#june 2023 fanfiction

[hannahhook7744]

Love Is Patient, Love Is Kind;

Summary: Robin Buckley is not the 1st person to come out to Steve. Trigger warnings: Period typically homophobia, implied child abuse, secret keeping, and friends falling out.

This is a Tommy Hagan, Steve Harrington, and Robin Buckley friendship fic. Don't like, don't read.

Be kind in the comments.

🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

Ever since July 4th, 1984, Steve Harrington has been keeping a secret from his new BFF, Robin Buckley. 

One he planned to take to the grave. 

Because despite popular belief, Steve Harrington was not an idiot and knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Most of the time, anyway. 

And this was one of those times, because no one could ever know that Robin Buckley wasn't the first person to come out to him. Not even Robin herself. 

He wasn't keeping this secret because he didn't trust Robin. No, that wasn't it. That was never the reason. Would never be the reason he kept a secret from her because she was the first person in his life he had ever been able to fully trust since—

Since Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins. 

And that was the problem.

Steve Harrington trusted Robin Buckley more than anyone else in the world and would tell her nearly everything that wasn't necessary to lie about. 

Nearly everything.

Because there was one thing that he could never tell anyone—not even Robin herself—because he knew that outing people wasn't cool. Even if it was outing them to someone who was also different.  

It wasn't safe or fair to do so.

 It was a breach of trust. 

Something you couldn't undo or take back. 

Something that would darken your soul even if you weren't close to the person you were doing it to. 

Which was exactly why Steve Harrington at 18 years old would never tell Robin Buckley that she wasn't the first person to ever come out to him.

Why he would never tell her that a drunken Tommy Hagan was. 

Because that would be betraying the promise he had made so many years ago to 13 year old Tommy Hagan. 

13 year old Tommy Hagan who had not yet hurt anyone and trusted him more than anyone else in the whole wide world. Who trusted him enough to tell him that he liked boys and girls, with tears in his eyes, when he didn't even trust his parents enough to do that. 

13 year old Tommy Hagan, who a 12 year old Steve Harrington had promised to take the secret to the grave if that was what Tommy wanted. Who Steve had promised to support in anyway the older boy wanted. 

Which turned out to be never speaking of the moment again, even to him. 

Never acknowledging the words that had been said and the promises that had been made. 

Ignoring the longing glances that Tommy only threw at him, Carol, and guys he had, had crushes on over the years. 

Steve understood Tommy's reasoning for pretending like that part of him didn't exist,  even if he didn't like it or what Tommy did to cover it up. 

Because he knew what the world was like. 

How his parents would react if Steve even thought about looking at another boy in that way. 

The world wasn't ready for the likes of Tommy Hagan and Robin Buckley. 

Even if that wasn't fair.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

What vibe do I give off?

[one-time-i-dreamt]

Instead of reading my story to my creative writing class, I accidentally read them a Buffy the Vampire Slayer slash fic instead.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

YOTP - June

It's around @russingon-week after all, I think...

Have some Russingon for your nerves :)

Now with art by @chechula!!! Go give them a follow!

Pairing: Maedhros x Fingon

Prompts: Wedding/Proposal, Saving the world, (accidental) love confession, “You aren’t what I expected”, Downpour, Soulmate AU

Words: 2 510

Warnings: Injury, prophetic dreams, gender confusion, soulmate AU, blood and rain

Nelyafinwë flexed his right hand absent-mindedly—he’d had another highly confusing dream in which a hand that seemed to be his own was pointing wildly at a blurry landscape in the distance.

Even now, hours after waking, he could not shake the gnawing sensation that he knew the outline of the faraway city, nestled at the foot of a mighty mountain, but, no matter how fiercely he frowned, the liberating recognition escaped him stubbornly.

“There you are,” his father exclaimed impatiently upon finding him ambulating under a quiet colonnade. “Your tutor is awaiting you!”

Nelyafinwë looked up, tempted momentarily to ask Fëanáro about the city in his dreams, but he didn’t dare.

Ever since his childhood, his family had owned and inhabited this vast estate. Nelyafinwë had, nevertheless, always been aware that they’d removed themselves from an entirely different, unknown society for reasons his parents adamantly refused to discuss.

He couldn’t shake the sensation that this imposed exile was somehow linked to him, and so he’d done his best to honour his family’s sacrifice by fulfilling his father’s every ambitious project and exaggerated expectation.

He was, Nelyafinwë thought as he ducked into the library, after all the oldest son, and he owed it to his brothers to be the best role model he could possibly be.

With the fanfare of hasty steps and rustling paper started this most fateful of days, looking much like countless ones before, which would end in the inevitable victory of fate over willpower.

In the afternoon, as he took another wistful stroll, Nelyafinwë passed by his father’s study and was struck by the high-pitched trill in his mother’s anxious voice.

His steps faltered for it was not in Nerdanel’s stolid nature to sound so distressed and breathless, not even in the presence of her formidable husband.

“He’s almost reached the age—” she whispered urgently. “Soon…”

“I care nought about the fate of the world,” Fëanáro thundered. “We’ve gone away so far that none even remember him—surely, whatever destiny that hooded, skeletal soothsayer has foretold for my son, shall not come to pass.”

“You have seven sons,” Nerdanel bellowed. “And if the Kingdom, your Kingdom, falls—what is to become of them? I’m afeared, ‘Náro. Can we truly outrun fate once it has been spoken into the world?”

Nelyafinwë did not hear what answer, if any, his esteemed father made to that passionate exclamation, for he was already racing headlong across the atrium towards the gate, desperate to escape the familial country home and lose himself amongst the old groves surrounding their estate.

All his darkest, most torturous suspicions had been confirmed, and he tended to agree with his mother—nobody, not even his father, could circumvent destiny.

The olive trees loomed dark and fertile on a nearby hill, and he plunged into the blessed shadow as fast as his long, toned legs would carry him.

Nobody should witness him as he came to terms with the terrible doom hanging over his helpless head—even a wretched fool had his pride.

Soon, though, he resented himself for his irrational, puerile reaction. He hadn’t even ascertained the nature of the prophecy that had so distressed his parents, and he knew only too well that being aware of the impending danger was ever preferable if one sought to ward it off.

Nevertheless, he was certain that nothing less than unbearable, unacceptable misery could have made his proud father leave his hitherto unmentioned family to hide away in the countryside.

His head was spinning with the devastating answers to old questions and new contradictions; surely, Fëanáro could not be part of the Royal House, could he?

This absurd revelation conjured up a new avalanche of guilt and despair in the young man; if his mother had spoken true, his father would have deserted his duty and deprived the whole family of a luxurious life for the sake of his oldest son alone.

At once, Nelyafinwë understood the deeper meaning of Nerdanel’s harsh words, and his eyes filled with tears of self-loathing and impuissant rage.

“Cry not, little princeling.”

Nelyafinwë looked up sharply upon hearing the ingratiating tone and the mellow voice coming from deep within the shade of the ancient trees.

“Who goes there?” he called, getting back to his feet to meet any intruder or foe head-on.

“I mean you no harm,” the voice resounded once more, followed by the discreet rustling of leaves and crunching of dry earth underfoot.

A moment later, a tall, beautiful stranger appeared, his mouth curled into a friendly smile—Nelyafinwë shivered in vague prescience.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact matter of contention, but something about that man struck him as odd and eerily uncanny.

“Did you have a falling out with your parents?”

Slowly backing away, Nelyafinwë stared at the long-fingered, broad hand extended towards him as one hypnotised by a snake about to strike.

“You cannot outrun them—you cannot outrun me!” Springing forth suddenly, the stranger grabbed the prince’s shoulders and shook him lightly.

Darkness—asphyxiating and absolute—descended upon Nelyafinwë’s senses, and he fell, insensate, into the waiting embrace of his terrifyingly charming captor.

Visions of his severed hand���pointing now to the sky, now to the dark abyss below his dangling feet—haunted his restless unconsciousness, and he struggled through bone-breaking agony back to the cold, glassy surface of the waking world.

As soon as he opened his eyes, Nelyafinwë understood that, as per usual, his mother had been right—there had never been the slightest chance of escaping his fate.

Thus, he was much less horrified than he should have been when he realised that he was chained to the sheer flank of a small mountain by his treacherous hand.

Somewhere overhead, he thought he could hear someone laughing wildly—Nelyafinwë was far too tired and proud to rile against predestination.

He hung his head and waited.

Findekáno awoke bright and early.

“The time has nearly come,” his mother said mournfully as she slowly poured fresh water from an earthen carafe into his goblet.

“I shall be ready!” he assured her confidently. His bright eyes were drawn to a ridge of faraway hills which separated the city from the remote wilds of the countryside. “I feel the need to travel, alone, to gather my spirits and strengthen my flesh.”

Anairë’s gaze grew soft, and she bent over her beloved firstborn to breathe a devoted kiss onto the crown of braided hair tenderly. “So it shall be then,” she whispered, smiling wistfully.

When she’d been heavy with child, a soothsayer had been brought to her, foretelling great feats of valour and puissance for her yet unborn child, and Anairë had never deemed it necessary to subsequently hide that momentous prophecy from her joyous, optimistic son.

“He shall save the kingdom by his fortitude, and true love shall be granted to him as a boon.”

Even now, as she took a sip of her honeyed wine, she could hear the scratchy, unfathomable voice of the hooded stranger echoing through her weary mind.

Often, she had wondered whether she should have spared Findekáno the terrible knowledge of a vague trial awaiting him, especially upon seeing how single-mindedly and grimly he trained to be prepared for every gruesome eventuality.

“It’s almost time—I can sense it. My dreams have been increasingly troubling as of late,” he confessed under his breath.

“The red-haired maiden with the silver eyes again?” Anairë asked understandingly, yearning to lay her cool hand on the feverish brow of her child as she’d once done through seemingly endless nights of debilitating fear. He’d since grown so strong that she doubted he’d ever need her support and comfort again—the thought pained her, but her gentle smile never wavered.

“I cannot see her clearly,” Findekáno mumbled. “She’s always somewhere very high up, blurred by clouds and mist, and yet I know her.”

He stood abruptly. “Please tell father that I wish him well and kiss my siblings in my stead. I shall return soon. I must go at once!”

“May you be victorious, my darling son,” Anairë sighed as she watched him go. Since the day he’d left the protection of her body, she’d not felt so scared on his behalf, so she lifted her head and squared her shoulders resolutely.

She would not quail in the face of destiny—she’d prepare for her son’s triumphant return.

Findekáno set out without delay, a light pack slung across his back, and made for the distant horizon resolutely.

His mind was still entranced with the blurry vision of a person he’d never met and yet had known all his life—he could not recall when the long-limbed, red-haired stranger had first slipped into his most intimate and intense dreams, but he could not consciously remember her ever not having been part of his hopes and fears either.

Maybe, she’d always been there. Maybe, she was a part of himself. Either way, he was determined to find her, and—if possible—fulfil his mother’s tender hopes by courting her.

By the time he re-emerged from his distracted musings about things that belonged to the realm of potential and phantasms instead of careful planning and saving wisdom, Findekáno had left the city far behind him and was clambering over rocks and down virgin gorges.

Still, his heart did not despond, and so he pressed on indefatigably until he reached a bare, forbidding cliff, its jagged outcrops drawing menacing shadows onto the mossy forest floor.

As he turned his gaze upwards in search of he knew not what, Findekáno saw dark clouds gather ominously, and—a mere moment later—heavy rain started falling like passionate, angry tears from the marred sky.

Through the sudden downpour, he could make out a flash of red, glimmering like a defiant torch behind the curtain of shivering grey.

Momentarily, he considered his trusty bow, but he could not trust his aim in the present meteorological conditions, and he didn’t know how feeble his fated lover would be from her ordeal.

“You always knew that it wouldn’t be that easy,” he chided himself, casting off his pack and weapons and clawing his bare fingers into the slippery face of the wet rock.

The ascent was as perilous as it was arduous, but long years of devoted preparation and stubborn training had made Findekáno far stronger and more resilient than any random, benighted wanderer who might have chanced upon so strange and shocking a sight.

At last, he reached a narrow ledge on which he could stand and rest.

Tilting his face upward, he let his eyes travel along dirty, bare feet and long, shapely calves in captivated speechlessness.

This wretched captive, he knew instinctively, was the person of whom he’d been dreaming his whole life…only, those alluring calves melted into bony knees and seemingly endless thighs.

Impatient by nature, he let his gaze move across narrow hips and a taut, pale stomach hastily until it came to rest, astonished and aghast, on a well-defined but unmistakably flat chest.

Findekáno’s stomach somersaulted and his bleeding, aching fingers went numb; he’d found the love of his life, the person who’d right all the countless wrongs of their realm, the very embodiment of his own elusive fate at long last.

His impervious, bold heart stuttered in his heaving chest. Who was he to question fate? Destiny made no mistakes, and he’d risked too much and come too far to turn back now without at least trying to meet this last exquisite challenge head-on.

“You’re not what I expected,” he blurted out.

“I’m ever so sorry if my impersonation of a deviously beguiled and betrayed abductee is not to your liking,” the other rasped, grey eyes flashing in tandem with the churning sky behind him.

“No, I am sorry,” Findekáno replied courteously. “I…surmised that you’d be a woman, but no matter. I’ve been waiting, hoping, wishing for you. My name is Findekáno.”

“I’d shake your hand, but…” the literal hanger-on smiled sharply. “My name is Nelyafinwë. I’ve learned…was it today? Yesterday? A month ago? I know not…that I was a prince. Before I could fulfil my glorious purpose, though, I found myself…between a rock and a hard place, if you will forgive my grim sense of humour.”

Findekáno nodded feelingly; he’d not brought any crafting tools, and even if he was to climb down again to fetch his bow and his dwindling food supplies, he wasn’t confident that he’d then be better equipped to free what was, in all likelihood, his soulmate.

Already, he felt the eerie but irresistible pull of a power far beyond his understanding or control ensnare every fibre of his being.

Instinctively, he understood that the time of struggle and fight was at an end—he wholeheartedly yielded to the warm chains of a nascent bond taking hold of him and rooting him to the bare rock underfoot.

“Have you come to a conclusion?” he then asked cautiously, ready and willing to follow his fated lover’s wishes and commands.

“The hand has to go,” Nelyafinwë replied dryly. “Unfortunately, I seem to be unable to pull myself up for long enough to gnaw it off.”

Horrified, Findekáno patted his belt. “I have a knife if that is of any use to you?”

Like all people who spent their lives waiting for one very specific event to happen, he was thoroughly overwhelmed and discombobulated by the sheer speed and chaotic violence with which that monumental incident tore through his existence like an avalanche.

Unafraid even in the face of certain devastation, Findekáno straightened in a touching imitation of his mother’s steadfast stance of devoted resolution.

“Hand it over!” Nelyafinwë groaned, stretching out a blood-stained, long-fingered hand.

“Will you marry me?” Findekáno asked, holding the lethal blade out of reach.

He knew not why these words had burst from his lips so uncouthly—he’d always envisioned a long courtship full of peaceful walks and tense repasts in flowering meadows—but he couldn’t deny that it felt right.

Surely, Nelyafinwë also sensed their uncanny link. Didn’t he?

Imprudent and nonsensical as his paroxysm of desperate affection was, he stood firm under the bemused scrutiny of those gorgeous, stormy eyes.

“Is that a proposal? Once I’m out of here, I’ll literally give you my hand in marriage,” Nelyafinwë chuckled darkly.

“Don’t you have to consult your parents?”

“You have no idea how much they’ve hidden from me,” the other commented with an exasperated sigh. “Serves them well. I can’t shake the feeling that this, gruesome as it is, was meant to happen. So, may I have your knife as a token of your suit?”

Surrendering the weapon wordlessly, Findekáno felt his heart soar—he slung his strong arms around the cool, slick legs of his fiancé to steady him and keep him from plummeting to his death as soon as he’d escaped his bonds.

It was wrong, he knew, but—standing on the edge of disaster while blood and rain plastered his tunic to his heaving chest—he was perfectly happy.

Thank you for reading!

-> Masterlist

[cluelesspigeons]

This is written for the prompt “slide” from @drarrymicrofic

Word count: 63

Drarry microfic: smooth sliding

Prompt from June 13th

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[dewitty1]

Fic Recs Wrap Up - June 2023(ノﾟ∀ﾟ)ノ⌒･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*☆

A day in your life by shushu_yaoi_lj @orange-peony

Harry sees it straight away, the white trail of the comet so bright despite the lights of all the buildings surrounding him. He feels a lump in his throat as he stops and stares at the moonless sky. Is he supposed to make a wish or a prayer? He checks that no one is looking his way and then he takes his wand and points it at the bright comet in the sky. He wishes to feel whole again. To feel happy and not so bloody lonely all the time. He wishes for a new life. Rec Post

Then Comes a Mist and a Weeping Rain by Faith Wood (faithwood)

It always rains for Draco Malfoy. Metaphorically. And literally. Ever since he had accidentally Conjured a cloud. A cloud that’s ever so cross. Rec Post

Most Arrogant and Loving of Men by Lomonaaeren

Harry knows very well that he’s showing the mask of the Savior to everyone around him—his friends, his lovers, his enemies—but he doesn’t know how to stop. The part of him that wants things to be different is selfish and greedy. He doesn’t see any way to express it and not have his life explode…until Draco Malfoy, of all people, realizes it’s there. Rec Post

the complete idiot’s guide to losing your entire mind by oknowkiss @oknowkiss

A primer, by Harry James Potter, age 34. Qualifications: lived experience. OR: Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Being Resources representative, accidentally invents No Nut November. Rec Post

Where I see things right by InnerLilith

When Harry finds himself unexpectedly pregnant after a one-off with Draco Malfoy, he knows he isn’t keeping it. But when actually getting the abortion turns out to be more complicated than Harry expected, he finds himself turning to Malfoy for help through the process. And that’s actually much less complicated than Harry expected. Rec Post

When Trust and Truth Collide by silvergalaxy

Harry meets Draco for the first time in the employee break room on a boring Wednesday morning and they immediately hit it off. Chance encounters turn into dates, and dates turn into feelings. Oh, yeah. Draco’s also Harry’s boss. Harry has no idea. Rec Post

Debts and Desire by Craftybadger1234

Harry thinks they are dating. Draco thinks he’s serving a life debt. Hilarity ensues. Rec Post

Sweet is the fortune you give me by toutcequonveut  @cequonveut

Draco has worked hard to overcome his post-war struggles and is now the successful and proud owner of his own chain of Potions shops. Who cares if he’s lonely? Certainly not him! Then one day he comes across Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, do-gooder to outshine all gooders and hero of the people—on the street without a Knut to his name. What else can Draco do but take him in? Rec Post

Here are a few more fics I've read recently that y'all might like to check out as well! (ﾉ^ヮ^)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

Fool Me Twice by iota @sorrybutblog

The case seemed simple: follow the corruption, bring down the source. Draco just didn’t anticipate Harry Potter crashing in, taking a break from red carpets and nudey-rudey photoshoots to make a giant mess.

Or: Draco is an Unspeakable. Potter is an (unfairly attractive) thorn in his side. Featuring: spies, action, disguises, forced proximity, pining and more!

Inertia by cavendishbutterfly @cavendishbutterfly

It’s three months after the war. Harry has already mucked up all his plans. Draco is no longer the prince of Slytherin house. And they sure as hell didn’t both mean to go back to Hogwarts at the same time. Cue snarking, long conversations…and unexpected snogging.

This is the story of how Harry and Draco put their past aside. And then it's the story of how they finally learn to listen to it.

Eager for the Sky by oknowkiss @oknowkiss

It was announced, just as the Triwizard Tournament had been, at the start of term feast.

A year-long, international Quidditch varsity match — the inaugural Wizarding Academy Cup.

In which Harry is Hogwarts' star Seeker, Draco is on the bench, and they both have a thing or two to learn about playing for the same team.

Once Upon a (Wet) Dream by InnerLilith

Once a year, Harry has a very strange dream. Meanwhile, in real life, he’s falling for Draco Malfoy.

The Faeries, the Prince, and the Cupboard by makeitp1nk @makeitp1nk

In 1967, Roy Disney made a deal with a rare species of fae to build his brother Walt’s dream on their land. Forty-seven years later, that deal will change the lives of two wizarding families forever.

A story about stories, family, dreams, and love.

The Wonder of You by Ladderofyears @ladderofyears

A Family Man AU. In the year 2000, Harry left Draco behind in London, intent on America and Quidditch fame and never looked back. Thirteen years later, Harry gets the opportunity to see what his life could have been like, had his life unravelled in a different way. Nothing in Harry’s world is the same, but Harry soon comes to realise that fatherhood, marriage and the biggest, laziest Crup in Hogsmeade add to up a life he enjoys more than he could ever have imagined.

( •ॢ◡-ॢ)-♡ I hope you enjoy these fics as much as I have! Happy reading, y’all! xoxo Carey  (◍•ᴗ•◍)♡ ✧*💜💙💚💛❤💗💕💖

[anthrofreshtodeath]

25 if you’re still taking prompts! Thanks :)

Sure! 25 is "finding comfort in their scent" - here we go!

___

Jane smells gunpowder in the cab of her unmarked when she turns off the ignition. It’s peppery on her tongue and it pricks her nostrils long after her gun had been fired. She’s lucky enough to have found a parking spot just a few feet from Maura’s home, especially because it’s late, after midnight. 

It’s late, and she’s just had to kill the main suspect in her double homicide. He had ambushed her and Frost at the warehouse where the bodies had been dumped, led them there in the dark, and caught Jane’s eye as he turned the corner towards them. She got her shot off just before he aimed to put his slug in Frost’s chest, and that’s how it usually worked - people often wanted to take her partners, the men, out first, because they saw Jane as the lesser threat. She, nine times out of ten, killed those people, and that happened tonight. She hit him, center mass, and he crumpled to the wet, sticky, filthy ground. Which was a damn shame: she wanted the families of his two victims to watch him stand trial for his crimes; that was the outcome she always hoped for. 

She smacks her lips because the scent lingers and to her it tastes like failure. 

She’s done enough wallowing in here, however, where the late fall chill starts to settle in and  it tightens up her hands - she can at least go into the house where it’s warm and where Maura waits for her. So, she heaves herself out of the car, engages the lock, and trots up through Maura’s courtyard to the front door. Jane fishes in her pockets for her keys with one pronounced sniff against the cold, and then she pushes her way into the entry. 

It’s almost completely dark, save for the light over Maura’s sink. Maura hates to leave lights on at night, so Jane knows it’s been done just for her. Christ.

Jane’s chest cracks open, flowering her insides with gratitude, and she pulls at the crotch of her slacks because she’s a little wet. Maura’s kindness always inspires these twin reactions. And Jane knows that if she goes up the stairs, even takes them two at a time, Maura will be there. It would take seconds. But even that is too long, so Jane turns to the coat rack just to her left, the one with Maura’s fall coat hanging ready for tomorrow, and she leans into it. She teeters like she might fall, but her feet catch her and she is face-first in the soft back of it. 

Her brain erupts into a burst of southern Italian citrus - she sees oranges and their blossoms, the fat lemons she and her brothers would cut and bite into when her mother returned from a trip to the island to visit family. Maura had smelled like this when they met, and Jane counts it as fate.

She had smelled like home from day one.

The thought, tangled up in the images of the man she killed falling to the ground, screws Jane’s eyes shut. She tries not to cry, and she succeeds when she inhales a big, ballooning lungful. That it had taken Jane so long to love Maura the way she deserved after that initial meeting is a travesty, one she spends each day attempting to rectify. 

All of the sudden, like a lightning bolt down her spine, the coat is not enough. Jane needs Maura now. But, she’s still got some self-preservation instincts, some pride, so she kicks off her boots near the bench towards the front of the hall. She pulls her empty holster and her badge, keeping them in her hands when she marches up the stairs toward the main bedroom.

She knows the way in the dark. 

She takes her things, opens the nightstand drawer on her side of the bed, and shoves them in. Then, she can get a good look at Maura as her eyes focus around the dim streetlight out the bedroom window. Maura sleeps soundly, and sleeps naked - always naked - her eyelids fluttering when Jane stands to her full height. They open when Jane’s left hand goes to her belt buckle. Her right stays down by her side while she uses deft fingers to yank the strap first from the belt loop, then from the prong, and finally through the frame, perhaps simply to prove to herself that her left hand is good for more than killing.

Maura writhes under the covers as she wakes, takes a big nasal breath in, and tugs the covers closer to her nude chest. Her blonde hair covers the pillow beneath her like a wreath, and Jane wants to bury her face in it. “Rough night?” Maura, voice usually so velvety and clear, croaks with sleep. She stares pointedly at Jane’s undone belt, and then her gaze climbs to Jane’s face.

Jane follows it, inch by inch, until they meet. Brown on green. Sleepy on sleepy. “Yeah,” she replies, and then she groans when Maura pulls the covers up to reveal both her body and the warm, inviting space next to it. Maura smirks when Jane pulls off the rest of her clothes - this time with both hands - and gets into bed on her hands and knees. Jane ignores the smirk for the paradise of pulling Maura close. Every inch of her skin finds an inch of Maura’s, who luxuriates in a stretch when Jane inhales deeply at the crook of Maura’s neck - that same ancient citrus smell from downstairs, but intensified by Maura herself. By the taste of Maura’s throat when Jane presses her lips there three times: loud, clumsy smooches that break up the sound of even the white noise machine. 

No pepper, no bang, no flash.

“Hmm,” Maura considers Jane’s answer, and Jane briefly wonders if she should have elaborated. “Come get some love then,” Maura says, banishing those thoughts immediately. She rolls onto her back, pulling Jane who is helpless to follow on top, wrapping all of her limbs around Jane. “Good love,” Maura accentuates.

Jane just nods, and accepts Maura’s leading hand on her own. Their snaked fingers find their way between Maura’s legs, and Maura is already wet. Jane is too tired, too elated to ask why. She just kisses. Maura’s lips specifically, kisses them sloppy and sweet as she melts into the body below hers. Her shoulders drop; Maura holds them. Her hips settle; Maura’s leg tightens around them. Jane envisions the pulpy flesh of an orange as her fingers find rhythm. “Is it good for me or for you?” she finally teases, the words mushy because of their entwined lips and tongues.

It’s a wonder that Maura understands her, but she does. “For the both of us, I hope.”

That’s the right answer, and Jane celebrates by flattening her nose against Maura’s chest, breathing in the scent of home. It is so, so good.

[words-on-pages]

I just looked at the dates on my AO3 bookmarks and noticed that I get antsy and start looking for a new ship every 2ish years.

[klaineccfanficlibrary]

It’s A Rich Man’s World

Author:  thatgleekychick

Rating:  T

Status:  Completed in January 2014

Word Count:  48,379

Summary:  What happens when you have everything to gain and even more to lose? When Kurt Hummel, a waiter with dreams of Broadway, meets Blaine Anderson, a NYC stockbroker on his way to the top, the attraction is instant. But they come from two seemingly different worlds. Through each other they learn that there is more than one way to be wealthy, and not all of them involve money.

Tropes/Genre:  Stockbroker!Blaine, wealthy!Blaine, NYC!Klaine, romance, waiter!Kurt, Santana Lopez

Lynne’s review:  I really enjoyed this story. They had a complicated relationship to navigate, but love and trust wins out. Santana is fantastic in this story!

Read at:  AO3

[zutaralover94]

Kinktober 2023 VOTING

We’ve made it! 2023 Zutara Kinktober! Thank you for voting! You can pick up to 10 boxes. If you have any questions or want to suggest something not here let me know.  Remember when voting just because you don’t see the kink may mean that it will already be used.

VOTE HERE

[demiclar]

Sever

Crow cuts himself while Glint is away, and Saint and Osiris take care of him.

(Sever - Ao3)

I've been missing Crow lately, so here's this! Enjoy!

------

When Saint stepped through the door into his and Osiris’s apartment, he was met by the sound of vicious cursing. He recognized Crow’s voice immediately, pinched and pained, and he hurried further into the apartment. 

Crow was a frequent visitor in the apartment, enough so that the guest bedroom had shifted from being the guest bedroom to Crow’s bedroom, a home away from home for the Hunter when he needed a little companionship away from his lonely apartment. Saint had already begun to furnish it more specifically to the Hunter. On the wall hung a painting of a crow in flight, a rare prize he stumbled upon when admiring the works of a street vendor in the city. The bed was adorned with a green blanket that matched the sweater Saint bought him during the last Dawning. The drawers in the dresser held Crow’s clothes—Saint snuck a few new items into the drawers every so often, but most of them Crow had brought over himself—and in the corner above the bed, Osiris mounted a shelf for Glint, complete with a puffy, Ghost sized pillow for him to rest on.

“Easy.” Saint recognized Osiris’ voice, gentle and coaxing. “It’s alright, let me see.”

“Shit.” Crow hissed, and Saint followed the sound of his voice further into the apartment. “I’m so sorry, Osiris. I didn’t mean–”

“It’s alright.” Osiris told him again, “let’s go somewhere with better light. Come with me.”

Saint paused in the hallway, just in time to watch Crow and Osiris emerge from Osiris’ study. Osiris led the Hunter by his wrist, holding a white cloth around his hand, rapidly turning red. They both froze at the sight of him, and Crow lifted his uninjured hand in a weak attempt at a wave.

“Hi, Saint.” He offered Saint a smile, only for his face to immediately contort in pain as he drew his injured hand back towards himself. He let out a hiss through his teeth, his eyes screwing shut tight.

“Perhaps we should focus?” Osiris suggested, though he gave Saint a nod in greeting. “Saint, if you could grab him a chair–”

“Certainly.” Saint interrupted, hurrying past them to the kitchen table. He grabbed a chair while Osiris led Crow further into the kitchen and flipped on all the lights. “What happened?” He set the chair down in the center of the space, taking Crow’s shoulders and guiding him back to it.

“We were working on a prototype. Something that might be able to give Nimbus more warning for Vex incursions on Neomuna.” Crow explained, dropping down into the chair. Saint stood behind the chair and held onto his shoulders as Osiris washed his hands at the sink, then knelt in front of him. He took Crow’s hand in his own, carefully drawing back the cloth to look at the injury. “Osiris was working on the software and I was doing the hardware and I slipped while I was holding a sharp piece of metal.”

After a lull in his scouting duties, Crow had accompanied Osiris to Neptune on one of his trips back a few weeks ago. The result had been Crow and Nimbus becoming fast friends, the Hunter beginning to learn Strand, and Crow jumping headfirst into helping organize Guardian scouting efforts on Neptune.

Saint watched Osiris frown down at the cut on Crow’s hand, a gash across the width of his palm. He inspected it carefully, gently pushing on one side of the gash to see the extent of the damage. Saint felt Crow’s shoulders tense under his hands as Crow’s body went rigid, a quiet noise of pain escaping him.

“Where is Glint?” He squeezed Crow’s shoulders, rubbing his thumbs into the tension in the hopes of relaxing the Hunter at least minutely. After a moment, Crow leaned back into his hands, puffing out a breath as he tried to relax his body. 

“He’s on Titan, with the Guardian. I was planning on spending all day in the city and he wanted to go see what the dives were like so we both figured it would be fine if he went.” Crow’s features shifted into a frown, his voice softening. “He seemed really excited. I don’t want to have to call him back just for this.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Osiris told him. He retrieved the white cloth, covering Crow’s wound again and taking Crow’s free hand to place it over the cloth. “Hold that there, I’ll be right back.” 

He rose, disappearing into his and Saint’s bedroom. Crow pushed the cloth down onto his hand and let out a heavy breath, dropping his head to lean against the back of the chair. He smiled weakly up at Saint.

“How were the Trials?” He asked, Saint having just returned from the Tower after a day of overseeing matches.

“Excellent as usual.” Saint told him, though he eyed Crow’s hand from where he stood behind Crow's chair. “The Guardians continue to show great promise.” He slid his hands down Crow’s shoulders slightly, wringing a little more tension from them. “I am sorry you are in pain.”

Crow shook his head weakly. “It’s nothing, really.” 

Saint eyed the cloth Crow was pressing into his hand, splotched red with blood. “It does not look like nothing.”

“It’s my fault, anyways. I should have been more careful.” Saint watched Crow’s head drop, studying the wound on his hand as he hunched slightly. 

“Accidents happen, Crow. It is alright.” Saint reminded him, wrapping an arm around Crow’s chest. He pulled the Hunter into a loose hug, Crow’s uninjured hand coming up to hold Saint’s arm. He pressed his head into Crow’s shoulder and Crow leaned his head against Saint’s, holding tight to his arm. Saint held him for a long minute, looking up when Osiris’ footsteps sounded, coming back from the hallway. He pressed a kiss to Crow’s temple as the Hunter let go of his arm, Saint’s hands returning to Crow’s shoulders as Osiris set a first aid kit beside Crow’s chair. 

“Thankfully, the cut isn't too deep. I believe we can make do until Glint returns.” Osiris told them, taking Crow’s hand once more. “We should wash out the wound first. Come with me to the sink.” He helped Crow rise from the chair and Saint stayed back as Osiris led him over to the sink. “This might sting.” He warned.

Saint watched Osiris wash Crow’s hands in his own, cleaning the wound carefully with soap and cool water. Crow winced, breathing deep while his body tensed from the pain. Saint handed Osiris a few paper towels when he’d shut the water off, toweling off his own hands and patting Crow’s wound dry before he shepherded him back to the chair. 

“Saint, would you mind helping me with this?” Osiris asked, drawing a set of adhesive strips from the first aid kit. Saint hurried to wash his hands and joined his partner beside Crow’s chair.

Osiris instructed Saint to pinch Crow’s wound closed, and carefully, he laid the strips over the cut, holding it together in a butterfly stitch. He laid a piece of gauze over the stitches, then wrapped Crow’s palm in a length of bandage. 

“How does that feel?” He asked, meeting Crow’s eyes.

“Good.” Crow told him, giving Osiris a small nod. “Thank you.”

Osiris smiled, and set to cleaning up the scraps of the bandages.

“I’m sorry for causing trouble,” Crow murmured, rising from the chair. “I hope I didn’t get blood on the prototype.”

Osiris just rolled his eyes, depositing the scraps in the trash and returning to Crow. He pulled him into an abrupt hug.

“Stop apologizing.” The former Warlock told him, his voice colored with fondness. Saint felt himself smile softly when Crow blushed, but leaned into Osiris’ hold.

“Sorry.” Crow murmured on reflex, if the darkening blush on his cheeks was any indication.

“Crow.” Osiris chided. Saint wrapped his arms around the pair, shushing Crow before he could voice another apology. Crow leaned his head into Saint’s shoulder as Osiris leaned up, pressing a kiss to Saint’s jaw. Saint pressed a kiss to the top of Crow’s head, then Osiris’s, and he felt the Hunter sigh into his embrace, his body finally relaxing.

“Thank you.” Crow breathed into the soft quiet between them.

If Saint and Osiris proceeded to spoil him for the rest of the night, Saint was sure the Hunter wouldn’t fault them for it. 

[ao3-saiki-updates]

Sand Filled Bottles

Sand Filled Bottles by Anonymous

Kusuo Saiki attends yet another one of Nendou's ramen hangouts. Unfortunately, Saiki finds himself in a bathroom with some unchecked mental health problems.

Words: 698, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: 斉木楠雄のΨ難 | Saiki Kusuo no Sai-nan | The Disastrous Life of Saiki K.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Saiki Kusuo

Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Purging, Vomiting, Panic Attacks, Mental Health Issues, Saiki Kusuo Needs a Hug, Dissociation, One Shot, kuboyasu & kaidou make one appearance

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48105505

[ship-ambrosia]

YOTP for June! Yes, I know I'm two days into July... lol

I have been craving to write a Theonsa wedding fic for a while now. I find the wedding ceremony of the Old Faith to just be so beautiful & I adore the presenting of the bride first, and the announcing of the titles, and the exchange of the groom's cloak.

There's not a lot about Ironborn weddings unfortunately, so I'm electing to make them nicer than they probably are.

[castleficpromoter]

END OF MONTH ROUND UP: June 2023

Complete spreadsheet (Excel) of all Castle fanfiction I’ve recommended and/or promoted to date, updated at the end of every month.

Link: CFPFicRecListJune2023.xls

If you catch any errors in the spreadsheet, feel free to message me here on tumblr or DM me on twitter or PM me on FFN.

[cluelesspigeons]

This is written for the song “Make It Sweet” by Old Dominion from @drarrymicrofic

Word count: 202

Drarry microfic: sweet lemonade

When Harry entered the kitchen, Draco’s head was buried into one of the cupboards above the stove. He was standing on his tiptoes, trying to look in the back of the cupboard.

“What are you doing?”

Draco jumped a little at the sound of Harry’s voice, though he didn’t turn to look at him. He continued his search for Merlin-knows-what.

“I’m looking if we still have some sugar left,” came Draco’s muffled voice from the cupboard. “It’s not looking promising, though.”

Confused, Harry raised an eyebrow. “Why do you need sugar?”

Draco pointed at a big batch of lemons standing on the counter. “Mother has sent some lemons from her home in Italy. I want to make sweet lemonade of them.”

Harry chuckled and shook his head fondly. He couldn’t deny that the thought of some fresh homemade lemonade made his mouth water.

In front of him, Draco sighed as he finally emerged from the cupboard, closing it softly. He turned to look at Harry, his long hair all dishevelled. “Could you go get some sugar from the store, please?”

With a smile growing on his face, Harry stepped closer and placed a loving kiss on his husband’s cheek. “Of course, love.”

Prompt from June 2nd

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[autobot2001]

Sleep Struggles

@juneofdoom

Day 18 Sleep Deprivation | Blankets

Neither one of Jamie's guardians and friends know she's been having nightmares and, at this point, can't sleep for more than two hours. Jamie lies in bed to not wake Drift up. No matter how much she tries to go back to sleep, she's unable to. Nor can she take a nap in the middle of the day.

Jamie has been so exhausted that she didn't see Crosshairs in the room, watching her try to nap and noticing how exhausted she is. Drift isn't going to like hearing this. Crosshairs thinks, watching Jamie in bed. Before he can turn to leave, he notices black next to him. The black is Drift's shirt. The two walk out of the room, quietly closing the door behind them.

The two sit on the floor across the hall, not looking forward to the conversation. Drift hates how Jamie didn't wake him up. The two mechs worry about what returning nightmare she is having. "Well, I say skip trying to get her to talk," Crosshairs suggests, "we need to get her to sleep tonight, somehow." "A drive often does get her to sleep, remember?" "We can try that. The problem will be if this is going to be routine for a while," Crosshairs sighs.

Jamie gives up trying to sleep and goes to her computer. She struggles even to play a computer game. Crosshairs and Drift walk in, seeing how exhausted she is. Both worried the plan for tonight will become routine for a while.

The two mechs couldn't believe Jamie didn't fall asleep. By nine, Jamie tries to go to sleep. "Overactive mind,* Drift comments, "come on, we need to get you to sleep," Drift comments as he picks up Jamie and grabs the blanket off the bed. The two mechs are ready for the drive they planned.

They take Crosshairs' alt mode. Drift sits on the passenger side, holding Jamie. Crosshairs looks at her, hoping she'll fall asleep. What nightmares plague you? Where have you been thinking? Crosshairs worries. He knows Drift is thinking the same.

The two worry about seeing Jamie fight sleep. They didn't plan for if Jamie doesn't fall asleep come a certain time. They thought twenty minutes would have been long enough. Jamie is finally asleep an hour into the drive. Both mechs look at each other, worried.

"She's not going to say anything, but this nightmare had her terrified to — scrap," Crosshairs comments, "her fear of abandonment." "Why now?" Drift sighs, hugging Jamie close to him. "I hate how her mental health is getting more complicated," Crosshairs sighs. Drift puts Jamie to bed. The two mechs change for bed. Crosshairs watches Drift get into bed and move Jamie close to him before going to bed and turning the lamp off. Both mechs worry Jamie will still have nightmares no matter how exhausted she is. Hoping she'll sleep all night.