosaur, a rabbit, a bird, an elephant, a unicorn, a pig, and a cat with a long tail standing in front of them all. A light shining above them blocks out your chance of seeing their colors, but they sure are SOME kind of other...side project done by them. Maybe answers will come soon.* ((Descriptions + Explanation + Rules under the cut))

HELLO EVERYONEEE! This is my SC au, the Lilac Critters! The whole like, plot of the AU are these are the SC from a CHAIN of the classic Daycare that chapters 1, 2, and 3 go on in. So they're a little different from the SC you know, but they serve the same purpose and origin. I've had this on my mind for what feels like FOREVER SOOO here it is! I'll write down more detailed paragraphs on how they look/act like, when im feeling it u know. Alright now RULES:

-No NSFW. I am a MINOR.

-Don't try to force the roleplay or be like, overly controlling. If you have any questions, just ask me

-Swearing is alright, just don't like...call each other slurs. If anyone is bullying anyone else, I will block the offender immediately.

-Don't spam me consistently. I have a life outside of this blog, so it'll get annoying REAL fast.

-Have fun!

Also shout-out to @thewaxingcrescentsjournal for a collab we are doing. Here is the link to the first part:

A rift in space.

Jackie Journeyer🏴‍☠️ Necklace: Pirate ship Sent: Ocean Pronouns: he/him

A pirate for the ages! With his eyepatch and hook hand, he's sure to give you the adventure of your life! This red fox has all the wit and courage that a pirate should have, plus some extra kindness in his heart. But also just like a pirate, he has the tendency to be greedy and not really care about others opinions sometimes. Although when the Daycare shut down, he's been known to have more cowardly tactics, but is still willing to sail the 7 sea's might!

Sammy Shovel!🕳️ Necklace: Shovel Sent: Orange Pronouns: He/they

Never seen a fossil before? This orange triceratops will show you all the ones you'll ever need to see! Sammy, or Sam more commonly, loves to dig, dig, and dig! He'll spend a whole day just digging holes and have NO regrets! After his home got shut down, he's been more prone to aggressiveness when his feelings get out of hand. But on the plus side, he's ALSO gotten the chance to express his true feelings for a certain someone he's had his eye on for a long time...

Sunny Sunray!☀️ Necklace: Sun w/darker yellow rays Sent: Fruity Mix Pronouns: She/her

Need a hug? Maybe a smile or a game of jump rope? Well, this yellow bunny will give you back ten fold of what you asked for! Hyper and positive all the time, she's sure to put some happiness into your day! Weather it be games, races, talking, or just company, everything she does seems to be pulsing with energy! Even when the Daycare shut down, she still remained as bouncy and happy as she did all those years ago! Well...on the surface that is.

Gloria Grace🌹 Necklace: Rose Sent: Rose Petals Pronouns: She/her

The calmest soul you'll ever meet, the green bird is here to help melt your worries away! With a green thumb and a mater in gardening, she can make any plant grow in a matter of seconds with her skill. She's very calm and collected, and is bound to sooth your mind if you need it. After the Daycare shut down, however, Gloria's been more stale and cold sometimes. But maybe its just a coincidence. Maybe.

Eleanore Elements🧪 Necklace: Beaker w/fluid Sent: Chocolate Pronouns: He/they

Smart and stern, Eleanore the cyan elephant is surely the intellectual of the group. He's got thick, round, practically unbreakable glasses on his face and a lab coat that ends in a square cut. He's got a strong moral compass, but the kindness to match. He cares exponentially about his friends, and will probably do close to everything to save them, especially Sam. But during his hard times, he often hides in the echoing halls of his lab. Almost like he's hiding from something.

Susie Stealth💉 Necklace: Mirrored Crescent Sent: Lavender Pronouns: She/they

Catnap's younger sister, she's very much like the purple cat her and her brother are. She's very sneaky and able to silently whisk through anywhere she pleases. It comes in handy when she's patrolling the halls at night when the kids were sleeping now, or smuggling a few extra treats from the top of the fridge when she was young. But Daycare closed or not, she's always been stern and very organized and no-nonsense. Well, she can make a few exceptions for Sunny. Ok maybe a bit more than a few...

Sewing Shashta🪡 Necklace: Embroidery Hoop Sent: Cool Mint Pronouns: They/them

The wild card of the group, Shashta has quite the reputation to be somewhat unpredictable and perfectionistic, but kind nonetheless. This white horse with a baby blue mane often spends her time sewing and making clothes, or embroidering patches for her friends. She still has her bad habits after the Daycare closed, and it might be getting worse, but if there's one person she'll always trust, its Parker for certain.

Piero (Parker) Peeri🍽️ Necklace: Dishware set Sent: Cotton Candy Pronouns: He/They/Hirs

Piero, or much more commonly Parker, is quite the chef and baker for any dish on the planet! Coming from his direct Italian ancestry and heritage, he can whip up almost anything if he has the tools to do so, and will always be willing to share with others no matter what! But when the Daycare shut down, the pinkish pig has been known to often go beyond the boundaries that Playtime. Co set for him. A lot. He's a people pleaser at heart, and always will be. You cant get rid of imperfections.