#warmup ficlets

[strangersteddierthings]

"Look, Steve, I don't have any bad feelings towards you," Eddie says, has been saying, talking nonsense, like he and Steve weren't anything more than fuckbuddies, like he isn't breaking Steve's heart. "I used you too, y'know?"

It's then Steve rears back like he been slapped. Or punched. It feels more like a gutting. Joke's on him, he supposes. Once again, he wants more than the other person. He wanted a boyfriend, Eddie'd wanted sex. Why does he keep trying? When Steve finds his voice to speak, it comes out flat and dead and not really like a question at all. "Used me. Like you think I've used you?"

Eddie shrugs, looking for all the world like he's not bothered by that statement. "We had fun, right? So it's all fine in the end."

"Fine," Steve repeats, hollow. They're in his house but Steve feels the need to leave, to run before the reality of how unlovable he truly is sticks inside him forever.

"But I think we should stop while we're ahead," Eddie continues and Steve wonders if Eddie is listening to him at all, or just saying his piece before he goes. Can he not hear Steve's heart breaking? "I want to... I want to find someone to love."

If Eddie's previous words felt like being gutted, these ones feel like cement. Heavy and solidifying. Trapping in the truth of Ever Unlovable Steve. He doesn't even feel heartbroken anymore. Just numb. Dead inside. He should say something encouraging. Let Eddie know that all he's wanted was for Eddie to be happy and loved. But words seem impossible, so he gives one jerky nod of his head. An understanding.

"Right," Eddie says, returning the nod before turning away, towards the door, "I'll just go now. Umm, see ya later, Harrington."

Facing the horrors of the Upside Down should feel like the scariest thing he's ever done but it doesn't. Watching Eddie walk away does. Steve should be able to hold it together long enough for Eddie to leave. He's the tough one. He can hold himself together no problem-

"Why can't you love me?"

Eddie whips back around, an expression on his face like confusion and anger mixed.

It's only then that Steve realizes he spoke. He hasn't meant to. He was going to let Eddie walk away but now his voice has been freed from the cement. His heart has shut down his brain it seems because he just keeps talking, voice flat and hollow, "why can't you love me the way I love you? What is so broken and wrong within me that no one loves me back? My parents, Nancy, now you. Why can't- I thought that we were- where did I go wrong?"

"What?" Eddie asks, and the anger is gone from his face but now he just looks horrified. Which is understandable. It's horrifying to be loved by Steve Harrington. "What did you think we were?"

Boyfriends. Together. Going steady. At the very least, dating without labels. But none of those very reasonable, normal answers come out of Steve's treacherous mouth. Because Steve can't seem to be a reasonable, normal person. He's got to be too much, too soon, too clingy. So, instead, he says, "In love."

Eddie looks like he's just received the worst news of his life. In fact, he looks a little sick. "Oh fuck. Jesus Christ. I can't- I thought- Fuck!"

Steve just nods along. He hadn't actually said I love you to Nancy that night at Tina's Halloween party, but he imagines if he had, the beginning of the bullshit conversation would have sounded much the same as Eddie does now; like anger and regret, the starts and stops. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have- if you want to go, you should go."

Eddie crosses the room back to Steve in half the steps he took when he first walked away, hands reaching to grab Steve's face between them. He speaks quickly and sounds panicked now. "No, no no no. I fucked up, misunderstood. I don't know how I got it so wrong. I don't want to go. I never did."

"What?"

"I am in love with you, sweetheart. I just- I didn't know you loved me back. I thought you didn't- that we weren't..."

"I thought we were boyfriends."

"Jesus, please let me fix this. Let me stay and make it up to you. I'll be the best fucking boyfriend you've ever had."

Steve thinks if he had any shred of self-worth he might step back, make Eddie explain himself, but as it is, he steps into Eddie's space and kisses him, hands pulling him as close as he can get. He doesn't want to think about the cruel things Eddie's said, about using each other. Maybe one day they'll have to hash that out, have that conversation, but Eddie says he loves him too, and that's all Steve's wanted.

[acowardinmordor]

I needed to warm up, so I did not plan, just wrote this, and I'm about to hit post without editing or rereading. This is Steve&Eddie more than its a slash

----------

It was a week after the rumors made the rounds about Harrington and Hargrove getting into a fight. Eddie would normally assume it was nothing but posting jock bullshit, and ignore it the same way he ignored what he overheard about cheerleaders hooking up with other cheerleader's boyfriends. Except a couple days after the rumors hit a peak, Harrington showed up at school looking like someone beat his face in with a plate.

That made a pretty strong argument for the rumors being true.

The guy avoided his old crowd, and despite his ex and her new boyfriend - if that rumor is true, there was some overlap - trying to include him, he kept away from everyone for the first two days.

Eddie put him out of mind, one less asshole to cause trouble, one less shithead to dodge. Not his problem. Until he found Harrington sitting at his table in the woods the next week. It made sense, sort of. The guy was obviously having a shit time, and like most of the locals that kept Eddie's business afloat, he was looking for a distraction.

Eddie was right, and Harrington bought some weed before asking about getting anything stronger.

"I don't know man, I just wanna like, not be in my body for a while."

"Fair enough, but I don't keep that on me.

Harrington showed up when told to, and bought enough shit that Eddie hesitated before handing it over. He gave the guy a whole speech about not overdosing and ruining Eddie's upstanding reputation. Whether he listened or not wasn't something he could control.

So, the next Monday, when Harrington chased him down, and, as best as Eddie could tell, tried to become his friend, Eddie's first thought was that it was a ploy to get his next massive purchase of drugs on discount.

But Harrington didn't buy again except for a bit of weed. He did stick around. Outright said he wanted to be Eddie's friend. Kept at it through January until Eddie, confused as shit, admitted that yeah, they were friends. Mostly friends at least. There was stuff that Steve wouldn't talk about; his headaches, his nightmares, his tendency to freak the fuck out if the electricity got weird. Maybe it was better to say that Steve was his study partner who he sometimes hung out with. Cause that was the thing, Steve was pushy about Eddie studying.

"You really want to come back for a third run at graduating, man? Fuck that. 85 is gonna be your year, even if I have to bribe the teachers to pull it off"

"Why do you even care Steve? Maybe I want to become a legend of terrible scholarship in this crap town."

Steve never gave a real answer about it, just kept pushing him, hounding him about his homework, and showing up at his trailer every morning to drag Eddie out of bed if he had to. Wayne thought the whole thing was incredible and gave the guy a spare key. Traitor.

They got closer. Eddie finally met the kids Steve babysat. They immediately decided that Eddie was much cooler than Steve, and ragged on him constantly about it. They were close. They were. Fell asleep at each other's places. Spent half their time together.

Close, but not close enough for Eddie to get answers about why the fuck Steve had bruises and burns and scrapes sometimes. Bad ones. No matter how many times he said it, Steve didn't get those because he got distracted while cooking. It drove Eddie crazy sometimes. That was a lie. It drove him crazy all the time. Steve would tell him about how shit his parents were, but wouldn't admit why the fuck he needed stitches at the top of May.

"You did it."

"I think you'll find that you're the one that did it, Steve, I was an unwilling kidnapping victim in your quest to get us both across that stage."

It wasn't graceful, literally or figuratively, but Eddie got his diploma in 1985. Steve gave him what he said was a small part of his grad present from his parents. A thousand dollars. A thousand goddamn dollars. It was enough that Eddie didn't put the dots together right away. A small part, plus Steve's crappy job at the newly opened mall.

It was weird. But Eddie let it go, because Steve was his friend, maybe could have been best friends if the guy would stop pulling back whenever they got too close. He let it go, and he let Steve push him towards the goal of getting the fuck out of that town, and he promised he'd call when he got to Chicago.

It didn't really click for Eddie until he heard about the mall burning down from Wayne, that Steve never promised that he'd call too. The guy was there, and when Eddie called and demanded to know if he was okay, got another partial answer, another dodge, another thing for the list of shit his friend wouldn't talk about.

They fought about it. Loud enough as Eddie shouted into the phone that his neighbor banged on the wall. Maybe Eddie crossed a line. Maybe he crossed it a long while back. He didn't know. Eddie kept calling until September, but on the rare times that Steve answered, it was awkward and curt and terrible. He stopped trying when Wayne told him that Steve never stopped by, or even waved when they crossed paths.

Steve wanted it over, and it was so fucking weird. The guy slammed into Eddie's life out of nowhere, shifted it, changed the course, cause there was no way in hell Eddie would have graduated if it wasn't for Steve forcing him to try. The guy did all that, and nine months later, was gone again. Out of his life.

It was a week after new rumors reached him in February of 86 that a package arrived. His uncle called outside their normal plans, and said it wasn't sure yet, that there wasn't any proof, but Steve was missing, and some of those kids of his said he'd saved their lives. Said that he wasn't going to come back. Wayne didn't really understand what it meant, but passed on a message from those kids that they'd answer when he called.

Eddie got a box a week after finding out that Steve was gone, full of letters. Long, detailed, apologetic letters. The first was dated in December of 84, written after Steve spent a weekend 'out of his body' just like he wanted to be. The promises at the start didn't make sense. Steve said he'd save him. Steve said he'd make sure he got out. The apologies got more complex. Something about keeping Eddie away from friends he'd never make. About being selfish. About keeping secrets and lying when all he really wanted was to tell Eddie everything.

It was so fucking weird.

The last one was dated a couple days before things went bad in Hawkins, longer than all of the others. Monsters and nightmares and death and chance to make it right. Apologies for not doing it better, doing it sooner. For not wanting to risk it, for pushing Eddie away. Promises that Steve would call him as soon as it was over, that he was only writing this just in case. That it wouldn't ever be sent, and he'd burn the whole box after they won. Then he'd drive up and apologize in person, explain it in person, fix it, because Eddie meant more to him that Steve had ever let show, and he wanted to make it right.

At the bottom was a post script.

"Eds, If it doesn't work out, call this number, and ask for Robin. She knows the whole thing. She'll help. So will the kids. I hope you never read this. So I'm sorry if you are."

[thebahwrites]

Slider & Mav + shovel talk...

Slider & Maverick - Shovel Talk (But I'm gonna surprise you <3)

Ron thinks he should be thankful that things worked out between Tom and Pete; it took them long enough after the Layton rescue but he thinks he should be thankful — if it had gone over a year, he'd probably start ripping his hair out. It was even worse not having Goose around to suffer along with but those were thoughts to be buried and not brought up again; the kind that led nowhere and only made him sad to begin with because what else there was to deal?

(Maybe he'd deal with it by himself and a bottle of Jack, when no one was looking.)

But right now, Slider found himself sitting besides Ice who was going over some reports ever so absently, muttering to himself things pertaining to their latest training hop - teaching at Top Gun wasn't a bad place to be so he didn't mind some of these more slowly-trickling days. "What d'you think about Matador Beach?" Tom finally speaks up when Ron was almost dozing off, laying on the couch, he blinks slowly.

"Like... as a place in general or..?" Ice grunts out a small laugh.

"For a date, Kerner." Oh, right, yeah, it made sense. Scratching the side of his neck, all Ron does is shrug, not really thinking too much about it.

"I guess it's fine if you like beaches? Like a picnic or something, right?" Between the two of them, Ron was more impulsive where Tom held back so his dates tended to be a lot less planned than the other's.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Ice shrugs with that typical self-confidence of his and goes back to pour over his reports. Slider's eyes narrow as he realizes he should probably make sure this whole thing doesn't blow over Ice's face. Not that his friend needs protecting but it's always good to secure and Maverick was a damn menace who often needed corralling so a shovel talk, before things got super serious between those two idiots, was more than due.

It wasn't hard to find Maverick these days, if he wasn't on the tarmac or the bar or the hangar, he was at Carole's. (Whom Slider had been avoiding like the plague and he was sure to get an earful from.) So it was quite easy to, on the very next morning, when out for a run to detour so he'd hopefully find Mitchell there; which he did.

What Ron did not expect was to find said man just sitting on the front steps of the house, staring emptily into the distance with a blank expression and slouched shoulders. For someone who was, quite frankly not particularly tall or big - Maverick often took up a lot of damn space. So much so it was easy to forget the inches he lacked in height, making up for it being loud and brash and seemingly larger than life. The kind to not let himself get hit by anything and even if he did, brushing it off like water off a duck's back. Hell, he had come out of a tragedy into a rescue with what, a week to spare?

(Impressive was the right word but Slider would be damned to say it.)

He stands there, at the corners of the fence, watching Mitchell for a moment longer. In his USNA threadbare shirt and running shorts, the man doesn't move for a good while, like he's bracing himself for something, drawing sharp breaths and then burying his face against the back of a knee.

Ron decides to step back, seems like a bad moment.

Then every moment after that seems like a bad moment.

Maybe because he had never tried to pay close attention to Pete until now or maybe because he had never had the chance, always surrounded by others and the very very least Ice was always there too. Maybe he had never really tried to read more than just their regular banter but in the following days, looking for a breach, Slider realizes just how stupidly vulnerable Maverick is. How he keeps fighting uphill to stand taller than everyone, how he keeps his chin up taking hit after hit both metaphorically and physically when it comes down to it.

Their stupid beach picnic date comes and goes without any kind of hiccup and Slider was still trying to find a way to put Mitchell against the wall but the more time went by, the less he actually felt like doing it. It felt wrong, like kicking someone who was already down and he can't quite put a finger on the why. Maverick was a damn runt, is what he was.

It's exactly a week after that, when Ron realizes why, despite all their bantering and picking and arguing and more often than not headbutting, he can't bring himself to be actually hard on Mitchell. Sure call him slow and overthinking, maybe he just liked to cover all of his bases before spurring into action but for once, it at least panned out when the lamp clicked over his head like a cartoon moment.

"Hey." He calls out to Ice, as they're back where they'd been a week ago but instead of lying flat on the couch, Slider is standing right in front of the desk, grabbing his pilot's paperwork to make him look up, serious intent behind it. Tom looks up with a puzzled and slow blink, putting the papers down. They'd always been on the same wavelength

"Hey, what's up?" Ice picked tone shifts easily, he'd learned how to read Slider like an open book and he was glad for it. It was why, and how, they worked so well together for so long. So he could read the very real seriousness on Ron's voice and the very real intensity behind his eyes, adjusting his posture to make sure Ron knew; he was listening.

"Be good to Mitchell." If anyone, ever, held Ron Kerner to those words, he'd probably deny it. Hell, he wasn't so sure he was even saying them but fuck it if he hadn't rehearsed it inside his head for a while now. Holding Ice's startled gaze with firmness, he held a rigid finger pointing at his pilot's chest. "Don't fuck this up, man. I know you're the best and all so I'm counting on you, don't make me kick your blondie ass, got it?"

Tom stared back, surprised and clearly speechless, a little bit like a startled fish with his mouth falling a little open; Ron wanted to backtrack because it felt weird.

But someone had to keep an eye out for Goose's runt, right?

[Send me a Top Gun / Top Gun: Maverick prompt for a ficlet!]

[sentientsky]

at the heart of every galaxy is a void; an empty space torn open between worlds. it's a consumption of light, of movement and warmth; a dilation of time, seconds fractured and turning in on themselves. he could walk the twenty-six thousand light years to the core of a galaxy he'd drawn from the silt of inexistence. he could stand at its edge and peer over into the depths of nothingness. and still, still, its pull would wither and die in the face of such desperate, hands-shaking gravity as a palm pressed to his own on a bus ride back from the end of the world. he would have let himself be devoured by the solar pulse of a far too human heart, let himself be run through, all sinew/bone/ichor, if only to be permitted to remain in that same orbit—the singular fulcrum upon which he'd turned for more than six thousand years. and yet. to be handed the same blade that sliced you open so long ago—to be asked, begged, pleaded with, to turn it on your own chest/to turn back around just before the sunlight hits your face/to turn yourself into the crawling, wounded thing that so often looked for nothing but a quiet place to die... well, that's something else entirely, isn't it? and so when the angel, with all his blistering antiseptic heat and amethyst eyes, returns to the scene of the crime, Crowley can't bring himself to speak. he lets the words gather and stagnate in his throat. and after a while, Aziraphale stops pushing. and so it's the end of the world. the shadows leer from the corners, the world turns faster on its axis, and still they're not talking.

[minhxiao]

a drabble for prompt #23: a kiss, hungrily dainsleif/abyss aether | rating: T | words: 743

“It was always you, you know.” 

The words distract Dainsleif so much that his blade slips and catches onto the pommel of Aether’s sword― he manages to dodge just in time to see the metal slice cleanly through the edge of his cape, but the strike is hardly close to anything vital. Abyssal power, dark and corrosive, a power that Aether now wields with the ease of breathing, slowly singes its way through the tattered fabric. 

Dainsleif’s eye widens as he slides backwards and strips the cape from his neck with one hand. He coughs up black blood. 

Aether’s eyes never leave him. His golden hair whips around his stricken face as an unearthly power blinks like fading stars around his form. 

It’s wrong. All wrong. The voidlike, shadowy miasma that trails behind Aether like a ghost. The utter absence of his presence, his warmth now completely barren, how when Dainsleif reaches out with his own power he’s met with absolutely nothing at all.

But Dainsleif still finds his prince achingly handsome, even like this. 

“Is that why you still keep me alive?” Dainsleif’s voice is hoarse, fragile. 

“Would you prefer it if I killed you?” Aether’s eyes catch against Dainsleif’s corroded skin, the visible evidence of his eternal damnation. For the first time, his eyes flash with something like regret.

“No,” Dainsleif whispers, remembering a time when Aether had once smiled. “I must live to bear the weight of all that I’ve lost.” Even you. Even if it’s unbearable.

“... Even if it’s hardly a life?” 

The way Aether’s voice just barely trembles at the end of his sentence causes Dainsleif’s gaze to snap towards him in surprise. 

Aether’s eyes are molten with anger, anguish, with… something. His expression is vivid with feeling. The volatile, swirling emotion that Dainsleif finds there is so familiar it hurts. Aether had always felt too deeply― it burned him from the inside out. 

“Even so,” Dainsleif misses him like it’s a curse, because it is. “I’ll live as long as you intend to, my prince.” 

Perhaps it’s those words that closes the distance between them. 

My prince. My sword.

It takes Aether all of three steps to reach him. 

My dawn. My knight.

Three steps before Dainsleif’s world bends as Aether drags him closer by the collar and slams his mouth against his. 

Five hundred years and Dainsleif is still so weak against his prince’s tongue. Centuries watching the world turn around his frozen past, his body stuck in time― and yet the earth lurches forward once more when Aether touches him again. 

The kiss is hardly chaste. 

Aether flips him onto the ground until Dainsleif falls willingly beneath him, their swords clattering in a screech of metal. Aether is not gentle as he pins him to the floor, both hands pushing desperately against his chest and Dainsleif feels like he’s sinking into the earth, limbs heavy with the weight of him.

When Dainsleif’s knee slides between Aether’s legs, his prince shivers above him like a morning star.

“Ah… Dain,” Aether gasps and Dainsleif hates how the old nickname stirs memories of unparalleled devotion in him. He wonders at the way Aether kisses him, fervently, hungrily― an invasive thought crosses his mind. All this time, has he been with another? 

I haven’t, Dainsleif wants to declare. Only you. As if his unswerving loyalty would mean anything in the face of their current circumstances.

But Aether has his hand grasped firmly around the back of Dainsleif’s neck, fingers curled into his hair, as if he is his and only his and Dainsleif can only gasp against his mouth, arms sliding around Aether’s waist. 

Dainsleif had forgotten what it felt like to be wanted like this.

“It was always you, you know.” 

It was dangerous. Because he was so, so exhausted, and one word from his prince with his lips against his could so easily tempt him to lay down his sword for good. 

“Aether―” Dainsleif starts. It feels like a sin, saying Aether’s name. 

But Aether only kisses him once more, hand falling to his burning, afflicted skin. It hurts distantly, but Dainsleif was used to the memory of pain.

Say nothing, Aether’s eyes tell him desperately. Not a word.

It felt like an order. So all of it, every word unsaid between them dies like crushed flowers in Dainsleif’s throat as he lies there, letting his prince kiss him and wondering if death must feel so sweet.

[optiwashere]

I wouldn't do another month-long challenge would I...?

[webbyghost]

shit. fuck. it's after 11pm i should be in bed

[the-broken-pen]

“I don’t love you. How could I? You ruined me. You took every shining part of me and ground it to dust beneath your palms, showing me the grit like it was a kind of adoration. So, no, I cannot love you.” She went to leave, and Clara stopped her, a hand on her arm.

“Wait.”

She stopped, chest aching. “Why.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it wasn’t quite the excuse Clara was hoping it would be either.

“But you did it anyways.”

“Sophie, please.”

“Clara, I’m not doing this with you anymore. I can’t.”

Clara let out something between a sob and a laugh, hand dropping from her arm.

“I love you,” Clara’s voice cracked, and Sophie knew it was a prompt. Say it back, Clara was urging. Please, Sophie, say it back, take me back, don’t leave me.

Sophie didn’t cry. She didn’t.

“I told you that you destroyed the best parts of me, didn’t I?” she said softly. Clara nodded, hesitantly, like she could see where this ended and didn’t like the destination.

Sophie tipped her head up, turning away until she could no longer see Clara at all. Just feel her, at her back.

She was not crying.

Her cheeks were wet.

“Well,” she said, and her voice was wet and it broke and she tried to pull the aching shards of agony back into place around her heart like emotional barbed wire. “You didn’t get the ending you wanted, did you. No fairytales, right Clara? No heroic endings, no sunset credits. No Pinterest boards or motivational quotes, because we aren’t that kind of love. You said that, remember?”

“Sophie.”

“You ruined me,” she said, and this time, it wasn’t an accusation. Just a statement.

“Sophie.”

“When you destroyed me, when you destroyed all of those wonderful parts, those fairytales and quotes and sunsets, what did you think you were taking from me?”

Sophie didn’t let her answer, turning to face her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she answered for Clara. Clara grimaced. “Because when you destroyed those best parts of me, you destroyed the only part of me that knew how to love you.”

Clara looked like Sophie had shot her.

Sophie wanted to laugh. She cried instead.

“Don’t you see,” she said wetly. “You ruined me, but you ruined me for yourself, too. Killed me so no one else could have me, but didn’t expect to lose me in the process, did you.”

Clara took a step forward, and she stepped back.

“No takebacks,” she warned. “No fairytale endings. No kissing in the rain. We aren’t that love, are we, Clara,” she spat, and it was venomous. Clara looked sick.

“I’m sorry,” Clara whispered, and maybe, just maybe, Sophie thought she might mean it this time.

“Regret is beneath you,” Sophie said in place of forgiveness, and she opened the door. “Next time, don’t destroy the only part of someone that knows how to love you. Leave that bit as you destroy the rest. But whoever you destroy next time won’t be me.”

Clara didn’t stop her when she slammed the door behind her.

Sophie never said her name again.

[decepti-thots]

Was it you, or someone else, who had this great post about how Prowl totally wanted Ostaros dead? It might've also included that Ostaros only survived because of the fact that Impactor couldn't do it and that Prowl hates getting his hands dirty.

Your only knows taraprowl from fics post made me think of it. Great post, btw!

i think it may have been me, if you are referring to this post. specifically that post is about how prowl's reaction to not being able to kill ostaros because he knows it's wrong isn't to back off, but to try and find a work around in Impactor; it's not a matter of not realizing that it's truly wrong until ostaros is right in front of him, it was a very active effort in full knowledge of why he shouldn't.

it's very easy to see prowl holding that gun, knowing he didn't do it, and go 'ahhh, see, in the end he didn't really want ostaros dead'. but the whole reason he gets Impactor to do it (without telling him! he refuses to even say it!) is because he knew from the start that would happen and tried to find a way to get around his own inability.

prowl is a really, REALLY bad dad. hah.

[youssefguedira]

haven't really had time to write anything in a while but i'd like to get back into it so if anyone's got any prompts they wanna fling my way. go ahead

[cosmicseaslugs]

will Villain Thirteen get a fic at some point?

Probably, yeah. The only thing really stopping me from making one is motivation to actually write. Once the stars align and I have both inspiration and motivation, it'll be over for you villain Thirteen enjoyers.

[shallowrambles]

After everything, the last place Dean expects to see Castiel again is in some trippy orange meadow with the sounds of screams and the sour aroma of death wafting in from the clearing. Cas’s overcoat-clad back is to them, and Donna Hanscum is hanging off his left bicep, saying something low and urgent.

From Sam’s party, Jack is cowering on the ground, too weak to stand and covered in meaty-smelling blood. Half the people arced around Sam are people Dean doesn’t recognize, and the other half are people who have younger versions of faces he used to know. He’s too stunned to greet any of them.

“I’m too weak to get us across that fray,” Amara rasps solemnly from her position behind Dean and Ketch. Guts stick to her hair like chewing gum. “And we suddenly have a lot more humans to protect.”

Dean looks up beyond the clearing to the warring shapes he can’t understand and the workings of which sting his eyes and crank up a high-pitched whining in his brain.

He tracks his eyes over to Sam, down to Sam’s young party, and back to the clearing again. Too nervous to speak. Unbelievably, Cas’s group of refugees is composed of not just Donna, but Jody, the girls, and some other young faces who look hopefully to him, like Cas can keep them safe against all the odds stacked against them in this Hellscape.

Dean sees Claire lock eyes with Cas as he turns, and something in his feverish blue eyes makes her shudder. “Don’t even think about it,” she warns, more angry than Dean’s ever heard her.

There’s a shhhk and Cas’s blade is drawn. With a stab of horror, Dean realizes that Cas is about to run into the hoard. Dean pushes his way past the disheveled members of his own crowd, nearly running over Ted and Maggie in the process.

He can’t even get out Cas’s name before Cas moves swiftly into the clearly, vanishing into the orange mist that Dean now fears is aerosolized blood.

[thebahwrites]

The prompt for IceMav was "AU where flowers grow on people. A person has their own representative flowers (most commonly grows from/around the head area) and other flowers grow on the body like tattoos according to flower language and their feelings/emotions. Tdlr: human emotion bouquets". 

I liked this one a lot and ended up thinking about it, warming up to write for the day so here's my take on it! (Not exactly the details in the prompt but hope you still like it!)

IceMav + (Personal) Flowers (Also it's long as balls so, cut halfway!)

It annoys Tom to no end.

It gets on every single one of his nerves, like he's a whole burn injury exposed raw. No relief, no cold water to sooth it. Maverick's eyes on him feel like an insistent pressure over those sensitive nerves.

And the worst part is that it shows. He can't help the showing. Suppressing feelings and emotions works externally and it works when they're all dressed and covered. But in the close quarters of TOPGUN's locker room, Iceman can't avoid the eyes.

Those damning green eyes that seemed to track his every move with a challenge beyond words.

But Mitchell won't say anything, despite being so good at running his mouth every other moment, he won't say anything. He'll be a brat and smirk, mouth something off to Goose just outside of Ice's ear range and the eyes will be right back on him.

Which, of course, in return, makes the stems of his flower markings crawl over his shoulders and arms - and if Tom were any less careful over himself, he knows they'd be sprouting thorns in no time.

What a pain.

It annoys him even further that Maverick wears his heart on his sleeve, quite literally. That green stems and assorted flowers paint his skin ever so shamelessly, like a living garden, the other pilot's back is painted with golden California poppies, pink desert roses, red dahlias and all sorts of small white daisies. Maverick is unbothered by the markings because that's all they remained. Markings. A public garden of human emotion.

Unlike everyone else, except for Tom, Maverick's flowers never sprouted.

Ever. Even when his arms, back and chest were covered in the drawings. And Tom, who'd so carefully keep himself to bare, thorny stems, hated it. So he had no idea what the other man's actual flowers were, they seemed to be all of them.

But as life and fate would have, Tom would eat those feelings and regret every single one of them. Standing right outside that same locker room, now in silence, he can't help the way his own skin crawls.

Stepping inside it's the smell that reaches Iceman first and it's so surprising he has to consciously keep himself from gasping. It's not one he's felt before, soft, fresh, almost like spring rain. Looking down, it's... blue petals littering all the way inside.

Like a heartbreaking breadcrumb trail leading in, those petals pave the way to a Maverick sitting inside, half dressed, G-suit at the waist, hands nervously carding around his neck and head, grabbing poor flower sprouts and crushing them mercilessly. His arms and shoulder, where they could be seen, a barren wasteland of markings. Nothing but unmarred skin. All of that garden now dead. Maverick wouldn't cry but he didn't have to. Iceman swallows thickly, standing there nervously, realizing he shouldn't be watching this.

Yet he won't pry his eyes away. He can't.

Looking down at one of those ripped buds that apparently had barely escaped its creator's wrath and grief, he leans in to pick it up. A myosotis. No. Tom had known that little flower by another name.

Forget-me-not.

He'd have expected Maverick's signature flower to be something vibrant and exceptional and annoying like him. Maybe dangerous even. A red rose. Maybe something poisonous. Not the little blue scorpion grass flower. It almost makes him want to laugh.

He doesn't. Stepping inside, instead, sitting silently besides Maverick, lips pressed together. There's no words for this kind of grief and his own brand of guilt. Tom catches Pete side eyeing him, wet, black hair spilling down over his bloodshot eyes.

"...what's the name?" The question comes from him and Ice doesn't understand at first.

He's surprised by Maverick's hand coming up, shakily and reaching behind his ear, plucking a single, lonely white flower.

Oh.

"Hellebore− Wait, Maverick... don't− don't touch it− it's−" "Poisonous." Maverick says in quiet awe, holding the white flower ever so gently in his palm. He brings it up, up so close to his face, ever so gently smelling the flower. "...winter rose, right? Suits you."

Iceman realizes, right there and then, sitting side-by-side with Maverick, watching the crown of deeply blue myosotis crawl around his head and die, shedding petals everywhere that he's a goner.

And Pete Mitchell was holding his heart right there, carelessly, in the palm of his hand.

[archie-sunshine]

Herding Cats (Fluffy Megarod ficlet)

I farted out this little megarod ficlet as a warmup for earlier today. give it a read if you like! No smut this time, just drunk roddy :] you can also read it on ao3

Word count: 1600~

Tags: Megarod, drunken shenanigans, gentle and caring megatron, domesticity

The idea of shore leave used to fill Megatron with an expected level of discomfort. They had found, however, that in this new dimension, there was seemingly no such thing as Megatron the Tyrant, nor Megatron the Warlord. It was almost more jarring not to be stopped at the door of the bar. Granted, even if it was a pleasant surprise, Megatron wasn’t exactly there to stay for long. 

The bar was almost more of a lounge than a bar. The room was filled with people of all manner of species, organics and mechanics alike, though most of them shared a similar size category, making it easy for a mech as big as Megatron to slip through the crowd relatively unheeded. He apologized quietly as he brushed around a table of smoking femmes, grimacing to himself as a familiar voice graced his audial’s range. 

“No no, see like- hic! See, theres definitely enough- uh… stability!” Rodimus hollered from across the room. He seemed to be shouting at Ratchet, who was at the bar collecting a pair of drinks. Megatron made eye contact with Ratchet meaningfully, earning a similarly haggard and tired look from the medic. Ratchet tipped his helm in the direction of their booth, and Megatron followed his gaze to a large circular table surrounded by several mechs from his eponymous ‘Rod Squad’. 

Tailgate and Swerve appeared to be snickering over a shared hand of cards across from Whirl, Cyclonus, and Nautica, engaged in some sort of game. Drift was languidly slouched against the back of the bar seat looking adoringly at an incredibly vocally overcharged Rodimus, who was rocking the table back and forth clumsily. 

“Y’should… go for it, Roddy.” Drift slurred, nudging at Rodimus’ leg with his pede as he pawed around for his tipped over cube of engex bouncing around the shaking table. 

“Yeah, quit moving the table!” Swerve jeered, before whipping his helm around to his and Tailgate’s cards as the other minibot made a play.

“Rodimus.” Megatron’s voice boomed over the din even at his normal speaking tone. Drift’s optics slid shut as he slumped to the side on the bench and grinned. 

Rodimus turned to face the older mech blearily, his face immediately brightening as he recognized him. “Mmmeegggs!!!” He crowed. “Oh primus guys its… fraggin… Megsatron.” 

“Rodimus-” Megatron started again, stepping closer to Rodimus’ seat. Immediately the speedster leaned out of the booth to lay his helm against Megatron’s hip armour. With a sigh, and a steadying servo on Rodimus’ back, Megatron turned to face the rest of the group. “Minimus sent me to let you know the Lost Light will be departing soon.”

“Yeah, yeah we know, he already sent us pings about it!” Whirl scoffed, waving a claw dismissively before revealing one of his cards and earning an infuriated growl from Cyclonus. 

Rodimus slung his arms lazily around Megatron’s hips with an easy, carefree smile. Megatron sighed again. “He said none of you responded.” 

“Well yeah, we’re in the middle of a game!” Nautica chirped. “We’ll be done quick, promise.” 

Megatron offered her a stern look. She returned his look with a devilish one of her own, waggling her brow ridges and gesturing to her own hand of cards. 

“Pfft, you’re optimistic.” Cyclonus muttered to himself, tossing one of his cards onto the table and drawing a low ‘oooooo!’ from Swerve and Tailgate.

Nautica grinned broadly, leaning her cheek into her servo and slamming her cards on the table. “Total. Fragging. SWEEP!!” An uproar rose from her competitors as she gathered the scattering of shanix cards into her arms with a cackle. 

“M’gonna get on the table.” Rodimus mumbled into Megatron’s plating.

Megatron rubbed the back of his helm gently. “No, you’re not going to get on the table, Rodimus.”

Rodimus whined indignantly and rubbed his face further against his hip. Ratchet returned to the table with his drinks in hand, frowning as he found his conjunx now asleep on the bench. “I’ll go grab some to-go cups.” He sighed, turning on his heel strut. 

“I’m getting on… the table.” Rodimus huffed, slowly beginning to peel himself off of Megatron’s side. 

Megatron laid his hand gently but firmly against his back. “No, Rodimus.” He soothed. Rodimus grumbled again. “We have to leave now.” Megatron urged. 

Rodimus released Megatron’s waist in favour of punching weakly at his thigh. “Lemme go, I need to get on the table.” 

“Do I need to carry you out of here?” Megatron lowered his voice threateningly. 

“You could NEVER carry me. I am… hic… a thousand tons. You couldn’t pick me up even if you wanted to.” Rodimus sneered. The other bots were packing up, though Whirl was determinedly flicking cards at Nautica’s head in an attempt to goad her into a rematch. Ratchet was pouring his engex cocktails into a pair of to go cups.

“Rodimus, please.” Megatron asked again. Rodimus opened his mouth, leaning back in and resting his top row of dentas against Megatron’s hip armour. 

“Ahn gunnah geddon da dable.” Rodimus insisted. 

Megatron picked him up and slung him over his shoulder at that point. Rodimus barely even protested, instead taking advantage of his new position to wrap his arms tightly around Megatron’s cannon barrel. 

The larger bot glanced around the group as they began to congregate in preparation to leave. He made a quick head count, watching Ratchet lug his sleeping conjunx over his own shoulder. 

“We’ll be on our way then.” Megatron confirmed, taking the lead as he made a path through the bar back towards the door. 

The cool night air was a balm, especially considering the heat of Rodimus’ frame over his shoulder. He could hear the rest of the group conversing behind them jovially as he lead them down the street towards the docking district. 

Rodimus squirmed on his shoulder, wriggling until his waist was draped over it. Megatron ignored his servos stroking down over his back to paw at his aft. 

“Oooo… you’re gonna take me home tonight….” Rodimus sang quietly.

“Control yourself, Rodimus.” Megatron scolded, attempting to school the affection from his tone.

“Yeaaaaahhh, down beside that red firelight… Ooooh you’re gonna give it all you got-” Rodimus continued, barely acknowledging when Megatron shifted him again to keep him from slipping off. “Hey- You know, Megs, we should like… rent a hotel room.”

“We’re going back home right now, Rodimus.” Megatron said patiently. 

Rodimus wriggled again, bringing both of his hands down on Megatron’s aft with a loud clang. “Fat bottom girls! You make tha rockin world go rouuuunddd!!” 

Megatron rolled his optics and shifted him over into the crook of his arm. “Minimus never should have let you listen to Queen.” He griped quietly. Rodimus just laid his helm lovingly against Megatron’s chassis, peering up at him with pleased, sleepy optics. 

It didn’t take much longer to reach the Lost Light, but by the time they did, Rodimus had begun petting Megatron’s chestplating in slow, affectionate circles and mumbling about how large his ‘tits’ were. 

“Night, Captain.” Ratchet sighed out as they went their separate ways. 

“Rest well, Doctor.” Megatron answered, adjusting Rodimus in his arms and strolling towards the captains’ quarters. For a moment he moved Rodimus entirely into the crook of one arm as he keyed in the code to their shared room. Rodimus took the opportunity to drag his glossa over Megatron’s chassis. 

“You’re going to recharge now.” Megatron hissed firmly as the door slid open, shifting Rodimus again to hold him out in front of him like an unruly animal. 

“What!! It’s only like-!!” Rodimus squinted, clearly attempting to read his chronometer.

“It’s late, Rodimus, you’re going to recharge.” Megatron insisted, stepping into their hab and glancing around. He frowned when he saw no sign of Minimus to assist him, though it really was just wishful thinking. He knew he was on duty already. 

“I don’t want to recharge.” Rodimus frowned. Megatron carried him across the unit towards their slab. Suddenly noting the direction he was headed, Rodimus valiantly began to struggle again. “I don’t want to!!” 

“You have to.” Megatron said blithely, tucking the other captain under his arm as he peeled the covers back. 

“Nooooooooo…” Rodimus groused, pushing at Megatron’s arm.

The larger mech gathered Rodimus back into both arms again and laid him down on the berthmat. When the speedster made an attempt to sit up, Megatron placed a firm hand on his chest and eased him back down. 

“Noooo…” Rodimus repeated, a little quieter. Megatron lifted his hand and Rodimus made no move to sit up again. He stuck his legs up unhelpfully when Megatron attempted to tuck him in. “Nuh-uh. I’m so sober I could do a whole shift right now.” Rodimus complained, slurring his words. Megatron just pushed his legs down and pulled the covers up and over him. 

“I’m sure you could.” Megatron agreed, nudging the blanket down under Rodimus’ sides gently. 

“I could.” Rodimus nodded, before his nose wrinkled. “I could so totally- mmh-” He grumbled, before opening his intake wide with a yawn. “So totally do a whole… whole week of shifts right now.” 

“Of course.” Megatron adjusted the pillow under his helm. 

Rodimus’ optics flickered, turning to gaze up at the older mech. His expression morphed into a pleasant, quiet smile. “Oh… hi Megs.” he whispered. 

“Hello, Rodimus.” Megatron chuckled, leaning down to kiss his delicate finial. He walked around to his side of the berth, picking up the datapad he’d left on the berthside table. He got himself situated on the berthmat and leaned against the pillows with a quiet, content sigh. Rodimus wriggled across the slab to him before rolling over onto his side, pressing his back against Megatron’s hip. Warmth radiated through the covers from Rodimus’ frame, eking into his old joints. Megatron rubbed a loving servo over the speedster’s flank, smiling to himself as he heard his lover’s vents go quiet and slow.

[jaynovz]

Expanded Info for Black Sails Kink Meme 2024

Hi there!

Since there has been a sufficient amount of interest for this idea, let me explain a little further how I think this will work and general guidelines–

I’m encouraging as informal and low stress/pressure of an atmosphere as possible here. Back in The Day when LiveJournal Kink Memes were common, it was very typical to see a prompt put up and filled within an hour. It doesn’t have to be polished, it doesn’t have to make logistical sense, it just has to fill the prompt as best as you can, sexily! It’s supposed to be fun. A bunch of fun, raunchy kink and smut to roll around in as a fandom. 🥳 🥳

So yeah, first thing to expect, it’s basically ALL PWP (porn without plot). Not to say that someone can’t write a full plot epic if they like, do whatever you like, but in my experience, a 4am fugue state smut fill written in a sweaty haze is kind of, the spirit of the thing. We’re creating ficlets, snapshots, tasty treats of smut with as little pressure to make it in any way polished as possible. Please think of this as, hmmm, a little fun writing exercise you do before you go back to your Big Serious Work, if that helps. We are letting loose, we are having fun, we are being deliciously, joyously, unrepentantly filthy with it! The tagline for the event is: “Get High, Jerk Off Three Times, and Write Me a Warmup :DD”

A prompt might say, for example– “MaxAnne, s2, would love to see the girls get slippery wet with some period sex, bonus if one or both eats the other out while she’s menstruating.” 

Pretty standard stuff, nothing that off the wall from my perspective, however, some folks might feel shy about asking for it for whatever reasons and so the anonymous format frees ppl up to ask for anything from: “Midshipman James McGraw getting caned in pre-canon by his superiors” to, idk, “full tentacle-y type oviposition porn where someone is being forced to come over and over again while being implanted with eggs by some giant plant beast on Skeleton Island (probably Silver).”

Literally ask for whatever smut you want~~ This is your chance, toss it into the pot! It will be tagged accordingly when posted if it’s filled, so live your truth, chase your bliss, know no shame, no one can see you~~

It is helpful when submitting a prompt to give details that are important to you, and the prompt filler will do their best with it. <3 So, I suggest giving a ship specification up front, maybe a vague timeline (season 1, season 2, etc), and then the kinks you want to see with a short description. Sort of like the MaxAnne period sex I gave an example of above.

Logistics and Structure of Submissions–

I have created a sideblog called @blacksailskmeme through which, once submissions are live (it will be open to accept prompts hopefully in March 2024), you may submit ANON ASK PROMPTS. I will publish them with a number and a link to the collection. If you like one of the prompts, simply post it through the collection with its corresponding number and then that AO3 link to your fill will be reblogged underneath the original ask prompt.

Simple as that! 

Follow the Event Blog, or the tag #2024BSKMemeFills in order to keep tabs on when prompts are filled. 

This makes it very easy for me and yall both, as there is no claiming process to trouble ourselves with. As many fills as are written are allowed for each prompt, simply write whatever speaks to you and I’ll be able to track the fills by the notifs on the collection. :DD

As of now, I’m planning to open prompts in March 2024 and keep the collection and blog running for prompts and fills both up through the end of Summer 2024. To respect the spirit of the event, all fills and prompts MUST be anonymous. Edit for clarification: The entire collection is marked Anonymous, which means any work submitted to it will be posted Anon. There is no option you need to worry about checking to guarantee this. I apologize for the initial confusing language, I have been learning as I go.

It still stands that if, after the event is closed, you want to then de-anon your work, that is your prerogative. However, it will mean you must remove the work from the collection, as the collection itself will forever and always remain anonymous.

Rules–

–This is an 18 plus event, please, as all of the content will be Explicit. 

–It is also a Black Sails Only Event, please no crossover prompts or fills. However, AU of all types are encouraged with our favorite pirates.

–All ships, all kinks, are welcome for submission, and the fill will then be tagged appropriately. If you have any questions on how to tag something, or just want another pair of eyes to confirm, you can always DM me <3

–Fills must be 500 words minimum of fic. There is no maximum and the fill is allowed to be WIP if you intend to write more chapters later. I would encourage that the content of the prompt be IN the first chapter at least before submission to the collection.

–We’re Gonna Be Nice and Civil!! No ship bashing, no kink shaming, we’re all mature adults here. If you don’t like something, then don’t fill it, don’t reblog it, don’t read it, pretend you do not see it. If you don’t like it, it’s not for you! 

If I haven’t covered everything here, or if you’re unsure about something, feel free to reach out to me either through the event blog or through @jaynovz <3 Also, if you’d like to help me out with the event, hit me up as well.

Thank you!

[thegingerwrites]

A little sleepy warmup ficlet 😴 inspired by this adorable post

Obi-Wan stirs only briefly at the sound of the door sliding open. He has been trying to sleep for hours and has only just fallen into a sort of halfway state between wakefulness and sleep. His thoughts began to circle themselves and then slow as the only indication that his mind might finally have taken the hint his body was trying to send. 

He shifts a little in bed at the sound of Anakin toeing his boots off and stripping away some of his layers. A wave of something calm washes over him in the Force, clumsy enough to almost make him yawn. What soothes him more is knowing that Anakin is back again, safe and sound and ready for bed. 

The mattress dips with the weight of Anakin’s hand and Obi-Wan instinctively lifts his arm to make room. Anakin climbs into bed and folds himself against Obi-Wan’s chest. 

“Sorry to wake you,” he murmurs into Obi-Wan’s chest. 

Obi-Wan opens his eyes blearily to blink down at the top of Anakin’s head. 

“Nonsense, darling,” he says, pressing a kiss to his curls. “Go to sleep.”

The Force suggestion Obi-Wan sends is lighter, more skillful. He hears Anakin sigh and clutch his waist a little tighter. 

In the dark, Obi-Wan smiles to himself and finds it a little easier to go to sleep.