#ficlet challenge

[hergrandplan]

Hey Nina 💜,

Okay I'm super super late, so I don't know if you still wanna do this, but Wilmon x Call me ?

Hi Sophia 💜 thank you for sending this! And I still love how you said that you're late sending this in while I am answering this only now! I had two ideas for this, and I will still post the other one (i think, albeit on ao3) but this one just called to me more :)))) it's a bit short, but originally this was meant to be a drabble anyways!!! Enjoy 💜

TW: Blood

Send me a prompt from this list and get a ficlet if you want!

It wasn't the incessant knocking that got Simon to finally open the door, nor was it the ruckus outside of someone stumbling over something, probably one of his chairs out front falling down.

No, it was the soft, barely audible through the door "Simon" from a voice that he dreamed of every night. A voice for which he would do anything.

A voice that sounded so broken that Simon bolted to the door, ignoring all his usual safety measures of checking the cameras scattered around the building for any suspicious cars or people lurking the alley.

When he opened the door, Wille looked up at him with bloodshot eyes, his mouth open in what — another plea? A cry for help?

And then, again, his name, but this time as a sigh of relief — "Simon".

Wille almost fell into Simon's arms, stumbling over the treshold and clutching his side, which was already a deep, deep —

fuck.

Red.

Fuck the safety measures. Fuck it all to hell.

He pulled Wille in and slammed the door shut shut behind them. Wille's arms came up around him, squeezing the air out of his Simon's lungs as if Simon was the one who needed to be held up — how Wille still had the strength, Simon had no idea.

The safety and darkness of his small 1-bedroom apartment enveloped them. He couldn't see Wille's face, could only hear his heavy breathing, but for the moment at least he was safe.

And then Wille winced, and Simon didn't need to see his face to know he was biting his lip, probably drawing blood if it wasn't cut already.

"What the hell did you do?"

But Wille didn't answer. He just looked at Simon, and even in the dim light from the street lights outside — the only source of light in the room — he could see a smile wavering on his face despite the tears threatening to spill. Wille opened his mouth as if he was going to say something again, but instead of words he just gasped, his eyes widening.

And then Wille collapsed.

[bridgeybrainrot]

Chapters: 3/13 Fandom: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington Characters: Colin Bridgerton, Penelope Featherington Additional Tags: Fluff, Ficlet Collection, Pollen, The Honeymakers Challenge 2025, polin bee ficlet, Discord: Polinators (Bridgerton), Modern AU Summary:

bee (noun):

a Bridgerton ficlet (usually about Polin) containing exactly 233 words.

Rated: G • Tags: Colin POV, Banter, Texting

[hawkinsmicrofic]

🎲 WELCOME 🎲

What is this? A monthly drabble challenge centered around Stranger Things ships. Each month will have a one-word prompt and a strict randomly-generated word count between 100-800 words. This was inspired by @harringrovemicrofic, which is a similar concept but specific to Billy and Steve. Check it out if you haven't!

How do I participate? We'll announce the prompt on the 1st of every month, then you have until the end of the month to write and post your microfic submission. In order for your submission to count, you must tag @hawkinsmicrofic in your post, and your submission must strictly adhere to the word count. We use wordcounter.net to check the word count, since some websites can vary on the final number. Please run your fic through this site before posting. Word counts only apply to the story itself. Not titles, descriptions, etc. When we reblog your submission, that means it's been accepted. From there, if you have an AO3 account, you can add your fic to that month's challenge collection. Please don't add your fic to the challenge collection until we've reblogged the post here.

What pairings are allowed? All pairings are allowed for the challenges, so long as at least one canon Stranger Things character is involved. This includes self-insert, crossover and OC ships!

Is there a posting format? Not in a strict sense. You can organize and decorate your post anyway you'd like. However, there are some things generally that we require you to include in your post. An AO3-style rating (Explicit, Mature, Teen & Up and General), warnings for any triggers your fic may include, and a tag to our blog so we see it.

Can I participate anonymously? Yes! All you have to do is send an ask of your fic on anon, and we'll post it that way. However, if you decide to participate anonymously, you won't be able to add your fic to the AO3 challenge collection.

Can I submit multiple drabbles for one challenge? Yes! As long as each one adheres to the challenge rules, you can submit as many as you'd like. If you have multiple ideas for one prompt, go wild!

Can I write Dead Dove content for the challenge? Yes, but everything MUST be properly warned in your triggers section.

What if I'm an artist and not a writer? Since artists can't really participate in the actual drabble challenge, if you'd like to still create something for the prompts, you can make a piece within the month using that prompt and tag us in it. We'll reblog all of them and writers can then use your creations as inspiration for their submissions. This can be traditional art, digital art, gifsets, still graphics, fan videos, moodboards, playlists, etc. Please note that your art will only be shared if it incorporates the prompt in some way and centers a Stranger Things ship. If you're a writer and use a creation as inspiration for your fic, you MUST tag the artist and link the art in your submission. Do not save and place the art in your fic post without the express permission of the artist. Instead uplift their own post including the art. Failure to properly credit an artist will result in a ban from the blog.

How can I ask the mods questions? If you have any questions, you're more than welcome to send them in our askbox on or off anon. If you want your answer delivered privately, your ask MUST be off-anon.

Current Challenge

[graceful-ashes]

Hen and Chimney casually mentioned that Eddie doesn't get flustered. Buck who's sat nearby on his phone doesn't even look up when he offhandedly says 'Yeah, he does.' Hen and Chim look at him dubiously.

'When?' Chim asks.

Buck looks up, now. 'Like all the time.'

'Name one time' Chim challenges.

'I'm with Chim on this one. I've never really seen Eddie flustered.'

Now Buck is the one looking dubious. 'Um, like when...uh...' His mind suddenly goes blank.

'See. You can't even give an example.' Chim gloats.

'Hey, no that's not fair. You put me on the spot.' Buck argues. 'He...like yesterday! He made me a coffee and said he'd already put sugar in it, yeah? And I said that's so sweet of you. And he blushed!'

'Are you sure he was blushing.' Hen asks clearly not buying it.

'Yeah, maybe he was just warm.' Chim counters.

'I'm telling you, he blushed!' Buck exclaims.

Hen and Chimney continue to look at him sceptically.

'Prove it.' Chimney challenges

'What?'

'Prove. It.' Chimney grins.

Buck just stares in disbelief for a moment before he caves. 'Alright, fine. I'll prove it. I'll get him flustered and you can see for yourself.'

This is how Buck ends up making a fool of himself later in the day when they're just finishing up on a call and Eddie is just frowning at him, confused, not at all effected by Bucks lame attempt to get him flustered.

Buck walks back towards Hen and Chimney in defeat. 'We're out on a call, he probably just has his guard up.' Buck defends.

'Uh huh.' is Hen's response to that. Chimney just snaps his gum, grinning.

Buck attempts a cheesy one liner when they're back at the firehouse. This earns him a part way baffled and part way amused chuckle from Eddie when he responds with 'Alright.' looking to Chim and Hen with an ~Are you seeing this?~ expression. Hen and Chim just hide their amusement behind their mugs.

Buck tries a few more times before giving up.

'Fine. You guys were right. Eddie is unflappable. I clearly don't know what I was talking about.'

'Hey, at least it was fun to watch you try.' Chimney teases. Hen smiles in amusement.

And that was that until much later on when Buck is cooking dinner and Eddie is helping. Buck comes up behind Eddie to reach for something over his shoulder and without thinking says 'Man, you smell good!' He turns his head just shy of pressing his nose to Eddie's neck. 'What is that?'

The spatula in Eddie's hand clatters to the floor and in his panic to attempt to catch it he elbows over the salt shaker. A deep red creeps up his neck and settles in his cheeks as he rights the salt shaker. He clears his throat. 'Uh, it's, uh ,the cologne you...um got me for my birthday last year.' Eddie attempts to compose himself and bends down to pick up the spatula.

'Really?' Buck asks surprised and oblivious to Eddie's flustered state leans in for another whiff. There's a THWACK sound and Eddie winces as pain blooms in his knee from where he knocked it against the counter.

Hen and Chimney are staring slack jawed from the couch.

'You were right.' Chimney admits, shell shocked.

'Huh?' Buck lifts his head to look at Chimney and Hen. Eddie also snapping his attention in their direction.

'He does get flustered. So very flustered.' Chim says in a daze. 'Not unflappable. Not unflappable at all...'

Eddie frowns in complete bafflement, his face still beet red. 'What?'

[steddiehyperfixation]

adios, motherfucker

@steddiebingo prompt: anniversary | 3.5k words | T/M | ao3 |

Steve got himself all dolled up just to sit and wait here at this table in this stupid fancy restaurant for an hour by himself. The waiters and waitresses have long started giving him awkward and/or sympathetic glances as they pass by. 

“Are you sure you don't want to order anything yet?” a waitress asks again hesitantly on her next pass. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. He checks his watch. “Actually-” He's over this. He stands up and raps his knuckles lightly against a table. “Just give my table to some happy couple, alright? Someone in love.” 

“Oh-” The waitress nods, still a little awkwardly. “Yeah, alright.”

Steve nods back in acknowledgment before taking a deep breath, running his hands through his hair, and striding on out of there as if he hasn't just been stood up by his own boyfriend. 

He walks a whole block down to some shitty dive bar on a street corner and plops himself down on an empty barstool, waving down the nearest bartender. “Get me something strong that doesn't taste like shit,” he says. 

A man about his age with curly dark hair leans against the counter in front of him. “Sure.” He grins, taking four bottles of alcohol—two in each hand, ringed fingers curled expertly around the bottlenecks—and tipping them into a glass filled with ice. “Rough night?” 

“Yeah,” Steve laughs, just a bit bitterly, “definitely not my best, that's for sure.” 

“Hmm,” the bartender hums sympathetically, although his grin doesn’t fade. He pours in a bit of two more bottles, sprays a soda gun on top, and then slides the completed bright blue drink across the counter. “Mind if I guess?” 

Steve scoffs out another laugh and waves his left hand as he grabs the drink with his right. “Knock yourself out,” he says, glad at least someone is having fun with his misery. Amusement looks good on this bartender anyways, cheeks full and brown eyes crinkled. 

“Fancy dinner date didn't go well,” the bartender guesses, then holds up a hand. “Wait, no,” he amends almost immediately, looking Steve up and down, “fancy dinner date stood you up.” 

“Bingo,” Steve mutters around his straw, sipping steadily at his drink—which hardly tastes like alcohol at all despite the fact that he literally saw the guy grab at least four different types of straight spirits while making it. “How did you know?” 

The bartender rests his elbows on the bartop, settling his weight onto his inked-up forearms and gesturing with little flicks of his fingers as he elaborates, “You’re dressed up nice, far too nice for this shitty place to be where you meant to end up tonight, and I happen to know that there’s a fancy restaurant just down the street from here. Could’ve been a business meeting or a family dinner, but the tight shirt, cologne, and hair gel scream date—and yet you’re here alone, so, something went wrong. You’re upset, but not devastated, so no one died or got broken up with, and there’s not quite enough anger in your eyes for there to have been a fight or some huge betrayal, but there is enough that you were clearly wronged in some way. Your expression is more hurt and disappointed than anything, and your shoulders are hunched and a bit tense like you’re very aware of the fact that you’re here alone and you’re not happy about it. So, put all that together and there you have it: fancy dinner date stood you up.” 

“Holy shit,” Steve says. “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nah,” the bartender laughs, deep and musical. “I’ve just been doing this a long time, gotten real good at reading people. It’s kind of my job.”

Steve can't help but smile a little at the sound of this guy's laugh. He blames the alcohol, however much he's had so far clearly already beginning to work its magic fuzzing out the edges of his mind and making everything seem lovelier. “Well, I'm impressed,” he says. He takes another several long sips of his drink, hoping to alleviate a bit more of the bitterness still festering in his heart. “Although you did miss a few details. It wasn't just some random date who stood me up-”

“It was your girlfriend,” the bartender says, like he's so sure he already knows. 

“Boyfriend,” Steve corrects. 

“Ah.” The bartender barely even blinks and his smug smile doesn't falter. “Close enough.” He goes right back to showing off, leaning forward and tapping his fingers against the counter as those dark, discerning eyes attempt to glean even more clues from Steve’s appearance. “And it was a special occasion, wasn't it? The fancy dinner was meant to be a celebration,” he says. “A birthday?” 

“Anniversary,” Steve tells him. “One year.” 

“Oof.” The bartender leans back, sucking in air through his teeth and grimacing sympathetically. “Yeah, okay, that's worse.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah.” He stabs his straw idly at the ice in his glass. It's nearly empty already (has he really had that much that fast?). “Our relationship hasn't been the most solid lately and I was hoping I could try to fix that tonight—rekindle it or patch things up or whatever,” he mutters in unnecessary explanation, just to say it, really, as if talking about it might make it feel less shitty. He shakes his head and sighs. “But I guess not.” 

“Well, if it makes you feel better, I think your boyfriend’s a fucking idiot,” the bartender says bluntly. He gives a grin that's equal parts friendly solidarity and casual flirtation as he presses a hand dramatically to his chest and adds, “If I had gotten lucky enough to bag a decent and devastatingly gorgeous guy like you, I don't think I'd ever leave his side.” 

Steve laughs and his heart feels lighter. “Thanks, man, I appreciate it.” He finishes off the last sip of his drink, only just now beginning to become aware of the buzz of it in his veins. “I’m Steve, by the way.” 

“Eddie.” The bartender—Eddie—clears Steve's empty glass off the counter. “Are you starting a tab, Steve?” 

“Yeah.” Steve nods. “Can I have another one of the same thing?”

“‘Course you can.” Eddie's smile has turned amused again, if not just a touch concerned. “But you might want to start slowing down a bit there, big boy. That drink you just downed is gonna hit you like a truck in a minute; they don't call it an ‘Adios, Motherfucker’ for nothing.” 

Steve exhales a short puff of laughter. “It's called a what?” 

Eddie grins. “An Adios, Motherfucker,” he repeats as he starts pouring the drink. “Well, colloquially, at least. I think fancier bars’ll name it, like, Electric Iced Tea or Blue Motorcycle or something, but yeah, pretty much everyone just calls it an Adios.” He looks at Steve now with a slightly more serious edge to his eyes, raising his eyebrows. “So take it easy, alright?”

“Yeah, alright,” Steve agrees, still chuckling at the drink name. “I’ll drink this one slower, I promise.” 

“Good.” Eddie nods in satisfaction, all charm and easy smiles again. 

The bar is getting busier—an after dinner rush, probably—and Eddie receives a not-so-subtle hip check from one of his fellow bartenders in an obvious nudge to quit lingering on Steve and start helping some other customers. 

“Sorry, duty calls,” Eddie says, and he really does sound reluctant about it. He pushes the drink across the counter towards Steve. “Adios, motherfucker,” he signs off with a smirk and a little two-finger salute before he slides down the bar to serve someone else. 

Steve smiles, straw caught mindlessly between his teeth as his eyes follow Eddie. He watches him flash that bright grin at more customers, laughing with a group of girls as he pours them shots. Watches him grab someone a beer, pulling a bottle opener from his back pocket, spinning it around his finger into his palm, and cracking the bottle cap off all in one fluid motion. Watches him reach up for liquor on the top shelf, fitted black shirt riding up to give a glimpse of smooth white skin and a tattoo snaking across his hip. 

It's enough to make Steve’s cheeks flush and his blood run hotter—even without the extra heat from the alcohol that is hitting him, as Eddie said, like a truck. If he didn't feel so fuzzy, giddy, drunk, maybe he'd feel a bit guilty for the way he's staring at this other man while he's still in a relationship. But it's not like Steve would ever actually do anything, and a stare alone is not an infidelity. There’s no harm in looking. 

Besides, Eddie's eyes were all over him too, even now stealing glances just as Steve is. And that feels good too. It's nice to be looked at, to feel desirable, wanted. God knows he hasn't been getting that from his own boyfriend lately. He can hardly remember the last time he was looked at as anything other than a nuisance or a chore, touched out of anything more than obligation or a means of placation, loved in a way that burned. It had been there once, desire and warmth, but somewhere down the line it’d been lost. Steve had almost forgotten what it felt like, how much he’s missed it. 

So Steve lets himself indulge in looking and being looked at, and that's all that it will ever be. Whatever fire he feels for this random hot bartender is for himself and himself only, whatever lustful thoughts he has about Eddie’s lips or hands or hips locked away firmly in the realm of imagination and fantasy, never to enter reality. Because even like this, drunk and jilted, the idea of cheating is unfathomable to Steve. 

“You look very pensive,” Eddie comments when he makes his way back around to Steve, and his voice distracts him. 

Steve blinks. “What?” 

“Deep in thought,” Eddie clarifies. He leans against the bar and raises his eyebrows, another little smirk playing on those pretty lips. “You contemplating breaking up with your dumbass boyfriend?” 

“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Steve matches his expression without missing a beat. There’s no harm in flirting either. 

“Yeah, I would.” Eddie’s grin widens and he shrugs innocently. “He sounds like a piece of shit, taking you for granted and ditching you on your anniversary. I got a feeling you probably deserve a whole lot better than that.”

Those words, though said light and casual, land with more impact than Eddie likely intended. It thuds solidly into Steve’s chest, the realization that yeah, actually, maybe he kind of does deserve better. It's funny, up until now the idea of leaving had seemed unfathomable to him too. He ducks his head, taking a thoughtful sip of his drink. “Yeah, I think you're probably right.” 

“‘Course I’m right, sweetheart,” Eddie says confidently. “I told you, I'm good at reading people.”  

Steve unsuccessfully bites back a smile at the pet name, eyes slow and wandering as he looks back up at Eddie. “Do you think-” 

“Fucking hell, Steve, there you are!” a familiar and pissed off voice interrupts what he was about to say. Steve turns around to find his boyfriend marching over to him in a huff. “I went to the restaurant but they told me you already gave our table away.” 

Steve stares at him, more shocked and bewildered than anything. “Our reservation was two hours ago, Tommy.” 

Tommy stops in front of Steve with his arms crossed. “Okay, so I'm a little bit late-” 

“Two hours is not a little-”

“I’m a little bit late and I have to find you here in this shitty bar already practically eye-fucking some grungy-ass bartender!”

“I was not-”

“Are you actually fucking him too? Is that why you just couldn't wait to run off here?” 

“Oh my god.” Steve laughs incredulously, grabbing his drink and gulping down nearly half of what's left—because fuck taking it slow, he needs all the help that alcohol can give him right now. He shakes his head. “Do you even know how insane you sound right now?”

Tommy scoffs. “Oh, right, so you can accuse me of cheating like every other week, but when I turn it back on you suddenly I’m the crazy one?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah. Because I wouldn't—I haven't, but you have. I know you have!” His voice rises with anger and emotion, loud enough to get the whole bar turning to stare at them. “You come home fucking smelling like it!” 

“Jesus, Steve, you really wanna do this now?” Tommy says, sighing wearily as if he's not the one who started the damn argument in the first place. “It's our anniversary.” 

“Yeah, it is.” Another laugh shudders out of him; Steve can't help it; he can't fucking believe this. “It's our fucking anniversary, and you know what? I think it's the last one we're ever gonna have. I can't do this anymore, Tommy. I’m done—we're done.”

Tommy seems taken aback for a second, like the idea of Steve leaving had been unfathomable to him as well, but then he blinks and shakes his head, dismissive as always. “You're drunk, babe. You don't know what you're saying.” 

“Yes, I do-” 

“No, you don't.” Tommy grabs Steve's arm, fingers pressing hard into his bicep as he tries to tug him from his seat. “Come on, let's go home. We can still-” 

Steve recoils, yanks his arm out of Tommy's grasp. “Don't fucking touch me.” 

Tommy reaches for him again. “Steve-” 

“Hey!” Eddie intervenes then, tone sharp and dangerous enough that it makes Tommy stop before he can get another grip on Steve. “Let’s keep our hands to ourselves, alright?” 

Tommy turns his ire onto the bartender, sneering, “Stay out of this, freak.” 

“Get out of my bar, dickwad,” Eddie retorts. 

“That's exactly what I'm trying to do,” Tommy snaps. He rolls his eyes irritably and levels a stern glare back on Steve. “Steve, let's go. You're making a scene.” 

“You're making a scene,” Steve protests. He feels like he's going crazy, unsolid in his body and dizzy from the emotional rollercoaster of this argument. “You're the one who came in here shouting at me first! God-” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair like that might help ground him a little. “I can't believe I was going to try to fix us tonight. I'm not your fucking dog on a leash, Tommy, not anymore. I meant it when I said I’m done. So just leave- just leave me alone.” 

A muscle jumps in Tommy’s jaw and he seethes like he wants to keep fighting, but between Eddie’s warning glare and the giant security guard slowly shifting closer at the bartender’s subtle gesturing, he seems to come to the conclusion that Steve isn’t worth all that trouble. “Fine.” Tommy throws up his hands and takes a step back. “Suit yourself. You can go shack up with that loser bartender now, you fucking slut, see if I care. We’ll just see how long it takes for you to come crawling back once you sober up and realize that you're nothing without me,” he snarls before finally turning on his heel to leave. 

Steve takes a swig of his drink. “Adios, motherfucker,” he retorts to Tommy’s retreating back. He watches until his now-ex-boyfriend is completely gone and then looks around, flinging an arm out as if to dismiss all the nosy onlookers still staring at him. “Show’s over!” He turns back to the bar and slumps against it, dropping his head heavily into his hands, fingers curling in his hair. “Fuck.” 

“You okay, man?” Eddie asks. 

“Yeah.” Steve sighs and lifts his head. 

“You don't live with that bastard, do you?” 

“Yeah. Shit.” 

“Have you got anywhere else you can go, someone else you can stay with?” 

Steve shakes his head. His best friend, Robin, is out of town with her girlfriend this weekend (because she's actually in a normal healthy relationship with a partner who adores her—and no, Steve's not jealous or bitter, what are you talking about?) and she's the only one he could even think to call right now. His family doesn't really speak to him anymore and most of his other friends are friends of Tommy’s. Fuck. Maybe Tommy was right, Steve really doesn't have much left without him. He swallows down how thoroughly miserable that makes him feel. “No, I’ll, uh- I can just sleep in my car tonight probably, and I'll figure something else out tomorrow.” 

Eddie considers him for a moment with a little scrunched up frown. “Yeah, I can't in good conscience let you do that,” he decides. “Look, um—not to be weird, because I know I’m a total stranger, and please don't take this the wrong way—but my place is just around the corner from here and I've got a pull-out couch you can crash on if you need to,” he offers. He gives a small smile and raises his hands in good faith, making things light though still just as genuine. “I promise I won't try to kill you in your sleep or take advantage of you or anything.” 

Steve licks his teeth, tilting his head. “What if I want you to?” 

“You want me to kill you in your sleep?” Eddie lifts an eyebrow, teasing, deflecting. 

“No, I meant—” Steve shakes his head, bites his lip. “What if I want you to take advantage of me? What if…I don't want to be alone tonight?” 

“You just ended a year-long relationship, sweetheart, give yourself a minute.” 

“Yeah, no, but I'm fine. That’d been falling apart for a while now—tonight just made it official, but I’ve already had time. I’m over it, I’m okay.” 

“Steve.” Eddie leans forward and reaches a hand up to Steve's face, a brief and featherlight touch as he brushes his thumb across Steve's cheek. “You're crying.” 

“What- no, I’m-” Steve pulls back and wipes at his eyes. His fingers come away wet. “Shit.” He must be drunker than he thought if he couldn't even feel his own tears running down his face. He must be a lot sadder than he thought, too. 

“Yeah.” Eddie smiles sympathetically, soft and kind. “So I'm not gonna sleep with you, man, not tonight, but I can give you a safe place to rest if you want it.” 

Steve nods. “Okay, yeah.” He hates the way his voice sounds, rough and cracked and pathetic, still rubbing furiously at his eyes trying to get them to quit welling up. Now that he's aware of his tears he can't seem to make them fucking stop. He's stronger than this, he knows he is. God, no wonder Eddie doesn't want to fuck him. Steve’s a mess. 

Finishing his drink helps, and so does simply taking a few minutes to hide in his hands and suck in several deep, measured breaths. Over the next hour or so, as Steve waits for Eddie’s shift to be over, slowly his eyes become drier and he sits a little straighter. He lets his gaze follow Eddie again, something to focus on—not quite as lustfully as before, just watching him work. That helps too. 

By the time they walk to Eddie's apartment and get the couch set up, Steve has pulled himself together enough to feel like he more or less at least bears a resemblance to his usual self again. As Eddie bids him goodnight and turns to leave for his own room, Steve ventures one last attempt at seduction, taking Eddie by the hand and asking, “Are you sure I can't tempt you?”

Eddie just smiles and shakes his head. “Another time,” he says, and it sounds like a promise, squeezing Steve's hand. “Besides, it's better this way. Wouldn't want our anniversary to be on the same day as your douchebag ex anyways.” 

“Yeah…” Steve agrees, managing a small smile in return and letting go. 

While it’s still hard not to feel rejected, he knows that Eddie’s refusal isn't something cruel, it's sweet. Eddie’s not saying ‘never’, he’s just saying ‘not tonight’, allowing Steve the space and time to fully untangle himself from Tommy first; for now only wanting to make sure that Steve's safe and asking nothing in return. Leaving it open so that maybe one day, when Steve has settled back on his own two feet, if he still wants to come back and seek Eddie out again, maybe then they could start something real, something more than just one night of meaningless sex borne out of a sad and lonely boy’s desperation to be loved. And there’s a type of love in that too, isn't there—the kindness of a stranger? It’s not quite the love Steve had hoped for from today, but maybe it's exactly the love he needed. 

So he doesn't push it, doesn't argue or insist or continue to throw himself at him. Steve just kisses Eddie quickly on the cheek instead and tells him, “Thank you.” 

[artstennisracket]

nsfw (18+)

Dilf!Art who you met at a tennis gala as the plus one to one of your friends who plays college tennis

Dilf!Art who you almost spits out his drink once you tell him how old you are, saying “you seem very mature for your age, I just wouldn’t of guessed”

Dilf!Art who says he can’t be with someone that much younger than him, he’s not a cradle robber

Dilf!Art who somehow someway still ends up on his knees with his head under your dress. This is how you realize his affinity for giving head

Dilf!Art who gives in and starts seeing you more. taking you on expensive restaurant dates, work trips, vacations, shopping trips. You feel bad but he says, “who else am I gonna spend my money on? if you don’t use it you lose it”

Dilf!Art who’s only ever interested in pleasing you. the first few times you see him always end the same way, with you finishing on his tongue or his fingers

Dilf!Art who you ask to give him a blowjob several times only for him to reject and offer to eat you out instead

Dilf!Art who says “I just wanna please you that’s all,” after you ask him why he doesn’t want you to reciprocate. But you push and push until he gives you the real answer of, “I just can’t—get hard.”

Dilf!Art who gets embarrassed about his ED but you’re always patient with him until eventually he does get hard. He just needed a little coaching

Dilf!Art who always fucks you like it’s the last time, savoring every sound, every feeling, fucking you like his life depends on it

Dilf!Art who gets on viagra just for you saying that, “I don’t want you to feel like you’re wasting your time with me. Guys your age can fuck you multiple times a day, I can’t compete with that on my own.” You assure him he doesn’t need to do that just for you so he replies, “It’s not just for you, it’s for me too. I mean who wouldn’t want to fuck you multiple times a day.”

Dilf!Art who gets a little insecure after he retires, seeing his physique change, but you continue to reassure him that he looks handsome and sexy as ever

Dilf!Art who loves being the big spoon so he can feel you pressed up against him, but he also likes being little spoon sometimes too, just needing you to hold him until he falls asleep

Dilf!Art who introduces you to Lily only after you two have been dating for a full year. You and Lily bond right away, having a barbie movie marathon

Dilf!Art who swore he’d never get married again but you are seriously derailing his plans

taglist: @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019 @antxnxlla @marimacaroni @hanneh69

wanna be tagged when I post? click here :)

[fazedlight]

Sand

This isn’t real, she thought, as she dug her toes into the cozy sun-warmed sand.

She kissed me this morning.

Kara gazed ahead, watching as the beach waves crashed on shore, warm and sunny against the backdrop of her planet’s destruction. Out across the waters, she could see the great horror of her past: Krypton as it died, damned in fire, debris floating across the expanse of space.

This isn’t real, Kara thought, listening to the grainy sound of sand as she moved her feet to pull her legs to her chest, placing her chin on her knees in quiet contemplation. She wondered if she would see the Danvers home if she turned around, or if that would be another expanse of sand and ocean and Krypton’s death.

She kissed me this morning.

Kara smiled at the thought. Lena had been working in the Tower lab; Kara had brought her doughnuts and espresso. Just like any other morning, they had cozied up on the couch together, laughing and talking.

But unlike any other morning, an odd sort of silence eventually fell between them. Flickering gazes, shy blushes, a tension that they couldn’t tell was real.

And then Lena leaned forward, and kissed her.

She kissed me this morning, Kara thought, eyes glancing ahead to Krypton, I’m sure of it. I think I’m sure of it. I’m…

Kara sighed, lying down on the beach, stretching as she stared up into the blue skies mixing with the fires on the horizon. She kissed me, Kara tried to convince herself, and then the Tower alarm went off right after, and Alex said I needed to get downtown to fight a threat. But she kissed me. I know she did…

“Would you like some company?” came a familiar voice.

Kara grinned. “I’d love that.”

She didn’t watch as her best friend took a seat on the sands beside her. Lena sighed, looking out on the horizon at the destruction ahead, seeming both curious and understanding. “This isn’t your world, Kara,” she said.

“I know.”

“You’re trapped in a black mercy.”

“I know.”

Lena reached down to brush some sand off her feet, frowning in curiosity. “I thought the plant shows you paradise. This doesn’t look like paradise to me.”

Kara hummed. “Maybe it doesn’t know what to do if reality is paradise enough.”

For a moment, Lena stayed quiet, mulling what to say in response. “If you know this place isn’t real, then why haven’t you woken up yet?”

“Because I’m not sure if reality is real.”

“What do you mean?”

Kara could feel the patter of her heart in her chest. “Did anything unusual happen this morning?” she asked.

There was a shy laugh in response. “It was real, Kara,” Lena murmured, “And if you wake up, I’d like to do it again.”

She kissed me this morning.

Kara smiled, breathing in the smell of sea salt in the breeze, eyes still trained on the bizarre images in the sky. “Okay,” she said.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Lena reaching for her ear, no doubt tapping at a device Brainy had provided. Watching as the figure faded away, Kara closed her eyes, feeling as the world began to morph around her, as though she were weightless and falling and flying all at once.

She finally opened her eyes, noting several figures hovering over her as her eyes adjusted to the harsh Tower light. “Welcome back, Kara,” Brainy said, as she felt the black mercy slither off her chest, “You gave us quite the scare.”

The crew began to shuffle around again. Brainy headed back toward a different monitor, Alex gave her sister’s arm a welcoming squeeze before chasing after J’onn, Nia carried the container with the captured black mercy into a back room.

Lena watched Kara intently.

“Was it real?” Kara whispered.

Lena smiled, and leaned forward - pressing her lips to Kara’s.

She kissed me this morning, Kara thought, and now I can kiss her back.

----------

For @ekingston's flash fiction challenge Prompts: fluff & hallucination & post-apocalyptic & sand

[after-the-end-times]

A Ride for the Ages

Rating: G 🚘Words: 453 🚘Tags: Older Steddie, Steve has a minor power, Still discovering things about each other after decades together, Slice of life For @steddiemicrofic Prompt: Ride Ao3

“Think we should take this old girl on the road?” Eddie said, patting Steve’s still pristine ‘83 BMW.

Steve pushes their suitcases into the back of their Prius, shutting it, and turning to Eddie. “Really? You want to drive five hours in that gas guzzler? You know she’s just for car shows these days.”

“Yeah, but you put so much time into keeping her perfect.” Eddie opens the door, gesturing inside. “Look at that detailing! I don’t even how you spend so much time out here and I never notice, ‘cause wow, babe, this is a lot of work. You’d never know she was nearly our age!”

Steve walks up, catching Eddie’s belt loops and pecking a kiss to his lips. “Thanks, baby. She does look good for her age. Hence the car shows. But don’t worry, you’re not missing anything, I really don’t put much time into upkeep.”

He walks back into their house to make sure they have everything for their drive. Eddie goes after him, following him around the house as Steve grabs random chargers, glasses, a book...

“Wait wait wait, Stevie what do you mean you don’t spend time keeping her pristine? I’ve talked to those other car guys, they spend hours on their cars.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with them, I just talk to her. Tell her she better keep working so she does, you know? Sure, sometimes I need to be more stern, but isn’t that the way with anything?”

Eddie stops, mouth dropping, eyes staring, thinking and befuddled. Things start clicking in his brain.

“Oh my god, is that how the toaster got fixed? And the mower? And that red triangle of death on the Prius? The one the mechanic had no explanation for?”

“Yeah well, sometimes something just needs a good talking to.” Steve says distractedly

“Steve Stevie baby honey, no no no, that’s not- how- what do you mean you give it a talking to and it just FIXES ITSELF? Things don’t do that!” Eddie’s voice gets progressively more shrieky as he starts to mildly freak out.

Steve finally realizes this is a Big Deal situation for Eddie, puts his pile down, and pulls him into a hug.

“Hey, it’s ok. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence. I don’t actually have powers, baby. If anyone was gonna get superpowers, it’d definitely be you.” Steve rubs Eddie’s back.

“I don’t believe you. You have magical fixing powers,” Eddie mumbled into Steve’s shoulder. He suddenly pulls back, eyes wide. “Wait. You kept the BMW nice, but not my first ride? That van was classic!”

“One, it was not a classic, it was a rust bucket.”

Eddie pouted, “And two?”

He shrugged. “It wouldn’t listen.”

[pearynice]

When Steve is 10, he wins his very first basketball championship.

He’s ecstatic, practically vibrating with joy as his teammates storm the court, screaming and cheering and throwing their arms around one another. He doesn’t think about the sweat stains on his jersey, or his limp hair, or his reddened knees from falling on the court earlier in the game. They won, and the simple joy of that fact balloons within him, buoyed further by his teammates' cries and slaps on the back. 

They’d just decided where to have their post-game celebration, players finally breaking off to find their parents, when his mother pulls him aside.

“Hi honey,” and she looks beautiful in her crisp white dress, “let's get you cleaned up.”

And before Steve’s allowed to go to Benny’s with the rest of the team, his mother fixes his hair and wipes down his sweat and makes him presentable. 

She does not mention the game.

——

When Eddie is 10, he’s in his very first play.

He’d auditioned for Peter Pan, but Michael McDonald got the role instead. His drama teacher told him that while talented, Eddie just doesn’t fit as Peter Pan.

Eddie doesn’t understand those words until opening night, when Michael’s on stage next to Mary-as-Wendy, and Eddie realizes that Michael sucks. His lines are flat, he keeps making awkward eye contact with the audience, and he can never find the spot on stage he needs to be. 

Eddie knows he would’ve been better. But, as he waits on the sidelines for his cue, he watches how the audience is hooked on Michael, anyways. Michael, with his golden hair and bright blue eyes and easy smile and the everything Eddie doesn’t have. 

Eddie will never be Peter Pan because he doesn’t look like a Peter Pan.

——

When Steve is 17, Nancy Wheeler calls him bullshit. 

It shouldn’t be such a surprise because of course, of course she wasn’t with him for him. Of course, she thinks it’s bullshit, because Steve is only worth it skin deep, and anything that shallow is, certainly, bullshit. 

——

When Eddie is 17, their band has their first performance at The Hideout. They’d lied about their age to get the gig, but no one had even checked their IDs, so Eddie doesn’t feel that bad about it.

It’s a Tuesday night, so the place is far from packed, but it doesn’t matter. They give it everything they have, Gareth only 14 and tearing up the drums, and Eddie thinks it might be the best night of his life.

After, sweaty and exhausted and exhilarated, they each order a beer and giggle like middle schoolers when they’re actually served. 

Eddie notices her, then, tall and lean with bright red hair- and Eddie normally doesn’t swing that way but this girl is stunning. And he’s still riding that post-concert high, so he approaches her like he’s invincible and tries to chat her up.

It’s a firm rejection. She smiles at him, almost pitying, until her friend rolls up and tells him how awesome they were, on stage.

And it’s like a switch flips. Because the no turns into buy me a drink and suddenly the stunning redhead is interested and has her hand on his arm and her eyes are on his and he should be happy but all he has is a cold pit in the center of his gut. 

Because of course she would only be interested after learning he’s in a band, because no one would want to go home with him, not until they realize he has something to make up for it with.

——

When Steve is 20 and Eddie is 21 they go on their first date. And then several more, after that. And then, one night, naked in bed, they make it official.

Steve is falling. He wants to catch himself but he also doesn’t, wants to stay in the beautiful free fall of falling for Eddie Munson. 

Eddie’s falling, too. He doesn’t have the words for it, yet, that Steve does, but they will come. For now, he knows that he’d do anything to see Steve smile, and if he could crawl inside Steve’s chest and live there for the rest of his life, he probably would. 

It takes a while for it to begin to bother him, but Eddie’s constant compliments are always on his looks. He runs his hands down Steve’s arms and over his back and trails his fingers through his hair because he wants to make it perfectly known to Steve that he’s gorgeous, that he’s breathtaking and mouth watering and how fucking lucky Eddie is. 

(Because Eddie never wants Steve to feel like he did.)

Steve, however, doesn’t want to believe it, but the lingering memories of bullshit is all he can think about when Eddie kisses his cheek and calls him beautiful. Eddie is different, he reminds himself. Eddie loves me, completely. But Nancy had said the same thing, and that had been a lie.

It bubbles up eventually, of course. Hurt festering until it becomes bigger than it really is, deep-seated insecurities creating fault lines only visible to Steve, who wonders, in turn, how it’s possible Eddie doesn’t.

——

“You were so cute!” Eddie croons, pointing delightedly at the young-Steve staring back at them, “look at you, in your little jersey!”

He doesn’t know how the photo album made it to his and Robin’s new place, but here it is, in Eddie’s lap and his boyfriend is pouring over the old photographs.

Eddie turns the page, another delighted giggle escaping his lips as he does. Steve remembers the photo, remembers his mom forcing the starched collar close to his neck and tying the tie too tight. 

Eddie coos again, “look at your little suit!”

He turns the page, oohing and aahing at each photograph, while Steve’s memories resurface of his mother’s fussing hands, combing his hair and fixing his shirt collar and plucking lint from his sleeves until Steve was hyper aware of it all. Until he couldn’t go out without freshly laundered clothes and perfectly styled hair, until he tied his worth to his looks in a knot that Steve feels tightening the more Eddie speaks.

“O-kay,” Steve tries, grabbing for the album, “we don’t need to go any further down memory lane.”

Eddie dodges, leaping off the couch and away from Steve, “oh, we absolutely do, pretty boy, because this is a gold mine.”

He flips the page again, beaming, and turns it so Steve can see.

He’s older in this one, maybe eleven, and it’s certainly at Christmas time. He hadn’t been allowed to open presents in his pajamas because his mother wanted to be able to take photos, so he’s sat in front of the Christmas tree in khakis, his hair combed and parted and it makes Steve’s skin itch just looking at it.

“Look at your little outfit! Your hair!” Eddie says, eyes bright as he flips the album back over to look at it. 

“Yeah, I know,” Steve says, trying very hard to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “we can drop it, Eds.”

Eddie pouts, his bottom lip jutting out, “but Steve,” he whines, and turns the album again, “I can’t say no to this face.”

He points at another photo, Steve doesn’t even look at it. Hurt and anger and annoyance are burning within him, because all the things Eddie’s pointing out is everything Steve hates- and how could that be what Eddie loves?

Eddie goes on, tapping on the photo, his bottom lip still jutted out, “I love this face.”

“Is that all you can ever say?” Steve challenges, voice bordering on a shout, his face already flaming at the outburst. He doesn’t know what does it, this time, out of all the other times Eddie’s tread on similar ground.

Eddie’s face freezes, the ghost of his previous smile still on his face like he’s not quite sure what Steve just said. “What’s that?” He asks, voice still light, an air of uncertainty in his tone.

The fracture in Steve’s resolve splinters further, the fault lines cracking through completely. “That’s all you ever say, Eddie!” And he stands, anxiety and uncertainty catapulting him from the couch, “you love my face and my hair and all of the bullshit things that don’t fucking matter. Because what happens when what I look like isn’t enough for you, anymore? Are you sure you actually fucking love me?”

His chest heaves at the final words. It feels good to get it out, like a thorn’s been finally wrenched from his side.

But Eddie’s face splits. His humor falls away to reveal the shocked and horrified expression underneath, his mouth dropped open and his eyebrows knitted together in concern, tears already shining in his big brown eyes. 

“I-” Eddie gasps out, like the very breath hurts. He tosses the photo album to the side and takes a step closer to Steve.

“Of course, of course I love you, Steve- how- why-” Eddie stutters, shaking his head, “I love you, all of you, if I ever-” he breaks off again, gaze falling upwards as he worries at his bottom lip. 

Steve’s breathing heavily, his outburst of anger now quickly melting into sadness, his shoulders dropping as Eddie continues to stand there.

“Steve, I’m so sorry,” Eddie whispers, voice thick, “I thought I was doing this right- the fact that I made you feel like that…” he trails off, his hands flexing at his sides. “I love you for everything you are.”

And now that it’s all spilled out of him, now that it's hanging in the air around them and Steve can see Eddie’s response- he feels ridiculous.

Of course, Eddie loves him. Steve’s overreacted, let the hurt from his past influence this- them- the best thing that could’ve possibly happened from spring break. 

He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Soaked in Eddie’s words for what they really are and not let his insecurities get in the way. Because now his boyfriend- ever the crier- has tears silently falling down his face as he glances back down to meet Steve’s gaze.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, and takes another step towards Steve, reaching for his hand.

Steve meets him halfway, gripping Eddie's hand tightly when they meet. 

Steve shakes his head. “No, Eddie, I’m-”

“If you’re about to apologize,” Eddie interrupts, “don’t, please.”

Steve quiets, and Eddie still has tears falling down his face.

“I love you because of who you are, Steve. You are kind and funny and so fucking smart, you’re the best friend any of us could ever ask for and you’re so selfless it hurts me, sometimes, watching you do more for those kids than half their parents have ever done. You’re loyal and brave and endlessly hardworking, you’re the most thoughtful person I’ve ever met, and you do it all with such ease sweetheart- like you’re not even trying, you’re just so good- through to the very heart of you.” Eddie places a hand over Steve’s chest. “I’m sorry I haven’t said it enough,” he whispers, “but everything you’ve got in here, Stevie, is why I love you.”

Eddie’s eyes are shining, tears caught in those long lashes, clumping them together, and he’s so earnest, because Eddie is nothing if not wholly earnest. 

It makes Steve feel irrational all over again. 

But it feels good to hear. The words settle in his bones until the weight of them find their place, settling his nerves and calming his breaths. 

Eddie loves him. Loves him for all of the things Steve tries so hard to be. Eddie can see it, even if it got the effortless part of it wrong. 

Eddie gives the lightest tug to Steve’s hand and he follows willingly, collapsing into his boyfriend’s embrace without preamble. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” Eddie whispers into his skin again, arms right around his middle, “I love you so much, sweetheart, and now I’m never going to shut up on all the different ways okay?”

“Okay,” Steve agrees, suddenly exhausted.

Eddie pulls them onto the couch. He settles Steve in his lap so his side is pressed to Eddie's chest and he can bury his face in Eddie’s neck.

His boyfriend’s long hair tickles his face, but his skin smells clean and soapy and presses warmly against Steve’s cheek.

Eddie’s hand rubs soothingly up and down his back and Steve melts further, the insecurities that he’d been forcing down for so long finally freed.

“I’m so glad you told me, Stevie,” Eddie whispers. “Please always tell me stuff like that.”

His breaths even now, Steve nods. “Okay.”

——

Eddie keeps his promise.  His hands are still everywhere, all the time. He’ll place a hand on the small of Steve’s back or thrust a leg over his on the couch, but his honeyed words drip praises of you’re my favorite person to spend time with and I love the sound of your voice, until those words sink deeper than bullshit ever did, until the ghosts of starched collars and perfectly combed hair don’t feel so haunting. Until the supportive weight of Eddie’s hand in his goes far past skin deep.

Somewhat of a part 2 here ✨

[runraerun]

darling, dearest, dead

written for the @steddiemicrofic challenge for November | prompt: guard | wc: 532 | rated: G | cw: major character death (but not really?) | tags: angst with a hopeful ending, Ghost!Steve Harrington, GhostHunter!Eddie Munson

There’s a legend that the first person who gets buried in a cemetery becomes the guardian of all the other souls buried there after. They become a reaper of sorts, ferrying the newly dead from this world to the next—a place they can never go.

This is what happens to Steve Harrington, aged just eighteen when he tragically dies in the Starcourt tragedy in ‘85.

Steve, who dies but doesn’t move on. Doesn’t go peacefully into that good night, or however the hell the saying goes. He can’t.

Steve, who attends his own burial, but despite how loud he screams into the faces of his loved ones, goes entirely unheard.

He eventually gets it, of course. Despite what everyone thinks (thought? Do they still think of him?) Steve isn’t stupid. He catches on quickly when the first few souls come wandering up to him, lost and alone. Steve can see the path they’re supposed to follow, even when they can’t. So, Steve takes the time to explain to them what he knows, tries to comfort them, before guiding them towards the afterlife.

It’s a curse, really. Eternal isolation. Decades pass but Steve remains. The few souls he speaks to are always so eager to leave him. In the end, Steve’s left alone.

And then one day, Eddie Munson comes stomping through his cemetery.

—🛡️—

“What’s with the get up?” A dark haired stranger asks, startling Steve, “there an anime convention going on or something?”

Steve’s eyes trail up and down the newcomer. He wants to make a comment about the strange attire he died in, but upsetting the newly departed usually isn’t a good idea.

“It’s my work uniform. I didn’t have time to change.” Steve explains, a well-rehearsed response. The Scoops uniform that he can never shed was always a point of interest for people. “Sorry, I didn’t see you come in.”

This is the first time Steve’s missed a burial. Strange.

The guy snorts, “don’t apologize. I’m the one intruding. You visiting someone? I can wait to do my shit.”

Steve frowns, brows creasing where they come together. “No. I’m just… waiting.” He answers.

“For the ghost?” The stranger asks, his interest clearly piqued.

Steve blinks. “The ghost?”

“Yeah, y’know. The ghost that supposedly haunts this graveyard. Legend has it it’s some guy who died way back in the 80’s—there've been sightings for like, thirty years, but no one’s been able to actually record anything decent. All the pictures are super blurry. But I intend to change that. I’m Eddie, by the way. Ghost hunter and semi-professional psychic.” Eddie grins, giving a strange little bow in his introduction.

Wait…

“1985?” Steve asks.

“Yep,” Eddie pop’s the ‘p’, “The year Starcourt burned down and old Steven Harrington bit the dust. You know the story?”

Steve didn’t need to breathe—not anymore. And yet, he still felt short of breath. Lightheaded.

“It’s just Steve.” He clarifies.

“Yeah?” Eddie snorts, “how would you—”

A light seems to go off in Eddie’s head. He pales, eyes widening.

“You can really see me?” Steve can’t help but laugh, tears stinging his eyes.

“Yeah, I can see you, Steve.” Eddie mumbles, stunned, looking like he’d seen a ghost.

—

tagging: @sleepy-steve because they let me rant about reaper Steve to them<3 check out her reaper!eddie fic: here!💘

[thebluewritingbench]

you & me in the wreckage

a supercorp ficlet

written for @ekingston's flash fiction challenge! :)

this was fun!! the prompts i got were: thriller, only survivors of a zombie apocalypse, celebrity/just some guy (gender neutral), and blood. thematically consistent, at least. tw for (a fairly small amount of) blood and gore, unsurprisingly. enjoy!

+

Someone is breathing on the other side of the vehicle.

No, Kara reminds herself yet again. Something.

It’s hard to say when the simple sound of another creature breathing became an instant trigger to send adrenaline coursing through her veins. Every tiny hair on her body rises. Her heart rate accelerates until she can feel it behind her teeth, a war drum. She moves with utmost caution; she cannot make a sound.

There’s a creak of metal. A low groan.

Kara recognizes the sound. The pleading moan of perverse hunger.

She can’t see it, as she creeps around the passenger side of the dark vehicle. The thing must be inside the car. The sound came from low down, though. Maybe it’s on the ground. Unsurprising—they always seem to end up there in the end. After having exhausted the limits of human muscle, with no prey left to chase down, they collapse like expended cargo.

The car is a solid black Rolls-Royce. A rare sight in the city, let alone out here. This one has seen better days, though. Shiny paint marred by dust, pock-marked with dents, half the bumper hanging off. How it ended up swerved into the ditch of this rural, two-lane road is a mystery.

Probably someone trying to escape.

Kara’s mind constructs the story even as she rounds the front of the car, reaching for her weapons. It must have contained someone wealthy or important, someone with the resources to get this far. But they must have been infected before they could escape. Though shaken, they would have attempted to brush it off. Nothing but a scrape. The teeth had barely punctured their skin. They would have sped away, gotten off the interstate at the first chance, taken turn after turn until they found a safe, isolated road. This is how far they got before the alien pathogens hijacked their brain.

But that would mean—Kara’s pulse spikes again—that would mean the creature on the other side of this vehicle is the most dangerous kind. Starved for the taste of human flesh. Not spent, but with the full power of the human body. When used without regard for muscles tearing, flesh rending, bones breaking, it could do remarkable things.

Kara knows. She has witnessed it.

The way Alex moved, when the disease took hold…

She shudders. Pushes the image from her mind. That thing hadn’t been Alex anymore.

Kara considers her weapons. A large kitchen knife. A small handgun—the better bet. Not much ammunition left, though. She’ll have to move quickly. She’ll have to make it count.

She lifts the gun, then lunges around the front of the car and fires.

The shot echoes across the scrubby hills. A shriek rings out, black hair flying as the creature shields itself. It begins to turn to her. She missed. Kara’s finger is pushing down on the trigger again when a voice cries, “Wait! Wait!”

She wrenches the gun aside. Her shot flies wide.

There is nothing but heaving breathing in the wake. Human breathing.

The woman crouched on the ground, staring up at Kara in terrified shock, is alive. Truly alive. What’s more, Kara knows her.

 “How are you here?” Kara says. The cognitive dissonance of seeing that face here, now, is so intense that she wonders if she’s hallucinating.

“What?” says Lena Luthor. “Why are you trying to kill me? Do I know you?”

We’ve met before.

“No.” Kara feels herself flush. How absurd that she’s even capable of such a reaction anymore. “I’m nobody.”

Lena Luthor stands on unsteady legs. “No, you’re that reporter. From… BuzzFeed, was it? You came to my office with Clark Kent.”

“CatCo Magazine,” Kara corrects automatically. It feels like a lifetime since she was Cat Grant’s assistant, barely daring to aspire to journalism. Struck nearly speechless by the presence of this woman—her inarguable celebrity crush.

Embarrassing.

Lena looks uneasily at the gun. Kara realizes it’s still pointing in her direction. She drops her arm. “Shoot. Sorry.”

“Don’t shoot, preferably,” Lena says dryly. It takes a second for Kara to realize it’s a joke.

“I wasn’t trying to— I thought you were… one of them. You’re not infected, are you?”

“None of them have touched me. This thing is bullet-proof. I did plow through a few of them…” Lena looks queasy. Kara follows her gaze to the front of the car. There’s blood congealed on the grill.

A flash of memory. She sees the creature that was once Winn charging at her. Her panicked swipe of the kitchen knife across its throat. The spray of his blood, copious, vibrant, across her shirt, across the pavement. For hours, she was terrified the blood had found its way into some scrape, some opening. Infecting her.

She grimaces, presses her thumb hard into the space between her eyes. Stop.

“Where did you even come from?” Lena says. “There’s nothing around here.”

“I walked from the city. I’ve been trying to find anywhere with supplies. There was a group of us. I’m the only one left.” That awful, leaden truth. Kara pushes past it. “How did you get out? I haven’t seen anyone else in weeks.”

“I hid in my office. I had it outfitted as a kind of bunker years ago. I thought I was being insane at the time, and yet…” She trails off, ashamed. “I did nothing to help. Nothing. I stayed there until it quieted down. Then I took the car, and I ran.”

“You couldn’t have done much. No one could have.”

“And now my stupid tire blew, and I am somehow incapable of changing it, so I’m pretty much fucked.” Lena kicks the deflated tire. “Fuck!”

“Your tire?” Belatedly, Kara notices the spare lying on the ground, alongside a toolbox and a badly misplaced jack. She feels a wild urge to laugh. That’s it? “I can fix your tire.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” She swallows. Remembers that somehow, Lena Luthor is standing in front of her. A woman who Kara has followed extensively in tabloids for years. A world leader for tech. Generous. Brilliant. Beautiful. “On one condition.”  

“What’s that?”

“Take me with you.”

Lena Luthor leans against her car and, miraculously, grins. She gives Kara a lingering once-over. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere. Away from here. I need to find out what happened to my cousin. And my mom.”

“Well, I could use the company,” Lena says. “It’s a deal.”

She holds out her hand. Kara shakes it. At the feel of Lena’s hand in hers, warm, chapped, alive, Kara feels a spark of something she hasn’t felt for ages, since before her life turned into a nightmare.

Hope.

[mrsjellymunson]

Meet Me

Written for the @steddiemicrofic February prompt rose, and the @st-loveconfessions February Acts of Kindness day 02 challenge write a ficlet inspired by an artwork - I chose this piece by @resande bc it’s fkg stunning || Word count target: 367 || Rating: T || CW: Recollections of angst and allusions to canon-typical violence/gore, hopeful ending || Tags: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, post-S4, S4 fix-it, alternate outcome

Steve remembers.

He remembers it all. Everything about that night they fought demons.

He remembers the fear; tar-like dread rising in his chest as Eddie ran off to play the hero.

And after, how he’d staggered to Skull Rock, honouring the promise they’d made, a private pact to make it back here. Ignoring the nagging incertitude of whether both of them would.

He remembers the scent of rotting leaves and petrichor mingling with his own: sweat, blood and smoke, and how, gross as it was, it smelled better than where they’d just been. But behind it, a desire for cigarettes, weed and motor-oil that he'd never previously acknowledged, but was now inexplicably craving.

He remembers sitting, cold and alone. The only sounds rustling leaves above and his own ragged breaths. The notion that Eddie wouldn’t return gradually suffusing his mind like the chill that permeated his bones as the sun dipped ever lower.

He recalls twigs snapping, footfalls. The brief moment when he thought he might need his bat, for an animal. Or worse.

Then, just as the golden orb spilled its last over the horizon, illuminated by the diffuse celestial light…

Eddie.

He recalls indescribable relief. Then rising shakily on chilled legs, embracing his friend, holding him close. Feeling the texture of Eddie’s jacket in his fists, the sensation of solid, denim-clad thighs pressing against his own. How warm, how alive Eddie felt as Steve’s fingertips brushed his back as his clothing bunched in his grasp. The unexpected softness of Eddie’s hair, matted blood and entrails notwithstanding.

And how vigorously Eddie had gripped him back.

He remembers the relief suddenly morphing into something larger, stronger, more all-encompassing.

How a different sensation rose in his chest then. Something familiar, yet simultaneously completely uncharted. A fierce heat that started low in his belly, rising up through his torso, enveloping his heart and bursting out of his throat.

Flames he couldn’t contain or suppress, even if his life depended on it. A feeling so strong it subsumed all others. All fear, all doubt, all trepidation.

He remembers tears falling and his voice cracking as he’d sobbed and whispered the only words that entirely pervaded his mind,

“I love you.”

Thanks so much for reading!

PLEASE go and give love to the art by @resande, it’s called ‘Reunion at Skull Rock’ (you can see why I didn’t reveal the title at the start 😉) and I think it’s absolutely tremendous (all of their work is!). AND go send your ST love confessions via the asks at @st-loveconfessions , such a fantastic idea and a wonderful way to spread some love through the fandom ❤️

There’s lots more Steddie and Eddie on my masterlist

General taglist (open my sweet muffins, just ask!) @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @guiltyasquinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @kurdtbean @mediocredreams @in2tswft @micheledawn1975 @littlebebebunny @12thatsanumber @alastorssimp @the-baby-angel @eddie-is-a-god @wolfqueenxxx @losingmygrasponreality @richter-raccoon @1deverland @evileyeandthecattywhumps @3rd-conchord @bellalillyrose

[dreamtigress]

Queer Ficlet Friday

Tagged by @tinyarmedtrex, thank you!

The Rules: Copy the following prompts or make your own, post what fandoms you write for & your followers can request one of the prompts with a ship, character or fandom for a ficlet. Have fun! 

🌈 For all of June, Ficlet Fridays will be Pride themed. Last one! This week's prompts are the meanings behind the original Gilbert Baker pride flag 🌈

🩷 Hot pink: Sex ❤️ Red: Life 🧡 Orange: Healing 💛 Yellow: Sunlight 💚 Green: Nature 🩵 Turquoise: Magic 💙 Blue: Serenity 💜 Violet: Spirit 👀 Wild card: send me some other pride-related prompt ya want written 🤷‍♀️ Dealer's choice: you pick the pairing, I'll pick the prompt (or something of my own) and write away

My twist on this: Pick any of my SoC/Grishaverse OC's! I have a slew of queer OC's, and I would love the chance to explore with some of them a bit more than I already have. Options below!

Oxana/Zurye (F/F)

Ryo/Omar (M/M)

Nico/Mikhal/Meril (M/M/GNCF)

Nico/Mikhal (M/M, 'cause they get to explore alone.)

Jeter/Rook (M/M, will keep this one PG-13)

Cory/? (bi boy flirts with EVERYONE.)

Yancy/Lang (GQ/M)

Senn/Kalu (M/M)

Oxana/Isabel (when they were together.) (F/F)

Tij/? (before she was with Volk) (F/F)

Also cool with doing Jesper/Wylan, too! (M/M)

OR Jes & Wylan flirting with Erwin Alva, Merchant Council member. (M/M/M)

Soft tagging: @hotpinkmure, @kezzzx, @discessio, @intosnarkness, and @tough-n-dumb, if any of you want to participate!

[inexplicifics]

Deerly Beloved, a modern AU ficlet in which Eskel meets a white deer!

[cha-melodius]

firstprince hug prompt #30

(You sent two and I said I was gonna combine them, so I did. And because you said you were constantly adding "between spies" to the prompts in your head, that's what you get too. 😂 hug ficlet prompts)

30: The reluctant hug from someone who isn’t exactly a fan of physical affection; 13: The hug which tells you everything you need to know.

Alex is not ok.

He’s trying not to show it, of course, but they’ve been working together long enough for it to be obvious. They’ve been partners long enough, have seen each other at highs and lows, and this, Henry knows without a doubt, is a low. Maybe the lowest he’s ever seen Alex, and that’s saying something.

He doesn’t know what happened. Is too afraid to ask when Alex returns and doesn’t immediately start giving him a play-by-play. Whatever it is, it must be quite bad for Alex to have retreated into himself like this. He’s in pretty much the same place he collapsed on the sofa after he came back to the safehouse, answering Henry’s questions in single syllables, staring at a newspaper without reading it. He doesn’t even read the newspaper under normal circumstances. Henry’s the one that always picks it up, because he likes the idea of some things being true enough to print in indelible ink, even when he knows they’re not, and Alex makes fun of him for being an old man.

Henry doesn’t know what to do. He’s not equipped for this, not after so many years in the Service. He’s not built for providing comfort, not beyond making a pot of tea, which certainly won’t help Alex. But he wants, unaccountably, to make things better somehow. Needs to.

He won’t pretend not to know what’s behind it, even though he probably should. It’d be safer for both of them if he just let Alex be, let him handle whatever happened on his own.

Instead, he slowly lowers himself to the couch next to Alex and takes the newspaper out of his hands. Alex doesn’t fight him, just gives him a wary look like he’s afraid Henry’s going to ask more questions that he doesn’t want to—or can’t—answer.

But Henry slides a hand onto Alex’s shoulder and opens his other arm in the universal sign of offering a hug, and asks, “Can I?”

Perhaps predictably, Alex stares at him. “Are you sure? You don’t have to just for me. I’ll be fine.”

Just as Henry knows him, he knows Henry. Knows that Henry avoids most physical contact outside what’s necessary for his work, has pretty much since his father died and his mother withdrew and his sister disappeared, and no one hugged Henry for literal years. Knows that the demands of the job have only made it worse. Alex is careful with him, never asking too much, even though Alex is definitely the kind of person who thrives on casual physical affection.

Even with all of that, Henry wants to do this. He’s not sure it will help—not sure he even knows how to give good hugs anymore—but he’s sure he wants to try. “Yes,” he tells Alex. “I want to. If— If you do,” he adds, suddenly uncertain.

What if Alex doesn’t want a hug from him? What if he understands the magnitude of this, because there’s no way he doesn’t, and it’s too much? What if—

Alex very nearly launches himself into Henry’s arms, pressing in close as he curls his own arms around Henry’s waist, burrowing under skin and muscle and bone until he’s securely lodged in Henry’s ventricles. The hug almost hurts, and not because Alex is squeezing him so tightly, but because Henry’s chest is cracking open at the feeling of Alex shaking apart in his arms. Henry holds him just as tightly, murmuring soft words of comfort as he smooths a hand over Alex’s wild curls, and lets him stay as long as he wants.

(It’s all night—Alex stays in his arms all night, and Henry never once wants him to leave. Their partnership will never be the same. Henry will never be the same.

He doesn’t regret any of it.)

[mercurial-chuckles]

Wise Men Say!

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader Warning: Fluff | Kiss Word Count: 99 (proud of myself) A/N: This is for the Flash Fiction Challenge 5 hosted by our lovely @justagirlinafandomworld Thanks, Yvette, for hosting the event and spreading some much-needed holiday cheer! Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! GIF credits to @chris-evansimagines Divider credits to @buck-star Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Flash Fiction Challenge Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Tony's off-key singing fills the room as he twirls a giggling Pepper, both super drunk.

You're doubled over, laughing, barely able to breathe, when Steve's intense gaze catches yours. He strides over, one arm winding around your waist, the other gripping the back of your hair, pulling you close.

"Guess Tony's onto something," he murmurs, his roguish grin stealing your breath.

"Ste..." Your gasp vanishes as his lips capture yours, firm and toe-curling, leaving you reeling, and from somewhere, Tony's voice cracks mid-song. "Can't help fallin… what the fuck, CAPSICLE?"

"Come with me, doll," Steve whispers, leading you out.

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