Ficlet - Blog Posts

i’ve been writing a lot of i7 drabbles/ficlets lately, and I’m open to requests! (someone save me from the stress of college pls)

the two I’ve finished so far are Ringing Hearts and Morning if you wanna check ‘em out :)

Have a little ficlet of something lu, and I really like the idea of.

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Sky frowned, blinking at Wild as he hummed. Unaware of what impact he just said.

"I'm sorry, but you said that a person just, gave you the master sword?" Time asked, blinking slowly at Wild.

He nodded. "Yep. After I gave him 10 restless crickets.

Twilight shrugged. "Whats up with that? I got my master sword by defeating a poe."

Four frowned again, staring at them. "I have a very odd feeling that this is not normal, yet I got the four sword, though it was called the white blade (tempered) at the palace of the winds as well as, for some reason, the earth element." Four frowned, his multicolored eyes flickering with colors.

Wind nodded. "Yeah! I got my wind waker from a chest underneath a house... I don't know how it got there, but I'm not questioning it."

Time shrugged. "I got my Zora mask before I got my deku mask."

"Is that out of order or...?" "Yeah, it very much is."

Hyrule and Legend sat quietly.

"Well I don't know about any of... that, but once I got lost and got the magic boomerang before I got any bombs or swords." Hyrule tilted his head to one side.

"I once found a boss key out in the middle of nowhere. Really no clue how it got there, but Linkle got it." Warriors blinked before he resumed to sharing his sword.

Legend stared at all of them.

"Beetle did once selll me clawshots and digging mitts, as well as a heart container... for some reason. And I did get the Goddess's sword by crashing a chandiler..." Sky shrugged.

Legend blinked, processing what was happening. "All of you are a menace. I'm sorry, but Sky you crashed a chandelier?" a nod. Legend pinched his nose. "I don't exactly think that was the way you were supposed to get those items. I mean, yeah, I understand. My uncle somehow gave me magic cape.."

Epona snorted as all the links contemplated life in silence.

"Yeah, something definitely went wrong."

Ding!

Archangels Gabriel and Michael sat glowering at the nearby hovering screen. It was emitting chimes practically nonstop.

13:24:45: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) plastic cup to trash bin. 13:24:47: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) cigarette butt to trash bin. 13:24:48: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) plastic straw to trash bin. 13:24:49: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) styrofoam container to trash bin. 13:24:52: [Aziraphale] Moved one (1) left sock to trash bin.

“Why doesn’t he just miracle all of them in at once?” Michael asked in frustration.

“You damn well know why,” Gabriel muttered. Ever since that horrifying day that Aziraphale stood in a column of demonfire and then belched out a gout of it at them, it seemed that he was going out of his way to just piss off the management with incessant spam.

Gabriel sighed in relief when he saw that the onslaught of messages stopped for a bit. “Anyway. I was thinking that if we do want to arrange for the Big One™, we might want to–”

Ding!

13:25:49: [Aziraphale] Removed one (1) Swastika graffiti.

Michael glanced at the screen. Then she shrugged and shared a nod with Gabriel. “Fair.”

“… we might want to have you get a few more ‘contacts’ in low places, if you know what I mean,” Gabriel continued.

Michael took a breath to respond.

Ding!

13:25:58: [Aziraphale] Applied one (1) graffiti reading ‘Gabriel <3 Beelzebub.’

Michael stared at Gabriel, her eyebrows twitching up questioningly.

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “… well, now he’s just being petty. Come on, Aziraphale.”

Michael decided to ignore it and move on, “I may be able to make some arrangements. Even if the holy water didn’t work out as planned, the exchange was still marked as satisfactory…”

Ding!

13:26:15: [Aziraphale] Applied one (1) graffiti reading ‘Gabriel = Gross Matter.’

The two archangels scowled at the readout. “Something needs to be done about him,” Michael said.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows in a doubtful look. “Soooo… you saying you wanna be the one to confront him about it?”

Michael sat quietly for a moment, glancing aside nervously as she recalled the image of Aziraphale’s gleeful, hellfire-engulfed features.

“… on second thought, we have better things to do,” she murmured.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! …

13:26:49: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:50: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:51: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:52: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:53: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. 13:26:54: [Aziraphale] Created one (1) grain of rice. …

hihi!! as you already know im a sucker for kobd <3 and i was wondering if you could write some kobd angst from breakdown's pov 👉🏾👈🏾

Of course!! Set after the events of s2 ep7 of Aligned...

Breakdown was a tough bot, always had been. Getting roughed up was nothing new to him, neither was pain. But... there was just so much. Everywhere. He couldn't even decipher the readings at this point. Too many, too quick. Then, with startling suddenness, it was gone. Coherent thought fizzled into a series of flickering pictures, briefly snapping into clarity before blurring together again. It was an unsettling feeling, as though he'd been pulled abruptly from a deep recharge. His processor felt sluggish, static-laden. He was on the ground. Had he... passed out? And where had that Pit-spawned glitch gone off to? The forest around him was quiet. The distinct clack of her many legs and the smug sound of her laughter were absent. Had she fled? Likely... coward. He was not looking forward to reporting that news to his Master. First things first... he needed to get back to... to who? Had he come here with someone? Why couldn't he... think... The static returned, and he shuttered his one remaining optic a few times hoping to clear things up. 'She must have... messed me up good.' He needed to get back. Knockout would patch him up. He always did. If only he didn't feel so depleted. 'Get up. For frag sa-sakes. M-move.' His limbs would not respond. He couldn't... feel them. Couldn't feel them... oh. Oh. He needed help. Urgently. His comm wouldn't work. 'H-help... anyone...' Lights flashed ahead, a vehicle pulling up. 'Knockout!' Relief flooded through him. He could fix this... fix him. Visuals were bleeding together now, and he could hardly make out anything apart from the light and the shadowed shape of his partner as he neared.... wait. Two shapes... three... all small. 'N-not Knock- not Knockout.' Everything was dimming. He struggled to bring himself back, to fight through the fog. No matter how he tried, awareness slipped further and further from his reach. 'I have to get b-back... to him... Primus please...'

His audial receptors were beginning to fail, sound coming through in patches.

"MECH 1 to Sylas...."

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @ikeracity!! <33333

——— “You look ridiculous,” Emma says as she sinks down beside him, arranging her robes with an absent flick of her wrist. There’s plenty of room on Charles’ bench on the account of their fellow housemates pointedly refusing to sit near him even if it makes them cramped. “You’re turning yourself into a social pariah.”

“The game started half an hour ago,” Charles says without looking up. His Transfiguration textbook is propped open in his lap, incongruous with the rest of the screaming crowd holding banners and waving snake-shaped windsocks.

“I had to do my hair,” Emma says unconcernedly. “Really, Charles, you don’t even like Quidditch.”

Charles has to wait to respond on the account of Slytherin scoring another goal: around them, their housemates go wild, screaming and cheering as the Chasers do a quick victory loop overhead. “It’s not so bad. Just because my family doesn’t own a team—”

“Two teams, actually,” Emma says with a smirk, “Father bought the Harpies just before last season, remember?”

“Hey Charles!” A blur of crimson heralds Erik’s arrival, and the Slytherin section boos loudly as he comes to a stop hovering overhead. “Oh shut it, you cowardly pit of—”

“Don’t harass the fans, darling,” Charles calls up to him. “You don’t want to get kicked out of the game.”

Erik grins. It’s all teeth. “Anyway, watch this!”

Keep reading

Talia (singing, talking to Jason on her phone): Have you forgotten the lessons I taught you? He's still a threat until he's dead! Finish it.

Batman (connecting the dots): Are you the reason he does that?!

Talia: What are you talking about?

Ra's Al Ghul (smoking): Yes. I have a bunch of videos of them singing together.

Batman snatched the phone away making Talia angry and almost made Ra's attack, but Talia held up her hand to stop him.

Batman: Don't!

Jason (raising his sword for the kill but stopping himself): Oh shit, you're here too.

Talia: I enjoy musicals as well, what of it?

Batman: I knew it! WHY DO YOU ENCOURAGE HIM!

Ra's (in Arabic): La tasrakh ealayha! (Don't yell at her ass!)

Batman (speaking back in Arabic): Autlub minha 'an tatawaqaf ean altaathir ealaa abni! (Tell her to stop influencing my son!) Yeah I learned the language, jackass!

Ra's wanted badly stab the man, but walked off in a huff.

Talia: Don't blame me for him being a talented singer.

Talia held up her hand and walked off ending the conversation.

Batman (into the phone): Don't kill him!

Jason: But... I wanted to. I had a song for it and everything.

Batman (regrettably singing): What good would killing do? When mercy is a skill more of this world could learn to use. The blood we shed, it never dries. Is this what it means to be a warrior of the mind? I hated all of that, but I'm doing it for you, remember that!

Damian on the other hand clapped making his father more embarrassed.

Jason: The bastard sung to make me stop. Damn it, fine.

Took me a while to answer because I reread it multiple times.

"I would've stood in front of a moving car to spare him a scrape. I would've let the wrold fall apart if it meant he woudln't cry again." You have no idea how much I love Brian's desperate, devoted and twised sense of love. Everytime you write a sentence like this one it doesn't feel like repetition as much as a faithful rapresentation of him. And I love it everytime. Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

"I waited through the heavy ache of wanting someone whose face I saw only in my dreams." These moments. We don't have enough of them. The hospital. His time spent there, alone. They don't get used enough. I'd read an entire story about Brian's own perception of his time spent there. How he spent it. With who he spent it. And how much he thought about Dexter for those like 15 or so years he was there.

"My angel. My other half." THAT'S SO FUCKING SWEET OH MY GOD!

"He didn't remember me the way I remembered him. He didn't look at me with softness." How that HURTS! I can't even comprehend how much that must've hurt him. Poor baby.

"But I did cry when he lifted the blade. [...] And I wept a silent tear." Finally someone that noticed that one little detail!! I don't know if Christian meant it like that or there was another reason behind it but I could never ignore that single silent tear running down his cheek. It hurt the first time I watched the scene and it still hurts to today.

"Because if he needed me to die to be whole, I would die. I would die a thousand times for him." Exactly what I meant with my post about him being silent in death. His acceptance of it, his devotion to living for Dexter and Dexter only! You captured that perfectly.

"So I wouldn't burden him with the sight of me dying. [...] I didn't want him to remember me bleeding." THIS! The way he held on to not traumatize his baby brother any further. The simple fact that even in his death. Even when he should've, for once, thought about himself, he was still thinking of Dexter. Even as he exhaled his last breath, his mind was focused on his baby brother as it had always been his whole life.

"I would still choose to die by his hands. I would still choose him." The reality of Brian as a character explained here, in two lines. He always lived for Dexter and he will always live for Dexter. Whether he got a chance to relieve this one or to find him in the next.

Please, Atticus, my dear and beloved friend, never stop writing. You put such passion in your work that I couldn't ignore it even if I didn't like the pairing. You made me read, and appreciate, strong themes (On The Bound and Still I Adore You...) simply cause of you writing. You're like a modern Shakespeare and I feel so blessed for having found you and for having the possbility of getting to know your work and you. I hope that even if there's just me adoring your work it's still enough. That even alone I can make you understand how much I appreciate what you do. That somewhere in the world, even just one person supports you. I hope you enjoy what you do as much as I enjoy loosing myself in it everytime.

the weeping angel

; (prayers, from the elder brother, brian)

by atticus

Dexter was always the one who cried.

Even as a child, before I knew the names of emotions or the sharp anatomy of longing, I understood that Dexter cried more than any boy should. He fell into the world with a weeping heart, so tender and breakable it was as though he was carved from the softest part of Heaven. While other boys wore scrapes and bruises like medals, Dexter would trip on a step or nick his hand on a thorn and the tears would spill from him like he had been wounded by the world itself.

I remember our mother would fuss with panic, fluttering over him like frantic wings. “Dexter! Oh, sweetheart, what happened?” She never looked at me that way. I could have disappeared into the wallpaper and no one would have known. Maybe it's because I looked too much like my father. And yet I did not envy my baby brother. I watched her rock him in her arms, and I thought he looked like something holy, something worth protecting with blood and teeth and bone.

I would’ve stood in front of a moving car to spare him a scrape. I would’ve let the world fall apart if it meant he wouldn’t cry again.

And yet the world did fall apart. So terribly.

Our dear mother, radiant even in death as her body torn like a garden ripped up by wolves. And the blood... it painted the whole room in grotesque of holy art. I didn’t cry. I watched and counted each of her breath and scream. But Dexter wept like he was breaking open. His sobs were so sharp, so pure, it sounded like a bell turned inside out. He didn’t understand it then. He barely remembered it afterward. But I did. I remembered every second of it. Because I didn’t cry. And he did. And I wished, how I wished, I could’ve taken that pain from him, even if it tore me apart inside.

Time moved on as it always does with cruelty and cold hands. They took us and separated us like wolves tearing pups from the womb. And I waited, I waited through the heavy ache of wanting someone whose face I saw only in dreams.

In the hospital, I watched other children cry and felt nothing. But when I imagined Dexter crying, wherever he was, I wondered if someone was there to hold him. To hush him. To tell him he was still good.

And then, I found him.

He's grown and lean, but still the same boy underneath. Still beautiful, and still breakable. My angel, my other half. I wanted to hug him and see if he's going to cry when he sees me, I would drink them if I could and scoop them from his cheeks like holy water, to feel close to the heart I never had.

But he didn’t remember me the way I remembered him. He didn’t look at me with softness.

I never wept. Not when we were torn apart. Not when they told me he’d forgotten me. Not when I saw him live happily ever after with the Morgan family. I did not cry when I killed to find him. I did not cry when I saw him look at me with a stranger’s gaze.

But I did cry when he lifted the blade.

There was peace in it, in a cruel way. As if our story had always bent toward this ending, like trees leaning to the wind. He was close. Closer than he had been in years. He knelt beside me like a mourner before a shrine, and his trembling beautiful hands touched my face.

Then, when he pressed his forehead to mine. I felt seen, I felt held, and I felt known for the first time.

And something inside me broke.

And I wept a silent tear.

It slipped from the corner of my eye, slow as a prayer.

And then, he cut my throat.

I didn’t fight him. Not really. Because if he needed me to die to be whole, I would die. I would die a thousand times for him.

I felt the blade slip across my neck like a kiss from God. The blood came hot and fast but I didn’t care about the pain. I cared about his face—and there it was just like before, with his eyes wide and lips trembling, and those awful, perfect tears shining in his lashes.

He cried again.

And I could not bear it.

I did not care about death, but I cared more that he was crying. I tried to lift my hand, to reach out and wipe them away but they were wrapped. I wanted to smile for him, to tell him, "Don’t cry for me, Dexy. You are not the villain here. You did nothing wrong." But I couldn’t move, the blood choking me as I fought to breathe.

I struggled against the red tide rising in me, tried to fix my shattered neck and to pull in one last breath, not for me, but for him. So I wouldn’t burden him with the sight of me dying. So he wouldn’t carry the weight of my ending. So he wouldn’t carry the memory of my corpse twitching. I didn’t want to be a weight on his soul. I didn’t want him to remember me bleeding, I wanted him to remember that I looked at him like he was something divine.

So I held on one breath, then another, as long as I could.

And the truth is: he was always the one who cried.

And I was always the one who would bleed, suffer, and die—just to see him smile instead.

But if I could choose again, if God gave me one hour to relive in this cruel, tender world—I would still choose the hour he cried in my arms. I would still choose to die by his hands. I would still choose him.

Thank you for that I can’t stop crying you tore out my insides and left me reverberating in emotional shock I’ve seen actual funerals that were less intense seriously I think I’m just going to hide in the nap corner until the Feelings stop thank you and Goodbye

You’re a daycare worker, watching over toddlers, when the imminent end of the world is announced. It becomes increasingly clear none of the kids’ parents are going to show up as the end inches nearer.

Protective

The woods of their coast is unfamiliar territory even with his life spent on these beaches. Twigs and prickly grasses nip at this feet and crack beneath him but he knows avoiding them is a lost cause.

Rotxo is made for this island, is and always has been, but he can't help but feel displaced only a mile or two from his marui.

The RDA don't expect them here, though, only in the water. Ao'nung and Neteyam make excellent decoys back at the cove. While they provide a distraction in the water, an easy, unsuspecting target, Lo'ak, he, and Spider bring their numbers through the woods surrounding it. Soon, they will line the cliffs edge and, hopefully, interrupt an expected attack.

Lo'ak found scouts in hiding out in the caves lining the cliffs three days ago. The systems stretch through the cove and provide easy cover, just far enough from home to provide a sense of safety but so close that the intel they gather could prove dangerous. The potential heirs of two clans will be far too titillating to avoid, as such, it should be easy.

Should be.

Rotxo glances to the trees above him, not seeing him but knowing his mate is near.

This is a simple mission. Tonowari and the older warriors are dotted amongst them in case something goes wrong but they're here to prove themselves. To gain experience.

And not get shot.

Rotxo really doesn't want to get shot.

He hears a purring chirp and ducks, alert and stiff in his bones. Unlike the Sully kids, he didn't grow up in war. He wasn't raised with bullets in his ears and fear is gripping him with icy hands.

There's no time to be scared though, Neteyam is warning them.

He ducks into the underbrush, scarcer that the tree people were used to but thick enough they taught him how to hide. The coastal trees are thin and so only the best climbers could take from above. Spider, of course, is with them. He mumbles a prayer to their mother and starts for the cliff face.

Ao'nung lets out a loud, barking laugh and he can hear the strain. his friend has never been the best actor and he's scared. A branch snaps next to him and he jerks up, Tsireya is kneeling half sprawled from a bush. She looks embarrassed and offers him a sheepish smile before Lo'ak is corralling her up and hidden again.

It makes him want to laugh, how clumsy she is, how clumsy she's always been -

A gun shot rings loud and clear through the forest and suddenly movement is all around him. Birds are taking off into the sky and his friends, his family, are rushing through the woods without fear.

Ewya, how are they not afraid?

He chokes but he grips his spear. It's time to be brave, they could hurt his Moms, his sisters, and everyone he cares about. They have to go and he has to do it. He can do it.

Ewya must have her arms around him because his legs are strong as he rushes forward, the branches and undergrowth whip past him but he doesn't feel it. The metkayina boy whoops and then there's a gun aimed at him.

The human is small, terrified, and looks so much frailer than Spider. Perhaps he would have hesitated before, but he saw Neteyam after 3 Brothers Rock. Before the thoughts can settle in his mind, he's throwing his spear and the man goes down with the hit.

His weapon stands taller than the full body of his kill. It's not the first life he has taken, but it is the first he won't pray over or thank. He rips his weapon from the corpse and lets it fall with a dull thud, taking the gun and cracking it against a tree. It's too small for his hands and he won't risk another enemy finding such a prize.

More gunshots ricochet behind him and he rushes forward, finding himself beside Tsireya at the cliffs edge. He scans her body, quick as he can, and finds her okay. She nods and then she's leaping into the water below.

He spares a glance, unsure why she would give up her high ground, and feels the blood drain from his face.

There must be a dozen men on the ground and Tsireya marks the 4th person he can see of his own. Another shot and screaming is sounding from behind him, if there's that many there, who is up here?

The estimation they had only predicted a half a dozen men, maybe a few spares but maybe a few less. He's never trusting Lo'ak to count again.

He turns, planning to jump, but then he's hitting the ground. Above him, the butt of a gun is slamming down. It hits his temple and his vision slurs around him. He swings his arm, heartbeat pounding in his throat, and tries to dislodge the marine across his lap. He lands a hit and feels the weight tip but then the gun is coming down again.

A bruise begins to bloom across his cheek as he fights, blue skin torn and bloody from the branches beneath him and the man currently using his rifle like a bat. He wobbles up, trying to sit up and gain back the favor his height offers.

The man is wide eyed and frantic but the enjoyment in his eyes is what makes Rotxo pause. There is blood on the mans pale skin, bruising and mud across his face, and more dogtags than should be his own across his neck. Still, he smiles, bloody lips and all, and raises his gun.

Raises his gun at him, oh fuck -

A blonde blur snarls and the man goes down with a choked off shout. The gun is lost from his hands and then he hears a shot and Rotxo surges forward. Panic is lacing through him but dies in his throat at the sight of his mate, gun in hand, and standing overtop the body of his attacker.

Blood and mud are caked across his knees and over his torso. Rotxo's own stripes are covered on the blondes skin by the mess but he's there and in one piece. Relief floods his system and he stumbles up, finding himself in the humans arms before he can make it the rest of the way up.

"Fuck, fuck! Spider, a-are you okay? I-Thank you, I.." The words are failing him. He doesn't know what to say in this, thank you for killing a man for me? Thank you for being okay? Are you okay? You're not shot but please don't die of internal injuries when we get home?

"Hey, hey, hey, Ro, I need you to look at me, okay? It's okay, Baby, we're both okay. You can't go now, gotta get home first." His mask is smeared and dirty but he manages to meet Spider's eyes through it. Rotxo barely can speak and the blonde is pulling him between a tree and the large lake rocks that dot the hill. Later, he'll mourn how calm he is. How the blood on his mask and the bruises on his skin are so okay, but for now, he just focuses on finding home behind the glass.

Leaning forward, he presses his forehead to the cool glass and cups his hand to the back of the others head. Spider huffs on a laugh. The sound is small and affectionate but laced with fear but Rotxo decides they'll spare a moment.

Just a moment.

He breathes in the wood, the salt of the sea, and the scent of pinewood that clings stubbornly to Spider's tan skin. He counts the moles on his shoulders and tries to skim over the scars he'll memorize later.

"I-I'm okay. 'm okay. Where are your brothers?" Spider takes a long breath and he gets a glimpse of the boy he's buried, the child he left back with his peoples home tree. "in the water, I-I think. We need to get down there."

He starts to pull away and Rotxo starts to stand. Just as he leaves the cover of their hiding place, he catches sight of dark blue skin. Comprehension takes a moment to set in before he realizes that the blue isn't one of his friends, that they're in the water or safe at home, and that they most certainly don't wear a military uniform.

"Sure you do, Kid. Only place your goin' is back to your Daddy." Spider looks at him and there's fear on his face, real, deep fear. He remembers holding the human in the weeks after his escape, waking him from the nightmares following for the past 3 years, and the scars that mar his back. Spider squawks and reaches back but the recombinant has a firm grip on the blondes hair.

Spider is kicking, fighting, but the man isn't letting go. He's tall, cocky in the way he stands, and appears unphased at the teenaged warrior he's choosing to ignore. Wainfleet is embroidered on a tag across his chest and the name is familiar. The mans hand moves, Spider surging forward for freedom, and then its around the boys neck. It's just to hold him in place but the mans hands are so big they wrap around nearly completely. Spider chokes, ducking his head, and tries to fight but his grip only tightens.

"He's been real patient with you, Kiddo, but you know he's not a patient man. C'mon, time to get you home. If you stop your kickin', maybe I'll even let you stay awake this time." The man looks away from Spider, looks to Rotxo, and reaches for his gun. This one is big, big enough for a na'vi, and fits in his hand like an extension of himself. He aims it straight to Rotxo and his finger goes to the trigger.

Except, Rotxo isn't afraid. He expects the white-hot panic to flood him again, to feel his limbs heavy and lagging behind with the will to run away, but instead all he feels is rage. Red hot, protective, rage.

Spider looks small in the mans hold and looks so, so afraid. Rotxo reaches down and grips his spear. Wainfleet pulls the trigger but Rotxo is faster, aimed low and charging for his hips. While he may not look small now, he was the smallest in their youth. He knows how to take down a bigger opponent.

He surges and tackles the mans waist. This one is trained far better than his previous kill and doesn't go down just yet, but his grip on Spider does loosen. He snarls, low and instinctual, and feels every bit the animal the RDA calls them. It feels strong.

With a knock of his spear, the gun is knocked askew from where it was aimed. He takes the moment where Wainfleet struggles with the surprise to take a sweep for his head. The instinct to block has the gun falling from his hand and then, with a strong kick from Spider, his mate hits the forest floor.

With his lover out the way, Rotxo throws himself at the larger man. He's taller, but Rotxo is stronger. "You don't get him. Not again."

The solider laughs, loud and wild, "Fuck, Miles, you really do take after Sully. Got yourself a feral little toy and all, huh?"

The gun is cast aside now but Wainfleet reaches down, pulling a knife from a holster on his hip, and cuts across Rotxo's shoulder. His aim is strong and lands true, cutting deep across his collarbone. He gasps, pain flaring across his chest, but swings down his arms anyway. He lands a hard punch to the mans face, then another, and reels back again only for his wrist to be caught. He pulls, trying to free himself, and catches a glimpse of Spider, red faced and wheezing. His hands are shaking frantically as he checks his mask and the adrenaline comes rushing back.

Wainfleet lands a good hit to his face again, then aims to stab his shoulder where he cut before, but Rotxo pulls from his grip and pulls him up by the shoulders. He lifts the recombinant and slams him down. He can't get Quaritch for what he's done, but he certainly can give Wainfleet a taste here.

Blood pools in the mans mouth and he chokes, shoving frantically and thrashing against his hold similar to how Spider did moments ago. The mirror makes bitterness flush through him and he lifts him again, slamming harder now and relishing in the dull thud of the mans skull on the rocks below.

A gun cocks off to the side and his gaze flies to his mate, now on his feet and scrambling to the bushes they hid in before. He grabs the spear he's now left discarded at his side and throws it with practiced aim. It's lower than needed to be but the soldier falls with a spear through his gut. It'll be a painful death but Rotxo can't find himself to care.

"You don't get to hurt him." He growls and reaches for the gun before he hesitates. The man is groaning beneath him, incoherent and bloody, and Rotxo decides he chose his grave. He stands, legs shaking and tired, and pulls the man up. A birds cry fills the air and he hunches, an arrow flying past his curls, and he feels strong. His mate is safe, his family is fighting beside him, and he proved himself today. He feels strong when he lifts the man beneath him, pulling his weight onto himself, and walks to the edge. With a long breath, he drops the bloodied man over the edge and into the water below.

He stand, still and tired, but satisfied. The man hits the water below and he notices the movements in the woods have gone. It's calm, undisturbed as if nothing happened here at all.

He breathes in the salty air, tanged with blood, and lets his shoulders drop. A muted sort of pride lays in his chest knowing he defended his home but there's sadness there that knows he just kissed what was left of his peaceful life goodbye. War has met them here and it's clear his time is up.

"Rotxo? We did it...They're gone, only a few are injured. But..." A pause, "Well, we lost two. Menang and Eleora are with the mother but, it-it's time to go home." A soft hand grabs his elbow and he jerks back to reality.

Tsireya is gentle, safe, and he leans down to kiss her forehead. He turns and Spider is there, red faced and looking stricken, no doubt somewhere else. But he's safe, wrapped against his brother's side.

He walks forward, checking his lover for injuries, and nods to Lo'ak who lets him take his brothers weight while his own lover slips back to his arms.

"C'mon, lets go home."

Hey!! Just a heads up that my asks/questions are open if anyone's wanting me to write little post/ficlet or situation (as in "sam comes the the realisation that he's not so straight after all because of this, ect..) about any BRCU characters :) but I gotta say, I really do have a softspot for Arlo, Sam and Worstthrust :D

And maybe I'll expand some into full fics because God knows this community needs more :')

Steve didn’t know how he ended up in this position.

On his knees in a high school parking lot.

In front of Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson.

“I said beg.”

That’s how.

It was all Dustin’s fault.

He just had to have their stupid game at Steve’s house for his birthday.

- 10 min earlier-

“Please Steve! Pleaaaasse!!!!!” Dustin stomped after him. The rest of the kids following behind him.

“Fine. Ok. Just quit it.”

“YES! You’re the best! I can’t wait to tell Eddie! Look there he is! EDDIE! EDDIE! ED-“

“What is it Henderson?”

“Steve said we can have my birthday campaign at his house! Isn’t that awesome!”

“Pshh,” Eddie grumbled. “I’m not going to King Steve’s mansion. Ever.”

“What!?”

“Sorry kid thems the rules. It goes completely against everything I stand for. I refuse to desecrate my beloved campaign by exposing it to jock headquarters.”

“That’s ridiculous Munson. Stop being a baby and just do it.”

“Sure,” he paused. “If you beg.”

“What?”

“I said beg.”

Steve dropped to his knees on the spot. He was instantly confused. Why did that have such an effect on him? He felt…comfortable.

Eddies face was beet red. Steve could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears.

“Steve?” He heard Robin somewhere behind him coming from the band room. “Dustin why is he on the ground?”

“Shhh!” He thrust a finger in Robins direction and gave a nod to Steve.

Steve cleared his throat and looked at Eddie giving him his best puppy dog eyes.

“Please Eddie,” he pleaded. “Come over to my house and perform for the kids?” He pushed his bottom lip out.

Eddie stared at him for another couple of seconds before surging forward and hauling him up into his arms and-

Kissing him.

“WHAT!” Robin yelled.

“WHAT!” Eddie yelled back. “He looks like that and I’m NOT supposed to kiss him?!”

Steve felt lightheaded his body turning boneless and into dead weight. He looked around at Robin and the kids wearing matching expressions of shock. He looked back up at Eddie and shrugged his shoulders, giving him the ok.

Eddie pulled him back in for a second kiss more passionate than the first.

“WHAT THE FUCK” Robin yelled.

“God Robin, relax, people are gay, don’t be homophobic.” Dustin snarked at her.

——-

Comment 🫵

"But why is he here all the time," he whines to Robin. She doesn't like him much, but Scoops is empty, and what else is he supposed to do? Not speak to her at all?

"Why do you care what Eddie Munson is doing at the mall."

"I don't care." He scoffs, rolls his eyes. "He's just always here. Doesn't he have anything better to do?"

"Do you?"

"He doesn't work here."

"Haven't seen you doing a lot of work here, Steve."

"You spent forty minutes yesterday drawing on your sneakers."

She shakes her head, but doesn't say anything because he's right and she knows it.

He goes back to staring at Munson, sitting on the edge of the fountain. He's relaxed back, legs spread, looking like he owns the place. The way he's leaning, his t-shirt rides up, showing a tantalizing glimpse of pale skin and the lightest dusting of hair. He doesn't remember his mouth being so dry before.

"You're such an idiot." Robin smacks herself down beside him. "Eddie's a good guy. Is this just because he's the freak and you're King Steve?"

"No!" He says it too loud, a few people in the foodcourt turn to stare. "I'm not that guy anymore. That's all just--" he flaps his hand, can't find the words.

She makes a disbelieving noise, eyes narrow. "I'll never forgive you if you hurt him."

Robin stomps off to the backroom before he can stop her, tell her he doesn't want to hurt Munson.

One of Eddie's friends says something that has Eddie stretching back to hear, pulling his shirt higher, flashing the dark line of a tattoo, and that's too much, that has him slamming his eyes closed, rubbing at his brow but all he can think is--

cold cinder block at his back, hot mouths and fumbling hands and long, deft fingers; desperate, bitten off moans; hands fisted into long curls; the hot, bittersweet taste of him

It was only a handful of times, quick encounters in the locker room, once under the bleachers in the gym. And Steve, he'd never--it didn't mean anything, but it meant everything, and Eddie's been all he can think of for months.

A group of middle school girls comes in, then, and he forgets about Munson as he scoops ice cream and blends milkshakes. The next time he looks to the fountain, Eddie is gone

---

Steve cleans up the remnants of a dropped milkshake at the store entrance, and his shorts are a little too tight, okay, he can feel the way they pull around his hips when he bends too much, but he has to clean the tile before the rush starts and customers complain. There's one spot, though, it's already dried, has to really put his back into it.

The food court is crowded by the time he finishes, bustling with customers. He turns to grab the bucket, and stops dead in his tracks. Munson sits on one of the built-in planters directly behind him. He was staring at Steve's polyester clad ass, but now his eyes travel up Steve's body, getting darker with desire as they go.

He's trapped in place by the force of Eddie's gaze, by the want there. They stare at each other in silence, Steve's blood thumping a vigorous rhythm.

The moment breaks when Robin's voice, calling his name, catches his attention. He turns back to his work without a word, but inside he's reeling.

---

Steve's opening alone, comes out from the back, and there Eddie is, lounging on the fountain rim with a magazine in hand. It's been a couple of days since he's been around, not since the incident. He watches as Munson languidly flips through the pages, seeming not to have a care in the world, and he--

Well, he's never really had to wait around for something he wants.

He stalks over to the fountain, stops when the tips of his sneakers touch the toes of Eddie's boots. And, yeah, he's in his dorky sailor outfit, but Munson didn't seem to mind the other day. Steve thinks maybe he likes it.

"Munson," he says. His hands are on his hips.

Eddie looks up, slow, taking Steve in. He leans back further, crosses his legs at the ankle. "Harrington."

They stare at each other. Steve starts biting his lip. Not as a move--he's nervous, suddenly, that all of this is a waste and Eddie isn't interested--but Munson's gaze hooks on his mouth, lingers, like a warm caress.

Steve's never initiated things between them before, isn't sure if it's working. He takes the chance, though, starts walking away.

He crosses through the seating area, past the counter, into the back, doesn't know for sure if Eddie is following until the door doesn't close right away behind him.

There's a single beat of a second where they watch each other and neither moves, before Eddie is on him, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him into the wall.

"What the fuck is this, Harrington, huh?" They're close enough for their noses to touch. "You ignore me for months and now--"

"You're here all the fucking time," he snaps back. "Sitting in the same spot like you own the place."

"So, I'm not allowed to be at the mall now?" Eddie sneers. "God forbid I'm in sight of the king."

Steve tries to pull away. "That's not what this is, and you know it."

"Then what is it, Stevie? Spell it out for me real slow to make sure I understand." He leans in, a little, and Steve stops breathing.

Eddie's lips brush his, a gentle press that isn't quite a kiss, not yet. His knees go weak, the wall at his back the only thing holding him up, but the kiss doesn't deepen. Instead, Eddie steps back, laughs. "You think I'm this easy, sweetheart? That you can lure me with your little sailor costume and I'll come without a fight?"

"Am I wrong?"

Eddie scoffs, turns his head, and Steve thinks he overplayed it, that his misread everything.

"Fuck you, Harrington." Eddie grabs him, then, hands fisting into his sailor shirt. "Fuck you and this stupid, sexy outfit. Fuck you for knowing this would work on me."

His mouth presses against Steve's throat, and he moans, clinging to Eddie's jacket.

"Listen to you, sweetheart," Eddie murmurs. "Making all those desperate, pathetic sounds for me. Almost like you missed me or something."

"I did." He groans as Eddie's mouth moves along his jaw. "Missed you so much, haven't been able to stop thinking about you."

Eddie sinks his teeth into Steve's cheek, and he has to stifle his shout. He's harder than he can remember ever being before, thinks he could come just from the feel of Eddie's teeth in his skin.

"That's not what you told Billy," Eddie says. "When he almost caught us."

"I didn't want him to hurt you," he gasps. "I--I didn't want him to have a reason."

Eddie pulls away, Steve grasping after him. "I can handle Hargrove."

"He hit me in the head with a plate." Steve points to the small scar on his forehead. "That's how I got that concussion last year."

"Oh," Eddie blinks. He cards his fingers through Steve's hair, pulling it out of the way to see the scar better. "Sweetheart. I thought--" he swallows, throat working. "I--I keep coming here to see you. I wanted--"

His hand falls to Steve's neck, drawing him in. For a second, Steve thinks it's another tease, but Eddie does kiss him this time. It's deep, desperate, so thorough he thinks Eddie's memorizing the taste of him. He doesn't want it to ever stop, not for a second.

Outside, someone starts hammering on the counter bell, shouting for service.

They slip apart, Eddie still gently cradling the back of Steve's neck. "Come over tonight?" Eddie's eyes are so dark, wanting, he could drown in them.

"Yes." Because there is no other answer.

He lets Eddie out the back door just as Robin yells from the front, "Harrington! We have a customer! I haven't clocked in yet!"

"Be right there," he yells back, but not fast enough that she doesn't catch a glimpse of Eddie slipping out.

She whirls to him, brow in an angry furrow. "Steve! I told you not to hurt him!"

He can't stop his smile. "Buckley, I promise you, Munson can take care of himself."

Footsteps pad down the hallway as Steve and Eddie make their way to their bedroom at an honestly irresponsible hour given that they both have work in the morning. Yawning, talking quietly. They get ready for bed one at a time in their small bathroom, Eddie settling under the covers with a book while Steve finishes brushing his teeth.

There's a smile in Eddie's voice when he speaks, the words muffled to outsiders by the rustling of sheets as Steve climbs into bed. Whatever it is, it makes Steve laugh, which makes Eddie laugh too. They fall in and out of bouts of talking and giggling, the only two people in the world - or at least it must feel that way, alone together at such an absurd time of night, in the familiar comfort and quiet of their shared bed and shared home.

They don't know that their teenage daughter is still awake in the room next door, listening to their laughter floating through their house's thin walls. She smiles to herself in the dark, warmed by the simple and genuine joy in that sound.

They don't know that this is far from the first time she's heard them laughing together in private. They don't know that she's absorbed every smile they've given each other, every kiss and kindness and warm conversation she's ever witnessed them exchange, and with every one she has learned what love looks like. She may make a whole dramatic show of gagging or pulling a face at some of her dads' displays of affection for each other (she is Eddie Munson's daughter after all), but they don't know how much she actually appreciates the fact that her parents are still so happily in love, that after nearly 30 years together they still genuinely enjoy being around each other. Their relationship began long before her and the love they have for each other continues still not because of her or in spite of her but simply alongside the love they have for her in equal measure.

There is so much love in this house, of that she has never had any doubt. She loves her dads, her dads love her, and her dads love each other, and those are facts, fundamental truths that have been shaped into the very foundation of her bones as she's grown up. No argument or mistake or disagreement has ever been - or will ever be - enough to waver that. Even in moments of anger there has always been love, unquestionably. They don't know just how deeply she knows that. They don't know just how much she values that.

Sleepy and sentimental, she thinks of friends she knows who have grown up in broken homes and are drawn to broken relationships, and she feels so incredibly grateful for the happy childhood Steve and Eddie have given her and the example they've set of such a healthy, loving relationship for her to look up to. They don't know that she knows how lucky she is to have them.

One day I'll tell them, she thinks as she rolls over onto her side and lets her body grow heavy with sleep. One day I'll thank them for teaching me what love is.

‘Wrapped’ Around My Finger

“Good evening everyone! I’m your host Ann Romano joined tonight by two of the biggest names in music….please give it up for Corroded Coffin frontman Eddie Munson and Grammy winner Steve Harrington!”

The crowd goes wild.

This is a big deal, two of the biggest names in history with a giant rivalry.

Everyone knew the story. They grew up in a small town together and were on different levels of popularity ultimately ruining what could’ve been a fantastic friendship. Even now ten years since high school they can’t get over it. They hate each other always trying to one up each other.

Eddie trying to make a point that even the freaks can become famous. Stating, “I didn’t need money like Steve Harrington to win a Grammy I have my talent to thank for that.”

The two walk out onto the stage and sit on the couch making sure to leave some distance between them.

“Thank you both for coming out tonight! I know it’s a big trip from LA to New York. It probably helps that you live here huh Steve?”

“Actually I moved to LA.”

Eddie turns to look at him shocked.

“You moved? When did you move? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would it have mattered? It’s not like we see each other anyway. You can barely look at me and you’re sitting two inches from me.”

Eddie huffs in his seat and turns towards Ann, trying to remember what little of his media training he had.

“I only care because I’m a good neighborly fellow of course.”

Ann laughs flicks her hand at him.

“Oh you guys are just too funny. I knew you secretly cared for each other which brings me to my next segment, a game I like to call, “Wrapped Up!” You see gentleman, both of your agents gave me access to your Spotify wrapped and now we’re gonna let the audience in as well!”

The two turn white.

“Is that necessary?” Eddie asks through gritted teeth.

“Why not?” Steve adds in. “I have nothing to hide.” He narrows his eyes at Eddie.

Eddie rolls his eyes at him.

Ann laughs nervously. “Fantastic! Let’s jump to it!”

She gestures behind her where a giant screen shows Steve’s wrapped.

“Alight fellas, Eddie gets three points for every artist he guesses on the first try. He gets three tries, one point if he gets the artist by the third try.”

“Easy.” Eddie smirks.

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. You always were easy.”

“Alright guys let’s focus on the game here!” Ann jumps in.

“Alright number 5….Wham.”

*a bell rings*

“Fantastic start Eddie!”

“What’d I say, easy,” he smirks.

“4. Tears for Fears.”

“3. ABBA.”

“2. Queen.”

“1. Toto.”

*incorrect buzzer sound*

“Ok…Madonna.”

*incorrect*

“Alright Eddie this is your last chance. You’ve done fantastic so far so I think you’re going to win no matter what. Sorry Steve.” Ann says.

“Hey none taken. I definitely didn’t even think he’d do this well.” Steve smirks at him.

“Alright big boy hold onto your pants. I got this.”

Eddie takes a deep inhale.

“Brittney Spears!”

*louder more incorrect buzzer*

“Ugh!”

“Sorry Eddie! But I don’t think even you could’ve guessed this one. Are you ready folks let’s see what it is-”

The crowd goes wild.

Steve’s smirks goes crazy.

Eddie is pale.

Up on the screen in big obnoxious letters is “CORRODED COFFIN”

“That’s right folks! Since Eddie did so well let’s let him play a similar game for Steve’s top songs. Are you ready Eddie!”

Eddie is not breathing.

“Um-”

“Great let’s start!”

“5….Girls just wanna have fun?”

*DING*

“4.Dancing Queen”

*incorrect buzzer*

“Material Girl”

*incorrect buzzer*

Eddie sighs.

“Crown of Thorns.”

*DING*

“That’s right Eddie! Your very own song Crown of Thorns was his number 4? Wanna take a guess at the rest?”

Eddie grits his teeth. “I’m not sure I have a choice.”

“Haha of course you don’t! Now! Number three!”

“3. Heavy is the Head.”

“2. Reign.”

“1….”

He looks nervous.

“Kneel Before the King.”

*DING*

“You got them! Fantastic work Eddie! Were you surprised that four of his five were songs written by you? How could you possibly guess them?”

“At first I was surprised…you know we have this rivalry thing going on but…I’ve been watching Steve since I was fourteen. I know him well. As soon as I saw his top artist I knew his top songs would be the ones I wrote about him.”

The crowd gasps.

“Don’t get me wrong I wrote a lot more about him but these in particular…”

“They’re about forbidden love.” Steve chimes in. His eyes are watering.

“Yeah.”

“That’s why they were my favorite.”

Eddie gives him a sad smile.

“You wrote them about me?”

Eddies smile turns into a frown. “About you, for you, it was always for you, all of them.”

“All of them?”

“Everything. My entire discography. Every performance. Every press tour. Every photo shoot. You just had to worm your way into my life Harrington…my heart.” He whispers that last part but they’re so close together Steve can hear it.

Well barely hear it…his heartbeat is so loud in his ears.

“Anyways Ann what’s next.”

Ann is staring at him in open mouthed shock.

“Wow. This so perfect.” She turns to Steve. “Ready for your turn?”

“Nah.” Eddie says. “Skip to my number one artist.”

Behind them a video starts playing on the screen.

“Hey it’s Steve! Thanks so much for being my number one fan! I mean top .01 percent is a tough spot to get! It means so much to me that I’m your number one artist-”

Steve can’t take his eyes off of Eddie, when could he ever?

“I’m your number one artist?” he asks so softly Eddie can barely hear it.

“Of course…I like the sound of your voice.” He shrugs his shoulder like it’s no big deal.

“Can we talk? I mean after the show?”

Eddie smiles at him.

“Of course Stevie, I’d like that.”

“I would also like to know!” Ann cuts in.

They forgot this was being streamed to millions of people and filmed in front of a live studio audience.

—————

Later Backstage:

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE MY NEW NEIGHBOR HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS!!!????”

“Honestly Eddie I don’t know. For someone who claims to be obsessed with me-”

“I didn’t-“”

“Obsessed.” Steve puts a finger to Eddie’s lips to shut him up. “You didn’t notice I’d moved in next door.”

“Hell just move in with me.”

“…alright.”

Steve Harrington has OCD. There are days when he can barely hear his own thoughts. Days when he can't focus on anything else but whatever is triggering him. Days when he just wants to crawl out of his own skin.

No one around him gets it. Like, really gets it. He loves having everyone over at his place, loves filling the empty house with joy and laughter he never experienced as a child. But over and over again, he feels like he can't really be present in the moment. Because he gets stuck in a never-ending loop of mental checklists, pinpointing every single item that will need to be cleaned or put back in its place after they leave. Crumbs all over the couch. Henderson touching everything in his general vicinity with greasy, pizza-stained fingers. People walking straight into the house after swimming in the pool. Rug on the bathroom floor always wrinkled and askew. Tiny specs all over the kitchen that only he seems to notice. He knows they're little things. Unimportant, right? A little mess can't hurt you? He knows... He just wishes his brain would get it, too.

And it doesn't just impact him, either. His incessant bitching sets others around him on edge. That's probably the worst part of it all. Nancy used to get so annoyed with him whenever he'd ask her to not sit on his bed in her 'outside clothes'. He's pretty sure Robin hates cooking with him because of all the rules he has in the kitchen, but she usually just sighs and rolls her eyes. Dustin deliberately misunderstands his requests or, better yet, pretends he doesn't hear him at all.

Not Eddie, though. Because Eddie notices. The way Steve seems unfocused at times, like he's somewhere far away. The way his eyes tend to dart around the room. The way his posture changes when someone unknowingly does something that triggers him. He makes little mental notes of all the triggers and makes sure to remember them. So he starts taking off his shoes at the door, placing them on the rack. He cleans up after the kids, quickly wiping the kitchen counter and floor as Steve's busy walking everyone out of the house. He straightens the bathroom rugs. He wipes the floor after taking a shower at Steve's, so that there isn't a single droplet of water to be found anywhere outside the shower cabin. He changes his clothes before lounging around on Steve's bed. It takes Steve some time to notice everything Eddie's been doing to help out with his triggers.

It's a little after midnight, and Steve has finally managed to kick the little dipshits out of the house. He walks back into the kitchen where he is met with the sight of Eddie crouched down, a whisk broom and dustpan in hand. Something clicks then, stopping him in his tracks.

"Wait... How long have you been doing this?"

Eddie freezes then and glances up quickly, looking every bit like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Oh, sorry, it's just- I noticed the stuff on the kitchen floor makes you kinda uncomfortable, so I thought I'd help out a bit," Eddie says softly, like he's scared he's done something wrong. Steve feels something warm spread around in his chest, followed by a familiar burning sensation behind his eyes.

"And the rugs? Was that also you?" Steve's voice is shaking now. But he can no longer prevent it. He's about to have a full-on breakdown in front of Eddie Munson.

Of course, Eddie, the perceptive bastard that he is, has already picked up on what's about to happen. He quickly sets the tools aside and straightens up, taking a few strides towards Steve, ducking his head to catch Steve's downcast gaze. To make sure he's okay.

"Hey, Steve, look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I shouldn't have overstepped. I'm so sorry," says Eddie, gently placing his hands on Steve's shoulders to offer a reassuring touch. There are now silent tears rolling down Steve's cheeks, but he brings himself to meet Eddie's gaze nevertheless.

"No, no, Eddie, you didn't. It's just- How did you know?" Steve asks, somewhat hesitantly.

"Because," Eddie moves his hands up to cup Steve's face, looking at Steve like he's trying to see straight into his soul, "because I see you, Steve Harrington."

steve calls both robin and eddie babe. and those two have a bit of a rivalry going on. eddie thinks since steve is his boyfriend he's the reigning Babe. but steve called robin babe first and she says that makes her more special.

steve continues to call them both babe because he loves the attention and thinks it's hilarious.

steve: babe

robin and eddie at the same time: yeah?

robin and eddie, now glaring at each other: ...

everyone else at the table: ?

steve: can you pass me the salt?

robin and eddie: *hold eye contant for a second before they both scramble for the salt*

robin, all smug after winning: here you go

steve, pleased as punch: thank you

eddie, pouting: :(

everyone else at the table: wtf was that

Runner / End Of Beginning

Steve has never seen his father as upset, as furious, as he was when he got home with his final exam results. He'd known- suspected- that his father would flip when his results came in...

His father got angry at small things. Hearing that he'd had a party while they were away, that a girl went missing at that party, had been the closest Steve thought he'd ever get to recieving a beating.

But when he came home with his grades... when his father realized that his son, his supposed prodigy, barely passed...

Steve has never ran as fast as he currently is.

As soon as he'd seen an openning, a clear line to the door, he'd stumbled to his feet and bolted. He'd picked a random direction and ran. He isn't going to stop running until he physically has to stop, knowing that his father is most likely in his car, trying to find him.

He can't stop. He has to keep running.

Eventually, he has to pause. He has to catch his breath.

He leans against a trailer, panting. He prays that no one thinks to look outside and spot him. He prays that no one will-

"Harrington?"

"Fuck." He hisses, squinting up at- "Munson?"

"What the fuck happened to you?" He says, eyes widenning when he finally gets a look at his face. "Second round with Hargrove, or what?"

"Nothing happened, I'm fine."

Munson eyes him for a moment, frowning. "Is someone after you?"

"What do you care?" Steve heaves a deep breath, forcing himself to stand up straight. He brings his knees up in a few knee highs, gearing up for another sprint.

"Ugh. Just- you can come into my trailer," Munson says, sounding as though Steve is forcing him to make the suggestion. "No one would think to look for you there. You can, like... I don't know. Drink some water? You jocks do that, right?"

"Wh- I don't need your help!"

"I'm not waiting for you all day, come on, let's go!" He makes a wide, exaggerated gesture for Steve to follow.

"You just assume I'm gonna follow?"

"Yeah."

He sounds so confident, so sure, that Steve can't think to do anything other thank blink and say, "fuck it, yeah, alright."

Steve is a little surprised at how much space Eddies trailer has. It's cramped, but in a nice way- the way a home gets when people actually live in it. When the people inside are actually happy and chase those joys.

Munson does get him a glass of water, mumbling at him to "sit anywhere", before flopping onto the sofa himself. He turns the TV on, focusing on that.

"Thanks," Steve eventually mutters, awkwardly sitting down.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about."

"Sure."

"There isn't," he insists, despite how casual and accepting Munson is acting. "It's my fault, anyway. I deserved it."

"Did you?" Munson turns to him, eyebrow raised. "All us freaks and losers can talk about these days is your change of heart. King of Hawkins High turned lame boytoy."

"Thanks, that makes me feel so much better," Steve sneers.

"Even Jeff thinks you're alright now," he barrels on. "Said he bumped into you, pretty hard, knocked all your shit down, and you apologized. Said his coffee ended up on an essay, or something. Thought he was about to get his ass kicked and you just..."

He waves his hand at him, as though that's explination enough.

Steve doesn't know a Jeff, but he's pretty sure he knows who Munson is talking about, and; "I wasn't looking where I was going. If anything, we were both at fault."

"See?" Munson waves his hand at him again, a little more pointed. "Don't doubt you've got a long way to go, but you're not half-bad. You didn't deserve whatever the fuck happened to your face."

"Whatever."

They fall quiet, both pretending to watch whatever is on the TV. Steve is so zoned out that, when someone clears their throat, he flinchs.

"Sorry to startle you boys," the man chuckles. But the humor quickly teeters out, once he gets a good look at Steve. "You alright, kid?"

"I'm fine."

"He's not," Munson grins wide when Steve glares at him.

"Staying the night?" The man continues, only looking at Eddie now.

"If I can convince him," Munson shrugs.

"I can't stay the night," Steve tries.

"Good," the man nods, as though Steve hadn't said anything. "I'll start making us all some dinner." He finally looks to Steve. "You got any allergies?"

"I can't stay," Steve tries again, insisting.

"No," Munson answers for him. "No problems with meat either."

The man gives Munson a thumbs up, heading through to the kitchen.

"I can't stay," Steve repeats, turning to Munson. "Really. I have to go back or... I have to go back."

"What will happen if you don't go back?"

Steve grimaces. "Nothing. Just- I can't stay here."

"Why not? They gonna hit me too?"

"You know what, Munson? Yeah, probably. And your- your dad?"

"Uncle," Munson snorts, standing, stretching. "No one messes with us though. We're too scary." He wiggles his fingers in Steves face as he passes by. "And call me Eddie."

"Why?"

"It's my name."

Steve awkwardly follows him to the kitchen, hovering a good distance from the two of them, watch how they move around each other with so much comfort and ease. It makes something in Steves chest ache.

"Oh, hey, you like football right?" Eddie asks, pointing to him.

"Uh, yeah, kinda. Not enough to have, like, a team." Steve shrugs.

Wayne turns around slowly, eyebrows raised. "You don't got a team?"

Talking football with Wayne is so easy that, until he's halfway through the dinner he cooked, Steve doesn't notice how fast the time is going. He can't bring himself to be bothered though. It's too nice.

Plus, Eddie is almost bouncing with joy at how well Steve and Wayne are getting along.

Someone starts banging on the door, loud and aggressive, as they make their way to the kitchen.

"Alright!" Wayne calls, rolling his eyes. "Hold your horses."

Steves stomach drops when the door opens and his father is on the other side. He smiles at Steve, sickly sweet and dangerously calm.

"Oh, thank God," he sighs. "Steve, your mother and I have been looking all over for you. When you didn't get home-"

Wayne blocks his way when he tries to step inside. "Who are you?"

"Robert Harrington," Steves dad sniffs, leaning back so he can physically look down at Wayne. "I'm here for my son."

"He ain't here."

Robert Harrington splutters, face tinting red with anger and frustration. He points to Steve, voice raising as he says, "he's right there! And he's coming with me."

Wayne turns, slow and casual. "Huh. That's odd. Don't see him."

"Steve," he snaps his fingers at Steve, like he's a dog. "Come on. We're going home."

Eddie shifts so he's standing slightly in front of him.

It's enough reassurance for him to finally snap back; "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Steven-"

"Get off my property," Wayne snaps.

His father glares at them, waiting, as though he expects them to back down. When he doesn't, he snarls; "this is kidnapping."

"He's 18," Eddie drawls.

Grumbling, he stomps off.

"Asshole," Wayne mutters. He shuts and locks the door, sliding on the chain too.

Steve has to sit down, with how much his legs are shaking.

"You alright?" Eddie asks, hesitantly sitting beside him.

"Yeah," Steve says. He's surprised to find he means it. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You can stay here, long as you need," Wayne offers. "You'll have to bunk with Eds though. Not a lot of room."

"Why can't he use the sofa when you're-"

"Nope," Wayne cuts him off. There's a glint of mischief in his eyes that has Steve squinting in suspicion. "And you'll need those cuts looking at. Eddie, why don't you go with him. Medkits in the bathroom."

Steve goes ahead when Eddie points the way to the bathroom.

Eddie tries to give Wayne a warning look but he's unbothered and, with Steves back turned, he gives Eddie an encouraging wink.

Steve gets a tattoo.

Eddie knows that cling film plaster patch anywhere. The thing is, no one is talking about it. Steve just shows up at the next get together with his damn bicep wrapped and NO ONE says a word.

So Eddie doesn't either, still too tentative in their friendship.

No one elaborates, no one mentions it. Days turn to weeks, and Eddie learns to ignore the burning question he has. They're still as close as ever, but he never does actually catch a glimpse of that tattoo.

He almost forgets about it.

Until he's on stage.

He's finally made it on stage, with his boys beside him, he's finally getting back his life, better than even before the bats had tried to take him out.

He's just adjusting his guitar, tweaking the strings, when he looks up into the crowd Jeff is hyping up and sees him.

There, amidst the crowd is Steve. Though for a second, Eddie can't recognise him.

His hair is styled differently, a faux hawk with the sides pressed down. Bold black-lined eyes peer up at him, crinkling at the sides as Steve smiles.

He's got on the leather jacket he and Eddie had thrifted a month ago, only the sleeves are gone, ripped off to show his arms, his guns. Boy are they guns, holy shit he loves Steve Harrington's arms.

Except, something breaks his line of vision, a streak of black along the skin.

Steve's not so far from the stage that Eddie can't see it. In fact, it's big enough that it's all Eddie can see right then.

Red and black glisten on that bicep, mimicking the very guitar he's holding, crossed over with that nailed bat that he's all too familiar with.

He looks up at Steve again and the fucker blows a kiss at him, as if he's not wearing a fishnet mesh under the leather vest and he doesn't have Eddie's guitar melded onto his skin.

Eddie plays the best damn show of his life.

He's got a boy to ask out after.

not on mobile sorry but purple heart winterhawk? surprise kiss / impulsive kiss?

It took me a few days to find time to write this, but here it is: 💜 : surprise kiss / impulsive kiss for winterhawk

Clint was panting heavily, dodging a hit, and going over to the next attack in one fluid movement. It was good to train, even in the summer heat. The burning in his muscles was good compared to lying crammed into vents on endless stakeouts, like he had spent most of the last two weeks. He didn't know how long they had been going; he had noticed that the others had left at some point. But just like him, Bucky seemed like he had no intention to stop any time soon. At some point between the shooting range and the climbing part, the soldier had lost his shirt, his strong body shining with sweat, but his smile proved that he enjoyed it just as much. Clint had taken longer, but once they had started sparring, the insecurity about his scars could no longer win over the heat. They had sparred before; usually Bucky managed to bring Clint to the ground, the sheer power of his enhanced body and the metal arm winning, even over Clint's flexibility and almost a lifetime of training. But today, they were almost even. Clint's motivation and focus were on point, and for once, he didn't have any injuries he had to be mindful of. So, after a long match, he finally managed to surprise Bucky, throwing him into the mat and leaning over him triumphantly. Bucky was lying on his back, catching his breath and smirking. Clint couldn't resist; he had to kiss him for that. He had been pining over this man for way too long to not give in when the opportunity was right there. For a second, nothing happened. Clint's lips were touching Bucky's, but the soldier wasn't reacting. Then Bucky turned them over in one fluid movement, gaining control as Clint lowered his guard. Now he was looking down at the archer, and Clint was ready to wriggle out from under him and run. But instead of anger or rage, there was a sparkle of desire in Bucky's eyes, and he smirked again. "You could have just said something, doll." He breathed before crashing their mouths together in a long and heated kiss.

In This House

Inspired by Catherine House by Elisabeth Thomas, specifically Ines Murillo.

On a secondary note, I'm working on a short Catherine House Fanfic- https://archiveofourown.org/works/56346679

we are not a people of sand

rating: g (word count 420)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/36747517

Tuskens have no written language. Instead, their ancestors’ memories are passed from the old to the young, their history recounted each night under the indifferent gaze of the stars. In this way is a culture forsaken by the rest of the galaxy kept alive. There are generations in the heft of the Elder’s gaderffii and the tip of the Elder’s tongue.

“Feel how cold it is at night,” the Elder might say. “Tatooine has always been a planet of paradoxes: sea to desert, desert to ice.” On a longer night, when the Dune Sea is tilted away from all three of Tatooine’s suns, the Elder begins, “Let me tell you the tale of Rgur’okrt, he who tamed the krayt dragon with his mind.”

That is one story that is told in every tribe, though the name is as variable as the wind. Rgur’okrt and the dragon fought thirty days beneath the sand, and the whole tribe thought he was dead. But on the thirtieth day he found that he could sense the dragon’s thoughts, so he reached out and caused it to fall into a deep sleep, such that it would not wake to terrorize his people for the passing of two generations.

Then he burst from the sand, the granules spraying like droplets of water. The tribe rejoiced because he was alive. And from his robe fell out a fruit, and it broke, and spilled out milk. And Tuskens have drunk from black melons ever since.

The young do not always want to listen to these tales. “What does it matter?” they ask. “Why should we care about the history of a primitive people, of a hunted, dying race? Look around you. We choke on sand when the rest of the galaxy walks in the sky.”

So the Elder reminds them, “That is because we are not a people of sand. We are a people of water, of briny, irrepressible waves. Do you think mechanical wings are the only way to fly? Our ancestors crossed oceans on the backs of whales.”

Then the Elder tells the end of the story. All of the Tuskens’ stories end the same way.

As Rgur’okrt burst from the sand, so will the fish and the whales and the crabs. Water will fall from the sky, and water will swell from the sand. “The oceans will rise again one day,” the Elder says, and makes the children repeat the words, one after another. “The oceans will rise again one day, and we with them.”

the debtor

rating: g (word count 598)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32755144

The Mandalorian watches her do the dishes sometimes. Omera isn’t sure why; she wonders for a while if he’s just lonely, but he never speaks or announces his presence. She figures it out when he joins her at the washbasin one day and picks up a bowl.

“Have you been trying to learn how to wash dishes this whole time?” she asks with a smile, handing him a soapy rag.

He tenses.

“I’m not making fun of you,” she clarifies. “It’s—” Sweet. “Appreciated.”

“I don’t have dishes on the Razor Crest,” the Mandalorian says after a moment. “Mostly I eat ration bars.”

“You must be sick of them by now.” Ration bars have all of the nutrients and none of the taste of real food; Omera can’t imagine eating them on a regular basis.

“They suit my purposes.”

He really doesn’t like empathy, does he. She hands him a wet plate and starts scrubbing at the next one. They work in silence for a while, scrubbing the dishes with soap and then setting them aside to rinse later. Eventually, the stack of dirty dishes she’s already run water over dries up, so they rinse off the soapy dishes and set them aside to dry in the sun before getting the dirty ones wet again. Omera picks up her scrub brush and starts on a cup.

“You’ve been very kind to me,” the Mandalorian says, breaking the silence.

She inclines her head. It’s hard to keep a smile from her face, hearing the way this hardened warrior shyly shapes politeness. “You’re my guest.”

“I know my presence is—hard for you. I take up space. And I frighten the children.”

“You don’t,” Omera says, though she’s not sure which part she’s responding to, taking up space or frightening the children. He doesn’t really do either. Only Winta was ever afraid of him, and that faded quickly. The Mandalorian is stiff around children, like he’s afraid he’ll break them if he makes the slightest move, but he is always gentle. No one in the village fears him anymore. And he takes up little space, so little that sometimes she wishes he’d take up more.

“I owe you.”

Is that why you learned how to wash dishes? “You don’t,” she repeats. “Besides, this is your payment for helping us with the raiders, remember? You asked for lodging.”

The Mandalorian’s head tilts toward her before turning back to the washbasin. “You’ve given me more than lodging.”

Not much, she thinks. Just extra bedding and warm food and an ear to listen on occasion. She wonders what his life has been like, that such basic kindness is a luxury. “Hasn’t anyone ever done something for you just to be nice? Without expecting anything in return?”

The Mandalorian’s head scythes towards her, his chest rising and falling sharply. Omera meets his gaze. The question hangs between them: too forward, probably, but she can’t take it back now. She doesn’t bother disguising the mingled nervousness and curiosity on her face, though she does hide the sympathy. She knows he wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Once,” he says.

She hesitates, wondering if he wants her to ask further questions. He doesn’t seem like the sort of person who likes to talk about his past, but sometimes—

“It’s why I swore the Creed,” he says before she can work out a response. His head slants away from her, staring at the last plate in his hands. “I will never be able to repay that debt.”

The Mandalorian sets the plate out to dry and ducks out of the hut.

April’s fool swap!

Here’s my contribution to the April’s fool swap mentionned in this post!

Flufy made one too!

(English isn’t our first language, we did our best)

                                                     COMFORT

It’s a beautiful day.

After so much mist, so much water, so much smoke and mirrors and snow, he cannot feel the morning sun kiss on his face and think otherwise.

Kakashi is recovering, (so is he, actually), so they are to remain in this town for now. He hates to be stuck there, without his scrolls and books and unable to train. So much time to think, he usually welcomes it. It allows him to steel himself, to refocus himself over and over on his resolutions and to hold on tight onto his memories.

He doesn’t welcome it just now, when his mind betrays him even more than his body.

Yesterday, he almost died.

Today, when he opened his eyes, an unusual feeling sat heavy on his chest, where a stripe of sunlight fell from the window. What is the sun for ? he thinks. What is warmth for ? Why does it have to be bright, clear and so painfully comforting ? Comfort has always been but a weakness, to him. No, that isn’t the truth. There was a time when he was self-indulgent. Comfort, then, was something he allowed himself to have aplenty, something that was but distantly tainted by a sense of guilt that bore the face of his father, spoke with the voice of his father.

He almost died yesterday.

The problem doesn’t lie with the « dying » part of the sentence ; death, he knows about, he has seen its heartless work and felt its cold clutch. Death, for him, has been woved into the fabric of his very existence since he was 8. The problem lies with the « almost ». If he had either died for good or not thrown  himself in front of any lethal needles altogether… If only, he thinks in a young and small inner voice, if only he had just died. He would have been free from it all. From the pain, the memories, the hate and the thirst for revenge.

Free from the exquisite, unbearable kiss of the sun.

Naruto is being loud and cheerful, and obviously believes he does a good job at pretending everything is alright. The fool. Casual observation makes him revise his judgement, though. Yes, Naruto is a fool, but all the others are even bigger fools for not seeing through his gesticulations.

And I, the biggest fool of all, he thinks.

What is unnerving is that, having survived, he now has to deal with the implications of his (attempted) grand sacrifice. He couldn’t even die for someone properly. (He was always the disappointing one, after all.) The implications are thus : he was supposed to live and die for his objective. Not find himself so violently shaken off his intended path as to throw it all to the wind in order to save someone else’s life.

Someone else.

Naruto’s eyes dart his way for the uptenth time since the battle on the bridge settled down. Eyes a bit like Sakura’s, that weight on him. Eyes like his own mind, full of unsaid, unspeakable things that he will never aknowledge beyond mild annoyance. Yes, he’s alive, so if they could both get over it already. His eyes sure don’t keep coming back to the usuratonkachi like he was some kind of magnet, do they ? It’s not that hard, damn it. If he can just avoid looking at him directly for some time…

Actually, cross that : his eyes just met the idiot’s. As with the few previous times it has happened since the day before, it sends his brain into panick mode and he automatically makes a sour face, mirrored instantly on the usuratonkachi’s features, and they both look away. From the corner of his eye, he can see that Sakura, who apparently deals with his resurrection by sticking close to him at all times, has noticed. But there is only so much he can feel miserable about, so. Let her ponder. He’s already at his maximum, what with feigning indifference.

His controls are in shambles. This is so bad. And the day is so bright. He would glare at the sun were it not an idea so stupid even the idiot would ridicule him for it. Still, the bizarre temptation remains. He cannot glare at his preferred target for obvious reasons, and the sun would be the next best thing. He settles for closing his eyes and regrets it as soon as, instead of blood under a full moon and a room full of pain, appears a teary face with a wide, trembling grin – sunshine through rainy clouds – as if burned against his eyelids.

He heaves a silent sigh. Whatever. This isn’t the first time the usuratonkachi has puzzled him to the point of getting under his skin, and it certainly won’t be the last. (This time, though, whispers a treacherous voice that he doesn’t manage to ignore as well as Sakura’s or Kakashi’s, this time it is not about what Naruto did, like kiss him out of the blue in front of the entire class, no, this time he was the one to do something that he can’t make any sense of, like give up his life and purpose so that Naruto would keep on breathing, and keep on dreaming – but such irrelevant details are to be carefully swept aside. There is no sense in dwelling on things like emotions, bodies that move on their own, or comfort that ruthlessly takes apart the frozen cores of loneliness.)

He is grateful for the fact that the hoarseness resulting from his neck injuries gives him an excuse to be even more taciturn than usual, as it gives him time to recover from this blow on his mental balance. Small mercies. Who would want to talk on such a beautiful day, anuway ? Naruto does, of course. Naruto wouldn’t understand (though he comes the closest) and Naruto has him own way of dealing with pain.

The deadly boy, soft-spoken, and swift, and so startingly innocent : of course that idiot had to go and befriend him when he was their ennemy, right before they had to fight him – right before he had to die. This is why Naruto is a fool and Sasuke cannot understand him : how he hopes still, how he has so much to give when he received nothing but hatred and rejection. He cannot understand how He-Who-Has-Lonely-Eyes can have encountered real violence for the first time yesterday, and crack as many bad jokes and blinding smiles today.

Of course it was nothing like his own witnessing of the death of his entire clan and family. But still. This boy feels so much, he knows (he knows, perhaps, better than anyone). And he may seem shallow but he is anything but (this, also, he knows intimately).

(He so wishes he hadn’t been put on the same team as this particular boy, he so wishes it mattered as little as he lets on, as little as he initially thought it would. He so wished the mere sight of him didn’t rouse a dull ache in the pit of his stomach, right where you would steal an opponent’s breath from him; and he so wishes that none of this was so sickeningly akin to all that he tries his damnedest to kill in himself. He so wishes he was well past wishful thinking.)

He realizes that, for once, he kind of welcomes Sakura’s fussing, for she, at least, is safe to be around. It’s easy to feel a companionship with her that provides a measure of relief without threatening the very foundations upon which he built himself.

That is how he knows how very bad this is. Because even this relief shouldn’t be indulged in, and yet it feels immeasurably safer than what Naruto does to him. Even worse : he has noticed all this a long time ago, and still let it happen, this… melting of sorts.

(Naked truth : Sasuke is shaken. Badly. Shocked and furious at himself. How did he allow this to happen ? How come he cares so little about what he almost did ? As if given the chance to second-guess himself, to consider what he was about to do, he would have shielded Naruto just the same ? But hush. Hush. Such thoughts, flaring and burning, they don’t belong with him. Hush.)

Yes, he finds all of this quite unnerving. How the day is so sunny, how some people smile and brag and bounce around, how some people, cheerfully and with pugnacity, build bridges against all odds.

Yeah.

How long before this annoying awkwardness between him and the usuratonkachi dies down and is forgotten and never talked about again ? In the meantime, they’ll keep passing it off as hostility, and that will be comfortably far from anything like comfort. In theory.

If only it wasn’t such a beautiful day.

- Smuty -

y'all know those AUs that go something like hellfire makes eddie flirt with steve as a bet?

okay, here me out:

eddie tricks hellfire into betting he can't get steve to flirt back. he wants to flirt with steve and he's determined to get him to flirt back, so he decides to act coy, pretends he isn't absolutely obsessed with steve, makes some off-handed comments about being friends with him and one day manages to get the guys to make a bet with him. he wants to flirt with his dream guy and make some money. best of both worlds.

it's game on from then, he flirts like his life depends on it. he watches steve blush and stammer, because the guy has apparently lost all his game since high school, and revels in it. the problem is steve gets so flustered it seems like he wouldn't be able to flirt back even if he wanted to. eddie thinks he's unused to getting attention from guys, but he figures he'll get used to it.

and he does. he becomes more confident and eventually does start flirting back. but by that time eddie has sort of forgotten about the bet, he's on cloud nine from all the attention steve is giving him. it all comes to a head when hellfire witnesses them flirt.

and in his shock gareth shouts "why haven't you told us you've already won the bet?"

and steve is all confused, while eddie lights up "oh shit, yeah, give me all your money, guys!"

and when steve asks what the fuck is going on, eddie explains while he collects the money and steve looks absolutely crushed. he can barely get out a "so it was all a bet?" in a choked voice, all teary eyed.

eddie panics and realizes how the whole thing sounds and rushes to explain "no no no no, it wasn't! the bet was for the flirting, not the other way around! i tricked the guys into betting i couldn't get you to flirt back, so i could flirt with you and steal their money. two birds with one stone and all that. i did sort of forget about it until now, though. i'm sorry."

now it's the guys' turn to pipe up. "what do you mean tricked? we made the bet so you would finally do something about your pathetic crush??"

okay, so maybe eddie wasn't as slick as he thought. maybe he talked about steve a tad too much? or maybe he was too enthusiastic about the idea of the bet? he's not sure.

steve looks like he can't quite decide how to feel. but then he says, "well then, you better use that money to pay for our first date, asshole." eddie rushes to pepper his whole face in kisses. he was gonna do that anyway.

He asked, "Are you ok?"

She trembled when he heard his voice, she wasn't expecting him, and she jumped when she heard his voice.  It was all just too much.  This pain, this fear, this uncertainty of it all.  Was she sane?  She didn't know.  Broken, perhaps?  Perhaps.

"Are you hurt," he asked from behind her.

With tears threatening to fall, she straightens her back as much as possible, so as not to slouch where she stood. 

"I'm not," she whimpered, hating that she sounded so vulnerable. She took a long and uneven breath, and shook her head.  This was difficult.  "I just, time....I need some time.  I just need a little time."

"It's alright," he said, placing a strong hand on her shoulder.  "I'm right here."

A few moments go by, and she hears the blood rushing through her body, and she looks to the ceiling, unable to speak, but wondering, if giving up would make her existence go by smoother, as she felt the weight of his hand on her shoulder.

Also on ao3:

Billy Hargrove is a goddamn criminal!

He’s a mastermind in breaking and entering. Steve’s parents are part are the few wealthiest citizens of Hawkins, their house a literal target, so it’s no surprise that they would install the best security equipment they could find. It was to ensure not only their safety but Steve’s as well. Since they were always away for work Steve had the house all to himself.

Security cameras along the driveway, at the front of the house, by the pool, and alarms systems at every possible entrance. Unless you had a key it was physically impossible for anyone to make it to the Harrington residence without getting caught by security. But somehow Billy had found a way to bypass every single camera in the vicinity.

It was like he had a cloaking device. He couldn’t be tracked on any camera, Steve would always check the surveillance footage but would be no sign of Billy on the recordings. There were alarms installed in multiple places in the houses-they’d need to be switched off in the morning using a device plugged into the wall- Steve always checked to make sure the device was up and running before he slept or when he left the house. But it was as if Billy had some sort of clairvoyance about the whereabouts of each alarm.

There were some installed into the windows in the kitchen, which was the most common entrance for Billy, they were little things that could be hidden in the smallest of areas but packed a punch when it came to the noise. But when Billy used the windows they wouldn’t make a peep. Almost like they were aware of Billy and trusted him in entering the household. Steve would check the alarms to see if they were damaged or faulty, but they were untouched, completely efficient.

The same went for every other security system in the house. If there was an entrance with an alarm Billy knew how to bypass the damn thing with little to no struggle. What was concerning was that Steve’s parents had the alarms installed years before Billy came to town. So how the hell did he know where every system was if Steve never told him about it?

A part of Steve wouldn’t mind the criminal activity if it wasn’t for the way Billy went about doing it. When he broke in he wouldn’t just go straight up to Steve’s room, no! He had to make himself a snack, turn on the TV, use the bathroom, read any book that was lying about, and have a look through the family photo album. He made himself right at home like he practically lived there. It would always frighten Steve when he would hear a ruckus downstairs and find his boyfriend rummaging through the cabinets. He would prefer it if he used Steve’s bedroom window like a normal boyfriend.

Steve needed to put a stop to this menace. Once and for all.

—–

Steve didn’t sleep tonight. Instead, he sat in his bed waiting, listening for the sounds of a 5'10 beefy Californian breaking into his house. Tonight Billy took the kitchen window, as per usual, Steve waited until the static of the TV came on and the blaring sounds of MTV blasted throughout the household. Steve made his way downstairs to where he found Billy sitting on the couch, his legs on the coffee table snacking on a tuna sandwich.

“Making yourself comfortable?” Steve says sarcastically, his hands on his hips in that disappointed mother stance he would give to Dustin and the rest of the kids.

“Is it my fault that your house is so fucking lavish, pretty boy.” Billy mumbles whilst chewing on a large bite of tuna.

“This is the tenth time you’ve broken into my house, Billy!”

“Oh c'mon, you know you love it.”

“I’d love it even more if you used the goddamn door like a normal person. Christ Billy, what if someone sees you? Then they’ll know how to get in and steal god knows what!”

“I’d love to you use the door, sweetheart,” he replies, “but normal isn’t really my thing.”

“Well, maybe this will change your mind.” From his pyjama pocket, Steve pulls out a little black box being held together by a silver ribbon in a neat bow. He joins Billy on the couch and hands him the gift. “Merry Christmas.”

“it’s July.” Billy remarks.

“Just open the damn box!”

Billy takes the little box from Steve’s hands. He holds the present to his ear and jiggles is about but can’t make heads or tails about the contents inside.

He removes the ribbon delicately so there’s no damage and tosses it aside. He opens the lid to reveal and suddenly his eyes go wide and his mouth agape. It’s a small golden key, placed neatly into the cut-out of the Styrofoam packaging below. It’s connected to a key ring that is attached to a shiny red heart key chain with a bold glittery “B” in the center.

“the golden was specially designed for the security alarms on the front door. Now you don’t need to break in every time you want to come round. And you can use it any time you want. I know the key chain is a little tacky if you want me to return it–”

Steve is cut off at the sudden crashing of lips against. He leans into Billy’s hard kiss, he can feel the blonde smile against his lips.

“I love it.” Billy says. Immediately took the key and key chain off the ring and placing onto his own set along with his house and car keys. “You sure I can use it.”

“Any time. I want this to be a safe place for you. When Neil’s giving you shit or you just want to relax, you’re always welcome here.

They continue with their mini make-out session. Billy tucked his keys back into his pocket before wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist. Steve moans in delight; he can feel the joy radiating from Billy. There’s still one thing that lingers on his mind as they pull away for a brief moment.

“there’s one thing I gotta know,” Steve begins, pulling away from Billy for a brief second, “How did you manage to pass all the security? We’ve got cameras surrounding the entire backyard, and the driveway, they’re are alarms everywhere! And this is so high-tech stuff, so…how did you bypass it?”

“…you have security?”

closing lines of a 4th-c. woman’s epitaph to her husband:

Now with all these things wrenched away I am a mourning spouse: happy, if the gods had left me a living husband; but happy nonetheless, because I am yours & was yours & after death, soon, I will be yours.

***

Parking lot was a disaster. Sam managed to get his truck into a spot -- didn't double park in the pick-up lane, unlike some people -- but he hopes whoever's in the Toyota next to him doesn't have a passenger, or if they do that the passenger's pretty thin. Like, model-thin. Now it's the hallways, milling adults looking lost, kids rolling their eyes and tugging on hands, lockers decorated with Welcome, Parents! in carefully printed bubble letters.

"Da-aad."

"Yeah, coming," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes, like every other kid. Sam tries not to let it bother him. Every kid goes through this phase. He did, at least. He doesn't have a lot of experience, otherwise.

Dean leads the way, confident, and polite at least to other parents when they have to squeeze past. How Sam knows he isn't fucking this up completely. He slips through a gap that only a fourth grader could manage, though, and Sam's left to dance politely around a rotund couple he doesn't recognize, scolding some older twin boys under their breath. The wife finally notices him and looks up and then up, blinking, and Sam takes the look he's used to. "God, sorry!" she says, sticking out an arm and shuffling her kids out of the way to make a space. "Like a cattle call in here, huh?"

"Moo," Sam says, which makes her laugh too hard, which makes her husband frown, but then he's past, where Dean's bouncing in his light-up sneakers, annoyed. Sam pushes his hand through Dean's hair before he can duck away. "What?"

"Moo?" Another eyeroll. Sam should maybe tell him the lie about getting stuck that way. "You are so weird. And we're gonna be late."

"When have we ever been late?"

Dean does actually grab Sam's hand, yanking. Sam lets himself be pulled, enjoying at least that his kid's deigning to hold Dad's hand after being far too old for it, at least as Sam's been told. "Last year? Mrs. McMorrow made us reschedule!"

"I think getting in a car accident was a decent excuse," Sam says, mild, and Dean groans and says, "Come on," stomping ahead down past the 5th grade classrooms to where Ms. Valdez is, see, just saying goodbye to the previous couple. Sarah Gold's parents, given that Sarah's waiting on the little blue plastic chair outside, reading a library book, making Dean halt in his tracks and making Sam almost run into the back of him. He's heard a lot about how Sarah's very, very annoying. Most annoying girl in school. Somehow she always gets an invitation to Dean's birthday parties, anyway.

Sam fits a hand around Dean's little shoulder. Small bones. Always makes him feel like a giant and also not big enough, like he needs to be planet-sized to protect this kid from all that could be. Still. A girl's not that scary. "See, on time," he says, easy, and Dean's blushing deeply when he shrugs.

Ms. Valdez is a good teacher, Sam thinks. She's in her late twenties, which Sam knows is plenty old enough but still makes her feel like a kid to him. If he does the math she really could be his kid. She's nice but not saccharine, complimentary but not a suck-up. Dean seems to be doing okay. He likes math and science, loves P.E., suffers through his music and art specials, does the reading but insists he doesn't like the 'girl books'. "I think he's overcompensating," Ms. Valdez says, and laughs lightly, and Sam's hit with this strange weird flush that makes him queasy, for a second. His throat closing.

She blinks at him. "Mr. Winchester?" Then, uncertain: "I didn't mean--"

"No," he says. An effort to smile but he does it anyway. "I think you're right. It's important to look tough in front of the right people, if you know what I mean."

She smiles back, relieved. She is young. "Maybe he'll grow out of it. Although, maybe not. Some boys never do."

"No," he says, "they don't."

She shows him the units they'll be going through for the rest of the term. Egyptian mythology, with art components and a small writing assignment and a research paper, just to get the kids used to what sources mean, writing in paragraphs instead of often-incomplete sentences. She leans close. Smells like jasmine. He realizes only when the twenty minutes of the conference are about up that she's been flirting, the whole time. Her smile small and her eyes softly dark, telling him that Dean's a good kid, and if it's not rude to say she thinks he's done very well, since the divorce, and he seems to be adjusting. She was sorry not to see Mrs. Winchester, this evening.

"She never actually took my name," Sam says, and Ms. Valdez -- Marisol, he remembers -- lets her mouth form a small moue, like -- he doesn't know. Some implication he should pick up, if he were looking to do so, but he isn't. She is pretty. Long dark hair she sweeps into a messy bun, full mouth, elegant hands with bitten nails. Apparently has a thing for older men. But--

He comes out into the hall where Dean's sitting on the little plastic chair the lovely Sarah has vacated, eating a cupcake. "Hey, where'd you get that?" Sam says. He has a sense of having dodged a bullet.

Dean shrugs. "Honors Society kids having a bake sale," he says, garbled.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and chews like a cow, exaggerated. "Well, I want one. Lead the way, buddy."

They make their way out to what this school thinks is a playground. The 2030s have really just taken away all of the possible edges from being a kid. They sit on a bench under a tree and Sam bites into his cupcake while Dean mows through his second. Awful, storebought, chemical-tasting frosting. Cake. They don't have it very often.

It's a pretty night. Warm, for the time of year. The moon up, nearly full, past all the school lights, and Sam thinks that after this they'll go pick up a pizza, maybe, and they'll go back to the house, and he'll let Dean watch an episode of that new Star Trek cartoon -- or is it Wars? he can never remember -- and then he'll have to insist about bedtime and Dean will whine but he'll go because despite the eyerolling he is a good kid, confirmed, the best thing Sam's got in his life at this point, and from how things have gone the best thing he'll have, from the end of that place that was and where he'll never be again, until...

"Da-ad."

He blinks. Dean's sitting crosslegged on the bench, looking at him, eyebrows high. "What?"

"You were on Planet Dad again," Dean says. No eyeroll. "Did you run into any Cardassians? Or like, a big Andorian cruiser?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "Fought 'em off with my lightsaber."

"Da-ad, you know that's Star Wars," Dean says, genuinely offended, and Sam huffs, cups the side of his head. His face that's entirely his own, some mix of his parents that ended up not looking much like either of them somehow, but his expression, sometimes. Something around the eyes.

"I'll get it one day, buddy," Sam says.

"Sure," Dean says, doubtful, and slides off the bench, bouncing on his toes, ready for pizza. They get pizza and they watch the show -- Trek, who knew -- and Sam puts him to bed with the exact amount of whining he knew he'd get and turns out the light -- knows Dean will read comics by flashlight, with the flashlight that always has fresh batteries in his bedside table -- and he looks at the small lump in the blankets through the crack in the door for a solid minute, standing in the hallway of the house he never wanted. Then he goes downstairs and pours himself a drink, and sits on the porch where the night's getting cold, and he sits on the deck chair that he really ought to repaint and he thinks, god. God.

Then he goes inside, and goes to bed, and there's the next day to get through, after that.

Regulus Black finds out he is part of a prophecy. He is to lead the Choosen One to victory aginst Voldemort and decides he doesnt want anything to do with that. So he flings himself into the future to avoid it at age 18 and lands in a tiny cupboard with a little boy with green eyes of six staring at him.

OMG

i want this omg

the dursleys being like wtf and regulus just falls out of their closest and THE POSSIBILITIES

like he didn’t wanna be part of this prophecy but him going forward did it anyway and regulus is like well shit

forty ninth prompt:

the sword unexpectedly comes to regulus in the cave, but before he can fend off the inferi with it, he’s transported underneath a sheet of ice and into freezing water.

or,

when harry pulls the sword from the frozen river when he’s hunting for horcruxes, regulus is dragged out with it.