A BloodyMary (Iron Lung (2026) and Project Hail Mary (2026)) fic.
Rating: Mature Relationship: The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung)/Ryland Grace Additional Tags: Search and Rescue, Grumpy/Sunshine, Eventual Happy Ending, mutations, miscommunications, hurt/comfort, additional tags to be added Chapters: 6 of ? (ongoing)
Summary: And we have a good laugh about it.
Chapter 6 (snippet)
"You should haveâ"
"Two hours of oxygen. Yeah. You said."
She's scared. I can hear it in her voice, this little hiccup. Katherine, don't be shy. But, hell, maybe she's waiting on a pardon too, I dunno. Maybe we're all in shackles. Honestly, it makes me laugh. I have to.
Y'know, funny thing, I guess, but did they test her blood too? Katherine. I don't care about Jack, Jack can get fucked. Katherine's talking to me, so I wonder. Did they test hers? They tested mine. I'm sitting there, bolted to the ground, and they take my blood and run a test and, get this, I'm A+. Never knew that before. We didn't worry about that sort've shit back at the Camp. I'm sure it didn't help if someone was bleeding out, but, hey, if they're like me? If they're my family? I hear there's a whole ocean of A+ right under my feet now. I'll bring it home, Mom. I'll make it better.
"There should be a mâ"
This fucking map. I tear it off the console and look at the numbers, then check it against a binder they don't tell me about. It's funny. There's a fingerprint of blood on the page. It's beautiful and perfect. Spirals all around, all nice and neat and for no reason whatsoever, I lick my thumb clean and I press it over the stamp on the page. Smears it. Fuck. Whatever.
A BloodyMary (Iron Lung (2026) and Project Hail Mary (2026)) fic.
Rating: Mature Relationship: The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung)/Ryland Grace Additional Tags: Search and Rescue, Grumpy/Sunshine, Eventual Happy Ending, mutations, miscommunications, hurt/comfort, additional tags to be added Chapters: 5 of ? (ongoing)
Summary: Presumably, Grace is going to leave to get to that blood moon. It's gonna happen any second now. Any....any second now. C'mon, Grace! You can do it!
Chapter 5 (snippet)
Rocky started to roll a little towards the door. There was a hesitation in his usual bouncy exuberance. Maybe he was a little hurt that Grace still didn't feel comfortable having Rocky - and sometimes Adrian - come watch him sleep. It wasn't even that. He was fine with that, now. Sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. Sometimes, a man just needs some alone time and he doesn't have to explain himself.
Grace was absolutely distracting himself. And Rocky felt a little left out. That was it.
"No, no. No, that's okay, hey. Don't go," Grace said, reaching for him. "You wanna stay tonight? We'll head out to the launch tomorrow in the morning?"
And Rocky chirped before he could hide his eagerness. He skittered back to Grace, bumping him hard enough he stumbled a little and had to hold onto Rocky to stay upright, but it was fine. They laughed together. They headed back to his house together. Grace made some more marshmallows before Adrian came into the dome to join them, sitting around his campfire while the low mist dissipated in the evening and they watched the moons and the stars together. Adrian sang for them. And Grace fell asleep against his friend, trying not to worry too much about the crushing panic snapping at the back of his ribcage. Nobody was going to drug him. Nobody was making him. He chose. He chose this. He wanted this. He wanted.
He was okay.
He was okay.
He was okay.
-
HE WAS NOT OKAY!
Also? Also!! Beeping in his headset was so not helpful?? Who decides beeping is the solution to a recorded medical event - PANIC! ATTACK!
A recommended sedation dose ofâ
"DON'T YOU DARE!" Grace screamed at a pitch that would seem impossible, except there it was. Squeaky high. Perfectly pitched to grate. Persistent, even, as he held a long, horrible note as they rattled out of the atmosphere. Rocky was chirping next to him, snapped into place so he was perfectly snug, and fine, apparently. Whatever he was saying. Something. He was saying something! Probably!
A BloodyMary (Iron Lung (2026) and Project Hail Mary (2026)) fic.
Rating: Mature Relationship: The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung)/Ryland Grace Additional Tags: Search and Rescue, Grumpy/Sunshine, Eventual Happy Ending, mutations, miscommunications, hurt/comfort, additional tags to be added Chapters: 4 of ? (ongoing)
Summary: Another ship enters the Blood Ocean.
Chapter 4 (snippet)
My leg's stuck under the console. Think IâŠI think IâŠthink.
"You should be coming up on the first marker."
Mary sounds calm, doesn't she, through the speaker? I don't tell her how wet everything sounds anymore, the cage dripping blood. Whole thing is dripping blood. I'm dripping blood. Jammed my knee when the ship hit the surface. Cursed like the sailor they think I am. Nobody's seen an ocean in years and they think I can handle her. Fucking incredible. Can feel a screwâŠthink it's a screw. I think. I think it's a screw. I think it's a screw jammed into my knee, actually. I can't move it, it'll rip the skin. Probably pry the tendon apart. Kneecap screaming at me, the ship digging her claws in, demanding my immediate attention like that red blinking light. Wasn't red before. Know it wasn't red before. It's the blood. My thumbprint. Can see the lines there, right there! Circling the Light. Aren't we?
Mary says my name then. I think it's my name.
"How's it looking down there?"
Says my name, how sweet of her. How's it looking, she says, how sweet. How pedestrian and sweet. HowâŠ.
It's very funny, actually. Cause the view port's closed. Cause of all the blood. I'm swimming in it. It's up to my hips, swirling around me. Getting into the cut in my knee. Maybe I bled it all out, didn't I? My little mess. My little mistake.
They said they'd discovered this place, AT-5, yeah, they discovered it two weeks ago. Said the answer to the creeping, endless silence was down here. Said it was calling to them. Said the whole thing was covered in blood. Real blood. Real red blood. O+, can you believe that? Isn't that funny? I'm O+. I think thatâŠthink thatâŠthinkâ
A BloodyMary (Iron Lung (2026) and Project Hail Mary (2026)) fic.
Rating: Mature Relationship: The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung)/Ryland Grace Additional Tags: Search and Rescue, Grumpy/Sunshine, Eventual Happy Ending, mutations, miscommunications, hurt/comfort, additional tags to be added Chapters: 3 of ? (ongoing)
Summary: Back on Erid, Grace discusses the transmission from a strange moon and they have to decide just what they're going to do about it.
Chapter 3 (snippet)
Three months passed. Eridian months. How long was that compared to Earth? Well, Grace had come up with a rough calculation on the matter, taking into account various time dilation from his location in the universe now compared to, well, maybe from where he was born. But how long was that for this whole moon business with their cut-off screams and their reports to something called the See, Oh Eye or something or other? Sea? C? This is the trouble with transcripts. These were the real questions.
The signal died out shortly after it was sent, but the Eridians had recorded it and stretched it out, flayed it to the bones, and set each piece neatly in front of their scientists before they set it in front of Grace.
"I'm just saying." Grace was ambling around the room, casually tossing a little piece of soft, polished stone that Rocky had handed to him at some point. "If this thing is saying what we think it's saying, it's sayingâŠsomething bad. Is what I'm saying."
Yes. Bad.
Adrian was a straight shooter. She didn't need to pace while Rocky scuttled around after Grace, occasionally mimicking him. It was never in mean spirits. It was his own way of coping, and he had taken a small chunk of the same type of stone and casually batted it back and forth, almost perfectly in-line with Grace.
"Right," Grace said, letting Adrian's statement settle, letting it breathe. He expected her to be a professional yapper, like Rocky â like him â but it seemed Rocky had found the perfect yin to his yang. Grace held the rock, caught in the xennonite grooves of his suit, and pointed in her general direction. "Right. Exactly, right. Right? So. Okay, people, the question at the end of the day isâ"
Crew all dead.
"I mean." Grace winced. The Eridians didn't do facial expressions. But a shrug, a little scrape of their hands, a certain tap of their feet? Those said a million things. Adrian slowly shifted one of her primary legs to the left, the closest thing she had to a downward slope of a frown. "Yeah. Yes. Yeah, that's what we'reâŠthat's what we're going with. So. I just. I don't thinkâŠ."
A BloodyMary (Iron Lung (2026) and Project Hail Mary (2026)) fic.
Rating: Mature
Relationship: The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung)/Ryland Grace
Additional Tags: Search and Rescue, Grumpy/Sunshine, Eventual Happy Ending, mutations, miscommunications, hurt/comfort, additional tags to be added
Chapters: 2 of ? (ongoing)
Summary: The first submersible mission from the Coalition of Iron down into the blood ocean of AT-5.
Chapter 2 (snippet)
It's a tight seal. I hear them working the crank on the latch, over and over, until the metal squeals. I must trust the rivet, the seam, the weld. Parts of ships, their people huddled at the last way-station held by the Coalition of Iron. My home. My people. My mission.
"How's it looking in there?"
"Tight."
"One person ship." She says my name here and I smile with her. "So, you've got about two hours of oxygen, give or take. How's the readout?"
"Full green."
"Great. So. The Communal asks you to map out as much as you can. Resurface when you get in the red and we'll go over the map together. Look, I have no fucking idea if that camera even works, but, hey, snag a couple of pictures. We'll get outta here. Two rations on my card, 'kay?"
"You got yourself a deal, Haggerty."
She smacks the top of the ship, twice. It's dull through the hull, but I can feel it in my spine. I smile.
I grip a lever in front of me, preparing for the sudden drop. She'll count me down until she doesn't. I'll submerge into the dark. My hands sweat and I find myself tracing the metal edge of the console as a comfort. Believe in the COI. Believe this is important. This is important. Whatever's eating the stars, whatever's causing the colonies to wipe out in wavesâŠAT-5 has an answer. It has to. It has to.
She came on our radar two weeks ago, AT-5 and her blood moon. Initial samples gave it the old, improbably human O-. I'm O-. I don't know if I feelâŠI don't know what I feel. Excited? Everything is too desperate for that. People are dying. People are dying, stars are dying. I can't feel excited. But I can't describe the feeling down the center of my chest. Unzipped. Spilling out already. Adding to the ocean.
A BloodyMary (Iron Lung (2026) and Project Hail Mary (2026)) fic.
Rating: Mature
Relationship: The Convict | Simon (Iron Lung)/Ryland Grace
Additional Tags: Search and Rescue, Grumpy/Sunshine, Eventual Happy Ending, mutations, miscommunications, hurt/comfort, additional tags to be added
Chapters: 1 of ? (ongoing)
Summary:
Life on Eridian is good. In fact, Grace might even go as far as to say it's the best. Right up until the Eridians freak him out by having this whole big meeting about a signal coming from a moon somewhere? And Rocky volunteers them to go check it out? Rocky, not cool, man.
During the two year mission to go check out this weird moon, the signals keep changing, until they arrive and find a Really Weird Guy. And, man, he has some problems. But Rocky and Grace are here to help! Falling in love was not on the menu, but that's never stopped anyone.
Chapter 1 - Here Comes The Sun (Snippet)
He needed to get to the ship.
The Erids had provided Grace with a similar suit to what Rocky had first built when he explored the Eridian ship while circling Tau Ceti, trying to discover why this one sun was not dying while every other sun was infected. The new suit was a closer fit and an easier time walking around, with these knee joints that eased some of the gravitational strain like you wouldn't believe. He'd literally jumped for joy when Rocky presented it to him, Rocky's little hands jostling in the air, Amaze, amaze, amaze! It was amazing. Rocky was amazing.
Also? Bonus? Way easier than squirming his way into his old space suit. He just stepped into that sucker. Amaze, amaze, amaze.
After he was sure the seals were closed, Grace patting down the front of his body, he went to the exit hatch to the left to the amphitheater, spreading his xenonnite-shelled hand to a sensor lower to the ground, closer to Rocky and Adrian's height. Thing is, in this new suit, he could bend his knees. Incredible. He pressed his hand to the sensor and waited for the slow, warm pulse of yellow-orange light, so many hissing and whirring sounds behind it, and then the slow pop as the hatch opened. He stepped inside. He waited. It closed. Another opened. And he stepped through that, next.
The last time Grace was outside the habitat, he'd gone on a tour of the facility that supported it, lead by Adrian, Rocky, and several other eager Eridians dressed in their finest, which seemed to make Rocky very proud and very embarrassed. He didn't travel much. He liked the beach. He liked the classroom. Scratch that, he loved the classroom. And, sure, he helped give some pointers that were immediately disregarded for the rebuilding of his ship that could, in theory, take him home, but he was still thinking on that.
Needless to say, he was pretty sure he had a good idea on what the hallways outside of the habitat would look like. And the fact that there weren't other Eridians tumbling around put him ill at ease.
Not panicking. To be abundantly clear.
Read more on Ao3!
For the @strangerthingsreversebigbang 2025/2026 Stranger Things Reverse Big Bang, I am so lucky to get paired with @hawkinsleather ahh look at the beautiful colors!! They're FANTASTIC!
Rating: Teens and Up
Word Count: 5,709 (complete)
Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson
Additional Tags: Television Host Steve Harrington, Famous Corroded Coffin (Stranger Things), Alternate Universe - No Upside Down (Stranger Things), Satanic panic, mild homophobia
Steve hosted a late night talk show in Chicago in the 90s and on one special evening, they have Corroded Coffin's Eddie Munson as one of the guest stars!
A wee little snippet:
They didn't even need the applause sign to get everyone cheering for the main lead that he'd be interviewing soon. This new guy, Marco DeVila, handsome as hell, easy natured in most of his interviews, body like a cat burglar. He'd landed the Nova role in this crazy thing where Marvel, you know, the comics? Were trying to make movies. But big, big movies at that. It was wild to think the nerds were going to have blockbusters but then the nerds had Jurassic Park and The Matrix and, Steve had to admit, they were pretty cool. Hell, they had Star Wars. Star Wars ruled. So, yeah, maybe all these super heroes were going to be on screen and it was pretty cool that Steve's show was going to be the one to break the news. He should be way more excited about that and not, say, the mildly controversial musical talent that his hairdresser didn't even listen to and their producer wanted just because they had a new hit single and had some tour dates in the area. To some, they were that annoying band with that one soft ballad that people kept putting on their breakup mixtapes, even though the song was clearly about getting laid. To others, they were energetic metal that knew how to use the whole stage in their performances. To Steve? To Steve, theyâ
Steve laughed and touched his chest, glancing over at Kenny. He had work to do.
"You might remember this. Yeah, when I tried out for Spider-Man?" There were some ooo's, some laughs, some cheers. "D'you know what they told me?"
"You'd break a hip?" The HeyDay grinned, lounging back in his seat and Steve wagged a finger at him.
"If you put me in that maskâŠ." They shared a laugh together as they vaguely vogued at the same time, framing their own faces with their hands. "That ain't Spider-Man. That's Block Head."
Steve blew air out of the side of his mouth, shrugging, hamming it up for the audience.
Continue reading on Ao3!
Steve yawned, stretching his arms back behind the couch. Most people would say itâs a move. That King Steve had come out to play and was trying to get in someoneâs pants, but the only pants involved were Eddieâs and they were currently draped over both of Steveâs legs and crossed at the ankles. There were, like, legs in said jeans, too. There was a whole body. Eddieâs body. EddieâsâŠSteveâs eyes tracked down to Eddieâs knees and he thought about touching them, right where the jeans were ripped. The pale slice of his skin amongst the feathered frayed fringe looked soft enough. Looked like it would be fun to touch. So, of course, his body went and worked without him acknowledging it, doing it anyways. Automatic thought-to-hand without, like, consulting. He was touching Eddie. He touched Eddie. This was not a move.
Whatever. Eddieâs skin was kinda cold.
âDâyou want a blanket?â Steve asked casually while someone was getting ripped to shreds on the screen in front of them, orange-highlighted blood oozing on the set, chains rattling around everywhere. Eddie snorted before he glanced up at Steve and hummed a question. âYou cold?â
âNo?â
âAre you sure?â Steve teased and slipped his pinky into Eddieâs jeans. NotâŠnot in his jeans. Technically in his jeans. In the slit of fabric that was torn open, thatâs all. It was to rile him up. It was fairly common knowledge that they liked to wrestle. Eddie was one of the few friends he had left who was, one, older than 16 and, two, could get into a solid arm lock and try and take Steve to the ground. Nancy would say something like oh my god, youâre being so stupid, but she didnât understand the need for guys to sometimes slam each other into the dirt. Jonathan understood but he looked a little too intense as he was grappling at elbows and Steve learned not to start a fight with Jonathan for, like, head safety reasons. Eddie understood. Eddie was wiry and did this corner check thing with his bony hip that should hurt way more than it did, except Steve was sortâve focused on grabbing Eddieâs hips as much as possible. The wrestling was great. It was awesome.
But Eddie didnât take the bait. He just laughed and reached for Steveâs wrist, held it while watching the movie and didnât even seem to realize what he was doing either. Body before brain. Steve sortâve laughed when Eddie started to blush but he didnât actually want Eddie to drag his hand back. Itâs not like Steve got what he wanted all the time. And, honestly? Smooth move on Munsonâs part to reach for a bowl of chips when he decided to let go. Eddie pulled the whole thing to his chest like he was doing it on purpose.
So the world is ending, even if it's just ending in your neck of the woods, but it's definitely ending. You're stuck working another job, you can't drive out of town - not that you were doing that too much anyways the last few weeks...months...Jesus, has it been years? But you just don't, and that's okay - and the military are lined up outside town to make sure you, specifically, stay put.
It's not just you, specifically, but Steve likes to feel a little special now and again. Like, he puts himself on the back burner a lot. A. Lot. They're always giving him shit for his hair and his clothes and his dumb questions, but he gives himself to the group a lot, even if the little shits don't appreciate it. And, fine, he's antagonizing Jonathan but half of that is just payback for taking Nancy away - away! Okay, and he's over her, okay! Jesus Christ! Let a man bring his friend flowers and climb a tower, he's bored out of his fucking skull!
But pretending that all of this shit is for him (and everyone else?) makes swallowing the pain of his dead end world a little easier. Yeah, he's been beat to hell, three concussions, stitches, eye getting bled to relieve the pressure, strangled, drowned, yadda yadda, but, eh. People died! And even that is, like, another tally in the book, so might as well flip to the new page! Find the right tape, get in the flow of things at the station while Robin's doing the Squawk, and it's...damn near perfect. It's mindless. It's perfect.
They don't talk about the scars on the back of his arms, he just wears a sweater that doesn't snag on the rough skin. They don't talk about how he can't hear out of his left ear anymore, they just tend to shift to the right if they want to include him, and most of the time they don't even want to do that. Robin translates when she's interested, but she's been spending time with Vickie and that's great. That's awesome. His best friend is getting laid and she so deserves it, it's made her more fun. They talk and gossip about how to kiss girls and it's like some little hole of him has been half filled that he forgot was aching after his lost all his friends his senior year.
They don't talk about the sleep walking. They don't talk about how he showers a whole hell of a lot less because touching water, any water, makes his lungs seize up and suddenly he's trying to rip something off his throat that isn't there anymore. Robin doesn't even notice - she's on cloud ten or whatever over Vickie and they all kinda stink. Getting deodorant and stuff through the barricade is not a priority. He's gotten into his father's dusty cologne stash. It's fine.
He's pounding seven glasses of coffee before eight, but so is everyone else. They gotta get ready for a burn. They gotta get ready for a crawl. They gotta coordinate. They gotta prepare. They gotta survive. It's so normal, he doesn't even taste it as he dumps it down his throat.
His sides itch. A lot. More. After the last crawl, they hurt.
But so does everything else, so who fucking cares. He puts on the laugh track. He bops to the music, glad that he and Robin have similar tastes most of the time. Half of the time. He learns a lotta shit for him but doesn't say so. They play home base in the basement of the radio station for plans and everyone comes to stress over what to do next, what to do next, and they're so calm about it. Steve crosses his arms to secretly scratch his scars and he's so calm about it. Yeah, sure, they need more guns, sure. They're sending Hop back in the Upside Down, sure. Of course! No big deal! People died down there, no big deal! Dustin is being worse than ever, wearing that goddamn Hellfire shirt, and he knows it's only getting him into trouble! But they can't talk about it because that's...that's just not routine, man! That's not.... Max is....
He doesn't visit. God, he should, but he drinks his coffee and they play music. He drinks his coffee. He drinks-
Robin stepped out for a second. Two, tops. She was grabbing the mail and Steve turned into the desk too fast. He bumped it, his hand went numb - it's always a little numb these days. Thank god he's not the one who played guitar.
He'd have laughed at that. That's the thing.
He'd have....
Steve breaks. God, before the ceramic even touches the ground, he just fucking.... It's like...the Quarry. Okay? The Quarry, it holds all that water, but in '64 everyone talks about how it got too full, way too full, just a crazy rainy season and it overflowed. Flooded the banks. Nobody was prepared. It's that kinda thing that the adults always talk about and chuckle because they survived and no matter what they lost, no matter how hard it had been, it was fine now, so it was just. Funny. And scabbed over. But it flooded. It broke.
Steve broke.
When Robin finds him, he's in the corner, half-under the desk. Can't control his breathing. Can't even get enough air, it's just raking his chest, and he can't seem to pull his legs in tight enough.
Steve doesn't cry. Steve hasn't cried since he was eleven and his mom and dad didn't come home for his birthday - was that a punishment? He seems to remember it was a punishment. Like, maybe his grades weren't good enough or something. It didn't matter. It was a funny story he told his friends and they didn't laugh, but, like, whatever. Scabbed over. In the past. He just doesn't cry anymore, that's fine. Men aren't supposed to cry, he's pretty sure.
So, it's kinda weird his face is damp and he can't see past his knees and his ear is ringing so loud. He's saying something, but he can't hear it. Something touches him. He grabs at the nearest object and smashes it against - oh god. Against a leg? Maybe? It crumples. The jeans take most of the blow, thank fuck, but...but....
Robin sits in front of him, holding her leg, cursing to herself. Steve breathes, he breathes, he's finally breathing, and he looks at her like he forgot who she was, scratching away at that hole inside him, just a little, because he hurt her. He....
"Oh my god." Steve crawls forward, numb hands reaching as she grips her leg, rocking slightly. She sees him, and kicks him with the toes of her sneakers. He doesn't feel it. "Oh my god."
"Ow!" she wails, not in that sad, wet sort've way when the pain hurts more than on the surface but in your guts and in your heart. She wails in anger. Anger. That's...that's safer. That's surface. "The hell was that? I thought you were having a panic attack."
"Oh my god," he says again, because he's completely lost words at that point. Because he hurt his best friend. Over a coffee cup. A stupid, goddamn...a coffee cup! The coffee that's soaking into his knees that very second! Over nothing!
He must've made a weird noise cause his throat felt awful and Robin looked up, the anger subsiding, receding. Back in her own Quarry. She crawls to him and takes his face and Steve doesn't cry, so it's really weird whatever she's wiping from his face. Sweat. Maybe. Coffee?
"Hey. Hey, hey, you're okay," she says, her voice going softer. Softer. The softest. He reaches for her leg and she gently slaps him away. "It's fine, dingus. Didn't even cut." She lies. El would have some words for her, can tell you that much. "It's fine. Stop, hey. Come here."
They're late for the morning show. He's pretty sure...but she brings him to her lap and holds him until the shaking stops. Until the ringing has dulled back to normal, reserved for his left ear again. Until he's breathing. Normal. He's normal. He's normal. He's normal.
"After the show, you want me to come home with you and we can shower?" she asks like that's definitely a normal thing friends do all the time. "And maybe have some breakfast that isn't 50 ccs of black tar caffeine?"
He snorts. She sounds so ridiculous, but he loves her and she loves him and they've got matching holes in their soul or whatever that they curl up in when they need it.
The world is ending. Maybe. For now.
He finds some tacky tube of glue in one of the many junk drawers around the station, next to the tape and staples. He glues his mug back together while she plays music. He drinks, ignoring the chemical taste, or the way it constantly leaks down his hand.
So the world is ending, even if it's just ending in your neck of the woods, but it's definitely ending. You're stuck working another job, you can't drive out of town - not that you were doing that too much anyways the last few weeks...months...Jesus, has it been years? But you just don't, and that's okay - and the military are lined up outside town to make sure you, specifically, stay put.
It's not just you, specifically, but Steve likes to feel a little special now and again. Like, he puts himself on the back burner a lot. A. Lot. They're always giving him shit for his hair and his clothes and his dumb questions, but he gives himself to the group a lot, even if the little shits don't appreciate it. And, fine, he's antagonizing Jonathan but half of that is just payback for taking Nancy away - away! Okay, and he's over her, okay! Jesus Christ! Let a man bring his friend flowers and climb a tower, he's bored out of his fucking skull!
But pretending that all of this shit is for him (and everyone else?) makes swallowing the pain of his dead end world a little easier. Yeah, he's been beat to hell, three concussions, stitches, eye getting bled to relieve the pressure, strangled, drowned, yadda yadda, but, eh. People died! And even that is, like, another tally in the book, so might as well flip to the new page! Find the right tape, get in the flow of things at the station while Robin's doing the Squawk, and it's...damn near perfect. It's mindless. It's perfect.
They don't talk about the scars on the back of his arms, he just wears a sweater that doesn't snag on the rough skin. They don't talk about how he can't hear out of his left ear anymore, they just tend to shift to the right if they want to include him, and most of the time they don't even want to do that. Robin translates when she's interested, but she's been spending time with Vickie and that's great. That's awesome. His best friend is getting laid and she so deserves it, it's made her more fun. They talk and gossip about how to kiss girls and it's like some little hole of him has been half filled that he forgot was aching after his lost all his friends his senior year.
They don't talk about the sleep walking. They don't talk about how he showers a whole hell of a lot less because touching water, any water, makes his lungs seize up and suddenly he's trying to rip something off his throat that isn't there anymore. Robin doesn't even notice - she's on cloud ten or whatever over Vickie and they all kinda stink. Getting deodorant and stuff through the barricade is not a priority. He's gotten into his father's dusty cologne stash. It's fine.
He's pounding seven glasses of coffee before eight, but so is everyone else. They gotta get ready for a burn. They gotta get ready for a crawl. They gotta coordinate. They gotta prepare. They gotta survive. It's so normal, he doesn't even taste it as he dumps it down his throat.
His sides itch. A lot. More. After the last crawl, they hurt.
But so does everything else, so who fucking cares. He puts on the laugh track. He bops to the music, glad that he and Robin have similar tastes most of the time. Half of the time. He learns a lotta shit for him but doesn't say so. They play home base in the basement of the radio station for plans and everyone comes to stress over what to do next, what to do next, and they're so calm about it. Steve crosses his arms to secretly scratch his scars and he's so calm about it. Yeah, sure, they need more guns, sure. They're sending Hop back in the Upside Down, sure. Of course! No big deal! People died down there, no big deal! Dustin is being worse than ever, wearing that goddamn Hellfire shirt, and he knows it's only getting him into trouble! But they can't talk about it because that's...that's just not routine, man! That's not.... Max is....
He doesn't visit. God, he should, but he drinks his coffee and they play music. He drinks his coffee. He drinks-
Robin stepped out for a second. Two, tops. She was grabbing the mail and Steve turned into the desk too fast. He bumped it, his hand went numb - it's always a little numb these days. Thank god he's not the one who played guitar.
He'd have laughed at that. That's the thing.
He'd have....
Steve breaks. God, before the ceramic even touches the ground, he just fucking.... It's like...the Quarry. Okay? The Quarry, it holds all that water, but in '64 everyone talks about how it got too full, way too full, just a crazy rainy season and it overflowed. Flooded the banks. Nobody was prepared. It's that kinda thing that the adults always talk about and chuckle because they survived and no matter what they lost, no matter how hard it had been, it was fine now, so it was just. Funny. And scabbed over. But it flooded. It broke.
Steve broke.
When Robin finds him, he's in the corner, half-under the desk. Can't control his breathing. Can't even get enough air, it's just raking his chest, and he can't seem to pull his legs in tight enough.
Steve doesn't cry. Steve hasn't cried since he was eleven and his mom and dad didn't come home for his birthday - was that a punishment? He seems to remember it was a punishment. Like, maybe his grades weren't good enough or something. It didn't matter. It was a funny story he told his friends and they didn't laugh, but, like, whatever. Scabbed over. In the past. He just doesn't cry anymore, that's fine. Men aren't supposed to cry, he's pretty sure.
So, it's kinda weird his face is damp and he can't see past his knees and his ear is ringing so loud. He's saying something, but he can't hear it. Something touches him. He grabs at the nearest object and smashes it against - oh god. Against a leg? Maybe? It crumples. The jeans take most of the blow, thank fuck, but...but....
Robin sits in front of him, holding her leg, cursing to herself. Steve breathes, he breathes, he's finally breathing, and he looks at her like he forgot who she was, scratching away at that hole inside him, just a little, because he hurt her. He....
"Oh my god." Steve crawls forward, numb hands reaching as she grips her leg, rocking slightly. She sees him, and kicks him with the toes of her sneakers. He doesn't feel it. "Oh my god."
"Ow!" she wails, not in that sad, wet sort've way when the pain hurts more than on the surface but in your guts and in your heart. She wails in anger. Anger. That's...that's safer. That's surface. "The hell was that? I thought you were having a panic attack."
"Oh my god," he says again, because he's completely lost words at that point. Because he hurt his best friend. Over a coffee cup. A stupid, goddamn...a coffee cup! The coffee that's soaking into his knees that very second! Over nothing!
He must've made a weird noise cause his throat felt awful and Robin looked up, the anger subsiding, receding. Back in her own Quarry. She crawls to him and takes his face and Steve doesn't cry, so it's really weird whatever she's wiping from his face. Sweat. Maybe. Coffee?
So the world is ending, even if it's just ending in your neck of the woods, but it's definitely ending. You're stuck working another job, you can't drive out of town - not that you were doing that too much anyways the last few weeks...months...Jesus, has it been years? But you just don't, and that's okay - and the military are lined up outside town to make sure you, specifically, stay put.
It's not just you, specifically, but Steve likes to feel a little special now and again. Like, he puts himself on the back burner a lot. A. Lot. They're always giving him shit for his hair and his clothes and his dumb questions, but he gives himself to the group a lot, even if the little shits don't appreciate it. And, fine, he's antagonizing Jonathan but half of that is just payback for taking Nancy away - away! Okay, and he's over her, okay! Jesus Christ! Let a man bring his friend flowers and climb a tower, he's bored out of his fucking skull!
But pretending that all of this shit is for him (and everyone else?) makes swallowing the pain of his dead end world a little easier. Yeah, he's been beat to hell, three concussions, stitches, eye getting bled to relieve the pressure, strangled, drowned, yadda yadda, but, eh. People died! And even that is, like, another tally in the book, so might as well flip to the new page! Find the right tape, get in the flow of things at the station while Robin's doing the Squawk, and it's...damn near perfect. It's mindless. It's perfect.
They don't talk about the scars on the back of his arms, he just wears a sweater that doesn't snag on the rough skin. They don't talk about how he can't hear out of his left ear anymore, they just tend to shift to the right if they want to include him, and most of the time they don't even want to do that. Robin translates when she's interested, but she's been spending time with Vickie and that's great. That's awesome. His best friend is getting laid and she so deserves it, it's made her more fun. They talk and gossip about how to kiss girls and it's like some little hole of him has been half filled that he forgot was aching after his lost all his friends his senior year.
They don't talk about the sleep walking. They don't talk about how he showers a whole hell of a lot less because touching water, any water, makes his lungs seize up and suddenly he's trying to rip something off his throat that isn't there anymore. Robin doesn't even notice - she's on cloud ten or whatever over Vickie and they all kinda stink. Getting deodorant and stuff through the barricade is not a priority. He's gotten into his father's dusty cologne stash. It's fine.
He's pounding seven glasses of coffee before eight, but so is everyone else. They gotta get ready for a burn. They gotta get ready for a crawl. They gotta coordinate. They gotta prepare. They gotta survive. It's so normal, he doesn't even taste it as he dumps it down his throat.
His sides itch. A lot. More. After the last crawl, they hurt.
But so does everything else, so who fucking cares. He puts on the laugh track. He bops to the music, glad that he and Robin have similar tastes most of the time. Half of the time. He learns a lotta shit for him but doesn't say so. They play home base in the basement of the radio station for plans and everyone comes to stress over what to do next, what to do next, and they're so calm about it. Steve crosses his arms to secretly scratch his scars and he's so calm about it. Yeah, sure, they need more guns, sure. They're sending Hop back in the Upside Down, sure. Of course! No big deal! People died down there, no big deal! Dustin is being worse than ever, wearing that goddamn Hellfire shirt, and he knows it's only getting him into trouble! But they can't talk about it because that's...that's just not routine, man! That's not.... Max is....
He doesn't visit. God, he should, but he drinks his coffee and they play music. He drinks his coffee. He drinks-
Aziraphale has never had to sleep. Has never willed himself to sleep, it should be said. No, he's far too busy for that. So, color him surprised when he first wakes up in a location he does not recognize, tied to a chair. Can he escape? Or can he learn the harder lesson of giving up and giving in?
A gift for @quoththemaiden for Fandom Trumps Hate!
Excerpt
The music was loud, a jarring crescendo of brass and percussion dropping into the dark dull of the library. Aziraphale jolted in his seat, his limbs cramping closer to his torso, like he meant to retreat right when the orchestra blasted him from all sides. And then, slowly, as he adjusted to it all, he realized it was coming from a speaker. That it wasnât screaming at him with a hundred different instruments, screaming murder, screaming rage. It was the French horn. And it was Tchaikovsky.
Aziraphale sighed again, sinking back. Heâd put a hand to his chest if he was permitted but had to settle with pressing his tongue to his lip and staring up at the ceiling.
âSomeone must be there,â Aziraphale said, the music settling down, resting a moment. He cleared his throat and sat up again. âHello? Hello! Hello! I know youâre there!â
Aziraphale leaned forward, tipping the chair slightly, daringly.
âHello! Hello! You canât keep me here! Itâs all a mistake, you see, and you â you just donât know what youâre doing, is all!â Aziraphaleâs wings twitched. âItâs not what it looks like!â he assured, his voice climbing higher as the viola section swelled. âYou! You donât know what youâre doing! Iâm not supposed to be here!â
He tilted further, and it was in that moment where the chair wobbled between steady and non, where the world seemed to squeeze down to a single hard marble of a moment, that Aziraphale spotted outside the cross roads of bookshelves heâd been abandoned in, someone standing on the other side. A shadow. A glimpse of a face, the features blurred on Aziraphaleâs discovery. He gasped, unprepared for how close they were, when the chair tipped finally, firmly, and sent him crashing.
Paring: Ed "Blackbeard" Teach/ Stede Bonnet (Our Flag Means Death) CW: "Pegging" Day four prompts: Gap-Tooth Kink (missed this one), Pegging with a Square Peg, Peeling Sunburn
(I usually don't write on the weekends, so, either ketchup catchup will happen or I'll just do these whenever. It's all good, man. It's Schlock!)
âI told you, mate.â Ed snagged his fingernail underneath a little bit of skin and started peeling, groaning happily as it came off in one long, neat strip. He wagged it near Stedeâs head. âYou see this one? Nah, fuck, weâre saving that one.â
âOh, donât,â Stede pleaded from where heâd pillowed his face on the bed, glancing over a bright pink shoulder. âEd. Itâs unsanitary.â
âItâs awesome,â Ed growled and held it out between two fingers. Nearly 6 inches! It was all translucent and pale. He set it delicately on the sill there, proud of his accomplishment. âLemme do another.â
Stede huffed but didnât move. Heâd closed his eyes and let Ed scrub his fingerprints until another patch was loose and pick at the skin where Stede was peeling. The majority of the pain from his burn was gone. Now it was itchier than a rucksack nightie and he was more than happy to let Ed pick away like those fascinating little guys on the beach, the sandpipers, racing the waves and hunting for a bite. They were cute. Ed was no doubt just as cute over him then, but Stede didnât say as such. Ed was touchy sometimes and Stede, well, he wanted to be touched. Best keep his mouth shut for a change.
The next few pieces werenât as magnificent. Ed huffed, pushing his fingers into Stedeâs sunbaked skin. It was pretty pleasant, actually. Heâd doze off, just like heâd done on the deck of the ship after a spot of swordplay, shirts off, getting a couple rounds of practice in. Izzy only slapped his rump twice and Ed hadnât twinged his knee and the crew were doing something with the coconuts and rum that was honestly a delight. Good day. Bad time for a nap, is all. He winced and whined when he woke up, baked red as one of those lobsters Roach had done up for them â who knew a sea bug could be so tasty?
After the good pieces were done and Ed had rubbed and rubbed to flake away the little fish-scale pieces, he set his hands on Stedeâs back, smoothing out over it all. Stede bit his bottom lip at the extra touch. Didnât ask for it, but he smiled enough to pull his lip taught under his snaggle tooth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Ed bent over and pressed his whiskers against the crinkles, quick-like. Sneaky kiss. Sat up and didnât say anything more. He massaged a bit, yeah, and ran his fingers through Stedeâs strawberry blonde hair and rolled off him, leaving a heavy weightlessness that made Stedeâs stomach flip. He only just got an arm around Ed and tugged him back against his chest this time, wrapped one of his legs around Edâs, and forced a little cuddle, which Ed relaxed into without a word.
âDid it get the tattoo?â Stede asked into the back of Edâs neck, muffled by all that steely hair.
âNah,â Ed said and he sounded pleased, too. Stede rubbed over Edâs chest until he found one of his hands again and threaded their fingers. âStill says it. E anâ S. Heart.â
âHeart,â Stede repeated. He nosed closer, itching his nose, yeah, but he got to Edâs neck proper and kissed him back. âYou wanna play pirates?â Stede asked in that hidden spot and Ed squeezed his fingers.
âRivals?â Ed asked like he didnât care, but Stede could feel his chest puff slightly at the anticipation. Stede sat up quickly, spitting a strand out of his mouth, then grinned as Ed twisted over to his back to look up at him.
âDisadvantage, Blackbeard,â Stede growled, pinning Edâs shoulder to the bed, not missing the soft, sweet look in Edâs eye before he remembered his roll and sneered. Stede bent lower. âYou think you can handleâŠmy Peg-ged Leg?!â
Stede reached beside them, rummaging, and yanked a polished piece of wood, the corners only slightly rounded from use with a nice soft bit for a handle. Edâs eyes grew wider when he spotted Stedeâs makeshift club, square, rosy wood. Almos the colour of Stedeâs sunburn.
âYouâre fucking mental,â Ed said with a slight hitch in his voice. Stede shrugged, his spotted shoulders shimmying slightly, and he set the square end against Edâs lips. Ed kissed the tip before parting his lips and sliding his tongue over the woodgrain, keeping a steady eye on Ed.
âLovely. Good man,â Stede said and Ed tapped his hip. He cleared his throat. âI mean, you thought you could best me? Youâve never seen a more bloodthirsty â no? right, uh â a moreâŠtenacious! Beast! Than I!â Stede fed the peg a little further. âLook at that. Take it all the way down now, love. Er. Bastard. Er, no. Treacherous villain!â
Ed rolled his eyes for but a moment but then Stede gripped the hair at the top of Edâs head and pushed slowly, slowly, and Ed timed his breathing, melting again. Stede leaned closer.
âThatâs it,â Stede whispered, his breath hot on Ed, focused, and Edâs eyes when darker. âYou be good. Let me take care of you.â
He fucked Edâs mouth until he was drooling and had set his hands daintily up behind him. Ed probably didnât even know heâd done it, but he certainly noticed when Stede pinned his wrists together. He was so handsome, really, it was amazing he loved Stede. And let Stede play like this. Stede felt so warm and flushed and loved that when he pulled the peg out again and before he bothered with getting the oil, he simply kissed that wet mouth of Edâs and whispered his name back at him only three or four times in his excitement. He sat up and forked his eyebrows together, put on a really good scowl, and tapped Edâs hip this time with the spit-wet wood of his instrument.
âOn your knees,â he ordered. Ed giggled in his excitement and Stede smiled, just a second, before he set his knuckles on his sides and waited for Ed to get into position. He made sure to kiss Edâs back and oil him liberally. Obscenely, really. Maybe had too much fun pushing the oil inside him with his fingers and, oh, it dribbled on the bedding, but Stede currently didnât have a mind to care. He had Ed, good and hard and whimpering, even, and Stede shifted his weight until he was good and braced, his hand flat over Edâs tattoo, which had been altered with a few roses here and there so it looked a bit lopsided but had crossed out the âNo.â Stede had found it very flattering and asked the fellow to do the one on his back, too. Not the heart, that was all Edâs hands, but the nifty little nifty little moth he had on the other shoulder, âjust for funsies!â
âThere we are,â he said, and pushed the square end against Ed. Then, leaning over Ed, he whispered in his ear, âHave at thee,â and breached him.
Paring: Steve Harrington/ Eddie Munson (Stranger Things) CW: A boner, lol. Blood Day two prompts: Erotically burning hair, nostril worship, fuck or live
âSit â no. No! Sit⊠Sit down! Hey!â
Steve chucked his arm across the carâs console dividing them, his jacket flaking off his shoulder and exposing a threadbare shirt with the seams blackened, a few patches of lightly roasted skin exposed. He struggled to pin Eddie down one-handed. Usually, he was reaching out to stop Dustin from changing the radio â and maybe when he came up too short at a stop sign, but Steve wasnât going to admit it was anything other than the music choices, safety be damned.
Now, of course, he was trying to hold down a screeching demon of a man. That wasnât metaphorical, either. The fact that heâd found Eddie at all had been something of a miracle. Getting tackled by something bigger than him immediately set off his panic button and the fact that said thing had claws and big leathery wings was, somehow, a bonus? He was not ready to examine that. He needed. To drive. And EddieâŠgodâŠdamnitâŠneeded. To sit. Down!
Steve swerved his Beemer to the shoulder â less on fire, but not entirely not on fire. The world was on fire. EverythingâŠeverythingâŠwasâ
Steve snorted and jerked his head back just as the tip of a very forked tongue grazed his nose. He quickly rubbed at it and glared over at Eddie with a serious case of dude. Come on.
âWhat are you doing?â
Wrong question.
Eddie was, uh, definitely different now. But after the whole attacking from the sky and tackling thing, heâd sat on Steveâs chest and made this hard purring sound, rubbing his face against Steveâs shoulder, his neck. Steve tried to ignore the burning smell â damn him, too, because there was such an instant flood of relief of having Eddie back that even though he could definitely smell burning hair, his whole body seemed to light up, relief, excitement, something else that gathered like a hot fist in the bottom of his stomach? Weird. So, yeah, weird Eddie, but Eddie still. Alive. The red eyes and the sharp teeth and, again, the wings, were, like, fine. Like he said, bonus. Bonus Eddie. That was finâ
âStop doing that!â Steve tried to shove against the solid mass of Eddie Munson basically attacking his face. Was he trying to bite him? Because all he was doing was getting his tongue up Steveâs nose. Steve snorted again, shoved, and in their short tussle he caught Eddieâs fang against his lip, ripping it open easily. Too easily. Steve tasted blood. âEddie! Christ!â
Eddie paused with Steveâs hand planted uselessly on his chest. Steve could feel that motor running again. Hard. The way he purred was unnatural butâŠokay. Steve didnât hate it?
He swiped his tongue over his lip, tasting his own blood, breathing heavily on the driverâs side. He feltâŠpinned back. He felt cornered. That fist in his guts was moving lower. Heavy and hot.
âEasy,â Steve warned and shifted his hips to try and hide his obvious boner. They still had miles of ruined wasteland to drive to before they even thought of seeing the others. Now was not the time. âEddie? Please, man, just. Say something.â
Eddieâs eyes focused on Steveâs mouth. Was he reading what Steve was saying? Was he comprehending anything? Eddie was breathing hard, too. Steve thoughtâŠSteve thought maybeâŠtheir breathing matched? He licked his lip again and Eddieâs eyes darkened, his pupils dilating in the low light, the coal-dark clouds smothering them from above. Steve carefully reached up and swiped his thumb over his lip, dragging it over his bottom teeth. His thumb came back red, wet, and he realized he felt it dribbling down his chin, too. Damn. A nice gusher, too. He was used to the sting, but still. Annoying. ReallyâŠ.
Eddie had inched closer. Barely, but enough that Steve looked up to focus on him. He moved his hand a little out of the way and saw Eddie track it. A cat. His hand the mouse. He raised his hand an inch, maybe less, and Eddie suddenly reached out and grabbed Steveâs wrist, his abnormally long fingers gripping him tightly. Steve gasped but didnât pull back. Not that he could.
âDo youâŠ?â Steve cleared his throat. He could feel his heartbeat in his thumb and flexed his thighs, squeezing against his own dick. âJesus. Eddie.â
Eddie started with his tongue first. The way it fell out of his mouth, long and wet and a deep dark red. Steve stared as Eddie licked over his thumb, quickly following with his lips, his little fangs pricking the skin, threatening to open him up more. Steve shifted in his seat, his mouth suddenly too dry. Suddenly barren. Stricken with need.
Eddie sucked him clean, rolling his tongue against Steveâs digit. He blinked slowly, his gaze trawling up Steveâs throat, his chin, to his lips, and Eddie pulled off before closing the space, taking Steve against the driver side door. He kissed him hard, meant to squeeze more blood out, probably, but Steveâs eyes rolled shut and kissed him back, licking into his mouth, trying to steal his blood back, probably. Probably just that. Probably definitely just â Steve moaned as Eddieâs hand slid over the top of his thigh and sliced between his legs, feeling for his zipper.
Something pelted the window. Dirt. One of those annoying Demobats, maybe? Steve jerked, cutting his tongue on Eddieâs tooth. He cursed in the small wet space between them.
âFuck. No. Sit,â Steve begged, trying to find the hard voice he used on the kids. It rarely worked with them, either. He needed it to work, though. He was desperate. He squeezed Eddieâs hand on his crotch for a second, then shoved him away. âSit,â he repeated. âIâm getting us outta here. ThenâŠ.â Fuck it. Steve leaned over and grabbed the back of Eddieâs head, kissed him again. A promise. Later. First, godamnit, they had to get outta here. Things were coming. The world was ending. Steve checked the rearview mirror, started the engine, and gunned it away from the roadside shoulder, back on uneven pavement, his nerves alive, Eddieâs eyes boiling red beside him as he sat patiently in the passenger seat. They had to live, first. Or else how was he ever going to find out what Eddie really tasted like? They had to live.
Paring: Newt/Hermann (Pacific Rim) CW: Sexual content Day two prompts: Quesadilla cocksleeve, Taking Notes During Sex and Grading It, MyPillow Humping (kinda only got two of the three)
Hermann started his cigarette after he was propped up by the headboard. It seemed so antiquated, but Newt, arms spread, flat on his back, waited two beats before he lifted his hand and took it after Hermann offered it to him. He passed it back, letting Hermannâs bougie-yet-pedestrian clove cigarette smoke swirl around his tongue, blowing it back out through his nose. It burned. He hated it. He loved it. He closed his eyes.
There was a little shift as Hermann reached back to the nightstand and put his lighter down, picked up his phone, and got comfortable again. The dork that he was, he never turned down the volume on his cell phone and Newt could hear him poking away, little blipâŠblipâŠ.blik-blik-blip-blik.
âAre you serious?â Newt groaned, picturing Hermann checking his emails, wiping the inbox clean before he could ever deem to fall asleep. Fucking fastidious, that guy. Why did he love him so goddamn much? Newt leaked a little onto the towel Hermann insisted on laying out beneath him and Newt flattened his mouth into a very resigned line as the universe, once again, answered him. âYou can check those tomorrow.â
âMinus three,â Hermann stated plainly.
Newt finally readjusted his glasses back to where they were supposed to be before he rolled up onto his elbow.
âWhat? Minus three, what? That blow job was a plus twenty, dude.â
âYour little ânovelty loin cloth,ââ Hermann started as Newt squawked, jabbing his finger towards Hermannâs chest, âeasily demotes you to a C.â
âA C?! A C! Are you out of your fucking mind?â
âDeductions for raising your voice,â Hermann noted, his thumbs working over the screen. âBut I did like that thing you were doing with your hips.â
âDeductions â holy shit.â Newt yanked his arms in and rolled up, ignoring Hermannâs little bitchy humming and typing. âAlso? Also? The loincloth is a fucking cocksleeve. You ass.â
âAnd it made you look like you had blisters.â
âIt was designed to look like a tortilla!â
Hermann glanced over, his nose tipped down like he was peering over his glasses, which he was not wearing. Which meant Newt could probably punch him. Maybe. He wanted to! Maybe.
âHow is that any better?â Hermann asked, deadpan.
âItâs funny!â
âSex shouldnât be funny.â
âSex is always funny, are you kidding me? Grunting away like animals. Sex is hilarious, dude!â
âWhy was it cut that way?â
âSex is â what?â
âTheâŠsleeve,â Hermann said, like the word tasted wrong in his mouth and he was displeased. Like he was going to knock a couple more points off Newtâs scorecard. âWhy was it cut that way? In theâŠtriangle shape?â
âWhat? I donât â it was a quesadilla. What? Itâs hilarious! Thereâs a bikini top that looks like nachos.â
âYou know how I feel about bringing food to bed.â
âYouâre a prude.â
âPardon?â
âYouâre a prude! Fuck you. Go hump your pillow next time. Jerk!â
Hermann continued tapping as Newt rolled himself out of bed. He tried to stand right away, but his legs were refusing to cooperate, going all jelly soft at the knees, and he held onto the mattress a moment until he was sure his feet were working. It was hard to keep up glaring, but Newt was stubborn. Pink-cheeked, yes, but stubborn.
âWhere are you going?â Hermann asked his phone, giving it one more swipe. He forked the cigarette back between his fingers, taking a long, long drag, and reached over for the ashtray, snubbing it out. Newt was carefully wobbling his way to the ensuite bathroom â Hermann was lucky enough to have one attached. Newt had a fucking sink is all and had to use the toilet back in the lab. Itâs not like they were far from it, their rooms branching off from the back of it, but still! Principle! But also? Bonus! Ugh, whatever, Newt hated it but he was glad to be able to use it whenever he stayed over at Hermannâs. Which was basically becoming every night and theyâd have to think about where they were moving next and maybe into the same place because how was he supposed to function without Hermann anymore? What was he going to do? Pick fights with grad students? Heâd get so many HR violations for the sexual tension alone!
Plus, he, likeâŠloved the guy. Whatever. Whatever. Gets a C in sex, whatever. What a dick.
âNewton.â
Hermannâs voice cut through to Newt, who stopped finally near the dresser and turned back, his arms crossed, his hip cocked against the dresser. Hermann had smoothed out the towel again and made a show of pumping lube into his hand, setting it down with clinical precision on the nightstand, next to his ashtray, his lighter, and his phone.
âWhatâre youâŠ?â Newt straightened up, idly nudging the bridge of his glasses back up his nose.
Hermann slicked up his dick, starting at the base, his slender fingers sliding effortlessly up, and up, showing off. Showing Newt how hard he was. Newtâs dick twitched at the sight and he stumbled a step forward before he straightened up and put his hands on his hips, glaring.
âWhy?â
Hermann crooked his free hand, beckoning Newt back.
âExtra credit,â Hermann declared. And, honestly, Newt hated having a C on his record. C+ was pushing it. Goddamnit. HeâŠthe sounds of Hermannâs slick dick beckoned him. HeâŠhe could bump his grade up. He could. He wasâŠ.
âGood boy,â Hermann purred as soon as Newtâs knee touched the bedding. He was so getting an A.
Paring: Gabriel/Beelzebub (Good Omens) CW: Fisting, violence (discorporation of a body, but he lives) Day one prompts: Quadruple Fisting, Inappropriate Use of Labubus, Sex-Related Injury.
That Gabriel was holding onto the banister for dear life was not, as it would surprise no one, an uncommon occurrence. Usually heâd drop his head, legs spread unevenly on the steps, a demon all ravenous and ravaging behind him. He learned the limits of pain and pleasure and crossed them nigh daily â theyâd watched one of those delightful moving pictures together once, something for the holiday fast approaching as folks in the neighborhood put up carved pumpkins and little paper bats. It involved something that described itself both angel and demon and he and Beelzebub had found it endlessly entertaining. The effects were over the top, adding to the novelty. The voice of their protagonist, this singular creature with nails stabbed in neat rows along his face and scalp, well, he was just something. Really something. Quite enjoyable.
And, honestly, the fact that Beelzebub had decided not one, nor two, nor three were enough, but had cracked Gabrielâs body as easily as ripping open a flat cake â too much sugar, but with the little Funfetti pieces? And you could pick the color? Well, that is delightful. Old him would have had a fit. He was so glad they were past that. But, as it was, four limbs, Beelzebub really aggravated today, shedding their mortal form for something a little more arcane, a little more infernal, more lovely than anything else in this world. If Gabriel wasnât popped up on his toes currently taking four fists, so full he couldnât scream, heâd probably drop to his knees. The blasphemy of it all really tickled him and, deep down, he thought God had nothing to do with it, really, and if She did, She had a really good sense of humor about it all.
Maybe thatâs why he was staring at it. The. Thing. Sitting there. Menacing him.
Beelzebub had come home with it one day. After grocery shopping, which he had said he wanted to do with them, but, âmaybe next time,â theyâd said and kissed his temple as they passed by where he was sitting on the sofa and reading a local newspaper, several gossip rags spread on the coffee table in front of him to peruse next, at his leisure. There was a stack of novels, cheap things with red and green inked boarders and these couples in painted distress on the covers and he loved them, too, but he had them prepared to bring to Aziraphale later and do a little trade for something new. Aziraphale always sighed and said something he thought disguised his distrust and annoyance, but didnât. Gabriel smiled easier, partly because it was nice to do and it didnât bother him, partly because it was what Crowley had described as a âdick moveâ and it bothered them. Still, despite it all, in their retirement, he enjoyed their company. Who else âgets it,â you know? And who else would explain how toasters work while subtlety trying to get him electrocuted in a bath? As the phrase goes, âJokes on them, Iâm immune to lightning.â Or something like that.
âFuck.â Great word. Great, solid word, and it fell out of him when Beelzebub pushed up into his abdomen, one of their biceps pressed against his backside. He curled his fingers into the banister, the wood splintering. He dropped his head for a second and when he looked up, that little ugly doll with the too-wide grin and bumpy teeth appeared to be closer. Gabriel jerked back and it seemed just the right leverage to pull one of Beelzebubâs arms through his torso, splitting him open. Literally. He spilled all over the stairs, dribbling down to the landing, and crashed one of his hips to the side.
The orgasm whited out the world, peaceful bliss, exquisite silence, that fucking doll face bleeding out at the edges, same as he did.
Later, when heâd been put together again and his ichor had been sponged from the stairs and he had a cup of hot cocoa, wrapped in a soft lilac blanket with moon patterns â the packaging said it was for ages 4-6, and was usually too small, but Gabrielâs version spread out around him like a sea of softness and he didnât care how old anyone was, he loved it â Beelzebub landed beside him, their legs draped over the top of his. They sighed, only the two arms spread out along the top cushion, and put their head on his shoulder.
âHow was that?â
âOther than the bruise?â Gabriel asked, arching one brow. They returned the expression and set their cheek on one of their knuckles. He almost lifted the blanket to show the purple galaxy spreading over his hip, but he was too comfortable. âPerfect.â
âYeah?â
âWellâŠ.â
âWell, what?â Beelzebub asked, jerking up a little. Gabriel frowned. He looked back towards the stairs, squinted, and started looking around the room. He opened his mouth when Beelzebub lifted their free hand and produced the little ugly doll from nowhere. âLooking for this?â
Gabriel jerked back again, just like he did on the stairs. He almost spilled his cocoa.
âI donât like it.â
âNo?â Beelzebub danced the little figure, the sheep-like felt squished between their black claws. He did not miss the fact that it had purple fur. âBut heâs your little friend, is he not? I saw him and thought, âoh, Gabbyâll love him.ââ
Gabriel made a short grunt of displeasure, both at the creature and the nickname. He knew they only used it to aggravate him. It worked.
âHeâsâŠhideous.â
âI know,â Beelzebub said fondly before holding it up next to Gabriel. âMm. Twins.â
âIâve decided to leave.â
Beelzebub only laughed, tossing the doll over the back of the couch, and climbed into his lap. The knee pressed purposefully against his bruise even as they daintily plucked his cocoa out of his hands, set it back on the coffee table, and turned to circle their arms around him.
âNever,â they said softly against his lips.
Gabriel melted. Set his hands on their hips to pull them closer.
âNever,â he repeated obediently, closing his eyes to a gentle kiss.
âIâm going to name him Little Gabby,â they whispered into his mouth.
âAs long as you donât start a collection,â he muttered back, tasting the tip of their tongue, the devilish smile twisting their mouth.
-
Three months later, Gabriel came home from the shops, groceries set in the kitchen to be put away. He walked past Beelzebub, who was reading something that reeked sharply of pornographic sin off their phone, and set something on the mantle amongst the army of ugly Labubus there. Beelzebub flicked their eyes over and sat up, frowning at the small porcelain figuring.
âAbsolutely not.â
Gabriel dusted off the head of the Hummel figure with the tip of his finger.
âIâm going to call this oneâŠ.â The air crackled, the lights dimmed. Beelzebubâs shadow stretched towards him, limbs climbing out of their back, and Gabriel loosened his scarf and set it aside before it was ruined. âLittle Bee.â
While other people are out here dropping Kinktober prompt lists with 9000 stipulations, I bring you this.
It's not a real October event, but it could be if you believe. The prompts are here for anyone to enjoy anyway.
Why "schlock"?
It means trash/junk, and that's the quality of content I'm striving for with these prompts. It's also fun to say.
But, y'know, if you want to take a prompt and turn it into a masterpiece of a whumpy longfic, go for it.
What fandom is this for?
Whatever fandom you want.
What ships can I write/draw?
Any of them.
Even [my fandom's most despised ship]?
Especially [your fandom's most despised ship].
What if I want to combine prompts? What if I want to write or draw things out of order? What if...
Go for it.
Are crossovers okay?
Do. Whatever. You. Want.
What if I want to create something problematic?
Send me the fucking link.
What does [prompt] mean?
You tell me. It's all open to interpretation.
Are there any rules at all?
Sure.
No AI use. If you need an LLM to write your schlock for you, consider a long walk off a short pier. If you need it to do your editing for you, use a beta reader instead. A stick figure drawn on the back of a napkin is better than soulless AI art.
Tag appropriately. 'Creator Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings' means anything goes. 'No Archive Warnings Apply' means your work is guaranteed not to contain any of the major archive warnings (non-con, major character death, graphic violence, or underage sex).
No irl bigotry. Your characters can be problematic as all get out, but if you try to post a weird pro-JK Rowling essay or something you're not going in the collection, bud. Don't kill the vibes.
What are the vibes?
Just have fun.
But other people are having fun wrong!
Shut the fuck up.
Are you going to be doing this?
Probably not.
How do I participate?
There's an ao3 collection right here:
Schlocktober on ao3
Otherwise, just hashtag #schlocktober or something, idk. I don't expect anyone to actually do this.
