askfandomprompts

[askfandomprompts]

Millie Bobby Brown starring as Enola Holmes Enola Holmes (2020) Dir. Harry Bradbeer

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First of all, @thelxckblog​, Wolvlock will forever be your/our thing. Sometimes you just can’t get in the right headspace for things, that’s normal.

Second of all, I’ll see if I can come up with some good ones, but I’m throwing this right back at you, yo.

----

1. There’s a certain sound, when leather strikes skin. A deep smack that drags across the red welt left behind. Just hearing that sound, in any situation, has Sherlock immediately hard. It’s Pavlovian at this point.

2. Logan can never smell wood oil again without his mouth watering. It’s a scent memory from when he’d taken Sherlock, his dick so deep inside Sherlock that he was practically bumping his throat, on top of the table where Sherlock had been caring for his violin. By the same token, violin music affects the Wolverine in a way he cannot explain. Just the sound, that lilting, haunting melody, of those strings can stop him cold.

3. The idea of fucking Sherlock’s mouth is constantly on Logan’s mind. To distraction. He burns with the idea of his dick stretching Sherlock’s lips, of Sherlock gagging, eyes watering, as he struggles to swallow every thick inch. Sherlock uses this knowledge to his advantage. He’s won more than one argument simply by licking his lips and looking down.

4. Tying Sherlock down and using him over and over during the course of the day is typical punishment from Logan. He likes to tie Sherlock to the bed, legs spread wide, and claims his ass and throat whenever he wants. Logan will leave him there all day, ignoring his whimpers and begging curses. Of course, the second he is untied, Sherlock makes sure Logan regrets it.

5. They fight. Constantly. But Sherlock has never once fought fair. His favorite tactic is to let Logan lose his temper and then, holding Logan’s gaze, start to undress. Wearing a plug always turns the tide in his favor. Logan would agree to anything when he’s gagging for Sherlock to let him touch him.

please... nsfw wolvlock hc's.... dark ones... please...

This ask really intimidated me, which is weird because, like, Wolvlock is my thing, you know? I’ve tried answering this 5 times and I can’t so I’m passing it off to @askfandomprompts. I’m so sorry, dude.

[askfandomprompts]

Countdown

This is a fic-ish for @ull-float-too. I promised him fluff. There is fluff. 

Pairing: Richie/Eddie (TW: Suicide) (TW: Death)

1. 

Imagine...

...Eddie reached across to take his hand and Richie grinned at him. The TV was on, but Richie hadn’t caught any of the movie that was playing. Not when he could watch the colors flicker across Eddie’s face. Memorize the soft slopes of his cheeks, the deep, dark of his eyes. 

Their fingers laced together and Richie tugged lightly at Eddie’s so he could bring Eddie’s hand to his lips. He kissed Eddie’s knuckles, softly, enjoying the little shiver he saw going through Eddie. Every time they touched, every goddamn time, Richie felt those little butterflies.

It didn’t take long before Eddie moved closer to Richie, and Richie happily wrapped one long arm around his shoulders. Richie kissed his head and Eddie sighed, a happy sound, a contented sound, and Richie felt like he could move a fucking mountain. The fact he could make someone like Eddie, who was glory and light and everything, sound like that? It was the one good thing Richie knew for sure he’d done.

2.

Imagine...

...”No! No, Richie, no, don’t you dare...” Eddie was all but giggling as he darted around the sofa. Richie was close on his heels, arms outstretched and fingers waggling. He was laughing, loudly, as he pursued Eddie playfully around their living room. The tickle fight had started as a water fight while doing dishes, and escalated from there. 

The belly laughs from Eddie when Richie finally pounced on him and brought him crashing to the couch were ... magical. That sound, Richie wished he could bottle it, because it could probably bring world peace. And the fact it was his, that Eddie gave that sound to him and nearly no one else, made Richie feel like he could fucking fly.

The tickles turned to kisses, turned to moans and hands grasping and skin sliding against skin. Eddie’s breathless pleas and Richie slowly stroking both their fires until they came, together, tumbling into blissful nothingness. Together. Always together.

3.

Imagine...

...The living room was dark, hushed anticipation electric around them. Richie made Eddie count down from ten, their own silly ritual. On the one, Richie flipped a switch and the whole room lit up, top to bottom. The Christmas tree in the corner was covered with multi-colored strands and so many decorations it was almost hard to see the pine underneath. This year Richie had strung the ceiling with icicle lights and built a track for a little toy train to run around and around the room. Every corner, every table and flat surface, was covered with fucking Christmas.

“You are a crazy person.” Eddie’s voice was dry, but Richie knew that look, the little gleam in his hazel gold eyes. The one that told Richie he was loving it, despite his tone.

“And you married me. So what does that make you.” Richie pulled Eddie to stand in front of the tree, arms clasping around Eddie’s waist.

“Even more insane.” Eddie lifted on his toes to kiss Richie, slow and sweet. They stood there, bathed in Christmas lights, lost in their own world. Where nothing else mattered. Where everything was them, and that was all they’d ever need.

. . .

At three, Richie took a breath before his foot pushed off of the bridge and, for one second, he was almost floating.

A whole life of possibilities had crossed his mind, days and nights spent with Eddie. What ifs and maybes circling around and around.

Everything they could have had. Everything Eddie had deserved.

But Richie had been too slow. Too fucking slow, and now the dreams were all anything ever would be.

Richie felt the bottom of his stomach drop as he began free-falling. The water rushing up towards him, closer and closer with every heart beat.

Eddie had paid the price for Richie not being fast enough, smart enough, clever enough. Eddie was gone, buried under rubble and mud, and Richie had left him there.

Whatever hell existed, Richie was destined for it. And he wouldn’t fight that fate at all.

Eddie’s face was the last thought he had. The last breath he exhaled was Eddie’s name.

Then, there was nothing but the dark. And the only indication there’d ever been a boy named Richie who was in love with a boy named Eddie was two letters carved into the wood railing of the bridge.

R + E

[askfandomprompts]

So having children must be traumatic for the losers. What does one of Richie's nightmares look like and how does he calm himself down?

Unlike some of the other Losers - namely Bill and Bev - Richie doesn’t like to acknowledge his nightmares. He tries not to call for help, doesn’t talk to some goddamn therapist or any of his friends. The images Richie has in his head, he figures are his penance.

The water is up to his chest, sticky and slick, the stench of it drowning him. Richie is lost in the sewers. The cold circle of the stone walls seemed to drag Richie deeper and deeper, the passageways stretching before him seemingly with no end. 

In the distance, he can hear Eddie, calling to him. Screaming for help. It’s Eddie’s voice as it once had been, a thousand years ago, a whole other lifetime ago. His best friend and the first person he’d ever fallen in love with. Nobody outside of Derry had ever even held a candle to Eddie, to what he had been. To what he was now.

Childhood Eddie was shouting out for him. And Richie, the adult him, the gangly body he’d poisoned with alcohol and drugs and self-loathing, he was pushing through the muck in a desperate attempt to reach him.

But he never did.

Richie never wanted to let Eddie know about any of this shit. So when he bolted awake, shivering, reaching out desperately to thin air, Richie just blamed too much to drink or too little to drink. He would bolt to the bathroom, splash cold water on his face, and refuse to meet his own eyes in the mirror.

The sound of a carnival is somewhere behind him in the dark. Richie, all of fourteen, can smell the popcorn and the fried everythings, the greasepaint and sawdust. He’s walking towards the big Ferris wheel, pushing through the crowd. From the corner of his eyes he keeps catching sight of someone, an impossibly tall figure, white face and red eyes gleaming hungrily. 

A feeling of dread sinks into Richie’s stomach. It was a living thing, coiling through his veins, making every move staggeringly slow. Like he could barely put one foot in front of the other.

Richie glances down, vaguely realizing his feet are in clown shoes. It doesn’t make sense, but for some reason he just accepts this.

Another flicker of movement. That unearthly pale skin, drawn on red smile, it was coming closer.

Richie just kept trudging along, too scared to stop. Too unsure.

One thing he knew for sure, one thing certain, was that he was utterly alone. Though his rational mind insisted there should be other people there, his shield and sword, his heart and his soul, his light and his guiding path, there was no one. 

Why? Why was he alone?

No answer came, just trudging feet. The next glance down and Richie sees that his clothes are now a jovial outfit, white with red trim, the faint twinkle of bells accompanying his movements. This also is odd, but again, he can’t seem to do anything about it.

The Ferris wheel is just as far away now as when he’d started. But it didn’t matter anymore. The figure on the edges of his vision lumbers closer. Closer. Richie turns to confront--

A mirror. He smiles his yellow, jagged smile, eyes red and skin painted white. With a happy dance, limbs dangling and bells jangling, Richie grins.

And grins.

And grins.

When he wakes, he chokes back the screams, like a sour coating at the back of his throat. He makes excuses as to the sweat soaked sheets, he claims that he was working to explain the dark bags under his eyes. Because fuck knows that after one of those nightmares, he wasn’t sleeping for the rest of the night.

No one could know. Richie couldn’t bring himself to admit that level of weakness. Not to mention the content of his dreams . . . his failures. His fears. Why the fuck would he ever confess those? Nobody would look at him the same ever again.

The night is pitch black. Richie isn’t sure which direction the screams are coming from, but there’s certainty in his mind he’s running away from them. He stumbles over a log, going sprawling with a soft sob in his throat. 

It’s coming. That one thought was pulsing in his brain over and over.

It’s coming.

Richie.

A voice curled around him like smoke, like something smothering and hot. Poison dripping in thick plops onto his skin. 

Richie struggled to his feet and took off running again.

Riiiiichie.

Stumbling over his own feet, Richie ran headlong into a sign.

Welcome to Derry Population: 0

He screamed and fell back. Right into the dark, into the swirl of fog and death.

I’m coming, Richie. I’m coming for you.

His screams never mattered. No one heard. No one came. The shouts had died down and the world was empty. 

All except for him. 

And It.

It was always coming back.

Richie slept on the couch. He gagged himself so the whimpers of terror would not wake anyone else. 

Comfort wasn’t something Richie deserved. He knew that.

He was an asshole. He had failed Eddie. Failed Stan. So no matter what the truth was now, the point was that these dreams were only what was due.

[askfandomprompts]

I know i called you bro but im kinda in love with you

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could you write a reddie x daughter fic?

“Daddy!” The little girl’s foot stomped against the floor, her tiny fists pressed to her hips. Richie had to school his face to not give away how hilariously cute he found this whole situation. Eddie had already given him that look twice this week when he burst out laughing at their daughter’s tantrums.

Their daughter. Olivia. The Princess, their heart, all wrapped up in messy brown curls and Eddie’s eyes. Shit. Three years in and Richie still hadn’t figured out how to wrap his brain around that.

He crouched down in front of her, lips twitching as she gave him a glare, a perfect mirror image of Eddie’s. “How can I help you, princess?”

“Daddy, you’re suppos’t take me to papa now.” Her little face scrunched up as she tried to be stern. “For dinner.”

Richie’s eyes went to the clock over his desk. Shit. “You’re right, little one. I got busy with work and playing with you, didn’t I?”

She nodded, a grin bursting out across her face, sunshine and glory all at once. “Yeah! But we made castle.”

Enough imagination and joy and giggles made stacks of pillows into a fairy castle. Worked every time.

“Sure did.” Richie lifted Olivia up, spinning her around just to hear her laugh. That full-belly laugh that made Richie feel like he could fucking do anything. He spent his whole life trying to make people laugh, and now the only thing that mattered to him was this little girl’s smile. “You hungry?”

Olivia nodded, which made sense. He was already a half hour late for leaving, and Eddie was definitely going to kill him for that. “Well, let’s call papa and let him know we’re on our way.”

“I do it!” Olivia held out a chubby hand for Richie’s phone. She was probably more proficient on the damn thing than he was, but Richie held it back.

“How about I put him on speaker while we get your shoes on, huh?”

He set Olivia down, putting the phone next to them on the couch while he knelt to get on her sneakers. Eddie’s phone rang barely twice before his irritated voice came through the speaker. “You’re going to be late, aren’t you? Damn it, Richie, I--”

“You’re on speaker, babe,” Richie called out, again doing everything he could to hold back laughter. “Ollie here wanted to say hi.”

“Papa!” Olivia shrieked, grabbing the phone and kissing it. “Hi!”

“I’m putting her shoes on right now,” Richie assured his husband, fighting with the velcro. Stupid stuff stuck everywhere.

Eddie’s voice had changed immediately to that soft croon he got whenever he talked to their daughter. He was happily chatting with her about their day, about how daddy and her had played and now they were all going out to dinner. Richie shoved his feet into his boots and scooped up the kid, the diaper bag, and the phone before heading out the door.

“Babe, why don’t we just meet you at the restaurant?” 

Eddie hesitated before sighing. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Sorry, just--” He trailed off, but Richie knew what was going on.

“Look, you’re going to crush that presentation tomorrow. I promise. You’re ready, Eds.”

A pause and Richie knew exactly the face Eddie was making. The You don’t know what you’re talking about and you’re just saying nice things because you have to face. But he waited it out, until finally Eddie agreed, “You’re right, I can’t do any more prep now. It’s either going to go or not.”

“Meet us at the restaurant. Get us a table and order me a whisk--” Shit. Richie cleared his throat and shook his head. “A coke.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Love your face.”

“Love your face, too.”

Richie hung up so he could get Olivia strapped into her car seat. It wasn’t too far of a drive to get to their favorite restaurant. Not Chinese food had been their one requirement when looking for someplace they could go to regularly. Neither one of them ever wanted to go to a Chinese restaurant again, thanks. But this cute Italian place that did killer lasagna and great pizza was perfect. They’d celebrated their anniversary there, their anniversary of the first time they kissed, they’d had their first bathroom fuck there, celebrated the success of the insemination of their surrogate, Olivia’s birth, and spent numerous birthdays and bad days and makeup sex days there. It was theirs. A routine.

Something Richie never once thought he’d want.

Until Eddie. Until they’d gotten a second chance - well, technically they were on their third chance - and Richie had finally gotten the balls to actually express an emotion. Five years ago, hip deep in sewage and Evil Clown juice, Richie couldn’t have imagined he’d be in a family. A real, stable, every day family.

They got to the restaurant, Eddie waiting for them out front. “I thought you were going to get us a--” Richie almost got all of the words out before Eddie was kissing him. Grinning against Eddie’s lips, Richie wrapped his free arm around Eddie’s waist, pulling him in.

“I didn’t want to wait a second longer to say hi to my two best loves.” 

Olivia giggled, diving from Richie’s hold to Eddie’s arms. Eddie and Olivia had their own little language, their own little world, and Richie loved that. Loved how much they loved each other.

His family. The two pieces of his heart that lived outside his body, that gave meaning to his every damn breath. 

God. He’d kill a thousand more fucking clowns to have five minutes of this.

“Should we go in, sweetheart?” Eddie was looking up at Richie with those big, beautiful eyes. The ones he saw so clearly in Olivia’s.

Richie grinned, kissing Eddie again, then pressing his lips to Olivia’s forehead. “Yeah. Let’s go, babe.”

Goddamn. He could conquer the world. So long as he had this, Richie didn’t need anything else.

[askfandomprompts]

You could not imagine the amount of effort it took to find one bitch on social media. Especially since the Derry Inn wasn’t exactly known for super speedy Wi-Fi. But finally, he’d found her. Verified by a picture of her and Eddie, Eddie’s arm around (well, not quite around, but) his wife’s waist.

He was smiling.

Shit. Shit, he was smiling.

Richie, selfishly, wanted to believe that the smile didn’t reach his eyes. That it wasn’t as wide, as free, as the smiles Eddie had when he talked to Richie. They were different. He really needed that to be true.

Myra Kaspbrak. 

Richie growled, low in his throat, as he flipped through her public pictures. Fuck. Fuck her. She was... she was fat. And stern looking. There was no way she could make Eddie laugh. She wasn’t someone who could get Eddie out of his funks, or pull him out of those anxiety spirals. Myra wasn’t the one.

Why the fuck was he so angry about this? Richie felt deep coils of this sick tightness in his gut, something he couldn’t remember ever experiencing before.

Well, no, that wasn’t true. A memory flickered, seeing Eddie laughing at something Bill said, perfect Bill, beautiful Bill, Bill who they all followed into hell. And Richie had felt that same demon wound around his stomach before, dropping the bottom out of him with a hiss of hot fury.

He was jealous.

Jealous. Of stupid, humorless, Minion-meme posting Myra. She looked just like his damn mother and Richie was jealous.

Because she’d done something he was too goddamn cowardly to do. She’d stood up in front of people and said she loved Eddie.

Richie shut the laptop with a grunt, barely containing the urge to throw it against the wall. He was going down to that bar and he was going to get a drink. Or twelve. He was going to do what Toziers always did.

Drown his damn problems in whiskey and hope like hell he didn’t wake up.

And hey, soon he’d go try to kill a homicidal evil clown, so. Things weren’t all bad.

The only reason Richie knows that Eddie’s wife is fat is bc he sat his gay ass down and took time out of the nonstop shitshow of blood and gore that is the weekend in Derry to Facebook stalk this woman who had the audacity to marry his childhood crush.

[askfandomprompts]

Barry Vs Richie Who would Win

Are you asking me who would win in a battle between trained soldier and killer Barry Berkman and noted klutz who barely made it safely down the stairs of a hotel carrying a bag Richie Tozier?

I mean. Is it a sexiness battle? 

Barry.

A physical altercation?

Barry.

Is this being judged by Eddie?

Barry Richie

[askfandomprompts]

Streddie decorating gingerbread houses together at Christmastime?

Richie is, of course, completely sloppy.. He’s eaten half his candy before Eddie gives him the frosting, and his roof has a suspicious hole where he may or may not have bitten it. He pretends to not understand how things like frosting or construction of small bakery based housing so that Stan and Eddie have to be close to him. He’s so much taller that he stands behind them, blanketing their backs with his stupid long arms fitting so neatly beside theirs. 

The ruse fools no one but they all go along with it. Because when Richie laughs they feel that rumble in his chest against them, when he smiles his lips brush against the curve of their necks, when his long fingers hold theirs they feel like he’s anchored and settled.

Stan has all of the frostings arranged by color, already pre-portioned into piping bags. Despite Richie’s immediate demand that someone paint his dick with frosting and lick it off - which was unsanitary and could lead to a yeast infection, Stan informed him - he efficiently passed out bowls of candy and necessary supplies before starting on his own.

Richie and Eddie take turns moving Stan’s supplies slightly, mixing the color order up or stealing all of the red M&Ms from his bowl when he went to get more marshmallows for snowmen. There was an adorable thing Stan did with his eyebrows when he was yelling at them for being immature and agents of chaos. Eddie even got daring on his second White Russian and kissed Stan deeply while Richie, giggling, stole all of his candy canes. Because hearing Stan laugh, hard, was like a revelation. Warmth in the middle of a winter storm, a fire that burned in the hearth and called them all home.

Eddie piped the frosting onto the gingerbread house with single-minded focus. His tongue poked out from between his teeth as he concentrated on making every line straight, every curve exactly as it should be. He’d even brought up pictures of gingerbread houses on his phone so he knew what the correct way to decorate would be.

Stan strikes first, lightly nudging Eddie so one line goes slightly askew. When Eddie starts to panic, trying to erase it, Stan comments lightly that he likes it better that way. Richie comes over and kisses Eddie’s neck while he works, nibbling on his ear and rumbling dirty things, which of course makes Eddie’s curves and swirls made so delicately tremble as he piped them out. But Richie grins and compliments every shaky line. Until Eddie saw all three of them in that house, not just some impersonal copy of a magazine photo.

Their hands together, fingers laced together so that it was hard to see whose was whose, they piped the last bit on their houses. To make them perfect.

R + E + S = <3

[askfandomprompts]

Everyone (including me) headcanons Richie as the Loser who has a Gen-z sense of humor. So just imagine him having to explain vine references and memes to Eddie and Stan when they don't understand why he's laughing so hard at something.

So, it’s called... tick tock? Like a clock?

No, babe, it’s tik-tok.

So... wait. Is there a clock? What’s funny about a clock?

No, Stan... Look, it’s just... do you remember Vine?

Are you talking about gardening now?

Jesus, no, Eddie. Okay, look! Look at my phone. It’s like... short videos where you can say something or do memes.

Okay, wait, I remember memes! That’s like that cat with a cheeseburger thing.

Literally, Stan, you are the most uncool person in the world. 

Not true. I am considered hip and happening in the office.

I wish I was dead. Honestly. God, okay, guys, Twitter. You all know Twitter. So, look, this is a great guy I follow, he’s hilarious.

The handle says he’s Donald Trump’s hair.

Yeah, Eds. That’s the joke.

Donald Trump is a horrible racist. He’s not funny.

I know! I know that, that’s the fucking joke! It’s like... his hair is being satirical about... Forget it. Just, never mind. It’s not funny when I have to explain it.

Aw, Richie, don’t pout. How about you tick my tock? ;)

Yeah, Richie. Come tweet at me. ;)

That’s still... not... Forget it. I’m going into the bedroom and if you two aren’t naked in five seconds I’m chasing you down the street with my dick out.

[askfandomprompts]

I like to imagine how liberating it must be for Eddie to go from Ransone's portrayal of "Hey, dude! Sup, bro. Hahaha, beer. Am I right, fellow straights?" To being in a relationship with Richie after they kick Pennywise's ass. He doesn't have to pretend to be this hyper masculine straight dude. He can just be himself. A kind, gay man who loves his boyfriend and doesn't have to hide his hobbies/desires because they "seem gay."

Eddie never really liked the whole sports thing. Or beer. God, beer was so gross, who the hell would choose to drink that?

Richie is, of course, more of a straight alcohol kind of guy, but that’s a whole different thing. The first time Eddie had a Long Island Iced Tea was a revelation. Now his boyfriend - boyfriend thank you, fuck ever dealing with a girl again - ordered them two fingers of whiskey straight and a Long Island Iced Tea, keep ‘em coming.

Also, Eddie is now aware of things like puzzle clubs. They get together once a month, drink good coffee and bad tea, and do a different kind of puzzle each time. Either all coming together to work on a five thousand piece puzzle of shades of blue, or trying to solve a mystery escape box, it was an evening with a group of people who liked the same things as he did. No judgement. No hiding. And when they hosted, Richie even served them the sandwiches they’d put together earlier (or, rather, Eddie put together while Richie loomed and kissed his neck and whined when Eddie smacked his hand away from the turkey).

The first time they went shopping together and Eddie could actually get into it, not just hold a purse and hum vague agreement, he lit up. He informed Richie he was throwing away all of his shirts and dressed up his boyfriend so he didn’t look like a homeless man. Also he could really have conversations about shoes all he wanted. Could lust after the latest pair of Louboutin, and find a whole community of people who accepted that. 

The game was never on in their house. Richie introduced him to HGTV and they spent their nights debating wainscoting or if they should install a water feature. He felt free to do things like facials or pedicures, knowing that while Richie would tease him, no one outside would think twice about a gay man doing a little manscaping.

He was gay. He was gay, not bi, not straight, nothing in between. Eddie Kasprak was gay, had always been gay, but now? Now Eddie Kasprak (hopefully soon to be Kasprak-Tozier) was living. For the first time in twenty-seven years. Maybe in a lifetime.

Eddie was alive, and out, and proud of who he was. His skin finally felt like it was comfortable enough to live in.

[askfandomprompts]

Richie as a Mutant. That's it. That's the ask.

Now, Richie is not going to be one of those over-the-top, spandex wearing, superhero types. He kind of wishes he could go invisible because those could be the ultimate pranks, not to mention the dirty shit he could get up to. But god knows that Richie Trashmouth Tozier doesn’t have that kind of luck.

The first time he realized he had a mutation, he was running pell-mell down the alley between the general store and the butcher shop, desperately trying to get away from the Buttface Bowers. Sadly, Richie’s mutation also is not super speed. So he got caught. Like always.

No, no, Bowers! Wait! Wait just a second! The words tumble out as Bowers shoves Richie back against the rough brick wall, one meaty hand spread across Richie’s scrawny chest to hold him in place, the other in a fist aimed right for Richie’s face. Wait! Richie was scrambling, trying to figure how to talk his way out of this.

His hand grabbed Bowers’ wrist. You know, one day, we’ll all laugh about this.

And Bowers... did. He started to laugh, right then, grinning. A chuckle turned into a full on guffaw and then a belly laugh that had Bowers bent over, holding his stomach. Richie slipped away from Bowers, eyes huge behind those oversized glasses.  

He’d said laugh and Bowers had. He wasn’t stopping, either. Now Bowers was rolling on the ground, his grin in some kind of rictus grimace. The laughs had turned painful, forced, but it was like Bowers couldn’t stop.

I did that. Richie just knew. Right then. He’d just forced Bowers into laughs, with a touch. Richie watched Bowers squirm at his feet, laughter so far from gleeful. Bowers was starting to find it hard to breathe in between the strained cackles, the corners of his mouth dripping blood as his muscles forced the grin wider. Bowers’ face contorted into some gruesome mask, a morbid parody of happy laughter.

Richie stood there in the dirty alley and watched Bowers die. Of laughter.

Maybe he would be a comedian someday. 

[askfandomprompts]

Wolverine and Sherlock Holmes?? Hm??? How might? That work? I have never heard of such an interesting combination ever. 😇😌

LISTEN HERE U BRAT

I’m going to indulge your very subtle push, but only cause I love the pants off of you.

Okay, so, basic premise is this. Both Logan Howlett and Sherlock Holmes were conceivably in England at the same time. This was the lead-up to World War I, and there was no way Victor wasn’t smelling blood in the water.

Take that, add in younger Logan trying to win Victor’s approval, add in the assumption that of course Victor and Logan were banging it out, and bam you’ve got a case where bored Victor was definitely causing chaos for his own amusement. Who would investigate that?

Sherlock mother fuckin’ Holmes, that’s who.

Logan sees him, gets obsessed, follows him around, Sherlock of course knows this because Logan is about as subtle as a tornado. Sherlock probably confronts Logan, Logan panics because he’s an idiot and takes him back to Victor and his cabin. 

Cue attraction and Stockholm syndrome and sexy times.

Logan convinces Victor to leave, John Watson finds Sherlock tied to a bed and insisting that he had everything under control and was only still there because he was taking his bloody time, stop fussing, Watson. 

From there, Lock and I have made many paths. Sometimes Logan tries to come back to him, sometimes not. Sometimes they fall in love here, sometimes it’s more of an obsession, etc. But that’s the start of it all.

Any questions? 😂

[askfandomprompts]

More Feral!Werewolf Richie, please?? 👀👀👀

Richie likes to hunt when the night is tipping forward into that early morning birdsong. That’s when the drunks and the party goers and the walks of shame are going, that’s when Richie could pick off easy prey. When the still darkness would hide any struggle and he could leave the body behind a dumpster without fear of discovery. At least, not until the rest of the world had woken up, and by then Richie was long gone.

But Richie was bored with easy. Bored with safe and usual. So he stayed out later and later, watching the dawn start to creep up, hunting.

It didn’t take too long until he stumbled on Eddie Kaspbrak’s morning jog route. 

At first it was just idle contemplation as Richie looked for a target. Perhaps this man. Perhaps that one. It was all the roll of the dice, really.

But then, one day, Eddie stumbled. Richie, taking advantage of the situation, was there lightning fast to offer his hand. And he got a good smell of Eddie, the sweat and the musk of him tangling together into something that nearly made Richie loose any control right then. Eddie smelled like the earth after a rain and cinnamon and a little bitter turn. It was purely intoxicating.

You’re still holding my hand, Eddie was saying. Thank you, but I need my hand.

And Richie was just standing there, looming over him, blocking the sun and studying Eddie closely. Then there was that jovial grin that Richie used to hide and he backed up with some banal sorry, man, spaced out or something, a laugh, whatever. Eddie took off running again and Richie watched him, eyes glowing.

For the first time Richie could remember, he didn’t want to rip his prey apart. He didn’t want to feast and revel and leave a corpse behind for the normal herd to find.

He wanted to take. To possess. To own. 

Richie wasn’t going to kill Eddie. No, that would be a waste. Richie was going to turn him.

So Richie got familiar with the timing. Eddie was a dear, so predictable, he passed the same bend in the sidewalk at the same time every day.

And one day, as the birds overhead twittered and called out to the newly rising sun, Eddie never made it past that bend. Richie was waiting for him and he’d barely managed to wait until he’d drug Eddie to the cab of his truck before it was lips and teeth and eager hands. 

Eddie would come around, Richie was sure. It felt too good for him not to.

And once the change took hold, well.

Derry would tremble in fear. Two wolves would haunt the woods and streets, leaving bodies like calling cards. 

He and Eddie would fuck next to their kills, bodies slick with sweat and blood, howls shaking the night stillness.

Richie had plans for Eddie. So many plans.

[askfandomprompts]

would you, maybe, perhaps, be willing to write something with insecure eddie in a relationship with richie? or vice versa, insecure richie who feels like he isn't enough for eddie/eddie deserves better, type of thing? my crops are dying and my cattle are starving 😔

Eddie:

It isn’t that Eddie had low self esteem.

Or, rather, it isn’t just because of the low self esteem.

It was seeing Richie on stage. Glorious. Fully in control. Bathed in light, animated, face glowing as he used his hands and body and voice to convey an exaggerated view of the stories he was telling. More than that, even, more than seeing Richie in his element, it was seeing him take an audience of strangers and make them laugh.

Richie had always been the funny one, of course. Eddie remembered (now he remembered, of course, but there were nearly three decades where the sound of laughter had made him ache and he never understood why) days spent in stitches, safe in the clubhouse, swinging in the hammock and nearly crying from laughing. Richie could always make them laugh. But to take hundreds, sometimes thousands, of strangers and hold them right in the palm of his hand? To guide them through stories and one liners and bring them into the light with him? To enchant and distract and entertain until Eddie’s ears were ringing with laughter? That wasn’t talent. That was magic.

Richie was magic.

And Eddie was... Eddie. A little (only a little, really, he felt he was very reasonable most of the time) neurotic about health and safety. Mostly the straight man for Richie’s puns, or flinging back insults to make sure Richie’s head didn’t expand so large it blocked the sun. He was just a man. Just a man who looked at insurance policies all day and spent hours in meetings thinking of anything and everything that might go wrong.

For some people, that would be enough, Eddie reckoned. A normal man would be enough. But not Richie. 

You see, Richie is magic.

And Eddie... Eddie is the guy trying desperately to hide the fact he wasn’t good enough for him. Eddie is the one who holds his breath every night when Richie comes home just a little late, sure that if he’s not in the door the second the kitchen clock says six that Richie has snuck out the back window of their little lives and vanished. Eddie is the one who worships Richie and hides it under retorts and banter.

Because Richie is magic.

Eddie just hopes his next trick isn’t to disappear completely.

------

Richie:

There were certain things that Richie knew for absolute certain.

One: Clowns were fucking terrifying as shit and should be outlawed immediately. Anyone seen applying greasepaint should be executed on sight. No explanation needed there.

Two: Every morning at five am, an alarm would chirp exactly three times before Eddie’s hand emerged from a mountain of blankets and slapped it off. Soon after, one half of their bed would be empty as Richie lay there, watching Eddie bustle about all business-like, getting ready for the day.

Three: He loved Eddie Kaspbrak. Again, no further explanation was, he felt, needed.

Four: One day, Eddie was going to look over at him, maybe from over the top of his paper as he ate his oatmeal in the morning, or maybe at night he’d open his eyes suddenly in the dark, and tell Richie he needed to go. That Eddie would see him, see all the broken pieces of Richie that he tried desperately to hold together, and tell Richie that it was over. 

Richie wasn’t sure when this day would come. So every time Eddie looked at him, there was a little part of Richie that was terrified. Because this could be the one. The time when the rose-colored glasses the love of his life was wearing shattered and he actually realized who Richie was.

Richie was trash.

There was no reason to deny it. He’d been trash from the day he’d been born and he’d die trash, alone and forgotten in some shitty apartment, probably. Surrounded by cheese puffs because if he was gonna die, by god, it’d be in his underwear, eating cheese puffs.

So Richie horded little moments. Memories of the way Eddie laughed, the way his eye lit up when something good happened, how his lips felt, what he tasted like. How happy he was. How much he loved Eddie. Richie kept them all locked up in a special box in his mind, so that when the inevitable happened he’d at least have those.

Because Richie was trash. And Trashmouth Tozier never was gonna wind up with someone this handsome and beautiful, witty and wise, funny and soft and perfect. That wasn’t how the story ended.

Because the fifth thing Richie knew for certain, what he’d learned a long time ago, sitting by a grave and holding tight to Bill’s hand, watching his best friend fall apart and a tiny coffin being lowered into the cold earth, was that happy endings didn’t exist.

[askfandomprompts]

The Return of IT

Just kidding, it’s the return of me. Sorry for disappearing, darlings, and of course I will answer the asks I have in my inbox. Life and chronic illness tends to disrupt my best plans.  Send me whatever thoughts or desires and I will fulfill them with prompts for your fantasies to take off from. xoxo

[askfandomprompts]

Thoughts on Streddie dynamics? Soft, nsfw, whatevs.

My personal opinion of Streddie is that it would definitely have some aspect of Dom/sub. Stanley would see when Richie was starting to spiral, and giving control lets Richie find balance again.

Eddie gives them softness. There’s someone to fret over them, to banter with Stanley, to meet Richie’s wit. And this is the guy that Richie loved so much that EVEN AFTER LOSING HIS MEMORY he couldn’t move on. Eddie completes Richie.

Stan is the guy who always showed up. Was always there. The third to their trio since elementary school. Richie had a crush on him, not as intense as Eddie but just as real. Now that they’re adults, now that they remember everything, Stan knows that he needs Richie to give him levity just as much as Eddie grounds and softens him. The three of them can’t live apart. Not fully.

They’re a true triad. So I see it as Stan doms sometimes in the bedroom, yeah. But mostly it’s three broken people who have managed to fix themselves together.