#made up fic titles

[bigtreefest]

Made Up Fic Title Game Masterlist

Ficlets sparked by this ask game

Test Tubes (IT! Jake Jensen x Messy! Lab Assistant! Reader)

Hidden In His Gaze (Prince! Lloyd Hansen x Reader)

Three Misses and A Bliss (Bull Rider! Ari Levinson x Sports Reporter! Reader)

Long Time Coming (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Gimme! Gimme! (Johnny Storm x Reader)

Hot Dogs (Jake Jensen x Reader)

One Bunny, Two Bunny (Jake Jensen x reader x Curtis Everett)

What Once Was Lost is Always Found (HS Sweetheart! Ari Levinson x Divorced! Reader)

June Bride (Steve Rogers x Reader)

Bandits in the Cans (divorced! Andy barber x neighbor! Reader)

Night Relics (Ransom Drysdale x Reader)

Taglist: @hawkeyes-queen @ronearoundblindly @mercurial-chuckles @steviebbboi @thiquefunlover63

[krirebr]

for the title ask game, trouble under covers?

Ask based off of this game.

Brandy!!! Ok, I know, at first glance this seems like angsty pillowtalk, or having casual sex with someone you secretly pine for. BUT! Here me out! What if we went in a different direction?? What if-

UNDERCOVER TROPE 👏🏻 UNDERCOVER TROPE 👏🏻 UNDERCOVER TROPE👏🏻

Steve Rogers is an uppity asshole. Every time you've had to deal with the homicide detective has left you wanting to tear your hair out. You know he looks down on you and the entice vice department. But when a body is found in the city's most exclusive BDSM club, with a new designer drug you've been investigating in their veins, you and Steve are forced to partner up and go undercover at the club. Posing as his submissive, will you discover he's not exactly the man you thought he was??????

[letsgobarbs]

Looooops 💕💕💕

What is your brain thinking about this made-up fic title?

under the apple tree

thank you so much for asking Daph!!! 🤭🤭🤭

My first thought was Reed— think about all the Newton references you could make.

But actually: Javi Gutierrez

A TUWOMT AU where Nic Cage is invited not to Javi's birthday, but to your wedding! Well, arranged wedding. You've been in love with Javi since you met as kids at your family's apple orchard. And now you've been picked to marry him. You couldn't be happier at the turn of events, but Javi's not pleased with it at all. He thinks you're one of Lucas' minions and he doesn't appreciate being used to make connections for his cousin's crime business.

You were happy that he got to spend so much time with his idol, patiently waiting for him to turn around and see you. It was a bit heartbreaking that he never asked you to run away with him when they were escaping Lucas' clutches. You would've gone with him in a heartbeat!! It wasn't like you wanted to stay in contact with your family— they just wanted to sell you to the highest bidder. Everyone knew how in love you were with him, how crazy and obsessed you were for him. So it was all the more humiliating when he kissed Gabriela, and you were right there! You felt like such a fool to have stepped off to help him stand up to his cousin.

Years later, you still feel the stinging heat and blistering humiliation of that rejection. So you hated the sight of him in your office— smiling like nothing has ever happened. For a brief, painful moment, you think fate is cruel enough to bring him here for his wedding to Gabriela. But no, he was some insufferable big shot Hollywood director who thinks he can come into your life and throw his weight around. He needs your apple orchard to shoot his movie, and the cheque he's offering you is big enough for you to swallow all your indignity and shame. After all, you're not in contact with your family anymore, and your small business needs this money.

You're not gonna fall for his sweet smile and boyish, silly charm again. So what if he's broken up with Gabriela? Newsflash! Y'all were never gonna last anyway. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realise what you've always known. Now, you've got your own life, your own business— you enjoy your work when the people come around in the fall for apple pickings and the hectic, exciting rush when they use the place as a wedding venue. You're perfectly content with your lot, thank you! And you're not at all lonely. If you wanted, you could always date, but you were just busy!!

Javi can't for the life of him figure out why you hate him so much. Sure, he was a bit of an ass during the whole wedding thing— which he did apologise for. But you only rolled your eyes and scoffed at him. He also apologised for misunderstanding you, he should've known you weren't loyal to Lucas. But that only made you more angry, something about how only he was stupid enough to think you were loyal to his cousin. He can't seem to do anything right in your eyes. He even once overheard you say you didn't watch his movies— that they weren't really your thing! But it was the way you said it, with that tone like you were implying they were shit.

However, Javi can't help but find you so cute. He thinks its adorable how you're always scowling at him, your nose slightly scrunched like he was smelly. He likes the haughty tilt of your chin in the air. He likes the way your tits move when you roll your eyes and sigh with irritation at him. Then sometimes, when you think he's not looking, you will smile so sweetly and brightly at one of his production assistants that he will feel a little lightheaded— his heart beating so fast he could barely find a moment to breathe.

And when you're angrily berating him for harming one of your apple trees during a shoot, he can't help but imagine the husky and breathy notes your voice would make when you'd be shouting for entirely different reasons. Reasons that are far from innocent when he realises he would like nothing more than to lay you under one of these trees, pull your panties to the side and bury himself in that tight, hot, wet cunt. He wonders if you would still find a way to be furious with him when he's balls deep inside you. And if you were, Javi knows nothing would be more euphoric than fucking you dumb until the angry glint seeped out of your eyes and you were nothing more that broken moans and shuddered sobs, cumming all over his cock as many times as he pleases.

Thank you for the fic title!! 💋

Here's some personal lore about my first thought when I read the title lolz:

My initial thought was Reed because when I first read the fic title, my brain went straight to when I used to be in college and obsessed with dating games. There was this one called Ikemen Vampire where several historical figures are actually vampires and alive today: Napoleon, Mozart, da Vinci, van Gogh, Shakespeare, Vlad the Impaler, Jean d'Arc, Johann Georg Faust, Dazai, and, get this, Isaac fucking Newton.

So I introduced the game to my Quantum Mechanics class (obviously) and the thing caught on too fast. It became a running joke that we were seducing Isaac Newton. And after a few group study/homework sessions we'd play the game. There was a moment in the game when vampire!Isaac Newton asked me if I knew what gravity is... and I still cackle at the collective groan when they realised our only answer was some version of no: "Tell me more?" or "It's all Greek to me!"

I know my professor got a chuckle out of us playing the game. And I thought Professor Reed would find it funny too.

[princessmisery666]

For make up title game: "I Would Do Anything For Love.... Including That"

Rick Flag x Reader.

Not beta’d. posted from my phone sorry if formatting is off.

You're pouting, full on toddler pouting because you think it will help sway Rick’s decision.

Rick knows he’s going to agree, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you, including what you’ve asked of him, despite the shit he knows he’ll get from Task Force X. But it will be worth every joke he receives because he likes the way you beg. The imploring tone you use, pressing your body against his, running your hands up and down the exposed skin of his arm, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. It sets him ablaze and he has to swallow down a groan.

If that weren’t enough to make him agree he especially loves that in order to get what you want you bribe him, offering him something he wants in exchange for something he’d do for free because he just wants to spend time with you.

“So I wear this to the movies?” Examining the multicoloured hoodie, “and you’ll come to the weapons seminar with me?” He asks, setting out the deal.

“Yes,” you say, looking up at him from under your lashes. “I promise.”

He’s getting the better half of the deal, spending eight hours giving lectures to rent a cops and then spending his evenings with you in exchange for him wearing a piece of clothing and sitting through a movie.

He sighs, faking that it’s an inconvenience but it’s really not. “Fine.”

“Yay,” you squeal, jumping up and kissing his cheek, “you're the best.” You skip toward the locker room, excitement not allowing you to keep your feet on the ground.

Rick watches you go, sighing sadly this time, “I love you.”

Though he’s not sure you haven’t already figured it out, maybe he’ll find the courage to tell you that soon. For now he’ll keep showing you, the best way he knows how.

Made up fic titles.

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Made up fic title: Desecrate

Don't judge me, literally the first thing that popped in my mind. If fucking in graveyards isn't your thing, don't go on.

You're running through a dark graveyard, stumbling over broken stones, hip-checking around ones you are trying to dart around.

And someone is so close that if you look back, you're caught.

But its no good, your thrown forward, bent over a stone and his heavy body leans against you, pinning you against a damp cold stone, the moss just cushioning it and you catch the name on it, unbelievable.

Its your name.

And then a familiar voice just dripping with darkness brushes against your ear, the mustache tickling the sensitive spot. "I promised you Dove that I wasn't letting you rest in peace. Your mine to desecrate. First your mind, then it was your body and now your soul."

Lloyd wrapped a hand around your head, jerking it back so he could look down at you, souless eyes staring at you. "I promised you the night we died you were never going to be free of me. Continue trying to make your way out of this cemetery. I do love chasing your spirit over these hallowed grounds every night."

The End.

[loveinhawkins]

I never know what to put for these made-up fanfic titles, but! how's "boy that's never been" sound? (or girl, which is the original line, or child, which has its own flavor)

oh boy that’s never been is perfect. Congratulations/commiserations, you’ve let me unleash probably the most tragic thing I’ve ever thought of.

warning: the first section of this will have a major character death. it’ll then be followed up by an alternative take where the character is initially believed to be dead but survives, so feel free to read both or one or neither. ❤️

-

It starts with laughter, with Dustin and Eddie jumping up and down, clinging to each other, riding the high of the most metal concert in the history of the world.

Eddie drapes the guitar pick around Dustin’s neck, like giving a medal to an Olympian. “Souvenir,” he says, grinning, and Dustin’s about to speak, to probably just reiterate just how fucking cool Eddie’s playing was, but then they hear the bats come through the vents, and the words fly out of his head.

They barricade the door, and Eddie is screaming at him to, “—go! Let’s go!”, and Dustin starts to hurry up the rope. He can hear the distant crackle of his walkie, Lucas’s voice shaking with relief, “It worked, it worked, he’s out of her head.”

Dustin looks back instinctively, because by all rights, Eddie should be right behind him.

But he isn’t. He’s just standing there, watching Dustin climb, and he’s got this look on his face, and Dustin suddenly thinks oh, don’t you fucking dare.

“What the hell are you doing?” Eddie says, just as Dustin’s about to ask the very same thing. “Go!”

“Not without you.”

Eddie shakes his head. And then his eyes widen; he looks up, somewhere beyond, and Dustin doesn’t know what it is that he’s seen, but his face goes white. 

“Dustin, hurry!”

The world trembles; Dustin loses his grip on the rope, hears Eddie say, “Shit!” right before he falls, ankle giving way beneath him, and he lands flat on his back, aching and winded—

He opens his eyes. The Gate on the ceiling has knit itself shut.

“Oh, Christ, oh, Christ,” Eddie’s whispering, over and over, and he’s pulling Dustin up, “are you—”

Dustin whacks him on the shoulder. “What the fuck was that? You’re not getting left behind, asshole.”

And while he’s still so angry, Eddie must hear how his voice shakes with fear, teetering into anticipatory grief.

“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The swarm of bats are still scratching at the door; the wood’s splintering.

“We’ve gotta get out of…” Eddie trails off, eyes darting in thought. He glances down at Dustin’s foot. “Fuck, you can’t run.”

A chorus of demonic screeching, far too close.

“Okay, c’mon, I’ve got you,” Eddie says, and he’s bearing Dustin’s weight, half-carrying him outside. Dustin hears him curse as he slams his shield against the few bats that still remain, scaling the wired fence. He makes short work of them.

He leaves Dustin on the porch, runs for the bike.

As Dustin waits, he feels a new sharp pain in his ankle—looking down, he sees one of the bats that Eddie thought he’d killed, still weakly crawling on the ground, teeth sunk deep into his skin.

He kicks, stomps on it until it lets go. There’s a trail of blood seeping down from the skin around the fibula, and he’s a little light-headed, but he thinks that’s mostly because he’s looking at it, so he simply doesn’t anymore.

Eddie comes into view, pushing the bike with a frenzied energy. He’s muttering under his breath, “Where do we go, where do we go?”

Maybe it’s down to Eddie being so panicked—suddenly Dustin has no trouble at all focusing on a solution.

“I think it worked,” he says calmly. “They’ve killed him. That’s why…”

Eddie nods, face still so pale. “Are you saying we’re stuck down—god, there’s gotta be something we can—”

“Yeah, it’s sealing up,” Dustin says hurriedly, “but I—maybe not all at once. Maybe it’s in the order of the—”

“So. Chrissy,” Eddie says shakily, “then Fred, th-then Patrick.”

“We’ve gotta go to Lover’s Lake.”

Eddie breathes out, “God, you fucking genius.”

He sits forward on the seat of the bike, so Dustin’s got enough room to sit behind him. Dustin grips onto his jacket, presses the side of his face against his back.

“Hold on tight, Henderson,” Eddie yells, and then he’s off, pedalling for their lives.

Dustin can only pray that Nancy, Steve and Robin have come to the same conclusion—his heart leaps when he sees them running across the rocky bed, to the still open Gate.

They all dive through it as quickly as they can. The only pause comes when Dustin insists Eddie go in front of him, and Eddie looks ready to fight him on it; “No time,” Steve interjects, and he gives Eddie that same kind of nod he’d given before he left the trailer park. “I’ve got him.”

“Deep breath,” Steve instructs, voice deliberately even. “Good, that’s it.” He grabs onto Dustin’s hand. “I won’t let go.”

It’s a vow; Dustin knows it.

The two of them make up the rear. Swimming through the depths of the lake is hardly scary at all, not when Dustin can see Robin and Nancy break through the surface, Eddie right behind them.

Steve’s trying to make him go in front; he can tell from the way Steve’s urging him along—but his strong kicks mean he’s always slightly ahead, no matter how hard he tries.

Dustin’s still bleeding. He can feel it. He’s kind of glad that it’s dark, honestly; he doesn’t know what Steve would do if he could see it.

They emerge up above, gasping, and they’re almost at the boat, almost home, when Dustin feels the vine wrap around his ankle.

The first tug doesn’t pull him under. But Steve’s still holding his hand, so when it happens, he feels it, too.

His head turns in alarm, and his expression is scarily similar to Eddie’s as he watched Dustin climb up the rope; and Dustin knows that Steve will never let go, not even if it kills him.

So he does.

He wrenches out of Steve’s grip. He doesn’t have time to say I’m sorry, I love you, before he’s being dragged down, and just as he’s submerged, he hears Eddie scream his name.

He tries. But he keeps sinking no matter how hard he kicks, and then, even though it’s completely illogical, even though he knows it will kill him, he simply has to breathe in.

He swallows water. It burns.

And then the burning goes away, and it doesn’t hurt at all; he just feels so, so sleepy.

The faintest impression of arms around him. And even though it doesn’t make sense, it shouldn’t be possible, he still feels a final comforting warmth at the touch.

It’s Steve, Dustin thinks for the last time. He’s got me.

-

Steve emerges with Dustin in his arms. He barely registers the screams from the boat, just yells, “Someone grab him,” and lifts him onboard.

Robin gets Dustin by the legs, and Nancy gently lowers his head. As Steve climbs aboard too, he knows he cannot even look in Eddie’s direction for fear of the expression he’ll see on his face.

“Nance, count for me,” he says.

He starts chest compressions. She counts.

Two breaths.

Compressions.

Two breaths.

“C’mon, bud,” he says, “you’ve gotta breathe, you’ve gotta cough it all up, you hear me, Dustin? Come on.”

He keeps going. He keeps going even when Nancy finally stops counting.

“Come on,” he says. His voice breaks. “Come on, kid, come on.”

“Steve,” Robin whispers.

“Don’t,” he says, because there’s something in the shattered way she says it that snaps him out of it—that makes him see Dustin, so small and so still, and his hair is so wet, and he’d usually be so pissy about that, but he’s not, he’s not saying anything.

It’s Eddie who stops him. A shaking hand on his forearm.

“Steve,” Eddie says. He’s crying. “You can—you can stop now. He’s gone. He’s gone.”

“No,” Steve says flatly.

“He’s dead,” Eddie says. His fingers dig into Steve’s skin; he chokes on his words. On a sob. “God. He’s dead, sweetheart.”

A grief-stricken keen. Later, Steve realises that it comes from him: his mouth, his throat, his heart. He pulls Dustin close, in a desperate hug that can��t be returned, as if he could somehow shield him from a fate that’s already been given.

…

Or, in a world that’s perhaps a little bit kinder:

Steve is just a fraction quicker, keeps his grip on Dustin’s hand so they’re both yanked down, down…

Steve tries his hardest; he strains and pulls as they reach the Gate, and his last sight of Dustin is his wide, fearful eyes before he slips out of his grasp. He surges forward instantly, reaches for him, but then, like a sudden tidal wave, is pushed back, back—

The Gate’s closed. Gone.

Steve frantically searches the bed of the lake, cuts his hands on perfectly ordinary rocks until his lungs burn, and he has no choice but to kick for the surface.

Eddie’s in the water too; Steve almost hits his head on his dangling feet as he comes up for air.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie shouts. He treads water erratically, and for barely a second, he goes absolutely still. “Oh my god. Oh my god, where is he?”

“The Gate—” Steve says, and then can’t go on.

Eddie’s lips tremble, move soundlessly. “This can’t be—this isn’t happening,” he whispers. He dives under not a second later.

For a wild moment, Steve almost follows him, even though he still can’t catch his breath. Nancy pulls him onto the boat before he can try.

Eddie resurfaces, barely draws breath before speaking. “So, what’s the plan? How are we gonna—”

“Eddie,” Robin says, reaching for him. “Get out of the water.”

He acts like he can’t hear her.

“Am I not fucking speaking English or s-something? Tell me what we’re—”

“It’s over, Eddie,” Nancy says quietly. “Vecna’s dead. The Gates are closed. We… we won.”

Eddie’s shaking his head. “No, no, this isn’t—just tell me what to do! I’ll do anything, I’ll—”

“What am I gonna tell his mom?” Steve says helplessly.

He doesn’t mean to say it. But Eddie definitely hears it, because his mouth twists in grief; Robin’s finally able to pull him up onto the boat. He rests his forehead against her arm and shudders.

Nancy waits for a long while before she starts to row them back, like she’s waiting on a miracle. But the water remains eerily still.

When the boat starts to move towards the shore, the awful reality of it all finally seems to sink in for Eddie. He moves out of Robin’s arms and his hand finds Steve’s knee, squeezes tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “S-Steve, I’m so fucking sorry, I should’ve—”

“Stop it,” Steve says. “You—you got him through—I was supposed to—”

I trusted you, and I was right; you brought him back to me.

“I let go,” Steve says through a wave of self-hatred. “I—I had him, and I let go.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, but Steve doesn’t deserve to hear the disagreement in his voice; there is nothing Eddie could say to ease this all-consuming guilt.

“I should’ve—he was my—”

Steve’s voice fails him, which is just as well. He doesn’t know how to finish that thought without it destroying him.

“I’m coming with you,” Nancy says, when they’re on dry land.

“What?” Steve says, exhausted.

“His—his mom. You’re not doing it alone.”

-

They might’ve won, but that doesn’t mean the town remained unscathed as each Gate shut. Violent tremors were felt all over; there’s a shortage of beds in the hospital, and there’s yet more people missing.

It helps Claudia accept it, at least. She’s not the only parent waiting in vain for a body to be recovered.

Nancy keeps her word, leading the explanation, but Steve forces himself to speak at the end, underlines that her son cannot come home—because he had seen how hope had destroyed the Hollands.

She nods silently.

You should hate me, Steve thinks. Hate me.

But the only emotion in her eyes is love—love and pain.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I wasn’t quick enough.”

“No,” Eddie says suddenly.

He’s kept quiet up until now, hovering in a corner. Steve had tried to tell him that he didn’t have to come, that it could be dangerous for him to be seen. But even before Nancy started talking, Claudia had never once threatened to call the police.

“It was my fault,” Eddie continues. “I—”

“That’s not true,” Steve says. “Claudia, don’t listen to him, he’s—”

But Claudia is just staring at Eddie.

“You didn’t kill that poor girl,” she says.

“No,” he says, voice hoarse. “No, ma’am.”

“Dustin.” Claudia takes a deep breath. “He was protecting you.”

Eddie’s face crumples. “Yes.”

Claudia smiles sadly. Steve doesn’t know how she’s doing it, how she’s still standing—the strength it must take, for her not to scream.

“You must’ve been worth it,” she tells Eddie.

He has to leave the room, a hand covering his face.

-

There isn’t a funeral.

Claudia insists on putting up missing posters, even though it’s clear from the dullness in her eyes that she understood perfectly well what Nancy meant when she said, we lost him.

“I know it’s—” Claudia breaks off as Steve helps her make more copies. “I just—I just thought. Joyce, she…”

Steve puts up the posters around town. He can’t stand the thought of bystanders pitying the hope of a grieving mother. Not again.

-

Claudia calls, tells him to come over to the house. She says she’s got some of Dustin’s things in a box, not a lot, but just in case—just in case…

“He’d want you to have them,” she says.

Steve has to stand with the phone in his hand long after she’s hung up, breathing heavily. Then he does the round of calls. Nancy, Robin, Eddie.

He needs someone there, he knows it, otherwise he’ll never go back in the house.

He can’t face the kids. Can’t face the fact that he’s failed them.

“I—I can’t, man,” Eddie tells him over the phone, voice brittle. “I can’t go back there. I’m sorry.”

Steve doesn’t blame him.

-

Nancy gets the hint and accompanies Steve as they head into Dustin’s bedroom. Steve tries not to look at the bed, the pillows still rumpled from when Dustin last—

He picks up the small cardboard box left on the floor. He scans the top of it. It’s small things. A book on Morse Code. An almost empty can of Farrah Fawcett spray.

Nancy’s hand’s on his back, not doing anything, just resting there. She reaches into the box and picks up the can.

“You did his hair, right? For the Snow Ball?”

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

She’s smiling. “He looked so—so sweet.” She blinks rapidly, still smiling. Eyes growing wet. “I don’t know if—if he mentioned it, but. I danced with—”

“Are you kidding me?” Steve laughs, and it gets close to dangerous, to the grief spilling out, before he pulls it back at the last second. “Mentioned it? When I picked him up, it’s all he talked about. Nance, you made him feel like the coolest kid in school.”

-

Robin sits in the passenger seat, puts the box in between her knees so the things aren’t rattling about while Steve drives.

And she laughs too, except it fades off into a sob. “I forgot.”

He puts a hand out, and she takes it. “What?”

“He’d taken my library card,” she says. “So he could, um, check—” She clears her throat. “Check out more books.”

Steve’s knuckles turn white as he holds onto her. She never complains.

-

Eddie… drifts.

In some sense, Spring Break feels like a bad dream. The trailer’s back to normal, no gaping hole to another dimension in the ceiling, and the police tape gets removed so quickly that it’s almost laughable. He doesn’t care that the suspicion around him has dropped in the wake of a ‘natural disaster.’

He doesn’t really care about anything.

He keeps in touch just enough to know that Claudia is staying with her sister for a little while, left Steve the keys for watering the houseplants, probably.

And then Steve calls him from the Henderson’s house phone.

“I’m—I’m sorry, no—no-one else was picking up,” he says. “It’s—it’s his cat, I can’t—”

“Missing?” Eddie assumes, because Steve sounds one breath away from a panic attack. “Hurt?”

“No, no, just—please, can you come? Please.”

So Eddie does.

He hates every moment of the drive, but he does it.

He finds Steve in the bedroom, and fuck, it still looks so lived-in, like Dustin’s just stepped out for a moment, the room filled with nerdy teen clutter. Eddie’s sure that if he looked closely, he’d find notes from old campaigns littering the desk, but there’s no way he can remotely handle that, so he doesn’t.

There’s currently a more pressing sight, anyway.

Because Steve’s standing by Dustin’s bed, and he’s not looking at Eddie, because there’s a little Siamese cat blinking up at him.

“He’s gone,” Steve is saying.

The cat mews plaintively.

“He’s gone, okay?” Steve’s words get harsher. “What do you want me to—? He’s gone.”

Eddie steps forward, scoops up the cat—doesn’t flinch when its claws dig into him. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you some food.”

He goes to shut the door behind him, but not quick enough.

Steve’s not once cried throughout all of this—not anywhere that Eddie could see, at least.

He’s crying now. Silent, trembling—sinking down to the bed, a fist clenched around the sheets.

Eddie closes the door.

He gently lets the cat go when he’s in the kitchen, finds a can of wet food soon enough, in a cupboard underneath the sink.

That’s where he finds the notepad, too.

And too late, he realises it’s Dustin’s handwriting, that this was a log he’d made of each time he’d fed his cat, making sure to not repeat the same food twice in a row. ‘TUNA’ he’d scrawled in an obvious rush, like he was heading off somewhere, and then Eddie sees the date.

March 22nd.

He doesn’t know that he’s crying until Steve comes up behind him, puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Eddie gasps, “sorry, I’m sorry, I’m…”

Because this isn’t about him. Shouldn’t be about him.

Steve pulls him close.

I’m sorry, Eddie thinks. He was yours. I’m sorry.

“It’s okay,” Steve whispers. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

It sounds like, You loved him, too. It’s okay.

-

Steve spends the night at the trailer.

It’s late when Eddie wakes up to an empty side of the bed. He gets up, walks slowly, slowly until he can just barely squint into the living room.

Steve doesn’t notice him. He’s standing on a chair, arm outstretched. Fingertips brushing the ceiling.

“Are you there?” he murmurs.

Eddie’s heart sinks like a stone.

Steve waits in the silence. His hand shakes.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m here.”

-

They both know what it means—the nights together, sleeping so closely, skin to skin.

One of them will find the other lying awake, and a chaste kiss will be pressed against a shoulder, shh, shh. They don’t talk about it, don’t initiate anything more.

Their world is too heavy for it.

Steve wants to tell Dustin anyway. Wants him to give them both so much shit for it, let his goddamn horrendous ego run wild.

Tell me again, Eddie whispers at two in the morning.

Steve breathes in, out. Starts the story with a ridiculous kid tugging red roses out of his hand.

-

“Come over,” Steve says. It’s nine o’clock at night. His voice is jagged. “My place.”

Eddie finds him just standing in the hall.

“Nancy called,” he says, too matter-of-fact. “‘Bout an hour ago, Holly’s Lite-Brite lit up, almost burned her. The power went off.”

Eddie tries to temper his voice, but when he says, “Steve,” he almost cringes at the pity in it.

“Don’t,” Steve says. “I know. I know. But.” He jerks his head upstairs. “I need you. I need you to—to tell me what I’m looking at.”

The bedside lamp is on in Steve’s room. There’s a book on translating Morse Code left open on the floor.

The light is blinking.

Steve searches Eddie’s face desperately. “That’s the—that’s what you did, right? SOS?”

Eddie picks up the book. Sits on the bed, knees weak.

“Yes,” he says.

Steve closes his eyes, exhales in a shudder. “Oh my god, you can see it. Okay, okay.”

He opens his eyes, and it looks like he’s fighting with himself, caught between wanting to say more and destroying the fragile hope he has.

So Eddie says it for him.

“Dustin?”

YES.

After Eddie translates, Steve stares at the lamp. His hand reaches out. Fingers curl around thin air.

“How do we know?” he asks. “How do we know it’s—”

DUMBASS.

Steve starts to laugh. A tear falls down his cheek.

“I can hear him,” he says. “Jesus Christ, I can hear him.”

And then Eddie can, too—so, so faintly. The tiniest giggle.

He sounds exhausted.

WATERGATE. TEAR. NOT STRONG ENOUGH.

“The—the tear?” Eddie says.

ME.

“We’re coming,” Steve says. His fingertips graze the lightbulb. “We’re coming, Dustin.”

HURRY.

-

They don’t tell anyone. Steve puts his phone off the hook before they leave, because Nancy is bound to call repeatedly.

They get into the boat and push off into Lover’s Lake without a word. It’s an unspoken agreement: they’ll get him back or die trying.

They dive together. Search the river bed, stones slipping through their fingers until…

A smooth ridge of plastic. Eddie’s guitar pick.

They pull.

The gap is small, but they make it—and when they emerge into The Upside Down, there’s no particles floating around, but the air is thin.

The landscape is disappearing. Dying.

Just next to the Gate lies Dustin. His hand is outstretched, like he’d fallen while reaching towards home.

“He’s not breathing,” Eddie says, hushed and terrified.

“Tilt his head back,” Steve says, already on his knees. They don’t have time to panic. “Lift his chin.”

“Okay, okay.”

“You’re gonna do the breaths, okay? One second, then—”

“I know, I know what to—”

“You got him?”

“Y-yeah.”

Steve starts compressions. Shouts, “Now!” to Eddie when it’s time.

One second. Pause. One second.

Repeat.

“Come on, Dustin, you’ve gotta breathe,” Eddie pleads through Steve’s counting. “We’re here, we’re here, you’ve gotta—”

Steve slams on his chest. Once.

“—breathe, we love you so fucking much, just—”

Twice.

“—breathe!”

Dustin launches upwards, into Steve’s arms, coughing, coughing.

Breathing.

“That’s it,” Eddie sobs, “oh my God, that’s it.”

-

They leave when Dustin communicates through shaky hand gestures that he can hold his breath. It’s far from ideal—Steve doesn’t like it at all, but there’s no way they can linger; the hole they’d made to break through the Gate is already threatening to close.

Besides, with both him and Eddie pulling Dustin up, it’s the quickest swim of their lives.

The Gate shuts behind them, as if it had never been.

-

Up to the surface. Clinging to Dustin, hearing him gasp, splutter.

“You with me? Hey, hey, you with me?”

Dustin nods; Steve pulls him on board, Eddie right behind in case he falls.

Silence. Breathing. Dustin up against his chest, shaking.

Eddie mutters, “Here, here,” passing over the towels that they’d brought with what had felt like foolish optimism.

“You—you d-didn’t bring a ch-change of clothes?” Dustin says, with biting, wonderful sarcasm. His teeth chatter, and Eddie wraps him in another towel. “D-do I do all the th-thinking around here?”

Steve’s answering laugh turns into weeping—he runs a towel over Dustin’s hair, sobs through a smile when Dustin whines out a petulant complaint.

“I’ve got you,” Steve says. He kisses his forehead. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” Dustin says. He shuffles closer, cuddles further into Steve’s chest even though they’re all soaking wet. “Knew… knew you’d come.” His hand reaches to the side, fumbling for Eddie. “Sorry. Think I broke your… your pick.”

Eddie just shakes his head, tearful, a hand covering his mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve says, “I really don’t think he cares, bud.”

“My mom’s gonna freak,” Dustin mumbles. His head is nodding tiredly as he says it.

“Yeah,” Steve echoes. He swallows. “She—she will.”

Eddie picks up the oar. Dustin sighs, lax with sleep. Steve can feel him breathing.

And he’ll have changed in some ways—they all have, it’s inevitable. It would be naive to think otherwise.

But the glimmer of him is still there, in his voice.

He’s back.

Steve holds Dustin tight—keeps him as warm as he can as Eddie rows, taking them home, home, home.

[princessmisery666-library]

Wildflowers At Sunset

Summary: Bucky uses an inopportune time to let you know how he feels about you.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: confident reader, Bucky being cocky (that’s a warning), sex work mentioned, prelude to smut, love confession. 

W/C: 1,134.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).

READ IT NOW: Tumblr // AO3

[hoboal87]

Made up fic title: History Repeats Itself

(this has all been done from my phone so please forgive any formatting issues)

Pairing: unnamed!M!Alpha x F!Omega!Reader

Word Count: 300ish

Warnings/Tags: a/b/o dynamics, mentions of / implied sex and knotting, implied unprotected sex, angst, ambiguous ending

A/N: this for the Made up Fic challenge - send me an ask with a made up fic title or prompt and I'll write a drabble/ficlet

A/N 2: in my head the male character is a Winchester, but, I've left it ambiguous enough that you may insert whoever tickles your fancy ❤️

A/N 3: HEY LOOK I WROTE SOMETHING!

You started using each other years ago. He'd help you through your heat and you’d help him through his rut. It was easier that way; safer too, until one of you found a mate. But then you'd caught feelings and now you were in a cycle of knowing that he couldn't–or wouldn't–ever feel the same and the undeniable pull that kept you from moving on with your life.

He'd leave in the middle of the night like he always did after his knot'd gone down and he could slip away without disturbing you, not knowing the ache you felt when you woke alone the next morning.

You were smarter than this. Smart enough to know that there was no way that this wasn't going to end with heartache and hopes of ‘this time will be different’.

You told him it was the last time; that you'd never find a mate if he didn't let you try, especially since he had no intention of claiming you himself. He told you that you deserved better than him, even after you assured him that he was all you ever wanted. He fucked you long and hard that night, as if he wanted to make sure you'd never forget.

He stayed with you longer than he ever had before, the sudden emptiness of the bed waking you from your slumber as the morning rays slipped through the blinds. He hadn't been gone long you determined from the slight warmth still on the other side of the bed but all other signs of him were gone except for a note on your counter: I'll always love you, written in his handwriting and the pup in your belly that you learn about a few weeks later.

You'd see him again, you were sure of it.

[fayes-fics]

For the fic title game:

*Dead Men Tell No Tales

*Sour Candy

*Rivalry and Revelry

Hi lovely! 🫶

Hmmm I had to really think about these

Dead Men Tell No Tales

Well I mean this just makes me think of a Pirates AU tbh, where Anthony is a swashbuckling ship captain running away from his Viscount responsibilities by navigating the high seas and being a bit of a Robin Hood type figure. Could just be an adventure story or could include a star crossed lover type with someone who captures his heart who is from a completely different country and background (very Kate like in some ways).

Sour Candy

That’s a very American phrase so this one I struggled with. I guess some form of modern AU where one of the boys falls for an American lady in London who introduces them to sour apple candies and they get addicted? That’s pretty lame but all I could think of.

Rivalry and Revelry

Definitely Regency. Probably Anthony. Sounds like where he has to compete for the affections of someone (Ie has a love rival) and the story plays out over a number of parties that turn raucous? Again that feels a bit weak, but it’s where my mind went

Thanks for your ask 😁🧡🧡

[taste-thewaste]

made up fic title: say you won't let go

Interesting that your first one made me go soft and sweet because this one is alllll smut lmao.

Immediate thoughts are Alex wanting to try something different with Henry and Henry saying yes let’s go for it, and a big part of it is him edging the hell out of Hen and making him beg 👀

Sorry for being h*rny on main lmao

[peridotglimmer]

For the made-up fic title ask: Fool Me Once

Whereas some prompt asks have taken me ages because of irl stress, this one has been marinating in my inbox because I couldn't for the life of me figure out what I would do with it. But we've finally arrived at that Eureka! Moment!

Post-H3, Diana keeps seeing 47 in random men she sees in the street. But every time, it's just some bald man with a good physique, never her 47. After a year, she gives up, and books a vacation for herself to relax and destress.

That massage therapist looks oddly familiar. It couldn't be...could it?

[randomkposts]

Made up fic title: The Rise of Her Sword

Probably something about Alanna from Song Of The Lioness, not nesscarily from her POV, but character studyish.

Maybe a bit on the nose to write about a Lady Knight with that title, and the sword could be metaphorical and justice related, But Alanna's the one I thought of for this off the bat.

[krirebr]

Made up fic title: Wasted Time

Ask based off of this game. Get ready, Essie...

Ransom has been cruising through life. No responsibilities. No one to answer to. So he floats from one wild party to the next. Drinking his weight, trying any new drug that's handed to him. And interspersed through all of those lost year, the jumbled, cloudy memories is your face, always there in the background for as long as he can remember. Pint-sized irritation as a child, annoyance in your twenties. And now, when he can make out your expression through the ever-present fog, it's been growing more and more concerned. But he's fine. He's just coasting through, like always.

[letsgobarbs]

Loops! For the fic title game: Over, Under, Through

i was like.... why does this phrase sound so familiar??? I googled it!!

AND HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Over, Under, Around and Through: A cute, fluffy short fic of an evening with the Millers.

There's screeching and a fit of wails. The noise didn't bode well for the evening at all. You rush out of the bathroom, a robe thrown over your sexy lingerie after a relaxing, sensual date night with your husband. You had tasked Joel to put them to sleep, promising him a reward for all his hard work in bed later.

It should've been easy enough. Tommy had told you the girls had tuckered out when you'd stopped to pick them up on the way home— leaving Maria with takeout of her favourite dessert as a thanks. But Sarah was hissing at her father with her hands fisting in her blanket like an affronted little cat. And Ellie was sprawled on the floor, tears pitifully streaking down her small face.

Joel stared down at his daughters like he was facing a vicious army— dark and forbidding. He sighs in defeat, "Fine. But just once."

The girls loudly cheer proving the previous tears and angst were nothing but planned dramatics. You barely muffle the burst of laughter that escaped your mouth into your palms as your tall, rugged, sexy-as-hell husband break out into a sesame street song in his low, gravelly tones sounding impossibly more defeated and exhausted than Grover.

He smothered the corner of his lips that were fighting to tilt up in amusement as he groaned another pained, "You don't understand?" Exasperated, he performed around the little tent he had made around their reading nook, earning peals of giggles from the two demanding little creatures. You were in tears before he feigned an exhausted topple to thunderous applause from your daughters.

His own eyes are drooping when he tucks the girls in bed, sleep lining his face as kisses them goodnight. You kiss away his apologetic smile near the doorway and pull your worn-out husband to your own room. The night might not have turned raunchy like you had planned, but there was something so attractive about Joel being a good dad that he's soooo getting his dick sucked tonight before bed.

A video of Joel's performance might have been sent to Tommy's phone the next morning :)

Thank you for playing with me!! 😘

[princessmisery666]

Fake fic title: Wild Flowers at Sunset

Summary: Bucky uses an inopportune time to let you know how he feels about you.

Warnings/Genres/Troupes: confident reader, Bucky being cocky (that’s a warning), sex work mentioned, prelude to smut, love confession. 

W/C: 1,134.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, you, OMC.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).

A/N: thank you @justagirlinafandomworld for the inspo (even thought it took a while to kick in 💟)

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Graphics: made by me on canva.

Master Lists: Made Up Fic Titles // Bucky Barnes // All The Fandoms

“You’re doing great,” Bucky talks into his glass, taking a sip of the amber liquid that is never going to get him drunk. “Guy’s putty in those beautiful hands of yours.” Though he’s sitting across the bar, you're wearing an earpiece. He has a clear view of you and sees the corner of your mouth quirk up slightly. Then he can’t help himself. “God, this dude is a loser,” he sighs, “He hasn’t even asked one question about you. No wonder he has to pay for it.”

There’s that half smirk again, hiding behind a sip of your Appletini - which he knows you hate - but your date insisted on ordering for you. 

“Head of a tech startup company,” Bucky scoffs, “that’s code for I’m a keyboard warrior living in my Mom’s basement.” 

You splutter around your glass, and your date, Oliver, has the sense to offer you a napkin. “Sorry,” you say to your date, voice as sweet as your drink, but the finger you use to scratch your cheek flips Bucky off, and then he’s the one laughing. 

“Sorry, doll.” Though he really isn’t. He’s bored as hell and knows you are, too. But he signed up for this to make amends, help the police and all the other agencies with letters, and some without, to bring down the bad guys.

That’s how he’d met you, an undercover agent for the FBI. He felt like he’d lucked out when they’d introduced you as his handler. He didn’t like that word, and the grimace on his face must have said as such because you’d piped up - “We’re partners, Mr. Barnes. We have each other’s back. No one’s handling anyone,” you stated, looking directly at your boss. But as soon as you’d turned back to Bucky and winked, “The handling comes after hours,” he knew he was in for a wild time. 

This Oliver guy is wanted in connection with a series of missing escorts. Back in Bucky’s day, no one cared about a missing prostitute, but times have changed, and the price has certainly increased. An intimate encounter with one of the ladies from “The Girlfriend Experience” - a very exclusive and high-end escort service - is upward of three thousand dollars for a few hours. 

“So, roughly a thousand dollars a minute,” you’d shrugged, smirking cheekily.

“I’d get way more than my money’s worth,” he countered, tongue slipping out to lick at the flirty smile he gave you in return.

You’d sauntered closer, pressed your body into his, and whispered, “Oh, I’d let you take a turn for free.”

So here you are, on a date with Oliver, earning his trust and waiting for him to either A-say something incriminating (which was likely given his affinity for talking about himself) or B-offer you money for sex (a criminal offense). 

But damn, this man is a drip. Watching paint dry would have been more entertaining, and Bucky felt deeply sorry for you having to fake a smile and flirt with such a wet blanket of a person.

“Go to the bathroom,” Bucky says. 

You subtly shake your head, eyes never leaving Oliver’s, hanging on his every word. 

“Just want to remind you, all of this is being recorded,” he grins, sees your eyes flick to his in the mirror, and lifts his brow, silently making his request again.

You look back to Oliver, lean in closer, place your hand atop his on the bar, and gently stroke your fingers along his skin. Bucky can feel the burn on his own skin, the scrape of your nails as your fingers trail higher with every delicate caress. Oliver grins widely. He thinks he’s got you, hook, line and sinker. 

But Bucky knows better. “Hey Doll,” he says cheerily, “remember our first date?” 

You give him nothing. 

“I took you for a picnic on the beach. I wore that blue suit you like, and you wore the lilac dress that hugs you everywhere. I was worried you’d get cold, but I shouldn’t have. By dessert, we were as naked as the wildflowers dancing to the sunset…”

You abruptly hop off the bar stool, “Excuse me, Oliver. Need to use the ladies’ room.”

Bucky knows better than to be smug about getting his own way; he’ll pay for it later in some form or another, but he looks forward to his punishment. 

“Pausing comms,” Bucky says, “bathroom break,” for when the brass listens later even though it's obvious what’s going on, but he doesn’t care as he taps the device in his pocket. 

He counts forty-five seconds after you pass through the door toward the bathrooms and then follows after you. All three stall doors are closed, but only one of the dials shows occupied. Before he can lift his hand to knock, the door opens, and you yank him inside.

“You’re pushing your luck, Barnes,” you warn. 

He surrenders, arms up, palms out. “It was the only way I could get you in here.” 

“For what?” 

“This.” His fingers pinching your chin are soft, but the kiss he delivers is anything but. He’s famished, as if he hasn’t tasted you in weeks when, in reality, it’s only been a few hours. But that’s how you make him feel. With every beat of his heart, he’s wild and aching and destitute until he has you in his grasp.

The Appletini is still heavy on your tongue, and he washes it away with hungry sweeps of his whiskey-laced one. His hands slip down your leg to the hem of your skirt, hiking it up with every squeeze and grope of your soft thigh.

Your hands roam under his shirt, nails digging into his stomach, before slipping down to the waistband of his jeans.

He holds back a groan when he reaches your inner thigh and finds no more material between his hand and your heated core. 

You pull back, a wicked grin revealing your teeth, and as he opens his mouth to tell you that you’ll be the death of him, you stuff your panties into his mouth.

You step back, readjusting your dress, “You can get me as naked as those wildflowers again later.” You wink. “Right now, we have a job to do.”

With that, you breeze out of the door and back to your date. 

He waits sixty seconds after you leave, stuffing your panties into his jacket pocket and giving his cock a chance to realize his punishment came earlier than expected before he follows after you.

He settles back into his barstool, catches your eye in the mirror, and the feeling tingles from the very tips of his toes to the top of his head, serenity, calm, absolute, unwavering belief. He mutters, “I love you,” into the coms.

Oliver ends up wearing your Appletini.

Master Lists: Made Up Fic Titles // Bucky Barnes // All The Fandoms

Tags: @alexxavicry / @b3autyfuldisast3r / @deandreamernp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @foxyjwls007 / @imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @katbratsupernaturalwhore / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library / @nancymcl / @stoneyggirl2 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox / @dempy / @kmc1989

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[princessmisery666]

I’m done for the night (I’m sick need to get some sleep 😴) but keep them coming and will do some more tomorrow 😘

send me a made-up fic title and i'll tell you what i would write to go with it