#I accidently a ficlet

[goddessofroyalty]

So this was based on a silly joke I have in my head about hormonal birth control not working for omega!Sanji for (spoilers) reasons and him and Zoro then ending up with 3 kids on the pirate journey because they keep breaking condoms.

Anyway this is just them finally making it back to the Baratie and having to face up to Zeff about it (from Zeff’s POV)

Pairing: Zoro/Sanji

Tags: omegaverse, mpreg

---------

Zeff will admit he is slightly surprised at the swell in Sanji’s stomach when he showed up again as part of what seems to be the new Pirate King and crew’s Victory Tour.

It’s not that Eggplant had given him no indication of it – he had been getting more and more jittery every damn time he’d gotten in touch as the Strawhats made their various stops before reaching the Baratie. Saying how some things had happened during his travels and that he’d needed to talk to Zeff about them in person. But Zeff had assumed it was to do with his damnable family. Not that his woman-obsessed omega son had gone and got himself knocked up. By an alpha, going by the new layer of scent clinging on top of the one he remembers to be Sanji’s.

And, because wonder’s don’t fucking cease, they’ve only just gotten through their tearful hug when a little green-haired girl comes running over. Clinging to Eggplants leg and staring up at Zeff with curious, familiar, blue eyes.

“I thought you were staying on the ship Princess?” Eggplant says, brushing a hand through her hair. And Zeff is equally sure that actually Sanji told her to stay on the ship as he is that his boy was as much a pushover to his daughter as he had been any woman who had stepped foot into the Baratie before he left.

“You know she wasn’t gonna’ as soon as she found out this was your old home.” And there was the newly minted World’s Greatest Swordsman and apparently sire to Zeff’s grandkids walking in like it had been his home as well and not the place he had gotten nearly cut in half by the former owner of the title.

And, fucks sake, there was another little one resting on his hips as he does it with that same matching green hair.

“I do remember teaching you about the importance of making them wrap it,” Zeff grumbles, because going by the age of the older one the two it hadn’t been all that long after Sanji left that he had gotten himself knocked up. “I know you said you weren’t planning on getting with any alphas but I know you were still listening.”

Eggplant goes red at it before glaring at Roronoa who gives a grin back that is entirely too filthy and leaves Zeff sure that he doesn’t actually want to know.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Zeff asks more to move the topic away from his kid’s sex life before he finds out more about it than he wants to.

They had been exchanging letters and calls on and off the whole time and never once had Eggplant mentioned that he was going to be or had become a granddad in any of them.

“I did try to but I couldn’t say anything too direct in case it got intercepted,” Sanji explains, resting a protective hand over his middle while the other curls around the girl at his side.

It makes some degree of sense. Best way to keep the two, soon to be three, pups from being a target is to have nobody know they exist in the first place.

Maybe Zeff should have guessed something like this was up when Sanji had asked him how he had dealt with the stress of raising a kid in the dangerous world they lived in. But he had just assumed his boy had finally matured enough to realize how much of an antagonistic dumbass he had been at times.

“I did want to tell you though,” Sanji continues, his voice guilty.  

Roronoa has moved close to his mate’s side, not touching though. Which is probably what Sanji actually wants – always had been a bit funny about any too direct an offer of comfort. Something Zeff’s probably as much to blame for as anything else in his life.

“You have no idea how many times I nearly did.”

“Probably for the best you didn’t,” Zeff says because he can’t have his kid feeling guilty for doing the smart thing. “I don’t know if I’d have been able to keep away if you did.”

Neither he nor his ship these days are made for the journey to the Grand Line. And it wouldn’t have been good for Sanji or the rest of the crew of his to have an old pirate getting underfoot while they were making names for themselves on history’s pages.

“Hell, I’m gonna’ struggle letting you sail off with my grandkids with you now. You better come visit more than you have been!” He doesn’t actually hold it against them and damn well know the reason why this is the first time he’s seen them since Sanji left to join a pirate crew. But he still missed years of his grandkids lives as a result and they had better make up for it.

[blushweddinggowns]

I'm all for the angsty overhearing a conversation trope where it's all sad because of a misunderstanding. But I also love the opposite. Overhearing a conversation where the other person is just singing their praises. Especially with Steve and Eddie.

Like Steve being very aware that he likes Eddie, but way too afraid of rejection to actually do anything about it. So he just pines away, and gets closer and closer to him with the full expectation of it never going anywhere. Until one day, he comes to pick Dustin up from Hellfire too early, and he can hear everyone talking through the door. About him. But mostly it's Eddie, his loud voice carrying across the room. And he's just raving about him, and somehow managing to bring him up in conversations that have nothing to do with him.

Do you remember that time Steve saved my life by shoving my guts back into my body? Yeah, that's the level of skill and luck you're going to need to survive this.

Did you guys know that Steve actually gave me this background music? He's weirdly knowledgeable about classical stuff. Isn't that cool? He's so smart and-oh, yeah, the merchant agrees to the deal.

So uh, is Steve maybe seeing anyone? He isn't right? Like he would tell me if he was, wouldn't he?

And he doesn't give a single fuck at the collective groaning of the group whenever he gets going, never failing to pull out the I almost Died saving the world with you card to get them to shut up. And by the time it actually ends, Steve is a glowing, blushing mess who can't stop smiling.

Or the other way around. With Eddie full on assuming he has 0 shot because Steve's, Steve.

The golden boy who could obviously never be into him like that, or any other guy for that matter. So he doesn't do anything about his feelings, he just hangs out with him more and more and falls for him more and more, waiting for the inevitable day when he gets a girlfriend and his fantasies could finally die. Except one day, he spends the night at Steve's, but he isn't in bed when he wakes up. He goes to find him, just to hear him downstairs loudly talking to Robin. Because neither of them know the concept of inside voices when they're together. And he waits at the top, listening in just for the fuck of it, but mostly because he doesn't want to interrupt.

"I just feel like bed sharing the way you guys do is gay as hell," Robin sighed, "Especially at your age. Also, should we even be talking about this with him in the house?"

And before Eddie has time to freak out over that and the possibility he's gotten caught with his feelings, Steve is already answering, "I know right? And don't worry about it, he sleeps like the dead. But I don't know what to do about it. He still hasn't done anything. Am I just reading this whole thing wrong?"

"Well you could try making the first move instead of trying to trick him into doing it," Robin tried.

"And ruin our friendship incase I'm wrong? Yeah, no. Besides, I go like, full dumbass around him when I'm nervous. He's too hot. I'd probably walk into a wall in the middle of professing my undying love."

"Yeah," Robin sighed, "You probably would."

And Eddie is just having a moment upstairs. A full on I think I may have to jump for joy moment. Or even, I think I'm five seconds away from squealing like a teenage girl moment.

Yeah, I like that shit.

[weird-an]

"Dude, what's all of that?" Billy asks awkwardly when Steve drives him all the way to Indianapolis and finds himself sitting at the table of a fancy Italian restaurant.

He doesn't know half of the dishes on the menu and hasn't tried nearly any of it. He's so out of his depth he can't even behind a charming smile and he's certainly not going to flirt in public. Not with a guy. Even when he's Steve Fucking Harrington.

Steve raises a brow. "Isn't that obvious?"

Billy stares at the candle burning in front of him, at Steve's best shirt and the two sets of cutlery in front of him.

"This is a... date," Steve explains.

Billy chokes on his own spit. "A fucking what-?"

He doesn't do dates. Not really. He tells Neil all about them, but he never really… went to a restaurant. Or to a diner. Or the movies with someone who isn't an alibi. Someone like Steve - but to be honest he never met someone like Steve before.

The candle shines too bright and his throat turns dry. He stares at the red table cloth.

"I thought… it would be too obvious to go somewhere in Hawkins." Steve sounds a bit unsure. "Or would you.."

"No," Billy interrupts. He doesn’t want to fuck this up, but he doesn’t know how. "I'm…"

Overwhelmed? Scared? Not a lot of sexy possibilities to finish that sentence.

Steve grins, cheeks flushing. "Me too."

He leans closer, so that he can whisper in Billy's ear. "Order whatever. I've got my dad's credit card. He won't notice."

Billy inhales his scent, nose full of Farah Fawcett hairspray and so much Steve that his heart stutters.

"Daddy doesn’t care?" he jokes, a lame attempt to distract himself.

"Let’s just say, Daddy's paying tonight." Steve's smile turns hungry.

His words hit the right and wrong place at once. Billy tries not to close his eyes, stares at the menu.

"You bastard," Billy mumbles, his cheeks burning.

He'll choose the most expensive dish. Fuck it. This is a date after all.

[theminecraftbee]

fic ideas, fic ideas- hmmmmm. gonna be honest i'm drawing a bit of a blank. maybe something based on the escape room videos that grian, impulse, n joel did? i feel like grian's specifically would be fun to play around w/

Impulse and Joel look at each other after they get out. Joel makes a face. Impulse shrugs. Joel makes the same face, but somehow even deeper and more insistent. Impulse shrugs again before turning to Grian.

“You wanna talk about it, buddy?” he says, bemused.

“What? No. I mean—”

“Yeah like. There are easier cries for help, man,” Joel says. “Like complimenting Jimmy.”

“You made me do that!”

“Hah. Yeah. We did.”

Grian makes a face. “I didn’t do that to get mockery for it, you know.”

“What on earth did you do it for then?” Joel says. “I mean, geez, man, that’s worse than when I made that toy shop for Jimmy, and like, that was, I admit, a little bad.”

Joel pauses.

“But very funny,” he adds.

“I mean, yeah, very funny,” agrees Grian. “You should put his face on more toys.”

“Yeah, I should, shouldn’t I?” Joel says.

“Yeah. Nothing weirdly obsessive about it at all,” Impulse says. Grian and Joel both nod in a way that suggests to Impulse that they perhaps did not catch onto his incredulity. Ah, well. That checks out, he supposes.

“Anyway, that was perfectly normal. I mean, Iskall puts Mumbo mustaches on everything and you don’t ask HIM if he needs to talk about it,” Grian says.

“I don’t know Iskall,” Joel points out.

“Iskall can and would mock me for it,” Impulse says. “He’s so mean for someone who’s so nice.”

“And I wouldn’t?”

“I mean, no,” Impulse says, and sighs. “It’s just… okay, get over here.”

Grian looks suspiciously at Impulse. “You’re going to try to comfort me.”

“I mean, I’ve been there! Having your best friend not be on Hermitcraft with you is rough! There comes a time when you acknowledge you miss them and then go get naked with them and—”

“WHAT,” squawks Grian.

“Oh, wow, learning things about you and Skizz,” Joel says. He pauses. “Hey Grian, do you think that Jimmy—”

“YOU AREN’T NORMAL,” Grian says.

Impulse makes a face. “Grian, pal…”

“There are easier cries for help,” Joel says sagely.

“AGH,” Grian says.

[chronicowboy]

wrote this on wednesday then promptly forgot about it (thabk @danielsousa for reminding me) but there's like a tiny chance eddie could be trapped in that van with someone so the bones of this fic could still technically apply

Eddie makes it out alive. Again. Somehow.

(Except somehow is 6ft2 and looks a lot like an angel when the last piece of rubble falls away and the light filters into what Eddie had thought would be his grave.)

Eddie makes it out alive, but Joel isn't so lucky.

He had been on a motorbike when the first crash had happened, in critical condition before the bridge had collapsed. It had taken them far too long to extract him from the cluster of cars, and then, when they'd finally gotten him ready to transport, the bridge had swallowed both Joel and Eddie whole.

It had been a long two hours of trying to keep Joel from bleeding out, but eventually he'd lost the fight and the man had taken in one final, wheezing breath before going still.

Now, Eddie's staring into a hospital mirror covered in dust and another man's blood. The bathroom door creaks open, and Buck's reflection appears in the mirror.

"Chim's okay," he offers softly. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut in relief, its the most Buck is going to get out of him. "Maddie's just waiting for him to be assigned a room and then she'll go up and sit with him until he's awake." Buck joins him by the sinks, turning the faucet on and grabbing a wad of paper towels. "Hen and Bobby have been checked out too. Nothing but a few scrapes and bruises. Karen and Athena are looking after them."

Buck picks up Eddie's bloodied hands with a gentleness that makes Eddie want to curl up in a ball, but he lets Buck wipe away the grime on his skin and doesn't think about Maddie with Chimney, Athena with Bobby, Karen with Hen. He catches the bandage peeking out from under Buck's shirt sleeve and his stomach clenches.

"What about you?" he croaks, voice hoarse from begging Joel to stay with him. Buck looks up at him with earnest eyes before following his gaze down to the gauze.

"Oh, that's nothing." Buck shakes his head. "Chim needed a blood transfusion, and..."

"You're a universal donor," Eddie mumbles to himself. Buck nods.

"How are you?" he whispers, guiding Eddie's hands under the lukewarm stream of water. Eddie fixes his gaze on the pink liquid swirling around the drain.

"Unscathed," he spits.

"Eddie," Buck murmurs. "You did everything you could for him."

"It wasn't enough."

Eddie jerks his hands out of Buck's grasp, pumps three drops of soap onto his palm, turns the heat up to full and scrubs and scrubs and scrubs. Buck shuts the tap off just as the water begins to burn, and Eddie slumps into a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the counter, squeezing his eyes shut and hanging his head.

"He had a kid at home, Buck." Eddie bites his lip, revels in the gritty taste of dust. "A little girl. Jackie. God, you should have seen his face when he spoke about her." Even in the darkness, even in tremendous amounts of agony, Joel had lit up like the fucking sun when he spoke of his daughter. For a single moment, Eddie had been back in the well, fighting to get home to Christopher.

"And I know that you did everything in your power to try and get him back to her," Buck says with conviction.

"Well, it wasn't enough, was it?" Eddie snaps. "He died in my care, Buck. I let a little girl lose her father."

"Eddie, that was not your fault," Buck warns him, tone stern. "The universe was working against you in every possible way."

"The universe!" Eddie laughs coldly, meets Buck's eyes in the mirror. "The universe has been working against me my whole goddamn life, Buck. But I'm still here." His voice cracks, but he doesn't take his eyes off Buck. Can't. "Why am I still here?" Buck opens his mouth, but Eddie doesn't want an answer as much as he wants to spit in the universe's filthy fucking face. "Shannon died, my convoy died, Joel died. You died." Eddie takes in a ragged breath, cursing the oxygen in his lungs. "Why am I still alive?"

"Because there is a little boy, who's not all that little anymore, waiting for you at home. A little boy who loves you more than anything in the world. A little boy who needs his dad."

"Wasn't enough for Joel," Eddie croaks.

"No, but." Buck sighs. "You made Chris a promise. To always fight to come home to him. You were just keeping that promise."

"He had a wife," Eddie whispers. "A wife and a kid to get home to. And he fought for them. But..." He squeezes his eyes shut again. "Why am I still here, Buck?"

"For Christopher."

"Christopher would be fine." Eddie shakes his head in dismissal. "He'd have you."

For a moment, the only sound in the bathroom is Eddie's ragged breathing and the drip-drop of a leaky faucet. Then, a low and furious noise, like the grumble of thunder -

"Eddie, you are not expendable."

Eddie huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

"Clearly not," he snaps, spinning around to face Buck head on. "Clearly I'm not expendable when everybody around me, everybody but me keeps dying."

Eddie storms out of the bathroom before Buck can say anything else. The itch under his skin turning into a haunting chorus telling him to run. He follows the winding hallways of the hospital in a blind need for air, suddenly claustrophobic trapped in between four walls, just waiting for it all to come crumbling down around him. He doesn't stop until he's outside, collapsing onto the bench just left of the exit as the tears start to fall. He hunches in on himself and cries into his hands for what feels like hours.

Eventually, somebody eases down onto the bench beside him. He doesn't have to look to know its Buck, can feel it in the warmth where their shoulders touch. Eddie braces himself for whatever Buck is going to say, but nothing comes. Buck just. Sits beside him. Sits with him in his grief. And Eddie is so thankful for it that he almost doesn't remember Bobby's words to him in the hardware store.

a motorcycle accident... it was a bad one... I wasn't at my best at the time... I needed to take a minute and she sat with me.

"Eddie, you said it yourself." Buck smiles at him. "Experiences like this they change us, so you're gonna have to make a choice. What's this gonna change in you?"

Oh, Eddie thinks, that's what its going to change.

[tennessoui]

ganymede & zeus but make it obikin

been a while since i did a ficlet for tumblr....this comes out of a discord convo about ganymede!anakin and zeus!obi-wan......sort of dark tho gods are horrible beings with no boundaries

(for @jswander ) (2.3k)

Every muscle in Anakin’s body feels overextended and sore. He cries out from the sensation upon waking, instinctively trying to curl in on himself—anything to get away from the pain.

“Hush now,” a voice above him and below him and around him says. “None of that, beloved,” it speaks again when Anakin fights to tear open his eyes. “Sleep.”

There is nothing Anakin wants to do simultaneously more and less, but he’s never submitted under another’s thumb without a fight. With a great push of effort, he arches his back up, off the comfortable surface he’s laying on. And with what remains of his will, he wrenches his eyes open to survey his surroundings.

He cannot see a thing. White fills his vision, so bright and heated that it feels as if he is burning from the inside out, as if his very being is disintegrating the longer he looks at the light. It is blinding. It is everything. He cannot look away, nor can he close his eyes. His mouth has fallen open and he can hear himself screaming from the pain of it all, the radiance of the being in front of him.

“You stupid boy,” the voice snaps, sounding absolutely furious as the light coalesces into one solid shape, something that looks like a chest, then an arm, then a hand reaching towards him.

Anakin tries to scramble back, away from what will surely feel like a brand against his skin—and oh gods, doess he know what that feels like—but the hand extends faster than he can move, and even when he turns his head away, it catches him. It covers his eyes.

“Drink,” the voice murmurs, reverberating around him. Only then does Anakin notice that a cup has been brought to his lips. His lips seel themselves into a firm line. No. No. “You stupid child,” the voice snaps, “Do as you are told.”

It is the sheer power in the command that causes Anakin to open his mouth, to tip his head back. He is the lion among men, the Conqueror with No Fear, the Queen of Naboo’s Chosen Warrior, and yet—he opens his mouth and yields to the voice, to the hand over his eyes that burns. It feels like renewal, not pain, though that may be because every other part of his body still feels as if it is on fire, the aches from the first few moments of consciousness burning to ash under the pain of that radiance.

“Sleep,” the voice commands, and this time Anakin can do nothing but listen.

—---------

When he awakens next, he can tell from the breeze in the air that he has been moved. It is cool, and the breeze brushes against his skin like a gentle friend, running over his body to reach every part of him.

It is then he realizes that someone has stripped him of his clothes, his armor. He had been wearing armor. He had been preparing to lead his men into battle. He had—

The breeze in the air twirls around his chest and neck, caressing his skin until his nipples stiffen into peaks from the cold. Almost distantly, it sounds as if someone is laughing, an exhale over and over again that conveys their mirth, and Anakin can suddenly feel the breeze on his lips like a lover’s breath.

“Eurus, out,” a voice roars from somewhere that is everywhere and nowhere all at once. Anakin quakes from the sound of it, but the breeze withdraws, tosses out one last laugh that sounds almost like a cackle, before seemingly winking out of existence.

Anakin lies carefully still. The fabric beneath him feels soft, slippery. He’d been to the palace of Naboo only once to pay respect to the queen he fought his wars in the name of. Her personal chambers had been draped in a material that felt similar. So soft that it had felt then almost uncomfortable to touch. 

Anakin had been born a slave. He did not know soft things, nor how to languish against them. The queen had tried to show him how, had made such a persistent overture in the name of pleasure that he had sworn his loyalty to her name—but, privately, to her figure against those silks, the line of her throat, the tilt of her chin as she gave ground and submitted to his desires—and yet he still could never relax in the comfort her status and love had offered. He was not made for it.

He was not made for these silks either, though they certainly felt different against his skin. 

“You are too perfect for your own good, my darling,” the voice says quietly, a hand running through Anakin’s hair carefully. The motion is one filled with strange devotion. Tenderness. “Your beauty could start a war amongst the gods themselves, for they would all like to take you, to have you. Yet you are mine.” 

Anakin can feel his heart stutter at this declaration. The touch of his hair is no longer tender. It is proprietary. He opens his mouth, wets his lips. “I am no one’s,” he whispers, voice hoarse and cracking. 

His defiance makes the voice laugh, a rich sound that reminds Anakin of the sounds of rocks tumbling down a mountainside. “You have sworn yourself to me, Anakin Skywalker, of course you are mine.”

“You are not my queen—“

“You would be wise to not speak of your infidelities so casually,” the voice snaps, and the hairs on Anakin’s arms stand as the air seems to fill with electricity. “You have no queen here.” 

Anakin is silent, his mind and heart racing. Has he been captured? Is he a slave again? He would rather die. 

“Open your eyes, darling. Look upon me and allow me to see the reward of my labor,” the voice turns soft again, coaxing, and the hand leaves his hair to trail down the side of his face, thumb brushing over the bow of his lips.

“Hurt,” Anakin manages to say. The thumb takes his parted lips as invitation and presses into his mouth to rest against his teeth. Anakin thinks about biting it, but there is something inside him that screams at him to be careful. To tread carefully around this voice. This man.

“I know,” the voice croons, “and I apologize for it, treasure. I had not expected you to wake so soon after your ordeal and was not prepared. Humans cannot bear to look upon my godly form. Those who have have perished. You have frightened me with your recklessness.” 

The thumb presses down hard before it withdraws.

“Open your eyes, Anakin,” the voice says. “Your king demands it.” 

Gingerly, carefully, Anakin opens his eyes.

He is met immediately with the sight of a man leaning over him. His face is lined with a well-kept beard, short and practical and dark red. His hair too is the same color of russet, pushed up and off his forehead in a rakish cut. His eyes though—Anakin cannot look away from them. They are glittering, electric blue. No—they are the color of the sky before a thunderstorm, whirling points of gray and dark blue. No—they the early morning sky in the north of Naboo, slate gray and bright.

“Hello there, darling,” the man says. He strokes Anakin’s cheek again, resting his broad hand against his skin.

Anakin can do nothing but stare. This man—he is handsome beyond imagination, but there is something in the set of his face, the jut of his lips, his jaw—perhaps something in his eyes that screams danger.

He is so perfect that he is almost unreal.

“I will miss the blue of your eyes,” the man murmurs, looking at him intently. Critically.

Hungrily.

“What?” Anakin whispers.

The man continues as if he has not heard him. “Yet there is something deeply satisfying in seeing your eyes stained gold from my blood. You wear it well, darling, your godhood.”

Anakin shakes his head. The man’s words—they do not make sense though he says them in the manner any sane man speaks. 

“Truly you were born to be mine,” the man whispers like a sacred declaration, and this finally causes Anakin to flinch away.

“I am no one’s,” he says again, shifting off the fabrics and pushing himself to stand. He was wrong earlier—he is not fully nude, though he thinks he’d prefer to be. There is a cloth like a skirt around his hips, though the fabric only covers the area between his legs, held together by clasps that lay against his hips. And even then, it is light and transparent and doing little to protect his modesty. His chest is bare, but his upper arms have been wrapped in gold coils, one short and one extending almost to his elbow.

The man before him has dressed him as a child would dress a doll and it infuriates him. He is Anakin Skywalker, a lion among men, and he will not suffer this.

“I am no one’s,” he declares with a snarl, turning upon the man and striding forward. “Release me at once!”

The man arches a singular eyebrow but otherwise appears completely unaffected. Anakin feels like roaring, like taking his face into his hands and ripping it apart. 

“Where am I?” He interrogates as he stalks towards the man. Though he is handsome and though he appears strong, his bare torso as visible as Anakin’s and just as well-muscled, Anakin is a warrior and broader than this man, taller too.

Anakin can beat him into submission. 

“Why have you taken me? Return me at once, and I will let you live! I am Anakin Skywalker, I am the Resolute, I am the warrior with no fear and the Queen’s intended. I—”

The man, whose face had been unflinching in response to Anakin’s threats, stands at the mention of the queen, beautiful features twisting into a wicked snarl as he suddenly meets Anakin in the middle. The temperature in the room grows cold and the air becomes heavy with electricity. With something that Anakin does not know how to name.

“If you mention your queen once more, I will kill her,” the man bites out, every word weighted with promise. “I will kill her and see her soul damned to Tartarus. I will take her there myself and string her up amongst her kin. Thieves and pillagers and all those mortals who were foolish enough to attempt to steal from the king of the gods.”

Anakin flinches away, some long buried instinct in him insisting that he put space between himseslf and the predator staring down at him. “Who—who are you?” he asks, question catching in his throat. 

The man’s eyes, stormy blue now and swirling in his rage, lighten at the question. His mouth relaxes. He appears to enjoy answering, for he takes his time with it. “I find myself offended that you have forgotten,” he says, moving to touch Anakin again.

Like a frightened rabbit that knows it has found itself in the jaws of a lion, Anakin lets the bejeweled hands cup his face.

“I am the man who bought you and your mother from your masters when you were but a child. And I am the boy who sold you fruits that never seemed to bruise, no matter how you handled them as you walked home. I am the cat that lurked outside the god king’s temple as you prayed to him for strength and skill and riches, promised yourself to him in return, promised to wage every war in his name, conquer in his colors. And I am the old man who trained you in battle, showed you how to fight and kill and conquer.”

Anakin shakes his head, struck speechless at these words. They are the ramblings of an insane man, but…but this man knows too much about him. No one knows that he was born a slave. Even when he fucked Padmé, he had made sure that she could not see the brand on his leg.

He latches onto the last words, shaking his head harder. “Ben was a crippled old man. You are—” handsome, is the only word that comes to mind.

As if the man has heard it in his head, he grins, gifting him with a flash of white teeth. “Yes, he was, wasn’t he? And you were so young then, all of eighteen years old and eager to prove yourself. I thought if I took my most preferred form, this form, you would never pay attention to my lessons. And I knew if you had offered yourself to me then, I would not have turned you down. Nor would I have let you leave.” Anakin shakes his head once more, but there’s no power in the motion.

“I was the eagle that flew above you as marched into battle, and I was the handmaiden who bore witness to your betrayal, when you promised yourself to the queen of Naboo, as if you had not already promised yourself to me.”

The scowl has returned, marring the man’s perfect features.

Anakin swallows, wetting his lips. “I promised myself to the king of the gods,” he whispers. “To Kenobi.”

“And he has made good on your promise,” the man smiles, one hand falling from his face to cup his neck. “He has taken you from your battlefield, delivered you to Mount Olympus. I have taken you as mine, I have taken what is mine.”

Deep within Anakin, he knows that the man before him speaks the truth. That he is no man at all. That—that—that he is—

“Kenobi,” he whispers, and the king of the gods lets his eyes flutter shut as if he hearing his name from Anakin’s lips causes him great pleasure.

“Yes,” Kenobi growls, adjusting his hold on him to tug him closer to his body.

Anakin is touching a god. A god is touching Anakin. The king of the gods has taken him from the battlefield, from the arms of his bride to be, from the mortal realm all together.

And he is holding him like he has no intention of letting him go.

[home-of-renn]

HC/AU where Danny wasn't wearing his hazmat suit when he died during the accident.

His parents' experiments had always had a fifty-fifty chance of whether they worked or not, and this one was just destined to fail. He'd been frustrated and embarrassed when he'd given into Sam's cajoling. He'd been careless and petty when he'd forgone his safety gear.

Now his suit still hangs there in the storage cupboard in the lab, three feet away from the portal that Danny died in.

A ghost's appearance is often a culmination of many things; the lives they lived and the deaths they endured. Their hopes, regrets, burdens and hardships. Those last agonising moments and all those who'd been involved. Oftentimes, ghosts will look somewhat like they did in life. But most ghosts don't remember who they were or how they died.

But Danny remembers who he was and how he died.

He remembers the feeling of his blood vessels bursting and his bone marrow bubbling and his heart struggling to beat.

He remembers every footstep that echoed on the metal floor and the stench of his own burning flesh.

He remembers the feeling of electricity burning his muscles and collapsing his lungs.

He remembers the way something had been drawn tight inside him. Strained and stretched - loosening and unwinding - so close to snapping.

The feeling of burning. The searing pain, bright and hot, every nerve lit up and scorching.

He remembers being consumed from the inside out.

It happened between the span of a single moment and a never-ending eternity.

But then it was cold.

A fleeting moment of relief - the feeling branded into his core.

So cold that for a moment he felt numb, all the way from his charred fingers tips to his blackened toes and melted sneakers.

It had been cold.

So, so cold - like frostbite - like needles piercing his skin and scoring his nerves. So cold he was burning all over again.

God, how he'd wished he'd worn his suit.

[serenescribe]

Three sentence meme!

Epel has an extremely rough day and just breaks down, Vil is being a soft mum for him the entire time just wanting his little apple to know everything is alright.

[✐meme] three sentence fic meme [✐] ficlet frenzy

"Epel," Vil says carefully, his voice kind, "you know it is perfectly fine to cry, right?"

Next to him, the two of them seated on an elegant couch tucked away in one of Pomefiore's many rooms, Epel dabs at his eyes furiously with the end of his sleeves. Just this once, Vil will not chide him on the improper use of his dorm uniform as a handkerchief, only because there is a time and place for such reminders, and now is not one of those occasions. "Ugh, I know, I just—" Sniffling, Epel shakes his head, muttering, "I jus' hate cryin'," his accent leaking through his words.

"Well, it's a healthy outlet for your emotions," Vil replies, matter-of-factly, stifling the urge to sigh as he packs away another lecture for a better time. Right now, his priority is Epel's well-being, especially considering the dire situation affecting the boy.

There is a lull in the conversation, before Vil says, "Your grandmother will be fine, Epel."

"Ah know," Epel mutters, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes again. "If it were real bad, my ma and pa would've told me to come back now... but still! How're they expectin' me to wait till the weekend when Meemaw's hurt?!"

Ah, Vil realises, as Epel rages and rants. The boy is crying now, tears streaking down his face. His heart twists at the sight; such a vulnerable, heartbroken expression, intertwined with streaks of red-hot anger, looks so wholly alien on Epel's petite features.

Wordlessly, Vil wraps his arm around the boy — his apple, a softer part of him thinks affectionately — and pulls him in closer, allowing the dam to break as Epel simultaneously weeps and rages. It's all he can do to be there for him while he lets it all out — and then after, he can take care of him.

[quirkfics]

Could you do tokoyami and bargain please? Thanks!

Tokoyami seizes you by the shoulders, fingers trembling in their grip. He can't even look at you, which you half expected, but you'd hoped-

"What did you bargain away to come back to me?" He demands, eyes full of sorrow when he finally forces himself to look up. "What did you give up?"

"Does it matter?" You murmur, ignoring the quaver of his jaw as you raise your hand, stroking a fingertip over the arch of his beak.

"Of course it matters!"

You laugh, and that seems to leave him speechless. "Does it? We're together again Tokoyami, how could anything else matter?"

There it is. A tiny beacon of happiness, his grip turning to a hovering reverence, head dipping until he's just shy of resting against your shoulder. Your arms slip around him, and Tokoyami finally gives in, feathered face tucking into the crook of your neck. "...this conversation isn't over," he warns you, but his shoulders hitch when you drag your fingers down his spine.

[goddessofroyalty]

Fandom: One Piece

Going through my One Piece scribbles to do a final clean up before FF7 takes over my life from probably tonight and found this one that was me playing around with trying to match the more silly tone One Piece can get.

Law is used entirely as a convenient outsider POV.

Pairing: Zoro/Sanji

Tags: omegaverse, mpreg, accidental pregnancy

-----------

“Are you kidding me!? Again!?”

Law makes a point of trying to ignore the Strawhats’ antics as he travels with them. Strawhat’s crew is as insane as their captain is and often loudly bicker amongst themselves seemingly just to give Law a headache.

The shrillness of Nami’s voice and way Blackleg practically prostrates himself at her side in pathetic submission has him tuning in.

“What happened?” The Strawhat’s sniper asks as the rest of the crew’s attention is drawn onto the situation as well.

“Sanji’s pregnant. Again,” Nami informs them as Blackleg lets out a pathetic whimper that would perhaps be more worrisome if it wasn’t the exact same candor as the one he gave when the strawberries he was using the previous night for desert weren’t large enough for him to carve into perfect flowers for the girl’s. Law doesn’t try and understand why a man who would happily kick anyone’s head in if they suggested he may be less for being an omega immediately breaks out the keens and whimpers associated with his designation at the first sign of any even slight offence to the women on his ship.

The navigator’s offence is deserved from Law’s perspective. While they had hidden them well the fact of him travelling on the ship with them had necessitated he be introduced to the two other children that had resulted from the unique relationship between swordsman and cook of the Strawhat crew.

“Woohoo! New crew member!” Strawhat himself crows, completely missing the gravity of travelling with a pregnant omega aboard.

Although considering they had already successfully done it at least once before Law supposes the confidence is somewhat justified.

Strawhat rattles off his list of demands following the exciting news. A feast the first, most detailed, and apparently most important, among them.

Not that much attention is being paid to him. Nami still standing with her hands on her hips looking at Blackleg expectantly.

“It’s not my fault my m- the only option I’m stuck with for my heats is a mossy brute!” Blackleg justifies. And Law is sure they all caught the slip in his words. And all know exactly what he was about to say.

Despite the two – soon to be three – children they share and the fact the world knows them as the Monster Mates of the Strawhat pirates, both Blackleg and Zoro’s necks stay bare of a mating bite.

“I didn’t do anything you didn’t ask for,” Zoro says from where he had been napping on the ship. He had had their youngest asleep with him but the boy had woken up with Strawhat’s excitement, running off to join the noise.

Blackleg glares at his not-mate and Zoro moves to quickly block the foot aimed at his gut for it.

“It’s your stupid knot that keeps breaking the condoms,” Sanji says, driving his heel into the sword Zoro has blocking him.

“It’s your fucked up fertility that keeps getting pregnant so easily,” Zoro snaps back, pushing against the food driving down onto him.

“Enough,” Nami says, before they can go into any details of how they managed to conceive three children together. Her hand coming up to massage her temple.

[crumbleclub]

a super short ficlet in the blips universe, told from elizabeth's perspective.

Elizabeth and her little brother huddled together on the carpeted floor of her room, and she lifted her hands to cover his ears.

The muffled sound of shouting made its way through the walls, punctuated by a sickening crack. It was quiet for a moment. Then, she could hear crying. It was raspy and gasping and loud; the kind you couldn't mask no matter how hard you tried.

Evan was crying, too, silent tears dripping down his face and leaving damp spots where they fell onto the collar of his shirt. Elizabeth could feel him trembling in her arms, and her palms pressed even more tightly over his ears. Closing her eyes, she willed it all to go away.

"You don't have to be scared, Evan," she whispered. "You just have to pretend."

Elizabeth was very good at pretending.

[scaryscarecrows]

“--telling me that it’s yours,” the little fucker says politely, like he’s working at the call center for Goddamn Gotham Bank rather than robbing his betters. “I keep telling you that I don’t care.”

Li gives him a worried look over his glasses. Li doesn’t know shit.

(And also, Li may have had a teeny tiny point about this new player, but like Hell will Roman admit that.)

“What do you want,” he says tiredly. There’s a rhythmic thwup-thwup-thwup that says something heavy is being tossed up and down. Fools would say it was a baseball. Roman, who knows better, seethes at the idea of this young upstart rummaging through that crate.

“Fifty million dollars,” he says, still in that irritatingly polite tone. That sorry little–

“You trying to budget a movie?!” he hollers down the line. Li sucks his teeth and hisses, “Fifty? Liquid? Is he insane?”

Eh, this is Gotham. Everyone’s a little crazy here.

He flaps a hand at Li to shut him up, counts to five, and grinds out, “I don’t have that kind of cash.”

“Do a wire transfer.” ‘Do a wire transfer’, like it’s just that easy, for the love of– “Whoops, dropped that harder than your delivery doctor.”

Roman’s vision goes red. Counting to ten doesn’t help. On the bright side, he’s so pissed that he flies straight past ‘spitting rage’ and right back around to ‘calm and collected’. He’s been told many times that his ‘calm and collected’ has caused soiled pants.

“What did you say.”

Silence. He’s just feeling smug when the Hood comes back on the line, a little out of breath.

“Sorry, I dropped it and it rolled. Anyways, I said to do a wire transfer. I know you’re old, but that’s not exactly new technology–”

“After that,” he grinds out.

“After…what…oh! When I dropped it. I said I dropped it harder than your delivery doctor. Surely that’s not a too-soon thing, it’s been years. And you didn’t roll, right? Babies usually don’t roll. I’ve never seen that…but I’ve never dropped one, either, so what do I know, I guess…did you roll? Do you know?”

His hand fumbles for his stress ball and squeezes until his fingertips dig into his palm. Let it go, let it go, just don’t engage.

“I can’t do a wire transfer that big,” he snarls, “without the damn police coming down on me like flies on shit, do you understand that? I can get you five million today, cash, and a transfer of ten tomorrow.”

The Hood makes a bored noise.

“I’m sure I can get buyers to meet my price.”

“And I’m sure there’s hippos that can paint houses, but I ain’t seen one.”

Silence. Roman’s breathing is just starting to get under control when, “Raccoons, too.”

No.

No, no, no, no, they are not–

“Fine. Five mil. And Roman…” Gone is the customer service voice. “Don’t try to be cute. You’ll regret it if you do.”

Click.

He has to die. He knows too much, he has no manners, he is a problem and he has to die.

“Mr. Li,” he says, voice shaking with rage, “Get Mr. Freeze and five of my best men. I want this issue dealt with now.”

[theminecraftbee]

Scar is late.

That’s not quite the right way of phrasing it, he thinks, as he smells the decay in the air. It wasn’t as though he’d intentionally missed the carnage, or as though he had any control over waking up, arms desperately wrapped around himself, to the irrevocable sense that things had changed. So there has to be another way to say it. There has to be another way to express…

Scar is too late.

That’s not fair either but the air is so hard to breathe now and he may want revenge on every single person on this server who has ever left him behind (which is all of them) but he doesn’t think he would have done it like this.

And he can’t help but wonder what would have been different if he’d been there.

Black, thorny roses creep over unmarked graves. There would be bodies if the necrotic damage of withering left them, but instead there are flowers that poison you to touch them. Scar thinks it’s fitting. Scar’s pretty sure the grass and leaves are poisonous now, too.

He finds him eventually.

Grian’s jumper is stained with decay. He’s torn the sleeves off so he doesn’t get too warm. There are patches on his arms and body that Scar thinks will eventually kill him. Dead flesh, when connected to living flesh, does that. Scar lets him turn around.

“What did you do?” Scar asks. (He is too late.)

“Exactly what I wanted,” Grian says. (Then again, if he’d arrived on time, Scar thinks he probably would have died too.)

(Is that better?)

[carewyncromwell]

“You are shameless -- A shameless flirt! Showing some interest couldn't hurt! Some? You show the maximum. And you'd prefer I act like you? Afraid to show interest -- afraid it's taboo?”

~“Vaudeville: Leave Me Alone” from Sideshow

x~x~x~x

brief mention of Kaari Arcano @kathrynalicemc​

x~x~x~x

Once Jacob Cromwell passed all twelve of the NEWTs he sat for with flying colors in the spring of 1991, he left Hogsmeade village to travel the world. Mia was very glad to see him go -- those months of having to see his stupid, smiling face behind the bar of the Three Broomsticks had been an absolute headache to get through. And for the next few years, Mia didn’t collide with Jacob Cromwell once -- something she was very grateful for.

That didn’t mean that she didn’t hear anything about him, in those years. Rosmerta still received letters from Jacob and so spoke of him frequently (and fondly) to Jenie and Ambrosius Flume. There’d be times Mia would overhear some of the Hogwarts professors discussing Jacob, on their trips to Hogsmeade -- talking about how he’d been invited to lecture at Beauxbatons or some such and sounding pleased that he’d turned his life around for the better. Then of course there was the stuff Mia heard through her younger sister Callie.

Callisto “Callie” Flume was the youngest of the Flume sisters, and easily the most outgoing. People warmed up to her very quickly for her sense of humor and amiability, as well as her pretty smile and bold, slightly cheeky attitude. There were those who considered her a total flirt (Mia included), but that didn’t make her any less successful at the Wizarding Wireless Network, where she made her living as a radio host. Although yes, she primarily introduced each song played on the network and announced Network-sponsored contests and products, Callie also tried to arrange and broadcast interviews with well-regarded and/or famous wizards, to spice things up. Some of the interviews she’d arranged -- such as talking to the Irish National Quidditch Team when they first qualified to compete in the 1994 Quidditch World Cup -- had been rather fun to listen to, but others were far less so. Mia had to pause in her work and stroll to the other side of the kitchen so she could switch off the radio playing Callie’s interview with the Weird Sisters’ front-man Myron Wagtail in utter exasperation, after hearing her sister do little but pepper him with pointed compliments for nearly twenty minutes. 

One of the people Callie liked getting input from as a contributor, though, ended up being Mia’s sworn enemy, Jacob Cromwell. And yeah, Mia didn’t care for that at all. She was sure to remind Callie of that after she heard her younger sister had once again hosted Jacob on her radio show last month to ask him about the history of the Triwizard Tournament, in anticipation for the climatic Third Task. 

Callie, true to form, laughed the whole thing off. 

“Oh, come on, Mia,” she teased. “You’re not still all bent out of shape about Jacob, are you? Really, you snap your jaws so much whenever anyone brings him up, one would think you two are bitter exes or something...”

Mia shuddered in utter disgust. “Ugh, the idea! Who in the world would want to date that prat?” 

“Quite a few people, actually,” said Callie amusedly, adjusting her glasses on her nose with her middle finger. “Myron Wagtail, for one. And Kaari Arcano, at least casually.”

“Kaari Arcano?” scoffed Mia. “Why am I not surprised -- he’s always been a total flirt -- ”

“There’s nothing wrong with flirting -- get off your high horse,” Callie scolded, her voice dusted with rather cool passive-aggressiveness. “Kar’s a sweetheart: just look at him with his dragons. I frankly think whoever wins his heart for the long term will be very lucky.”

“Love isn’t a sport,” said Mia coolly, “so it’s not about ‘winning’ anything.”

At that moment, Madam Rosmerta came over to the two girls’ table and dropped off two mugs of butterbeer.

“Hello, Callie -- Mia,” she greeted pleasantly.

“Hi, Rosmerta!” Callie said brightly. 

She then lowered her voice a bit. 

“...I don’t suppose...you’ve heard anything from the school lately, have you? I’d love to have some contributors on about what the Daily Prophet reported, about Albus Dumbledore’s declining mental state, but I wondered if the professors have been ‘round much...”

Rosmerta frowned. 

“No, in fact, they haven’t. But frankly, given the intense criticism the Prophet has been lobbing at Dumbledore, I can sort of understand why.”

There was something faintly disapproving in her voice. Callie clearly noticed it too.

“Do you think it unjustified?” she asked. “The criticism Dumbledore has faced, in the light of Cedric Diggory’s accidental death?”

Madam Rosmerta’s lips knit together a bit more tightly. 

“Professor Dumbledore has certainly earned his fair share of criticism over the years,” she said solemnly, “but I think it’s a bit tasteless, for people to use someone’s death as ammunition against the Headmaster. Cedric Diggory is not a weapon to be used against others -- he was just a boy, and he deserves to be remembered as such.”

Callie’s eyes had brightened significantly. 

“That’s a lovely sentiment,” she said, sounding almost a little too eager for Mia’s liking -- rather like an obnoxious journalist, rather than sounding the least bit empathetic or gentle. “I don’t suppose you’d want to come on my show tomorrow night, to discuss the matter?”

Rosmerta’s expression cooled slightly as she rested a hand on her hip. “Thanks, hon...but I think I’ll pass. I’d hardly consider myself any sort of expert contributor, on this matter.”

She tucked the tray she’d brought their mugs out on under her arm. 

“You could always reach out to Jacob about it, though,” she added with a dewy smile. “He should be around, for the interim.”

Mia choked on her butterbeer. 

“What?”

“Jacob’s back in Britain?” asked Callie, sounding delighted. “I had no idea! He usually only stops by briefly for the holiday season!”

“To make sure Father Christmas drops off the proper coal in his stocking, I suppose,” Mia said rather coolly.

Callie turned to Mia, her mouth open and fully prepared to correct her, but Rosmerta had pressed on.

“He came back just about a week ago. Said he wanted to come home so he could take some time to reconnect with his family...his sister’s been working at the Ministry, you know -- she’s a fine lawyer...”

“Ah yes, Carewyn!” Callie said brightly. “Jacob speaks so fondly of her...give him your ear, and he’ll talk it off about her!”

“Give him your ear and he’ll talk it off, period,” Mia said dryly.

Callie shot another slightly irked frown at her sister, but Rosmerta paid Mia’s snark no mind. 

“He’s found himself a flat in London and he’s just been getting himself settled in. I’m sure if you wanted to talk with him about what happened at the Triwizard Tournament, he’d have some valuable insight on the matter.”

Callie beamed. “Oh, most definitely! Jacob always does seem to have an exciting take on things. Thank you, Rosmerta!”

Rosmerta nodded to the two girls, before heading off to deal with the next round of orders. Mia returned to drinking her butterbeer, rolling her eyes off toward the far corner.

So Jacob Cromwell was back. Great. 

Now I have all the reason in the world to avoid London, she thought dully. 

Callie turned to Mia, her mouth fixed into a girlish pout. 

“I just don’t understand why you’re so determined to pile on poor Jacob,” she said. “Sure, he got into trouble at school...but you know, he really has turned his life around, since then! He’s really been very well-regarded for his Potions lectures -- not to mention the cursebreaking expeditions he’s helped with, for Gringotts! He’s doing a lot of good work, for people...”

“Good work would involve him settling down and getting a real job so he can support his family, rather than running away from them,” Mia said coldly. 

Callie gaped. “Running away from them? Oh, Mia, that’s just not fair!” 

“What else would you call wandering the world aimlessly by yourself like a homeless man and leaving your family to wonder where you are at any given time?”

“Spreading your wings, perhaps? Traveling, exploring?”

Mia sniffed contemptuously. Callie crossed her arms, resting them down on the table between her and Mia as she fixed her older sister with a reproachful eye. 

“Mia, Rosmerta said the whole reason Jacob’s come back to Britain is to reconnect with his family. Does that sound like someone who’s running away? No!”

“It does sound like someone who knows he has been running away, though,” Mia said dryly.

“It sounds like someone who loves his family!” Callie shot back hotly. “Just because he didn’t wimp out like you did and decide to never chase any dreams in the outside world doesn’t mean he doesn’t care!”

Her gaze hardening significantly, Mia put her mug down with a harsh clank.

“Dreams are for sleeping, and I’m not going to sleep while I’m awake,” she shot back harshly. “Dad’s become frailer than ever, in case you haven’t noticed. You don’t think it would break his heart if we weren’t there for him, when he needed us? He didn’t have any family, before he married Mum. He didn’t have anything, before he went to school -- got his job here at Honeydukes! He needs us -- and even if you’re the type to swoon over some bloke for his romantic-sounding adventures, I’m not.” 

Callie flinched ever-so-slightly, but she didn’t break. Instead she and Mia stared each other down coldly from across the table. 

“Choosing to support your family isn’t wimping out,” Mia said lowly. “It’s taking responsibility. And that’s something the likes of Jacob Cromwell doesn’t know anything about.”

She turned away from her younger sister and took a very long sip of butterbeer. 

Callie, meanwhile, had gone very red in the face. She looked like she was having trouble not screaming. 

“You’re -- you’re so judgmental, you know that?” the youngest Flume said petulantly. “Honestly, it’s no wonder everyone at school liked Jacob more than you!” 

Callie slammed her still largely full mug of butterbeer down on the table with a loud clank of her own and then swept right out of the pub, her kitten heels clacking harshly with each step. 

Mia watched her sister go, her sharp green eyes narrowed and her lips tightly knit together, and she took another long sip from her mug, trying hard to ignore the sick, hurt-stained anger twisting her up from the inside. 

[thelastspeecher]

Firefighter AU - Sparks

My hand finally felt good enough to finish writing some of the stuff I wanted to write yesterday. So here y'all go. Some incredibly sappy and sweet Stan and Angie interactions in the Firefighter AU, before they become a couple. Enjoy.

—————————————————————————————— 

              “…And then it turned out the guy was dead the whole time,” Stan finished.  Angie smiled.  The two of them were once again sitting by the fire truck, waiting for the shuttle that would take Stan back to the prison.  For obvious reasons, their schedules didn’t always line up, but Stan greatly enjoyed spending time with her on the occasions where they were fighting the same fire at the same time.

              “Lookit you!  Finishin’ a book!” Angie said.  “I’m proud of ya.”

              “For finishing a book?”

              “I can tell yer the kind of person fer whom readin’ fer fun is a new development.  In fact, ya didn’t reach much at all ‘fore ya got arrested, did ya?”

              “Is it that obvious?” Stan mumbled.  Angie laughed.  Stan grinned.  “Yeah.  The only kind of books I used to read were comic books.  But there’s not much else to do in the clink, y’know?”

              “I get it, I get it.  Now that you’ve found more kinds of books ya like, what are they?” Angie asked.  “Like, genres ‘n whatnot.”

              “Uh, I like a good thriller,” Stan said slowly.  Angie nodded.  “Mysteries, action.  Basically, if the main guy’s got a gun or baseball bat or, I dunno, a hammer or something and beats people up.”  He kept to himself the fact that of the books he’d read recently, his favorite had actually been Pride and Prejudice.

              “Noted.  I’ll see if I can send ya a book or two next time I send ya some treats,” Angie said.  Stan’s mouth began to water at the thought.  Angie regularly made desserts, but apparently made too many, and would send spares to him at the prison.  To his delight, she was a remarkable cook and baker.

              “All right, I told you what I’ve been up to,” Stan said.  He tried to discretely wipe his mouth.  “Your turn.”

              “All right.”  Angie leaned back, looking up at the sky.  “Not much has been goin’ on with me.  Well, two of my brothers ‘re visitin’.  That’s ‘bout it.”

              “You’ve got more than one brother?” Stan asked.  Angie looked at him.  “I knew you had one, ‘cause you said your brother did the thing with the firework.”

              “‘The thing with the firework’?” Angie said, visibly amused.

              “Hey, whattaya want me to say?  ‘The horrible firework accident that fucked you up’?” Stan said.  Angie shook her head, hiding a smile.  “So you’ve got more than one brother.”

              “Yes.  Four, to be precise.”

              “Four!”

              “And a sister.”

              “Where are you in the birth order or whatever?”

              “Youngest.”

              “You’re the youngest of six?”

              “Yep.”  Angie sighed.  “And if I thought they were protective before the accident, afterwards, phew.  Their behavior ‘fore pales in comparison to their behavior after.  Worst part is, the most overprotective of the bunch, Harper and Lute, are the ones visitin’.”  Angie smirked.  “Could be worse, though.  They spoil me somethin’ fierce whenever they drop by.  And Lute always insists on arm wrestlin’ me.”

              “Luke sounds like an idiot,” Stan said, eyeing Angie’s incredibly muscular arms.

              “Lute.  With a T.”

              “Like the instrument?”

              “Yep.”

              “The hell kinda name is that?” Stan muttered.  Angie laughed.

              “Pretty par fer the course fer my fam’ly, to be honest.  My siblin’s are Violynn, Harper, Sebasstian, Fiddleford, and Lute.”

              What the fuck?

              “And yes, Lute does have his moments where he ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed,” Angie added.  She frowned at Stan’s thoughtful look.  “Somethin’ wrong?”

              “I’m gonna take a shot in the dark here and guess Angie isn’t short for Angela.”

              “Nope.”

              “What is it short for, then?”

              “Oh, I ain’t tellin’ ya!”  Angie shuddered.  “I’ve never been a big fan of my full name.  Sure, I’m named after my Pa’s fav’rite sister.  But I do wish she was named somethin’ a bit nicer.”

              “Aw, come on,” Stan said.  He elbowed Angie playfully.  “You’re never gonna tell me your full name?”

              “Hmm.”  A twinkle appeared in Angie’s eye.  “I’ll tell ya what my full first name is.  Once ya finish yer sentence.”

              “Are you trying to motivate me to be on my best behavior so I’ll get out on time?”

              “Actually, I was tryin’ to push it off long enough so’s you’ll forget ‘fore I’m obligated to tell ya.  But sure, we can go with me motivatin’ ya.”

              “Deal.  The day I’m a free man, I’m marching down to the fire station to find out what Angie is short for,” Stan said.  Angie rolled her eyes, but smiled.

              “Fine.  Deal.”

              “Whatever it’s short for, though, I understand why you go by Angie,” Stan continued thoughtfully.  Angie cocked her head curiously.  “I mean, if you’ve got a brother named Fiddleford, there’s no way your first name is pretty enough for you.”

              “What does that mean?” Angie asked.  “Are ya callin’ me shallow or somethin’?  I need a pretty name ‘cause any other name ain’t good enough fer me?”

              “No!  I’m just…”  Stan ran his hand through his hair.  “You’re too pretty to be named Fiddleford or Lute or whatever.  You should have a name that suits you.  Y’know?”  To Stan’s surprise, Angie’s eyes widened, and a faint blush spread across her cheeks.  She coughed politely.

              “I’ve told ya ‘fore, Pines.  Ya got to be careful with what ya say,” she said.  “Can’t be flirtin’ on the job.  Whether those flirts are welcome or not.”  Angie stood up.  “I best get headin’ back to m’ place ‘fore my brothers turn it upside down lookin’ fer the liquor.”  She smiled at him.  “See ya next time.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan managed a smile, despite his upset at Angie leaving so soon.  “See you.”  Angie ruffled his hair.  Stan watched her walk away.

              He continued to stare in the direction she had left, until the shuttle arrived to take him back to prison.

-----

              “…and then Harper and Lute decided to train me so’s I could get into the fire academy,” Angie said.  She winked.  “I wasn’t always this muscular.”

              “I mean, I sorta figured,” Stan muttered.  Angie chuckled.  The wildfire they were both fighting was now considered contained, though they were still trying to put it out, and if that failed, at least make sure it stayed contained.  But once again, their shifts had ended at the same time, and they were waiting for the prison shuttle together.  “Sounds like you’ve got good brothers.”

              “And a good sister,” Angie said.  “Violynn would be incredibly upset if I didn’t mention how wonderful she is.”  She scowled.  “Even if she’s the most perfect person ever and I’ll never be as good as her.”

              “What?”

              “Never mind that.  Just some deep-rooted insecurities,” Angie said dismissively.  “You know the deal.”  Stan laughed.

              “I sure fucking do.”  He raised an eyebrow at her.  “But seriously, what’s the deal with your sister?”

              “Ugh, drop it.  Ya seem awfully interested in my fam’ly fer a guy what hasn’t shared a lick of information about his,” Angie said.  Stan froze.  His heart began to pound.  “I don’t know if you’ve got any siblin’s, or what yer parents are like, or even where yer from!  Well.  It’s pretty obvious yer from New Jersey, judgin’ by yer accent.  But that’s not somethin’ you’ve told me, just somethin’ I figured out.”

              “What are you getting at?” Stan asked warily.  Angie pulled her knees to her chest.  Her personality was so large that Stan tended to forget she was actually much smaller than average.  In the moment, though, she looked every inch of her decidedly short height.

              “Pines, relationships ‘re ‘bout give ‘n take,” she said softly.  “I’ve been puttin’ a lot in.  I’d appreciate it if ya took a turn.  I know yer a private person, but still.”

              “I’ve told you a lot about me!”

              “About who ya are now.  Ya haven’t told me much ‘bout who ya were ‘fore ya got caught ‘n went to prison.”  Angie met Stan’s eyes.  “I understand if ya don’t feel comfortable sharin’ yer deepest secrets, but could we at least start with yer hometown?”

              “…Yeah.”  Stan took a breath.  “I’m from Glass Shard Beach.  And you were right, it’s in New Jersey.”

              “See?  Already, I know ya a bit better.  And it weren’t that dif’cult, were it?” Angie asked playfully.  Stan leaned against the fire truck’s tire and looked up at the sky.  “Pines?”

              “Angie, the reason I keep asking you about your family is ‘cause I like knowing people like that exist,” Stan said quietly.  “People who can forgive little mistakes that have huge consequences.”  Angie let out a heavy sigh.  Stan looked at her.

              “I know I said I was goin’ to be fine with just yer hometown today, but ya can’t just say somethin’ like that and not elaborate!” she said.  She crossed her arms.  “Spill.”

              “Fine.”  Stan shifted uncomfortably and looked away.  “When I was seventeen, my twin brother made this science fair experiment that got a lotta attention.  The kinda attention that would mean he went to a good school.  A school way too good for me and way too far away from me.”  Angie made a sympathetic noise.  “Don’t get too on my side yet.”  He winced.  “I went to go yell at the stupid machine for taking my brother away and next thing I knew, it- it was broken.  I tried to fix it, but since I’m not a genius, obviously, it stayed broken.”

              “Did ya tell yer brother ya broke it?  So’s he could maybe try to fix it?”

              “…No.”

              “Yeah, that’s somethin’ maybe ya could’ve done dif’rent.”

              “Oh, I know.”  Stan sighed.  “Because of me, my brother’s chance at the best school in the country got ruined.  And my Pops kicked me out.  I started living on the streets, and I stayed on the streets until I finally got thrown behind bars.  And then we met.”

              “Yer father kicked ya out?” Angie asked.  “At seventeen?”  Stan nodded.  “Maybe ya shouldn’t have told me where yer from.”  Stan looked at her, confused.  Fury raged in her eyes.  “I’m suddenly feelin’ the urge to fly to the Northeast.”

              “Don’t bother kicking my Pops’ ass.  He’s not worth the air fare,” Stan said.  Angie managed a small smile.  “So, yeah, you probably get what I meant now, right?”

              “Yes.  I do.”  Angie closed her eyes.  “If my fam’ly could forgive my brother fer puttin’ me in the hospital fer a week, it seems unfair yer fam’ly couldn’t forgive you fer ruinin’ yer brother’s experiment.”

              “Yup.”  Stan popped the “P” at the end of the word in an exaggerated manner.  He shrugged.  “Like I said, it’s nice to know that there are people out there who probably wouldn’t have done what my Pops did.”

              “Have ya spoken with yer fam’ly since ya got kicked out?” Angie asked.  Stan shook his head.  “Not even yer twin?”

              “He can go fuck himself,” Stan spat.  The anger in Angie’s eyes gave way to sadness.  “Don’t feel bad for me.  I’m doing fine on my own!”

              “I s’ppose.  But still…”  A horn honked, startling the two.  They both looked over.  The prison shuttle had arrived.  They both stood.  “Thank you fer tellin’ me all of…”  Angie gestured vaguely.  “This.  I know it wasn’t easy.”

              “Honestly, it was way easier than I thought it’d be,” Stan said, forcing a small laugh.  “You’re good conversation.”

              “Same to you.”  Angie hesitated for a moment, then lunged forward, wrapping her arms around Stan in a tight hug.  Stan froze, uncertain of what to do.  “Take care of yourself, Pines.”  Haltingly, Stan returned the embrace.  With Angie’s face so close to his, he could smell her floral shampoo.

              “I’ll do my best.”

              “Good.”  Angie broke off the hug.  She smiled at Stan, but couldn’t completely hide the tears in her eyes.  “And just ‘cause yer fam’ly left ya to be on yer own, it don’t have to stay that way.  Okay?”  Dumbfounded by the first hug he’d had in years, Stan could only silently nod.  Angie punched his arm playfully.  “Now we’ve cracked the seal, next time yer tellin’ me when yer birthday is so’s I can make ya somethin’ special.  You deserve it.”  The prison shuttle honked again.  “Ya best get goin’.  See ya next time.”

              “See you then.”  Stan filed onto the shuttle.  He took a seat near a window.  Angie hadn’t moved from where she was standing.  He watched her as the shuttle drove away.  Gradually, she faded into the distance.

              But he could still feel the warmth of her embrace.

[stevieschrodinger]

I don't know, ficlet AU sort of thing.

Alpha Steve has a YouTube channel that, kind of, started by accident. Steve is not the most confident reader, like, at all. The words get kind of muddled and he got into a habit of just sort of trying to rush it, figuring he was going to mess it up anyway, so get it over with, right? And then he just sort of stops reading, even though he enjoyed it, because he couldn't get his brain to slow down and the muddling got worse and...yeah.

So one day, his platonic soul mate bestie suggests he read out loud. To someone. If he reads every word out one at a time, knowing it has to be clear enough for the other person to follow, that'll slow him down.

So, he tries it, but only for Robin. And it sort of works, kind of, and then she hits on him using something so he can only see the line he's reading, like a bit of card with a letterbox cut in it, and...Steve is on fire.

The words don't get muddled up so much, and his reading is slow and even, and he needs to read to someone, and Robin can't always be there. It becomes his own pet project, he reads out little bits of books he likes, parts of articles he has enjoyed, poems, whatever, and starts his own little you tube that has like, five followers, and they're all people he knows.

And then suddenly, almost overnight, Steve finds himself with four thousand followers. A very large portion of them are very clearly Omega, from the comments, and Steve suddenly finds himself with a lot of fans who are using his videos for white noise. He's literally reading thousands of Omegas off to sleep.

Which is...nice. Steve likes it. The hits and followers on his videos seem to settle down after a couple of weeks, and then, after having so many comments about how settling Steve's voice is, how the Alpha is relaxing and safe. Steve thinks fuck it.

As a test, he makes a ten minute video directly for that audience. He builds a nest, films it POV. He films the view of someone walking through the bedroom door, of what they would see as they climb into the nest, then resting the camera on his own chest.

Then he starts talking. Tells the omega how perfect they are, how much he cares for them, wants to protect, keep safe. How soft they are as he pets them, how warm and cosy they are in their nest. How snuggles with the omega are Steve's favourite thing.

He deliberately keeps everything as vague and gender neutral as he can. The video fucking explodes. Goes viral. Millions of hits, thousands and thousands of followers. Robin and the kids think it's hilarious, and encourage him to keep going, claiming he's doing a public service.

Hundreds of copycats spring up, but no one pulls it off quite like Steve.

He knows there are Omega out there getting off to his videos, despite there being absolutely nothing sexual about them, but Steve figures, whatever makes people happy.

He gets so many positive comments, omega telling him how much comfort he brings them. He has some regular commenters that he gets to know, too, which is nice. Sometimes he even takes requests, small things, the colour of his shirt, the time of day he shoots his videos, certain words and phrases.

One supportive commenter always stands out though : EdDio86. Steve's pretty sure he's male omega, and he's always so grateful when Steve posts a new video. The guy clearly has a lot of trouble sleeping, and apparently Steve really helps. They have a little back and forth in the comments, learning little bits about one another. Steve likes this omega.

Steve also gets the impression the omega is sorely lacking any comfort in his life. Considering the length of his comments, the guy never asks for anything.

Until he does.

At the end of a comment, always ever so politely thanking Steve, EdDio86 admits he's 'in a bit of a pickle' and could Steve, please, do a video where 'the omega' is with pup? Could Steve tell the omega that the pup is fine, and healthy, and that the omega is doing good and the pup is okay and everything will be okay...but cool if not. Bit of a weird request, I know, sorry to be a bother.

And Steve suddenly doesn't give a shit about the consequences of just,,,dropping his personal email out into the world like that, because he wants to tell this guy these things personally.