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luveline · 1 year

Note

Not sure if I’m doing this right because I’ve never really taken part in one of these but please can I request something for zombie Steve and reader with the below prompt:

𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝'𝐬 𝐨𝐤 —send me a hurt/comfort request for any reader and any character and I'll write a ficlet, 2k or less

Maybe like, some time shortly after they started to become romantically involved or after he first calls her his gf, and Steve has a bad day and is a little short with reader and she’s worrying he’s regretting crossing that line with her but then he reassures her he’s not regretting it.

Sorry if I’m doing this wrong and no worries if you don’t like it, I just seriously love zombie Steve, especially when he’s a lil grumpy grump but always wants to make up for it afterwards 🥰

luveline's 40k party ☆ thank you for your request, you did it perfect don't worry! steve zombie!au —steve gets stressed when food is in short supply, but he cares about you more than you think. fem!reader, 2.5k

cw starving / food insecurity

"I don't think we can make it another day if we don't find something tonight."

Steve's shoulders go rigid at your statement, backpack reflecting glaring light.. It's dark as night, the room illuminated by two twin flashlight beams. New batteries have the lights constant and consistent. It's a shame you can't live off of batteries.

You're hungry in a way you've never been hungry before. Never. You and Steve have been starving for days. You have a pounding headache leaking down into your teeth that's made you quiet and Steve is quieter, pointing his flashlight into the next kitchen cabinet. The only thing inside is dust, motes swimming in a sea of white.

What's worse, you're terrified to hop houses at night, because from afar, deep in the forest surrounding the residential neighbourhood you're in, you've been hearing wolves. Deep howls chasing a filling moon.

You're so hungry you've had to risk it.

Your head is heavy on your neck as you look up into another cabinet. "We're gonna die," you say. You can't help it —maybe it's the genuine and inescapable despair of thinking you'll die, maybe it's his recent bout of loving affection, but lately all you do is complain.

"We're not gonna die," Steve says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"How could you? All these houses have been stripped clean, there's nothing left–"

"I just know, alright?"

He slams the cabinet door shut and stalks to the other side of the kitchen. These houses are huge, rich people places with endless bedrooms and their matching ensuites. He shoves his weight into the door leading to the garage. You don't have a choice, following him in. Steve wants space but he can't have it, splitting up makes you feel sick.

Your hands under his t-shirt, his hands on your back. An admission. I've been calling you my girlfriend in my head for weeks.

Your Steve's girlfriend. He's your boyfriend, and he's gonna get eaten by a zombie in a garage in the middle of nowhere suburbia and you'll be all alone without him.

"Steve," you say, irritated. The garage is even darker than the kitchen, no windows for moonlight to crawl inside. He's turned his torch to the storage bins behind a black, sleek car.

"What?" he asks, using the brunt of his palm to lift a lid.

"What do you mean, what? If I walked away from you like that you'd bite my head off."

"Jesus," he hisses, quickly turning his light away from the bin he's opened. "What the fuck?"

You creep up behind him to direct your own flashlight. You don't want to talk about what you find inside.

Defeated and distant and wishing things could be different, you and Steve clip your rucksacks at the waist and prepare to move in the dark from this shitty empty house to the next. You can't sleep; Steve won't say it, but you think he might be scared that you'll both be too weak to get up again if you lay down. This is the final push.

You don't ask for his hand. He grabs one of your rucksack straps and you slink down the concrete steps of the house back onto the picture perfect streets. An entire apocalypse and the only evidence is smashed glass. The cold night bounces off of the sidewalk to chill your calves, your old jeans little defence against the cold. It's so, so cold lately.

The next house is locked. You and Steve look at one another, and whether you can see him in the moonlight dregs or if your mind knows him well enough to fill in the gaps is anyone's guess. He looks reluctantly hopeful.

You take a silent walk around the house checking for points of entry. When each door you come across is locked and each window tightly locked, you kneel at the garage door and force your icy fingers beneath the door. Steve helps, flat of his knife scratching the asphalt. You lose all the feeling in your fingertips as Steve struggles to get his hands under as well, but together you sigh, pained, and lift the garage door with the last of your strength. You army under first quickly, almost dropping the shutters as Steve follows.

Fingertips aching with quick-blooming contusions, you attempt to help Steve stand. He ignores your offered hand.

This house is the same as the other, so while it's dark, it's manoeuvrable. Same daunting marble staircases up on to a balconied landing. Across to the left is a lone bedroom with huge windows and a staircase to the attic, and across to the right a handful of equally spacious rooms. You hadn't bothered searching the bedrooms in the houses before, figuring that whoever combed the kitchens to the insane degree they have was as desperate as you are now, and would've already done so.

But this house was locked.

You're filled with aching hope. You need to eat. You don't want to die. You don't want Steve to die. If there's nothing here, you aren't sure you'll have the energy to search another granite kitchen.

Steve wastes no time opening a cabinet.

You both stand still in shock.

Cereal. Boxes and boxes of cereal.

"What do you think the sell by date is?" you ask.

"I don't know." He pulls down a box. It's off by a year. Pulls down another. Off again. Something awful inside of you wants to tear into the cardboard and eat it anyways. Too bad food poisoning can kill you quicker than hunger.

Steve leaves the cabinet door open and moves to the next, practically ripping it off of the hinges. Your torch beam shakes with excitement when you see the insides, golden cans stacked high.

Steve picks one up. Tosses it aside. "It's cat food."

Well, if all else fails. The thought makes you want to cry.

The next cabinet is full of glassware, and the next china plates. Steve opens a fifth and sixth at the same time. It takes you a second to calibrate the sight in front of you.

"It's not more cat food, is it?" you ask quietly.

Steve breathes out hard, grabbing a handful of skinny cans, metal popping against the counter as he drops one. "It's fish. Tuna fish."

And just like that, you get to live.

The last cabinet has a short supply of soups and bare essentials, enough for a week between you both (rich people ate less processed foods, apparently). It's the fish that promises security, a hundred cans of bluefin, yellowfin tuna, a couple cans of caviar.

You and Steve eat it in the kitchen with fancy spoons. The smell is undesirable but it doesn't make you feel sick until hours later, half asleep on the kitchen floor.

You stand up, ushering him with you, and pull yourselves with heavy emphasis on the handrail up the stairs to the first bedroom you come across. You take your toothbrush from your bag despite the begging pull of sleep and brush your teeth, eager to escape the salty tang of fish. If Steve wants to kiss you tonight, you'd rather taste like Arctic Fresh than fish.

"Can I have some?" Steve asks.

You raise your brows, squeezing toothpaste onto his brush. While he brushes, you construct a little lamp using the low-power torch and a half full water bottle. The room is far less intimidating after that, light reaching into the corners and exposing the raw wooden beams above. Steve spits his toothpaste into the wastebasket and leaves the room. He returns as you're taking off your shoes, disapproving as he drags a chair in. He hooks it under the door handle, jigging it to test.

"I can't wear them anymore," you say.

"Okay," he says.

You'd hoped finding food would make him less snappy, but no luck. He's even quieter than before.

You get changed in silence, like you've both decided now you're not hungry that actually you'd been kind of filthy. It's just… your reality. You want to be clean, and fed, and brushed, but you're grimy. You settle for another layer of deodorant and a fresh pair of underwear.

Steve is looking at you, half-naked. He's allowed, it doesn't matter, but he averts his eyes when you catch him and doesn't speak to you again. Thankfully, your sated hunger removes despair to some extent. You climb into bed and Steve slides in next to you, and for a few hours, you sleep.

Waking up is a new agony.

You're bad at being separated from one another, and finding him gone fucks you up. Your heart immediately leaps into your mouth, a raw, beating thing. The daylight disarms you at first, blinking against it, but proves to be your friend when you find Steve's shoes at the end of the bed. It's a marker, a note from him to you: I'm still here.

He's leaning heavily on the countertop in the kitchen with a notebook laid flat and a pen in hand, tallying up the cans.

"Hey, you scared me," you say, his shoes in one hand, yours in the other.

"Sorry."

You put the shoes on the counter.

You hesitate to touch him first. You'd been thinking last night before you slept, his hand near your hip instead of on it, that Steve's finally realised he doesn't want to be with you. Like a near death experience, he'd had an epiphany. Why would he want to spend the bare strands of a life that he has playing house with you?

He didn't have a choice. One sudden day and you were his burden.

Steve takes your hand without looking. Firm, he squeezes his fingers between yours and pulls you into his side. "It's a month's worth of food, easily. But it might make us kind of sick if we aren't careful. There's Mercury in it. Less than the cheap stuff, but we still shouldn't be eating so much." His arm presses to yours. He meets your eyes over his shoulder. "I hate fish."

"You're talking to me today."

He looks down at the notebook, his eyebrows pinching in like you've stepped on his foot. "I– sorry. I wasn't very nice, yesterday, I guess."

You're relieved to hear his apology, not because you really even want one, but because it means he isn't as mad at you as you thought. "I was complaining."

"It was all shit. You're allowed. I… was stressed."

"It was all shit," you agree, explaining away his bad mood. But, last night, he didn't wanna hold you. It sounds pathetic but on a small scale, this is your life. Any change feels foreign.

"I wasn't mad at you for complaining."

You feel the back of his hand with your thumb. Fine hairs, skin rough from a few weeks of the elements. "Thanks for clarifying."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Steve looses go of your hand to put his arm on your shoulder. His fingertips skirt against your back, tickling gently. His eyes are serious but his mouth curves with a smile. "Why are you upset?" he asks.

"I'm not."

"I think I'd know."

It seems silly now to tell him with his touch, his face this close to yours. You take in a shuddering breath and his expression pinches.

Steve stands as close to you as he can without hugging you. "Hey, tell me," he says.

You push your tongue against your teeth, thinking. Tears threaten to collect, a burning lump bobbing in your throat at his question.

"Do you ever regret this?" you ask. "Sometimes I think you do."

"This?" he asks.

"Me and you."

Steve laughs, and that really is foreign what with the last few days of moroseness you've had. It's not a humoured laugh, just a shocked one, the sound inking his words as he says, "We're not something up for regretting."

"What's that mean?"

"It means," —Steve ducks his head a little, eye to eye with you as his arm curls behind your neck— "it's not even an option. Us, me and you, you alone, it's not an option. I don't regret what's happened or what's happening between us. I wish… I wish I'd been less of a dick to you. I wish I was nicer to you now, and that's a shitty thing to say, but this–" Hid eyes flare with annoyance directed inward. "I get fucking abysmally moody because I can't believe I'm this bad at taking care of you."

You lift your chin ever so slightly and Steve kisses you. Sweet but a little rough, like he'd been waiting for an offer.

"I don't regret this," he mumbles, tapping the tip of his nose under yours. You lift your head, and he fits another kiss to the seam of your lips.

"You didn't wanna hug me or anything last night–"

He hugs you immediately. "I'm sorry," he says over your ear. "It was just a bad day."

"But I'm here with you. I'm having the bad day with you, I want to be there for you," you say, semi-desperate.

"I'm sorry," he says again, relaxing as your arms fold behind his back.

Steve pets your back. You wish things were different, that he could be hugging you somewhere different. You can picture it, Steve dropping you off at some college class or putting his hand in your back pocket on the way to dinner. Things could be so much better and they never, ever will be.

You don't ask, afraid to even suggest it if he hasn't thought of it, but you worry Steve is with you out of habit. Bad habits are hard to break, but anyone can stop smoking if they really want to. He could move on.

He must read your mind.

"Sorry," Steve whispers, leaning back to kiss your cheek. "I'm a shitty boyfriend sometimes when I'm trying to be good at keeping us alive. You're the only good thing. I'm really sorry, honey."

You nibble on the inside of your lip and hug him harder. "Stop saying sorry. You didn't do anything wrong, I just think too much."

He breathes out in surprise at your ferocity, dropping his head into the curve of your neck.

"I'm sorry," he says anyway.

Unbeknownst to you, it's in lieu of a different confession.

You crack a smile. Steve pulls away to fret over your face uselessly, wiping away things you can't see and smiling back like a guy in the movies, all confident and flirtatious. It's a stark difference to the previous gloom.

"Let's go find some water," he says, taking the side of your face into his palm. "I smell bad and you're shiny."

"Nice, Steve."

#steve zombie!au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things 4 #luveline’s 40k party

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delioncourtes · 1 year

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✨ GOMENS FIC RECS ✨

i asked for people's favorite fics and sharing is caring :)

(i included my own recs as well)

feel free to reblog and add more!

❤️ recommended by @oldzhishen ❤️

Crown of Thorns series by irisbleufic (rating G-E)

This series was never intended to be a series as such: I wrote "A Better Place" in the wake of rather accidentally getting to ask a certain question (What are Aziraphale and Crowley doing on the South Downs, anyway?) of both authors within a week of each other back in 2005 and actually getting an answer (Sharing a cottage), thinking it'd just be a happy little one-off. But something curious happened when my Good Omens Exchange 2010 assignment resulted in "The Walls, the Wainscot, and the Mouse." From that point onward, interest in this little 'verse slowly, but steadily picked up momentum, and I kept finding more stories to tell. Some of the characters that appear herein (Phillippa [Pippa] Morrison, the Mouse, Amanda [Mandy] Tomlin, Uriel, Raphael, et al.) first turned up in my one and only attempt at a second-Apocalypse dark mirror universe, A Crown of Stars (AO3 posting of same) and its follow-ups, which predates this series considerably. The two universes parallel each other, but this one is, for our purposes, post novel-canon and set in our reality. That's pretty much what you need to know. Thank you all for continuing to read and also for giving this project life. I'll continue to add stories and ficlets until I run out of ideas or until my heart stops (whichever comes first)! The current existing pieces are complete; the series overall is ongoing on an as-and-when basis, which means that the time between additions may be weeks or months or, in rare instances, up to a year.

Madman and a Fool by loserchildhotpants (rating E)

God considers Crowley's unyielding pining for Aziraphale, his acts during the End of the World, and his very genuine desire to protect Aziraphale, worth rewarding. She can't make him an Angel again, but She can nudge Aziraphale in the right direction. If nothing else, She'd really just like Crowley to stop using Her prayer inbox for endless soliloquies about Aziraphale.

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm (rating T)

As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following: --His clothing was expensive and stylish; --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne; --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;” --He looked angry; --He was wearing sunglasses. What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

A Home at the Beginning of the World by stereobone (rating E)

"Oh," Aziraphale says. "I think Crowley might have moved in with me."

For the Angel Who Has Everything by triedunture (rating E)

Crowley likes giving Aziraphale things. Whatever he wants, actually. Which, happily, includes Crowley himself, as it turns out.

I'm the treasure baby, I'm the prize by stereobone (rating E)

"Are you working for Mrs. Sandwich?" Nina asks. "No," Crowley says. "Well, yes. Well, define 'working'." -- Or, Crowley is very good at faking sex work, as it turns out.

🧡 recommended by @reloha 🧡

let me feel your heartbeat (grow faster, faster) by thehoyden (rating T)

Aziraphale saw him sometimes in all-staff meetings, sitting toward the front but off to the side, lounging against a wall. Even then, he’d had style—wings tipped in gold and face painted with gold flakes in the pattern of the first constellation he designed. He was amazing, and eye-catching, and it was no exaggeration to say that he did not know Aziraphale even existed.

You'll Find Something Waiting (Right There Where You Left It) by PrimalBeatsOurHearts (rating T)

"Lets go in the Garden, "You'll find something waiting" "Right there where you left it" "Lying upside down" ------------ Or What if Crowley was Erased from The Book Of Life?

Moving Forward While Standing Still by Justanothernerdsstuff (rating G)

“Uh, yeah, sure! Thanks,” They replied and walked away, not sure why this specific book was so important to the angry man, but they were £50 richer, so they didn’t really care. Crowley flipped through the book, stalling making the decision to go into the bookshop to confront Muriel. He turned to walk away, stopped, groaned, and stalked his way into the bookshop. *** Crowley finds himself at Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death a month after Aziraphale left to run Heaven, and ends up back at the bookshop, something he never planned to do again.

7 minutes in heaven by waddlesthejoghog (rating T)

"If Crowley and Aziraphale couldn’t figure it out, Muriel would have to take a different approach. It wasn’t enough to put them in the same location. They had to plant some seeds of conversation. They had to come to a conclusion naturally, but with a push." OR Muriel reads every book in the shop, then comes up with a plan to get Aziraphale and Crowley back together.

In the Pocket of the Universe by indieninja92 (rating E)

Immediately after the church scene (and The Slow Zoom of Homosexual Panic), Aziraphale takes Crowley out for dinner in the only place still open in the middle of an air raid. Feelings closely follow.

How to Run a Bookshop by IneffableDoll (rating T)

Muriel has been running Aziraphale’s bookshop ever since his promotion Upward. Mr. Crowley seems intent on sticking around, and Muriel has no idea what to do about that. Then, Muriel stumbles upon a collection of sketchbooks full of a familiar redhead. Did…Aziraphale draw these? Has Mr. Crowley seen them? * (“No. No. Put that back.” “Oh, but isn’t it cute? A little cup with wings! I don’t suppose it can fly like those birds can? I don’t see what a cup needs wings for, really.” “You can’t use that.” “Of course not! These wings are too small for me, and I have my own if I want to get around.” “Wh – okay, first off, you can’t go flying about London. You’ll freak people out, cause a bunch of chaos – actually, you know what, do what you like. Heaven if I care. But don’t touch that mug.” “Is it dangerous?” “…No. But it’s not yours. And it’s not polite to use something that’s not yours. Not very angelic of you.” “Oh! Of course. I knew that.”)

💛 recommended by @cheeekycharchar 💛

Together We're Golden series by Guardian_Rose (rating G-T)

Crowley & Aziraphale move to a small town, into their own little cottage but it's not without its difficulties.

True Disaster by NuriaSchnee (rating E)

After Crowley saves him in 1941, Aziraphale realises he's fallen in love with the demon. Scared this dangerous feeling of his will cause problems to his friend, he tries to break their relationship. However, his plan to push the demon away fails and they end up admitting their feelings to each other. To be able to be together and keep it a secret, Crowley stops time every time they meet. However brilliant this seems at first, it doesn't take long to backfire, opening new wounds and raising more barriers between them.

Nanny Knows Best by DictionaryWrites (rating M)

Being a nanny, that should be simple. Simple. Easy as pie. Crowley wished that were true.

💚 recommended by yours truly 💚

Strange Moons series by racketghost (rating G-E)

“At least they were together for a time,” Crowley says, staring at the lit end of his cigarette, “maybe that’s enough.”

tales from a bookshop by Rizandace (rating T)

Post-season-two. Crowley's moping, Aziraphale wants to fix things, and turns out, there's enough blame to go around. ----- "You're being ridiculous." Crowley very nearly falls over. Like, actually. He very nearly loses balance for no reason at all and tumbles to the sidewalk next to his car. He’s been playing Aziraphale’s voice in his head for weeks, he’s been trying very hard to drown out the sound of it, in fact, and now suddenly, abruptly— “What are you doing here,” is all he can think to say. He whirls around, and there he is. on Crowley’s right, standing there like he’d never left. Where he belongs, Crowley’s mind helpfully supplies. He wishes he could punch himself in the brain, knock the thoughts right on out of there.

Meanwhile the World Goes On by lineslines (rating G)

Crowley looked at him. He was still wearing his suit, there was tartan in it, but it had become polished, the worn edges returned to pristine, boring perfection. He looked prim. Proper. Perhaps this hurt most of all. (Crowley is on earth, Aziraphale is not. Meanwhile the world goes on. Plans, great and possibly ineffable, are set into motion. They are--always, inevitably--drawn back together. Long before reconciliation, long before they can bear it. The only thing they can bear less is staying apart. Oh, and Heaven seems to have misplaced Jesus.)

So You Need To Get Into A.Z. Fell & Co.; Now What? (A Guide For Unfortunate Bookworms) by c4llistrad (rating G)

London’s antique enthusiasts and rare lit nerds alike know that if you’re looking for a specific vintage or antique book, you have a good chance of ending up in A.Z. Fell & Co. as a last resort. And if you’ve ever been in (or are currently in) this predicament, you know how much of an absolute nightmare it is trying to even get in the door. Luckily, this handy guide, the fruit of a months-long collaborative effort to create the perfect formula for gaming the A.Z. Fell system, will tell you everything you need to know, complete with a comprehensive breakdown of what, exactly, the opening hours are. Compiled by pageknight and inky of the Rare Antique Forums.

Like Icarus Before Me by Arokel (rating T)

If Aziraphale were a Good person, a virtuous person, he wouldn’t have taken Crowley’s hand at all. Aziraphale muses on the nature of Goodness, and finally shares those musings with Crowley.

It's Something Like a Corkscrew by Arokel (rating G)

“How do you live with this… this inevitability? This knowledge of what’s to come?”

So let us melt by Arokel (rating G)

Of the two of them, Crowley thinks Aziraphale has held on to more of his faculties than Crowley has, but then again, he is putting off angelic heat like a particularly virtuous furnace.

So Much to be Consoled as to Console by Arokel (rating T)

“What are you,” Crowley drawled, “the patron saint of queer kids?” A series of lost souls over the centuries who prayed, whether they knew it or not, to the Angel Aziraphale.

Factory Settings by Anonymous (rating T)

Crowley gets reinstated as an angel.

such surpassing brightness by bibliocratic (rating G)

The revelation that Aziraphale might have been in love with him for thousands of years is surprising. The fact that literal books have been written on the subject comes as even more of a shock.

knowing this will I reach for you by Aria (rating E)

It wasn't as though his interest in Aziraphale was entirely appropriate. Of course it wasn't bloody appropriate. He was consorting with the Enemy, nothing about it was appropriate.

The Sandford Flower Show by Mussimm (rating E)

Crowley had waited six thousand years, kept it all in check. But this was the slipperiest slope he’d ever set foot on and as soon as he’d indulged in a few discretionary acts of kindness he was falling face first into pining, tumbling into flirting, about to dislocate his knees on the sharp rocks of intimacy. Was this really it? What he had waited six thousand years for? A stupid flower show? Aziraphale wasn’t pulling away from him. Maybe… maybe this time he wouldn’t? Maybe they’d hold hands again. Maybe tonight with a bottle of merlot in them he’d finally work up the courage and just kiss him and he wouldn’t pull away. The very moment he’d thought it he spotted the problem at the flower show.

you knew my name on sight by brinnanza (rating G)

“This wasn’t me, you know,” Crowley says, the words out of his mouth before he’s made the conscious choice to utter them. “Not just the library, but the whole civil war. You know me; I’ve mostly been getting drunk at Bacchanals.” “I know,” says Aziraphale.

The Longest Night series by charlottemadison (rating T-E)

The night the Apocalypse doesn't happen, an angel and a demon share a bus bench on the way home to face their fates. This is the story of their evening spun out line by line, all the little moments that carried them through the night they knew might be their last.

Witness the Fall by Waifine (rating G)

Crowley never talked about his time as an angel. Aziraphale never asked. But when Hell sends Crowley a package containing his most painful memories, it is Aziraphale who is plunged into the nightmare history of when his beloved friend, the angel who had once been Crowley, was hurled from the Heavens into the bowels of Hell.

An Angel who did not so much Fall In Love as Settle Into It Gradually by TheLadyZephyr (rating G)

Crowley was standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, looking a little lost. Aziraphale eyed the distance between them. Five steps. Five steps, and six thousand years, and a battlefield spanning an eternity. The story of the little moments over the millennia that shape an angel’s regard for a demon, and the way he slowly, with great reluctance but inevitable surety, falls in love.

This Soul Outstreaming by Rend_Herring (rating E)

“Why did you come here?” Aziraphale interrupts. “Why do you keep doing this?” All the saving, he means, all the chasing after Aziraphale he does. It can’t only be that he’s not keen to endure a replacement. That can’t be it, not anymore. He’s going to get himself in trouble, and then it’ll be Aziraphale’s fault. Crowley’s mouth shuts with a click. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, reaches for the handle of the fork and taps his fingertips against it before setting his hands in his lap. When he speaks, it’s very soft. “Don’t you know?” he asks. Aziraphale, unnaccustomed to his heart refusing to translate why it throbs with such haste, shakes his head.

a lighthouse (burning) by books-and-omens (rating M)

In good weather, one can see the lighthouse at the Rock from the shore: a dot on the horizon, a distant star flashing red and white and red again. It’s been dark for a fortnight, of course—ever since the incident that every newspaper had breathlessly written about, that the paper-boys on the corners had shouted themselves hoarse over. This is where Aziraphale is headed: it is his duty, after all, to find out what happened, to make sure that the beacon can be safely lit once again. He does not expect Crowley to follow him to the windswept isle, to the lonely lighthouse at what could just as well be the edge of the world. Crowley follows him anyway.

paint the skies by ToEdenandBackAgain (rating G)

“This was one of yours, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale remarks casually, and Crowley feels like the warmth of the room has been sucked into space. A cold, uneasy feeling begins to creep into his gut. One of yours thrown out so casually. One of yours said like he... like he knew “What.”

Good Endings by WyvernQuill (rating T)

A Narrative of Certain Events following the Ending of the World (Except Not Quite), as vaguely hinted at in The Slapdash and Not Very Helpful Prophetic Tidbit of Agnes Nutter, Witch (And Matchmaker.) "Their lives are in horrible, terrible danger that only we can save them from!" Anathema held up the Prophetic Tidbit. "It says so. Right here." Madame Tracy peered at the page. Raised a meaningful eyebrow. "Dearie, as a woman of, well, considerable experience, I really don't think that's what 'the lyttle Deathe' means in this context..." "Huh." Anathema squinted. Flipped the page. Read another bit. "....huh." (Or, alternatively: Eight - give or take - matchmakers trying really, really hard, honest; two clueless ethereal/occult beings mutually pining their endless days away; and one witch, who can't leave well enough alone when it comes to matters of the heart, no matter how many centuries ago she died.)

If We've Got Nothing (We've Got Us) by Kedreeva (rating G)

Two months after the failed apocalypse Aziraphale finds the first dark feather growing in his wings. A story about middle grounds, ineffable plans, and what happens when the world doesn't end.

lit in the darkness by ToEdenandBackAgain (rating M)

Aziraphale returns to Crowley's flat for the night after Armageddon. After all, it's hardly the first time they've shared sleeping arrangements. Or: Times throughout history Crowley and Aziraphale have shared a bed.

💙 recommended by @vonlipwig 💙

Petrichor & Parchment by MrsNoggin (rating E)

“Mr. Crowley, I presume?” Aziraphale asked in lieu of an introduction, which was not forthcoming. The guy hadn’t even removed his sunglasses. Oh God, he had a tattoo on his face. Aziraphale wasn’t one to judge, but… what kind of gardener had a snake tattoo on his face?

💜 recommended by @darthbreezy 💜

post-professional endeavours by darcylindbergh (rating T)

Retirement is a four-letter word.

💗 recommended by @thegeekyartist 💗

Fire, Bridges, and other Sensible Idioms by KiaraMGrey (rating E)

To: The person who stopped the washer in the middle of my wash cycle and took my clothes out just to wash your own… You are an arsehole! Unfortunately for you, so am I. You can find your wet clothes frozen outside in the snow. If you have any problems with this, come see me in 301. or Aziraphale has a new neighbor, and they certainly don't start off on the right foot.

❤️ recommended by @weiwnxian ❤️

Any Other Name by mostlyanything19 (rating T)

“The Angel of the Eastern Gate.” Crawly grins. “What’s your name, anyway? You never said.” “Oh...” Apologies, Aziraphael almost says, but then he doesn’t. That would be taking things a bit too far. This is still the Enemy. “Aziraphael.” “Aziraphael,” repeats Crawly—or tries to, because halfway through the word he chokes. Quite badly. Or: What if Aziraphale’s name was originally "Aziraphael", in keeping with the conventional spelling and pronunciation of angel names, but because of its divine nature Crowley is physically unable to say it out loud.

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glynnisi · 2 years

Text

Happy ChrismaHanukkah

ShieldShock Holiday Ficlet w inspiration images

"Let me guess. There's only one bed." Darcy rolled her eyes and looked pained. She texted to Jane and Natasha, 'you're hilarious.' "I just texted to tell Jane and Natasha they're hilarious."

Steve nodded, brow furrowed as he returned to her side from talking to the inn owner. "How'd you...?"

"Because we are being match-made, or Yenta'd, or 'given a push'- whatever you call it. There's only gonna be one bed left in this incredibly charming inn where we're snowed-in with one room reservation instead of the two we expected." Darcy shrugged. "Our friends think they're being helpful. You may not agree, but that's obviously what they think."

Steve noted that Darcy gave no sign of her opinion of the situation. She walked over to the sideboard and grabbed a chocolate chip cookie. Speech muffled as she took a bite, she cheered, "yass, still warm. And, yum." She looked around at the menorah and the lights and lanterns and trees, waving her hand. "Charming."

"Why would Natasha and Jane give us a push that involves only one bed?" Steve had his own ideas about that, but wanted to hear what Darcy would say. He followed her to the sideboard and had a cookie. "These are amazing."

"I know. Right? At least they didn't leave us stranded at a charm-free and cookie-free bug motel during the holidays. That would have been depressing." Darcy had another bite of cookie to stall answering.

When she'd licked crumbs from her lips, she looked up into Steve Rogers' incredible blue eyes and confessed. "It's my fault. I know better than to drink too much around Natasha. Alcohol makes me blab things, like my ChrismaHanukkah wish being that you'd give things a go with me." She grabbed another cookie and avoided his gaze. "So, since Jane adores me and Natasha has vetted me thoroughly and I have her stamp of approval? She scared my mother and my favorite English teacher to pieces, by the way... I guess the two of them double-booked us here in hopes that we'll hook up. Sorry."

Steve blushed to the tips of his ears. "What are you sorry about?"

"I'm sorry that my unrealistic crush puts you in an awkward spot stuck here with me tonight. Don't worry. I'll just sleep in a chair down here. This place is so darned cute I might get to meet Santa dropping off gifts." Darcy peeked into the next room. "Aw. 'A Christmas Story' on loop. It's funny. Have you seen it?" She turned and looked at him, surprised when she saw his expression. "What are you smiling about?"

"I thought I was the one who owed you an apology since I got caught ogling you weeks ago." Steve ducked his head, blushing more. "Natasha saw me about swallow my tongue one day when you reached up to get something from a high shelf. You're beautiful and it was obvious I desire you. So, I assumed this was her pushing me to do something about my unrealistic crush on you."

It was Darcy's turn to smile. "Why unrealistic? You're the nicest guy on base and have a delicious, dry sense of humor- on top of being an Avenger and a hottie. I'm just an astrophysicist intern fighting to get her doctorate."

"You're spirited, smart, and pretty. And you have more important things on your mind than dating. I've heard you say that multiple times." Steve volunteered, looking at her for clarification.

Darcy frowned, "you might have missed the part where I said I had more important things on my mind than dating Johnny Storm. He's a playboy and an egomaniac. That's the opposite of what I like in a man. I like someone who's honest and loyal to his friends, someone who looks me in the eye rather than the cleavage, nine times out of ten."

"I'm sorry about that. I..." Steve shrugged. "I respect you, Darcy. And, I like the way you're direct and funny and loyal and..."

"Huh." Darcy nodded, "interesting. Keep going."

He gave her a tight smile. "I can stay down here, if you like. I couldn't ask you to."

"Or..." she grinned and bit her lip.

A smile lit Steve's face. "Or?" He took a deep breath, mock serious and very hopeful. "ChrismaHanukkah wish? That kind of thing should be granted."

Darcy laughed, blushing happily. "Yes, please. You know that they'll be unbearably smug about their success setting us up. Right?"

Steve nodded. "Don't much care. I want you and you're interested, too. I'd be an idiot to let the opportunity slip away." He offered Darcy the key to their room and picked up their backpacks.

She gave him a teasing look as she accepted the key. "Well. Come on, then, roomie."

He glanced around to make sure no one was watching and gave her a scorching kiss. "Merry ChrismaHanukkah."

"The merriest," as they made their way to the room and she recovered from the toe-curling heat of the kiss, Darcy sent a quick text. 'You're forgiven. Thank you and Merry ChrismaHanukkah to you two, too.'

-fin

---

I just couldn't bear to get to Christmas w/o writing some little bit of ShieldShock Holiday fluff. Merry ChrismaHanukkah @mcgregorswench @aenariasbookshelf@typhoidmeri@littleplebe @idontgettechnology @janeykath318 and all #ShieldShock OTP lovers.

#glynnisi #mine #non-canon otp #chrismahanukkah ficlet #shieldshock #shieldshockfanfic #steve rogers #darcy lewis #starcy #darcy x steve #captain america #thor movies #mcu #holiday ficlet #image set

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virtie333 · 10 months

Text

Day 16 - Life Day Damerey Celebration

Prompt: Siblings

Summary: A day in the life of the Dameron family

Notes: Almost four years ago, I wrote my first Damerey story, Rising. Shortly afterwards, the Pandemic began, so I decided that while I had the time I might as well continue that story, and a whole series began. Rey's Adventures Post TRoS is still my longest series to date, and it followed Rey and Poe and their life for many, many years after the movies. I knew eventually I'd end up writing about them again, and this little short story proved me right.

You don't have to read that series to enjoy this little ficlet, just know that Rey trains Jedi, Poe is still in charge of the Resistance, and they keep pumping out the babies. They had eight by the end of the series! They're only half-way there here.

Warnings: Not really, other than me writing Poe as the perfect husband and father as usual...

AO3

“What is going on here?” Rey demanded as she entered the room. After a busy morning, she had finally been able to sit down and work on the scheduling for the coming week. She hadn’t gotten very far before the sound of her two youngest boys fighting in the next room had distracted her.

Skyler and Samuel were pummeling each other rather comedically, but stopped and looked up at her when she spoke, both looking rather guilty.

“Who started this?” Rey asked her two boys, looking around for their older sister, who was supposed to be with them.

“He hit back first!” Sam said, his little arms folded in front of him.

Somehow, Rey managed not to laugh. Three-year-old Samuel was as naughty as he was cute. He was too much like his father. She looked at six-year-old. “Skyler?” she said, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“I didn’t mean to hit him!” Sky defended. “He was reaching for a brick just as I grabbed for another one. My hand hit his arm.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter how it started,” Rey told them. “Neither of you should have hit back.” She looked around again. “Where’s your sister?”

The two boys shrugged, immediately going back to playing with the toy bricks on the floor in front of them. Typical, she thought. Overly dramatic one moment, then suddenly focused on something different the next.

Just like their father.

Shaking her head, she left the room and moved to the front door. She opened it, feeling the desert heat of Tatooine flow inside. For her, it wasn’t a bad feeling. Despite griping about once again living on a hot, dry planet, Rey preferred it to cold winters on Kolbe, their previous home. She saw movement off to the right, by Finn’s house, and lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She could see the familiar form of her husband walking across the sands, heading for the workshop. He was being trailed by two smaller forms, his daughter and his droid.

She slipped back inside the house, content knowing Shaina was with her father. Rey hadn’t seen the eight-year-old girl leave, but she had been distracted. She would talk with her daughter about not leaving without letting Rey know later. This desert was easy to get lost in, and while Shaina was already becoming comfortable with using the Force that came so easily to her, she was still a child.

Rey was about to sit down again when a soft whine came from the bedroom. Giving a soft sigh of her own, she stood and headed toward the cry. Baby Shiloh, not quite ten months old, was sitting up in her crib, looking flushed and confused. Rey knew the feeling; she felt that way after naps, too. As Shi raised her arms, asking to be picked up, the two boys ran into the room. They were fascinated with their little sister and were always asking to hold and play with her.

“Can Shiloh play with us, Mama?”

“She always tries to eat the bricks but we stop her.”

Rey smiled at them as she picked the baby up. “Shiloh needs her diaper changed and then she needs to eat, then we’ll see if she wants to play. Okay?”

“Okay,” the boys said in tandem, then they turned back to the sitting room to continue with their play.

Once the baby was changed, Rey moved back to the kitchen to continue working while she nursed. Because she was so busy teaching, Rey weaned her babies off the breast when they were about three months old. They usually took to the bottle easily, as their father usually started feeding them that way when they were only a couple of weeks old, but Shiloh had been a little tougher to transition, and even now she made attempts to open Rey’s shirt. Poe teased her about it, telling her that he, too, thought Rey’s tits were irresistible.

As if her thought conjured him, Poe entered the front door, Shaina, BB8, and a wave of heat following him.

“Your daughter thinks I should rearrange the workshop,” he said as he closed the door behind his entourage. “She thinks I did it wrong.”

Rey smirked. “Your daughter left the house without telling me,” Rey countered. “Her brothers started fighting because she wasn’t there to keep the peace.”

“Keeping the peace is boring!” Shaina griped as she sat next to her mother at the table. “And so are my brothers.”

Rey snorted a laugh as Poe moved to the cooling chamber and pulled out some juice. He looked back at Rey, eyebrows raised in question, and Rey nodded. Poe proceeded to pour five glasses.

“Boys,” Rey called out. “Come have some juice.”

Sky and Sam came skipping in, sitting around the table as Poe distributed the drinks, then he sat down himself. For the short time it took them to drink it was mostly quiet, but all too soon the children started picking at each other again.

Rey looked at Poe, who was watching her. “Did you get the schedule done?” he asked.

Rey glanced at the kids, then back at him. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s time for everyone to come out to the shop and help Shaina and I rearranged it,” he said with a grin. He stood and reached for Shiloh, who had stopped nursing long ago and was watching her siblings curiously. The baby reached back for him with a smile. “Come on, guys! You, too, BB8!”

With a wink, Poe headed back out into the Tatooine heat with all four of their children.

The silence was deafening.

Smiling, Rey got to work on the schedule.

#fanfiction #damerey #jedipilot #poe x rey #life day #family #children #siblings #fluff

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dreaminghour · 1 year

Text

Hayden/Ewan RPF - Handmade gift

Event: @domaystic Fandom: Star Wars RPF Rating: General Audiences Prompt: 21 Handmade gift Ship: Hayden/Ewan Disclaimer: References to real people are used fictitiously. Do not share this with them! Context: Present day. Vaguely follows the timeline of my other RPF ficlets, but you don't need to read those to understand this. You can find them here on my blog. Words: 990

Ever since Hayden took Ewan on a walk around the property, he's been thinking thinking about those apple trees. He'd been apple picking in New York naturally, but that was ages ago now.

It's nearing on weeks since he's left home. Hayden doesn't pressure him for answers, doesn't even ask how long he's intending to stay, but it weighs on Ewan. Even though being here is a relief which outpaces everything else. There's something so peaceful about spending his days walking the land, running occasional errands in town, helping Hayden around the farm. It isn't something he's ever done much of. He goes to sleep dreaming of apples and sheep.

Hayden puts out apple butter for fresh buns in the mornings but Ewan tries to go easy on it; he doesn't know how much there is in the pantry. Hayden also mentioned 'winter apples' for baking, but Ewan is dreaming of that first crisp bite in the fall, which is months away yet. The weather is still clinging to cool spring ways.

But then, at last, he smells apple pie. When he looks up from the script he's been reading, spread out on the guest bed, he notices that the sun has moved further than he expected. He's making notes to send back to his agent, but this isn't time sensitive so much as an excuse to keep him out of Hayden's hair.

But a smell like that is a siren's call. He stacks all his things in a pile and leaves them on the bed, padding down the stairs to the kitchen. He meets Hayden in front of the oven.

"I was wondering when that would reach you," Hayden says affectionately.

"Just caught up in reading," Ewan says, stepping back as Hayden opens the door and pulls the pie out.

It's steaming, crust a beautiful golden color, bubbles of cinnamon and sugar bursting from the holes cut in the top. Hayden tilts the pie just slightly, as though presenting it to Ewan, and looks at him with a small smile.

"What's the occasion?" Ewan asks.

"Joel and his wife are coming over later," Hayden says, putting the pie on the kitchen's wide window ledge.

Ewan knows Joel from the time he came over to help Hayden fix one of the machines. For as much as Ewan knows the ins-and-outs of his own bikes, he doesn't know much about farm equipment.

"Just a visit with friends?" Ewan asks.

It's not that he feels as though he needs to tread softly on the subject, but the lack of people has struck Ewan as odd. The house is big, meant to be filled with a large family, lots of friends; he wants to call it lonely in his mind, to see Hayden out here with no one but an occaisional farm-hand or two, but Hayden doesn't seem lonesome. He seems solitary, but it seems to suit him.

"Joel's wife is the local sheep shearer. She trims horns and hooves as needed too. That's how I met Joel. They'll be coming by in a bit to shear them before it gets much hotter."

"Does it get much hotter?"

Hayden shrugs. "A bit. Not like California though." And he grins at Ewan in a way that makes it clear he sees something which Ewan would like to ignore.

The pie cools down, but the scent lingers. The truck which pulls up with Joel and his wife, Eileen, is quickly emptied in the barnyard and Ewan helps bag up each fleece as it comes off the sheep. There aren't many to shear; a couple hours and it's all done. Joel and his wife decline the offer of dinner, Ewan briefly wonders if its because of him, and the pie is handed over as well as payment for the service itself.

Hayden is bashful and humble about the pie, even while Joel is practically effervescent and Eileen chortles, which makes Ewan a bit mad that he won't be able to try it.

"I thought you only had a few apples left?" Ewan asks after they've brought the sheep into the barn and cleaned up for dinner. He's standing side-by-side with Hayden in the kitchen again.

"Most farmers keep sides of lamb in their chest freezers," Hayden says, "but mine's full of produce. I chop up the apples, sometimes I mix 'em up with sugar and cinnamon, and then when I need a quick pie…" He makes a ta-da gesture.

"I don't suppose…" Ewan trails off, focusing on chopping the onion with a very sharp knife for the moment.

"Sometimes a whole pie is a bit much for just one person," Hayden says, and when Ewan glances over he sees a fond smile on his face, "and I'll admit I do like the taste of my own apples."

Ewan doesn't reply. He puts the chopped onions in a bowl and then turns to watch Hayden go into his fridge and pull out a baking sheet. Laid out on it are what look like hand pies.

"Are those—?"

"Apple pies for my favorite American friend doesn't stop asking about them," Hayden says with a wink.

Ewan scoffs.

"I have a couple in the freezer," Hayden continues, "but there's usually scraps when I put together a pie fresh, so we can have these for dessert."

He puts the tray back in the fridge and comes to stand beside Ewan again.

"I'm not American," Ewan says at last, a bit quietly and only mock offended.

"Didn't you get citizenship a couple years ago?"

Ewan scoffs again.

Dinner is delicious, as Ewan has come to expect it always is at Hayden's. The smell of baking pie distracts them while they clean their plates and then they're sitting on the couch with ice cream and steaming pies.

The sky is turning dark purple and even though he knows he has to, Ewan is wondering how he'll ever bring himself to leave.

#domaystic2023 #2023day21 #dreamy does fic #dreamy does domaystic #star wars rpf #hayden x ewan #ewan x hayden #haywan

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lorirwritesfanfic · 2 years

Note

Do you have any fics in the works? Tell us about them!Looking forward to any other writer's upcoming fics? Tell us about them too!

My wip folder is never empty, darling. I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing to say it, given the number of unfinished works I have there, but oh well...

I haven't had much time to write. You know... real life, bills, family, more bills... 😵 and of course I procrastinate a lot (I blame Netflix Brasil for getting Downton Abbey and all the Turkish diziler I find online 🤦🏻‍♀️). But I write sometimes. Not every day. Not most days of the week as I used to do before. But I'm still writing.

The one wip I'm actually half way through is a Hamid x MC xmas fic. I know you're thinking "but it's almost February! And Prince Hamid is Muslim!" and you're right. But Daphne is Christian, very fond of Christmas, Hamid loves a nice social gathering and finding any reason to tease his favorite girl and we do not follow the real life calendars in here, so why not?

Among the series I write, earlier this month I was working on Meant To Be (Desire & Decorum modern day AU) chapter... 27? (I lost count... 🙈) Anyway, I think the next two chapters will finally explain why I label it as a Soulmates AU. There's a Sinclaire and Daphne awkward scene here, a little Sinclaire x Alisha moment there... But nothing too dramatic for now.

There's also Jade and Liam's For The World to Know. Tbh I have no idea what chapter I am (I'm getting super lazy on this because Tumblr and AO3 count the chapters automatically for me 😅). They're just a couple of weeks away from the wedding, they're getting joint a bachelor and bachelorette party, there's some heart to heart talk with Hana (these girls need it), Leo is joining them in Vegas (and we all know he often brings drama) and there's Drake situation to be solved. I'm close to reaching the end of FTWTK and I wish I could really start Happily Ever After (instead of just posting a few one shots of them married) because I've been daydreaming about the plot for years (the story will be soooooo good, ugh!), but I don't know... If I managed to finish FTWTK (or just The Fives Stages since there's only two more chapters left), I'll take it as a win.

Last year, I also remembered I never finished my Bloodbound series. A while ago, I got a comment on AO3 from someone who wanted me to extend the series and I thought about doing it, but at this point I wouldn't know how to do it. I'd probably have to create a new plot since the one I started back then is nearly solved. But that would demand time to replay Bloodbound to find inspiration and, unluckily, that's something I don't have lately. I started planning a chapter with Adrian x OC (any Adrian stans still out there?), then I'll write one more chapter to wrap it up.

There are other Desire & Decorum AUs and a TRR AU, but I haven't touched those wips in months... I rather not make any promises regarding any of those stories for now.

Other than that, there are a few one shots planned:

A Thomas Mendez x Ayla (+ Stephanie and Luz) inspired by one of my favorite Brazilian memes and a scene of a 2010 romcom. I can't explain why I'm doing this... The muse wants what the muse wants 😂

A few ficlets (or short stories, depending on how inspired I am when I actually sit down to write) to answer some OTP asks for Hamid x Daphne and Nate x Stella (TWC). I was debating if I'd include Liam x Jade, but I might give away the plot of Happily Ever After in one of the questions, so nope 😅

When it comes to other people's stuff, I don't know... I'm not super active on Choices (or any fandom, for that matter) and I'm not familiar with most of the fandom and what people have been writing lately. I do have my faves (@missameliep @lilyoffandoms @storyofmychoices @princess-geek @noesapphic ) and they still write from time to time, but I'm not going to pester them for new fics. They have their own lives and write whenever they can. As a fan of their work, I respect their writing pace and I'm simply glad they're still here.

Thanks for the ask, anon!

#lori answers #anon ask #fanfiction #wip folder

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ailendolin · 2 years

Note

Speechless: Thomas

It took a little over a month but here is your ficlet, anon! 💙 I hope you don't mind that I turned it into a Thomas, Nigel & Jemima story set in the same universe as my fic The Club where the three of them start a Singing Club together. It's not necessary to have read that fic to be able to follow this one but it provides a bit of context.

Next up:

Error 404: [character] refuses to admit they’re sick - Ho-Tan

First Kiss - Robin/Julian

oh no: [character] gets sick at the worst possible moment. - Bill Shakespeare

The Captain comforting Kitty

The Paynes & Archibald going to Ennythingos

Ask Games are here & here. Filled prompts are here & here on AO3.

________

Stay

Speechless: [Thomas] can’t talk because of a sore throat

Thomas knew he shouldn’t have gone outside to watch the Orionid meteor shower with the others. He wasn’t like them – immune to the cold of late October nights. But in the end, the allure of seeing one of nature’s most breath-taking spectacles with his own eyes had been too great to resist. The sight of dozens of shooting stars was worth a little discomfort, he’d figured – and it had been, especially when Robin told them about what his people used to see on nights like this: old souls returning to the Earth to be reborn.

Now, though – now Thomas regretted joining him and the others. He’d woken up with a pounding headache earlier that morning and a throat that felt so sore he couldn’t even swallow without wincing in pain, let alone speak.

And today was Singing Club.

Sighing heavily, he slowly made his way down to Jemima’s pantry. She and Nigel were probably already waiting for him, wondering what was taking him so long. Thomas had hoped he’d be rid of this ghastly cold by now – their ghostly existence never allowed for long suffering from such maladies, thank the gods – but it seemed today, luck wasn’t on his side. He hated having to miss Singing Club – out of all the clubs he partook in, it was his favourite by far – but he hated having to let Nigel and Jemima down even more. Sometimes, it felt like that was all he ever did – letting people down.

When he phased through the pantry door, two bright and cheery smiles greeted him but fell the moment they saw the desolate look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Nigel asked, getting up from the floor. His voice sounded so soft, so genuinely concerned, that Thomas felt his eyes burn with sudden shame and guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to croak out. He wanted to say more, needed Nigel and Jemima to understand that he hadn’t meant to get sick and ruin the day but his voice abandoned him completely then. So he bit his lip and, unable to meet their eyes, made an aborted gesture towards the door – a silent way of saying, “I better go.”

Small fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist and stopped him in his tracks.

“Please stay,” Jemima asked, her dark eyes wide and pleading. “Maud and I practiced a lot since last time.”

When Thomas looked from her to Nigel, unsure if she spoke for both of them, he was surprised to find Nigel already reaching for his other hand.

“Don’t go,” he said softly.

Helplessly and more than a little overwhelmed, Thomas let them pull him down onto the floor and tether him to the place between them as if he belonged there. Normally, he and Jemima sat left and right of Nigel during Singing Club but this time, Jemima chose to curl up next to him instead. Without letting go of his hand, she leaned her head against his arm and quietly started to sing. Thomas couldn’t help but smile when he recognised the song. It was the one he had taught her only a week ago, and she hadn’t been lying when she said she had been practising.

He let the sadness and melancholy of the music wash over him and his eyes fell close on their own accord when Nigel’s voice joined Jemima’s during the chorus. For the first time since he’d woken up this morning he forgot about the ache in his bones and the pain in his head and throat. Instead, a peace he’d rarely experienced in life and even less so in death settled over him, and without meaning to his mind began to drift as his body gave in to the exhaustion he had felt in his bones all day.

“Will he be all right?” he heard Jemima ask after the song had faded into silence. Her voice sounded soft and very, very far away.

A gently hand carefully directed his head against a warm shoulder and Thomas sighed.

“He will be,” Nigel said with a certainty that enveloped them like a blanket.

“Good,” Jemima whispered.

Her small fingers tightened around Thomas’s hand and so did Nigel’s arms around his shoulders. Knowing they would watch over him, Thomas finally allowed himself to rest.

#thomas thorne #nigel the plague ghost #jemima #bbc ghosts #bbc ghosts fanfic #my fic #ask #ask game #ask game prompt ficlet #norne

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moxfirefly · 3 years

Note

B D J O V for Donnie, Karl and Alcina? (yes I am in love, no I dont have regrets uwu)

My 3 loves? Well why not! And pls enjoy the ficlet styles I’m going to opt for when doing dirty secrets! This is a little long so is going under the cut.

🩸🍷Alcina Dimitrescu🩸🍷

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and on the other)

A bit of an odd one here but she loves backs, like your actual back. The line of your spine, if you have those back dimples, ufff. She loves the shape of it if you’re on the more curvier side, she loves the skin, and your rolls, and any stretch marks. Just picture that elegant hand of hers ghosting over your back, nails maybe even claws.

On herself, well Alcina is aware of her assets and she’s very aware of her chest, both she’s quite proud of but she’s really proud of her figure over all.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There was a pretty seamstress in the village who always was brought up to the castle to help with her dresses. She was a pretty thing in Alcina’s eyes, very much her type. When your making or fixing or measuring a tailor made outfit for a 9ft+ woman well it gets tricky and a little more handsy than usual. Alcina didn’t mind, the seamstress didn’t either. It was interesting following simple commands even if they were asked upon her with nothing but grace and poise.

So as Alcina sat for the 40th time to have something around her neck marked to be fixed, she had to stand between her legs to best approach and see the mistake. Only sitting did she have the best chance at seeing her at a more eye to eye level (well as best as it could be).

She isn’t dumb, she knows curiosity, want and lust like the back of her hand. Sees the nervous swallow of the seamstress whenever hands glide across her chest. The whispered ‘pardon my lady’ when she rests a palm on Alcina’s throat and takes a needle to the neckline with all the gentleness she can muster. Of course it’s the moment to prick her finger, the quiet hiss and scent is enough to alert Alcina and without waiting for her to fuss she takes that bleeding digit and kisses it, tastes the bead of blood, all while looking straight at her. When she still sees lust there, oh does she pull her closer.

One of her maids walks in about twenty minutes later, an array of materials in her arms so she doesn’t quite catch how the Lady of the castle smooths her dress and tries not to laugh, chest heaving a little and legs closing a tad. The maid greets her with her usual honorifics before leaving the requested materials, she notices the seamstress isn’t there and arches a brow at the room. “Lavatory” is all Alcina says before the maid makes a question. She nods but feels something isn’t right with the current picture but still leaves.

Once gone.

The seamstress crawls out from under Alcina’s skirt, mouth shiny, hair disheveled and nice set of teeth marks at her bosom.

It becomes a frequent thing after that.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

It’s not to say she needs to because she sincerely feels she has anybody at her beck and call who is willing ready and able. But on the rare occasion she indulges in some self care, it’s mostly in her luxurious tub. Feeling the warm water, her hair clean and smelling of that weeks chosen fragrance, well it gets her thinking and thinking leads desiring and if there isn’t anybody she’ll handle it. Slow, she loves drawing out her own pleasure, loves to feel that rise but stops before it’s too close. She’ll do that, edge herself a little bit more before biting down on her lip to muffle a more particular louder cry.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Both. She lives for giving it and she loves to receive it. She is just, wow, so incredibly good at it, she’s goes about it in such erotic and passionate way and if you’re not looking like you are being possessed by the devil then she up’s her game to make sure that happens. You can squeeze her head with your thighs all you want, she’s built different lol she can handle it. Don’t yank to much on her hair though, claw at her all you want but easy on the do.

She’s had a few inexperienced lovers which she has to guide when they want to go down on her. She’s very particular of what and how she likes it, but she’s patient enough to teach you.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

I’ll do you one better, https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMRSKhUoh/

⚙️Heisenberg⚙️

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and on the other)

https://hagelpaimon.tumblr.com/post/661063110466158592/i-wonder-wonder-who-ill-pick-hesi-baby-a

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) shout out to @imthegreenfairy88 for helping me out with this one.

The first few times he indulged in this he was very adamant in keeping it to himself and to himself only (with time and reassurance he chills out) but the first time he tried doing ‘back door’ stuff on himself he was very surprised about how good it fucking felt and every so often he indulged in it. There’s an occasion where he ends up in bed with some tourist, gun to his head he doesn’t remember their name but he sure fucking remember the blow job and fingering combo that they gave him that had him seeing fucking stars. He tensed up at first was about to say something but they crooked their fingers just right and swallowed his cock at the same time and words were out the window along with thoughts.

He was so far gone that it didn’t cross his mind that when he begged for another finger, he gave himself away and if their eyes weren’t indication of how delighted they had been, feeling two more additional fingers really proved the point.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

I mean I’m saying yea, he has to get creative with it sometimes so as to not get bored, but he picks up a few things he enjoys (he is creative after all) he’s definitely ruined his fair share of pillows, loves rutting into them. He has beat off probably in any section of the factory but shower is better for clean up. He for sure has done it outside of the factory, probably relaxing on a chair and if the weather is nice enough, it’s not like anybody is gonna suddenly drop by. He likes a tight closed fist when he’s close but enjoys a teasing touch to start things off, really enjoys grabbing his balls when he does it. Very messy messy boy when he cums.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

This man blows you like his life depends on it. VERY sloppy but it’s really hot, it’s how eager he is about it and how willing he is to suffocate and or choke on it. He’s told you to sit on his face multiple times at multiple moments of the day. He loves the taste of you, loves feeling suffocated by your thighs. You know what they about big noses too 🥴🥴

As for receiving he likes to dish out what he takes. So expect some rough mouth fucking, he will make you gag, he will make you all teary eyed cause he enjoys it. He’s fine with it without to be honest, he much prefers to be balls deep in you but if you enjoy doing it then expect hip thrusting.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Not super loud, but he isn’t mute. He groans and moans but he’s also a talker so expect a lot dirty talk. His voice drops in a way when he’s fucking you that it makes your toes curl. He’s all breathy pants when he’s close. Lots and lots of cuss words.

👾Donnie💜

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and on the other)

https://hagelpaimon.tumblr.com/post/661063462078889985/b-body-part-their-favourite-body-part-of-theirs

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He likes the taste of his own cum.

He denies it, really denies it, just says it’s his way of cleaning you up after a nice romp but he really has a way of proving the opposite. Donnie has ‘finished’ on you in every way shape or form. On your stomach, back, face etc you name and each time he has cleaned you up he’s either wiped it up and sucked on his fingers or he’s just full blown licked it off of you.

And there is something so disgustingly erotic about that you haven’t or don’t want to call him out on it. You’ve gone down on his multiple times and he very eager to kiss you after your done. One time you purposefully left some on your chin and lips to see if he’d clean it up first but nah, kissed the heck out of you. His favorite is cumin in you and then going down on you. The first time he did that, it was enough to make your toes curl till they cracked and just as you were about to say something he was yanking another orgasm from you. The combined taste of his and yours release? Fuck now that was his favorite.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Does it and does it often. He’s not prudish about it, it’s free oxytocin and for a guy who’s convinced he’s never gonna get a shot at being with somebody physically, might as well practice some self love.

Loves visual stimulation but he’s really into audio stimuli. Likes those audios where he feels he’s there with the person or the ones where they give instructions. Donnie is really into edging and if he’s got the time and privacy he can literally edge himself for a couple of hours. Has at times managed hands free orgasms. Has made cock sleeves or basically fleshlights (ah ingenuity), can have his moments where he’s super slow and teasing about it, light strokes and all that. Can also have moments where he basically fucks his fist to the point of making some pretty obscene wet noises. If listening to audios or watching videos he really loves trying to cum at the same time as the person in the vid or audio. Has a bottle of lotion right on the desk but that shit is so cluttered with stuff that nobody has picked up on it and honestly it’s kinda funny.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

GIVE GIVE GIVE.

Oh my lord is he OBSESSED with giving oral. It’s such a big turn on for him. He just loves how intimate it is, he loves how he’s giving you pleasure in such an intimate position. LOVES over stimulating with his mouth, loves feeling thighs trying to break his head, happy to die down the suffocated in his favorite place, loves feeling a hand at the back of his head and pushing him in further.

He’s not crazy about receiving cause he knows his size is a challenge but he’s not opposed to it, he much rather get a hand job from you.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Loud and not afraid about it. He enjoys the fuck out of it and is going to be vocal about it unless it’s adamant to be quiet because people are around. His churrs are really nice, deep but not as baritone as say Raph’s, but they feel and sound so good.

#tmnt bayverse #re8 village #donnie #heisenberg #alcina dimitrescu #lady d #lady dimitrescu #tmnt Donatello #Karl Heisenberg #lord heisenberg #tmnt Donnie #Donatello #ns*w alphabet #ask #dianounais

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cricketnationrise · 9 months

Text

3:00am, haus kitchen

@darthlivion/@transwicky - tumblr apparently ate your ask, but luckily I copied it into a google doc! have some olliewicks words for your table 💜🦗

want your own ficlet? my followers can prompt their own with these guidelines

🏒🏒🏒🏒

The Haus is still for once.

The kegster had wound down around one in the morning, the last hangers on gently but firmly ushered out the door by the lethal combination of Bitty’s implacable Southern manners and the looming presence of Ransom and Holster, standing just behind him. Even the most devoted partiers caved in the face of such a menacing one-two punch. (Everyone also knows that Bitty’s the scarier part of that combination—Holster and Ransom are just the muscle.)

Jack had been in bed by ten. Shitty and Lardo had disappeared to the reading room around midnight. Holster had piggy-backed Ransom up the stairs to the attic just before the Frogs left, Chowder held up between the ever-bickering Nursey and Dex as they stumbled back to their dorm. He and Ollie were the only ones crashing at the Haus tonight since tomorrow was their designated Bake Tester/Bitty Bonding day. Ever since Bitty had moved in, Ollie and Wicky and Bitty had to schedule their trio bonding time. It was depressing, having to schedule what was once as easy as calling across the hall from their dorm to his, but now they were guaranteed first crack at Bitty’s baked goods.

Ollie himself had conked out on the couch before the frogs left. Normally Wicky would be right there with him, buried in a blanket nest on the floor, but he’s too fucking wired. He wishes he could say it’s the result of whatever Shitty had dumped in the tub juice this time around, but he knows better. He’s not thinking about the why though. He can’t. If he looks at it too closely, he might explode.

So he cleans instead.

Wicky picks up solo cups and empty cans and soggy confetti (who let Shitty have access to a bunch of party poppers?). He sops up puddles of mystery liquid and gathers lost hoodies and hats and socks (Socks? Who is going barefoot at a kegster?) to put in the box of the porch once the sun comes up. The set of car keys he finds, he pins to the corkboard—Ransom or Holster will know whose keys they are and can get them back to their owner. Wicky wipes the stickiness off the kitchen counters and table and sweeps the floor. He’s just bagging up the trash when a soft, concerned Wicky? comes from the doorway.

He spins to see Ollie in the doorway, looking adorably confused as he hides a yawn in his shoulder.

“Thought you were asleep, Ollie,” he says, quietly so he doesn’t wake the rest of the Haus.

“I thought you were gon’ sleep. What’re you doin’?”

“Just too amped from the party, I think. Got a jump on the clean up. Figure Bitty would appreciate—”

“Wicky.” Ollie cuts him off, mid-ramble. “Was it— Are you—” he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Should I back off?”

Wicky’s mouth goes dry. Apparently Ollie doesn’t want to let him continue to ignore the root cause of his restlessness. Rude of him, but it sort of sounds like—

“Back off?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You were right there next to me on the dance floor.”

Wicky gulps. “You— you weren’t just…”

“Jesus fucking christ, Wicky. I wasn’t just anything when I pulled you against me by the back of your neck. I wanted you pressed as close as possible. I thought you wanted that, too.”

“Oh.”

“But it clearly made you uncomfortable enough that you’re cleaning at three in the morning, so. Do you want me to back off?” Ollie repeats, meeting his eyes squarely.

“Just, to confirm, or whatever. You were flirting with me tonight?”

“I’ve been flirting with you for weeks, Pace.” He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Or trying to anyway. I couldn’t really get a read on whether you were flirting back or not. Tonight was a chance to see if you would.”

“Oh.”

In the quiet that stretches between them, Wicky can’t hear anything but the thundering of his heartbeat in his ears. Ollie has been flirting with him. For weeks. Flirting with him.

“I’m really gonna need you to say someth—mphff.”

Wicky cuts Ollie’s words off with a kiss. He pulls Ollie as close as possible, deliberately mirroring their positions from earlier tonight. He’s got one hand on his waist, the other cupping the back of Ollie’s neck, holding him firmly in place. He’s not sure how long they kiss for, only that it feels fucking amazing, his best friend matching every movement of his mouth. It feels sheets warm from the dryer—safe and comfortable, lived in.

He kind of never wants it to stop.

#cricket writes #omgcp #ficlet fest 500 #darthlivion #transwicky #check please

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tennessoui · 3 years

Note

You kind of already did 31 but pleaseeeeeeee

these ficlets keep getting longer ffs this is 2k

31. One is a sex worker, the other is a client AU

anakin's had his turn as a sex worker in my writing so it's Obi-Wan this time, paired with Vaderkin and i made it more dark than I thought would happen whoops but. warnings are: probably bordering extremely dubious consent even though no sex happens and this is just the lead up. a brief reference to underage sex work, though absolutely nothing comes of it. and vaderkin being a bit creepy.

There is a saying among the workers at the Establishment: if the imperial palace calls for you, you should hope the person that is displayed next to you is prettier.

Obi-Wan has never bought into prayers of any kind and this saying is only ever said with something akin to a worshipful dread. Still, when Ahsoka drapes a cloak of red around his shoulders and whispers those words to him—“May the others be your betters”—he thinks for a second about the nature of prayer and of hope and the futility of both in this galaxy.

“Don’t worry, little ‘Soka,” he smiles from under the cloak’s hood. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake.” He is, after all, one of the oldest workers here, makes most of his money these days tending bar and running the front desk, called in to serve mostly for virgin customers who want a gentler and more experienced hand to guide them in the art of pleasure. He doesn’t think any of the words could be used to describe the Emperor Vader, can’t see the imposing black-suited man interested in the art of pleasure.

Ahsoka can’t look him in the eye, but she hugs him tightly as he boards the shuttle that will take him to the Palace.

The ride there is quiet. Obi-Wan tries to avoid as many glances from the other people as he gives to them. Most of them are young, human. He seems to be the only male above 40. His chances are good.

Maybe he hadn’t been lying to Ahsoka. Maybe, truly, his name being included on the list had been a mistake

Something inside him hesitates though. He’d been out in the Upper levels a week ago, making his way home after one of his rare appointments with an old client turned friend. A child had fallen into the path of a small parade of speeders. A correctional officer had raised a whip. Obi-Wan had reacted on instinct, catching its lash with his forearm. The child had run off. Obi-Wan had stayed. He’d raised his head just enough, eons later, to see the durasteel outside of the largest speeder pass by his prone form, just enough to see the Imperial crest on its hull. Just for long enough to see a glint of a yellow eye from the window.

Bacta had treated his wounds, but his mind had not allowed him to rest easily, caught up in the memory of that eye--had he imagined the interest? Had he imagined it all?

And so to hear his name called tonight--the first calling since The Incident--had felt like the confirmation of all of his most unfounded fears.

Would tonight be the night he died? He had lived a long life. A rough one. Perhaps it is time.

Still, in the back of his head, a selfish, utterly human part of him whispered, may the others be your betters.

---

Those chosen do, often, come back. Sometimes they do not. Mostly they do. Obi-Wan has never truly decided which of these fates is the worse one. Those who survive don’t say anything for days on end, their eyes blank as they stare forward. Their bruises, if they are there, are easy to heal. But something is always wrong with their minds afterwards. And those who don’t come back...well. It’s hard to say what happens to them, where they go. Far away or down below.

Obi-Wan is forced to his knees in between a moderately aged female Togruta and a fairly young teenager. The boy is shaking. He can’t be more than sixteen.

They’re in the Entrance Hall. Obi-Wan has never been here before, but he supposes it makes sense. There will be one person who ventures further into the Palace. The rest will be dismissed out the doors that just shut. No need to bring the scum further in than they have to.

Distantly, like a funeral drum, Obi-Wan can hear the sound of feet falling, making their way closer. Just a single pair. He wants to look up, to watch the Emperor--because it has to be the Emperor--approach, but there’s a Guard behind him, holding his head down.

The footsteps are close now. There’s only ten of them--sometimes, Obi-Wan has heard that there can be as many as twenty or thirty--so the line is short. Vader paces quietly from the first to the last person, before stopping in the middle. Obi-Wan can just see the black of his boots if he flicks his eyes as far as they can go to the left. The boy next to him lets out a muffled sob. Obi-Wan wishes he could offer the kid some sort of comfort, some sort of reassurance that the Emperor will choose one of the other workers, a body more desirable than either of theirs, but there are no words to describe the guilty relief of a suffering passed onto someone else.

On some sort of invisible signal, the Guard behind Obi-Wan wrenches his head back by the hold he has on both the silken hood and his own hair. It’s far from comfortable, tilted so far back. The message is obvious. Submission is not optional. Respect will be shown through any means necessary.

Obi-Wan tries to keep the hulking form of Vader in his eyesight, even though to see ahead of him he has to close his eyes almost completely because of the angle. It’s impossible to see anything from the chest up, but he can still hear. Loud, mechanical breathing fills the halls. Vader stops at each person for no longer than five seconds before he continues down the line. Obi-Wan holds his breath, waiting for his turn. Does he turn his head as much as he can, to try and accentuate the gray at his temples? Does he lower his eyes?

He doesn’t, in the end, do either. Vader is wearing a mask, completely covering his face. He doesn’t even look human, except for the way he cocks his head slightly as he stares down at Obi-Wan. He feels flayed, just under the single look, but he can’t turn away either. He glowers up at him. Five seconds pass. Vader should be moving on by now. The fact that he hasn’t fills Obi-Wan with the sort of fear he’s only felt a handful of times in his life.

“This one,” Vader says through a voice modulator. Obi-Wan closes his eyes in defeat, thinks of Little Ahsoka back at the Establishment, thinks of what she’ll think if he doesn’t make it home.

But the boy next to him bursts into sobs and Obi-Wan opens his eyes to see that Vader’s hand isn’t pointing to him at all, but instead just to his right.

But Vader’s face is still pointed directly at Obi-Wan though, head still cocked. The question is as clear as if he actually spoke the words aloud. What will you do about this?

What will he do? What can he do? It’s the street from a week ago all over. A child is in danger. How can Obi-Wan ever live with himself if he doesn’t at least try to throw himself on the blade?

“No!” he says before he can think it through. The Guard behind him jerks his hair back roughly in punishment, but the monster in front of him runs two gloved fingers down his cheek, the pantomime of a lover’s caress. “Me instead. Choose me.”

“Quiet,” the Guard hisses to him, making him wince with the ferocity of the yank he gives his hair. Obi-Wan pants open-mouthed as he tries to think of an argument, of a single reason why the Emperor should not get what he wants, should settle for a washed up whore instead of a younger model. All he can think of is the moral justifications of it, and he’s not sure Vader would care for that line of reasoning.

“I’m asking,” he blurts out. The fingers pause from where they’ve been absent-mindedly touching his beard. “When has anyone ever asked?”

The Emperor takes a step back and seems to consider Obi-Wan, what he has to offer. He tries to preen, to throw his shoulders back and sit back on his heels to show off his body, but it’s hard when the Guard hasn’t let up on his hair. In fact the grip gets even tighter as the man behind him snorts a common insult.

A second later, the hand and the pressure disappear. Obi-Wan falls forward automatically at his sudden release. He scrambles away instinctively, even if that means closer to Vader. Vader who has his hand raised out in front of him clenching his gloved fist tight. Obi-Wan looks behind him at the guard who had held him. The man is scrabbling at his throat. Obi-Wan knows already it will be a futile effort. With Vader distracted by his execution, he turns to check on the boy. He’s looking down, refusing to make eye contact.

Probably for the better.

The Guard falls to the floor. The other nine Guards don’t move at all. Obi-Wan supposes there’s no room for loyalty in a galaxy like this.

“Come,” Vader says, running a hand through his hair. It’s a surprisingly gentle touch, seeing as that hand just took someone else’s life.

Slowly, Obi-Wan rises to his feet and follows behind him, through the twisting halls of the Imperial Palace. He thinks anyone could get lonely here if they have no one to keep them company. It’s so big. Obi-Wan shares his room with three other people, and he frets if one of them is still gone by the time he falls asleep.

This much space would drive anyone mad for another’s touch.

He blinks at himself, incredulous. Is he actually trying to feel compassion for the Emperor? Is it actually working?

The Emperor flings open a pair of elaborate doors without touching them, and suddenly Obi-Wan’s in the bedchambers of the most powerful man on the planet. And to think, he’s wearing mismatched and terribly darned socks.

He resolves to not ask Vader for permission to do anything with his own body for the entire night. He sits on the edge of the bed and watches as Vader takes off his cape and his gloves.

“Would you like to know my prices before or after?” He asks as cooly as possible.

“Your price is that it’s you here and not the boy.”

“Would you have wanted the boy?” Obi-Wan can’t hide the disgust in his tone.

“No,” the Emperor says succinctly. “But I did want to know what you would do. If you really were the same man as the one in the street.”

Obi-Wan’s breath catches in his throat. “Why would you want to know that?”

“There’s so little good left in the galaxy. It’s fascinating that so much is concentrated in you.” Vader reaches up to unlatch his mask. A cascade of golden curls falls out.

He huffs. The Emperor of the Galactic Empire thinks there’s not enough good in the galaxy. It’s at the very least ironic. “It’s a greedy galaxy, your Imperial Majesty--”

The Emperor turns around to face him, helmet still held in his hands. Obi-Wan is surprised to learn he’s just a man. An attractive man, certainly, young and almost pretty with a perfect arch to his lips and a roguish scar cutting through a thick eyebrow. If he had been one of Obi-Wan’s workers, he’d have taken him under his wing, tried to protect him from the clients who would have paid extra to rough up that face.

He was saying something. Obi-Wan had meant to say something else. Oh. Right. “Good cannot be bought.”

The man in front of him--was it really Vader?--smiles, but it doesn’t reach his yellow eyes. “No,” he purrs, discarding his helmet and stalking forward. “But you can.”

#asks #tw: dubious consent #obikin #my fics #vaderkin #prompt fill

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pbandcas · 4 years

Photo

Hush little baby don’t you cry, Daddy’s gonna sing you a lullaby. Sweet little baby, don’t be blue, Please, my baby. I miss him too.

Angsty little ficlet under the cut <3 Read on AO3

There was a faint crying coming from the end of the hall that only increased as Dean got closer. He could hear Sam gently speaking but he couldn’t understand the words. Even as he pushed the door open and blinked, face devoid of all emotions, he didn’t understand.

Sam turned to him, brows knit together in sympathy and desperation. He was speaking again as he bounced the screaming infant in his arms. Dean didn’t understand the words. It was all just a pounding in his head and white noise in his ears.

But Jack— Jack he could hear.

“Give him here.” He didn’t recognize his own voice. And he would have cared more had he not felt so damn empty inside. His brother seemed to hesitate before slowly approaching to pass him the crying Jack. The second Dean’s hands wrapped around his tiny body and he brought his lips to downy hair, silence echoed through the room.

Sam might have said something. He might have made a questioning noise in the back of his throat. Dean didn’t hear it. He buried his nose in Jack’s soft hair. He breathed in that warm milky smell. He felt tears sting his eyes and he turned away. “Saw a nursery down the hall. Gonna see if C—“ he choked on the name and couldn’t say it “—if Kelly got everything needed for him.”

He could feel Sam’s gaze follow him from the room. He knew the look in his eyes but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Jack whimpered against his throat and he tightened his grip. “I know, baby, I know.” It was barely a murmur but it seemed to do its job settling the infant.

He found a papoose smoothed out on a new changing table. The soft mint fabric was perfectly pressed and Dean could only stare at it. There was a lump caught in his throat and a burning in his lungs as he wrapped Jack snugly against his chest. His hands were shaking and he knew there were tears on his cheeks, but Jack was silent. And his watery eyes were finally closed.

Sam found him what felt like hours later in the tiny dining room. “How did-- how did his body get here?” Dean flinched at the words, one hand pressing against Jack’s back, the other gripping the sheet covering Cas’ cold features. He didn’t answer. He continued his silent procession, Castiel deserved his full attention. Now more than ever as he gave his final rites.

Below his chin Jack let out a small, almost pitiful whimper.

It was only once the funeral pyre had all but burnt out that Dean finally relinquished his hold on the baby. Shaking hands unwrapped the fabric and passed the confused infant over to Sam. He didn’t look at either before turning away. Jack let out a soft cry behind him but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t look back. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. He fell to his knees beside the pile of ashes instead. He stared at all that remained of the one who held his heart.

Hands stained black, he tried desperately to ignore Jack’s growing wails. It was his fault Cas was-- It was his fault. If only he had stayed with them, with him. He would have been safe. He would have been fine. Had he just stayed in the bunker... he would be here. He would be here, not this crying baby who stole his place.

He didn’t take Jack back that night.

He couldn’t even look at him.

Jack wouldn’t stop. Two weeks later Sam was frantically banging on Dean’s bedroom door, Jack’s screaming, red face pressed against his shoulder. He knew his brother was begging him to open up. Begging him to just try and calm him… but Dean couldn’t. He wouldn’t. That baby took Cas’ life. He wasn’t about to give him his place in the family too. He rolled over on his side and pressed the tiny capsule of ashes to his lips as he screwed his eyes shut.

Tears burned his cheeks as they fell, but he couldn’t be bothered to wipe them away. He’d put the bottle away. Tucked away from prying eyes. Away from anyone who could take it away. Take him away.

Eventually Sam must have left because the screaming faded away. The crying never stopped.

Another week passed and he finally left his room. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to any of them. To Cas… to himself. It wasn’t fair to Jack. There was an ache in his heart that he couldn’t stop. A yearning in his soul that would never end. Pain filled wails met his ears as he walked toward the library on auto pilot. It was instinctual, the tugging toward the only living link to Castiel he had left.

Sam was hunched over the table, hands buried in his hair as Jack screamed from the small bassinet beside him. He jerked his head around the second Dean picked Jack up. Silence. Tiny bright eyes stared up at Dean’s impassive face. And there were tears in his own eyes and he refused to look down at the baby but he just-- “He’s all that’s left of-- of him.” And he left the room. Jack cradled in his arms and Sam’s concerned voice calling after him.

He only cried at night now. In the dark of Dean’s room he’d whimper before soft sobs would wake the hunter. He’d gently cry even as Dean picked him up and held him close. He’d taper off just slightly as choked out lullabies were pressed into his skin. He’d reach out and press a tiny hand to Dean’s neck. And Dean… Dean would let him. He let him cry into his skin, half hearted attempts to sooth him because he knew.

“Hush little baby… don’t you cry--”

This wasn’t a hurt that soft words could fix. It wasn’t something he could easily comfort. He couldn’t just kiss and make it better. He couldn’t just wrap him in a blanket and pretend it was all okay again.

“Daddy’s gonna sing you a lullaby--”

He could only hold Jack close and kiss the top of his head and bury his nose in the blonde hair. He could only close his eyes and pray the tears held back just long enough to get Jack back to sleep. He could only hope his infant found some semblance of comfort in his touch. He could only do so much when this crying stemmed from the same hurt buried in him.

“Hush sweet baby, don’t be blue--”

But he could only hold on for so long and as his voice cracked on the words, tears spilled down his cheeks. Because this was the thing Cas fought so hard to protect. This was the being Cas gave his life for. This was Castiel’s baby. This was Castiel’s baby and he missed him. Jack just wanted his father and he didn’t understand and he was hurting for it. He just-- didn’t understand that Dean did too. This was his baby. No matter the circumstances, and the heartbreak and pain it brought, this was their baby.

“Please, my baby, I miss him too.”

Thank you @evermorecastiel and @lobotomycastiel for the push to finally finish this with the widower arc posting yesterday after sitting on it for the past 2 weeks. Ya'll the real mvps.

#my art #my writing #spn #destiel #supernatural #widower arc #actual baby Jack Kline #dean winchester #dadstiel #cw: MCD #baby Jack

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drarrily-we-row-along · 3 years

Text

Veritaserum Prompt Fic (Part 6)

Notes: Hi lovelies- sorry it's been a minute since I've been able to work on this fic! If you are just starting this ficlet I recommend starting at Part 1 and reading through or just popping over to read it on AO3 (I'll try to post it over there as soon as it's up here as well).

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

"If you could do anything," Harry murmured one night while they were lying in bed after one of Draco's nightmares (although, truth be told, Harry hadn't been having a much better time trying to sleep), "What would you want to do?"

"You mean like as a career?" Draco asked.

Harry turned his head to look at him, watching Draco stare up at the ceiling, "Sure. Let's start there."

Draco hummed, "I always really liked potions, you know?" he said, turning his head so they were looking at each other. "I'd probably want to do my potions mastery and own a little apothecary or something." He shook his head and looked back up at the ceiling, "Not that anyone would want me to ma-"

He huffed, "I said if you could do anything. That means reality has no place in this conversation." He watched as the corner of Draco's mouth tipped up, "Besides," he continued, "Those people are arseholes anyway. And they're wrong about you."

The other man cleared his throat, "What about you?"

"Oh, I want to be a hermit," Harry replied easily. "I never want to see a single person that recognizes me again. Except maybe the Weasleys and a few other friends."

"Cheater," Draco murmured.

(Read more below the cut)

"Hmm?"

"You're cheating," Draco said, rolling onto his side so he could look at Harry. "You told me that reality has no place in this conversation but you're making your entire decision in light of the fact that you're the savior of the wizarding world. If you were just," he shrugged one shoulder, "just Harry, what would you want to do?"

He hummed, "I suppose you're right. I don't know, I like building things," he said. "Maybe I'd want to do that for a living."

Draco gave him a little smile, "That sounds nice," he said with a yawn.

"Maybe I'd build your apothecary."

"Oh?" he asked, eyes sliding shut. "What would you build me?"

So Harry started talking, telling him about the cozy shop he'd build with lots of windows and shelves, with a little counter with an old fashioned register, the cat he'd find him to sit on the counter and silently judge people's purchases. He described the work space he'd build behind, more sturdy shelves made out of dark, strong wood; a cupboard for the ingredients that couldn't be in the light; a skylight to help to keep the room from being too dark. Harry told him how he'd build him a glass greenhouse where he could grow his own potion ingredients all year round.

By the time he ran out of words, Draco was sleeping again; eyes closed, mouth open just a little, the corner tipped up like he was smiling.

But Harry was wide awake, day dreaming.

--------

Harry was out of bed before the sun was up the next morning; plotting and planning, making lists in his head of all of the things he needed to buy as he drove the jeep into town.

It took an hour and a half to buy everything and Harry stopped at the bakery to pick up fresh croissants before driving back home. Before he started, he brewed coffee and left a cup of coffee under a stasis charm beside a fresh croissant for Draco when he got up.

Then he headed out and got to work.

Draco was a late sleeper. Not that Harry blamed him with the nights he had (or in general, it made a weird little part of him happy when Draco slept in) but he'd noticed in the past two weeks that Draco usually slept until around 10:00 am. This meant that Harry had a solid three and a half hours of work in before Draco wandered out with the cup of coffee cradled in his long pale fingers.

The entire frame was almost finished for the greenhouse he was building.

"Harry what-?" Draco started.

"Hey!" Harry said, grinning over at him and grabbing his shirt so he could wipe the sweat off his face. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine," he answered distractedly, "What are you doing?"

"I'm building you a greenhouse," he told him, "Here, come take the tour."

Draco followed behind him and Harry stepped through what would be the door. "Right, so what we walked through will be the door," he said. "Then once I get all of the glass installed I have the supplies to build raised beds all throughout."

He moved into the first room, "The greenhouse is split into four rooms," he continued. "That way we can do climate control. I'll charm the glass to respond to your specifications; some rooms can be darker and cooler, others bright and hot, you know?"

"What?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "obviously the interior walls are glass, too, but fortunately I'd helped with rebuilding one of the green houses at Hogwarts, so I know a spell that will let light come through the glass one way but not the other."

He continued on into the back room, "And then I thought this might work for a studio where you could make potions," he said. "I can build you a fantastic table," he added. "I'll line the walls with shelves for storage, I think there will be plenty of storage space."

"Harry," Draco said, sounding a bit dazed.

He looked over at Draco who was standing helplessly in the middle of the room, cup of coffee still clenched between his hands.

"Why are you doing all of this?"

His brow furrowed as he stepped closer, "What do you mean?"

"The greenhouse?"

"Oh," he said, "Well, I dug up a garden outside this morning, too. You're right, some things will probably grow great here naturally," he conceded. "I thought maybe I'd try my hand at growing some regular vegetables, too, if there's enough room."

Draco shook his head, "No, I mean why are you doing any of this?"

"I thought you'd be happy," he said, starting to feel unsure. "We can ask Ron and Hermione to pick up cauldrons, vials, whatever you need and send them to us."

He stared at him for a long moment, "Why would you do all of this?"

He tilted his head at the other man, "Because you said if you could do anything you'd want to make potions."

"And so you just built it?" he asked incredulously.

"Well, yes," Harry said with a shrug.

"You're insane!" Draco finally blurted. "You're an absolute nutter, Harry Potter."

"What?" he asked. "Why?"

"Because the world doesn't work like this!" he said. "I'm a death eater, Harry! I don't get to have gardens, and greenhouses, and people who care about me." He covered his mouth with a trembling hand.

His heart felt like it had been crushed. After a moment, he stepped forward, "You aren't what they want you to believe you are."

"Who are 'they'?" he asked.

The corner of his mouth tipped up, "Everyone." He shrugged, "Your parents,your teachers, your friends, the people at the ministry, me. You are so many things and a death eater may have been one of them when you had to be, but you aren't now."

"How do you know?"

"I can't explain it," he said, and it's true he couldn't. He thought about it for a minute, "I don't, I guess. But even if you were, I like to think that if you were given the opportunity for something different you'd take it."

Draco was quiet for a moment, searching Harry's face, "I would have," he said softly. "When Dumbledore asked," he continued, "If he could have kept me safe, kept my mother safe."

"I know," Harry replied because he did. "I was there. And I was there at Malfoy manor when you refused to identify me, when you gave me your wand. Which," he continued, "I'm guessing you knew was the master of the Elder Wand."

Draco looked down at his coffee cup, his thumb brushing nervously back and forth along the lip and Harry had a startling realization. Here, in this moment when neither of them knew what the future could hold, with Draco standing outside in pajamas with his hair still a mess from sleeping and Harry in a pair of filthy jeans and little else, when hardly anything made sense, there was one thing that did:

He was falling in love with Draco Malfoy.

Before he could start to panic, Harry pushed the thought to the back of his mind, he could think about it later. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" he said softly. "About saving my life? About your wand?"

Draco's head snapped up at that, "I tried," he rasped. "They didn't believe me."

"You aren't what they believe you are," Harry repeated. "You're good," he murmured, "And you have a gentle soul. You've seen too much of war and hurt; let me give you this."

"I shouldn't," Draco whispered.

"You should," Harry replied. "Please."

Draco's eyes searched his for a long moment, "Alright," he finally said. "But only if you let me help with something."

Harry smiled, "Done." Somehow he knew that he'd never say no to spending more time with Draco Malfoy.

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

Veritaserum Prompt Part 1 Veritaserum Prompt Part 2 Veritaserum Prompt Part 3 Veritaserum Prompt Part 4 Veritaserum Prompt Part 5

#Veritaserum prompt fic #100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #sort of #sorry this has taken awhile to get posted #drarry #developing relationship #soft #falling in love #enjoy the sunshine while it lasts #drarry fanfic

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

Text

such a man as all the world

happiest of birthdays to the lovely @newnamesamecharlotte ! I hope you enjoy this “Romeo and Juliet” themed ficlet. I’m probably going to post a smutty follow up ficlet sometime next week :3

art by @mawbwehownets

Romeo and Juliet au - 16th century Italy but make it the Witcher - secret wedding au

tw: none, just cute fluffiness

Jaskier slunk down the alleyway with the hood of his borrowed cape pulled low over his face. The extra material cast his features in shadow and obscured his identity from the milling crowd of worshippers and merchants nearby. The last thing he wanted was to be discovered by one of his kinsmen before the marriage rites had been completed by his beloved advisor.

The high stone wall of the temple was cool where it had been shaded from the sun and Jaskier let one finger slide along it as he walked. He felt the tension slowly draining from his shoulders as he moved away from the bustle of the street and further into the shadowy alley.

With a bright grin and bouncing steps, Jaskier finally reached the door that separated the outside world from Friar Vesemir’s set of private rooms. It was an enormous stately door made of thick oak, which hung on three sturdy leather hinges, all three of which creaked ominously as Jaskier managed to tug it slowly open and slip inside.

He shied away from the row of lit torches lining the far wall and stuck to the shadowed half of the passageway, the bottom hem his over-large cape sweeping the smooth granite floors as he searched out his confessor.

“Friar Vesemir?” he called nervously, poking his hooded head into the door of the Friar’s antechamber. “Hello?”

From further inside the suite Jaskier heard the grey-haired Friar mutter a warning: “These violent delights have violent ends, like fire and powder which, as they kiss, consume.”

“You worry too much,” Geralt’s low timbre replied, serious but still playful. “We shall follow your instructions and avoid the main roads out of town, good Friar. Our parents shall not separate us no matter how desperately they try, and I assure you that no harm shall come to Jaskier. I swear this on my life.”

“Is this the voice of my ghostly confessor?” Jaskier inquired, stepping inside. As soon as Geralt’s eyes landed on the smiling figure of his love he rushed across the room to gather Jaskier in his arms, holding him close against that warm, broad chest.

“Geralt shall thank you for us both,” Vesemir said, waving his hand in their direction. He turned to examine his heap of scribbled texts and left the two lovers to speak in near-privacy for a moment.

“I must thank him doubly well,” Jaskier sighed, looking up into the golden eyes of his true love. “For without him there would be no holy union on this day.”

“Fairest Julian - my beloved Jaskier -” Geralt lifted one hand from Jaskier’s waist to caress his cheek, cupping the warm skin against his palm. The other arm he used to pull their bodies closer, until their chests were pressed flush together. The younger man’s plush lips fell open with a little gasp of surprise and Geralt felt the heat of Jaskier’s blush against his fingertips, “If our joy should be equally matched, for my own seems to spring from a boundless fountain fed by Aphrodite herself, then my heart rests easy in my chest.”

“With every passing moment I love you more,” Jaskier asserted. He wound his arms around Geralt’s waist and grinned brightly, “Your gaze is like the sun upon my face and I ache for your light.”

Vesemir pulled his ceremonial robe over his head and sent the two youngsters a meaningful glance. “Enough of this idle love-talk. Make haste to the altar, my children, and we shall make short work of your wedding vows. Melitele shall make two hearts into one and bless us with a glorious dawn, the dawn of a new era of love and acceptance within the borders of Kaedwen.”

Jaskier removed the cape Geralt had lent him and set it on the back of a nearby chair, revealing his wedding clothes to his appreciative fiancé. He turned in a quick circle to show off the white satin doublet and the baby blue trousers, the outfit he’d opted not to wear that fateful ball several months before. The night he’d met Geralt for the first time and fallen head-over-heels in love with the handsome, dashing White Wolf.

The only son of his family’s rival clan. Of course.

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand and brushed a light kiss to the back of his knuckles. “You’re absolutely breathtaking, my love.”

“Children, please,” Vesemir said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let us continue the ceremony.”

“Aye,” Geralt grinned. He took Jaskier by the hand and led him from the room.

---

“And now before the eyes of Melitele, myself, and holy temple spirits, I do pronounce you married.”

Geralt and Jaskier blinked up at the priest with wide, glowing eyes. The white-haired man quietly cleared his throat and asked, “May I kiss him?”

“It wouldn’t be a proper wedding without a kiss, would it?” Vesemir replied.

With a shout of joy, Geralt leaned forward and pressed his lips against Jaskier’s. They were husbands now. There was nothing the city officials could do to break them apart, nothing their parents could do to break the union and return Jaskier to his previous betrothed.

They belonged together.

Tonight they would ride north to Geralt’s family cottage, which he had provisioned for this exact occasion. They would stay there while the news blew over, enjoying a month-long honeymoon at the foot of the mountains. Alone.

Geralt stood and lifted Jaskier into his arms, carrying him from the ceremonial antechamber and into the temple courtyard. Vesemir followed, trying to hide his grin; a new day was dawning.

And it was going to be full of love.

#HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELLIE #geraskier #geraskeir romeo and juliet au #romeo and juliet au #geraskier fluff #marriage au #wedding au #geraskier wedding #geraskier shakespeare au #fluff and marriage #happy birthday ellie!#geraskier ficlet #art by signe

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haus-seeblick · 3 years

Text

Suptober Day 1! “Harvest”

My first ficlet for Suptober! Read under the cut :)

Pairing: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2,218

Tags: Fluff, Disaster Bi Dean Winchester, Daydreaming about hot farmers, Some suggestive language (and swearing), Angelic wheat harvest assistance, The Dom Brow makes an appearance, Sam Ships It, Mini Case Fic

On AO3 here.

“All right,” Dean announces as he stomps into the hospital room, trailing mud with every step. “You’re not gonna have a problem anymore, Randy.”

The man propped up on the hospital bed cushions glares at Dean from under bushy eyebrows. “Well, it’s about time,” he snaps. “First these-- these things terrorize my fields for weeks, then y’all show up and are so useless that they maim me after you’re already on the case, and now I’ve lost the prime window to harvest a year’s worth o’ growth ‘cause I’m laid up in this godforsaken facility. So don’t you tell me I ain’t gonna have a problem anymore.”

Dean sinks down onto the rickety plastic chair next to the bed, moving gingerly to avoid jostling his (probably) dislocated shoulder, courtesy of some extremely vengeful spirits. He fixes Randy with an even gaze.

“Man, I’m sorry about your leg. I am. The spirits had a wider range than we thought and we figured you’d be safe at the house.”

Randy snorts in obvious derision, his scruffy mustache fluttering comically. Dean presses on.

“But, we’ve put them to rest. Your great-grandparents aren’t gonna give you any more grief.” Even if the rest of your family did totally fuck them over.

He stands again, awkwardly, and pats Randy’s good knee. “Sorry about your harvest, though. Can anyone help out? Neighbors? Friends?”

Randy glowers. “I ain’t takin’ no charity.”

Dean quirks his lips and nods. “Right. Take it easy, Randy.” He leaves the still-grumbling farmer behind, following his own trail of mud back down the hallway. A tall janitor lurking around the corner sends him a death glare and Dean tries for an appropriately apologetic smile.

It’s been a real headache of a night.

The pair of spirits haunting Randy Johnson’s wheat fields ended up being way more pissed off than Sam, Dean, and Cas had anticipated. By the time Cas located the heavy brass key to the farmhouse that was apparently tethering the property-line-obsessed spirits to the material plane, Dean and Sam were long out of rock salt. In their retreat, they’d ended up waist-deep in a pebbly creek, splashing and wobbling as they beat off the screeching spirits with crowbars. Dean has an unfortunately-placed boulder to thank for his dislocated shoulder -- he went down hard and clumsy just as Cas reappeared next to the stream, the old key melting dramatically in the bright glow of his palm.

The spirits burned away in a shower of sparks, along with Dean’s dignity.

To top it all off, Dean drew the short straw to go tell Randy the case was closed, and he may have stomped off in a sulky huff before thinking of asking Cas or Sam to put his shoulder right.

Oh, well. At least it’s dealt with. One more night in their more-stained-than-usual motel room, and first thing in the morning they’ll get the hell outta Dodge (almost literally - they’re up in Osborne County).

Dean thinks of a bright July morning on the open road and sighs in relief.

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

He doesn’t get his wish.

“I just feel bad, Dean!” Sam protests as Dean gesticulates incredulously at him. (His shoulder was very pleasantly healed by Cas the night before, and if Dean noticed that Cas’ warm hands lingered a little longer on his skin than was technically necessary for a cursory dislocation repair, he didn’t mention it.)

“God, Sammy, yeah, it sucks about the guy’s leg, but maybe if he wasn’t such an asshole to everyone he knows, somebody’d help him out! It’s not-- it can’t be our problem.”

Sam crosses his arms stubbornly. “It’s not about Randy. His fields are part of a huge supply that feeds a ton of people. Do you want people to go hungry, Dean?”

Castiel chooses that moment to materialize directly next to Dean, his nose inches away from Dean’s cheek. He’s holding two steaming cups of coffee and Dean immediately grabs one. Cas squints and tilts his head. “Why does Dean want people to go hungry?”

“Oh my god.” Dean throws his free hand up. “Fine. Fucking fine. We’ll find someone who’s willing to plow the dude’s fields. That’ll be easy.”

Sam opens his big mouth, probably to say something about having faith in humanity, but Cas beats him to it. Still planted firmly in Dean’s bubble, he sends a puff of warm air against Dean’s face as he speaks.

“Oh. I can do it.”

Dean and Sam both look at him. Dean shuffles back a couple steps and wills his eyes away from the guy’s lips. He really spends too much time staring at them.

“Um--” Sam clears his throat. “You can harvest Randy’s wheat?”

“I can plow, yes.” Cas nods firmly. Dean’s first sip of coffee comes spraying back out. He pounds his chest and wheezes.

“Like-- like-- with a combine?”

Cas furrows his brow. “Is that a machine? No, I don’t require machinery. This is a very basic task.”

“Plowing,” Dean says weakly.

“Harvesting,” Cas corrects, tilting his chin down and narrowing his eyes. “Humans have been doing it for a very long time. I used to help, now and again. I can’t imagine the process has changed much.”

Sam slaps his thighs as he stands up from his bed. “Well! Look at that, Dean. Cas doesn’t want people to go hungry.”

Dean flips him off, but it lacks the usual heat.

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

An hour later, they find themselves on the edge of a vast, lazily undulating expanse of gold. They’d skirted the north edge of the field extensively while working the spirit case, since the activity was strongest there along the creek, but in his single-minded focus Dean hadn’t really paid much attention to the field itself.

It’s big. Like, squint-into-the-distance-and-you-can’t-see-the-end big.

“You’re really gonna plow all that?” Dean asks, glancing at Cas. The morning sun is turning the tips of Cas’ hair a chestnut gold.

“I will cut down the stalks, separate the grain from the chaff, and deposit the edible grain into a large truck, which apparently takes it where it needs to go,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “I visited Randy early this morning to make sure I knew which truck it was.”

Sam laughs. “Oh yeah? How’d good old Randy take that?”

“He seemed dubious,” Cas says. “And rude. I assured him that despite his unsavory attitude, he would come home to harvested fields.”

“Very angelic of you,” Sam remarks.

“So how’s this gonna go?” Dean lifts a hand to block out the steadily-rising sun. “You gonna be flapping back and forth? Probably not smart to let the locals clock an angel doing the harvest.”

Cas arches an eyebrow at him, somehow gazing down at Dean despite being an inch shorter. “I don’t flap, Dean. I may have wings, but their movement in the ether is beyond your comprehension.”

Dean rolls his eyes and turns his face away in a show of studying the field to the north, but mostly to conceal the flush of his cheeks in response to that eyebrow.

For Christ's sake, keep it together, Winchester.

“I can’t explain to you how it will look,” Cas continues, oblivious. “You’ll just have to watch. Anything you see will be for your eyes only. I guarantee no locals will ‘clock me.’”

Dean looks back just in time to see the tail end of the finger quotes. Cas is staring right at him, that damn eyebrow still up, a subtle challenge, daring Dean to make a move.

Maybe not so oblivious. Asshole.

Dean smiles sweetly and gestures at the wheat. “All right then. Have at it, buddy. Show us what you’ve got.”

With no further ado, Cas is gone. Dean’s left staring through the previously-Cas-occupied space at his brother, who’s grimacing with an air of great suffering.

“What?” Dean demands.

Sam sighs heavily and gazes out over the field. “You two are so weird.”

Dean’s about to respond with something really witty when Sam perks up and points into the distance. “Holy crap, look!”

Dean follows the path of Sam’s outstretched finger and his mouth drops open. On the horizon, at the far end of the field, there’s a cloud. No-- a mini tornado. A golden tornado. A… sparkly tornado?

“What the--” Dean cups his hands around his eyes like blinkers. Even with the glare of the sun blocked out, though, the tornado is just as bright -- a swirling, racing funnel criss-crossing the field way faster than a combine, or even Baby, could drive.

“Why is it-- what’s the sparkly stuff?”

Sam’s squinting too. “I think it’s the pieces of the stalks he’s separating? And they catch the light as they get tossed around.”

The tornado’s already halfway across the field, approaching them steadily. It’s about as tall as an oak tree, and as it gets closer Dean sees that Sam was right: thousands of little stalks and bits of grain and -- what had Cas called it? -- chaff are whirling and flitting amid the twisting golden dust of the tornado. The effect is a bit dizzying, kind of like that ocular migraine Dean had one time as a teenager, when an aura of tiny flashing spots obscured his vision, right there in his eye yet impossible to focus on.

He steps back instinctively, Sam mirroring his movement, when the tornado grows close to them. It whips past, blowing Dean’s jacket open, and where there was once chest-high golden grain, there’s now just dirt littered with aborted stalks.

“Damn,” Dean whispers. He’s seen Cas do all kinds of badass things, of course, but they’ve been more of the smiting and heavy-lifting variety. This is a new level of cool. In a farmer-y way. This, of course, leads Dean’s traitorous brain directly to images of worn flannel stretched tight over biceps; of a blade of hay dangling jauntily from chapped lips; of long, strong fingers gripping a pitchfork--

“--Dean!”

The pleasantly-evolving bubble bursts. Dean twitches as Sam elbows him in the ribs.

“Dude! Cas is done, come on.”

Dean blinks a few times to bring himself back to reality (a reality with wheat-harvesting angel tornados) and realizes that Sam’s heading north along the field to where a normal-sized, non-funnel-cloudy Cas is standing, brushing off his trenchcoat. Dean follows his brother and takes in the scene; the whole field really has been reduced to nothing -- just a flat, dappled expanse.

“Damn, Cas,” he says quietly as he reaches Cas’ side. His voice comes out strained and a little breathless. “That was some good plowing.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Can replies gravely. He tugs on his cuffs and some wheat dust puffs out. “It was an effective harvest. I disguised myself from mortal eyes -- including yours -- as I transported the grain to the truck, but I trust you saw the rest?”

Sam nods enthusiastically and launches straight into a barrage of questions about the physics and techniques and yadda yadda before Dean has to come up with a response. Yeah, I saw it. Yeah, it got me all tingly. That’s normal. He takes a few deliberate, slow breaths to calm the pounding in his chest.

Still tuning Sam out, he zeroes in on a single piece of wheat still stuck in Cas’ hair. It’s poking up toward the blue summer Kansas sky -- a tiny, trembling link between earth and heaven. Dean sidles up to Cas before he can overthink it. He slips his fingers into Cas’ wild, dark hair and plucks the wheat out.

He throws it on the ground. It belongs to the earth.

Sam falls silent with a choked-off laugh and Cas turns his trademark unblinking stare onto Dean. But this time there’s a slight crinkle to the edges of his eyes. A quirk of his lips.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says again. He reaches out and -- Dean stops breathing -- brushes another piece of wheat out of Dean’s collar. His warm fingers graze Dean’s throat and all Dean can do is watch the little stalk flutter to the ground.

Well. So much for a steady heartbeat.

“Hey, I’ve got stuff in my hair, too,” Sam announces, voice thick with amusement. “Anyone gonna help me out?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the enlightening piece of wheat and points a finger at Sam, leveling him with his sternest shut the fuck up face. He prays his cheeks aren’t flaming.

“If you need assistance, Sam--” Cas says, starting toward him.

“--He’s fine,” Dean interjects hastily. Maybe a little loudly. He coughs to cover it up. Smooth. “Let’s go. I wanna hit the road.”

Sam’s already jogging away before Dean’s done speaking. “I’ve still got the keys,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll warm up the car. You guys can catch up!”

Cas and Dean are left at the edge of the empty field. Dean rubs his neck and shuffles his feet, acutely aware of Cas’ piercing gaze. It’s nearly warmer than the morning sun. “Uh-- that was really cool, Cas. Thanks for letting us see it.”

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies, measured and deep. “I enjoyed sharing that with you.”

Wow. All right. Dean needs to get moving or he’s going to explode. But not before filing that particular comment away for extensive mental perusal later, in the privacy of his bedroom.

He flashes a grin and punches Cas’ shoulder. “Come on, farmer angel. Let’s go home.”

#suptober21 #destiel #minific #i had fun with this #this is the first fic I'm ever posting y'all!#happy harvest

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gerec · 3 years

Note

broken promise for cherik!!!

I combined the two prompts 'Broken Promise' and 'Midnight Lovers' I hope that's alright :D This ficlet follows some indeterminate time after the one for 'Bloody Teeth'!

-----

Pairings: Erik/Logan, Cherik Warnings: Mind control/manipulation, non-con, blood

Logan is already waiting when he arrives sometime after one, nursing a bottle of Scotch that's far too expensive to be on the bar's drink menu. A stubbed out cigar - only half finished - sits forgotten in a dirty ashtray shoved to the side, a rather uncharacteristic move for Howlett, given his propensity for those foul smelling cancer sticks.

Not that either of them have to worry about getting sick, what with Logan's healing factor and the foreign blood that runs rampant through Erik's body. It's what keeps them both young and healthy and nigh on immortal; Logan's mutation, and the fact that Erik has the blood of a thousand year old vampire pumping through his veins.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," Logan growls, setting the bottle down and grabbing Erik roughly by the back of the neck. They share a bruising kiss, devoid of any sentiment beyond lust, and Erik lets himself sink into it like he does each and every time he comes to the bar. Logan licks and bites like he wants to devour him whole, as though he hasn't seen Erik in years instead of the few weeks since his last visit.

"We're not doing this now, are we?" he says, when Logan finally pulls away, though not before rubbing his impressive bulge temptingly against Erik's thigh. "I know you own the place and all, but you've still got customers to serve."

Only a few patrons are left at this late hour, though knowing Logan, he probably wouldn't care even if the place was packed wall to wall; the man is certainly ornery and contrary enough to throw everyone out if it suited his mood. Instead, he takes Erik by the hand and drags him behind the bar, shoving him into the back and into the tiny washroom that barely fits one person let alone two.

"Don't you have to watch the bar?" he gasps, as Logan presses him against the sink, shoving his pants and underwear down with an impatient snarl. They're not lovers exactly - more like two people who occasionally have sex - and they've never been particularly gentle or careful, but there's something about the way Logan's touching him tonight that sets his nerves on edge. "What if they take stuff and don't pay for it?"

"Don't care." He can feel Logan unzip his jeans and take his cock out; hear him spit into his hand and jerk himself quickly before sliding between Erik's asscheeks. "You better hold on tight, darling, 'cause I'm going to make you scream."

"What are you--"

But Logan is already pushing in, slow but steady, driving the air from his lungs as he's inexorably breached. The burn is heady, and the strain just the right kind of sting, riding the thin edge between pain and pleasure that makes Erik's blood sing. He has to brace his feet to keep steady as Logan starts pumping his hips, clutching white-knuckled onto the sink as he's vigorously - ruthlessly - pummelled.

"It's good, isn't it?" Logan breathes, yanking Erik by the hair until he can't help but stare at their reflection in the dingy bathroom mirror. "Oh, how I've missed you, my darling; my beautiful Erik. You've been a such a naughty boy, haven't you? Breaking your promise and running away...and letting this beast of a man touch what belongs to me."

He freezes, his body numb with shock even as Logan keeps fucking into him with almost vicious glee. It's been years and he's kept himself constantly on the move from place to place; it can't possibly be--

"Charles?"

Did you think that I'd never find you? whispers the voice in his head, as Logan unsheathes his claws and slices a fine line into his neck, clamping his mouth down hard as the blood starts beading on his skin. Did you really think, Erik, that I would truly let you go?

No, Charles, I--

And then there's nothing but ecstasy as Logan drinks and drinks and drinks from his cut, and Erik is coming with Logan's cock in his ass and Charles' mental presence all around him--

The last thing he hears is that voice, as possessive and darkly amused as ever, just as Logan groans loudly and comes inside of him...

I can't wait to taste you again, with my own mouth.

56 Valentine’s Day Prompts

#gerec writes #cherik #erik/logan #valentines day prompts #angsty prompts #@iwillshipyouman #@ikeracity

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