#I’m sorry for the death ficlets

[steddieasitgoes]

I just had a terrible thought and now you must suffer through it too:

Dustin pulling away from Steve in the aftermath of Eddie’s death. Not because he blames him, but because it’s hard to be around his older male friends when he’s missing one. And when their paths do cross Dustin is even snarkier than usual. Mean, harsh jabs at Steve’s questions and concerns.

Steve assumed Dustin must not like/love him anymore so he stops trying. Just lets their friendship/brotherhood fade away even though it kills him.

But then Vecna is back and the kids are in danger and Steve doesn’t hesitate. He springs into action and sacrifices himself to save Dustin.

But unlike getting to hold Eddie while he died, Dustin is across town or something when it happens and Steve dies saving Dustin without knowing how much that little shithead actually loved him.

And now Dustin has to carry around this guilt that he never told stupid Steve “always the damn babysitter” Harrington he loved him.

[lousycamper]

There Will Be (Were) Giants

Chapter 1. The Marksman?

He doesn't remember.

His yellow eyes narrow, while he aims his trusty rifle. He shoots something – what? – and gets to the next thing. Works alongside some...one – who? – who has enough raw power to snap him in two like a toothpick and leave a trail of frost and corpses in their wake. He remembers nothing else, except of a feeling of morbid fascination and sounds of gunshots echoing all around.

He doesn't remember, and, as far as he concerned, he can't. Each time he starts asking himself these questions, it leaves him with nothing but a head-splitting migraines. So he stops, untill the pain goes away. It gnaws and eats at him, that he can't recall anything at all beyond those snippets. He tries his best to ignore this feeling of irrational guilt. It's hard, because there's not much to keep his mind occupied.

He wanders around the seemingly broken world with nearly nothing on his person, except for a slightly torn wide-brimmed hat, a fairly tattered but still wearable poncho, a slightly singed set of clothes, and a very familiar, despite being partially splintered, weapon. It actually hurts to see this familiar rifle in his hands damaged so badly, that it renders it nearly completely useless. It actually causes something inside of him to twist and cause pain. It's just... He probably could shoot it fairly well, but he isn't really sure that he can fix it.

He survives off what he can get when he can get it. Berries, roots... Sometimes, when he's particularly lucky, it's meat of some twisted creature, caught in a makeshift trap. He sleeps when he can find shelter, usually below trees or in caverns. He drinks from streams, boiling water when he can. This is how he learns, that his survivalist skills aren't nonexistent, although they are nothing spectacular.

He bandages three of five his eyes as well as he can, with bandages made out of torn off parts of his clothes. The ugly wound that mars a better half of his face begins to scab, becoming a scar. Somehow, his strange luck makes it so he didn't lose his eyes. He's endlessly thankful for that, because his eyesight is mostly the thing that saves him these days. The realm he's inside of has no shortages of various beasts or disasters to throw his way. Even though with two eyes he can see fairly well too, it's the other three that help him really pick out details on further distances and see much better in the dark. His face wound still heals, forcing him to bandage himself, but he still can see through the gaps in between wraps, always staying vigilant.

If he spots danger, he runs away, because there is simply no way for him to take on any one of encountered monstrosities in a fight. He doesn't stay in one place for long either. Not that he has any particular destination in mind, but camps attract attention, and he wants none of that. He feels like there's enough of it concentrated at him already, from all the creatures here. All the eyes... He's got trouble sleeping, and that's an understatement. Maybe that's why he has these migraines and hallucinations...

Sometimes it's a pipsqueak of some sort, in clothes with tears from claws and teeth, staring at him with his only good eye. Sometimes it's a hulking giant figure, partially covered in beaten and worn metal armor. Another one looks like a kid with spidery legs made of spiky vines and treeroots, sprouting all kinds of leaves and mushrooms as something that looks like a hooded cloak. The fourth is actually fancy, with his clothes looking akin to a rich pirate captain, but this one slowly crumbles into dust before his eyes. And the last one, the only woman among them, even though tough and brutish, looks like she had something searing-hot explode her into pieces, and then was sewn back together. Whoever did that, wanted it to hurt as much as possible, because the stitches were ugly and very much poorly-done. She wore a hat, made of a head of a wild boar, and both she and the dead hog looked at him. Thinking of them made his head hurt again.

Even more disturbing was that he had the same stitches as that woman. Gruesome, visible and stretching along all of his body. He couldn't help, but see some sort of connection between them, despite her being his hallucination and making his migraines spike.

That's the reason for his reaction to actually seeing another someone, not something, alive... Is both disbelief and relief. The fact that he can see them with his limited vision is so relieving, that his knees nearly buckle. Nearly. He regains his composure, a bit suspicious yet, while making his way to the... Man? He shouts at them, using his trusty gun as a prop to hold himself upright – he feels worn after long hours of trekking through the torn-apart world. He waves his hand at the person and can't help but smile. It's gonna be alright. He found somebody!

He is met with a look of shock and bewilderment on other man's vaguely familiar angled redish face, partially hidden under the wide-brimmed hat. Two yellow eyes look at him with a mix of interest and disbelief. The instrument in his hands, something that looks like a guitar, but isn't a guitar, lays forgotten, as a man stands from his place at the encampment, his dark clothed sillhouette a stark contrast on the unkept background of the surrounding world.

— Marksman?.. Is that you?

He stops himself, now only a few paces from the man. His throat hurts, because shouting after who-knows-how-long of not speaking to anyone would do that to you, of course. So, he opts to instead tilt his head quizzically, while looking at the known-unknown musician.

Is he? Isn't he? Who is this Marksman?

(Look me up on ao3, there might be more stuff you'd like)

[oneforthemunny]

surprise, surprise |eddie munson x reader|

prompt: eddie forgets your birthday. or maybe he doesn't.

my birthday is in a few days and i wanted to write a little birthday ficlet blurb :) no aus, just eddie.

contains: angst/fluff. birthday doom. kinda asshole eddie?? kinda asshole friends?? really fluffy sweet ending. language.

“So,” Heather leaned over, chin propped in her hands dramatically slumped over the counter. “What’re you doing this weekend?” 

“Nothing,” You hummed, fingers flicking through the crinkled bills. “Why? You know something fun going on?” 

“It’s your birthday.” Heather gawked playfully. “You’re not doing anything for your birthday?” 

You rolled your eyes lightly, pushing the cash drawer closed. “No.” You shook your head, voice tight. 

“Eddie isn’t taking you out?” Heather’s brows furrowed. “Or you’re not going home? Going out? Are you getting a cake?” 

Your heart sank, a familiar burn rising in your chest. You didn’t speak about your birthday much, not much of an occasion for celebration to you, more of one that was dreadful. Another year closer to death, you’d grumble cynically. Still, when Eddie hadn’t even acknowledged it, when your friends had all blown you off for other plans, a new kind of ache formed in your chest. The sting of being forgotten, of being unimportant and discarded- on your birthday. 

It left a bitter taste on your tongue, sardonic and painful when you spoke about your impending birthdate. “No,” You shook your head, chin ducked to your chest. You had never wanted a customer to come in so badly, save you from this painful conversation with your co-worker. “They’re all busy.” 

“Oh.” Heather quipped, face falling at your tone. 

“I mean, it’s my fault.” You added quickly- defensively. Why you were so defensive over the people who had discarded you so easily, you weren’t sure. “I should have planned something earlier, but… I dunno, I got busy and life got super hectic and it just slipped past me-” 

“-No,” Heather shook her head, curls unmoving with the abundance of Aquanet she used, still. “That’s really shitty of them, all of them. It’s your birthday.” 

You stayed silent, wiping the counter half heartedly, swallowing back the familiar burn in your throat that choked you. “I mean, if it was my girlfriend or my friend, I would be buggin’ about their birthday.” Heather shrugged. 

“Yeah, me too.” You muttered. Bouts of memories pouring back into your mind. How you’d planned a party for Eddie, baked him some stupid cake from scratch that was in the Lord of the Rings. You’d gone to countless second hand stores trying to find the ancient recipe, and it took you a day to perfect. Now, he couldn’t even be bothered to take you out? Get you a cheap store bought cake? 

“I’m sorry.” Heather muttered, a solemn, nearly guilty pout on her lips. “Well, you’re off tomorrow, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I get off at three. What if we go out? We can go to the bar- oh, there’s this new band playing in Franklin. Tommy could drive us.” Heather, ever the bubbly optimist, grinned, eyes shining with pride. It was endearing, made your heart squeeze with an ache you weren’t quite sure how to describe. 

“I’ll even get you a cupcake. A good one, from Nadia’s.” Heather added. 

“You don’t have to do that.” You shook your head lightly. You and Heather were work friends, hung out on the rare occasion after work to bitch about work, about the other coworkers, the pain-in-the-ass customers of the day over glasses of Pinot. Selfishly, it felt nice to have someone excited for your birthday. 

You hated that you wished it was Eddie, your own friends. 

“What’s your flavor, hm? Chocolate?” Heather pressed, brushing you off cheerily. 

“Don’t get me a cupcake. I’ll throw it up if we’re drinking. All the icing and liquor.” You snarled your nose playfully. 

“Fine. I’m buying you a drink then.” Heather nodded. She paused, nails drumming on the counter too. “And, I mean, if you want Eddie to come too, of course he’s invited.” Her eyes cut to yours carefully. “I didn’t know if you wanted him to come.” 

“I mean, I don’t know if he’d even be able to.” Your lips pursed, a cutting edge of annoyance in your tone. “He’s so busy.” 

Heather cringed, shooting you an apologetic look. “Yeah, that… I’m sorry, that sucks.” She mumbled. 

A stiff silence fell between the two of you over the whirr of the air conditioning blowing through the vents. “Since it’s so dead, why don’t you go early?” Heather suggested. “I can cover closing.” 

“Heather, Mel will be pissed-” 

“-Mel will be pissed if she has to pay both of us for standing around.” Heather gave you a pointed look. “And you came in before me. I got it.” 

“Are you sure?” You hesitated. “I don’t care to stay in case there’s a rush-” 

“-At seven?” Heather scoffed slightly. “Go. I’ve got it.” 

“Thank you.” You smiled softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. I’ll call you when I’m on my way, ‘kay?” Heather chirped. 

“See you then.” You waved, cringing at the sing-songy Happy birthday! Heather shouted at you. 

You pulled open your cubby, gathering your purse, your umbrella. You wrote your time on the clipboard, the phone taunting you on the hook next to it. Any other day, you’d call Eddie- call home or the shop, wherever he was, just to let him know you’d be home early. He’d always reply with a silly comment that had your cheeks rushing with heat, warmth swelling in your chest. 

Tonight, you decided against it. He was too busy, anyway. Too busy at the shop, with his friends, at band practice. You tried not to dwell on it, let your mind spiral and spin down a damning dark hole of what ifs. It consumed you anyways, on your drive home, the radio playing on a static filled station that you didn’t bother to change. Background noise drowned out by your own hammering heart. 

Eddie’s van was parked in the gravel of his driveway, leaving just enough space for you to slide in under the covering attached to the trailer. He always let you have that spot, closer to the door, protected from the elements- so considerate. 

It was hard to fathom that it was the same boy who had forgotten your birthday, brushed it off like it was just another day. 

Your throat tightened around the ever growing lump, hands tight from the white knuckled grip you had on the wheel when you turned the keys out of the ignition. The stairs squeaked under your weight, the screen door hissing with the familiar soft screech when you pulled it open. 

“No- Henderson, what the fuck is the matter with you?” Eddie huffed, his voice trailing in from the living room. 

You paused, hand catching the door as it fell, quieting it as it latched. The air was thick, warm with a sticky, sweet smell. Music playing in a low hum from Eddie’s beloved boom box he kept in the living room. 

“You said to hang it!” Dustin’s shrill tone cut through the air. 

“Yeah, hang it high- Jesus Christ, I shoulda just waited until Robin got off.” Eddie was hidden by the wall, but you could practically see him pinching his nose, hand running over his curly bangs. “Can you- Can you go see if we can ice the cake yet?” 

“Yeah, what do I do?” Dustin questioned, a silence falling between the two of them. Your lips curled, swallowing a giggle. “What? I’m not a master chef or something. You act like I should know this. There wasn’t a cake making class-” 

“-There was, you moron. Home Ec, which clearly, you failed.” Eddie huffed in annoyance. You froze at his heavy footsteps, voice carrying closer and closer.“Whatever, can you- just make it look nice in here? Put the rest of the streamers up and- shit!” Eddie flinched, jumping at the sight of you in the doorway. Wide eyed and still, like you’d been caught. 

“Baby,” Eddie’s breath startled. “Hey, uh, what are you- you said you didn’t get- you’re home already?” His voice lifted, carried high in a squeak of surprise. 

“Yeah, I got off early. I thought you were working late.” Your brows furrowed at the tear of plastic, leaning to look around the corner. “What are you doing-” 

“-Don’t look in there.” Eddie snapped, his hand falling on the doorframe, arm blocking your vision. You jumped, glaring at him with annoyance. “I thought you closed tonight?” 

“I thought you closed tonight.” You huffed, arms crossing over your chest. “Clearly that’s not true. What is this? Another campaign night?” You rolled your eyes, body burning with irritation, jaw wound tight with it. 

“What? N-No, I-I thought you wouldn’t be home until later, and I’d have more time-” Eddie rambled, side stepping to block your view behind him. 

“-Ed, I don’t care if that’s what it is.” Your shoulders deflated, a wave of painful exhaustion, disappointment falling over you. “I just wish you would’ve let me know before you invite all these people over to play your game, so I could-” A shimmering glimmer of multicolored sequins caught your eyes, shining in the yellowed light of the kitchen, iridescent hued droplets cast over the cabinets. There, draped over the chair in bright, glittering letters, a small sash that read Happy Birthday! in obnoxiously big letters. 

You paused, eyes scanning towards the cake, cooling on the rack next to the mixing bowl of icing, the icing spatula still in it. Paper mache streamers taped to the ceiling, hung in swooping bouts mixed with the shiny streamers and balloons all the way to the living room. Eddie had brought out the folding table from the crawl space, even put a plastic tablecloth from the store over it to hide the yellowing stains that would never fade. 

Dustin’s eyes met yours, wide and darting between you and Eddie, still holding the roll of streamers he’d yet to hang. “Uh, Happy Birthday?” Dustin shrugged. 

Eddie huffed, shaking his head at him. “Fuck, I-I’m sorry, it was supposed to be a surprise.” Eddie’s foot bounced with anxious adrenaline. “I thought you didn’t get off until eight, and-and I had it all planned, sweetheart, I really did. Steve’s getting the pizza, and everyone’s coming over at seven thirty-ish, and I- I was even going to have them park at Wayne’s in the back so you wouldn’t see.” 

Your chest felt deflated, void of any air, words, anything. Eddie chewed on his lip, hands twitching next to his jeans. “It was going to be this whole thing, fuck!” He huffed. “It was going to be a whole big thing, and…” 

Eddie’s heart leapt when your eyes finally met his. His fingers still drummed against the rough material of his jeans, veins filled with icy excitement, fear, anticipation? He wasn’t sure. 

“I’m sorry.” Eddie whispered, stepping to hover over you, voice dropping to a soft coo, hands sliding over your cheeks. “I’m- I wanted it to be a surprise.” 

You swallowed thickly. Eddie’s touch was soft, but it left you with a tingling burn when his thumb delicately traced your cheek bone. “You- This is for me?” You squeaked. 

Eddie’s lips curled in a half smile, brows creasing. “Well, yeah.” He said playfully. “Who else would it be for?” 

Your brain was deafeningly silent, stunned at every new detail you’d discover. “You said you were busy.” Was all you could muster out, blinking up at Eddie. “You said you had to work late.” 

“I might have fibbed a little.” Eddie tilted his head sillily. “Told a little lie so I could get this set up.” He nodded towards the living room, a balloon floating near the doorway. 

“I just really wanted to surprise you.” Eddie’s shoulders fell. “I was trying to outdo you. Tryna out do what you did for mine. I called all your friends- even Alexandra,” You rolled your eyes at the mention, she was Eddie’s least favorite friend of yours. 

“And I… I just wanted to surprise you.” Eddie blinked down at you. “Just wanted your day to be special.” 

Your day, the phrase wrapped around you, swirled through your veins like a warm hug, squeezing your heart. 

“I’m sorry, it… I didn’t think about work.” Eddie shook his head, running a hand over his forehead. “I didn’t even think about it, and I-” 

“-Eddie,” Your voice caught in your throat. 

Eddie tensed, cringing with expectant dread. He’d ruined it, blew it, the tears were coming and they were deserved. You’d done so well on his, surprised the hell out of him with the cake, decorated for his birthday campaign with lanterns and candles you’d thrifted. Gone all out for him, and he couldn’t even pull off a simple surprise party. 

“I’m sorry.” Eddie whispered, head pressing to yours. His eyes cut around the room, making sure a certain Henderson pest was lurking. 

“Sorry?” You repeated. “Eddie, I-I am surprised.” You choked out, looking around the room with gleaming eyes. 

Eddie paused. “You are?” 

You nodded. “Yeah, I thought you’d forgotten.” You admitted. “I thought everyone had forgotten.”  

Eddie’s brows pinched in a confused scowl. “You thought I’d forget?” He muttered. 

A watery laugh fell from your lips before you could stop it. “Yeah.” You admitted. “You were really convincing.” 

Eddie’s chest boasted playfully. “Oscar worthy?” 

“You’d sweep the competition.” You jested back, arms sliding over his forearms. His hands found home on the small of your waist, pulling you into him. 

“I didn’t forget your birthday.” Eddie said softly. “Just… for the record.” 

“I can see that.” You giggled. “Thank you. It’s-It’s really sweet.” 

“Yeah? I’m glad you like it.” Eddie’s hands rubbed down your spine. “It would look better but… Robin and Nancy didn’t get off until later, and it’s just me and Henderson.” 

“It looks great. Perfect.” Your cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his t-shirt. His nice shirt, Eddie always called it. Broke it out for special occasions. 

“Not perfect. Fucked up the main part.” Eddie grumbled. “I can call everyone, let them know that they can park out front since there’s no surprise anymore.” 

“No, don’t do that.” You shook your head lightly, chin propping against his chest to look up at him. “I’ll leave and come back, and you can still do it. I can pretend to be surprised.” 

Eddie’s lips curled, pulling back to look down at you. “You’re gonna pretend?” He tilted his head. 

“My turn to act.” You teased, brow lifting gently. “Give you some competition.” You poked his tummy playfully. 

Eddie grinned, pulling you back into him, lips sliding over yours in a soft kiss you savored. Melting into each other, fusing into a gooey puddle- it was corny, a cliche. One you’d roll your eyes at if it was anyone else. 

“Happy birthday.” Eddie muttered, lips brushing and tickling your own. 

“Thank you.” You whispered back, hands finding the base of his neck, pushing him back into you. Eddie’s hand fell against the wooden door frame, steadying himself in a rapidly heating makeout. 

“Uh,” Dustin’s voice interrupted the two of you, just as Eddie’s hands were sliding under your work blouse. “Yeah, I-I finished with the streamers.” 

Eddie glared at him, jaw ticking in annoyance when you pulled away. “I’m just going to grab my makeup bag, and I’ll go.” You whispered, cheeks flooding with heat. 

Eddie huffed, rolling his eyes at Dustin when you left. “What? What did I do?” Dustin threw his hands out. 

“Such a fuckin’ cock block, Henderson.” Eddie muttered, stomping into the kitchen. “Put the plates and shit out, will ya?” 

Your performance was Oscar worthy, Eddie decided later, when you stepped through the door of the now darkened trailer, gasping when the lights flickered on and everyone jumped out. You looked positively radiant, glowing with excitement at the small crowd of friends crammed into the doorway. Eddie kissed you, sloppier than he should have, especially in front of everyone, but he didn’t care. Overwhelmed with affection for you. 

He couldn’t tell if you were still pretending when he brought out the cake, the room singing in a harmonious tone to you, candles lit and glowing in the dim light. Eddie didn’t miss the way your eyes sparkled, fingers pressed to your lips at the now iced cake. When your fingers curled under his chin, sharing a fork-full of cake with him, kissing him after so quickly it left his head spinning. 

His birthday girl, it was your day. Eddie never thought he’d love a random day as much as he did. He had no idea how important that day would become when he’d first met you, how it would engrave itself in his mind forever. 

He was glad it did. Looking at you, giggling with your friends on the couch, then again, the next night, singing with Heather at the crowded bar- Eddie’s chest heart swelled. Proud that he’d surprised you, hopeful that he’d get to for the rest of his life. 

Next year, he’d do it right. Really pull off the party you deserved. He’d start saving now, planning too. He decided it that night, tucked between the sheets, your head still on his sweat soaked chest. He could still taste you on his tongue, lips numb from the time he’d spent between your legs. Lashes fluttering in sleep, curled into him, Eddie pulled you closer. He’d get it right next year, you deserved it. 

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Another celebration ficlet. The ask for this one somehow got deleted from the inbox, but I know it was sent by @weirdandabsurd42 - hope you enjoy! 🥰

On being seen

Rated: T

Words: 990

Tags: Post-Vecna; Injury; Hospitals; Hair loss; Referenced parental death; Hurt/comfort; Steve Harrington is a sweetheart; Pre-Steddie

“Brought you these,” Dustin says, stacking some books on the bedside table. Eddie spots The Hobbit at the top of the pile. “They’re mine, but you can keep them until …” 

“Until what?” Eddie asks. His voice is a thin rasp, grating on shredded vocal cords. “Until they unearth my home from that interdimensional sinkhole? Fat fucking chance, huh?” 

Dustin swallows, hiding his face under his cap. Guilt churns in Eddie’s gut like acid. His left hand - the one that’s not hooked to the beeping machines - flies up to fiddle with his hair, only to come up blank. 

Oh, right. They cut it off during the surgery. It’s gone, just like half his face and jaw. 

“You should go,” he says. “s getting dark and your mom will want you home.” 

Dustin looks up, eyes bright. “But-” 

Eddie shakes his head as well as the bandages will let him. “C’mon, I need my beauty sleep. I promise I won’t go anywhere.” 

Dustin hesitates and Eddie’s afraid he’ll start to argue, or worse, plead. But then, the kid sighs, rising from his chair. 

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” 

Eddie raises his hand for a wave, pausing when he catches sight of his bare fingers. 

“Henderson?” 

Dustin turns in the door, face gaunt in the sterile light of the hospital corridor. 

“You haven't heard about…?” 

Eddie wiggles his hand. Dustin’s expression morphs into one of regret.

“Sorry,” he says. “I asked the nurses, but there were so many emergencies. Maybe they got thrown in the trash or something.” 

Eddie nods. Tries to tug at his hair again. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Dustin shuffles uncomfortably. “Listen, I could-” 

“I said it's okay, Henderson. Good night.” 

Dustin sighs. “Night, Eddie.” 

The beeping of the machines follows Eddie into his dreams, where it turns into the shrieks of the swarm.

*

When he startles awake, it's dark outside his window. 

There's a figure in the chair beside his bed, backlit by the heart monitor.

“Fuck, Henderson,” Eddie groans. “I told you to go home.” 

The figure jerks upright with a snort. 

“Shit,” it mumbles. “Sorry, ‘m awake.” 

It’s not Dustin.

Eddie freezes, terror sinking into his every limb like lead. The noise of the machines drowns under the roar of his own blood in his ears. 

“Hey,” says the figure, voice low and soothing, and he realizes a bit belatedly that he made a sound - a raw, terrified thing, like a trapped animal. “Hey, it’s okay. Eddie, it’s me. It’s Steve.” 

A hand reaches for his. It’s warm and strong and so much bigger than his own. He jerks away so violently he almost pulls the iv-cord from his arm. 

“No,” he rasps. “Don’t touch me. Get away from me.” 

Steve flinches, hand falling limply into his own lap. Eddie can’t see his expression in the dark. Doesn’t want to see. Doesn’t want Steve to see him, not like this. Hurt and bare and small with nothing left to hide behind.  

Neither of them speaks or moves for a while, the slowly calming heart monitor the only sound in the room. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says at length. “I just … I’ll go. Just wanted to give these back.” 

He rummages for something in his pocket, then holds out his open palm - carefully, like an offering. Eddie’s breath catches in his ruined throat. 

“Where’d you find these?” 

“Um,” Steve shuffles in his seat. “Saw them lying on the nurse’s desk the other day. Sorry I didn’t return them sooner, things have been sorta crazy out there.” 

Eddie doesn’t say anything, just snatches the rings. He attempts to slip them on, but he can’t use his right hand, and his fingers haven't stopped trembling since he first woke up. Nerve damage, the doctors said. He fumbles and drops the rings, but Steve is there to scoop them up before they can fall to the ground. 

“Here, let me.” 

Eddie watches, frozen in place, heart in his throat, as Steve slips the rings onto the fingers of his left hand. Cross on the index finger, boar in the middle, skull on his ring finger. His breath tickles the skin of Eddie’s wrist. 

“This one's special, right?” 

Eddie blinks out of his stupor. Steve has taken a hold of his right hand, infinitely careful to not disturb the needles and cords, and slipped the last ring back on. The delicate one with the dark, oval stone.

Eddie nods. His voice won't obey him, but this time, it has nothing to do with his injuries. 

“My mom's.” 

Steve hums in understanding, and Eddie knows he doesn’t need to say more. 

“Tell me about her?” 

Not a request. An offer. Eddie squints at Steve’s shadowy face as he settles back in his chair. 

“Why?” 

Steve shrugs. “You’re one of us. I’d like to know more about you.” 

Eddie can’t help it, he needs to laugh. It burns in his throat and sends tears to his eyes. He tries to tug a strand of hair in front of his face to hide them and grasps only at thin air. 

“Not sure what to tell you, big boy. Not a whole lot left of me, is there?” 

“You’re brave and kind and tough,” Steve says, and Eddie’s mouth goes dry. “You’re great with the kids, and an amazing musician, and you were willing to die for a town that hates your guts. I think that’s a whole lot. The outside stuff will come back.” 

Some of it already has, Eddie thinks, fingertips rubbing against the familiar shape of his rings. 

“Her name was Elizabeth,” he says. “She died when I was seven.” 

Steve listens for a long while, not interrupting once. He doesn’t switch on the light. He doesn’t need to, Eddie thinks. He feels more seen than he has in a long while, sitting here in the dark, allowing Steve to get to know him. 

Somehow, it isn’t as scary as he thought it would be.

More celebration ficlets

[nomsfaultau]

The Lambs Wolves Wear part 9

Dark SBI AU where Philza’s human children were replaced by monsters. Start of ficlet is here.

For all that “Wilbur” was blatantly hostile and suspicious at times, Philza somehow got the impression that “Technoblade” trusted him the least of the monsters. They were never at ease, rigid like a soldier standing guard. At least more often than not they were farming, which meant Philza worried the least about them hurting Tommy. Still, at meal time he watched them closely as the ghosts fed their chosen vessel.

Tommy held no reservations, sitting by the skeletal husk of his brother and swinging his legs, piling on extra of the potatoes “Technoblade” had harvested. Finally it was easy to get Tommy to eat his vegetables. Really the sole benefit from his stint as a cow, even if Philza had the new hassle of convincing him not to eat grass. And Philza was certain he was the real Tommy, as the “Tommy” sitting next to him was curling his barbed tail around Philza’s ankle. Tommy poked the bony ribs of “Technoblade”, pestering until they bent for him to whisper in their ear. “Technoblade” scarcely reacted as Tommy snickered, but the red lights dancing in their eye sockets darted for Philza, locked upon him like a target. 

“Technoblade” was by far less impulsive than the other two, but that just meant what ever nightmare they inflicted was calculated. Philza could tell they were scheming for all that they rarely imbued Technoblade’s features with expression. But Philza offered the ghosts a cheery grin though he knew it would never be returned.

A cold shiver of a spectral claw tapped on his shoulder, and Philza canted his head. “Do you need something, mate?” “Technoblade” shook his head, and for some reason Tommy looked disappointed. “Well you did wonderful on these potatoes. You’re so hardworking, it’s very kind of you to help me out so much.” Sometimes praise would get Philza a slight smile, since unlike the real Technoblade the imposter didn’t become awkward about it. Yet for some reason “Technoblade” dropped their gaze, sweating slightly. Philza didn’t let his unease trickle into his smile. Usually they swallowed sycophancy well, what changed? 

He hid his confusion with a sip of his tea, only for his tongue to freeze mid-drink. Philza’s eyes flew open, frantically yanking to escape the searing cold only for a frozen block of tea to pull out of his cup. Philza couldn’t help his bewildered laugh, intertwining with Tommy’s cackles. He pried the frozen drink off and winced as ice shattered everywhere. 

The shards of tea flew back together, filling the cup that “Technoblade” caught with spectral hands. It floated back into Philza’s hands, who sat it down to avoid another prank. It was distinctly not in the vein of the stoic “Technoblade’s” humor, or the real Technoblade for that matter given he was far funnier than his counterpart. No, the simplistic practical joke reeked of Tommy, and he turned upon the boy with an eyebrow raised. “Tommy?” 

“Wasn’t me! I don’t have ghost powers!” 

“Sorry, sir,” “Technoblade” mumbled. “It wasn’t particularly noble, but I hadn’t-” Tommy elbowed the spirit vessel roughly and they went quiet, clearly uncomfortable. 

“You said hurting feelings is just as wrong as hurting small squishy human bodies,” “Tommy” announced with a nod as he parroted Philza’s own words. He looked at Philza expectantly for praise, and received a vague head pat. “And you said not to hurt Tommy, and he would be very sad if he wasn’t allowed to be annoying so we HAVE to do everything he says!” 

“Uhh…right,” “Technoblade” agreed dryly. “In our case, Tommy threatened to claim we hurt him and so we were forced to comply or risk being grounded. A fate worse than death.” And given they’d died countless times…hm. 

“Tommy!” Philza scolded. “You shouldn’t manipulate your brothers like that.” Philza hadn’t planned for Tommy somehow becoming the ringleader. That…might make this next part more difficult. 

He blanched. “I’m not Tommy, I’m “Tommy”! I’m innocent!” 

“No you aren’t. Nice try, but you’re grounded, mate.”

“Tommy” cheered. “WHOOO! He’s grounded! That means you’re going to grind him into mush with a mortar and pestle and bury him all over the place, right? TAKE THAT, WORM-FOOD! I’m the preferred Tommy!” He stuck out a forked tongue at Tommy. “He loves me more than you, he loves meee more than youuuuu~”

Philza paused. “I’m sorry, what exactly do you boys think grounding is?” 

“Tommy” scowled. “I know what it is! That’s how it worked in hell.” 

“Wilbur” wouldn’t look at him. “...if it were the Fae Queen, I’d guess it’d mean being trapped in an underground labyrinth for weeks alone. Or treated like the dirt she walks on, but that was always.” 

“That’s not what it means. If you’re grounded Philza despises you for eternity and you can never redeem yourself, cursed to forever roam the land without a chance to move on to the next life. It’s called grounding because he’s anchoring us to the mortal coil,” “Technoblade” posited confidently. “And also extra chores, probably.” 

…that would explain why they all reacted so horrifically. And while it was rather effective at protecting Tommy, he thought in the long run the monsters holding any fear towards him would prevent the underestimation he was relying on. “I…suspect your past experiences are warping your understanding. In this household, grounding means you are housebound for a few days and help with extra chores while we talk about how to act better in the future. I’m not- I’m not going to torture you, good god. I won’t hurt any of you.” He can’t, no matter how much he should want to. He hadn’t seen any of his real children in months; shouldn’t he want them slaughtered? Shouldn’t he hate them? But Philza only hated himself for the weakness. 

“Wait………grounding means we get to spend more time with you?” “Tommy” asked slowly. “And hurting Tommy means we’re grounded…?” 

Philza had just enough time to think oh no before “Tommy” turned into a lion and threw himself at Tommy. Though Philza barely held him back, that just meant a different monster got there first. “Technoblade” nearly punched Tommy in the face, but that turned out to be one of “Wilbur’s” illusions, who was going the emotion route by trying to show Tommy images of his brothers dying in really gruesome ways. Kicking “Tommy” back, Philza lunged across the dinning room table, scooping his boy up as fire began to spread through his house, spectral dead weaving between illusions as the three began to bicker about who got to hurt Tommy first. The dinning room chairs began to float up and hurl themselves violently at “Tommy” and immediately bursting into cinders. “Wilbur” egged them on further in a desperate bid to have his competition annihilate each other given how outclassed he was. 

Panic exploded in Philza’s chest as he realized how badly he’d messed up. He clutched Tommy to his chest, trying to protect him as best he could. Tommy, feeling awfully guilty about having threatened them not knowing their original interpretations of grounding, kept shouting apologies, having apparently not clocked that the brawl was about who got to murder him first.

“ENOUGH!” Philza screamed. “YOU’RE ALL GROUNDED!” A chorus of cheers broke out, the monsters ceasing the violence immediately. “All of you go to your rooms!” A round of protest, but he quashed it. Tommy stuck out his tongue as the monsters dragged their feet, and Philza sighed. “Tommy, you’re also grounded.” The boy protested. “No, you started this mess by manipulating them. You’re going to spend your time thinking about how to apologize.”

“But you already sent “Tommy” to our room!” 

“You’ll be by my side.” Philza stared flatly at their uproarious objections. “Grounding is a punishment tailored to the offense. I want all of you to think about how ripping each other to shreds in a race to see who can attack their brother first is completely unacceptable. At dinner I will bring supper to you and we will privately discuss the matter.” Somehow, it worked despite how clearly they all hated it. 

He waited till they were gone, then dragged Tommy out of the house, brushing objects with his iron ring to rule out illusions and tossing a handful of salt over his shoulder before he began to speak. “Listen to me,” Philza whispered as he cupped Tommy’s face. “What you did was immensely dangerous. You cannot be messing with them like that.” He knew much of it was his fault as well, but it was more important to stress the point to Tommy. 

Tommy’s brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t have bullied them like that if I knew that’s what they thought grounding was. That stuff sounded scary. Who did that to them? Are my new brothers okay?” 

“I-” Philza was blindsided at his concern for them. “I…don’t know. You have to be careful around them.” 

“So I don’t hurt their feelings?” 

“...exactly. When they’re frightened, or mad, they can cause accidents like the one you just saw.” And yet Tommy was enchanted by the show of lethal power, like they were fairy tale heroes. What spiked Philza’s terror only had the boy eager with excitement. He couldn’t see how Philza fought tooth and nail to eke out what little safety they had now. 

And that naïveté would get him killed if Philza didn’t act quickly enough. For a brief second he’d hoped- no. Didn’t matter. They’d all tried to slaughter Tommy just to spend more time with him. They’d proved his children would never be safe if they were around. Philza’s resolve hardened, quashing the part of him trying to protest. He had no other choice. 

Philza had to get rid of the monsters to protect his family.

Next>

[sinisterexaggerator]

I'll Put It On Your Tab

Wrecker x Gen! Reader

Warnings: Threats made with a blaster. Violence. Attempted robbery. A broken bone or two. Fluff, and a kiss. "Established" relationship vibes.

962 words

Notes: I decided to write a series of "goodbye" ficlets where the reader takes / removes something from each of CF99 as they part ways, however this one deviated a little bit from that path. In this case, the story is left open-ended.

For you, @allsystemsblue. I know you love Wreck. :D

Crosshair || Echo || Hunter || Tech

---

“I don’t want any trouble,” you pleaded, hands held high above your shoulders with arms bent at the elbows. The masked man before you held his blaster level with your abdomen, making a motion for you to fill his sack with all your credits.

“Everything,” he growled. “Put it in the bag.”

Trembling, you rushed to comply, your hard-earned money being forfeit to this brute who was sure to kill you if you did not obey his brusque command.

Your business was Mantell Mix in Ord Mantell City; you barely made ends meet as a simple street vendor. You had a few faithful customers, some more so than others, but otherwise you lived day-to-day off cartons sold. He was sure to clean you out; you would have to eat your product or starve until tomorrow, though the alternative was death.

You supposed you might just count your blessings and be thankful should he keep his word and spare you.

“Hurry up!” he barked; you jumped despite yourself, dropping your remaining profits on the ground for them to scatter at his feet. You gasped, afraid for any repercussions, immediately falling to your knees before him to quickly gather what you could to placate the increasingly impatient man.

“Karkin’ imbecile!” he hissed, pushing you backward by the heel of his boot. You fell onto your rump, staring up with horrified, wide eyes as he took aim at the space between them, tears threatening to fall as your heart crashed wildly behind your ribs.

“I’m sorry—” you began, tilting your head farther, fear expelled to be replaced with elation as your knight in not-so-shining armor loomed above your attacker, massive arms folded across the broad expanse of his chest.

“Is this guy bothering you?” Wrecker asked, almost comically so. He could not help himself, loving to make an entrance, no matter how dire the situation, it seemed.

“Yes!” you exclaimed, scurrying back on the palms of your hands before you attempted to stand. In that same moment, the perp and his half-filled sack of money swung around, Wrecker squeezing the barrel of his blaster so tightly, that he crushed it under the pressure of his fist.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size,” the clone demanded beneath his bucket, though this man was nowhere near the height of your darling hero. You watched with bated breath, your would-be robber struggling in vain within his grasp, his mutilated weapon tumbling awkwardly from his grip.

The sack of money had been abandoned, your assailant of the mind he would need both hands to ward off this towering giant who had made it his job to protect you. Though you thought to retrieve what was yours, you did not move a single muscle, watching the scene unfold as you silently thanked your lucky stars.

“Piss off!” the thug seethed, a flurry of motions catching your attention; something glinted in the streetlight above your humble cart.

“Wrecker!” you cried out, a hidden blade unsheathed. He appreciated your warning, but it was not necessary.

A twist and then a crack. The knife was just as easily discarded. The man screamed, though his cry of pain was momentary. Wrecker’s plastoid helmet had met with his skull, knocking him flat in the dirt with a resounding thud.

As soon as he was down for the count, you endeavored to wrap yourself around him; you hugged your rescuer as tightly as you could, though your arms would not even begin to enclose the entirety of his waist.

“Thank you,” you breathed, gazing up. Wrecker chortled nervously, rubbing the back of his head absentmindedly, even though his gear was in the way.

“Aww, it wasn’t nothing.” He shyly brushed away your gratitude. Wrecker always felt that way with you – shy -  though he was not sure what it meant.

You reached; you wanted to see his handsome face. He was beautiful to you, regardless of his many scars.

Wrecker obliged, craning his neck so that you might remove his helmet and set it off to the side. He smiled down at you, a twinkle sparkling in the umber depths of his good eye.

For a moment, he seemed proud. “I sure showed him!” he announced happily.

“You did,” you assured him kindly, unable to help yourself as you traced the raised lines spidering across his skin. You repaid his smile with one of your own, turning to rummage through your cart.

“I have something for you,” you said, withdrawing a fresh carton of his favorite treat. You took a piece between your fingers and offered it to him. He hesitated, finally bending down to gingerly take the small kernel between his teeth.

“Mmm,” he hummed, politely chewing with his mouth closed.  You offered another, this time replacing it with a press of your lips to his when he least expected.

Wrecker’s eyes rounded to saucers before he gradually relaxed, the surprisingly gentle man taking up either side of your face in the curves of his palms. His fingers came to rest just beneath your ears, the rebel clone using this opportunity to draw you in.

“This is better than Mantell Mix,” he mumbled against you; you tried to suppress a laugh, having meant to deepen your connection.

Instead, you grinned, opening eyes that had been shut so that you could lovingly regard him. You returned your hand to his face, cradling his jaw. “I owe you my life,” you whispered.

You thought you saw a hint of a blush as he stumbled to reply. "Uhhh- I'll settle for that," he bashfully requested.

You could barely contain your glee as you rose up on your tiptoes to kiss him one more time. "I'll put it on your tab,” you quipped playfully.

[lathalea]

Yes, it is finally happening!

Lathalea’s

💎 HUGE 💎

Follower Celebration

… is here!

Remember the poll from last week? The results are here! You have spoken!

Thank you everyone for participating! 💙🙏

💎 What happens now?

Per your request,

I’m going to write ficlets for you, my lovely followers!

And I can’t wait! 🤩

💎 It’s time for the Prompt Game!

HERE ARE THE RULES:

💎 To take part in the celebration, you have to be my follower before it starts!

💎 For the Prompt Game, I will have around 10 slots open. Maybe a few less, maybe a few more (it depends on boring real life stuff, sorry, I’ll try to do my best!).

💎 The participants will be picked on the "first come, first serve" basis.

💎 I’m going to write ficlets (300-500 words) based on Tolkien’s Middle Earth and the characters created by JRRT.

💎 Pick your favorite pairing, the prompt you’ve been dreaming of (or 1-2 prompt numbers from the list below), any additional details you want me to include (like your OC, quote, vibes…), and send me an ask! No anons please 🙏

💎 I will be happy to write about things like: canon x canon, canon x oc, canon x reader, oc x oc, oc x reader, textual ghosts, G-E rated romance (to request E-rated stuff, you have to be an adult), angst, gen fics, fluff, GIME, crack fics, Middle Earth locations, headcanons, imagines, worldbuilding… and much more.

💎 I’m not in the right headspace to write about things like: incest, rape, death, explicit descriptions of injuries/childbirth, themes/characters I’m not too familiar with.

💎 If you’re one of the lucky participants but I’m unable to fulfill your request because of some its content, don’t worry! You won’t lose your spot! I’ll ask you to submit a new fic request.

💎 Any questions? You know where to find me!

⬇️⬇️PROMPT LIST BELOW THE CUT ⬇️⬇️

If you’ve just ran out of fic ideas or there’s something here that speaks to you, please add one or two prompt numbers to your ask:

1. “I lost my way. Twice.”

2. Regency AU

3. "It was an... accident?"

4. Pirate AU

5. “You did this for me?”

6. Neighbor AU

7. “We could just stay like this, cuddling all night, if that is what you wish."

8. Forbidden Love AU

9. “Whose wedding is this?” “Ours.”

10. Soulmate AU

11. “Tell me what you see.”

12. Library AU

13. “Where am I?”

14. Best Friends AU / Friends to Lovers AU (you pick)

15. “Is anything you say to me true?”

16. Modern AU

17. “The stars are bright tonight, aren't they?" "Not as bright as you…”

18. Stranded AU

19. “This quest is yours alone.”

20. Room Mate AU

21. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

22. Fake Dating/Engagement/Marriage AU

23. “Make a wish.”

24. Amnesia AU

25. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

26. Hurt/Comfort AU

27. “What does your heart tell you?”

28. Meet-awful AU (funny!)

29. “How did you get here and what are you doing in my bed?!”

30. An AU of your choice

31. Surprise me, Lathalea! 🤩

Ready?

🎉 Let the Prompt Game begin!🎉

Good luck everyone! 💙

XXX,

Lathalea

[my-cabbages-gorl]

Mercy and Lightning- tiny lil zukaang ficlet by @my-cabbages-gorl

General Audiences, hurt/comfort, zukaang

inspired by this post from @that-boomerang-guy

~

Sun-warmed moisture wrapped its relentless arms around their weary bodies. The damp air clung to their skin, even on the shaded side of the courtyard. With only a few days until the comet, they were bone-tired from training; body and spirit. 

“I’m sorry- I need a break. We’ve been at this for hours,” Aang huffed between breaths. He turned his back to walk toward the steps to sit down. The sight of pinkish boiled flesh in the center of his back stabbed Zuko with an uncomfortable urgency. Before Aang could take his next step, he felt a hand close tightly around his wrist. “Zuko, wh--”  

“You need to master this technique,” the command of his teaching voice faded, replaced now only with pleading. “Please, Aang. We don’t have much time for rest.”  

“Even if you think I’m ready,” he didn’t pull his wrist from Zuko's grasp as he looked up into his golden eyes, “how can we be sure I can do it if we don’t even have lightning to redirect?” he sounded exhausted, “Is there any way to make sure that I can do it? That I don’t- ” his voice pitched in exasperation before his gaze fell to the stone floor.     Die, again? Is what he wanted to say. But, he couldn’t ask that. Not to the person who watched his limp body convulsing with electricity, gasping for his last breath. The same person who sent an assassin to make sure he stayed dead.  

In the way Aang’s wrist slumped in Zuko’s hand, he could feel the memory washing over him; as if it was flowing into his skin with every heartbeat fluttering in the veins under his fingertips. He wanted to wrap Aang in his arms, promise he’d protect him; that he’d do everything in his power to keep him safe; beg him to master this because he couldn’t afford to lose him, the only person who showed him mercy and believed in who he really was. He wanted to crush his palms against Aang’s jaw, drag him close and say next time, I’ll kill for you; next time, I’ll die for you. 

Instead, he said, “I should have stopped her, but I didn’t,” their hands still tethering them together.  

Aang turned to face him, the stern set of his narrowed eyes meeting Zuko’s. “But, you didn’t,” he tilted his face away, seeing a dragonfly-hummingbird flitting between the trees lining the courtyard. As he noticed the scales of it’s wings glinting in the sunlight, Zuko watched the lines of his face soften.  

“Aang, I’m so, so-” his grip slackening as he spoke. 

“Zuko, it’s...” okay? But, it wasn’t. Not yet, at least. But somehow, somewhere between the feeling of Zuko's fingers on his wrist and the tenderness in his amber eyes, Aang knew it would be okay. He shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifting from a frown into a hard line. “Let’s go over the forms again," their eyes locking with a nod, "sifu.” 

Breaking apart, they bowed to one another in the hallowed air. Their feet slid across the sun-warmed stone as they assumed fighting positions. As the hours wore on, Aang watched in silence as Zuko shifted, mirroring his body with his own. When the sun had sagged down behind the horizon, Aang lit a fire so he could keep following Zuko's movements in the fading light. They moved together through their stances into the night; dancing to the charged, mysterious harmony of death and rebirth.

~

[sisterprocrastinator]

MUSHY MAY 2024 bonus prompt: Reminiscing

Dewdrop ghoul x Aeon/Phantom ghoul

2.6k words

NSFW

Slightly possessive Aeon

Angst and grief

Dewdrop is grieving Aether and he's woken up feeling sad. He finds solace in Aeon's arms. Sweet, healing smut ensues.

Thanks once again to @forlorn-crows for organising Mushy May 🖤

Also many thanks to @ghuleh-recs for the dividers 🖤

Read below or here on AO3

Here is the link to my other Mushy May 2024 ficlets

🖤 Reblogs are very much appreciated, please and thank you 🖤

Enjoy!

“What’s wrong?” Aeon asked.

Dew shivered. The feel of the other ghoul’s hot breath on the back of his neck sent delicious chills down his spine. He snuggled further back, pressing himself against him, needing to feel as much skin against his own as he could manage to.

“I was just thinking. About Aether. I miss him so much.”

Aeon touched his lips to the nape of Dew's neck and held him tighter. His palms skimmed along the skin of his torso and Dew sighed sadly.

This happened sometimes, out of the blue. He’d hear a song or smell a scent or see something that would remind him of his lost pack mate and the blues would set in. He couldn’t say what it had been this time. A dream perhaps? Dew had just woken up in the furs with that profound feeling of loss. The grief that he’d just about learned to live with had managed to claw its way back up from the depths.

“What do you need from me?” Aeon murmured against his skin.

He hadn’t tried to send him any of his quintessential magic to soothe him. He knew that when Dew felt like this, that would be the last thing he wanted.

Dew blinked, feeling a tear escape his eye when he thought of the other ghoul.

The pack were in their den and he and Aeon lay curled up together in a nest of furs on the mezzanine level. The rest of them were downstairs in the main living area.

Dew had woken up countless times over the years in this familiar position, spooning on Aether's bed, or in his own and he tried to blink away the tears that welled up when he thought about it.

Aether had been a different build to Aeon - bigger, bulkier. Darker eyes. He’d always been quick to smile, finding joy and humour in almost every situation and seeing the good in everyone. The position that Dew and Aeon were currently in was both comforting to him and achingly familiar. 

Aether had always been a gentle soul, but vibrant. He'd shied away from the uglier sides of life. He had probably been the most selfless ghoul that Dew had ever come across, always there for anyone who needed him – even when they didn’t – and he happily gave all of himself without ever expecting anything in return.

All of the pack had loved him and when he’d been taken from them, it had ripped the very soul from their little family for a time.

Dew sometimes felt guilty for missing Aether when he had Aeon here with him though. In a way, his death had been a final act of selflessness. Without it, the pack wouldn’t have gained Aeon. Dew wouldn’t have found him.

He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, mindful that the others were asleep downstairs. He turned himself towards Aeon, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

His brow creased and he huffed.

“Stop tormenting yourself. It’s no use thinking like that. You are allowed to miss him. You are allowed to feel sadness without guilt.”

Of course, Aeon would be able to feel everything he was experiencing right then. Dew couldn’t hide anything from him anymore.

Aeon kissed Dew’s forehead and used the pad of his thumb to wipe away another tear.

“I wish he was still here. But if he was, then I’d never have met you.”

Aeon smiled at him, cupping his cheek. Dew leaned into it, nuzzling his face into his hand.

“Don’t think that way. Remember him and love me. You can do both. It is what it is now. It isn’t going to change. You should never feel guilty about wanting him back. It does not mean that you are wishing away our life together.”

Dew whined, his heart aching. Aeon held his gaze and Dew tried to concentrate on the lines of dark blue that speckled his eyes. They were beautiful and he would never tire of looking at them. The irises were a bright purple and broken up by those darker blue swirls that often seemed to move around as he watched them. They were unusual eyes, even as far as quintessence ghouls went.

The two of them lay there for a while, studying one another. Aeon patiently wiped away the odd tear, sometimes kissing them softly and the ache that Dew felt in his heart for his lost pack brother slowly subsided once again.

He reached over and ran his thumb along Aeon’s bottom lip, tracking the movement as he traced the shape of it. He raised his eyes to his again and watched as the other ghoul’s pupils dilated, swallowing up the purple bit by bit.

“I’m sorry,” Dew whispered again. “I didn’t mean to get all melancholy. I’m so, so glad that you were sent to us after he died.”

Aeon’s lips parted slightly and a slow smile lit up his face. Dew took the unspoken invitation, breaching them with the thumb that still stroked along the bottom one. Aeon bit down playfully on the digit and something changed. 

Dew felt the moment that his sadness began to lift and was replaced my something else, something that burned oh so slowly. Before he knew it, it was well on the way to becoming all consuming.

It was longing, he realised. He found himself longing to be loved, longing to feel a connection, longing to be as close as physically possible to someone and longing to be grounded in the here and now. He needed Aeon to take him over and he needed to feel it all.

Dew extracted his thumb from between Aeon’s lips and he waited. The quintessence ghoul narrowed his eyes and searched Dew's face as if trying to figure out what he needed. He leaned in and tentatively touched his lips to Dew’s in a feather light kiss, testing the water to see how he was going to react.

Dew had begun to tremble and he reached up, running the shaking tips of his fingers through the other ghoul’s hair. Aeon’s hands roamed his body lazily, claws gently scraping as he went. The juxtaposition between the sharp points and the delicate touch was not lost on Dew as he savoured the feel of them. The warmth and the drag of calloused palm against his skin never failed to stoke his need and he found himself committing every sensation to memory.

He let Aeon in, kissing him back with more urgency. Dew rolled over and Aeon followed him, coming to rest in the cradle of his body. The weight of him was comforting and Dew got his wish when Aeon made sure to lay his long body against his, skin touching every place that it could. He rested his elbows by Dew’s head and he gave a contented little sigh, wrapping his arms around Aeon’s back and drawing his knees up, hooking his ankles around his waist.

Aeon pulled back from their kiss and Dew whimpered but the other ghoul pressed two fingers against his lips to quiet him. He rested his chin on Dew’s chest and looked up at him through long lashes, a spark of heat burning in his stare.

“Quiet,” he growled softly. “You have something to say, or some sound to make, you do it in my ear. They are mine and I do not want the others hearing what is meant for me.”

Dew groaned, the words making his insides clench. He loved the possessive side of Aeon, he didn't show it too often and Dew's response to it was usually instantaneous. Within seconds it made him a whimpering, leaking mess and right then was no exception.

Aeon nipped his jaw in warning and one of his hands reached between them as he shifted his hips.

Dew squirmed as the fingers that had been used to silence him skimmed down his body, way down. They stroked over his balls and down past his taint. When they breached the tight ring of muscle, Dew let out a low moan. He’d done as he was told though, he nuzzled his cheek against Aeon’s and closed his teeth carefully around the lobe of his ear. He felt him smiling against the skin of his neck as Aeon curled his fingers inside of him.

“Please,” Dew whispered and Aeon shivered.

“What does my little spark need?”

Dew felt a smile spread across his lips. He knew when Aeon broke out the pet names that this was going to be exactly what he needed. The warm glow that he felt already intensified and he used their pack bond to soak up as much of the love and comfort that Aeon offered as he could.

He gasped as Aeon used his fingers to stretch him out, feeling the slick there. The anticipation was almost as sweet as the reward that he knew was coming.

“Need you. Please, Aeon,” he whispered. “I need to feel.”

Dew raked his claws gently down Aeon’s back until he reached his ass. He gripped the skin which earned him a low warning snarl and a roll of the other ghoul’s hips.

“Fuck, Dew,” Aeon said, fangs grazing his neck.

He shifted again, fingers slipping out and rubbing Dew's slick onto the head of his cock.

Aeon moved and propped himself up, putting his forehead to Dew’s and meeting his stare. He smirked, eyes glowing steadily with purple fire. Dew held his breath, feeling Aeon lining himself up, the blunt head of him skimming through the slick that he’d made. Just the thought of this always had him worked up and dripping, hips twitching, blood burning – desperate for whatever Aeon chose to give him.

“Please,” Dew breathed, finding himself begging because if Aeon didn’t fuck him any second now he was going to spontaneously combust. “I’ve been a good boy, haven’t I? Need you inside me. Make me feel better. I need you to love me.”

Aeon put his mouth over Dew’s as he pushed his way in, swallowing down the harsh exhale and the groan he let out as he filled him in one smooth thrust.

Dew's eyes rolled back and he wrapped his arms around Aeon’s back again, clutching him tightly.

This was what he’d needed. The weight of him above him, buried inside of him and curled around him. He’d needed to breathe him in, hands roaming flesh and sweat soaked skin sliding against sweat soaked skin.

He’d needed Aeon to anchor him, just like this.

As Aeon began to move, hips circling and grinding against him, tongue probing and clashing with his, Dew found himself again.

This was his here and now. Flesh dragging against flesh, Aeon’s love and lust and his raw power thrumming through their pack bond. It was the reassurance he needed, reassurance that he was right there with him when he'd needed him and Dew latched right onto his strength. He let it drag him out of the funk he’d been in and he felt himself waking up fully again.

It was Aeon who broke their kiss again, burying his face into the crook of Dew’s neck and breathing him in. He put his teeth around the tendon there and Dew tipped his head back, feeling Aeon hurtling ever closer to the edge of his pleasure.

He was breathing hard, hot breath against Dew’s skin as he ground himself against that place inside of him that made him weak. Dew heard himself whimper and he shoved his fist into his mouth. He bit down into his hand hard enough to leave a mark and when he felt Aeon unravelling it was almost his undoing too.

Not quite though.

Aeon tensed, every muscle straining and he shoved himself impossibly further inside of Dew, cock throbbing as he peaked. He bit down, fangs piercing flesh and Dew made a strangled noise that was muffled by the fist he’d lodged firmly into his mouth.

Aeon groaned, tongue lapping at the wound that he’d made and Dew winced when it stung. He ground his hips at the sensations, always such a slut for the pleasure and the pain that he experienced when Aeon marked him. It was a combination of enjoying the sting and the pride that he felt, knowing that the others would see what a good boy he’d been, that he deserved to be claimed, that he was worthy of it.

“Poor thing,” Aeon murmured. He pulled out slowly and Dew whimpered, not ready to let go of him just yet. He was still aching. “Let me take care of that for you.”

Aeon extracted himself from Dew’s hold, putting his hands in the furs either side of his head and smiling down at him.

“Fuck,” Dew breathed as Aeon sent some of his quintessential magic to him, caressing along his heated skin.

Sometimes when he used it, it felt like a warm breeze teasing his skin or a warm breath against it. Other times it lit up every nerve ending with intensity in all of the very best ways. Now though, it was like a gentle, reverent touch against his oh so sensitive flesh.

Aeon leaned down and kissed Dew’s jaw, working his way down his neck and to his collar bone. He nipped at his pec and rolled his nipple between his teeth, all the while using those delicious tingles of magic to keep Dew close to the edge.

His breath hitched as Aeon kissed and nibbled his way south but when he nipped Dew’s hipbone, a wanton moan escaped him. Aeon growled low, the vibrations making the hairs on Dew's body stand on end.

Oh fuck.

Aeon reached a long arm up and clamped a hand over Dew's mouth. His touch was rougher now and wasn’t that just exquisite?

“I said be quiet,” Aeon hissed against his hip.

Dew’s cry was muffled as Aeon closed his lips around his cock. If he’d been able to form a coherent thought right then, he’d have realised that the others would definitely be aware of what they were doing by now so it would have made no difference anyway.

Aeon got to work, using his hand and his mouth in unison and within minutes Dew could feel himself falling. He looked down and Aeon met his eyes, cheeks hollowed as he worked Dew’s cock, twisting his fist around it as he stroked and sucked.

Dew reached down and grabbed a handful of Aeon’s hair, tugging at him.

Aeon snarled around him, still holding his gaze and the vibrations did it. He felt it in his gut first, that sublime tension that builds and builds and spreads outwards. His sole focus became Aeon’s mouth around him, his tongue and his lips and the sensation of pleasure.

He couldn’t take any more, the vibrations became too much and Dew’s eyes rolled back as the orgasm hit, radiating outwards from Aeon.

The hand over Dew's mouth tightened as he cried out Aeon’s name, the waves of pleasure making him lose control and forget all about being quiet or waking the others or even who the fuck he was.

He must have died for a second, he was sure of it.

“I think you killed me,” he said when he came back down. He'd thrown his arm across his eyes to shield them. “I think I just died.”

Aeon snorted a laugh and kissed his hip.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Dew,” he said, crawling his way back up his body.

He lay himself along him and Dew glanced at him from under the crook of his elbow.

“Fuck off, Aeon. You killed me. End of.”

Aeon shrugged and flopped down dramatically beside him, heaving a heavy sigh.

“You’re welcome.”

This ficlet is a rework of a chapter I wrote for my OC ghouls Quinn and Air. If you want more of their smut, check out my Quair Oneshots fic on AO3 🖤

[devastatedloyallute]

The Ones We've Lost.

Guitarspear Week 2024 Day 5: Ichor - Angst [Read on AO3}

Summary: Lute has feelings about losing loved ones. Ficlet under the cut (~800 words)

Lute laid against the warmth of Adam’s chest, relishing in the comfort and safety from the skin to skin contact. It was late and they both should have been asleep long before now. But racing minds heed no sleep. Lute let out an exasperated sigh.

“What’s wrong, Lute?” He asked drowsily, comfortingly rubbing her shoulder.

“I just…I can’t believe she’s gone,” Lute clenched her fist against his chest, “Hunter’s fucking gone.”

Adam rested his head atop hers. “I know,” he replied sorrowfully.

He couldn’t find any words that would reassure her. All he could do was hold her close and be her physical and emotional support. Nothing would bring back their fallen ally. They both knew that. But they would sure as hell make Hell pay for it.

***

Hunter had been among the top exorcists. Her and Lute were as thick as thieves. She had been Lute’s closest companion, besides Adam himself.  They would meet up after exterminations to discuss kill counts, strategies for the next year,  so on and so forth. 

So it was beyond strange when she didn’t reunite with Lute once the extermination was over. Lute had voiced her concerns to Adam, who brushed them off. She’s probably just exhausted and didn’t want to socialize. He was sure everyone had made it back and would check everyone’s reports the following day. When Hunter’s report was not found, Lute demanded they do a headcount, check the barracks, everything. At first, Adam thought the ordeal was all bullshit. They’d never lost an angel during an extermination before, so why would it happen now? 

But he was wrong. Hunter was nowhere to be found, not a trace of her anywhere. When Lute became uncharacteristically frantic, Adam knew something was wrong, he had to do something. Eventually, Hunter’s decapitated body had been discovered in Hell. Understandably emotionally distraught at the death of her friend, Lute demanded they go down and completely annihilate every single being in Hell. Adam reassured her that those bastards would never get the chance to fight back again. And with that statement, Lute repressed her anger. Shoving down any feelings or memories of her fallen sister. It wouldn’t happen again.

***

“It’s not fair,” she let out with a shaky exhale.  “I know, I should just not think about it, but the more I keep it bottled up the stronger it gets.” 

Adam felt her naked body tense and begin to shake under his touch. He softly nuzzled his cheek against her head.

“And what’s worse, is rather than anger, it’s morphing into fear. I’m fucking scared, and that makes me angrier,” Lute pressed her forehead into him. 

“You don’t have to be scared, babe. Everything will be alright, we’ll make sure those fuckers don’t even think about trying that shit again,” Adam said while rubbing up her shoulders.

“But I am! I am and I hate it. Fear means that I’m weak. I can’t be fucking weak!” Lute fell quiet, her breathing starting to slow down, “I’m scared that it will happen again.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, you know,” Adam said softly.

“It’s not me that I’m worried about.”

Adam let out a chuckled snort, “What? You worried about me? You really think any of those bastards down there could ever take me out?”

When Lute’s golden eyes shot up at him with tears in their corners, his heart sank. He immediately regretted what he had said. He quickly wrapped his golden wings around her, hugging her body to his and began to gently sway her. Adam kissed her forehead, “Shh, I’m sorry- now clearly isn’t the time for jokes, my bad.” 

After a long moment of silence while being rocked in his arms, Lute tried to let her body relax. She took in a deep breath and let it go, wiping her eyes and nestling her cheek against him. “I just…I can’t lose anyone else,” Lute said as she absentmindedly began to lightly trace over the faded scars that littered his chest.

Adam caressed her face, “You won’t, I’ll make sure of it. Besides, I know you’ll always have my back, no matter what. And I’ll always have yours.”

Lute nodded as she let her eyes drift shut, “Yeah. Always.”  

----------------------------------------------------------------

When Lute awoke, she was in bed alone. A tear stained pillow under her head. She sat up and rubbed away the dried tear stains that ran down her cheeks. 

She picked up the robe that had been cuddled under her arm from under the blanket. It was the same robe that had once belonged to her late partner. She folded the garment and placed it on her pillow. 

With a heavy heart, Lute kissed her fingertips before placing them on the glass of the picture frame on her nightstand. She stared longingly at the picture of her and Adam, before deciding it was time to go about her day.

[vore-scientist]

thief idea: a thief feels VERY guilty about stealing food, so he writes out something like “I’m sorry for stealing. I had no other choice” on a platform that’s HUGE to the thief, notecard size to Yonah. Maybe the thief even puts some flowers in apology

Would Yonah think the pre-established apology is sweet/nice?

[HEY ANON I WROTE YOU A FICLET]

I think yonah would convince Ben to let him hunt this person down to deliver them a lot of food

[note the story is kinda in second person but it’s not meant to be a self insert it’s just me rambling]

—- FICLET BEGIN—-

Imagine you’re this person down on their luck and maybe providing for your family or friends and risked stealing from a giant. Surely a giant wouldn’t mind since the amount taken barely makes a dent but you leave a note to say your sorry for not asking permission.

Then one day the slab of wood you made the note out of falls in front of you, imbedding itself like a foot into the ground. Oh and it’s on fire.

You hear screaming. An evil, angry, flaming giant is approaching the village! The giant you STOLE FROM is going to attack the village, the village you grew up in, it’s not a big one, it’s not rich, most folks are just barely getting by just like you… but now… it’s going to be destroyed. and it’s all your fault

It’s steps Thunder down the streets. People are running. A few brave souls try to attack it, it’s a half giant so it’s not as large… but it has magic. Powerful magic.

It stops in front of your house. You are too frozen in fear to run but you yell at everyone else to flee!

The giant squats down to glare at you “you are the one who left this?” He growls. “Smells like you”

And you can’t lie! Lying would make it worse for sure so you nod and squeak out a yes.

The giant laughs and pick you up “well, don’t you think it is fair trade for me to do the same?”

You explain there ain’t enough food for a half giant in this town!

“Oh, there are some horses, or the cows”

But the little livestock your town has can’t just be given away.

“I suppose not… guess there’s only one choice then” the giant says and brings you to its mouth.

Someone screams in the distance as they watch you get swallowed alive.

And then… you wake up. In the middle of the village.

A village with people in it. No one else was eaten with you. And they’ve got… cooking pits set up? There’s huge bags of grain and dried fruit next to a few buildings.

someone runs up to you and hugs you. It’s not hysterical enough for them to have thought you dead. The people around are nervous but not scared of the giant. A few are Thanking the giant for not lying.

The giant is preparing a fairly large pot of stew and notices that you woke up. It has a few arrows still in its face it hasn’t bothered to remove.

You ask the giant why. The giant says it sounded like you could use some help, that note you left was pretty pathetic.

You ask why he acted like he did! He ATE YOU! He scared the town half to death! He even broke a building and burned a few things! He just chuckles “yes, I do like to have my fun.”

In the next few days more aid appears from the king which includes repairs to the town.

Yonah gets fucking chewed out by Ben for the damages which cost a lot more than him just delivering food to the needy.

[paigegonerogue]

Ficlet where Ellie gets a fever/mild cold while still on the road to Lincoln or Pittsburgh? There's just so much time skipped in that whole period before jackson where endless bonding moments and potential for learning to trust can exist

Sorry this took a hot second! Thank you so much for the request!

Anyone can send me asks for specific TLOU story ideas and I’ll write a bit for them! So anyone reading this—feel free to send me requests!

(1.1k words. Mentioned character death.)

(Also I know you said before Pittsburg but I did right after because it worked a bit better for this story)

They were nearly a week out from Kansas City when Ellie’s cough started to worry Joel. It had started small, just a sound he’d attributed to the dusty tunnels they’d all gone through with Henry and Sam. But it had gotten worse. Small, sharp exhales to guttural roars that racked her tiny frame. 

She’d been quiet since KC, something Joel had been trying and failing to convince himself was because of how raw her throat most likely was.

Eventually they found a small town, a place called ‘Lecompton’, as far as he could tell from the worn, tattered signs scattered around the eerily empty neighborhoods.

It had been one of the places FEDRA tried to clear out before they gave up and started barricading civilians in the QZs, or at least he thought, judging from the tank tracks etched into the concrete, bullet holes in the shabby, cracked plaster of houses, and homes burnt until they were just charred frames.

They barricaded themselves in an old bar, Joel sealing all the windows in an attempt to muffle their sounds to the outside. Ellie’s coughs were loud enough that he felt like everyone in the world could hear, and even if the town seemed relatively safe there was probably a stray infected or two somewhere nearby.

”Hey, Ellie, I’m goin’ out for a second.” He took her shoulder after her latest round of hacking screeches. She looked up at him with a pathetic choke, her eyebrows drawn together. “Try to be quiet.”

She looked up at him, widening her eyes and making an explosion gesture above her head. ‘Woah, really?! I hadn’t thought of that’. 

Joel sighed, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Somehow she could still manage to snark him with her voice blown out.

“Yeah yeah, I get it.” He told her. “I’ll be right back.”

He took a seat outside the abandoned bar, letting his head fall back as he stared up at the cloudy sky above him. The cough was making him nervous. A frantic kind of nervousness that could only be cured by getting it to stop. Getting Ellie okay.

He couldn’t trade for medicine. Even if he found another party, people offering something as valuable as medicine almost always had an ulterior motive.

He made a mental note to tell that to Ellie later.

Really all he could do at this point was hope that the cough wasn’t an infection or strep throat. But he was never good at waiting or hoping, and as he stood and prepared to try and find anything useful he could in the small houses surrounding them, he spotted a small pine tree off in the underbrush where the town trailed off twenty feet away.

“Brought you some tea.” He said gruffly, sitting down next to where Ellie was curled in her sleeping bag on the floor. “Need some fuckin’ peace and quiet.” He handed her the tea he’d brewed, still hot in his thermos from the fire he’d snuffed out outside.

Ellie looked down at it, a crease between her eyebrows as she looked back up at him.

“It’s Eastern Red Cedar tea. You make it using the pine and boiling it. Helps with coughs.”

Ellie looked back down at the tea, slowly lifting the cup to her lips and tilting her head back to drink. She made a face, nearly dropping it. 

Joel’s first instinct was to snap at her, but she hadn’t really done anything wrong.

“Yeah, I know it doesn’t taste great,” he told her instead. “But it’ll help.”

Ellie scrunched her lips to the side, nodding once before she reached over towards her backpack, unzipping it and shuffling through the contents.

She pulled out a sketchpad they’d found a few days ago in an abandoned gas station and a blue pen which she shook a few times.

‘U botenist now?’ She wrote in the smallest possible font, trying to save as much room as possible for her surprisingly good drawings.

“First off it’s spelled with an ‘A’, not an ‘E’. Second off… just drink the fuckin’ tea.”

Ellie rolled her eyes, scratching down a quick ‘fine’ before pausing and staring at the letters.

He knew they were both thinking of exactly the same person.

Suddenly the silence didn’t seem so refreshing anymore.

“A couple years after the outbreak this young woman joined our little group of raiders—me and Tommy’s.” He started before he could think better of it. But by the way Ellie lit up he knew it was the right choice. “Drink your damn tea while I’m tellin’ you all this.” He told her, gesturing at his thermos. “So her name was Poppy, which was pretty funny ‘cause she loved plants. Loved ‘em.” He scratched his cheek, considering his words. “She was the caretaker of this garden at her college before the outbreak. Brought the whole thing back from just a couple dead weeds. She was real proud of it.” 

Ellie finally took another sip of her tea.

“Once we’re all headin’ through Kansas and she points out this pine tree. She says ‘that’s an Eastern Red Cedar, it’s good for coughs and bronchitis and joint pain and digestion’. And I really didn’t give a shit, but I go ‘damn, why ain’t we usin’ this all the time?’ And Poppy goes—” he smiled a bit, thinking back to it. “—‘’cause it tastes like if a pinecone could shit’.”

Ellie let out a small laugh, wincing and reaching her hand to her throat. 

“So there’s your story. Now drink.” Ellie grudgingly took another sip, reaching towards her notebook and scribbling something down.

‘What happened to her?’ 

Joel forced himself not to wince.

“We went our separate ways.” He lied. “The group disbanded eventually and we just said our goodbyes.” He could still hear her screams, trapped, rattling around inside his skull, clawing for his eardrums.

He blinked, her decimated corpse flashing behind his eyes.

Ellie looked down, taking another sip.

‘Really?’ She wrote. Joel nodded.

“Yeah. Saw an old ally of mine and they said she’d settled in the Phoenix QZ.” He knew he shouldn’t lie. Shouldn’t come up with tall tales trying to spare Ellie’s already gone innocence, but he didn’t want to see that look in her eyes anymore. The one she got when he knew she was thinking about just another person who died.

“Y’know, I had another ally. His name was Hank, but we all called him ‘Barrel’ because he could handle a rifle best I’ve ever seen.” 

Ellie perked up, looking surprised he kept talking. 

“So one day me and Barrel, we’re out scavenging for food—drink your tea—and we get ambushed. There’s ten raiders on us and we’re dashing like hell to—”

THE END

Remember, send me requests for more! This was super fun to do!

[bitbybitwrites]

7. We're going to Fire Island. It's like gay Disney World. (Fire Island, 2022)

Glee (but open to RWRB if you’re more inspired that way!)

My apologies for the delay! Took me a bit to finish this one - because it kind of exploded into something longer than a ficlet!

Thanks again to @tailsbeth-writes for all the Ficlet Friday posts!

It can also be read on A03 here.

Enjoy!

****

Fire Island Follies

“I don’t know if this is a good idea, San.”

Santana looked over at her friend and smirked.  “Lookin’ a little green about the gills, Hobbit.  You ok?”

Blaine took a deep breath and closed his eyes as he clutched his duffle bag close to his chest.  The ferry was going through choppy water, and his stomach wasn't faring well at all.  No one could blame him; Blaine was from central Ohio and hadn't had much experience being on the open ocean.

He opened his mouth to respond, but unfortunately, at that moment, the boat hit a particularly large wave.   The sea vessel bounced so much that Blaine snapped his mouth shut quickly, clapping one hand over it.  Santana swore he looked even paler than he had a minute ago.

“Don’t you dare hurl on me, Anderson.  I will kill you if you ruin these shoes.”

A young couple and their kid moved away from where Blaine and Santana were sitting, looking at the seasick young man warily.  Blaine gave them a weak smile and wave as he peered down at Santana's open-toe espadrilles.

“Fancy footwear for the beach, don’t you think?”

Santana snorted as she wiggled her Burberry-clad foot at Blaine.  "I gots to look good for my sweetie.” She leaned over and poked him in the side.  He squawked and batted her hand away with a pout.  “Can you just give me a smile for once and not look like I’m dragging you to your death.” Santana pleaded.

The boat hit another wave and bounced up and down again.  “I feel like death,” Blaine said through gritted teeth. "Just kill me now."

“Oh, perk up, sunshine.  We're going to Fire Island.  It's like gay Disney World."

****

Blaine was grateful once the ferry finally docked, a vomit-free voyage, thankfully.   He gingerly followed Santana out onto the dock, breathing deeply through his nose as he willed for the ground to stop swaying.  They both wove in and out of the throng of visitors to the island, searching for. . .

“Tana!” an excited voice squealed.

Blaine stepped aside just in time as a blur of blond hair and bright color whizzed by him, only to launch themselves into Santana's arms.  Santana laughed as she caught a young woman in her embrace, swinging her about and then carefully placing her on the ground, kissing her gently.

“Hi, cariño," Santana said softly.  "Miss me?"

The other woman giggled and nodded.  "So much."  She turned and regarded Blaine with a questioning look.  "I'm sorry, and you are?"

“Um, Blaine.  Blaine Anderson.  I, um . . . I’m Santana’s friend.”

The blond grinned and leaned over to deposit a peek on Blaine's cheek.  She placed a small, brightly rainbow-colored string of beads around his neck.  "Oh yeah, Tana said you might come.  I'm glad you did!  Happy Pride!"

*****

Blaine sighed as he sat on the deck, looking out towards the sunrise.  It was gorgeous view, and Blaine would have thanked anyone who would listen for this brief respite of peace and quiet.  There was a whirlwind of activity once Brittany led them back to the house where they would all be staying for the week.  He had wandered outside earlier for with a book ( and thankfully his noise-canceling headphones) while Santana and Brittany celebrated their reunion very thoroughly and . . . loudly.

"You know, it's hard making out over Skype.  You really can't scissor a webcam." Brittany had confided to Blaine in a stage whisper earlier.  "I'm so glad to see her again since I'm working out here all summer."

Blaine had just smiled and nodded.  He was slowly getting used to Brittany’s. . . rather quirky personality.  She was one of the main reasons Santana dragged him onto this trip.  Brittany’s latest job was as a waitress and sometimes backup singer and dancer for the Fire Island Follies.

****

“You are coming with me, short stuff.  I will not accept no for an answer.” Santana had threatened a week before.  “My lady is out there. I miss her, and I think you would have a really good time.  Come on.  You're hot.  I'm hot.  The island will be overflowing with other gorgeous gays you could hook up with.  Live a little.  You might dress like a grandpa sometimes, but it doesn't mean you have to live like one."

****

The door to the rental home slammed shut as Brittany skipped outside, adorned in a rainbow tulle skirt and bikini top.  An intricate collar of rainbow beads lay aginst her neck while her body shone with glitter even in the setting sunlight.  A tiara of multicolored rhinestones peeked out from the top of her head as well.  "Are you ready?" she asked excitedly.  "Tana will lock up and meet us there.  She told me to bring you on ahead early.   We could use your help to set up if you're for it."

Blaine looked down at himself.  “Are you sure this is ok?”  He nervously looked at the sparkly black mesh tank top and teeny green shorts that Santana had thrown at him when he stepped out of the shower.

Brittany’s blond head cocked to the side, and she considered for a moment.  "As long as you're comfortable.  I think you're fine." She said with a grin.  "At least it's not the underwear party.  That's only for the guys, and I have a feeling you wouldn't be ok just running around in a jockstrap or speedo all night."

She dug into a pouch at her waist and fished out a small tube of rainbow body glitter.  Squeezing some on her fingertips, she rubbed it on Blaine’s cheekbones, smiling at the finished look.

“Perfect.”

*****

Cheerios was definitely not what Blaine had expected, either. 

First, the nightclub/cabaret space was run by a former drill sergeant wearing a black tracksuit (with appropriately rainbow stripes up and down the arms) named Miss Sue.  Secondly, it was probably the most rainbow-themed place he'd ever been to.  Colored arches adorned the walls, the floors, the cushions on the bar stools and seats, and even the cocktail napkins.  The staff wore tight, tiny rainbow-themed uniforms, some looking like cheerleaders or football players.  (Well, that could explain the name of the place)  As far as he could see, there were lots of skin, crop tops, booty shorts, and so much body glitter.

And the doors hadn’t opened yet for the public.

The aforementioned drill sergeant was holding court by the DJ station at the back of the club when Brittany and Blaine entered.  She brandished a clipboard and barked out loud via a megaphone she brandished in her other hand: "Porcelain, you're up next!  White Chocolate, you shake your booty after.  Then Starchild, we'll run through yours again if you want."

A chorus of “Yes, Miss Sue.” from across the bar soon followed.

Brittany squealed as she dragged Blaine over to the bar.  “Oooh, we get to see a couple of the new numbers before we open the doors." She shoved Blaine onto a cushy, multi-colored stool before she took off backstage.  "Stay here.  Gotta go see if anyone needs help backstage.”

Before Blaine could protest, she was gone.

Fiddling with the hem of his tank top, Blaine looked around nervously. He couldn't help but feel like he was intruding.

“Porcelain, Starchild, White Chocolate . . who are they?” he wondered aloud.

"Well, me, for one."

Blaine swiveled around on his bar stool to find a ridiculously good-looking guy in the tiniest gold booty shorts that he had ever seen staring back at him.

“I . . .I'm sorry . . . wh. . .what?" 

The bartender tossed a rainbow-colored bar towel over his shoulder and plunked down a glass of water in front of Blaine.  “White Chocolate.  That’s me, I’m saying.”

“That’s . . a, uh. .  . .a nice name . .”

The blond grinned, the body glitter shining very noticeably off his abs. 

Blaine seriously tried not to stare.

He did.

"Stage name," the bartender confided to Blaine.  "Used to have a partner called Dark Chocolate I worked with, but he went off and got him a boyfriend who didn't like him writhing on stage with little ole me.  Jake came up with the names.  He said we were both smooth and sweet, and it kind of worked cause he was, well, you know, African American and I'm . . ." he gestured again toward his glitter-encrusted abs.

Blaine swallowed and really didn’t stare.

Really.

He really, really didn’t.

“That’s . . . interesting . . .”

The glittering golden god laughed as he leaned over the bar. "I'm Sam," he said, extending a handout. I saw you came in with Brit. Are you a friend of hers?"

Blaine nodded, grabbed the water, and took a large gulp.  "Well, more like friends with her girlfriend, Santana."

Sam grinned.  "Aww, that's great.  I haven't seen Santana in a while.  She coming later?”

As Blaine nodded, the lights in the room suddenly dimmed, and a low, sultry bass line began to be piped in through the speakers of the club.  All of the workers stopped what they were doing to focus their attention on the main stage.  A spotlight held tight on a solitary figure who faced away from the audience.  The person held their hand up, and as they snapped their fingers along with the music, the spotlight pulled back slightly, revealing a luxurious black velvet robe. 

Blaine’s jaw dropped as the person began to sing: sultry and beckoning, their hands skimming their hips, which swayed hypnotically along with the music.

*****

Never know how much I love you

Never know how much I care

When you put your arms around me

I get a fever that's so hard to bear

You give me fever. . .

The performer turned his head, revealing a strikingly handsome face and piercing blue eyes.  The man smirked as he noticed Blaine, watching awestruck.  The singer rolled his shoulder, allowing the velvet robe to bare one beautiful shoulder as he winked saucily at Blaine.

Sam leaned over the bar, whispering smugly.  "And that, my good sir, is Porcelain, one of our other headliners."

“He’s beautiful, “ Blaine murmured softly as he continued to watch the other man own the stage, dropping the robe on a particular beat of the song to reveal some tiny black leather shorts and a delicate body harness of crisscrossing silver chains attached to a heaver silver chain collar.  With every shoulder roll and hip gyration, Blaine could see those chains softly caress the man’s toned abdomen.  The leather shorts made it very apparent that Porcelain was not lacking at all in . . . endowments.

Blaine had never been so jealous of an outfit before in his life.  He was absolutely entranced by this siren before him.

The devastatingly gorgeous dancer continued to sing:

*****

Captain Smith and Pocahontas

Had a very mad affair

When her daddy tried to kill him

She said, "Daddy, oh, don't you dare."

He gives me fever

With his kisses, fever when he holds me tight

Fever!  I'm his missus, daddy, won't you treat him right?

"Would you like to meet him?" Sam asked quietly.  "I'm sure Brit or I can introduce you if you want."

Blaine was now at a loss for words, just nodding mutely while his heart raced.  Porcelain had danced his way to a stripper pole to one side of the stage, spinning around it a few times before leaning backward and arching his back as he eased off his leather shorts, not missing a beat while he did so.

And Porcelain was looking and singing directly to Blaine as those shorts fell away.

*****

Now you've listened to my story

Here's the point that I have made

Boys were born to give you fever

Be it Fahrenheit or Centigrade

That’s it. 

Blaine was now officially dead.

Porcelain had a rhinestone-encrusted thong underneath those tiny shorts. As Blaine watched, the dancer kept singing while trailing his own fingers over his body, grazing his nipples, floating over his arms, down the arch of his neck.

*****

They give you fever

When you kiss them, fever if you live and learn

Fever!  'Til you sizzle

What a lovely way to burn . . .

Without warning, the audio track Porcelain was performing began to moan and speed up, rewinding and fast-forwarding erratically, breaking the hypnotic spell of the performance. Porcelain stopped all movements and stared out towards the DJ booth in confusion as the lights abruptly came up in the club.

“What the fuck?” Miss Sue bellowed.  “Someone get Zizes on the phone.  I don't care where she is or what she's doing.  Of all the goddamn times she decided to go on vacation, of course, it had to be today.  We need this shit fixed now.  We open in a few hours.”

Porcelain sighed as he retrieved his discarded clothing, slipping the velvet robe on and quickly disappearing backstage. 

Miss Sue stalked towards the bar, slamming her clipboard and megaphone on its surface.  She gripped the edge of the rainbow-patterned counter tightly,  so much so that Blaine could see her knuckles whiten even from his position a few stools farther down.

Without a beat, Sam quickly reached into a fridge under the bar and pulled out a large, ominous-looking black Stanley mug, passing it over to the club owner without a word.  Miss Sue took a giant slug of what was inside, a ferocious scowl darkening her features.

Many of the employees skittered away quickly to avoid her impending blow-up.

“Miss Sue,” Sam tentatively said as he cleared his throat.  “I, uh, I hate to be the bearer of more bad news . . .”

"What. Is. It. Now. . . " the cabaret owner growled.

"Sebastian won't be able to make it in tonight or for the rest of the week, actually," Sam quickly informed her.

“Where the hell is Sporty Spice gone to this time?  I need him and his goddamn lacrosse stick to work during the intermission.”

"Seb's found another Sugar Daddy, and he's taking full advantage," another voice chimed in.

Blaine spun around in his stool, only to find himself face to face with Porcelain.  Now out of his stage costume, the man was wearing sinfully low-rise, skin-tight jeans as well as a soft, light blue hoodie that was unzipped to reveal he was shirtless underneath.  Porcelain was sporting a set of toned abdominal muscles that Blaine wanted to reach out and touch.

"Last I heard, he was bragging last night that his new man was taking him to some mansion in the Hamptons for a week of fucking and all manner of excessive indulgence.  Clothing free."  Porcelain rolled his eyes as he accepted a glass of ice water from Sam.  "I'm not surprised he bailed on us today."

Sam frowned.  “But how the hell are we going to put on the follies tonight if we’re having technical difficulties?” he asked.  “I can do body rolls all night if you need me to, but it’s going to be odd with no music playing in the background.”

“Do we cancel?” Kurt asked Sue.

“We have never canceled a performance of the Fire Island Follies," Miss Sue shouted.  “It is not going to happen.  Not on my watch.”

Blaine swallowed.  He couldn’t believe he was going to do this.

“I . . . I could help.”

Miss Sue turned her sharp gaze at Blaine.  “Who the hell are you?” she barked.  "How the hell did you get in here anyway?"

"Blaine.  Blaine Anderson."  Blaine held out his hand to Miss Sue, who stared at it like the abhorrent item she felt it was.  He dropped it quickly and tried to smile reassuringly.

He wasn’t sure if it was working.

“He’s a friend of Brittany’s . .  .and Santana's." Sam piped up.

Sue sniffed, still not entirely impressed.

"And how can you help?" Porcelain asked as he trained a critical eye on Blaine, obviously just as skeptical of the newcomer as Miss Sue was.

“Can you play music?  Sing?” Miss Sue demanded.

“Y . .yes," Blaine stuttered.  "I can do both, actually, piano and guitar. It's what I do in Manhattan, actually.  It's my . . .my day job. Mostly gigs at The Duplex and Don't Tell Mama's."

“How long are you on the island for?” Sue continued her interrogation.

“Just the week,” Blaine reassured the club owner.

Sue stared at Blaine for a while; he couldn't say how long.  But the uncomfortable silence that stretched out while he found himself looked up and down seemed to go on forever.

“Up.” she barked at him finally.

Blaine slid off his stool while throwing both Sam and Porcelain confused glances.

“Turn.” she then ordered.

He did and then waited through another long silent patch from Sue as she made her deliberation:

“Hot Pocket,” Miss Sue ordered as she pinned him in place with a stare that quite honestly gave Blaine the chills.  “You’ll do.  You are to get your ass on stage and see what you can do with what instruments we have on hand.  Porcelain, work on your number first.  I want you to Fabulous Baker Boys the shit out of the song, you understand?”

"Yes, Miss Sue," the dancer nodded. He turned to Blaine, motioned towards the stage, and swiftly turned on his heel to walk towards it.

Blaine scrambled quickly after him.

“I’m Kurt, by the way," Porcelain informed Blaine softly as they walked out of earshot of the owner.  “You better be damn good, Blaine.  Or Sue will make you regret ever stepping foot in this club.”

“I am,” Blaine said, his heart racing.  “I am good.”

Kurt stopped in his tracks, turning quickly to face Blaine, who stopped moving as well.  A few quick steps and Kurt was mere inches away, his blue eyes darkening and staring at Blaine’s lips intensely.

“I like that.  Boys who are good for me.  Will you be good for me, Blaine?”

Blaine nodded, his breath caught in his chest.  It was dizzying being this close to Kurt now.  Blaine stared at the performer’s lips as well as they leaned in closer.

“I’ll see you backstage,” Kurt whispered with a smirk.  He turned quickly and sauntered up the steps of the main stage and through the curtain.

Blaine did not stare at Kurt’s ass as he left.

Oh, who the hell was Blaine kidding. 

He most certainly did.

****

NOTES:

I have a feeling that the actual Fire Island Follies is a men's only show . . but here in this fic, I wanted to include something for the ladies too - so Brittany's a performer as well.

Oh, and here in this fic, I kind of picture Sebastian doing a little lacrosse themed striptease act during their intermission of the show. Hence the "Sporty Spice" nickname. 😂

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Letters From the Sky

[A/N: Bruv I so rarely write angst because I am a weakling and it makes me Big Sad, but this has been floating around in my drafts and I just binge watched a bunch of NCIS episodes that made me cry so 🤲🏽 a ficlet for u, here u go. It's not really the saddest ending so there's that, at least? I hope? I sorry] Pairing: Jethro Gibbs x wife!reader TW: references to funerals/loss, implied character death

__________

Settling down on the couch in your living room, you tuck your knees underneath one of your husband’s old USMC hoodies and create a makeshift table out of your lap. Writing a letter can help you deal with your emotions, help you move on with life, your mother had advised, and so here you were, pen in hand, staring at the blank piece of paper before you. Hi, I love you and I miss you didn’t quite cut it. And were you supposed to keep adding to the letter daily, filling him in on your life? Was time passing differently for him? How long would it be until you heard his voice again? Could you ask your friend for her thoughts, or would your questions bring up too many bad memories? Head growing fuzzy and eyes growing watery from your endless stream of questions with no answers in sight, you opted to just start writing. Foregoing a greeting, figuring your husband would know exactly who this was from, you let out a deep breath and put pen to paper. 

Funerals are such a funny thing, aren’t they, Jethro? The many faces from your past and present gathered around to celebrate life, lament loss, and say things aloud that they should’ve said to the person who needed to hear it most.

I miss you more than I could ever put into words. It was so strange being there today without you. How many of those solemn events did we attend together throughout the years? Family, friends, colleagues… Too many to count, and most of them senseless losses.

I don’t know how to keep going without you by my side, but it’s been such a blessing to be surrounded by your loved ones. We’ve been trading so many wonderful memories, stories about your fearless feats, your never-ending pursuit of justice, your stubborn nature, your devotion to those lucky enough to know you. I even met one of your former lovers after the funeral, and honey, let me tell you, we got to gossiping. Turns out you’re a regular Casanova, huh? It’s those steel blue eyes that keep you coming back for more, I swear.

I like to think that, even though we’re physically apart now, you can still hear me. After all, you always did say that about my optimism- “from your mouth to God’s ears, sweetheart”. Do you think, if I yelled loud enough, I could get a message delivered to you?

This big house feels even bigger without you. I guess I can think about it like those cases that would last for days, where I wouldn’t even get a glimpse of you until your perp was behind bars, but we both know it’s not quite the same. At least I can raid your closet without hearing you grumble about your favorite hoodies going missing- silver linings, my darling Jethro. I’m not sure how long they’ll keep smelling like you, but I’m determined not to wash them, just in case… My secret’s safe with you, right?

Speaking of secrets (more like hidden gems), I found a stash of Kelly’s artwork upstairs and I’ve started adding her drawings to the gallery of photos on the walls. I know I made some changes after we got married, but the sheer lack of decor when I moved in still astounds me. You’re such a man, she said lovingly.

Anyway, I think you’ll be pleased to know that

The sound of the front door opening alerts you to your friend’s return, and you hurry to jot down your last few thoughts.

Anyway, I think you’ll be pleased to know that your girls are all together in this big house of yours :) Hopefully, we’ll see you soon.

P.S. Not too soon. I know I call you my old man, but you’re not that old- yet.

Gibbs puts his truck in park on the driveway, returning home after another day added to the list of longest days of his life. He sits in the cab for a few prolonged minutes, trying to muster up the courage to enter your big house that feels even bigger now.

When he finally trudges up the walkway, he pauses with his hand on the doorknob and releases a heavy sigh before pushing the door open. And then, for just a split second, he swears he hears you calling his daughter’s name and her answering giggle overlapping with her mother’s voice.

The moment is fleeting, and no matter how hard he strains, he can’t conjure up the sound again. But the house feels warmer, lighter somehow.

And he smiles.

—————

LJG tags 🖤 @ilovemark1951 @doctorwhofan24

[corvidspectre]

"i can't sleep - can i stay here?"

It’s probably not good form to answer your door when you hear knocking in the middle of the night, especially not when you’re apparently now living in a death game. But it’s with absentmindedness, not caution, that Shuichi goes to open the door with.

No one has died yet. Maybe no one will.

(If they do, then. Well. Shuichi won’t survive this game anyway more than likely. As a detective, he’ll be a target.)

The door swings open to reveal Kaede, in pastel pink pinstriped pyjamas with piano keys wrapped around the sleeves. Whatever she usually does to tame her hair down has clearly abandoned her, because it looks a little like a bird nest. The little voice of logic that lives in Shuichi’s brain says it looks like shes been tossing and turning - and the bags under her eyes corroborate this.

There’s a beat of awkward silence before they both start babbling.

“Kaede! What are you- I mean, can I help you- Are you ok, or-”

“H- Hi! This is probably like, wildly inappropriate and you can tell me to leave, but-“

Shuichi accidentally catches her eye and immediately looks away, ignoring the rolling wave of shivers that rack him. She cuts herself off, before she starts chuckling, mostly for lack of anything else to do. He smiles at her, managing to avoid eye contact this time, and the silence that follows isn’t so awkward now.

Have they really only known eachother two days?

“Sorry, I’m- I don’t know what I’m doing here, I just…” She begins again. Her voice is quiet, with none of the usual loud enthusiasm that follows her. It’s almost off putting to see her so unsure. “I hate it here.”

She says it like it’s a secret. Like they’re not all trapped, and afraid, and might never be going him again. Maybe for her, who has been leading the charge to get out, that she is as scared as the rest of them perhaps is a dark secret. There’ll be no stopping the… death game, if they lose hope. If she loses hope.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Shuichi says. If he’s secure in anything, it’s that he’ll follow her through this, even if none of the rest do. Their trust is a new, coltish thing, but it’s warm and fuzzy in his chest.

“I can’t sleep.” Kaede drags her hands down her face in a way that would be dramatic if she weren’t so clearly exhausted. “If it’s not too weird- you can say no, but I don’t really want to be alone and I was just wondering if I could, maybe… stay here, for the night?”

Before he can even react to the question, he’s opening the door wider, subconsciously making space for her at his side. She smiles shyly and walks through the door to his room, still hesitant but clearly pleased.

“I used to sleep with my uncle when I had bad nightmares, even when I was way too old.” Shuichi admits, flushing with the embarassing secret, but Kaede doesn’t laugh. She just softens when he adds, “I don’t want to be alone either.”

When they wake up in the morning, he has her hair in his mouth and she has somehow managed to not only steal his half of the covers, but kick her half off the bed entirely. She ends up having to run to her room to not get caught leaving his, but when they meet again at breakfast in the cafeteria, they’re the only ones at the tables who look well rested.

Prompt ficlets: send me one, link here!

[starqueensthings]

Colder Weather: Part One

Summary: a two-chapter (nice try, Holly! It’s three) ficlet that follows Post-Stassis/Pirate Kix as he navigates the see-saw of an unexpected love that he doesn't think he deserves, and the trauma of his past.

Pairing: Kix x Fem!Reader

POV/WC/Rating: 2nd, 4570, Teen + up

Warnings: extensive references of survivors guilt, grief, and mentions of previous character death. Seggsy time is implied but not described. This is emotional (it needs to be, so I'm not sorry)

A/N: the context of this ficlet won’t make much sense unless you’re decently familiar with the legends version of Kix’s life post-war (it might even be canon now? Not sure…). If you haven't listened to the song that inspired this little ficlet, I highly recommend you give it a listen; it's truly a lyrical masterpiece.

Chapter One | Chapter 1.5 | Chapter Two | ao3

“I want to see you again, but I’m stuck in colder weather. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Can I call you then? [...] Well, it’s a winding road when you’re in the lost-and-found. You’re a lover, I’m a runner, and we go round and round. I love you, but I leave you. I don’t want to, but I need you.” Colder Weather by Zac Brown Band

You’d long since memorized his movements; long since perfected this dance, having performed the passionate choreography of this duet with him countless times.

It always began with the sound of his speeder bike nearing your quiet cottage; the roaring of the engine muffled only partially by the towering hedges surrounding your acre of secluded paradise. That rumble so artificial amongst the constant tittering of nature that it took a mere fraction of a second to recognize it, and even less time to send a fervor coursing through your veins so rigorously that your hands simply abandoned whatever task that had been keeping them occupied.

Triggered by the sound of his approach, your feet took you earnestly through the front door and out into the gravel drive. A small smile, often concealed by the expanse of a thick, dark beard, tugged his handsome features upwards as he swung a leg over the seat of his bike, helmet clutched absently in one hand and arms stretched wide in a motion so welcoming, even the sheer power of the Force couldn’t have kept you from leaping into them.

He never failed to match your enthusiasm, scooping you clean off your slippered feet and into the familiar tight embrace that you’d spent weeks longing to be secured in. Hushed coos of “Mesh’la” amongst other breathy salutations were words that never needed voicing; the way his eyes danced reverently across your features spoke more volumes than any muttered term of endearment, any hushed apology for his absence. Watching the crease between his brows soften at the soft brush of your thumb against his cheek was a feeling that could have sustained life for all eternity; every caress of your fingers atop his skin powered by an ineffable desire to remind yourself of him, to remind him of you.  

But there was nothing that consumed you as entirely as the dance itself… nothing that quite melted your mind like the way he laid you down on the soft cotton of that old patchwork quilt; the way that he stripped himself of his rigid encasement; the way his eyes locked on yours, twinkling with an unspoken promise that he was about to make up for his repeated extended absences… all the transmissions that he’d failed to respond to… the commitment that he continuously denied you.  

And while even the ghost of his touch still set your very nerves alight, time had seen the unpredictability of his visits robbed of their spontaneity; lust replaced with a devastating love; passion diminished by the anticipation of his impending departure. The dance had become less of a dance, and more of a contemptuous game: how many seconds would lapse in the forlorn quiet between when the heat of his skin departed yours, and the door swung closed behind him? How many shaky breaths would leave your lungs in the too-short span of time that it took for the shadow of the unseen monster, forever-perched atop his shoulders, to rob his eyes of the twinkle only freshly illuminated by the return of your embrace?

The answer: always too few.

He would only ever grant himself a dozen-or-so deep breaths to dwell in the lingering serenity once the cresting waves of pleasure had subsided, the heaving of his chest eventually stilling to match the motionlessness of the incipient dawn.

Unable to withstand the suffocating languor, a poignant sigh would trigger the initiation of his exodus, body following the command from his anguished mind to climb from the bed and methodically redress himself in that disguising, blue plastoid kit. A tender, whiskery kiss was always your parting gift. Lips void of the passion that had seen them so ravenously devour yours only minutes prior, now gently atop your forehead in a wordless goodbye-for-now; the roar of the engine echoing amongst the whispering pines the perfect soundtrack to the disappointment that pulled shameful tears from your eyes.    

Yet… sometimes… on nights like tonight, an inexplicable force inside of him would demand that he dawdle, and if the urge to flee stalled on its way from brain to body for long enough, he’d roll toward you, fold his arm underneath his head, and trail a gentle fingertip along all his favourite parts of your body: the fleshy space between neck and shoulder where he often sought the comforting fragrance of your skin; the shallow dimples on your lower back, perched just above the rolling swells of muscle that he could barely keep his hands off of; the gaps between your fingers that so-perfectly housed his, as if they were ten adjacent pieces of a puzzle crafted by divine artistry.

Time had yet to reveal any explanation for the mystifying tenderness of his touch… it didn’t seem possible that such rough hands could trail so gently against your skin, yet his calloused fingers could have been draped in velvet for how softly they graced your most sensitive areas. And his pillow talk? It was poetry. His honeyed voice would utter whispered stories of glorious mountain ranges on far away planets while the delicate strokes of his fingertips ghosted atop the swells of your hips. He’d speak of the freckles smattered across your cheeks, and how they almost perfectly mirrored the night sky in Wild Space where the stars were so many, that astronomy had become an obsolete science, the citizens opting to merely look upon them for their unrivalled celestial magnificence. And when he would speak of the vibrant array of wild flowers that adorned the meadows of Felucia, he’d scoop your hand into his and kiss each individual knuckle, as if the immense power to blossom such beauty dwelled inside the fingers interlaced with his.  

But they were rare, those quiet moments, their emergence so ephemeral that even the span of a somnolent blink would have seen them escape your awareness and vanish into the past, and they were as devastating as they were infrequent. Laced not with the dread of his imminent departure, those near silent moments of deep connection were saturated in a hope so ensnaring that its warmth momentarily overshadowed the pain of his repeated abandonment, and you became enraptured by the could-be’s… the if-only’s… the maybe’s.   

Maybe… maybe tonight would be the night that the orange glow emerging atop the horizon did not trigger his departure. Perhaps this would be the time that he’d stay and spend the morning with you, his muscular arms locked around your chest as you ceased to fight the blissful drowsiness engulfing your bodies, dozing together in the first rays of the ambient light. Perhaps he’d be so comfortable, there in your arms, that the ever-present impulse to run, forever-clenched like an iron fist around his soul, would be finally suffocated by the sheer power of your love for him.

Those optimistic moments often saw you rambling, thoughts slipping easily from mind to mouth in a desperate attempt to keep him connected to you; resolute in keeping him both physically and mentally present; urgently trying to protect him from the monster on his shoulders long enough for him to realize that everything he could ever want was lying peacefully beside him. Periodically, if your chosen topic was one he found particularly amusing, his eyes would crinkle under the embrace of a smile, and — if the universe deemed you worthy that night — a hoarse chuckle would pour from his lips. Despite your continued pleas to the stars, it was a sound that graced your ears with a tragic infrequence, yet the way its radiance illuminated your soul had you shamelessly begging the universe that it continue to spill from his lips for all eternity.

But despite the prophetic bond that kept him returning to your side, only once had the bliss of your union softened his guard enough to let something… slip. Only once had he mentioned a brother: Jesse, a man spoken of thoughtlessly as Kix snickered through the recollection of a frantic speeder ride across the plains of Saleucami. But the music of his laughter utterly vanished upon voicing the name that he never meant to speak, the silence that filled its wake so polluted in unexpressed grief, that even the hushed sounds of your breath felt inappropriate, and despite having watched the light leave his eyes so often in the past, you’d never seen it replaced with a darkness as deep and as sorrowful as then.

“Tell me about him,” you probed instantly, hopeful that the delicate touch of your hand on his shoulder would be enough to ground him there in the bed with you; hopeful that the soft caress of your fingers would prevent him from conceding to his anguish, tossing the sheet aside and leaving you with nothing but the familiar sight of his retreating back and the bittersweet smell of him lingering on your pillow.

A ringing silence encompassed the room, broken only by the occasional chirp of an uninterested cricket nestled in the tall tufts of grass just outside the window, and the soft brush of dry leaves twirling amongst themselves in the warm gusts of midsummer’s breeze.

Speaking his brother’s name had rendered Kix momentarily muted and seemingly paralyzed, his eyes wide and affixed on an image that cruel memory had imprinted upon the ceiling above him. His breaths quickened, shoulder rising and falling rhythmically against your palm while his nostrils flared against the same onslaught of turmoil also knitting his brows together.

“Kix?” you probed in a soft whisper, fingers raising from the swell of his shoulder to gently stroke his hair. Those waves of black, sparsely peppered with the beginnings of grey, almost entirely concealed the remnants of a tattoo… letters… pieces of a phrase that he’d consistently evaded divulging. The ink, seemingly unblemished by time, looked as if it had only recently been embedded into his olive skin, yet his repeated, vague explanation of ‘I was a dumb kid’, suggested it was a choice made long ago; a decision made deep in a past he refused to speak of.

“Tell me about Jesse, my love…” you implored to his continued silence, watching with bated breath as the muscles in his jaw contracted in near perfect cadence with the bounding pulse in his neck.

“My brother…” Kix muttered, wrenching his eyes away from the ghost hovering over top of him, his solemn gaze dancing around the room in every direction but yours. “He… he died a long time ago. They all did.”

Your fingers faltered in their gentle strokes only for a breath, the impact of his words sending a crippling wave of aghast sadness throughout your body. “Who did?” It left your lips in barely more than a whisper, the unexpressed heartbreak lingering in the air robbing your tone of the intense curiosity that he so often shirked from and dissuaded, but despite the feigned composure precariously wrapped around your words, he offered no response. “Babe?” you pressed, your fingers abandoning their soothing dance along his temple to trail under his chin and weave themselves into the dark bristles of his beard. Hyperaware of the fragility of that moment, you gently cupped his jaw and turned his hagridden face toward you. “Who is ‘they’?”

His eyes finally met yours, darkened by apprehension and a deep sorrow that had yet to be explained. “My family.” 

It was like nothing you’d ever heard before, the tension in his voice. Those two choked words constricted by a heavy lump in his throat, immediately transformed the gruff and callous pirate that you knew into a man so momentarily fragile that even the soft cotton sheets draped atop your bodies felt too abrasive. Even more unexpected was the mist gathering earnestly in his eyes, reflecting the moonlight beaming in the window as if suddenly encased in a dome of sparkling crystal.

Whatever was left of the feeble breath housed in your lungs escaped your parted lips in a devastated huff, your stomach torquing uncomfortably as your thoughts began to whirr frantically around your mind. Resisting the transcendent urge to lock him in an embrace, you merely swallowed the lump forming in your own throat and hastily blinked the wetness from your eyes. Like the quiet moment that he’d gifted you tonight, you were all-too aware that his vulnerability was fleeting; at risk of dismantling completely should you misstep. But this was the knowledge that you’d be aching to know your months… years; this was the monster on his shoulders that tore him from your bed… from your home so devastatingly often. You were desperate to know it all… desperate to know him.

“Your… your family?” Two stammering words were all that you could force from your parted lips as he wrenched his jaw from your grasp and turned his gaze back toward the ceiling, grinding his knuckles aggressively into his eyes.

A heavy sigh was his only response, teeth clicking from how tightly he ground them as he seemingly tried to rub the image of his dead family from his sight. You swallowed heavily again and perched yourself up on an elbow, leaning in to him with every intention of planting a protective kiss to his temple.  

It might have been the shift of your posture that triggered it, or more likely, his patience diminished by your continued probes for information that he wasn’t willing to share, but a sudden banishment of lassitude saw him instantly tossing the sheet from his naked form and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Horrified and disappointed, you hurried to mirror his movements, kicking away the bunched cotton from your knees and pushing yourself to a kneeling position on the mattress directly behind him. Your lids narrowed to near-closed against the sudden ignition of the lamp on the nightstand, but neither the pain nor the spots now floating in your vision were enough to stop you from firmly wrapping your arms around his waist and holding him firmly against your chest. It wasn’t until you pressed your lips softly against his back, did he seem to notice your touch, and even then, his only acknowledgement was to peer, frowning, over his shoulder in your direction.

“Please, love,” you breathed against his skin. “Don’t run. Just talk to me.”

A soft sigh forced his shoulders into a defeated slump, and the tender drape of his hand atop his navel where yours were tightly clasped, lacked much of the warmth and intention that typically swaddled his touch.

“They were… tortured.” His head drooped sadly toward his chest, the previously urgent mission of collecting his clothes from their scattered placement on the floor, momentarily deferred.  

It was the initial shock that he’d even answered you that forced your lips to still against his skin, forgoing the ever-present urge to pepper him with chaste kisses for the sake of listening to the response that he’d previously deemed you unworthy of getting, but it was the horrifying implications of his explanation that forced your eyes open and the pain that drenched his words as they left his scowling lips that sent an all-consuming chill down your spine.

“All of them,” he continued quietly to his lap, absently drumming his fingers against the back of your hand. “Just— just stripped of their will, their identities… and made to carry out the commands of a sick, sick man. They never stood a chance. No one could survive that.”

He permitted himself one last, poignant sigh, the emptying of his lungs pulling his posture away from your still poised kiss, and it wasn’t until his palm departed yours, fracturing the wreath of your arms around his waist, that you returned to some semblance of awareness. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, beating against his back where the diffused glow of the lamp failed to soften the appearance of several misshapen scars along his shoulder; scars that you’d seen countless times previously, and had paid only little attention to.

Robbed of coherent thought by the repulsion surging through your veins, and rendered utterly speechless by the knowledge that you’d so desperately craved, you dropped your gaze to your knees, unmoving eyes watching them thrown intermittently into shadow as Kix moved about beside the bed, redressing himself in a suit of black compression, and the rigid, scuffed armament.

It was the soft scrape of plastoid against wood that broke you from your revolted torpor, his lean frame now completely encompassed in the blue suit that you despised, his helmet retrieved from the nightstand and hanging slackly from a gloved hand at his side. The sight of his impending departure returned you to a jarring cognizance and sent you frantically scrambling from the bed, bare feet ignoring the bite of the cold floor as you dashed toward the chair beside the window and collected the robe that you’d unceremoniously tossed onto it hours previously.

“Wait, Kix!”

You clumsily thrust your fists into the arms of the silk garment, your entire body laced with an exigent need to reach the doorway before he did. He couldn’t leave this time, not now… not now that he was finally opening up, finally sharing something other than trivial grievances about his crew members. He needed to know what you thought… how you felt. You had to tell him that none of it mattered to you… none of it made any difference. Except it did. It made all the difference. You thought you loved him then. That was nothing compared to now. And there was nothing that would stop you from loving him; not a past full of trauma, not tears leaking from his eyes, not the whispers that he denied hearing when the room got too quiet. None of it made a difference to you except that it did, and you would willingly spend the rest of your life banishing the ghosts that haunted his every move if he would just let you.

 “Can’t— can’t you stay this time?” you pleaded from your perch in the doorway, hastily tying a knot in the sash of your robe. “Even just a little longer?”

The snort that left his nose at the sight of your position, arms wide and clutching each side of the door frame in some pitiful semblance of a barricade, was anything but genuine, betrayed by the failure of the smile on his lips to crinkle his eyes. “Come on, Mesh’la,” he cooed, absently shifting the armoured belt around his waist. “You know I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” you argued, refusing to let the softness of his gaze weaken any of your resolve. “You just don’t. There’s a difference and you know that.”

The desperate sadness that encompassed your words surprised both sets of ears; you hadn’t intended for the sentiment to leave your lips drenched in such disappointment, yet his departure tonight felt more like a robbery than it ever had; stealing a fractured piece of you and leaving nothing but a shadow behind to replace it.

That small smile slipped from his features and he froze, upturned helmet held slackly at his side as he hung his head to his chest again. Your heart drummed heavily in your ears, the lump in your throat threatening to all but suffocate you as he stepped slowly forward, the old wood floor beneath you creaking and shifting under the weight of his heavy boots.

“Please don’t start this again, Mesh’la,” he begged in a whisper, tenderly tucking a displaced lock of hair behind your ear as his eyes flickered back and forth between yours. “We’ve been over this. I… I don’t want this for you. You deserve a better life than what I ca—”  

“I want this life,” you choked, chin threatening to quiver under the intense duress of your welling disappointment. “I promise— no, listen!—  I promise, Kix. I love you more than everything that you’ve been through. In spite of it all… because of it all. Just trust me. Stay with me this time. Let me— let me prove it to you. Let me sho—”  

“I know you love me, Mesh’la,” he interrupted, gently cupping your trembling chin and guiding your jaw upwards to look directly into your eyes. “I have never doubted it for a second. In another time… another life, I’d be able to give you back the love you deserve, but… I’m too sad of a man, now. I’m too angry… too volatile… too restless. No matter where I go or what I do, I can’t stomach my past, and I love you enough to not let you suf—”

 “I’ll suffer if I choose to!” you blurted, voice thickening in earnest. “I’ll suffer with you. It’s my choice, and I choose you, so just choose m—”

“Why?” he interjected, releasing your jaw and perching his hand on his hip. “Hmm? Why am I your choice? Why do you waste your time with a pirate like me when there are decent men lining up around the planet for your hand? Men that will shower you with gifts and affection? Men that won’t selfishly come and go as they please, like I do?”

“My time with you isn’t wasted, Kix,” you spluttered, eyelids unable to contain the flood of tears blurring your vision, banishing them to the heat of your flushed cheeks. “You don’t listen. I want every minute to be a minute with you. Every hour, every day. Stop running away from what happened to you; stop running from me. We— we can have a real life together.”

The aversion of his gaze to the floor did not stop you. You were too resolute in your convictions; too certain that if he just listened to you, he would finally understand. “I’ll make you caf every morning,” you continued, pulling your hands from the doorframe to hold his.  “And… we can shower together every day if we want to. You can make the water as hot as you want, and I won’t complain… I promise. We— we can grow berries in the field out back, on the other side of the tree line. You know, in that clearing where the flowers grow? The spot that gets all the afternoon sun? And… and we can brew our own wine. We—”

“Please stop.”

He was pleading with you in more ways than just the despondent words that left his lips; his dark eyes watching in something near agony as the tears abandoned your cheeks for the draped silk of your robe, but you were deaf to the desperation in his voice and blind to the anguish in his eyes as vivid images of what could-be erupted like a tragic film in your mind. 

“We can climb onto the roof and look at the stars on clear nights,” you persisted, releasing his palm and guiding your trembling hands onto the rough and worn plastoid of his shoulder bells. “And when it’s not, we’ll snuggle on the couch and listen to music. We’ll get drunk… and giggle about stupid shit… and make love in every room… an—”

“Please, Mesh’la.” He clamped his eyes closed, cowering beneath your watery gaze and gently tugging your hands from his shoulders, pausing to hold them weakly in his own for a breath before dropping them completely. “You have to sto—”

“No, Kix!” you refused, stomping your cold, bare foot on the floor below you. “You stop! Stop saying you don’t want this life for us, because you do!”

“OF COURSE I DO!”  

Your hands flew back to brace yourself in the doorway, shoulders jerking with fright, choked breaths freezing in your lungs. He’d never shouted like that before… and if he had, it certainly hadn’t been in your presence. Never once had you seen his eyes shrink behind lids so narrowed that the even the bridge of his nose scrunched to assist in their efforts. You’d never seen his thick, expressive brows contract so tightly and shoot toward the messy curls of his hairline in such earnest, and you’d never seen a look quite like that in his eyes… the frenzied look of a man desperate to be understood.

“Of— of course I want all of that,” he continued, his tone softening slightly as the ghost of his outburst rang back at him from the quiet corners. “But it’s not that simple. You don’t understand. I want it, Mesh’la, but I shouldn’t have it. I can’t have it. Why… why do I deserve the promise of a quiet life, when they never even had a chance at one? Why should I be the only one gifted with a happy ending, when they were robbed of theirs? If they can’t have it, then I ca—”

His voice cracked… fractured under the duress of the emotion simmering too near the surface, and it echoed more poignantly around the room than the hoarse shout which preceded it. That quiet moment, as you watched his shoulders sag in complete and utter dejection, with his head slowly shaking against a myriad of thoughts that he refused to speak, you would have withstood nearly anything to ensure the music of his voice never cracked like that again. You would have agreed to stand near-naked in the doorway for all eternity, willing to shoulder any amount of shouting, any verbal reprovement… anything if it promised him true peace from the sorrow that robbed him of his voice… of his life.

The threat of a sob forced your face into your clammy palms, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes until tiny, glimmering phosphenes erupted in your vision. Why couldn’t it all be as beautiful as those silly little dancing lights, brought to life with just a slight pressure from a small hand? Why could people not be free to dance about in darkness, as they are? Why must our darkness diminish our light? Why are those pretty dancing lights, free from the plague of guilt and sorrow, forever permitted to slumber until external pressure brings them to life, an occasion in which they shine so marvelously?  

The thunk of his boots and the creak of the floor signaled his slow approach. “I have to go, Cyare,” he mumbled into the space beside your ear, his free hand dusting soft strokes up and down your forearm.

You exposed your tear-streaked face and stared blankly across the room, unwilling to nod and acknowledge the disappointment. So this wasn’t going to be the time that he stayed.

“You know I love you,” he muttered into your hairline before planting a soft kiss on your temple, but the disillusionment had numbed you almost entirely, and you felt nothing of his lips on your skin, nor the brush of his body slipping past you through the door… you heard none of his footsteps fading down the hallway… nothing of the door closing behind him as he disappeared into the diminishing darkness outside… nor did you hear the roar of his speeder engine reverberating around the corners of your secluded paradise, all too eager and willing to rob you of him again.  

tags: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @dystopicjumpsuit @523rdrebel