#sorry/not sorry I wrote an entire ficlet thing but this was just TOO GOOD

[adabear]

I wrote a supercorp ficlet about hands because I’m gay gay homo gay I’ve never written fiction that wasn’t a comic before shut UP (I’m embarrassed)

hands

“You have such pretty hands.” Kara held Lena’s hands, open, small, and pale on top of her own. Lena’s hands were elegant, long fingered, with carefully maintained nails (black today) splayed out for Kara’s careful gaze. The kryptonian closed her grasp around Lena, just a little, and ran a careful thumb down the interior of her middle finger. A callous, from holding a pen maybe. And there, on her thumb was a flat, silver scar, so small you could miss it. 

“I was nine. Playing with a soldering gun,” Lena helpfully supplied, the promise of a laugh in her voice. 

Kara closed her hands around Lena’s fully, weaving their fingers together and wiggling their joined fists playfully. A little squeeze. She’d held Lena’s hand before, plenty of times. She knew them like- well like the back of her own hand. But things had felt a little… different lately. They had lunches, and game nights, and movie sleepovers. They’d always had those. But something about them lately seemed significant. A little more important. Kara couldn’t really explain how it just. It just was. 

It was silly really, a quick movement, playful affection between friends when suddenly Kara found herself unable to resist drawing Lena’s pale knuckles to her lips and kissing them. Giggly, chaste little pecks that made Kara’s chest feel so full she had to drop Lena’s hands back in their laps, and laugh, and hide her face behind her own journalist’s palms. She heard Lena laughing too but couldn’t look. 

“Sorry! Sorry, having a silly day. I’ve been thinking about going back to Catco and I’ve been writing all these articles because when I ask for my job back I want to have something good and I’m just,” Kara paused, finally coming out from hiding. “I’m being goofy,” she laughed, cheeks rosy, finally looking Lena in the eye.

And oh… she had expected Lena to be laughing at her antics too, or maybe picking at the half finished salad left by the demolished remains of Kara’s own lunch. Instead, Lena was giving her one of those looks. Those significant looks, the kind that made their time together feel so important lately. Her gaze, so green, was open and warm and just so, so fond. It sent something crackly and electric ping ponging around in Kara’s chest. She wanted to look away, to hide again, felt her face burning so hot it ached in the tips of her ears, but Lena didn’t look away. Instead, the promise of a smile tugged at her vermillion lips. Kara’s breath caught in her chest.

And Lena looked down. The broken gaze was permission to breathe again. Kara huffed out another little giggle and looked down too, relieved and disappointed that whatever that was had ended. The tingle of adrenaline slowly dwindled down to her fingertips. 

Kara watched Lena run her own pointer down the back of tanned, strong hands. 

“You have pretty hands too,” Lena murmured. And oh no. The buzzing crackle in Kara’s chest roared back to life. She didn’t dare look up, watching Lena’s black nail trace each finger from knuckle to tip with a featherlight touch. Out and back again, a careful, tactile observation.

“You think? I dunno I guess I never thought about them you know they’re just my hands so I see them everyday and-“ Lena stopped Kara’s babbling by turning her wrist, splaying both of Kara’s hands palm up. Why was THAT so affecting?

“Th-they-“ A false start. Oh jeez. The blonde watched Lena knead the pad of her thumb into Kara’s palms, gently massaging them. “I almost wish I could get scars sometimes, you know? Your hands have a story to them but mine are just boring old h-hands!” 

Kara knew her voice was steadily rising in pitch but found herself entirely unable to control it. The brunette had moved on to squeezing each digit delicately and oh Kara would not have expected that to feel so nice. The little buzzy feeling in Kara’s chest was growing, sizzle hot and ticklish, and she felt she might burst. 

“I like them,” Lena said simply, raising Kara’s palms to her face. The Kryptonian watched the motion, utterly dumbstruck, until their eyes met over their shared grasp. Kara froze, held in place by a gaze as effective as Kryptonite. Lena’s eyes were half-lidded, laughing, her lips upturned in a fond, lazy smile. Like she knew exactly what these moments were, where they were going, like she savored lingering in them. 

Kara had a half a second’s notice to realize what was about to happen. A warm breath gusted, ticklish, across the pulse point in her wrist. Lena broke their gaze, eyelashes fluttering low over her cheeks as the brunette looked down. And pressed a single, lingering kiss to the heel of Kara’s hand. 

Something like a squeak must have come out of Kara’s mouth because suddenly Lena was laughing. She returned the superhero’s limp hands to her own lap. Kara found herself flushed and a little miffed. Utterly incapacitated by green eyes and careful fingers. Oh Rao. 

“Are you alright, darling?” Lena laughed, blessedly turning back to her salad so that the blonde could begin the process of returning to her body. 

Kara struggled for only a moment before squeaking, embarrassed and affectionate, “You’re teasing me!!” 

At that, Lena only smiled, unapologetic.

[iridescentpull]

Wrote a little ficlet inspired by this post. Enjoy <3

In Ramón’s defense, he thought he was no longer allergic to cinnamon. 

He hadn’t really had the chance to eat anything with cinnamon since they were taken to the Purgatory Islands. Then he got back, and the focus was on feeding him actual meals that would heal and strengthen his body again. Plus, Fit wasn’t one to cook things other than avocado toast except for tasks. 

So when Pac asked him if he’d like to try some churros he made, he thought sure, why not. He’d heard food allergies disappear as one grows older, so the same thing probably happened to him. If not, he’s an older dragonling, so he could probably take it. It would be fine.

Probably.

***

It was not fine.

As soon as he took a bite of the dough, it was like his tastebuds were on fire, and that the flames were cinnamon and sugar flavored. He made a face and then coughed as the spices made his throat start to tickle.

Pac was a little confused at his reaction. “Don’t you like them?” He asked, concerned. “Did I put too much cinnamon? You can tell me, I won’t be offended.”

The dragonling shook his head, eyes tearing up as he felt hives rise from his skin. With a shaky hand, he signs. ‘No, they’re good!’ He tried to sign back, before a coughing fit made his hands shake even harder. ‘I’m just... allergic? To cinnamon.’

That made his Pai’s eyes widen. “Wait, are you having an allergic reaction?”

Ramón nodded.

“Puta merda.” The male cussed, ruching to his potion chest and scrambling through it. “Your dad is gonna kill me!”

‘Pai.’ The dragonling tried to sign, but he wasn’t able to do much with the way his hands shook, and his skin was starting to break out into a rash. ‘It’s okay!’

Pac wasn’t paying attention, though, and instead was frantically digging through the chest. He let out a sigh of relief when he pulled out two healing pots and a slimeball. “Here!” He shoved one of the healing pots in Ramón’s wavering mouth, and the dragonling was glad he managed to swallow the entire thing before coughing out.

‘Pai.’ He tried to sign, again. ‘It’s okay. I promise! Fit won’t be mad!’

His father said nothing, too busy mixing the healing pot with the slime to create a healing cream for the hives that had begun to rise. After he created the mix, he gently grabbed one of Ramón’s arm and started spreading it over the hives.

“Oh, this could’ve been bad.” Pac mumbled, as he moved to spread the cream over the hives on Ramón’s neck. “Your dad is gonna kill me.”

‘Fit’s not gonna kill you.’ The dragonling signed, but the other wasn’t looking at him, too focused on treating the hives. ‘It’ll be fine, you didn’t know.’

The older man sighed and looked up, eyes a bit misty. “I didn’t want to hurt you though, nenê.” He said, looking down to grab the other’s arm and spread the cream as well. “I promised to Fit I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Ramón's eyes widened at that, and he bit his lip guiltily. ‘Sorry, pai.’ He signed, looking down. ‘It was an accident, and you didn’t know. I promise I won’t do it again.’

That got a sad chuckle out of his father, who finished applying the cream and moved to gently hug him. Ramón hugged him back, and the two sat there for a bit.

“Thank you, nenê.” He said, before pulling away. “I’ll keep a stock of healing pots and a slimeballs around just in case, okay?”

‘Alright.’ Ramón signed, smiling up at him with that twinkle in his eyes. ‘Dying to an allergic reaction would suck, now that I think about it.’

Pac cackled, shaking his head. “It would.” He agreed, patting Ramón’s hair. “There are way more cooler ways to die.”

‘There are!’ Ramón cheered, making his father laugh. ‘Like hanging!’

The Brazilian’s eyes brightened. “You are so right, nenê.”

***

“You did what?!”

‘Whoops?’

“Ay Ramón…”

[klausinamarink]

decided to write a steve part as a continuation of my steddie deals with chronic pain ficlet. Might’ve wrote this more in vein as a prequel but eh, you’re welcome :D also extra angsty

-

Steve used to consider himself as the embodiment of high pain tolerance. Since his junior year, he had been punched in the face many times, had a broken plate in his scalp, injected with Russian drugs, and gotten bit and nearly strangled by interdimensional monsters.

Or as he calls it Tuesday.

But after the Spring Break of Hell, Steve’s been feeling weird. Not the usual looking at my own body when I do things weird, but more physically weird. He doesn’t really know how to describe it even to Robin when he feels like he’s suffocating but there’s nothing around his neck. Or how every day his arms and back sting and pinch him at every breath like ants biting underneath his skin. Or how he’s walking fine until the next second, his knees get stiff and the pain travels upwards right to the top of his spinal cord, the place right on the back of his skull, it aches and aches to the point that he’s frozen but he has to move anyways because he’s standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

All he knows that it’s probably worse than the intense migraines he’s dealing with since Billy Hargrove and the Russians definitely cracked his right eye socket.

But there’s people who are more hurt than Steve. Like Max and Eddie who need and are getting actual help and care. He almost wants that too, but it’ll just get him in their way. Nobody would look at him and think that his suffering is even the same as theirs.

(Please, his heart and brain begs, look at me and take care of me. It hurts so much.)

So, even with his body betraying him and hurting him in ways he thought wouldn’t happen, Steve isn’t going to admit it. His injuries are healing fine anyway.

But god, can his body just actually rest and not hurt like bitch for one fucking hour?

(I’m sorry for hurting you, his body apologizes again, but it’s what i can do right now.)

It’s gotten more annoying, really. Steve keeps pushing the pain behind him, pointedly ignoring how it’s blurring his vision and pulses his certainly cracked eye socket. He knows it’s affecting his mood, but he doesn’t want to be that asshole King Steve anymore. He doesn’t want to everyone to lose their trust in him. So he keeps smiling, driving the kids, visits everyone, hands out clothes and food, and lives with the acid corroding his entire body.

Unsurprisingly, his suffering pushes back like an exploded dam.

At the Munsons’ new house, he’s visiting Eddie, who’s been more tired than Steve’s ever seen him since being discharged from the hospital. He still talks to the Party but he couldn’t go outside much without his scars and limp acting up.

It’s during when Steve finds himself placing wet towels on Eddie’s bare shoulders (“I can’t waste the water but I need some cold water on me right now!”) that it. Just hits him.

He can’t explain it - he’s never good at explaining anything well - but the sour and tired mood Steve’s been vaulting up vanishes. But then comes the hyperawareness of how much his skin is bubbling and itching with discomfort, his muscles dissolving into bone which are exploding starbursts of agony, and the pulsing under his right eye is slithering through his brain. It should’ve been horrible than the Russian torture, but it doesn’t even hurt. It’s like in class when the teacher is giving an important lesson but Steve is barely listening.

He does feel overwhelmed but so much so it just circles back to apathy. He doesn’t feel himself moving but he does end up on the floor, his face pressed against the frizzy carpet.

“Steve? Are you okay?” He hears Eddie asking. Feels him poking at his buzzing shoulder. He opens his mouth to say something but only says through salt-tasted lips, “Hurts.”

“Oh shit, what hurts? Where?”

Steve doesn’t answer. He closes his wet eyes and refuses to open them. The pain still follows him even when he falls asleep because of course it does. He hasn’t gotten a pleasant night of sleep since the demogorgon burst out of the Byers’ ceiling, but the pains makes him closer to the edge of consciousness than he liked.

When he slowly wakes up, there’s a heavy pressure sitting on his back. Steve lifts his head up and sees Eddie sitting on him, reading a worn book and the towel still on his shoulders.

Huh, that’s new.

Eddie flips a page, his eyes flickering to Steve, who stares blearily back. Eddie gives him a small smile. “The king awakes from his slumber as the prophecy foretold.”

Steve blinks. “W-Why are you sitting on me?”

“Wayne lays facedown sometimes after his shifts and I sit on his back almost every time. He says it’s the best massage he ever got.” Eddie says nonchalantly, but then he looks nervous. “Is, is this working for you?”

Steve reflects on his body. The pain is still everywhere but it’s a bit lighter this time. Where Eddie sits on his back is like a fucking miracle - the pressure settled into the muscle and bone where it feels like a portion of how his body used to be before the Upside Down busted into his life.

He grins with long-lost relief, “Yeah, man, just stay here forever. I’m not gonna move again.”

Eddie looks at him pensively, putting his book away. “Steve, are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah, this is kinda weird but I don’t mind it.”

“Steve, are you okay?”

He doesn’t cry, but Steve feels the tears trickling down his face and over his nose. He sniffs, blinking rapidly as Eddie gets off him and the pressure disappears so the pain comes back in its ugly sense. Steve turns around so his back on the ground and he’s staring at the ceiling, refusing to look at Eddie. He never cried before even when his body started hating him and he started hating movement.

“Hey, hey, Steve. Look at me, big boy.”

He does. Eddie is laying right next to him, his worried doe eyes staring at him. Fuck, he looks so kind and Steve shuts his eyes, clamping a hand over his mouth. The phantom pain of the demobat’s tail returns, but it feels more wet and clogged.

Eddie’s hand is on his. Gently moving Steve’s hand away from his mouth. Eddie is still looking at him as he says, “You hurt worse if you don’t ask for help.”

Steve opens his mouth. For an awful second, he wants to yell at Eddie ‘what the hell do you know about feeling like complete shit”. But he doesn’t and he is so fucking glad because it would’ve been so hurtful to Eddie and Steve would feel even more in agony that he just proved the other boy’s old impression of him as an asshole.

Instead, when Steve opens his mouth, he doesn’t say anything and starts weeping. He sobs like a baby and Eddie is holding him closer now, his face pressing against Steve’s messy face.

Moments pass in a blur. Steve stops crying. Eddie has moved himself on top of Steve, the familiar weight pressing the pain down and forcing his bones and muscle to rest. Their faces are closer to each other now, Eddie’s nose brushing Steve’s chin.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks again in a hushed tone.

Steve gives a little shrug. “A little.”

“Is this okay?”

Steve isn’t sure if he’s talking about laying on him or this new kindle of their friendship or both. But he nods, carefully wraps his arms around Eddie’s torso, and rests despite the pain stiffening him.

[rriavian]

Despite having very little time to write I’ve still managed just over 14k since last Wednesday, so while I feel very behind (Deliverance is still taking forever I’m so sorry) I’ve been making good progress! All seven Corintheus week prompts are in draft, and about half of them are nearly finished, and—despite not looking at anything else all weekend—one of the Christmas/Winter prompt fics is nearly done too. And the ravens saving Dream fic is going slower than I’d like but it’s getting there.

I was doodling in a meeting today and figured out my plot issue for the next few parts of Baiting the Trap, so on my break I wrote a bit of that. The next part should be the fill for one of the Corintheus week prompts if all goes to plan :)

Very busy, but having a lot of fun writing!

A little stressed about getting things finished when I want them though. Which is a very me thing so as always I'm gonna try and relax about it. The funny thing is that I also wrote an entirely new ficlet the other night when thinking about the Corintheus week prompts. Which is exactly what I did last Monday too

[chaoticoffin]

Do you maybe also have a secret polaroid?

THE MOMENT IS HERE . THEY FINALLY ADMITTED THEIR FEELINGS AND THEY GOT TO KISS and fuck and cuddle and all the things they always danced around.

This was so fucking good. When Eddie was caught and he's panicking, fidgeting, and you added in the line about the anger rising up. It struck me so much. Little bells were ringing because that's canon to me, that instinctual anger to hurt to get defensive. That he's aware enough to fight, just seeing that thought process was so??? idk reassuring.

It's how he can barely say it and the way he says it. It's heartbreaking because it's just him at his most vulnerable and knowing he rarely shows it (God again thinking about the visit from his dad) ah. This was just. Blew me away how you wrote this entire scene.

I loved the call back to the meeting his dad in that little ficlet. We've been discussing world building a lot recently and I want to just say that I love how much depth you've given these characters. Especially Eddie. It's realistic and makes me feel closer to him. Like, every time a fanfic writer delves into his character like this it feels like another layer of him is exposed to me. He becomes so much more solid and real.

when she pushes his bangs away from his face and you wrote "his wispy armor is gone" and some of his fear. I melted a little more.

AND YEAH THIS RIGHT HERE IS WHY WE LOVE THE PINING AND THE SLOW BURN AND THE TENSION. that build up. that fucking build up that makes this simple action mean so much more this time. I'm a fucking wreck rn.

~~~

Can I be nice to you?

!!!!!! Dude, fucking, THAT'S GOOD. It really, hit SO fucking hard. I loved loved it.

okay so the sex. I'm. 😩 that was lovely and so sweet, a little fumbly and awkward. Perfect for young lovesick, best friends. When R was saying she'd never been fucked in a bed and he saw how her walls went up so fast. Having full context for the

Truly one of the main reasons I read fanfic is to feel closer to a character and it's writing like this that really does it for me. I'm so so incredibly grateful for it 🖤

He was just the right amount of cocky but still tender here and I adored seeing him tease her just a little. Especially loving her reaction and being so awestruck at getting that reaction. This moment between them felt like it mended parts of them that they didn't even know needed it.

OKAY sorry really sappy part done. That's just been on my mind recently.

I'm so used to seeing Eddie say that line "you can't just say shit like that." AND it was so refreshing to see it flipped. I dunno why. It really stuck out to me tho and had me 🥹

Honestly, how he was so enamored and in awe of her, exploring her like she wasn't even real. Going back and forth between cocky and desperate, more vulnerable. Fantastic. I keep remembering more moments while I write this comment and I get more giddy. Everything I wanted to see (and more) from these two since I started this fic is here.

The smile I was wearing by the time I finished. Adored seeing Eddie finally get the after part he deserved, the part that was too painful to think about. he's just so.

Thank you for such a great chapter. I hope you're feeling accomplished and proud of yourself because this was wonderful. Blew me away. 🖤🖤🖤

[PS, this part made my possessive brain so fucking happy 😌 idc what that says about me.]

Rent the Space Inside My Mind

PT 1 I PT 2 I PT 3 I PT 4 I PT 5 I PT 6

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Female!Reader

Summary: Man, remember that picture you found? I wonder how you two decide to deal with that little hiccup...

A/N: I've finally come to the realization that this little fic is a labor of love for me. It's my baby so it isn't ever really going to have a real updating schedule. All of that to say, thank you for sticking around and reading you guys! Not a spoiler but just so you know, the end kind of reads like An End, but I have a lot more planned for theses two. This is just like, and end to the pining.

Also, I know others are reading this, but I'm giving a whole shoutout to @fracturedarkness who has been the best cheerleader for me with this story from essentially day one. Literally a ray of sunshine 😘😘😘

(If y'all want a soundtrack at all, just listen to Hozier's Wasteland! Baby. Seriously it's basically all I listened to.)

Warnings: SMUT! There's smut! Halleluiah! 18+ NSFW Minors GTFO

In sixth grade Eddie had caught mono. It was the first serious illness that Wayne had to deal with since taking guardianship four years earlier. Eddie had moaned around the trailer for two weeks, unable to stay awake for more than a few hours at a time. He’d been exhausted and couldn’t swallow right. The fever he’d get at night made him nauseous those first few days and that’s the only thing he can compare this sick twist in his gut to. 

Between the picture clutched in your fingers and the intense look on your face, Eddie thinks he might just turn inside out. 

“Ed?”

It sounds like an accusation in his ears. You’ve found him out, evidence catching the light where it waves around between the two of you. Forget trying to tell you his feelings, he’s got a date with  buckshot later. 

He takes it back actually, this feels the same as the day you accidentally met his dad. The sudden visit on a rare stint between prison stays. The lead weight of fear and sadness and pure fucking rage making him go cold and numb.

Eddie is so tired of shit going wrong in his life. 

“Eddie?” How do you sound so soft when he has clearly screwed up so bad?

Also, he went for one shower after making a stupid mess and you decided to what, go through his shit?

Don’t start 

There’s a black mood he gets in sometimes. It creeps up his insides, stains him dark. It makes him mean and he doesn’t want to be mean, not to you. Not to anyone really. 

He knows on a deeper level this is his fault, it was only a matter of time before you found the picture. Tucked in books and forgotten in his sheets he’s honestly surprised it’s taken this long.  

“Eddie!” The sharpness of his name jerks his head out of the haze he’s in. Sees your eyes clearly and you’re not mad, in fact he thinks that might be a smile hidden under all the confusion. 

“Where did you get this?” Even and calm. Could you lend him some of that? His throat clicks when he tries to swallow. 

“I think uh, I think I took it. On ha-Halloween. Last year.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice, the deep scratch of it. “We were drunk at Hagan’s. I don’t know wh-“

“You took this?” Another wiggle of the polaroid. Your grip on the box of weed is still white knuckled. Okay, maybe that wasn’t a smile. He can’t really tell anymore, the panic settling in firing off all his alarm bells. 

“You weren’t supposed to find it.” He’s so quiet, hasn’t been quiet like this in a long time. Wasn’t even this quiet sneaking into bedrooms. 

You take a step forward and he launches back. Head hits the door frame and if god is real he would let the paneling swallow him whole right now. 

“Why do you have this? Why all the-” you gesture behind you, “why all my shit? You told me you hadn’t seen my Theo figure anywhere and she’s in the drawer with all my shit!” Your voice gets tight, face scrunching up in complete confusion. “I thought I was loosing my stuff but you’re just stealing all of it! My zippo! Eddie what the fuck?!” No, right, there’s the anger. He’s pressed so firmly against the door jam it’s guaranteed to leave marks for a week. You take another step forward and he has nowhere to go, pinned under your scrutiny and words and the waving hand holding his shame. But where your voice was rising in anger, it drops suddenly, slides into something softer. “Why do you have this?”

Yeah Eddie, why do you have it?

It’s a total accumulation of, let’s be real, two years of unrepentant pining. Two years of being a dick and going after easy girls because you were off limits in his own doctrine. Too good a friend to ruin the relationship, and too good a person to ruin with himself. It’s nights spent at the bookstore waiting for you to get off, watching with a burning in his gut as the dipshit college guy you work with tries to edge his way into a date. Blunts and cigarettes shared like kisses between lips he isn’t allowed to taste otherwise. It’s the grappling like two idiots fighting, breathless giggles and rough shoves that end in headlock hugs and usually him tapping out first, unable to stand being in your embrace if it isn’t for keeps. 

“I…” the space in his room is somehow bigger than it’s ever been, leaving him adrift in the chaos of his things and your things and the too thin air that you’re somehow breathing in just fine. There’s a stutter in his chest where he’s not catching his breath, the familiar heat behind his eyes where the tears are trying to rush forward. “It’s just-fuck! It’s such a creep…move I know and I just didn’t want to l-let it go because it was a good night and-and a good picture and your hand…” he’d dropped his eyes to stare at your feet, unable to say his half-assed explanation to your face. “Your hand. On my leg.” Just a whisper. Swings his hand limply toward you. “I just, it was a nice thought.”  His throat is tight and he’s afraid if you keep looking at him he might cry. 

He’s watched you take enough steps forward so you’re practically toe to toe with him. In his peripheral he watches you toss the box behind you onto the bed, your other clutching the evidence lightly taps against his chest and rests there. 

He looks up through his lashes and his hair, keeping his sight obscured like it’ll protect him from whatever you’re about to say. 

“I can’t believe-“ you cut off with a laugh and a shake of your head, that small smile he thought he saw turning back up. “I feel so fucking stupid.”

Eddie’s stomach has disappeared along with the rest of his insides. There’s never been a real foundation of proof for him, just stolen glances he’s caught you in. That lingering look you’d give him, the way you’d hang onto him longer during a hug sometimes. Mostly just blind hope and his own low simmering ego to egg him on. 

“Do you want to know what I did this morning?” He nods, he really does want to know. There’s the smallest drip of warmth trickling down his back with your words. 

“I woke up and I thought about you. First thought of the day.” A deep breath and he can see the pink blooming up out of the collar of his shirt you’re wearing. “I thought about you and I felt so stupid after, for sitting in the dark and pretending that you’d ever-“ You stop yourself again and drop your eyes to stare at your hand on his chest. 

“You thought about me?” He asks and you nod slowly. He’s got an idea about what that might mean. “Do you maybe also have a secret polaroid?”

A break in the tension and you take a step back, laughing. A real one he knows, warm and happy. The photo hits him in the chest where your hand just was, where you’ve just flicked it at him. “How long Eddie?” 

“What?” He grabs for the photo but it flutters to the ground. 

“How long have you liked me?” Your wide eyes and breathless question challenge him. When he doesn’t respond fast enough for you, you reach out and push his bangs away from his face, smoothing them back. His wispy armor is gone and with it, surprisingly, some of his fear. Your eyes are clear and waiting, smile still pulling at your lips. 

“I don’t, I don’t have like, a date. Like, a-awhile.” Eddie stutters like he’s never spoken these words before. Nerves replacing fear when it starts to finally dawn on him: this isn’t going to end in flames.

The hand at his forehead slides down and rests on his cheek. He hasn’t taken a full breath in since you pushed his hair back, never mind now that your cradling his face, but the fear has been slowly melting off his shoulders while you’ve been staring at him and when your eyes trail down his face, it and the sudden nerves all just disappear. 

He feels your fingers flex along his jaw and he finally takes that breath. 

“I’m not reading this wrong am I?” Barely a whisper but he hears you. Shakes his head and opens his mouth to talk but you cut him off, just as quiet, “I don’t want us to make a mistake.” 

“You think this’d be mistake?” The hurt leaks through without his meaning to. 

“God no, Eddie I-“

There’s a bloom of confidence he hasn’t felt before, something that twist up through his ribs and around his spine. “Good.” 

Reaching out for you feels natural. He’s reached out to you a hundred times before but he’s never slid his hands into your hair. Tucked them up behind your ears and pulled you in close, felt you gasp when he brushes his lips against yours. Your hands pull at his shirt where they’re both fisted in the thin material, keeping him close. When you push into him he feels your mouth open, tongue grazing along his bottom lip; white static across his thoughts. 

It’s 10pm on a Thursday night and your kissing him in his room. Wearing his t-shirt and pushing him against the wall while your kissing him. He feels one of your hands flatten against his chest and his heart rockets off and your still kissing him. There’s your tongue again begging entrance and he yields, feels that barbell slide across his own tongue and he’s done for. It’s better than he could ever fantasize. He wants more of it but you just aren’t close enough. He grips at your hair to pull you in, to try and deepen the kiss but there’s no where else to go. You mumble something against his lips but he just swallows the sound and slides a hand down your back till he can get his fingers up under the hem of the shirt, palm laid flat against the small of your back. 

“Eddie.” You sigh his name and he makes it a personal goal right then to get you to do it again. Your hands wander down his chest and he starts his own wandering down your neck, lips finding any open skin he can kiss. “Hold on, Eddie-“

“I’m not holding on for shit.” He says in between kisses. “I’ve been thinking about doing this for months.” Your laugh vibrates under his mouth and it makes his eyes roll. “Do you want me to stop?” He pauses under your ear, panting against you. 

“No.” You sigh and shake your head, leaning into his hand still in your hair. “No I don’t.” 

He spends a few more minutes pulling little sounds out of you that he’s filing away for later. Nipping at your skin when you run your hands under his shirt and push it up. 

“Can I?” The question isn’t even finished before he pulls the shirt over his head and throws it behind you on the dresser. “Oh!” A giggle when he lays his hands back on you, hands rucking up your own shirt where he can run his palms over your midriff. There’s no finesse to his kisses anymore, just laying them wherever he can, anything to make you giggle again. He moves his hands higher, pushing your shirt up so he can finally see your tits again. It’s been a whole ass year since your wore your dress and he’s dreamt about this every day since. He kisses the tops of them and is mesmerized by the way they bounce back under his touch. 

“Hello old friends.”

“Old friends?!” When you laugh they move with you and he has to force himself to look back up at you. 

“Yeah, you saw the picture. We’re well acquainted.” He buries his face down in your cleavage and you hear him take a deep breath. “How do you always smell so good?” He’s layering kisses again and you’re trying to move around until you can pull your own shirt off. “Hey don’t rush this, I have this perfectly planned.” 

“Oh, so you left the drawer open on purpose?”

“Absolutely, it’s been my months long plan.” He takes a step forward to force you back one. Eyebrows scrunched together he scoffs, “I almost let you catch me for a while and then it happens by mistakeand I act like it’s the biggest fuck up ever and now I’ve got you shirtless. Listen, I plan campaigns babe. You know I can write ten steps ahead.” He’s walking you backwards till your legs hit his bed, fingers holding onto your belt loops to keep you close. 

“Eddie?” You hook your fingers into the waistband of his flannel pants, pulling down till they shift off his hips. 

“What?” He’s distracted by your fingers sliding around his hips. 

“You’re so full of shit.” He laughs when steps out of his pants and sees you look down, an immediate tilt to your head. Your fingers still against his skin, skimming the elastic of his boxers but he knows you’re staring at the growing bulge. The clever remark he had ready dies in the back of his throat when he hears the quiet ‘hmm’, watches your tongue poke out to swipe across your lips.

“If you keep staring I’m gonna get self conscious.” One hand covers his mouth to muffle the end of his sentence while the other lightly rubs up against his dick through the thin cotton. Somehow he stays upright, mouth falling open under your hand to pant against your palm. 

“You got any other surprises for me Munson?”

Are you talking to him? He can’t get a braincell to function with the heat of your hand pressed against him, barely moving at all. The button on your jeans is about all he can fathom, getting them opened and remembering how a zipper works is next. Your breath bouncing off of his chest makes him shiver and kind of brings some of his brain back up and running. 

“I uh, I got a few tricks up my sleeve.” He tips you back till you sit and he follows close, making you lay down. You laugh when your back hits the bed and you keep laughing, body shaking as he works your jeans down your legs. 

“What’s so funny, giggles?”

“I’m just…this is the first time I’ve had sex in a bed.”

Eddie stops moving and looks up at you from your feet. “I’m sorry, what?” He hopes he’s just hearing wrong, on account of his brain short circuiting a moment ago.  

“Yeah, it’s just always been in the back of cars.” You say it so flippantly, like it’s just a thing that happened to you. “I mean, It’s whatever. I just realized no one’s ever pushed me back on a bed before.” Your grin is hazy when you look down your body at him but he’s stone sober now. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to any of those assholes and he knows it. You’re the best thing to happen to him, and somehow you’ve gone this long with shitty car hookups. 

“No.” He shakes his head and pulls your jeans off fully. Slides your socks off and tosses them in the pile of your clothes. “You’re lying, please tell me your lying.” 

“I’m not! There’s so much more room!” You wave your arms next to you like you’re making a snow angle in his sheets. You sit up quick, bracing yourself on one hand to reach behind yourself to undo your bra when he stops you. 

“You don’t have to do that, I can help.” He’s crowded up against your legs where you’ve dropped them both sideways. 

“I know that, I was just making it easier.” His face must drop because you huff at him. “Look, I’m not stupid Eddie. I just, haven’t had the best track record I guess. I just assumed-“

“That I was gonna be like the other guys.”

You shrug. “Yeah, Hawkin’s finest. You know.” 

That’s a little bit of a blow, he won’t lie, but watching you slam up your walls when they’ve been nonexistent all night makes him switch tactics. 

“You deserve better than that.” He swings his legs to the side so he can lean over you, one arm braced against your hip, the other tilting your chin to look at him. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you pout before, your bottom lip sticking out pink and wet and he wants to bite it. “I’m serious.” He leans in close, lips brushing yours. “Can I be nice to you?” He whispers against you and your face flushes immediately, eyes darting down to stare at the bed. He can’t stop the grin spreading across his face, delighted with how flustered you get. 

“I-you’re always nice.” You mumble, chin fighting to get away from his hand holding you still. 

“I can be nicer.” He closes the small gap and kisses you again, still holding your chin. He can feel your breathing speed up when it ghosts over his cheek where you’re nose is pressed. When he’s certain you won’t pull away he moves his hand to your back, unhooking the clasps one by one. Eddie pulls back to look at you properly, fingers lightly pulling the straps down your arms. “Can I?”

“You don’t have to ask.” You say, still nodding your head at him anyways. 

“It’s good manners.” He says simply, wiggling your bra off of you, tossing it to join the growing pile. You’ve shifted back to your elbows, further away from him but giving him a better view. None of his fantasies are measuring up to real life. Just watching the way your tits lay when you shift has him practically drooling. He runs a fingertip from between them and down to your navel, marveling at the softness of your skin. Runs that same fingertip over to a hip and you jump just a little. “Ticklish?”

“Maybe.” Your voice is wobbly, chest rising and falling faster. He lays his palm flat against your stomach and runs it up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast and you sigh, letting your head fall back between your shoulders. 

“You are so fucking pretty.” Eddie means it. Even before all the crushing and jealously he could see it. With your head back he can watch the blush creep down your chest and he marvels at that too. 

“Eddie you can’t just say shit like that.” You sound strained from the angle your at. He runs his thumb under the swell of your breast again just to watch you shudder. 

“What, that your pretty?” He leans down to place a kiss on your chest, can feel your heartbeat tick up faster. He’s only got so much restraint before he grabs you up into his lap but he’s trying hard to be a gentleman about it. You deserve that much for your first time. Well, not overall but with him? Eddie’s determined to make you forget about every other guy who’s even looked at you. 

“Look at me.” He’s dropping kisses along your collarbone trying to get you to lift your head up. His hands have been itching to grab your tits but he wants you to stop being shy for a minute. “Please.” He’s trying to kiss up your neck when you finally lift your head. “Can you scoot up for me?” He asks and you oblige. As soon as your head hits his pillow he’s leaned back, pulling your knees back up so he wedge himself between them. He grabs your hand and pulls it up to kiss your open palm and you close your fingers around his cheeks, making him laugh. 

“Will you stop being cute and just touch me?” 

“How?” He kisses down your wrist, watching you get more flustered. 

“I don’t know, whatever you normally do?”

“No, that was with them, they don’t matter anymore.” He makes it to the crook of your elbow before he lets go and crawls over the top of you, getting in your face to stare you down. “What’d you think about this morning, hm?” He’s keeping track of all the little whimpers your making, the way you bite your lip when he makes you nervous. You won’t meet his eye so he follows your line of sight and you huff at him. 

“Stuff, Eddie. Oh my god.” You cover your face with your hands and he thinks he can feel the heat radiating off of you. It’s driving him crazy in the best way, he doesn’t think he’s ever had this effect on anyone before. 

“Aw c’mon. Tell me.” He kisses each finger before moving down to your knuckles and honestly, he just can’t help himself anymore when he brings a hand up to knead at your tits, a quick pinch of a hardened nipple and you gasp into your hands. “Was it this?” He pinches again and you wiggle under him, hips jumping up against him and he drops his head. You’re hot everywhere, and the core of you pressed up against him through his boxers is going to do him in if he’s not careful. “If you don’t tell me I’m gonna have to guess and this could be a long night.” He rolls his hips into you to try to get his point across and to try to get some relief. 

“Is that such a bad thing?” You ask, pulling your hands down to just cover your mouth. Your eyes are wide and glassy, pupils big and dark. 

“No, but I want to know what I do in these dreams of yours.” He moves back to your neck to make a path to your chest where he laps at your nipple. “Something like this?” He asks before wrapping his lips around and sucking, tongue flicking over sensitive skin. You arch your chest up and there’s a laugh caught in your moan. He moves over to your other side, nipping at you before mouthing at your other nipple, hand teasing at your hip. He snaps your underwear against you and you let out a quiet ‘ow’ and try to swat at his hand. “Or was I somewhere else?” His fingertips graze under the band and inch down. Your knees pull up tight around him and he’s so close to saying fuck it to his own game. 

“You were-fuck Eddie, you were going down on me.” You get so quiet, the one hand still on your mouth muffling your voice. 

“Oh?” He lets your nipple go with a wet sound, big grin already set in place. 

“If your gonna make fun of me…”

“Absolutely not.” 

You watch him over your hand place a scattering of kisses down till he hits your underwear, giving you one last questioning look before he hooks his fingers in and pulls them down. You’re also starting to feel a little self conscious when you realize he hasn’t taken his eyes off you. 

Payback

“Ed.” He just runs his hands up your legs, big palms warm against your thighs. He pulls your knees out a little further before leaning down and re-situating himself between your thighs, leaving open mouthed kisses along the inside. You’re torn between wanting to watch him and wanting to cover your face in embarrassment when he makes the decision for you, pulling at your elbow to drag your hand down to his head. He’s got that lazy smirk on his face and you can feel his breath skipping across too sensitive skin. 

“Give you something to hold on to.” You want to laugh but he’s too quick, fingers moving in to hold you open for him. Your head drops into the pillow when he licks a broad tongue from your center right up to your clit, your back arching up and Eddie’s laugh vibrates through you. 

“Oh fuck.”

“I haven’t even started yet.” You can hear the proud smirk in his voice and if you’d like to say something smart back you won’t, too focused on his mouth working you over. His tongue is soft, even when he points it, uses it to prod at your opening and you forget any remarks you might have had for him. 

“Eddie.” You pull at his hair when he wraps his lips around your clit and he groans. You’re stuck concentrating on his mouth until he slides one finger in and you choke on a gasp. He pulls his mouth away and lays his head against your leg, watching you from under his wet hair. 

“Is this what you thought about?” He can see you nod into the pillow, hand twisted next to your head in the fabric while he pumps his hand slowly. 

“It’s what I thought about.” He hooks his finger up, trying to find that soft spot to make you melt. “I think about it all the time.” The grip on your thigh is tight, keeping it close against his cheek. “Ever since you told me about those shitty dates.” 

“Seriously?” You lift your head, eyes half lidded and face scrunched up. 

“I should have nutted up and said something. They didn’t deserve you.” He pulls his finger out and you watch him suck it into his mouth, watch his eyes roll in his head. You groan and he adds his middle finger before he pulls his hand out, spit slick fingers running up over your clit, teasing you before he slides both back in. He leans in to run his tongue through your folds, watching you from under his lashes while you wriggle around and clutch at the pillow. The hand in his hair grips tighter and your legs squeeze up around his ears and he’s surrounded by you, the low chanting of his name keeping him planted in place. He finally finds that spot, feels you shudder under him before you moan, tilting your hips up to chase his touch. 

“Eddie Eddie Eddie fuck!” You keep rolling your hips against his face and he can’t help himself. He’s been pathetically rutting into the mattress listening to you whine and he can’t take it anymore. He taps under your thigh to get your attention, really gets it when he fully pulls away and you look down at him all concerned. “Why are you stopping?” 

“Good reason.” He stands up and pulls off his boxers, rooting around his nightstand for the condoms he knows are in there. He’s oblivious to you on the bed, sitting all the way up now and staring. Of course they’re not where he left them, instead tucked behind his lamp but he grabs one and climbs back on the bed before he realizes what he’s done. “Oh.” Eddie feels his face heat up when he looks down at himself. “I probably should have done that better.” He’s expecting you to laugh or sigh or say something witty but you just snatch the foil out of his hand and tear it open. You only pause for second before wrapping your hand around him and he’s positive this isn’t going to last as long as he’d hopped. When you roll the condom down he hisses and drops, head falling into your shoulder. 

“You okay champ?” 

He just nods and whines when you give him a few easy strokes, watching your hand move up and down his cock. You’re so much more gentle with him than he is with himself. Eyes half open and mouth hanging he’s sure he looks fucking stupid but he doesn’t care, doesn’t want you to stop touching him. When you scoot closer and pull his face up it takes him a moment to realize you’re kissing him, for him to react and do something. 

“C’mere.” He shakes out of his haze enough to move back between your knees, pulling your hips so your ass is flush against his thighs. He pulls your leg up to hook over his hip, placing a quick kiss on your knee before lining himself up.  He rubs the tip of cock against you, catching on your clit twice and making you whimper. 

“Please Ed.” He doesn’t need to be begged twice, grabs the base of his dick and sinks in slow. Sees your breath catch and your eyes roll, “Oh fuck it.” He bottoms out, can feel you clenching around him tight and hot and gasping and laughing and he looses all composure. Fingers dug into your leg wrapped around him he snaps his hips back and into you, punching out a sharp peal of laughter. He does it again, loves the way he can hear the choked off gasp in your throat. When he picks up his pace you grab at the sheets, twisting them up off his bed. 

“Fucking th-thank you-u!” It’s stuttered out between thrust, your face flushed and twisted up in a smile. 

“You know how many times I thought about this?” He has to talk, if he doesn’t talk he’s going to blow his load and he refuses to let your first time together end before a full minute passes. “Every time I looked at that picture I thought about it. I should have fucked you in that bathroom.” Your nails scratch at his thigh where they try to find purchase. “All the rides out to the lake oh fuck- I should have done this sooner, yeah?” He licks his thumb before bringing it down on your clit, running tight circles around it. Your back arches off the bed and he feels you clench around him. “Is that it? Right there-ohmygod.” It almost sounds like you’re crying his name just before you come, nails digging into his thigh when it crashes into you. He watches you tense up and then collapse against the bed, pliant under him where he starts to loose his rhythm. The heat that reached up fast burns up his spine while he watches you revel in your aftershocks, already trying to grab him down to you. The hazy look in your eyes and that grin you’re flashing him send him over the edge, burying himself with a deep groan, your name scattered between curses. He’s whited out until he can catch his breath, gripping your thigh until he can see straight. In the distant ringing in his ears he can hear your giggle under him, soft like the hands trying to pull him closer. 

“Hey.” Your eyes find his in his own haze, slowly coming back down to earth. “Come here.” Gentle tugs to get him to lay down but he shakes his head, asks for minute. He pulls out to get rid of the condom and disappears into the bathroom for minute, leaving you to roll around his bed. When he comes back he turns off his light. Sees that you’ve pulled the blankets up under your chin, one finger poking out to beckon him back in. “I’m cold.” 

Eddie would like to pinch himself just to make sure this is real. In all of his imaginings he never let himself have this part. The sex was easy to think about but this hurt too much to ever linger on. He finds his pants first before crawling back into bed, snaking a hand around your middle and pulling you into him. He wedges his nose up under your jaw and hums, leaving a few soft kisses in his wake. 

“Are you always this cuddly?” 

“I don’t normally get to cuddle.” You’re both quiet in the dark, hushed tones under the blankets. 

“Huh.” Your fingers tangle up in his hair, nails lightly scratching over his scalp. It sends a deep shiver down his spine and he has a split second where he feels like crying. “Their loss.” He feels the kiss you leave on his forehead and just buries his head further into your neck. You smell like you always do, sweet and deep and now a little like him. He drifts off without meaning to. 

It’s not daylight yet, but his room is lighter. There’s no alarm clock going off next to his head so he looks around, trying to find whatever it is that pulled him out of his warm cocoon. 

Bleary vision in the dark, he can barely make out your form jumping quietly into your jeans. He’s peering at you from under the covers, watching you get dressed. You stop mid jump to pick something up, staring at it before padding over to his dresser and tucking it into his mirror. He’s basically awake when you turn to open his door and he quietly asks you where you’re going. 

“Jesus fucking Christ you’re gonna give me a heart attack.” You clutch you chest and try to search through the dark for his eyes, finally see him when he pulls the sheets back a bit. 

“Seriously, where are you goin’?”

“It’s almost 5. I figured Wayne was gonna be home soon so I cleaned up the living room and like, I didn’t know if I should hang around?”

“You sleep over here all the time.” He slides a hand out from under the covers to make a grabby hand at you. “He won’t care.”

“Well I mean, I’m not usually naked in your bed dude.”

“Then leave your shirt on.” Eddie doesn’t understand what you’re not understanding. “I mean it, Wayne isn’t gonna care. If anything he’ll be happy I stopped bitching about you.”

“You bitch about me?”

“No, I bitched about not having you. There’s a difference. Now come here, I’m cold.” He lifts the blankets up quick, making a sweeping motion for you to get back in. “Plus, he won’t say anything unless you do. He likes you too much to embarrass you.” You’re out of your jeans again and crawling over him, trying to avoid kneeing him. 

“Aww, he likes me?”

“Well I like you too.” You’re barely settled before he’s wrapped around you, leg hitched over your thighs and pinning you down. “What’s that get me?” He’s nosing along your jaw again. 

“Depends what you’re looking for.” 

“Mm. Concert tickets to see Ozzy in Indy.”

“Oh that’s a big ask.”

“I see. How about a kiss?” He pulls back to smile lazily up at you. 

“I can do that.”

❣Tag List❣

@edsforehead @fracturedarkness @munsonsguitarpick @bebe07011 @ali-r3n @cantreadbutcute @eddiethesexy @emma77645

[lilflowerpot]

Soulmate AU where the marks on one person's skin show up on the other, but obviously they can't understand each other's writing, so Keith mostly just tries to express himself through art instead. So naturally, when he starts investigating the Blue Lion he starts drawing THAT too. Which is why, when Voltron shows up, Lotor is Dead Certain that the blue paladin is his soulmate, and he desperately tries to force himself to fall in love with Lance even while he's like "... Really? THIS guy?"

Lotor’s soulmate is not illiterate, but they may as well be. He’s compared their careless scrawl against every language in the Imperial data banks - thrice! - and it’s simply... not there.

“They’re a primitive,” Ezor nods sagely from where she’s half draped over his shoulder, eyeing the illegible lettering on his wrist with an entertained curl to her lips, “must be. Guess the universe wanted to counterbalance all your insufferable braininess.”

When Lotor shrugs her off with a snarl, she has the audacity to laugh.

Acxa’s kinder, or she tries to be, comforting him with the notion that if his soulmate is a primitive, they’re at the very least an educated one, or better yet of a more evolved society wherein knowledge of scripture is commonplace, so... they’re not feral.

Zethrid seems to half wish that they were, if only for the thrill of it.

“And the sex,” Ezor tacks on with an evil little grin, “the sex would have been fantastic.”

Her soulmate’s raucous glee drowns out any further discussion of the topic.

-

So they can’t communicate, not with words, but if Lotor’s soulmate is anything it’s tenacious (and the Prince can’t help but admire that). They come to the conclusion that pictures are the way to go, painting Lotor’s forearms with a veritable rainbow of quadrilaterals, each containing varying stripes and symbols, and then a series of dotted squiggles that Lotor is beginning to recognise as their approximation of a question.

The problem being he doesn’t actually know what it is that they’re asking.

There’s one rectangle - the majority of which is striped red and white, with a one contrasting quarter of stars in a blue sky - that his soulmate keeps coming back to, and Lotor realises it must be a clan symbol of a sort, indicative of their own people and culture, but... once again scouring Imperial logs turns up nothing of import. Frustrated, Lotor practically carves the hateful Imperial emblem into his palm with jagged lines of ink - Vrepit Sa - and turns in for the night.

In the morning, his arms are wiped clean.

They stay that way for a quintent.

Two.

On the third, he hears back, and it rocks his entire world view.

Kraliept Sa.

The lines are careful, deliberate, as if someone unfamiliar with the old scripture had taken great pains to transcribe that singular character, and Lotor quite simply can’t believe his eyes, because that would mean... that would mean that the only two things he knows of his soulmate are in direct contrast with one another: the first being that they are completely isolated from the Empire, and the second more impossible yet, that they have ties to the Blade of Marmora.

-

They continue this way for almost a decaphoeb, and it’s not perfect, but it’s something.

Lotor sends renderings of the stars, his ship, Kova, and in return his soulmate replies with sketches of the animals and sunsets and vast expanses of desert on an alien world.

One evening, they blur blues and greens into a perfect little marble on the inside of Lotor’s knee, an arrow pointing to one of the green patches labeled with a sequence of characters that the galra Prince is beginning to recognise as his soulmate’s name - though he can’t so much as begin to guess at how they might be pronounced - and so on the opposite knee Lotor paints Daibazaal, and then, because that feels inadequate, smears his thumb through the centre of the planet he no longer calls home, doodling a battalion of ships leaving the wreckage in a mass exodus, the children of an orphaned world.

And once more, his soulmate falls quiet.

-

It’s almost a full phoeb until they reach out again, and when they do Lotor finds them franctic, frightened, their little blue-green marble only the beginning; an entire solar system follows, complete with details such as what Lotor assumes must be an accurate number of moons on each planet for how deliberately they’re marked out, and then-

A ship.

It’s small and unassuming and positively archaic in design, but it’s a ship nonetheless, and as Lotor watches, his soulmate draws and erases and re-draws that same design until it’s traveled the length of his leg - thigh to ankle - and ‘lands’ on an unassuming moon of the most distant planet. They circle it with agitation, jabbing whatever implement they’re using to mark their own skin so violently that Lotor’s quite sure they must bleed under the force of it, but he doesn’t know what to say, let alone know how to say it if he did.

The next morning, his soulmate’s mural has gone.

The phantom ache of it remains.

-

They call him Champion.

Lotor only takes interest because of the timing, because of the circumstance, because it’s Sendak’s fleet that located these new lifeforms on a desolate moon in some distant corner of the universe, and of all Zarkon’s commanders he most of all has something of a reputation for toeing the line between cruelty and outright sadism.

The odds are one in a million, but that’s not a risk Lotor is willing to take.

He paints an obnoxious criss-cross of colour onto his own face that will be impossible to hide or mistake for anything other than what it is, and sends his generals to ascertain whether the Champion or either of the two lifeforms that accompanied him - soon to be subject to the work camps - share the mark.

They don’t, not one of them, and so Lotor chalks it up to coincidence and moves on.

Finding what could almost be mistaken for the legendary Blue Lion on the back of his hand only for Voltron proper to re-emerge into the universe after thousands of decaphoebs with the Champion himself allegedly at the helm, is not so easily written off.

And this time, when his soulmate abandons him to cold silence, it feels final.

-

Thayserix was very much a spur of the moment decision, but Lotor has never been so glad of such impulsivity as he is now, with the blue Lion of Voltron having been stolen from the thick mists and safely in his grasp.

Though, it’s not the lion that interests him.

Yes she’s a beautiful beast of considerable power, but in this case it is quite literally what’s on the inside that counts, that being of course Lotor’s soulmate... or so he’d thought.

Princess Allura of Altea cannot be them.

At least he certainly hopes not.

She’s lovely, in theory, but they’ve been in a stalemate for the past varga with her sullenly refusing to so much as consider entertaining Lotor’s attempts at hospitality, let alone conversation, and instead quite stubbornly standing with both her guard and weapon raised.

“I really would simply like to speak with-”

“Release me.”

Her end of things has consisted solely of those two words, and the monotony of it all really is growing rather tiresome.

Narti saves him from another repetitive bout, slinking into his mind and whispering that the rest of Voltron have located them far more quickly than Lotor would have thought possible.

The worst part is he’s almost grateful.

“Very well,” he growls, temper wearing thin, “your friends are here to collect you Princess, perhaps they will be more amenable to a little tête-à-tête, hm?”

They are not.

“Release Allura,” is the first thing to pass the dark-haired Paladin’s lips, teeth bared and tongue sharp, and it takes everything Lotor is not to simply concede on the spot.

“Frankly, I would love to,” he spits, gratified by how completely this blindsides the lot of them, every face on the holoscreen struck blank by his immediate compliance. “I do not believe she is the individual I am looking for, nor does she seem inclined to assist me in locating whosoever is. Answer my questions, and you are welcome to her and the blue Lion both.”

“We... We are?” It’s an older gentleman who speaks up, the only other altean among them.

“Absolutely,” Lotor hisses, and then graciously concedes: “the mistake was mine. I simply wished to open a dialogue with who I had assumed to be the blue Paladin, but as she is of a background that would doubtless have allowed us to communicate in galra script, that no longer seems the case.”

Their group look like they’re going to ask him to further explain what must sound to the lot of them nonsense... all except the black Paladin whose eyes have gone wide on some personal revelation, whispering “you,” as if he can’t believe his ears, only to spit out an obscenity before repeating himself with all the fury of an imploding star. “You!”

There are several exclamations of “Keith-!” as those violet eyes narrow to slits, the man smacking his hand down and cutting their com-line dead.

Ezor, helpful as ever, mumbles: “Well that went well,” quiet enough that it’s almost as if she doesn’t mean for everyone in the otherwise silent cockpit to hear her.

-

For the first time in ten thousand decaphoebs, the black Lion is - technically - in Imperial hands.

Lotor couldn’t care less.

The man who strides out of her is a veritable firestorm, all dark brows and snarling lips, and in a heartbeat Lotor knows, he just knows, who he is.

What he is.

Galra, for one, almost certainly a hybrid like Lotor - it’s the eyes that betray him, half luminescent with rage - and there’s a gorgeous poeticism to that.

Reckless for another, and behind him from where she’s been brought to stand witness, Princess Allura is clearly horrified to see her companion step from Voltron’s keystone and leave it completely unprotected, but the Paladin doesn’t seem to care, and neither does Lotor.

“Release Allura,” he growls again, voice like thunder and just as electrifying as he storms across the landing bay without hesitation, not even stopping to glance in his fellow Paladin’s direction and affirm that Zethrid has, in fact, released her as instructed.

No, Lotor’s soulmate simply fists pale fingers into paler hair and hisses, “fuck you,” into his mouth before kissing the Prince senseless.

-

Later - much, much later - Lotor is pleased to report back to Ezor that the sex is, in fact, fantastic.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Ok I don't want to throw hate unnecessarily fr take it as a creative criticism. At first when you started writing the drabbles I loved them too but after a while, even though the prompts changed, the concepts were just redundant( I mean the way you write out every story) At this point there's no reason to even continue writing these drabbles if it's just gonna be the same thing. It's so boring rn the same way they confess to each other in every prompt, they just suddenly confess,and also somehow end up loving each other secretly, them being so good to each other and nothing about school rivalry, I mean I know they're just drabbles but I've read what you wrote at first so I just think that you can do better. I hope what I said didn't hurt you if it did then im sorry

Hey friend!

Oof. Checking my notifications when I wake up in the middle of the night has finally bitten me in the ass.

I’ve written and rewritten this a couple of times because I’m having trouble not getting emotional about it.

Let’s start here: “I know they’re just drabbles”. You’re right, they are just drabbles. I don’t like to write things that don’t end happily, so in a drabble that’s only a few scenes long there’s only so much development I can do. I’ve actually said in several posts that I’m not a great drabble writer for this very reason. Maybe you’ll enjoy the longer, multi chapter things I’ve written when I find the time to post them. (Or maybe you won’t. 🤷🏼‍♀️)

Next: “they just suddenly confess, and also somehow end up loving each other secretly”. I like to think the ‘suddenly’ bit is because I’m bad at writing drabbles where there is limited space to build up to it, maybe that’s my pride speaking though. But ‘loving each other secretly’ is a little confusing to me. Do you mean that you’d like to see it be one-sided more often? (If that’s the case, loop back to the paragraph prior- I write things that have a sense of being happily completed.) Or do you mean that they shouldn’t be surprised that the feeling is mutual? Are you wanting one of them to confess and the other to say, “yeah, obviously. I’ve already planned our wedding.”? I just don’t get what you’re hoping for.

And I might have thought from those two bits that you meant you were sick of love confessions and want more established relationship drabbles but you go on to say that I address “nothing about their school rivalry”. In a drabble which is a couple of scenes at best I don’t have a lot of time to explore that and still end up with an ending that has them as even friends let alone together. (And these are drarry drabbles; they’re meant to end up together.)

I’m not entirely sure how to say the next bit without infusing my emotions into it. This part: “them being so good to each other” written as a complaint kind of gutted me. I don’t know what kind of world you live in, but mine feels shitty a lot of the time. I look at the world around me and I see so much pain, so much suffering, so much heart ache- I see people being unkind, people treating others disrespectfully, I see people who claim to love each other acting with anything but love. Things suck. And I can’t help but imagine that things suck for a lot of people. The world is desperate for a little tenderness. I am desperate for a little tenderness. At the end of the day, I want to put love and goodness into the world so I write about people being good to each other.

Let me briefly address these comments “I don’t want to throw hate unnecessarily but…” Justifying what you’re about to say with a precursor like that indicates that you know that the thing you’re about to say will be read that way. You reiterated it again at the end, “I hope what I said didn’t hurt your feelings”. Ooh boy. If what you want to say needs to end with an apology, maybe don’t say it, because all that says is ‘I know that I just said something hurtful but I don’t really care. I’m just trying to make myself feel like I’m still a good person’ because if you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have written it (or at the very least, you wouldn’t have sent it) in the first place. I say all of this only to ask that you not to send things like this to other people.

But you’re right. I could do better. I’m an amateur writer who only spends a couple hours a day writing fanfiction that I barely edit before I post. If I put in the time and energy I could probably write really beautiful things but I don’t have more to give at the moment. And maybe you’re right. Maybe these ficlets aren’t worth writing or reading anymore. Honestly the mean voice in my head says the same thing. My own internal monologue tells me that I am a one trick pony and asks me how many times I can possibly write about the same two idiots falling in love. As you say, the setting may change and the prompt may change, but the outcome doesn’t change.

But when that voice starts talking in my head I remember how many people have told me that the nonsense I write brightens their day. I remember the people who tell me that they love reading about the same two idiots falling in love over and over. Most importantly, I remember the people who say they want a relationship like that or that this version of Harry and Draco are “relationship goals”. I remember those people the most because if I can write something that helps people to know that they deserve to be treated like that, they deserve to be with someone who is good to them, then this isn’t a waste.

No, if my drabbles can brighten a day, or show the value of love, or help someone to know that they are worthy of love no matter what they’ve done or where they’ve come from, it’s not a waste.

And if it’s not doing that for you, if they’re boring, predictable, cliche, etc. that’s okay. Genuinely. You don’t have to like what I post. You don’t have to read what I post. Heck, you could start writing your own fanfiction so that it will be just what you want.

But I’m going to keep posting about these two being in love and being good to each other until it’s not doing any good.

Blessings on you and may you find what you’re looking for. ❤️

[year2000electronics]

Malcom Challender and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good Very Bad Day

(just a little goofy ficlet set after episode 2 bc i wrote day 11 when i wasnt feeling very good about myself so i think my cool and awesome sona should be able to hang out with vils cool friends :^) )

The sun shone through the crack in Malcom’s windows, and he waved off the pigons that had somehow slipped into his apartment- as they often did, with his bird-whisperer of a roommate around. He swore it was like Player let them in on purpose sometimes. He squinted, avoiding the light as he transferred himself from his bed to his wheelchair, kicking the brake back in.

...Yes, he slept in his clothes. Don’t lie! You do it too, sometimes!

Malcom made his way into the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of cereal. He pondered to himself where his housemates had gone off to, but he decided against questioning where they went. They were more active than he was, certainly- Player, when he wasn’t feeding the birds in some park, was off using his gym membership or playing bingo with some old ladies. Darnold was probably attaching rocket boosters to things that weren’t supposed to have rocket boosters.

And they were both video game characters that had become real.

God, Malcom’s life was fucking weird.

He could at least take the day to relax- after all, he didn’t have a stream until the weekend. Summer was right around the corner, which meant he could start using all his outdoor gimmicks for streams. Neo had even suggested doing a carnival stream! How would that even WORK?!

He shrugged it off. Malcom was sure Neo had some crazy ideas in his head, anyways. That was just how the dude worked.

Malcom’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud banging on his dining room window. His head jerked up in surprise when he heard some especially loud banging. Someone was… knocking on his window? From THIS high up?!

And it was…

No.

No fucking way.

That beautifully-styled curly brown hair. That signature sleazy moustache. That suave all-black ensemble. That surprisingly sleek ship they rode.

CAPITAL M?!

They said… well, they said something. Malcom couldn’t hear them through the window.

Both of them paused for an incredibly awkward while, until eventually, Malcom quietly rolled the window down.

“As I was SAYING. HELLO, GAMER BOY! AS YOU CAN SEE, I HAVE CAPTURED YOUR PRECIOUS FRIENDS!” Mothra shouted, cackling.

Malcom was… unimpressed. All there was were a bunch of birds flying around the ship, with some of them landing near Malcom in a panic.

“Why the hell are you BACK? And second of all, is this some kinda fucked up psychological warfare to say I don’t have friends?! I do have friends, asshole! I have good traits! I know cos my therapist told me!” Malcom shouted in a huff.

“Oh- No, these are- Okay-” Capital M fumbled, hauling a giant, futuristic-looking gun out of vil’s storage compartment. “So first of all, I was just at a resort. And some… people there got me back into the groove.”

“AND SECOND OF ALL!” He posed with the gun. “BEHOLD! MY GUN THAT TURNS PEOPLE INTO BIRDS!”

“AHAHAHAHA!”

“...Birds,” Malcom said in disbelief. He looked down at the birds currently waddling around on his table. They were… unremarkable. Of course they were, they were birds!

“Yes. Birds. It’s perfect cos Player will never allow it to be changed back. Ever.”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

Malcom snorted.

“Yeah, well, what. Are you gonna turn every world leader into a bird so you can demand ransom or something?” He said flatly.

“That’s exactly it! PREPARE FOR A GLOBAL DEBT, MALCOM CHALLENDER!” Capital M proclaimed, pointing at him.

“That is…” Her face twisted into one of mischievous glee. “Unless someone were to… stop me…? Hmmm?”

Malcom sighed. “Dude.”

“We need to get you some superhero friends or something.”

“I am a TWITCH STREAMER. I have JOBS I do for MONEY. And I have NO POWERS.”

“PAH! You have your silly stupid power of friendship, don’t you?!”

“..Besides. I know for a fact you don’t stream today,” Mothra muttered.

“...Are you following me on Twitch…?”

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, gamer-boy.”

“AND NOW I DEPART!” Capital M shouted, flying off and leaving Malcom with a lot of birds.

“Great. So, uh, who’s who?” He asked the group. “...Nevermind that, actually. No way to tell.”

It was just then his phone rang.

‘DO NOT ANSWER is requesting FaceTime…’

Malcom sighed, picking it up as a squished-together group of scientists took over his entire screen.

“Hey, Doc. Half of us got turned into birds by Capital M,” Malcom said. “You wouldn’t have anything to do with this, would you?”

The mad scientist’s face lit up. “Birds?! Oh, splendid, splendid! They really are coming back with a bang!”

“I’d GREATLY prefer it if they came back with a bang elsewhere? Maybe to the universe where people actually have powers? Like the admins, maybe??” Malcom shouted, as one of the birds let out an angry tweet.

The taller, purple scientist behind Doc guffawed. “Sorry, man. You’re the biggest dork here, so you’re easy pickings. Maybe vil just likes you.”

“It’s a great honour to have a nemesis, you know!” Harold piped up.

“AND HOW!” Doc and Sleepless both chirped.

God, they were all such a happy family. It was contagious. BLECH.

“Either way, I’m not smart enough to make an anti-bird gun. So can you guys PLEASE come over and fix this mess?” Malcom said with a sigh.

“I WOULD like to see how Capital M is doing… When we parted ways, it seemed like things were off to a good start…” Bubby mused.

“Yeah, they’re real excited about this. Just like usual, I guess,” Malcom said with a chuckle.

“Hey, is B’s service cooperating? Can we get him over too?”

The old man shook his head. “I’m afraid his feed was more like… a mosaic.”

“Damn that 2002 phone he has,” Malcom grumbled. “Oh, well. I’m sure you guys can help just fine. C’mon over.”

“Will do! We’ll bring the arsenal of weapons, too!” Tommy said excitedly.

“Like my new invention, BETTER TOASTER!” Doc yelled, holding up a toaster with mechanical spider legs and what looked like a flamethrower.

“Or the evil saxophone!” Sleepless said, and Malcom knew that was his sign to log off, as he cut them off mid-note.

“Okay, Malcom. Your friends are birds and your other friends are Saturday morning cartoon villains. Wonderful.” He sighed, sitting back in his wheelchair.

“And your OTHER other friend sure has a weird way of showing their appreciation.”

He laughed.

“Damn, I love being me.”

[impala-in-gotham]

This Destiel/finale fix-it ficlet I wrote...

This is my first attempt at writing fic so be gentle haha but I had a dream close to this and kinda tweaked it from there but it’s basically a finale fix-it in which I’ve decided Dean’s still alive. He lost consciousness a few sentences into his speech and imagined the rest, which is what we saw. There’s just too much about “heaven” that has been used before as a façade. So here goes…

“Okay. P-Please. I'm fading pretty quick, so...there's a few things that I-...” before he can even start the next words Dean’s head lolls to the side and his eyes fall closed.

Sam feels like everything is moving in slow motion as the nightmare of losing his brother plays out in front of his eyes.

“Dean??”

Sam holds Dean in place the best he can and his dread drains away slightly as he hears Dean’s shallow breaths despite his sudden loss of consciousness.

Sam's thoughts start racing, time-induced panic ticking away. Nothing they haven’t dealt with before but this isn’t Chuck’s tale of heroes anymore. It’s just them now.

"Shit, shit, shit...the nearest hospital is still too far...I can't...there's too many bodies to even try to explain...I can't even let Dean go to hide them...shit. Shit...Jack!"

"Hang on, Dean. Just hang on as long as you can. I'll fix this."

Sam prays loudly into the empty barn, "Jack?? Jack, I know you can see this, I hope you can do something, please. It can't end like this. It wasn't supposed to end like this. Not after everything we've been through, everything Dean's survived, he doesn't deserve this. You know he doesn't. Please, Jack. He's not gone yet, he can still be saved. I'm not asking for resurrection here, just...just heal him, please, he deserves to be saved."

As if on cue, the barn roof starts to rattle, a few bulbs burst overhead and Cas walks through the barn doors, rushing to their side while Sam's eyes widen in shock.

"Cas?!? but...", Sam stammers out with only a little bit of shock and a lot more relief.

Cas darts his eyes straight at him and it feels like he's looking straight at his soul.

"Sam, I need you to hold him steady, I'll start healing, but I need you to slowly pull him forward as I heal, alright?... Sam?!...Ok?!"

"Yeah...Yes...Ok, I'm ready.", Sam’s words stumble out as he refocuses onto Dean's weight in his arms.

The familiar golden glow pours from Cas steadier than it did the last time Sam watched him heal Dean's hand. So easily that Sam is holding all of Dean's weight mere seconds later. Cas helps him lay Dean down. Dean's breathing has evened out, but his face is still clammy and pale.

Cas holds Dean's head in his lap for a few moments, as he pulls off his trench coat and folds it up as a makeshift pillow, easing his head onto it. The care and intimacy of the moment, it feels like Sam needs to look away, but then Cas stands and looks up at the relief and tears on Sam's face.

"He'll be alright, Sam. He lost a fair amount of blood so he just nee-".

Sam practically slams his entire body into Cas as he crushes him into a hug, "Cas, I can't believe you're here. Of course, you're here. You saved him. You always save him. Thank you, Cas. I didn't know what to do. Jack said he'd be hands-off but it's Dean."

"Of course. Jack sent me as soon as he heard you. We’re lucky we made it in time.", Cas looks around at the lifeless bodies and their lost heads strewn about, "I'll help you clean this up but first, I'll get those boys home."

As Sam piles up the bodies a familiar but long since heard sound of wings flutter near Dean and Cas is back. He's looking down at Dean with such adoration but with his matter-of-fact tone states, "They're back with their mother, who was thankful to you both...and to have her tongue healed back. I took the liberty of altering their memories. They shouldn't have to live with that trauma." His eyes still lost to watching Dean’s chest rise and fall.

"You got your wings back," Sam says without realizing he thought it aloud.

Cas smiles coyly and looks back at Sam, visibly spreading them out, while Sam watches in awe as their shadows encompass the barn behind him. "Along with a few other powers I've missed now that Jack has restored heaven to what it should be."

Sam sighs, "Yeah, about that..."

While cleaning up the barn, Sam and Cas catch each other up on what happened since they last saw each other. Sam talks about defeating Chuck, Jack bringing everyone back, and how mundane the past months of freedom have been. Cas tells Sam how Jack rescued him from the Empty as well as other angels like Michael (with Adam), Gabriel, Hannah, Samandriel, and Balthazar to name a few.

Sam throws his lighter into the pile of vamps and looks over at Cas, "It's great to have you back, Cas. Dean didn't...well more like couldn't I guess. He couldn't talk about you much after... all he told us was you made a deal and you summoned the Empty to save him from Billie...but after that, he could barely say your name. Didn't stop him from asking Chuck to bring you back", he says with a small smirk, then presses his lips together and sighs, "but it was like a part of him had shut down or just broke. He wouldn't tell me and if you don't want to, I won't push it but you're my best friend, Cas and I...I still don’t know...Can you tell me what happened?"

Cas looks into Sam's puppy dog eyes, now glistening either from the fire or the topic, and then over at Dean still peacefully asleep a few feet away. He reaches out his grace and maybe Dean's soul recognizes it because he is sleeping soundly as if he hasn't in months. Cas guesses that's probably true. Contemplating how much of the story is his to tell and how much Dean would allow him to say since Sam and Cas both know it's not that he won't, he can't.

Cas reaches out and squeezes Sam's shoulder. "I'm sorry for any pain I caused you, I didn't have a choice. I knew it was the only way to beat Chuck. That only you and Dean could find a way. I made the deal to save Jack when he was dying, the Shadow agreed to take me instead but not until I had experienced true happiness. With Chuck in charge, any happiness seemed impossible, but I thought proving to Dean that he is worth saving, that all he's ever done was driven by love, not anger, prove to him why I love him." His voice betrays him by cracking on the last words. Still new to his mouth and his ears.

Cas searches Sam's face for any sort of shock or surprise but finds none. Instead, there’s a kind understanding that only Sam would have.

Sam sighs and says, "That's why." he continues as Cas' head tilts, "When we faced Chuck, he called Dean the ultimate killer but Dean just walked past him, no anger or malice, and just said 'that's not who I am'. It was because of you. He must have finally started to see himself the way you see him. How we all see him."

Cas brightens at that, looking back over at Dean, "Then it worked. The only thing I ever wanted was for Dean to love himself. I didn't ever think I'd be enough. That how I feel about him was enough after everything...after every time I tried to prove it. It was never enough before."

Sam smiles warmly, "You were enough, Cas. I've been trying almost our whole lives to get Dean to believe he wasn't a killer, that his life was worth more. I think we all tried, but you got through to him. He tried so hard after you...he tried but I could tell he was forcing it. Tonight, before you got here, it sounded like he'd given up. It sounded like the last time we lost you.” Sam shakes his head, trying to push away the image of Dean plunging a syringe into his heart, “Cas…every time we lost you it's been hard. For me too, but for Dean... it's different, each time it was different. He’d close himself off. He’d lose all faith. He’d give up. He’d want to die. I think...I think that he loves you more than he lets on. He's better when you're back. He's only happy when you're back."

Cas looks back over at Sam, a trace of a smile, "I know. I always felt it, just... well", he huffs, "We both know he's not one for words. But I know how he feels. I think his fear was more so in having something to lose. We’ve lost each other too many times."

The fire is dying down with the bodies not quite recognizable. Sam collects their gear into Baby's trunk. Cas walks out of the barn carrying Dean as if he's as light as a feather. Sam offers to drive Baby back to the bunker if Cas wants to fly Dean back instead. Cas nods and another flutter of wings echoes in the space left behind. Sam climbs into Baby, places his hands tightly on the wheel, closes his eyes, and prays to Jack.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours later, Dean wakes up. He slowly realizes he's back in the bunker, he's in his room, there's no pain in his back, and his hand is being held. He looks over to meet gleaming blue eyes he thought he’d never see again and can barely get anything out. “Cas... but how... you...?” and just pulls him into an awkwardly angled hug but holds on so tightly. It's just them. He doesn't have a time limit.

Dean feels as Cas inhales to explain but Dean cuts him off with “It doesn’t matter how. Is this real? Are you really back? For good."

Cas smiles as if his true happiness reaches a new level and simply says, “Hello, Dean." tightening his embrace, "Yes, Jack brought me back-- new and improved”.

Dean holds him and breathes in that familiar ozone smell, feels the pulse of grace within him stronger than before, something only he seems to be able to feel. "I thought I lost you forever. I thought you...wait," he pulls back to look at Cas again, "Didn't I die? I was in heaven, but it felt...wrong, you were there but you didn't come to see me, Bobby was there but he didn't even hug me after... what? 8 years?! No one else showed up. I just drove to a bridge…Tell me you didn't make a deal or -" his face freezes and his entire body goes tense, "Where's Sam?"

"No, you didn't die. Sam prayed to Jack and I came straight to you. You're healed but the blood loss left you pretty lethargic; though, I think that was your own exhaustion. Sam’s fine, he took the Impala. Should be here soon. You’re safe, it was just a dream. Those boys are back with their mother. I healed her. Altered their memories. Everyone's safe now. Sam told me everything that happened since...I...," a brief sadness flashes in his eyes before he brightens and smiles at Dean, "I knew you would save the world."

“I’ve been trying to find a way into the Empty for months, Cas. I…I read everything I could find but there was barely anything. I tried to use your blood from the sigil to summon you like what Nick tried to do but I guess I didn’t get the ingredients right or I don’t know…nothing worked. Jack never answered any of my prayers but I kept asking him to bring you back. I tried--…”

“Dean.” The tone over that one syllable calmed Dean the same way only Cas has always managed to be able to do.

Cas continued, “I’m back. Jack only recently was able to get me back but he heard your prayers. It took a lot of time and bargaining to get me and as many angels as we could save back out. The Shadow’s asleep again. I’m back and I’m not going anywhere. This is my home. I’m home.”

Dean sits processing this. Shaking off the fake heaven and submerging himself in Cas being alive and here. Now. In his grasp. He doesn't know how he gets to have a second...or seventh? chance but all that matters is everyone he loves, everyone he cares about is safe.

Dean meets Cas’s eyes and stares into the bright, deep blue he's fallen in love with so many times, eyes that have seen every part of who he is, good and bad, and says, “I love you too, Cas.”

Cas smiles very much like he did before the Empty was summoned but without tears because the one thing he wants is right in front of him. Looking at him like he is the most important being in every possible alternate universe. Still so beautiful.

Dean's eyes drift to Cas's lips as they have many times before, asking the same question Cas has yet to answer. Cas places a hand behind the base of Dean's neck, his fingers warm and strong as they pull Dean closer. Finally, their lips come together and it feels like no other kiss either of them has ever had. It feels like swirling grace entangling into his soul; it feels like being healed. It feels like every jagged piece of each other is clicking into place, completing and filling what was empty and longing before. It feels like being saved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam parks in the garage and leaves everything as-is to deal with later. He heads down the hallway to check on Dean when suddenly the overhead lights flicker but before he can run for iron or salt, the bulbs burst. First the one over Dean's door, then a few more heading his direction, then nothing. Sam relaxes and sighs deeply, “Finally!”

[somebodycall911onabc]

A Space Already Taken

Ep4x12 Buddie ficlet (not really any spoilers for season 4).

Read on AO3

Buck can take a hint. Particularly when it comes to romance and attraction—he knows when someone wants him and he knows when to make a move. Honestly, at this point he’s had so much practice charming people into bed that he could teach a class on it. One Night Stands 101 or something.

Which is why Taylor Kelly confuses the hell out of him.

Since the treasure hunting incident, she’s backed away from him three times. She’ll lean in close, lower her voice, flutter her eyelashes, brush her hair behind her ear…

And then lean away! Buck is losing his mind.

So when she does it again, when they’re at his apartment after a dinner Buck cooked for them, leaning against each other on the floor in front of the couch, Buck sighs out,

“Taylor, what are we doing?”

She’d turned away from him already, faked a laugh over some conversation they’d been having (i.e., she’d been having while Buck was getting lost in her eyes), but at his words she freezes.

Slowly, like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, she turns back toward him. The expression on her face is familiar. He’d seen it on Abby a lot, near the end. And Ali.

It’s regret.

“My bad,” Buck says hastily, holding up his hands, “Sorry. If I’ve been, you know, pushy about it.”

Taylor bites her lip.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” she says. “If we weren’t friends then… yeah, a tumble would be fun. But we are. And it gets… messy.”

“I would have thought you’d be kind of into a friends with benefits situation,” Buck says, non-judgemental. “Don’t have to waste time on romance or relationships, you know?”

“I don’t have an issue with it,” Taylor corrects. “But you would.”

“Me?” Buck says, surprised. “Most of my relationships have been no-strings-attached ones.”

“Yeah…” Taylor says gently. “But that’s not you anymore. You know I’m right. You want romance, Buck. You want marriage and kids and love. Real love. And you deserve it. Which is exactly why you shouldn’t waste your time on me.”

“That’s bullshit,” Buck protests, but his heart is sinking because, well, she’s right.

Taylor shakes her head. “I can’t give you those things, Buck. I’m not sure they’re what I even want. Love, yes. But the rest of it?”

“Who says we need to figure it out now? Who says we can’t give it a shot and see where it goes?”

“Because I don’t have all that many friends,” Taylor admits. “And I don’t want to lose one over something stupid like a lack of self-restraint.”

“Who says you’ll lose me?” Buck asks, grasping at straws now. “You keep talking like you can predict everything, like the future’s already set in stone. But from what I’ve seen, the future’s pretty fucking unpredictable.”

“Buck,” Taylor says, swaying close to lay a hand on his cheek, “even if I did love you as more than a friend, I wouldn’t be able to hold a candle to Eddie.”

Buck feels the world stop turning. For just a second. Stalled on its axis like a wind-up toy that reached the end of its mechanical loop.

“Oh, Buck,” Taylor says, pulling her hand away. “C’mon. You revolve around him like he’s the fucking sun.”

“No, I…” Buck shakes his head like a dog dispelling water from its fur. “We’re friends. Brothers. I love him, yeah, but not like…”

“Brothers don’t look at each other the way you two look at each other.”

Buck’s palms are sweating. “Look at each other… how?”

Taylor gives him a long look, somewhere between disbelief and pity.

She says, “like they want to devour each other whole.”

Buck doesn’t sleep that night.

Taylor left with a kiss to his cheek and an open invitation to call her therapist—not her, she made abundantly clear, because she’d done enough to help Buck through the ensuing emotional crisis over the next three hours and two bottles of wine. But Buck just stares up at the ceiling and relives every moment he can recall about Eddie.

And there’s… a lot to get through.

Eddie smiling as Chris reads out a poem he wrote for class.

Eddie concentrated and intense, fists raised as he efficiently and elegantly attacks the punching bag at the station.

Eddie lying pale and cold in the hospital bed after nearly drowning, Buck gripping his hand and thanking every God he can think of that he won’t have to tell Chris he lost another parent.

Eddie’s eyes, warm on his, smiling that conspiratorial smile he saves just for Buck, that makes Buck feel like he’s swallowed the sun.

And Buck realizes that, on some level, he’s always known. He’s never felt this way about anyone. Like the world glows a little brighter when Eddie’s around, like his heart is a skipping record every time Eddie touches him.

He can’t remember a time when it didn’t feel like this.

Buck throws off the covers and stomps down the stairs, grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter on his way out the door.

The drive to Eddie’s is full of white noise and Buck’s memories.

“Real funny, Buck.”

“I know you did.”

“You could have my back any day.”

“Buck, there’s nobody in this world I trust with my son more than you.”

Buck finds himself at Eddie’s door, the porch light flickering on as it senses him. He thinks about knocking, but he doesn’t want to wake Chris, so he pulls out his phone and texts Eddie.

Within a minute, Buck hears noise from inside the house. Eddie’s always been a light sleeper. He makes it to the door three minutes after Buck texts him, ‘I’m outside.’

It’s enough time for Buck to shiver a little at the cold night air, realize he’d put on two different shoes, and chicken out.

Eddie swings open the door and blinks at Buck, a tiny frown on his face.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, stepping aside so that Buck can come in.

Buck curses internally while he toes off his mismatched shoes. “Nothing. I… I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Not your leg, is it?” Eddie asks, making his way down the hallway to the living room. Buck’s heartbeat kicks up, because here’s Eddie sleep-rumpled at four in the morning, opening his door to Buck and worrying about an injury from two years ago.

Buck never had a chance, did he?

“No,” Buck replies, following Eddie onto the couch. “Not the leg.”

Eddie fixes his eyes on Buck and gives him a long, assessing look. Unlike Taylor, Eddie’s gaze is tinged with concern and sympathy.

“This about Taylor Kelly?” He asks, eyes narrowing.

“Jesus,” Buck mutters. “What is it with you two reading my mind lately?”

“You’re just an open book, Buck,” Eddie says, fighting a yawn. “Not much to it. What happened?”

“She just… turned me down,” Buck says with a shrug. He can’t bring himself to feel that bad about it.

“And you’re… upset?” Eddie asks, because of course he can tell that’s not what Buck is really here about.

“No,” Buck admits. “Not really.”

“What is it then?” Eddie asks. And the way he says it, so patiently, resting his cheek against his fist as he sits sideways on the couch to face Buck, breaks something down inside him.

“It’s just…” Buck picks at a loose thread on his jeans. “I just wonder when someone is going to look at me and like… want me. When someone is finally going to love me back.”

The room goes still, like it’s holding its breath the same way Buck and Eddie are. Buck can’t bring himself to look up at whatever expression is on Eddie’s face.

Eddie breathes out. In barely more than a whisper, he says, “I do.”

Buck’s vision goes white for a moment.

His voice cracks as he says, “what?”

“I love you,” Eddie says, firmer now. He’s committed to it. That’s how Eddie is. He doesn’t back down. Buck’s always admired that about him.

“You… but… Ana?” Buck splutters, staring sightlessly down at his own hands, which have fallen still in his lap.

Eddie lets out a hollow-sounding laugh. “Ana broke up with me,” he says.

“What?”

“A few weeks ago, actually. Says I wasn’t trusting enough. That I didn’t really want her in mine and Chris’s lives. She wasn’t wrong.”

“No?” Buck feels like he’s breathing underwater, like there’s no air in the entire goddamn universe.

“Because I already have you,” Eddie says. “Hard to fill a place that’s already taken.”

Buck is horrified to feel a tear slide down his cheek. Jesus, he’s a mess. Eddie’s in love with this?

“Hey,” Eddie says, reaching over to lay a hand on Buck’s shoulder. Buck feels his tell-tale heart skip a beat. “Buck, you alright?”

“I just found out my best friend is in love with me,” Buck chokes out, “after realizing that I’ve been in love with him for years. Give me a minute.”

Eddie doesn’t.

He reaches a hand over to Buck’s jaw, turning Buck to face him. Eddie’s smile is ecstatic, radiant, like someone just told him every Hildy product in the world had been destroyed.

“That so?” He says, his other hand slipping over Buck’s shoulder and down his back, bringing them close. Close enough that their noses are practically touching.

“Yeah,” Buck says.

He can take a hint. He knows when someone wants him. He knows when to make a move.

But when Eddie kisses him, it takes Buck completely and wholly by surprise. Because apparently Buck is hopeless when it comes to love.

Eddie pulls away and Buck chases him with lips and hands and muttered pleas. Eddie breathes a laugh against his lips and Buck wants to feel that every day for the rest of his life.

“I love you,” Eddie says, “so goddamn much.”

“I love you, too,” Buck echoes, feeling warm and soft inside and out. Like he’s incandescent.

“Good,” Eddie says, kissing Buck on the nose, which makes him feel like his bones have turned to jelly. “Can we go the fuck to sleep, then?”

Buck laughs. “I’ll try to save my earth-shattering realizations for daytime from now on,” he says.

“Please do. I’d hate to have to kill you before the wedding.”

“Wedding?” Buck asks, laughing again.

“M’serious,” Eddie protests, rubbing his nose against Buck’s cheek. “I’m going to marry you, Buck. I’d ask you now, but the ring’s in my nightstand.”

“Bullshit.”

Eddie presses his smile to Buck’s. “Why don’t you come to bed and find out?”

Turns out, Eddie does have a ring. It’s black and polished metal that he shyly admits he bought more than a year ago.

“Wasn’t that during the lawsuit?” Buck asks, admiring the ring on his finger. “Weren’t we not talking then?”

“Why’d you think I was so mad at you?” Eddie says, eyes closed, laying back against the pillows. He’s got one arm wrapped around Buck’s waist. “Mad at myself too, ‘cause I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wasn’t ready. I didn’t think you could ever… I didn’t think you felt the same.”

“Guess tonight was a surprise, huh?”

Eddie slides his hand up to twine his fingers with Buck’s, brushing his thumb over the ring on Buck’s hand.

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees. “Life likes to throw me curveballs, I guess.”

“Excuse you,” Buck says, settling down into the curve of Eddie’s arm. “I’m not a curveball.”

“Sure you are,” Eddie says. “But I love you anyway.”

Buck rests his cheek on Eddie’s chest, closing his eyes. “I’m gonna have to send Taylor a thank you card.”

Eddie snorts. “Go to sleep, Buck.”

Buck, smiling to himself, does. After all, they’ve got a pretty big day ahead of them. Starting with Christopher.

[spiderling-space]

Henlo Liho-san~! A new follower of yours uwu May I ask for hcs of how the dorm leaders would react with having an f!s/o who is mostly respectful and polite, suddenly about to throw hands with someone as they may or may not have said or complained about the dorm head they were dating. It was not a compliment in any way or form- I hope I didn't cross over any rules! But if I had to pick 5 out of 7 of them, it's Riddle, Azul, Idia, Kalim, and Vil. Thanks a bunch if you notice this~! Good Luck!!♡♡

Hey yo Nocturne! I know of you from liking I and Brew’s OC (twisted-whimsies): Mozerella Trein and a couple TW related posts of mine.

Prefects and Vice Prefects are exception from character limit.

After finishing this, I realized I wrote something between a ficlet and headcanon. I hope you’ll like it though 💕

My German knowledge is bugging me to write Vil’s surname with ö instead of o yet my order-loving side is telling me to stick to how it’s written in TW

Before I start I’m gonna add a quote from a fandom of mine 👀 one look at my OG blog would reveal which fandom it is.

“Fallaces sunt rerum species”

Meaning: The appearances of things are deceptive

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle can handle himself. At least he could before his overblot episode. No body dared to talk behind his back.

But now he holds back, not using his unique magic frequently anymore which caused some students think he became too lenient and a couple students started to abuse this leniency

Every time someone tries his patience he counts to 10 internally or just ignore them. Don’t get him wrong, he still sticks to rules and makes his dorm follow the rules but he cannot force people to stop talking about him

Today is going to one of the days when he would ignore any bad mouthing because he is with (Y/N), the sweetest person he ever met

(Y/N) already saw at his worst when he overblotted. He doesn’t want her to see any more incidents such that.

He and (Y/N) decided to take a walk in Rose Gardens as a date. Then decided to get into Rose Maze, holding hands strictly for to not get lost.

“Prefect Rosehearts became such a softie. He is no longer fit to be our prefect.” “He never was. Mommy Issues needs to go back to kindergarten.”

(Y/N) and Riddle were in East side of Rose Maze when they heard 2 Heartslabyl students talking which made (Y/N) stop in her track. Riddle tugged her hand to move on but she didn’t budge.

“Riddle, honey, either push away those bushes or I’ll climb over it and have a nice chat with them.”

“There is no need.” — “okay then I’m climbing”

And she did. Riddle didn’t know how but she managed to go to other side of bushes by climbing to them.

“Hey jackasses! Would you like to say that again?” The two students were shocked to see Riddle’s girlfriend jump from above. “Wh- what?”

“I asked if you wanted to say those to my face.” And no answer.

Meanwhile Riddle was on the other side of bush walls, listening what’s happening.

“Did Riddle or did he not manage to increase Heartslabyl’s average grade?” “He did...” “Did he or did he not helped your dorm to have better ranking at Magift?” “He did...” “Did he treat you unfair ever since he fixed how he acted?” “No...” “Then what makes you say he is unfit? Is it because he is more tolerant on rules? Is it because he cares how his dorm mates feel?” No answer again. “I hope you come to your senses now because next time I hear something like this will be the first and last time you taste my wrath. Are we clear?” — “Yes ma’am!”

(Y/N) climbed over the bush again and landed in front of Riddle. With a kiss to his cheek, “Just because you give less punishment doesn’t mean you need to let people bully you. If anyone else acts this way, I’ll have a talk with them.”

She held his hand and pulled him into the maze again. Meanwhile Riddle was still wondering how his girlfriend climbed over a maze’s wall.

🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁

Leona Kingscholar

Leona is used to people bad mouthing about him back in his palace. While in Savanaclaw, his dorm mates respected him and didn’t dare to oppose him. That is until they saw his vulnerable side during his overblot accident.

He heard a couple dorm mates say “He can’t do anything by himself.” “Good for nothing.” “All that lazy lion does is sleep.” “He must have lack brains to repeat the same year over and over again.”

He is used to ignoring them and sleeping it off. And his favorite pillow, (Y/N), helped him to dismiss their thoughts.

Leona only asked (Y/N) out because he figured she would be great body pillow. Certainly not her lively and cheerful attitude, nor her bright smile.

Leona asked (Y/N) out for a night date in Savanaclaw. It’s because he wanted to nap in his dorm. It’s absolutely not that Savanaclaw lounge looks romantic at night.

When (Y/N) arrived, she unfortunately heard those.

Leona tugged her arm to lead her to where their date suppose to take but no avail.

“Hold my purse, kitten.” (Y/N) handed her purse to Leona and went where those dorm members stand.

“Hey there is something in your face!” The main jerk looked up “Huh?” Proceeded with a punch to his face. “It was PAIN!” And ended with the guy falling to ground, holding his nose.

“Does anyone else have something on their faces?” The remaining ones shook their head in NO. “Good.” She turned on her heels and went to Leona’s side.

All Leona could do was admire her right hook. He did not think how she wouldn’t feel out of blue in Afterglow Savannah if she were to live there because women in his hometown are strong and fighters.

🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙🐙

Azul Ashengrotto

(Y/N) first caught Azul’s eye when she sat down for 7 hours to read every single detail in his contract and demanded a change in certain conditions. Azul refused to make contract with her then offered her a job in Mostro Lounge.

With persuasion from the twins, Azul gathered courage to ask (Y/N) out. And she accepted.

They often stayed late hours in Mostro Lounge to spend some alone time.

After their quick date followed by closing of Mostro Lounge, Azul walked arm in arm with (Y/N) until the mirror passage. As they were walking, 2 Octavinelle student were messing around.

“Look at me! I’m the crybaby who hides behind two eels!” — “No one is making contract, I’mma cry now!” — “Maybe I can turn my crying into money. I can sell all the ink I cry!” “Nice one dude!”

One look to Azul’s face, (Y/N) understood he would deal with them either personally or the twins would play with them.

Not today Satan!

(Y/N) let Azul’s arm go and slowly approached the duo. “I am (Y/N), you can’t insult my boyfriend like that; prepare to die... socially I mean...” — “What are you saying?”

“I don’t have patience, time nor crayons to explain this to you but I’ll let you on a secret. Sometimes a nasty rumor, which doesn’t have to be true, can ruin someone’s entire school life. Maybe telling everyone your secret wish that you once asked from Azul or you offering a different type of payment to teachers to pass the grade.” — “You can’t do that!” — “I can and I will unless you cut the crap, ask for forgiveness and work for free in Mostro Louge for a week.” — “It’s a deal!”

Azul came to (Y/N)’s side as the two boys run away. Azul once again saw his angelfish using her wits to get what she wants. He knows she didn’t need to do that but he is flattered by the fact that his girlfriend wants to protect him.

🌞🌞🌞🌞🌞🌞🌞🌞🌞🌞🌞🌞

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim asked (Y/N) out after spending time together after Jamil overblotted.

He is still the sunshine bean that brings smile to everyone’s faces. (Y/N) is as cheerful as Kalim and that’s why he hit it off

Kalim took (Y/N) to another carpet ride as a date. She loves the feeling of wind on her face on top clouds.

As they returned to the dorm, they heard a couple students talking.

“I don’t care what Jamil did. He was right! Kalim is unfit to represent us. After he became prefect, we became the last at everything.” — “How many Kalim can change a light bulb? None because he is too idiot and too incapable to change one. Hehehehe”

(Y/N) saw tears building up on Kalim’s eyes then she snapped. She made carpet to fly over them in law altitude then she jumped down in front of them. “Surprise motherfuckers!” Before anyone can understand what happened. (Y/N) kicked the one that made bulb joke between his legs then held and twist the ear of the other two. “You have 10 seconds to reconsider what you just talked. I suggest not to waste time.”

The trio tried to dismissed what they said but the glare they received made them comply. “Prefect Kalim, we are sorry to make fun of you.”

Kalim as the personification of sunbeams forgave them. Then turned his attention to his beloved. He was impressed by how she jumped down and was ready to protect him without any hesitation. He never thought someone as kind and happy person as her could hide a fighter in her. Not going to lie, he loves seeing this side of hers

👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑👑

Vil Schönheit

Being with Vil is exhausting. Don’t get her wrong, it’s not him (Y/N) is complaining. It’s the people around them.

(Y/N) started paying more attention to her appearance

(Y/N) was waiting for Vil to get ready, sitting on his bed. Vil had free time that day and they were going out.

As they went out of the room, whispering ensued as always but this time, for the first time, a Pomefiore student bad mouthed about Vil.

“He is compensating his wretched personality with his looks!”

Vil isn’t someone to care opinions of a no-mark but (Y/N) is

“Hold my earrings, my love.” (Y/N) took out her earrings and handed them to Vil. “I’m going to snatch his wig!” — “He’s not wearing a wig...”

“I take it you weren’t burned with overabundance of schooling. You think you’re a Gucci but you’re not even Lacoste. Now apologize before I think your face needs a makeover.” — “Gucci? Lacoste?” — “And I suggest hide your jealousy better. You can’t get near Vil as a fan and you try to make up for it by talking about something that you have no idea on. Honestly I am jealous of people who haven’t met you.”

(Y/N) waves back the boy, going back to Vil’s side then putting her earrings again.

Vil is quite pleased what has occurred. Not only he saw how (Y/N) can destroy someone with just words but he also saw a glimpse of what she thinks of him. Maybe he should hire some people to insult him so he can see this side of hers again.

💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀💀

Idia Shroud

Idia tries everything he can to stay in his room but there is an anime con that he and (Y/N) are going so he needs to get out of his room.

Idia and (Y/N) dressed up as his favorite anime couple.

Idia left his room voluntarily without any compulsory reason! It became a quick hit topic in Ignihyde.

Idia and (Y/N) went to anime-con and Ortho tagged along to record the ordeal.

They had to return early because some drunk in the con spilt juice on (Y/N).

So they returned NRC then Ignihyde. Ortho left for somewhere as Idia and (Y/N) walked in Ignihyde lounge.

“He doesn’t even go Dorm meeting but doesn’t have a problem with going a stupid con! Idia is an embarrassment to Ignihyde! All he does is play games and ramble about them!”

(Y/N) coughed gathering attention from the group.

Idia freaked out by being in highlight, hand pulled his chest, eyes widened.

“Baby, get behind me.” (Y/N) stepped in front of Idia and strutted to the Ignihyde student that was shit talking. “Pick a God and pray.”

The boy gulped. “Wh-What?!”

“Did I stutter?”

“I don’t know what—“ He threw his hands to air in frustration. (Y/N) grabbed his wrist, twisting and pulling his arm. The momentum caused the boy to fell face forward. (Y/N) still holding his arm twisted, “Now, dear, you’ll apologize and promise that you’ll never speak of Idia that way. Then get out of my face or else..” — “Yes ma’am!” The boy did as he was told.

Idia couldn’t guess in a million years that his goody two shoes girlfriend was capable of pulling this stunt. What he saw right now made him think the fighter beautiful ladies in anime. It was like a dream come true for him.

🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉

Malleus Draconia

People feared Malleus for a really long time that he couldn’t remember anything else.

People avoided and tend to talk behind his back yet those didn’t reach insult level.

Who was stupid enough to dare that?

Malleus asked (Y/N) if she wanted to explore Diasomnia dorm and hear about the gargoyles of Diasomnia.

Of course she would love it. She loves when Malleus goes on about gargoyles for hours. And she is the only member in his club. Plus nightly strolls are their dates.

“He has no friends and no body loves him. For goodness’ sake, his intimating aura makes rest of dorm unapproachable! Can’t he just be gone already!?”

No genius is needed to know who that Diasomnia student was talking about.

Malleus’ mood turned sour immediately. He could curse that boy but this would only prove those wretched rumors.

(Y/N) finds Malleus’ sulking face extremely attractive (he is too attractive to be real) but no one has any right to upset her beloved.

“I’m about to end this man’s whole career.”

“Dear, wait me here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Off (Y/N) went to defend Malleus’ honor.

“Hi there! Couldn’t help but hear you. Have you ever thought you have no friends because you’re an ass?” — “Who do you think you are? Oh it’s you.” — “It’s me Mario!” — “Huh???”

“Now now, let’s talk shall we? All you do is complain yet you don’t do anything to improve anything. You hold others accountable when you fail while there is no one but you to blame. You’re so wrapped in your tiny bubble that you can’t see outside world. That’s what small minded people do. Whoever told you to be yourself simply couldn’t give you any worse advice.” The guy was left speechless, gaping like a fish out of water. “Close your mouth or else you might swallow a fly.”

(Y/N) went back to Malleus side, winking at him. His heart skipped a beat, thinking this was such a queen act. Defending her beloved with her words. To be fair, Malleus finds everything (Y/N) does a fitting trait for a queen, the way she rambles, snorts, breaths, smiles...

Malleus only wishes he met (Y/N) ages ago.

[aethersea]

May I request 41 - First Kiss and 94 - Hair Brushing/Braiding for the Leverage OT3, please? (Also extra bonus points if you give Eliot beads in his hair like in The Ice Man Job, because we didn't get NEARLY enough of that in the show) Thank you!

I cannot believe I wrote this whole thing out and then never published it. I’m so sorry, it’s been at least twenty-four years since you sent in this ask, please accept my humble apologies and also this ficlet.

However, this prompt is just pure fluff, and I hate to tell you this but I am not a fluff writer. I just can’t pull off that unadulterated sweetness. I am in this fandom for the shenanigans, first, last and foremost! So this fic is now a 5+1 of Eliot and Parker trying to seduce Hardison.

1. Parker thinks they need to give him gifts, so she goes through her stash and picks out the largest, fanciest jewel she’s ever stolen. Then she realizes: Hardison likes stories. He spends hours giving their aliases histories and pets and allergies and favorite foods, he can get a whole sordid history of jealousy and betrayal from a single corporate email chain, and Parker knows for a cold fact that he writes little stories with his online friends about being wizards together.

She goes through her stash again and picks out the most cursed thing she’s ever stolen.

It’s a jeweled statuette, almost as tall as her forearm, made of gold and studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Mysterious deaths have befallen five separate owners of this thing. Its base is dented from the time it was used to bludgeon Owner Number Three to death. The tiny rubies it has for eyes follow you across the room.

Parker puts a bow on it and leaves it in Hardison’s room while he’s sleeping. He wakes up to this horrible little statue watching him from his bedside table.

He texts the group chat, Hey did anyone put an evil little gold guy in my bedroom last night? But Parker chickens out and says nothing (drunkenly betting Eliot that she can seduce Hardison is one thing, but admitting that she likes him is something else altogether). Everyone else texts back variations on “nope.” (Except Sophie, who just sends back a string of heart eyes emojis and a wikipedia link. She loves cursed artifacts.) So Hardison puts the statue away in a closet somewhere and figures he’ll deal with it later.

Parker is mildly offended that he put her gift in a closet. She goes into his room the next night and puts it back on the bedside table, where it clearly belongs.

This goes on for a week. Hardison puts the statue in a desk drawer, then in one of the cabinets in the office downstairs, then in the dumpster down the street. Every day he wakes up to those glittering red eyes watching him sleep. He’s asked his internet buddies if anyone knows a good exorcist. Hardison doesn’t really believe in curses, but also? What the fuck. What the fuck.

~

2. Eliot assumes the drunken bet will be forgotten by morning. What kind of world would it be if people always followed through on promises they made while they could barely stay vertical? So he spends the morning nursing his hangover and cleaning his knives. Cleaning guns is no good while hungover—all the snaps and clicks of popping things in and out of place sound like actual gunfire when you’re hungover, it’s a nightmare—but knives are quiet and have no moving parts. Buffing and polishing them is soothingly repetitive work, and every once in a while he can throw one at one of the dartboards on the walls and reassure himself that his reflexes are still sound even after that much tequila.

It’s only when he gets Hardison’s text about the golden statuette that magically appeared in his room overnight that Eliot realizes Parker’s actually going for it. After some internal debate about whether he’s going to stoop to this or not, Eliot decides what the hell and starts making plans.

Eliot agrees that gifts are the way to go, but not stolen gifts. Not things. Anyone can give a thing. Proper wooing is about giving experiences.

Eliot plans for three days. On the fourth day, he and Hardison have their irregularly scheduled monthly coffee date, and Eliot texts him beforehand to say he wants to do it at the brewpub this time. Hardison arrives to find a deceptively simple meal: basic country fare perfected through years of experimentation, made with the best ingredients Eliot can get his hands on. And Eliot, after all, is still a retrieval specialist. There’s very little in the world he can’t get his hands on.

And yet the night ends and somehow he has not gotten his hands on Hardison.

This is just not right. Eliot knows how to deploy a smolder, okay, Tangled reference aside he is damn good at flirting and he knows the looks he’s giving Hardison are clear as day. It’d be one thing if Hardison had turned him down, or if he’d been uneasily unwilling, or even if his eyes had widened slightly in suppressed panic and he’d abruptly found a reason to leave. Eliot can take rejection, bet or no, and he’d have bowed out graciously without a fuss. But this was much, much worse.

Hardison didn’t even notice he was flirting.

He’s going to have to up his game.

~

3. “How do you seduce people?” Parker asks bluntly, turning up at Sophie’s door just past midnight.

Sophie, despite the hour, is utterly delighted by the question.

This goes as well as you would expect.

~

4. Eliot’s taken a lot of dates to sports games. Hardison may prefer sparkly elves with purple lightning magic to a decent MMA fight, but baseball is the American pastime. Eliot gets them perfect seats, hot dogs from the best vendor in the stadium, even chilled beer that he smuggles in without letting it get warm. It’s going to be a perfect game.

And it is. At first. Hardison, it turns out, has a lot of opinions about baseball. What he does not have is an understanding of the rules. They’re not even into the second inning by the time Eliot finally snaps and starts arguing with him about it.

They make it all the way to the fifth inning before Eliot realizes that Hardison’s basing his complaints off the rules of a game from a Star Wars novel.

They’re at the bottom of the eighth before Eliot will speak to him again.

~

5. Eliot and Parker are drunk again. This is not intentional. They didn’t even mean to come to this bar, but the smoothie place with the fried oreos that Eliot had brought Parker here to try was playing such incredibly bad music that they’d ordered the oreos to go and fled. The bar was just the coziest looking place on the block, and of course they’d ordered drinks to avoid being rude––Eliot had entertained himself for a few minutes scouring the menu for something that would pair well with fried oreos and popcorn chicken.

And now they’re drunk. The conversation has, perhaps inevitably, turned to the ongoing bet.

“I tried everything!” Parker wails. “I laughed at every joke, I touched my hair constantly, I got him talking about things he likes.” She thunks her forehead on the bar. “All that happened is now I know the complete history of orcs in western literature.”

“Hardison wouldn’t know flirting if it pinched him on the ass,” Eliot grumbles.

Parker slaps his arm. “No pinching Hardison!”

“I’m not going to—I don’t pinch people!”

Parker’s ignoring him. Eliot pouts and takes another sip of his drink. He’s not entirely sure what this one is––it’s blue and kind of fizzy, that’s all he can say for sure. Parker took over the drinks menu several glasses ago, and she’s been picking them based on what has the most fun name to say. Eliot’s pretty sure the alcohol content’s been doubling with each order.

“Eliot,” Parker slurs, “we need to work together.”

“What?”

Parker lifts her head from the bar and frowns at him, the way she does when she’s figured out the obvious solution and is just waiting for everyone else to get on the same page. It’s adorable. It’s always adorable, but right now her eyes are wide and slightly unfocused from the alcohol and she’s listing sideways a little, almost as if she’s unbalanced, and it is the most adorable thing Eliot has ever seen. Parker’s never unbalanced, but some part of Eliot’s fuzzy brain thinks she’s about to fall on top of him and cannot wait to catch her.

“You can’t seduce Hardison,” Parker points out. Eliot is drunk enough to get offended by this, but too drunk to get out a complaint before she continues, “I can’t seduce Hardison. But if we work together, the two of us can definitely seduce Hardison. Together.”

Eliot stares at her. Then he takes another sip of his fizzy blue drink. Later, when questioned, he will blame his next words on that drink.

“Worth a shot.”

They take Hardison to a movie. They research for three weeks beforehand. They find the best movie theater in town, with the nicest seats, the biggest screens, and concession snacks that Hardison likes, and they buy tickets for the midnight premiere of the superhero movie that Hardison hasn’t shut up about for the past month. Parker even hacks into the theater’s computers in a last-minute fit of nerves and cross-references the credit cards with drivers’ licenses to make sure the people sitting in front of them won’t be too tall.

Parker witnesses a kidnapping in the parking lot while the boys are getting popcorn. They don’t even stay long enough to catch the commercials.

~

+ 1. “Hey Eliot,” Hardison says during movie night, a little over a week later. “Remember the Ice Man Job?”

Eliot groans. “I try not to.”

Hardison throws a piece of popcorn at his face. “Shut up. Remember how you did your hair for that one? With the little—those little beads on, like, a braid?”

Eliot shoots Hardison a suspicious glance. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Teach me how to do that.”

Eliot shoots Hardison another, more deliberate look, this one pointedly directed at Hardison’s complete lack of braidable locks.

Hardison rolls his eyes as if that’s a silly detail to get hung up on and leans forward to dig around in one of the boxes he has under his coffee table. He emerges with a ziplock bag of plastic beads in no time flat and hands it triumphantly to Eliot. Then he yanks a few cushions out from behind Parker, who’s sitting on his other side, and puts them on the floor in front of him. “Sit here?” he asks Parker, patting the cushion pile.

Parker takes a moment to consider being offended at having her cushions stolen, but curiosity gets the better of her and she just plops down between Hardison’s legs, grabbing the bowl of popcorn as she goes, and waits.

Hardison lifts her hair with sudden gentleness, drawing it over her shoulders and letting it fall down her back in a golden wave. His fingers brush against her neck. Parker shivers. Eliot is distantly aware that he’s gone perfectly still, focused with a hunter’s intensity on Hardison’s dark, graceful fingers carding through Parker’s hair.

Hardison leans back, hands on his knees, and Eliot breathes again. “Well?” Hardison looks over at Eliot, a tiny smirk of challenge on his lips. “Show me how it’s done.”

Eliot is suddenly, brutally aware of how close they are. Hardison’s couch is obscenely comfortable, which is half the reason movie nights are at Hardison’s in the first place, but it is not large. Their thighs are touching. Hardison leans away, to give Eliot access to Parker’s hair, and he’s still so close that Eliot would barely have to reach out a hand to—

Eliot ruthlessly shoves that thought down into the dark where it belongs. He dealt with this, he dealt with this years ago, and accepting Parker’s stupid bet doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the way Hardison and Parker look at each other. It just means he doesn’t mind losing for a good cause.

So he keeps his tone steady and his fingers brisk as he shows Hardison how to braid the clunky plastic beads into Parker’s hair, and if he flushes with heat when their hands brush each other, well, nobody has to know. He’s been trained to withstand eight different schools of torture. It won’t show on his face. His voice never once falters.

Parker has had no such training. Her lips have parted, and her breathing is shallow. She’s staring glassy-eyed at the TV. Hardison can’t see her face, sitting behind her, but Eliot watches her carefully, worried that they need to call this off. Parker’s not used to intimacy, to closeness that means something, and for all the three of them have spent half their movie nights literally on top of each other, this is something else. This has weight.

Eliot puts a hand on her shoulder, pressing down just enough that Parker startles and cants a glance over at him. Eliot raises his eyebrows in question, and Parker glares back: don’t you fucking dare. Eliot backs off. Hardison, frowning in concentration as he threads a wisp of Parker’s hair through a green bead, graciously pretends he didn’t see the exchange.

Hardison gets the hang of the beading fairly quickly, and Eliot shows him a few different techniques. He’s almost managed to convince himself that nothing is actually happening when Hardison says, conversationally, “You two are really bad at this.”

Eliot glowers his confusion. “At movie night? You started this, if you wanted to actually watch Alien then you shouldn’t have—”

Hardison’s smile is soft, but Eliot decides for his own safety to focus on the laughter at its edge. “No, at this.” And then he slides his hand onto Parker’s neck, caresses her cheek, and isn’t the slightest bit surprised when she gasps.

Parker whips around, and there’s hurt on her face but it dies in the glow of Hardison’s gentle, unteasing smile. Hardison pulls her up with the lightest of touches, and she goes, eyes fixed on his like salvation.

They kiss sweet and slow, and Eliot’s heart twists in his chest and he can’t breathe. He needs to leave now before he shatters in half, but if he moves then they will look at him, and he would rather never breathe again than meet their eyes right now.

Hardison breaks off the kiss, gazing at Parker with something just this side of wonder, and then he does look at Eliot. Eliot flinches. He opens his mouth to…say something, make some joke or hasty excuse and scramble out the door, but Hardison raises a hand to Eliot’s face, slides his long fingers to cup Eliot’s neck, and pulls him forward, as gently as he did Parker.

It’s a chaste kiss, no more than a soft press of lips, because Eliot is too stunned to respond and Hardison doesn’t push. It lasts a long time. A whole era of change happens in the span of that kiss, as everything Eliot thought he knew tears out of place and then settles, gingerly, into a new understanding.

Hardison pulls away, his hand still warm on the back of Eliot’s neck. His smile is pure sunshine. Eliot finds himself smiling back, helpless.

Hardison’s grin turns smug. “And that,” he says, looking between Eliot and Parker, “is how you do it. Y’all are disasters, honestly, I can’t believe two master criminals working together couldn’t manage a single real date—”

Eliot heaves a deep sigh and drags Hardison into a headlock, pinning his arms when he flails. Parker surges to her knees and starts tickling him mercilessly.

They don’t finish the movie.

[thebloggerbloggerfun]

Hey, I did a three word Kofi prompt with you at some point during quarantine and then I forgot about it for 6 months and now I can’t find it, is there any way you could repost it or send me a link? 🙏 very sorry I have no concept of time

YOU KNOW I looked it up and I don’t think I ever wrote it!! Sorry about that! A true tragedy. Anyway, here it FINALLY is after all these months: a Destiel ficlet based on the words Sunlight, Marble, and Blood.

It was nine fifty-nine in the evening and Castiel was wearing a well-pressed suit, a baby-blue tie, and a frown. 

The frown deepened as the clock finally struck ten, and Castiel let out a disgruntled breath of air. 

"Figures.” He murmured to the empty room in front of him. 

There was a table to his left with remnants of half-finished spells that he’d been procrastinating and scrolls with lists of potion ingredients that he’d recently run out of - a messy space that mocked all of the choices he’d made to end up in this exact moment instead of doing something productive.  

Castiel set his jaw, and walked over to the table. 

He had the spell memorized by this point - he’d used it so many times over the years that he barely needed to double-check his work. Crushed femur bone, sulfur, wolfsbane; all tossed into a well-used marble bowl that he’d managed to clean just the day before. 

Castiel then picked up the black ceremonial dagger and cut an incision across the palm of his hand, hissing as the steel bit into his flesh, and let the blood fall into place among the other ingredients. 

After saying a few, quick lines of Latin, Castiel gripped the bowl with his bloody hand, lit a match with the other and walked to the center of the room, staring into the dark circle painted onto the floorboards in front of him. 

He let out another breath, dropped the match into the bowl, and flung the entire thing into the circle. 

The room lit up like a flash of sunlight as the dark lines sparked bright yellow, then orange, then red - and Castiel winced as a high-pitched whistling noise filled the air, then was quickly cut off as a powerful being appeared in the center of the glowing circle. 

A handsome male figure with a strong jaw, dusty hair, and freckles framing his face was standing in an awkward half-crouch in nothing but Scooby-Doo boxer briefs and a single oven mitt. 

“Uh,” the figure said, glancing down at himself and then back up at Castiel, “Cas, what the hell?”

Castiel folded his arms against his chest and said nothing as he stared daggers at the man in the summoning circle. 

“I mean - uh,” the man stood a little straighter as his eyes flashed black and dragged up and down Castiel’s figure, “Wow. You look - you look good.”

“You forgot.” Castiel said bluntly. 

“I - what?” The man squinted at him. 

“Dean.” Castiel huffed. “This was important.”

“Cas, I - ” Dean scratched at his head with his oven-mitted hand, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Castiel scowled, and the circle began to grow brighter. 

“Our anniversary.” He said, scarcely able to believe that Dean had completely forgotten about their plans to actually splurge on a fancy restaurant for the first time in their year-long relationship. 

Dean paused, mouth half open as he stared back at Castiel’s stormy expression. 

“. . . is tomorrow.” Dean said. 

Castiel opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, and opened it again. 

“. . .No, it’s today.” 

“Babe, our first date was on the nineteenth.” Dean said, stepping as close to the edge of the circle as he could. “That’s tomorrow.”

“But -” Castiel scrambled for words, “but we met today.” 

Dean’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ and his expression softened. 

“Oh, Cas, I’m sorry. This is uh, I think we got a little confused.” A gentle smile formed on his lips as he pressed his hand up against the invisible barrier that separated the two of them. “Can I come out now?”

A moment passed before Castiel nodded once and dragged the sole of his shoe along the circle, breaking the line and stopping the glow. 

Dean stepped out of the circle and carefully grabbed Castiel’s bloodied hand, inspecting it with a glance. 

“You really don’t have to cut your whole palm, you know.” Dean said, and waved a hand over it, sealing the wound instantly. “Just a single drop will do.”

Castiel only rolled his eyes at the demon trying to magic-splain to a witch. 

“I know.” He said, the tone of his voice was short. “I was feeling dramatic.”

“Yeah, I - I get that.” Dean said with a small laugh, but his hand didn’t leave Castiel’s. “I’m sorry, I thought that you meant the anniversary of our first date.”

“And I thought it was going to be the anniversary of our first meeting.” Castiel admitted bashfully. “I suppose I should. . .communicate better.”

“Nah, it’s my fault, too,” Dean said, and took a half-step backwards to blatantly get an eyeful, “But damn. I’m not going to complain about seeing you in that suit a day early.”

Castiel chuckled and cocked his head to the side

“And your choice of casual-wear is stunning as well.” 

Dean smirked and gestured at his mostly-naked body with the oven-mitt. 

“You like? They’re custom-made.”

“Is the oven-mitt also custom-made?” Castiel said with a raised eyebrow, then paused. “Were you in the middle of baking when I summoned you?”

Dean’s eyes widened. 

“Ah shit. My cookies.” 

Castiel laughed and tugged on Dean’s hand, leading him out of the summoning room. 

“Come on - let me make it up to you.”

“Cas, this is serious. What if it starts a fire?”

“. . . “

“I’m kidding. I live in Hell. Make it up to me Your Ruggedness.”

[unforth]

🤔 Gonzo/Carrie Bradshaw 😈

I had to Google Carrie Bradshaw, lmao, but at least once I checked I did have a vague idea. I’ve never actually seen Sex and the City so this is based entirely on my osmosis of it.

Also, if you saw yesterday when I said that the Dean Winchester/Margaret Thatcher was the most cursed thing I’ve ever written?

It’s been dethroned. This is the most cursed thing I’ve ever written.

*

Wind whooshed out of Gonzo’s fabricky mouth; Carrie could still remember the feel of their fur on her skin, the magic they did with that long, flexible nose. Then, They’d lay between her legs then looked up at her with a smile, but they weren’t smiling now, and nerves thrilled through Carrie with an uncomfortable mixture of worry and remembered ardor.

Their silence was the most unnerving part.

“Just talk to me,” Carrie implored. “I’m sure we can work this out! I’ve never met anyone like you, Gonzo - so communicative, and carrying, and in *bed*? Just wow…whatever it is, I’m sure we can…” She trailed off as Gonzo shook their head. “…no, please! Don’t tell me—“

“It’s over,” Gonzo sighed out, head still shaking, their nose waggling with every turn.

“No!” wailed Carrie. After so much searching, she’d finally, *finally* found the perfect significant other in this cursed city, and now…now…

“I’m sorry.”

“Can you at least tell me why?” she asked tearfully. “Is there nothing I can…” She didn’t bother finishing; she’d been dumped enough times to recognize a hopeless situation when she saw one.

But, damn it all, she’d thought Gonzo was different!

They heaved another sigh, gaze fixed on the table, then after a long pause they looked up, reached across the table to take her hands, and met Carrie’s gaze with their steady, black-eyed, gleaming obsidian orbs.

“Well,” Gonzo said solemnly, “you have to understand…and it’s why I say this isn’t fixable, because there’s no way…Carrie, you’re not a chicken. You’ll never be a chicken. And my dream woman…my dream woman is a chicken.”

Well.

Carrie couldn’t argue with that. She definitely wasn’t a chicken, literally or figuratively, nor did she want to be. She loved being a human woman. And if that just wasn’t what Gonzo wanted, there was nothing she could do.

“Good bye,” they said, giving her hand a final squeeze, rising and walking away, shooting a wistful look over their shoulder before heading out of the restaurant, out onto the blustery, busy New York City street, and vanishing from her life forever.

“Miss, are you ready to order?” a waiter asked politely.

Heartbreak wracked Carrie’s chest, anger and betrayal and loneliness and frustration and the furious realization that she’d have to try *again,* would she *never* find someone who’d stay, would she never—

“Ma’am?”

Hands slapping on the table, resolve stiffening, Carrie slammed the menu shut. “Chicken cordon blue,” she announced, proud of herself for not sounding too, too bitter.

It was a small revenge, but it felt…right. Appropriate. Weirdly like victory, though she couldn’t have said what game she was playing that she could possibly win.

“Very good, we’ll have that out for you shortly!”

When had she *ever* won?

Fighting back a sob, she called out to the waiter’s back, “and a strawberry daiquiri!”

Fuck her life.

Back to square one single…

*

Whelp that’s. Something. I wrote.

Want your own insane crack ship ficlet? Drop an ask in my inbox and I’ll do my best!

[wellsjahasghost]

the monster in my head

A/N: VILLAIN BELLAMY, TASTY. sooo this bellarke ficlet was born because i thought, what if bellamy went all void stiles on us in the final season after being captured?? like obviously, not gonna happen but it’s such a juicy concept. 

disclaimer: my knowledge of season 5-7 is so sparse it is laughable. i just wanted to write a mind-wiped!bellamy drabble basically, so please excuse my lack of detail in literally every other aspect of this. also all the typos, i wrote this really fast lol.

Clarke wakes up tied to a chair and her first thought is, I can’t believe he tricked me.

Except he’d gotten her guard down. One second she’d been walking away from the others, looking for something to eat on this godforsaken planet they’d landed on, and the next-- he’d appeared.

Right in front of her. The sight of him disarmed her so much, she’d only been halfway through saying his name when he hit her, and she’d been knocked out.

Now here he is again.

Bellamy, sitting in a chair opposite to her-- but he’s not the Bellamy she knows.

Except he is, she realizes with a start. He’s the Bellamy of before Praimfaya, his hair curly and unruly over his forehead, his jaw clean-shaven. His familiar, handsome face would settle her if it weren’t for the cold look in his eye. 

“Bellamy?” she says slowly, drowsily. Am I talking to Bellamy?

“Clarke,” he says pleasantly, and she realizing he’s twiddling a pocket knife in his fingers. Even the way he says her name is cold, and she didn’t realize how warmly he used to say it until just right now. 

The way he tilts his head to consider her is entirely foreign. Not in the way of people who were controlled by ALIE, where their movements were robotic, un-humanlike. No, this comes entirely from him, just... a different version of him. He’s wearing different clothes, too. All black. Black jacket too. His clothes and his skin and his hair are all clean, and pristine, like he’s been well cared for while he was gone.

Clarke, at this point, has grown used to the impossible happening. She just accepts in this moment that this Bellamy is not her Bellamy, and focuses on other things, like getting out of here and living another day to find out what happened to him.

They’re in a tiny, one-room cabin. Tools all over the place. Her hands are tied behind her. She stretches her wrists experimentally. No slack at all.

“What are you doing?” she asks Bellamy, who’s just been watching her take in her surroundings.

“We’ve been looking for you,” he says, still fiddling with his knife.

“Who’s been looking for me?” No answer. “Bellamy, what-- what’s going on? I haven’t seen you in--”

“Don’t you ever get tired of talking?” Bellamy says, bored. He tilts his head suddenly and stands. “Time to go. They’re waiting for us.”

“What do you mean it’s time to--” she cuts herself off as he strides towards her. She stays entirely still as he pulls the gun from his thigh holster and presses it to her temple.

“You try anything, and we see what your brain looks like decorating the wall.”

His voice is casual. Her heart beats faster.

“That’s a lie,” she guesses. “You’re bringing me to someone, and they want me alive. They wouldn’t be happy if you killed me.”

He laughs, lowly. "You willing to bet your life on that?”

He leans over her and cuts her free from the chair.

“Walk to the door,” he says against her ear, and she obediently stands.

“Do you remember me?” she asks, as he nudges her forward with the gun to her temple. He’s still got that knife in his other hand. It would be perfect to cut through the ropes around her wrists. “Do you know who I am?”

“I know who you are, Clarke. I just don’t care.” He presses the gun against her temple harder. 

“Someone’s controlling you,” she guesses. From his silence, she guesses she’s right. “Are you still Bellamy?” 

“That’s right.”

“Bellamy would never do this. He wouldn’t threaten to blow my brains out.”

“Well, I just did,” Bellamy replies. “So I guess you don’t know me very well.”

They keep walking forward. Towards the open door, revealing a grassy clearing beyond. “That’s okay,” Clarke replies. “I know it’s not you I’m talking to right now. I forgive you, Bellamy. If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you.”

He falters. That’s when Clarke makes her move.

She ducks from under his gun. He fires-- he fires!-- into the empty space where her head was. She tackles him around the middle, making them both tumble into the ground. 

Bellamy’s caught off guard-- his movements slow, clumsy for a second, and she presses her advantage. She’s on top of him. He’s still got a tight grip on his knife, and she wraps her wrists around it, tearing through the rope binding her hands together with one strong pull.

He seems to wake up from whatever confusion he was in when she scrambles off him, his knife in her hand. She’s only made it two steps before he grabs her ankle and tries to yank her down again. Before she can fall, she grabs onto the chair he’d been sitting on for leverage. It crashes down with them.

Bellamy tries to pull her towards him. She grabs the chair leg and swings it over-- the chair is surprisingly light--bashing whatever part of his body she can reach behind him.

He grunts and releases her. She staggers up and sprints out of the cabin.

She’s in the middle of a clearing, in a forest she doesn’t recognize, with a sky up above that she doesn’t recognize either. She has no fucking clue where she is.

Right down to what planet she is on.

“Not so fast, Clarke...”

His voice is a sing-song from behind her. She whips her head around, and there he is, wiping blood from his face, but not looking angry at all. He’s walking towards her leisurely, and tucking the gun back into his thigh holster. He actually looks on the verge of a smile. Like he’s enjoying this.

“What now, princess? Where you gonna go?” he says softly, and the words are familiar and horrible in their new context. A chill races up her spine. She turns back around and sprints into the forest.

She’s running blindly for a few seconds, completely terrified out of her mind. She trips over a root, and then she’s tumbling down a steep bank, sand spraying around her as she falls. Pain explodes through her shoulder, and then the back of her head, and her back, and she just keeps falling and falling, and she doesn’t know which way is up or down, just that everything hurts.

She finally gets to the bottom of the hill, rolling into freezing cold water. She’s fallen into a stream. It takes her several moments to gather herself, and in that time she distantly hears footsteps coming down the bank. No. No. 

Gasping, she rolls off her back, onto her hands and knees. Looks up only to see a hand coming down at her.

Bellamy yanks at her hair. Hard. She cries out, and he kneels beside her, prying the knife from her hands and tossing it far down the stream.

“You tried to shoot me in the head,” she gasps, unable to grasp that concept. It just makes no sense. The people he’s bringing her to must want her alive. “The people in control of you-- they wouldn’t have wanted me dead-- so why--”

He dunks her head underwater. She fights, struggles against him, throws her elbows, but he’s firm. He pulls her out after just a second. She’s gasping for air, wet hair stuck to her cheeks, the cold drenching her shirt and making her shiver. He leans in close, his nose brushing against the shell of her ear.

“The thing the people in control of me don’t know,” he says softly, “is that they don’t have very good control of me at all.”

She turns her head to stare at him, the dark eyes she can see her own terrified reflection in, his freckled cheekbones she knows so well, the curls hanging over his eyes. If it weren’t for the things he was doing, the things he was saying, she would say he looks in this moment exactly like the Bellamy who stood beside her and ordered her to write her name down on a list.

Except right now there is a monster lurking under his skin, and she’s starting to think the people who unleashed it didn’t know what they were doing.

“What did they do to you, Bellamy?” she asks, her voice tender, and his grip on her hair loosens slightly. “What did they do to make you like this?”

But then he gets a better grip, and dunks her back in the water again.

He keeps her there for so long her lungs scream for air. She makes herself go limp, but right when she does, he pulls her out again, and easily blocks her attempts to hit him. Backhands her instead, stunning her with pain.

He knows her game. He knows her too damn well for playing dead to work.

Clarke gulps breath into her lungs. She can’t understand what happened to him to make him like this. She only knows it must have been horrible, worse than Mount Weather, worse than anything she could imagine. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop them from hurting you,” she says, again as soft as butter, and his eyes narrow. He dunks her back in.

When he pulls her back out, she manages to gasp, “I will kill the people who did this to you,” and he dunks her back in again. This time he holds her under for so long she actually blacks out for a second.

She comes to a moment later, leaning against his shoulder. He’s looking down at her with a storm in his eyes. She gazes up at him. He seems to be waiting for her to say something.

She says, “I’m going to do everything I can to bring you back--”

“Stop,” he says, and his voice sounds pained. “Just shut up. Shut up. Shut up.”

He lets go of her, and his hands sink into his own hair, his expression hard and enraged and emotions flickering over his face a mile a minute. Clarke manages to clamber back on her hands and knees, shakily. She reaches to touch him.

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps, shoving her away, and she lets him, but then she puts her hands back on his face, gently. She traces her fingers over his jaw, brushes her thumb against the corner of his lip.

She’s sure she doesn’t imagine when he leans into it.

Suddenly Bellamy laughs, and the sound is bitter and disbelieving.

“I am trying to kill you,” he informs her. His voice is hoarse, as if he’s the one who’s been held underwater.

She smiles, gently again. “I know.”

Because she gets it, suddenly. His motivation to end her life is not because he actually wants her dead. The monster inside him is trying to kill whatever’s left of Bellamy, by killing her.

But he still can’t do it, and that’s how she knows there’s hope. That’s how she knows Bellamy is somewhere in there, fighting, maybe even at this very moment.

Bellamy reaches for her throat then, as if he might strangle her, but then it comes up and he brushes her wet hair out of her eyes, tucks the strand behind her ear. Like he can’t help himself. Then his hand tightens on the back of her neck again. His eyes harden, expression becoming blank. The monster has taken over completely again.

She leans in and kisses him.

He freezes. Her mouth is numb from the freezing water, but his is warm, and soft, and for half a second, he kisses her back.

She doesn’t know if she’s kissing the monster, or Bellamy, or the monstrous part of Bellamy. She doesn’t give herself time to find out.

She reaches behind her for the biggest rock she can get her hands on in the stream, then swings it at his temple.

The thunking sound is horrible. He topples over on his side. The splash his body makes as he falls over in the stream is small, nearly inaudible over the loud rush of water.

She staggers to her feet, gets her hands under his arms and drags him out of the water. She deposits him in the mud and stares down at him. His head lolls to the side. His eyes are closed, his expression open and innocent. He might be sleeping, if it weren’t for the gash on his head, half-obscured by dark curls, where she hit him with the rock. He’s bleeding. She’ll have to clean it.

She runs her hand over her mouth, still breathing raggedly. 

Bellamy. Bellamy. Bellamy.

She hefts him up from under his arms again and starts to drag him back up the bank, her heels slipping in the wet ground. But she’s determined. They’re not far from that cabin. She’ll tie him up in the same chair he had her in.

And then? She has no clue. There’s only one thing she knows.

She pauses to catch her breath, and leans in close to his ear to make a vow to him, a vow she has always made to him ever since they landed on Earth. 

“I am not giving up on you.”

[translightyagami]

I’m so torn when fic requests open up because I love requesting fics and getting ficlets back but I hate that the reason for requests being open is to get back your creativity. It happens to me so much so I know how hard it is, and I wish you the best of luck and send you good vibes ❤️

For the request! How about a Lawlight coffeeshop AU? I’d love to see your spin/take on that.

(hey hey! I did write a coffeeshop AU like a few years ago, but I thought I’d try again with this short prompt.)

cross-posted on ao3!

Being Kira and being the assistant manager of a university Starbucks was, Light admitted, a lot for one person to handle. Especially when two of their newer “partners” called in sick to their shifts, and no one was answering his “Can you put in some extra hours” texts on their days off – and also he had humiliated himself on television the night before thanks to an international detective. Light grabbed the soy milk harder than he needed. Just thinking about that smug voice-scrabbling scolding he got made him squeeze the damp cardboard in his fist.

“Don’t squeeze too hard,” Ryuk said. The Shinigami floated over the Starbucks dining area and examined his rings. “You’ll make a soy explosion.”

If he weren’t wearing a microphone headset right then, Light would have said a few choice words to his hanger-on. Ryuk didn’t even need to come to work with him; the death god chose to after he finished watching all of Light’s VHS.

“Light,” the cashier, a short blue-haired woman, pulled him over from where he was finishing a vanilla latte. Her big green eyes filled with the particular fear of a complicated order. “Please. You have to tell this guy he can’t have that many syrups.”

“I want that many syrups,” Ryuk leaned over the register screen, big yellow eyes pressed to the long itemized list. “Shinigami realm doesn’t even have one syrup.”

“The customer is always right,” Light rattled off. He wiped his hands on his black apron, not looking to see what sort of freak wanted – what was it, all of their flavor syrups? That would taste terrible, but it was what the customer wanted. “Just charge this man and we’ll make his drink.”

“I’m not a man.”

For a moment, Light froze. Misgendering customers wasn’t usually his business – leave that for the newbies, who still wrote Jeff as Jeb every time. He gave his cashier a pat on the shoulder and told her to take up drink service for a minute. Slipping in front of the register, Light glanced up at the customer causing all the fuss. Lean, with long unkempt black hair, deep under-eye circles, an arrogant, aquiline nose, they bore the air of someone taller than their deep hunch showed. They watched him with immense focus, leaving Light to feel butterfly-pinned. He smeared a smile over his lips.

“So,” Light said. “I’m so sorry for all the trouble. Let me give you this one on the house, as an apology.”

“No need,” the customer picked at their chapped lip. “Do you think it’ll taste good?”

“I’m sorry? Are you asking if I think what you ordered would be good?”

“Yes.” Dark hair flopped as the customer nodded. “If I trust anyone’s opinion on a coffee order, it would be you” – they squinted at Light’s name badge – “Light, Starbucks employee.”

“Partner,” Light said, his response ingrained. “We’re called partners now. We get stock, sometimes.”

“How wonderful for your financial portfolio,” the customer said.

Dull but present throbbing started in Light’s head. Bullish customers reminded him of that stupid L from the television. No matter what Light did, that detective had a comeback, a little maneuver to leave him steamed, although the thrill of countering those moves was natural for him. Customer service wasn’t dissimilar in requiring quick response time – and Light was an expert at making things go his way. After all, he managed angry mothers who didn’t realize mocha drinks had caffeine all the time. Some asshole with international acclaim goading him from behind a computer screen wasn’t that bad.

Still though. Headaches all the same.

“I think that whatever you choose will be right,” Light said. He already entered his manger override and was about to push the order through. “It’s your drink.”

“Tell me,” the customer shoved their hand over the register screen, halting Light in his steps. “Have you ever once told a customer the truth in your life, Light?”

Their gray eyes bore into him and Light found as he stared at their features a certain handsome severity in them. Behind him, the kitchen hushed. Heat burst in his cheeks, giving Light an unwelcome blush. Was this person really going to humiliate him over some stupid drink order? Light swallowed the indignant spit welling in his throat.

“Your drink is going to taste bad,” he said – more spat, to be honest. “If you mix that many flavors, all you’ll taste is the artificial sweetening and the drink won’t even be digestible, I think. But you wanted it, so we’ll make it. Is that truth enough for you?”

The customer smiled. Light’s blushed deepened; not fair! It was a really cute smile.

“What would you recommend for someone who wants a drink that’s very sweet, then?” they asked. “If not all the sugar syrups combined?”

“I guess,” Light turned his attention to the menu, erasing the previous order. Making custom drinks was a particular pastime he enjoyed of his job. Finding elements from every part of the menu, pulling them together with knowledge borne of both taste testing and simple common knowledge: it all felt like a fun science experiment. “Hm. Well, I’d start with a blonde vanilla latte, three shots because you look like you’re not much for sleeping.”

“Excellent deduction,” the customer said. Although Light didn’t look up, he heard their tone warm, and grinned to himself. On a roll now, he thought.

“Then I’d add two shots of raspberry, two classic syrups shots, one pump pistachio sauce,” Light’s finger flew over the register screen. “Regular ice, wait, no. Extra ice. Whip cream and, just for you, freeze-dried strawberries on top.” He stopped and looked up at the customer. “Sorry, do you have any dairy restrictions? Is two percent okay?”

“Oat milk, please,” they said with a stupid, cute smile on their thin lips. “You’re quite good at this.”

“Oh, well,” Light finished out the order, not denying himself a little satisfied smirk. “I’m happy to help. What’s the name on the order?”

“Put it under,” the customer paused, their smile falling for a second. Above them both, Ryuk wheezed with laughter. “Put it under Lawliet, please.”

Light took Lawliet’s card, running it through the reader. Ryuk being annoying didn’t dampen his spirit, really. As he handed the card back, his and Lawliet’s fingers brushed. The caress stayed a phantom on Light’s skin as he made the drink. The entire time, he didn’t spare a single thought for L.

I wonder if Lawliet will come back, he thought as he watched them sip at his creation and nod approvingly. Light surprised himself with his next thought: I hope they come back.