#(not like that)

[hitlikehammers]

straw poll: How Many Times Can You Sleep In The Same Bed With A Guy Before It Starts To ✨Mean Something✨?

Because Steve's just there to be a good friend hold Eddie close through the night so Eddie knows what his breathing sounds like as he falls asleep help Eddie through the nightmares, right?(!??!)

or: just how many manners of sin does 'trauma' cover, exactly?

I Could Be Your Nurse (or something)

Or: Five Times Eddie Has To Ask For Help, Plus One Time He Doesn’t Need It Anymore (but asks anyway) ✨ for @penny00dreadful 💜

<<< two: wash🚿

💤🪦 three: sleep 🌗 🛌

Eddie shoots up in his bed, less afraid of choking on his own heart for its pounding than he is for gnashing it apart with his teeth, it’s surged so high and he can’t breathe, he doesn’t know if he wants to because it’s dark and he can’t see and last thing he did see was, was—

“Ed,” and it’s murmured so close, and the bed dips quick as warmth envelops Eddie’s frame, as a hand grabs one wrist, both wrists and crushes them between two bodies to feel, feel—

“Eddie, breathe, breathe, shhh,” and oh: that’s what he’d seen, what he always sees now: the images he remembers, and the things he’s been told of his own near-demise, but it’s not his body; it’s never his body and more, and worse, they’re always too late and he’s being told to breathe but he can’t, he can’t breathe because they failed, he failed and Steve’s not breathing, he’ll never breathe again—

“Right here, Eds, I’m right here,” and one hand lets go of him and starts carefully wiping at Eddie’s face, drying his eyes so they can focus and recognize not just the touch and the scent and the heat but the sight of the body wrapped around him.

“I’m with you, you’re okay,” Steve breathes, he breathes and Eddie can feel it, he can feel it and it makes no sense but it’s clear and it’s deep and deliberate and, and—

“Breathe with me, come on, just breathe,” Steve coxes a little like soothing a wounded animal and…that’s apt, Eddie feels small and skittish and he needs the warmth and the dawning truth of Steve’s weight against his bones; “it’s okay, everyone’s okay,” and yes, yes, that’s important, that’s so important but it’s not enough, there’s still blood pumping like it wants to leap from his mouth as he gasps because he cannot fucking breathe until—

“I’m okay.”

Steve says it as just part of an ongoing litany of reassurance, hopes to calm Eddie into, y’know, the basic needs of human survival, heart and lungs remembering how to move right but—

Steve’s okay.

It’s like Eddie heart and lungs had an agenda; like maybe they didn’t want to move right if the dream—a dream, a dream, just a dream, Steve’s chest lifts against him, falls, lifts again, and again, and again, real—but maybe neither was really invested in survival, if it all hadn’t just been a dream.

“We’re okay, Eds,” and Eddie doesn’t mean to gasp, to half moan and half whimper in something wreathed in pure relief, doesn’t plan to burrow into Steve like he does as Steve presses closer, closer, so it’s only logical, only the reasonable thing when Steve’s lips move against Eddie’s skin at the hairline, at the temple when he speaks, he’s just that close, y’know—

“Swear,” Steve murmurs, and he crushes their hands a little closer between both their chests, and his face is still so close because of it—no other reason, it can’t be any other reason—that his lips drag when he breathes, when he fucking vows:

“I swear we’re okay.”

Eddie nods, just nods; Steve keeps him tucked under his chin, safe: he lifts with his breathing, his heartbeat’s right there, taunt but true, realand maybe Eddie nuzzles there a little, so fucking sue him.

It’s been like this, though. Lately. More than just lately; it’s been like this for a while. Steve had always been around for the nightmares, and he always came to ease Eddie through them but he ended up back on the couch if Wayne wasn’t there, or in the chair in the corner, or the sleeping bag they’d found and he’d set up on the floor before Eddie could protest—and he never wanted to push too hard because, because…

At least on the floor, Eddie could hear him breathe.

But then, then the nightmares stopped being highlight reels of reality; then they turned, and they’re focused on…variations on a theme.

A theme of losing one Steve Harrington.

And then Eddie grew clingy, without even meaning to, or planning to, and Steve never fought him. It took a couple weeks before Steve didn’t only come to him as soon as Eddie started gasping, screaming and then stayed with him through the night, no: then Steve just started coming with him to bed and opening his arms to roll into, to wake up shaking against.

It didn’t make the nightmares go away but it made them…bearable. Because proof of the lies in them was there waiting to wrap around him, if he wasn’t already buried in that warm, fuzzy, living chest.

Where Eddie’s pressed tight, now. And he…he couldn’t say what tips the scales. What changes things when nothing is different. Steve’s heartbeat’s a little faster, maybe Eddie’s gasping heavier, more of Steve in his lungs than usual. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Whatever the reason, Eddie lets his open lips drag along Steve’s collarbone. For proximity’s sake.

“Steve?”

And Eddie’s back to feel like his heart’s less a threat like the bat tails choking than it is for the biting in half where it’s caught on his tongue, like an offering, or else damnation.

Maybe both.

“Hmm?” Steve’s hum’s a little sleepy but he’s quick to maneuver them, to face Eddie and rove eyes over Eddie’s face with fully-wakeful care; concern.

Offering. His heart’s a manic wild thing thrashing on his tongue when he makes to speak but it’s…

It’s Steve’s. His heart is Steve’s and Eddie’s lost but in maybe the best most terrifying way imaginable; Eddie is beholden to Steve with all of him, and if the ungainly pulp shaking out of his ribs and up past his throat’s going to fall out with the words he has to whisper, well.

It’s Steve’s, and whether he feels anything at all in return, he’s been more than the word kind knows how to hold; maybe he’ll be gentle with it even in rejecting how it shakes, for him.

Kinda, just for him. Like this: just for him.

“What is this?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t gesture or look anywhere but in Steve’s eyes but: their hands are still linked, and his fingers twitch without him meaning to move them at all but Steve.

Steve grips tighter. Steadies him with question; immediate.

“Trauma,” Steve huffs a little, humorless, but his breath’s so near, so warm: “or so they tell me.”

“No, I mean,” and Eddie’s shaking his head then because; “yeah, yes, definitely that, but,” and Eddie can be brave, he has to be brave because if he’s not brave this will maybe break him: the middle space without an answer, he needs some kind of answer—

“I mean this,” and now Eddie forces himself to tighten his fingers, and presses into Steve closer: Steve’s heart isn’t wild, but it’s not calm either. It’s not sleep-slow. It’s…untamed.

Eddie doesn’t know what it means.

But Steve looks at their hands, pulls Eddie’s fingertips through the curls on his chest, starts tracing Eddie’s nails from cuticle to tip.

“I’ve never been good with subtle,” Steve barely breathes, and his heart’s faster for it, where Eddie can feel; “or moving slow,” and then he laughs; it’s not humorous now either, more self deprecating, and Eddie…Eddie doesn’t like that.

Eddie loves this man too much.

“Kinda notorious for wearing my heart on my sleeve and all,” and Steve shrugs, only pauses the motions of their hands for half a breath, less than a heartbeat at the going pace. It feels too small for something so…significant.

Something precious like that.

“Easy to get stomped on,” Eddie finds the words tumbling out, almost aggrieved; he heard the rumors, even among their friends, their family but faced with it so stark like this, naked chest to chest, it’s…unthinkable.

It hurts, just to think of.

“Yeah,” Steve exhales; fucking…Eddie thinks that sounds resigned: “I know.”

Eddie doesn’t expect the whine that escapes him, a little jagged on the frantic pulse he can feel all in his teeth; he doesn’t expect it, but it’s not big enough. It’s not deep enough for the ache in him at that…acceptance, that expectation of hurt.

“I didn’t,” Eddie starts, desperate for him to know; however this plays out, Steve cannot ever,��ever believe his heart isn’t…isn’t the most invaluable gift in, in—

In any universe. Any dimension. Across any existence at all worth knowing.

He doesn’t think the words he knows could do the sentiment justice, though. And words, shit: he should be good with those but, even if he knew the right ones. Hell just fought up his still-pounding heart with a flail and that’s…

He grabs Steve's hand tighter, fit to break bones: the need unquestionable.

He hopes the want, the devotion in him translates just as clear.

And then, oh holy fuck—then.

Steve holds back just as hard.

“I wanted to try to keep the ball in your court,” Steve exhales, shaky; and Eddie knows, he knows they’re on the same page. Steve’s heart’s so fast. Eddie’s is faster.

“I told you,” Eddie starts, more like he’s trying to figure it all out for himself more than arguing anything but, how could Steve had thought Eddie didn’t, how could—

Why would anyone trust Eddie with any kind of sports-oriented ball—

“With the shower, and—“

“I’m not that guy anymore,” Steve barely whispers; “you might’ve had a crush on me then but now I’m,” Eddie feels Steve swallow; hears his heartbeat maybe skip; “I think, I mean, I hope I’m a different person.”

Eddie has to breathe at the notch in Steve’s throat for a couple seconds, maybe minutes; this…this sounds like…like maybe…

“And just because the ball’s in your court,” Steve’s pulse kicks up, and up, and—

“Didn’t mean my heart wasn’t still held out for the stomping,” and he’s twirling Eddie’s hair, he’s twirling his fingers through Eddie’s hair while he talks about the impossible possibility of, of what: Eddie…not wanting, of Eddie doing the stomping—

Eddie can barely swallow.

“You saying you wouldn’t help bathe all your friends in similar circumstances?” he mostly kinda squeaks; he can barely hear over the rush of his own blood.

“I’m saying not all of them,” there’s a little smile in Steve’s voice, but his pulse is still knocking against where Eddie pressed into his neck; “but I wouldn’t be risking my heart for it either way.”

And Eddie…Eddie thinks he’s maybe dying, for real this time. He thinks maybe he’s never felt alive before this moment, ever.

He blames the confusion, for not thinking through his next words.

“Would it be too not-slow,” Eddie mouths against the pulsepoint jumping at him, fit perfect to his lips; “or unsubtle, if I said I thought I was in love with you?”

He might not think the words through, but hell if he regrets them for a goddamn second.

Not when Steve doesn’t move to pull away, doesn’t let go at all, holds on tight—but the pulse against Eddie’s lips redefines what it means to hammer, to race.

Eddie starts thinking about turning, looking Steve in the eye and hoping to find what he…what he thinks he’ll find but there’s still a part of him that’s scared, that’s not brave, that’s…

But then Steve’s moving, raising up to meet Eddie’s gaze: so bright in the middle of the night, in the pitch dark. Lips open, breathing heavy, their chests still flush but now Steve’s reaching, framing Eddie’s face and just…looking.

Nah, no: staring.

“Steve?” Eddie thinks it’s more a matter of his lips moving than of sound coming out, especially as he tries to follow the pad of Steve’s thumb as it traces the corner of Eddie’s lips, careful, so careful, like Eddie’s glass and wonder all at once and—

“I think I’m in love with you, too.”

And then Steve’s leaning in, then Eddie’s learning that Steve tastes like leftover toothpaste and some kind of spice they hadn’t eaten, that Eddie doesn’t know: thinks, believes is what dawn tastes like, the breaking of day itself in Steve’s mouth, his veins.

They move slow, slick, tongues less exploring and more kinda worshipping; Eddie’s been kissed harder and faster and deeper for the technical definitions of any of the terms but he’s never felt so dizzy, so spun from the axis of his world, the line that splits his heart in halves; never like someone was tongue his soul out gentle to weigh and bathe in, like, adoration.

Eddie doesn’t have a word for how it steals his breath.

“Hey,” he tried to gasp anyway when they break apart for air; “hey, Stevie?”

“Hmm?” Steve hums, running the line of his nose up Eddie’s jaw, and Eddie throws his head back, shivers when Steve licks at the fading scars as he goes. When he makes it to kiss Eddie’s temple—because now he means to, or maybe he always did and, oh, oh shit, what if he always did—then he leans back and looks at Eddie, and there’s…

There’s so much in those eyes. It makes Eddie feel…almost-brave.

“What if I took the ‘think’ out?”

Steve tips his head, fucking adorable.

“Whatcha mean?”

Eddie swallows, and soaks up that gaze some more: almost-brave.

“I said I think I’m in love with you,” Eddie exhales; “what if I said that, but I took out the part where I say ‘think’?”

And oh wow: he’d thought, he’d known Steve was some inexplicable light before.

He’s putting their whole galaxy’s suns, every one of them Eddie doesn’t even know—the way his eyes shine and his smile beams puts every goddamn one of them to shame.

And Eddie doesn’t expect it, exactly, when Steve gathers his hands again and crushes them to his chest just to murmur low:

“Then I’d say this is yours to do with whatever you’d like,” and he moves Eddie’s palms to cup around the beat that’s still so fast and hard but not pulled taut anymore, closer to sugar high, or a rubber ball ricocheting around the ceiling just for the joy in it; “stomping included,” and he smiles for it like a joke but…but Eddie would never so—

He leans in and this time he captures the lips, and he presses hard, dares to nip at Steve’s lower lip and bite out:

“Never,” and he meets Steve’s eyes, watching them dilate impossibly in too little light and he just, he just…

He falls into Steve, presses his cheek close and, and feels him. Somehow all of it’s new.

“You okay?” Steve eventually asks, but doesn’t pull away, just slides a hand up the line of Eddie’s spine to steady, to keep him like there’s a question of Eddie going anywhere but here every again; and then just leans into Eddie’s cheek, magnetic-like.

And okay is such a foolish, insignificant word. Eddie could hold the weight of the earth ten times over, he feels strong enough; Eddie could swallow the stars and it wouldn’t matter because he has his own sun right in front of him.

Eddie doesn’t know if he understood the word happy before this moment, and every synonym for it that means the exact same thing’s a lot like okay: just too fucking small.

“Yeah,” Eddie answers, and breathes Steve in so deep his lungs kinda shake for it before he breathes back out; “yeah, sweetheart,” and fuck, fuck—Eddie Munson’s not just in love.

Eddie Munson is loved in return. Eddie Munson loves, and is loved back. That’s…that’s just…

“I’ve never been better.”

>>> four: play 🎶🎧🎹

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson

divider credits here & here

👾 title credit here

💫 ao3 link here

[umblrspectrum]

AbsoluteSolverHeart is such a funny little gal

[rosstrytobe]

"NOT LIKE THAT...YET"

Okay okay...

[spiralingemptyness]

I was just loooking at wiki pages (specifically blood of zeus for this instant) to do some character designes, and I was looking to see if Dionysus had a page for it (he don’t.) and while I was looking I just found smth ironic idk…

Yknow, descriptions of the different Zeus’ affair children, born out of wedlock and that shit. They’re pretty chill…

except for Hermes

They just straight up calling him a bastard, most definitely bc Hera called him a bastard (which corresponds with wedlock being in Apollo’s bc he mentioned to Electra to be born out of wedlock)

[real-antonio-vivaldi]

Fuck Chopin, I'm topping.

Wait.

Wait no.

NOT LIKE THAT.

[danandphil-lies]

another horrific lie! truly despicable that fathers could lie to their children so easily.

dan and phil claimed, on dec 24, that they would return to the gaming channel after 15 days. this would have been jan 8. and yet, have they returned?

NO!

they are sitting in their phouse (phan (phil+dan) house) in their pajamas (pyjamas for you british readers)!! they are content to lie! they spare no thought to how we would be emotionally affected by this. why give us false hope only to tear us down? my friends, it's because they are addicts. addicted to feeding their dedicated fanbase untruths and falsehoods.

[tekitothemagpie]

Majima, texting Kiryu : Kiryu-chan! I see ya!

Kiryu : where are you, Majima-san?

Majima : turn around

Majima : no the other way

Majima : wrong way again

Kiryu : where exactly are you, nii-san?

Majima : in my office, the thought of ya spinning around is hilarious, Kiryu-chan!

[transguyfestersincloset]

Ask and you shall receive

[jazartz]

WHAT DO I DO

Is this war?

If it wasn't it is now.

[bi-enby-nochoicesever]

Me after finishing gidion the ninth:

[hitlikehammers]

time for that age old question: is love enough to beat back the apocalypse?

Because Steve's right there to protect everybody like the self-sacrificing asshole he is help Eddie make the music he's not strong enough for yet help them all put Vecna in the ground for good this time, right?(!??!)

or: what's the song for your walkman, baby? does it even matter?

I Could Be Your Nurse (or something)

Or: Five Times Eddie Has To Ask For Help, Plus One Time He Doesn’t Need It Anymore (but asks anyway) ✨ for @penny00dreadful 💜

<<< three: sleep 🌗

🎧 🎹 four: play 🎶 🛡️

To tell the whole truth of it: it comes too quickly—Vecna’s last stand. Of course it does.

But probably, if he’s being fair: they’d never have been really ready. Not for this, and so maybe it’s best that they’re not fully healed, not at full strength when it all comes to a head, not least because that means Vecna and his petal-toothed brigade aren’t at full strength either. And that choice, for their side, is sloppy; the Party stands on the right-side-up against the attack because they have to. Vecna makes his move because—or else, Eddie’s fairly sure—because the sadistic ballsac is losing his fucking mind.

Which is terrifying, sure, but fuck if it doesn’t help their cause.

It’s actually over pretty quick, even compared to Spring Break which, while it felt like a lifetime for how much it changed Eddie’s own, it’s only been those handful of days—but it’s kinda like the grand finale at a fireworks show: everything all at once then, done. In the everything’s though: he might not like it, but Eddie’s not so foolish as to believe he’s not still too tender, still too deep in healing the finer points of being gnawed alive to be anything but a burden in the thick of it. He refuses to be sidelined, though, and he thinks it says a lot for the long-term health of this glorious impossible thing he’s…building? Yeah, he, umm, he, Eddie Munson, is building a real goddamn thing where he doesn’t even just let someone into his heart and treasures them there, no, he’s building a thing where he gives his heart and gets on new and soft and trembling in kind and they both get to work at the treasuring of something more precious than just their own vulnerable insides, but yeah, yeah:

Eddie thinks it bodes really fucking well for the hopes he has that lean hard toward forever, already, in Eddie’s chest at least when Steve looks his way as they’re planning the teams and he locks eyes with Eddie and Eddie doesn’t even get his mouth open to breathe, to plead don’t cut me out, don’t send me to Wayne to be ‘safe’ or ‘out of harm’s way’ or whatever, don’t leave me so fucking far from you my heart hurts just because it’s beating in the middle space unmoored and shaking around all bruised up with it for not knowing and I know I can’t do what everyone else can but it’ll be bad enough not being next to you please don’t push me far enough that I won’t know the moment you’re safe, just—

Steve meets his eyes, and Eddie’s breath catches before his heart trips, and then Steve speaks up—and he doesn’t, not all that often when the nerdiest among them are shoring up the battle plans—but he watches Eddie without blinking when he pipes up:

“Eddie’s on medical and audio, with Erica and Jon.”

And maybe it’s his tone—this almost wholly novel thing in Steve that’s steely and unquestionable but no one pushes, they nod and get back to work, totally seamless and, and…yeah. That’s all Eddie wanted. Best he could hope for. Just outside the gate they go through. Close enough to hold a hand on the way down, and reach for purchase on the journey back.

Steve swallows hard, and nods at Eddie before he looks away and starts gearing up, twirls his fucking nailbat so it catches the sunlight even thought the metal’s mostly rusted, now and just…Eddie hadn’t needed to say a word. And Steve wanted to send him to safety, the way his throat had bobbed made it real clear there was something heavy he’s held back but: he’d said what he said. He’d laid the line in Eddie’s favor. Eddie wants to hold him, wants to pull him close and feel him breathe, and—

Yeah. Eddie kinda feels like the way it goes is a really good sign for their future as a couple. A couple. Them. Together.

With an always on the other side of all of this that could be kinda fucking magnificent, maybe. Given the chance.

Point being: Eddie gets himself set up with at least a full ambulance’s supplies for first aid, definitely not acquired legally, and a stereo set up he really wishes someone had been kind enough to outfit him with in not-the-apocalypse, holy shit is it gorgeous, but since the strength in his hands is still a work-in-progress, he’s gotta be ready to crank up the noise as a distraction from arm’s-length. It’s actually driving him fucking crazy—or, was; it was, pre-active return to the regularly scheduled world ending—the whole not being able to make music, to translate the noise in his head into sounds on the strings but even that, even that’s been tolerable, survivable because of Steve—who he loves, he gets to love Steve Harrington holy fuck—but Steve’s not just there to be everything and more than the air Eddie goddamn breathes, to become the music just by existing, nope, he one ups that shit: he asked Eddie if it’d be enough to learn the chords he needs. So Eddie could match the words with the notes right, so Steve could be a—

“—kinda piss-poor substitute but,” Steve had shrugged for it with a crooked grin; “but even a bad translator gets a message across, and you’d know when it’s wrong so we can figure out how to fix it and—“

And Eddie’d grabbed Steve’s chin and yanked his mouth close to fucking consume that man like a soul goddamn starved.

“I’d be a shit teacher,” Eddie had mouthed against Steve’s lips after they were sucked well-swollen; “if I still can’t lift the fucking neck for more than a minute,” but Steve had heard none of it, just shot right back:

“You don’t think we’ve beat steeper odds than that?”

And in the face of that raised brow, those red lips parted, that pulse in that neck still a little bit visible like a tease: the fuck was Eddie supposed to do but dive back in and love on the man who’d somehow agreed to be his, and to claim Eddie of all people in turn?

Which is a whole other reason why everything’s gonna be fine: Steve’s gonna make music with him. Steve’s gonna be Eddie’s muse and the vessel for what he inspires. It’s gonna be like Greek fucking poetry, except it’s gonna be them.

So Eddie’s all stocked up, s’got everyone’s floaty-bone-breaky songs queued up on blast for immediate deployment as necessary, and Steve’s the last to go through—he always is, in Eddie’s experience, waits for everyone to be safely accounted for before he spares a thought for himself and it might kill Eddie one day but not fucking today, because it’s gonna be fine—

“Eddie.”

It feels a little like history repeating itself, the way Steve huddles him in a little. Henderson’s through, with Lucas and Hopper and the weird stray Russian, but it’s not like history repeating, because Eddie’s got different words to see him off with; so fucking different.

“Last time I didn’t have,” and Steve reaches, cups Eddie’s cheek, drags down to press on his chest as his voice strains hard: “and it almost killed me,” and Steve usually pinches between his eyes to keep his feelings in check but instead of using his free hand to hold back the tears he reaches for Eddie’s and laces their fingers as his voice cracks and he chokes out:

“Please,” and it’s for everything. For all the almosts from last time; for all the possibilities rife this time. For all the hopes Eddie thinks they share beyond how this shakes out.

“Exceptionally underqualified field med,” Eddie breathes, and squeezes Steve’s hand so, so hard like a promise, because it is; “exceptionally overqualified DJ,” and Steve chuckles, wet but real and it’s enough, because:

“I got it, Stevie,” Eddie bends his forehead to Steve’s to say better than with words that he’s not in this to be a hero, he’ll be right here the whole time, but that doesn’t mean he…that doesn’t mean he can help but to ask this time:

“Just,” and the breath in him punches out unexpectedly as he damn-near begs:

“Only bring me back the little things, yeah? That I know how to fix?”

And they both hear what’s said underneath it:

Don’t turn around and die down there, and kill me in kind..

And—if anyone’s keeping track—they turn out not to need it but: the way the kiss is a wholeass wartime farewell, man.

And then: Eddie waits, and fucks with the speakers for less than an hour before the earth shakes, and his heart drops, but then he hears it.

The fucking whooping of those shitheads echoing through the cracks.

And then he sees it, runs, grabs the first hand that’s clinging to the rope this time and pulls with strength he doesn’t have, is probably more a hindrance than a help but he steadies them each back on the ground and hugs them so tight, kisses more than one of them on the head or the cheek as he doesn’t pretend not to be sobbing through the laughter because they did it, they fucking did it, somehow it’s over and he loves these people and he’s so fucking happy they’re alive and safe and here and—

And the person he loves more, loves most, brings up the rear, a little bloodied, a little scratched up, dingy with the fucking air down there but smiling and Eddie…

Eddie falls into him so fucking hard they both hit the ground and just, just grab onto one another. Just hold and breathe and catch lips every few seconds like an afterthought because they feel each other’s heartbeat where their chests are pressed tight and it’s, they’re…

Steve’s got four broken fingers across both hands. None in a row. He’s basically giving a Vulcan salute by default for how they’re taped.

Eddie loves him so goddamn much it hurts.

And Eddie’d obviously known—once things start to settle in the days that’ve followed—that teaching Steve guitar with those Spock-y hands was on the back burner, but he does ask Steve to sit, and to rest, and to help hum back the tunes in Eddie’s head while Eddie jots lyrics with a hand that’s still shaky but steadying out more every day, and it’s kind of perfect, and Steve adds some things into the melodies either on purpose or by accident but they’re better for it every time and—

Muse and vessel, man. The light of Eddie’s whole goddamn life.

With fucking Vulcan hands still, though, so: excuse Eddie for being…bewildered when his boyfriend—boyfriend, that’s his boyfriend—but his taped-up-healing-Vulcan-handed boyfriend is propping the front door open and lugging in a long, not-recovery-friendly thing that looks close to dropping on his toes and—

“The fuck are you doing?” Eddie asks with a little more panic in his voice than he’d hoped for as he rushes as best he can to where Steve’s kicking the door shut behind him, fluttering his hands around uselessly as Steve maneuvers past him, leans across for a peck at the corner of Eddie’s mouth and calls—“It’s fine, it weighs, like, nothing”—over his shoulder as he settles the, the thing down on the coffee table in the living room they’ve started actually using for, y’know.

Living.

Eddie follows him in, though, because of course, he’s half-a-dog on that man’s heels, whole-caught-in-the-gravity-of-his-everything: but Eddie follows as Steve tosses himself backward with something in his hand, rolls and rucks up his fucking absurd Hawking Middle tee across the sweet curve of his hips, the way the soft give of skin tempts Eddie to run his tongue over the trail of almost-curls, like baby-curls where they lead under the waist of his jeans: Eddie would happily volunteer to survive on the taste of that musky-delicate space until the end of goddamn time—

But then Steve’s huffing a breathless ha from behind a chair where he’d been stretched to reach and a light catches Eddie’s eye from his periphery where he’d been staring unblinking just at Steve: the big long black thing on the coffee table. It takes a genuine concerted effort not to keep at the Steve-staring—not an uncommon state of Eddie’s existence, in all fairness—and check what’s glowing on the table: something turned on. Was plugged in, right, that’s what had Steve rolling on the floor without Eddie on top of or being deliciously pinned down by him.

The something being the big long black thing that Eddie takes in for the whole of it, now: a keyboard.

“Jon picked it up for me second-hand from the place next to Fox Photo when he drove down for his camera, and Rob vouched that it’s a good brand and like, really good condition,” Steve’s raised up on his knees, now with his hands braces on his thighs as Eddie studies the keys, fingers the ends of a every few of the naturals.

“Rob helped with those, too, so I’d know the right, like, chords,” and yeah: they’re stupa of masking tape stuck to the keys with letters in blue, black, and red pen, alternating so they don’t get mixed up, some with and arrow, Eddie assumes, to indicate a sharp.

“I only remember like half of one song from when my parents thought it would look good to have me take piano lessons,” Steve huffs in whole-ass judgment; “my mom wanted the endorsement of the guy who was stepping down from city council, and his wife taught private lessons, so, y’know,” Steve rolls his eyes; “super convenient leading up to the election.”

“What song?”

Steve blinks, tips his head in askance for what Eddie recognizes very clearly as something closer to a croak than a question, his throat all tight. He tries to cough, to clear it.

“What song do you remember?”

Steve snorts at that, leans back on his palms, and fuck is he beautiful.

“Clair de Lune,” Steve grins crooked; “the one song I was allowed to pick, instead of just being assigned.”

“Why’d you pick it?” Not that Eddie doesn’t like it or anything. It’s more that…he knew Steve could more than just drum fingers on keys, if only just, and that a baby grand used to sit in the corner where there’s a stereo cabinet now, but.

But: see, there’s like a whole half of his heart that’s dedicated to collecting new knowledge about everything Steve: his favorite food when he was 12 versus the now. How his favorite color became his favorite color. The story behind all the polos. The nitty-gritties about why he’s in a big-ass house alone for approximately 360 days a year, and how long it’s been that way. Eddie’s whole heart is basically Steve’s but every day that half overflows a little, and Eddie’s only keeping it relegated to parts filled with Steve-lore so he can feel the collection break containment every other day, this grand and joyous bursting under his ribs as everything spills over again, and again, and again until it’s all just Steve, and his heart has to burst or stretch, or both.

Eddie thinks both will be amazing.

And right now, in the interest of building toward that amazing-both: he wants to know why Debussy.

Steve chuckles to himself—better music than any dead French guy by a country mile—and eyes Eddie almost slyly.

“Do you remember Claire Reynolds?”

Vaguely. Like, very vaguely. He remembers…uneven pigtails. Very actual-cult-like vibes about her family as a vague impression and now that he’s bringing it to mind he feels a new wave of indignation: those Children-of-the-Corn motherfuckers were just fine but Eddie liked a board game and he was probably a murderer.

“When we were in like, first grade,” Steve’s continuing on; “she asked me every, single, day, to come over and see her sheep.” Steve looks up at Eddie and bites his lower lip, lets his gaze dance and lets Eddie fall into it for a few dazed seconds before he spells it out.

“She had these crazy eyes about it, it was kinda unsettling,” Steve nudges, but Eddie’s doesn’t get it until:

“And it’s not like I do now, because obviously I don’t, but I definitely didn’t speak a lick of French when I was eight.”

It takes Eddie a hot second before he snorts hard enough to hurt:

Claire, da Loon.

“I was eight,” Steve protests Eddie’s laughter halfheartedly even as he joins in, reaches to slap at Eddie’s upper arm which honestly: just makes him laugh harder.

“Anyway,” Steve fights through the last of the chuckling as it peters out between them, drags himself to sitting next to the coffee table and taps his hand to the top of the keyboard.

“I know it’s not the same as learning guitar to help, and I can probably only get the top and bottom notes with these,” he lifts his Vulcan-fingers his a shrug; “but I was hoping that’d be better than nothing?”

And, like, how Eddie was talking about his heart having to swell, for all the things he gets to tuck inside of it that come with loving Steve Harrington?

He might crack a rib, just now, because—

“This is for me?”

Steve purses his lips, lifts a brow:

“Well, technically it’s for me,” steve singles his fingers, which looks absurd with the splints; “but yeah. To help you get the songs out. I mean, once these are free again, you can help me with the guitar like we talked about, until you’re—“

And Eddie cannot be blamed, see: he cannot be fucking blamed for tackling Steve to the floor and kissing him hard enough to bruise because…

“You got hurt,” Eddie half-breathes between kisses; “you got hurt and I was so afraid I was gonna lose you,” and Eddie reaches for those taped fingers and kisses them, too: so gentle and Steve’s expression softens so quick:

“I was scared, too,” he whispers between them, cups Eddie’s face with his unloaded hand; “you were as safe as I could make you within the fucking city limits but I was still so goddamn scared.”

Cue more rib-cracking for the heart-swelling, because Jesus fucking Christ.

“And you,” Eddie exhales, slow and shaky; “you’re hurt, but you went and got,” he nods to the keyboard;

“I know it’s not ideal,” Steve’s quick to, to what, apologize? For being insane and perfect and—

“Shut up,” Eddie says, voice low and watery and he’s still kissing at Steve’s fingers, holding his wrist delicate but also like a lifeline.

“You’re hurt,” Eddie maybe kinda moans it because he hates it, as much as he’s so fucking grateful that’s it’s just this, no worse than this; “and you still—”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

And that…that’s one thing Eddie’s learned beyond reproach; that even to his detriment, Steve keeps his goddamn promises.

And he’d promised to help Eddie get his words out, to place the lyrics to the notes and help unclutter his brain so he didn’t lose his mind.

Holy fucking hell.

“Steve,” Eddie starts, shakes his head, needs to find the right words. “You’re alive,” the most important thing. “You are healing,” another most important thing, for Eddie to oversee and make sure of, even as Steve keeps an eye on the last lingering threads of the long haul on Eddie’s road to recovery in kind, his beloved mother hen.

“This is,” and he runs his fingers too light to draw sounds across the keys, hopes he sounds as awed and grateful as he feels; “but you, you’ve gotta test, you have to,” and Eddie shakes his head and lifts his eyes to just fucking ask it:

“Why?”

And Steve: Steve just studies his face for a few seconds, reads what he needs before he smiles kinda exasperated, mostly fond and answers so simply, while also breaking a few more of Eddie’s ribs when he just says:

“Because I love you.”

And Eddie’s heart’s not so overfull yet of all of Steve, it’s not fair that it just bursts right then and there, Eddie propelled into Steve’s arms to kiss him deep this time, like he’s searching out Steve’s soul to taste and maybe he is, save that he needs his heart to not have exploded for feeling if he’s going to keep the memory of it safe in his chest for always, he needs to patch his heart back up first but he’s too distracted, too drowned in the way love actually fucking feels, fucking shifts his cells around and makes a new version of him, lets his heart grow bigger except it went and blasted apart with the unprecedented immensity of loving and—

And then Eddie’s got Steve’s taped up hands on both his cheeks, and he remembers that night, in the shower, where Steve ripped the seams from his shirt so taking it off wouldn’t hurt him; notices how Steve is wearing that same fucking shirt in this very moment, all in one piece, like it never split apart in the first place.

Master seamstress, tried and tested and true; truer than anything.

So Eddie just dives back in and kisses with everything in him, thinks maybe when Steve tastes the pieces of Eddie’s blowout heart under his tongue while Eddie goes diving for the sweet lick of Steve’s soul:

Eddie thinks Steve’s mouth might know how to stitch up torn things, too. Especially the kinds that are ripped at their seams wholly for the sake of loving that fucking hard.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson

divider credits here & here

👾 title credit here

💫 ao3 link here

[rin-hanarin]

Saw this post three times on my dash and just want to say that it made the gears in my head go apeshit again, but my thoughts are so unrelated that I'll write them down separately lmao

Dirk is bound by his many selves while John is free to the point of being unbound and detached from everything, so John can give Dirk freedom while Dirk can give John a sense of self.

John is overexposed to the society and Dirk has no idea what it's like to be a part of it, so in a way John can give Dirk the mundane parts of life every human experiences, and Dirk can help John free himself from preconceptions about things that have no definitive answers, but have been defined by the society that doesn't exist in their universe anymore. You're not supposed to survive on your own eating 400 years old food and make a weapon storage out of your fridge, there's nothing wrong with questioning things that have been hammered into your head since you were a child, that kinda stuff.

They have what the other lacks while also being very similar and could balance each other so well, they have severe self-destructive tendencies coming from being too involved and too detached respectively and could prevent each other from acting upon them just because of their personalities: John can help Dirk loosen up while Dirk can help John keep himself together.

It's all fucking unintentional and unrealised to the point of being infuriating, but hey, freedom of thought and creativity is good I suppose, it's free real estate here.

[knifedancer]

Dancing In The Rain

Prompt: Rain In which Felix learns that Paris at night is much more beautiful when he dances in the rain…with Marinette.

~~~~~~~

It was a rainy Saturday in Paris, the city of love and magic, of superheroes and villains… One would expect to be charmed by a gentle sprinkle on such a lazy day! However, standing under the sopping café umbrella that threatened to snap shut under the weight of the current downpour, we find a boy who feels the polar opposite. Felix Fathom was unimpressed and just plain irritated with Paris – he didn’t even want to be here! It was not the city itself but his week that had put him in such a foul mood. He took stock of his life up to this point and was convinced he was on a bad luck streak – one that built with each passing day until this very moment.

Why, you may ask?

Monday he was shipped off to Paris by his mother to visit his oblivious cousin for two days. Two days of pretending he didn’t know Gabriel was Monarch. Sure, what could go wrong?

Well, he must have jinxed it or angered a random omnipotent god because this week must be divine punishment…

On Tuesday, he discovered his favorite fountain pen had exploded all over his new book and the contents of his book bag.

Wednesday his mother joyously announced he would be staying for the whole week due to work obligations on her part. Phenomenal.

Thursday he was targeted by an akuma – which, in all honesty, he had instigated the akumatization… but only because that damn waitress had dumped his iced coffee into his lap!

If the akuma seemed a little too hostile, well, Uncle was likely gunning for him…

On Friday, he discovered Gabriel had someone ransack his room – likely looking for the peacock miraculous. Felix suspected it was Uncle Gabe himself because half his clothes were ripped asunder by someone expressing a lot of frustration! And he was not sure what that awful odor rubbed all over his boxers was!

Although he was unsure what his uncle would have burnt to leave a random trail of ashes on the floor…

But this morning?

Oh ho ho, this fucking morning was the pièce de résistance!

Saturday brought forth quite a surprise! He awoke in Adrien’s bed, in his cousin’s pajamas, and a note on his forehead from said conniving cousin telling Felix to ‘fill in’ for him on a photoshoot while he spent the day with his friends. Felix had no idea how the model had gotten out of the house, although he assumed that he would find some of his own clothes missing from his closet if he checked. How did Adrien even get him from his room down the hall without waking him?!

That wasn’t even the worst part.

Halfway through the boring photoshoot on the outskirts of Paris, there was an akuma attack. Stormy Weather appeared after being slighted by the meteorologist at the news station – something about Stormy’s predictions being wrong? He didn’t fully know, he only caught part of her monologue before running for cover. They had been hit by hurricane level winds, sleet, and snow so suddenly that half the equipment had to be left behind. Le Gorille had rushed him to the car to make a quick getaway however, just eight blocks away, they had hit some black ice and popped two tires on the curb. Gorille sent him to go find a place to shelter while he called the auto club, but nothing was open due to the attack. So, Felix made the executive decision to walk back. He was about halfway across Paris when the wave of ladybugs purified the area. Finally, his day was looking up!

Felix pulled out his phone to call Le Gorille…only to find the battery dead. Great.

He was stranded, in the middle of Paris, with a dead phone and no money to even hail a taxi with. ‘This day could NOT get any worse!’ Felix thought in a huff.

That was when the rain started.

You see, Stormy Weather – Aurore, whatever – had predicted an unseasonable rain coming that day and the chief meteorologist had scoffed at the teen. Felix was suddenly very supportive of the akuma’s desire to correct the idiot! The blond ran down the street to a café, only to find it was closed due to a shortage of staff. Luckily there was a left-out patio umbrella that he could take shelter under until the rain lightened up.

Except that it didn’t. It grew heavier by the passing minute and Felix found himself huddled under a flimsy, soddy, dripping umbrella in seemingly the worst rainstorm to hit Paris since the Great Flood of 1910. The wet blond mused over the fact that somehow, someway, this was not caused by an akuma. If that were the case, then could all these linked bad events just be coincidence? Or was he simply that unlucky? Once he returned back to London, he would definitely need to ask Duusu if kwamis could curse people…

Just as Felix was about to settle for getting drenched in the rain, a flash of pink caught his eye. There, across the street, moved a lone hazy figure with a polka-dotted umbrella and pink galoshes. As he turned to look at them fully, he realized this figure was not walking down the street but dancing; kicking up puddles on the sidewalk while humming a little ditty as they crossed the intersection nearby. As the figure got closer, he could make out dark hair pulled back into pigtails… pigtails that reminded him of…

“…Marinette?” He hadn’t seen her since that disastrous night at the Diamond Dance!

The girl jolted with surprise when she heard her name, her bluebell eyes taking in the damp blond boy huddled beneath the dripping canopy. He looked exhausted and just as shocked as she was.

“Ad-Adrien? W-what are you doing out h-here?” she squeaked, a light blush dusting her cheeks.

‘Ah, she thinks I’m Adrien again…perhaps I could trick her into letting me borrow her umbrella,’ Felix thought strategically.

He plastered on his imitation model smile and approached her as far as his sparse covering would allow. “I uh… I had a photoshoot today, but then there was that akuma attack? Then my phone died! And, well, it’s a long story...” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“Wow, talk about bad luck. But are you lost? Your house is this way,” the young designer pointed in the opposite direction that Felix had been headed.

The blond blinked and muttered a curse under his breath. “I guess I got lost with everything going on… Would you mind if I walked back with you?”

“Oh…um…s-sure,” Marinette lifted her umbrella to accommodate his taller frame. He ducked under but quickly discovered that she would shrink slightly from their proximity and cause the umbrella’s armatures to smack him in the head. With a gentle smile disguising his irritation, he offered to hold it for her, and she quickly acquiesced. They fell into a companionable silence as they walked. He knew he needed to say something, Adrien would obviously be chatting with her…

“So…what were you doing out in this storm, Marinette?”

“Oh…uh, I was out running a delivery for my parents.”

“Really? In this dreary weather?” Felix asked with obvious surprise.

“Dreary? No, I love the rain! There’s something magical about it…like having a million sparkles falling from the sky!” He watched as her eyes twinkled and he could almost imagine the raindrops glistening just from the brightness of her smile. “It’s special to me,” she finished with a blush.

“Is that why you were dancing in it when I saw you?” He chuckled remembering her hops and twirls on the sidewalk.

Her cheeks flushed dark red, her eyes dropped to her fidgeting hands, and her smile faded with her embarrassment. “Ooh…you saw that? I just…,” Marinette paused, unsure of how to proceed. “I’m not any good at dancing but…it’s fun,” she finished with a whisper.

Felix frowned at the change in her behavior, he clearly recalled their short dance together and her natural grace on the dancefloor. Perhaps she was just self-deprecating because she was intimidated by his cousin? Adrien would surely attempt to cheer up his friend – perhaps girlfriend – wouldn’t he? With not a second longer in hesitation, he stopped and held out his hand to the bluenette. She stared at it for a moment before turning her impossibly blue eyes toward him. “Could I have this dance?” Her eyes widened and she blushed, taking his hand bashfully. He handed her back the umbrella to hold over his shoulder as he wrapped her in his embrace. With a soft hum he began to lead her in a gentle waltz down the sidewalk.

Slowly but surely the warm smile returned and brightened before his eyes as he guided her into bigger and faster spins, keeping them both in tempo to the steps long ingrained in his limbs by dance instructors his mother had insisted he learn from – much to his dismay at the time. ‘I guess I’ll have to thank her now that those silly lessons were finally of some use,’ he thought while a grin spread unwittingly across his face. He lost himself to the movements of their dance, a comfortable warmth growing in his chest. In a rather large puddle he spun Marinette, her foot fanning out in a way that caused the standing water to splash in a great wave over the curb before she settled back into his arms for another set of steps with a giggle. The warmth grew as Felix dipped her, watching as her radiant smile turned up towards the heavens as raindrops danced across her face.

They progressed down the street, both of them smiling and laughing as their hair and shoulders were moistened by wayward drops that missed the umbrella. Eventually they slowed to a stop as they waited for the crosswalk light to change; he gazed down at her – noting the flushed pink cheeks, sparkling eyes, and wide smile. Felix wasn’t sure what came over him. He glanced down at her lips, parted and panting from their energetic dance, and suddenly wanted to know how they felt. With hooded eyes he leaned forward, his arm tightening around her waist as he felt her rise up slowly on her tip toes as if to meet him halfway…the umbrella dropped from her fingers as they slid to the short hairs on the back of his neck, but neither could find it in their minds to care about the rain falling on their heads…

Just as their lips were about to touch, a car came careening around the corner and hit the large puddle forming at the blocked drain. Felix quickly rotated them so that he would shield her with his body. Within seconds a massive, brackish tidal wave splashed over them both and left them drenched. Feeling the cold, dirty water sliding down his spine, the blond let out a string of English curses that even his mother would be ashamed of. Marinette seemed to jolt at the noise and stared at him while he pushed the very wet hair from his face – unconsciously putting it back into his normal style – as the heavy rain continued to pour on their heads. He missed the calculating look she gave him before that gave way to a small smile, then to a chuckle, then a full belly laugh. Felix looked at her dumbfounded before he, too, began to crack up at their situation.

“You look ridiculous,” she giggled out.

“You look like a drowned mouse!” Felix laughed back, unable to contain himself.

“At least I don’t look like an overgrown komondor!” They laughed harder, tears springing to their eyes as the rain plastered their hair to their heads.

‘When was the last time I laughed like this?’ both thought to themselves wryly.

They both eventually calmed down, wiping tears and hair from their eyes. He fished the umbrella from the sidewalk and shook some of the water free before offering it to Marinette. She shook her head and motioned for him to keep it. “My house is just a couple doors down from here. You need it more than I do. The mansion is just up this street,” the blue-eyed girl pointed down the adjacent road.

He furrowed his brow slightly, realizing that their stolen time was coming to an end; he found the warmth in his chest had turned to an ache – he would miss her presence. “You’re sure? At least let me walk you home.”

Marinette quickly shook her head, her wet pigtails flinging droplets of water with the motion. “I’ll be fine, besides you need to get back, so you don’t catch a cold.  We’re both soaked to the bone!” He watched as she hesitated for a moment before sliding in close, pulling him down by his shirt collar, and kissing his cheek. “Th-thank you for the dance, Felix.”

With a distant clap of thunder, a red flush crept up his neck and onto his face as her soft lips pressed against his cheek. In the seconds that it took for him to register her words, she had taken off at a full sprint and disappeared into the heavy rain – returning to the pink blur he first saw by that café. Felix stood there in the rain, speechless and flustered as he touched his cheek. He couldn’t say how long he stood there, staring off, but it was long enough that the downpour had finally become a light drizzle. He looked down at the umbrella in his hand as if looking for proof that this had not been a dream… He gripped the handle a little tighter. It was solid, tangible, real.

A small smile spread across his face. Perhaps his luck wasn’t so bad after all.

~~~ BONUS SCENE ~~~

On Friday after school, while Adrien took care of his extra Chinese lessons and the others were out of the house, Plagg decided to do a little reconnaissance. He carefully zipped across his holder’s room and phased through the wall, floating down the empty hallway until he got to the end. Once there he passed through the door and ducked behind a garbage can while he surveyed the room. A wicked gleam and mischievous grin lit up the kwami’s face; the room was empty!

It had been about two months since Tikki told him about the Adrien knockoff showing up with Duusu and making a mess of things. The London blond had been very combative with Ladybug but oddly protective of Marinette. Tikki was hopeful that Felix might be reformed and join their side – his other half was so optimistic like that. The cheese wheel was always half full with her!

Plagg though? He was a ‘it’s a half a damn wheel of cheese’ type of cat – he jokingly liked to say he was an ‘optipissed’: pissed off optimist. Could things go right? Sure, but things could also just be what they appear.

Plagg didn’t know if Adrien’s cousin was redeemable and didn’t care to figure it out; planning was Tikki’s thing. He preferred results. That’s why he decided to curse that fluffed-up popinjay with a little bad luck! Well, that was mostly because the tiny cat god wanted revenge. Tomato, potato. Right now, the cat kwami intended to get results by taking the peacock miraculous and get it to Pigtails ASAP. Plagg hoped that Felix had left it behind in a hidden compartment or spot in the room while not in use. If it was on his person, the black cat wasn’t sure what to do!

“Duusu!” the black cat called, “Hey Duusu! You in here?” There was no answer.

“Tsk. If I was a feather-brained, pompous, jerk face, where would I hide a broach?” Plagg asked himself as he looked around the room. He decided to check the desk first – rifling through the neat stacks of paper and pens – before dive bombing into the bed to phase through the mattress and pillows. No dice. He proceeded around the room, passing through lamps, tables, and books with increasing irritation. He didn’t even sense the miraculous nearby! He swatted a pillow with his tail in agitation.

Well, if he wasn’t going to get what he came for, he might as well enjoy himself…

Just then the door opened and Plagg hid himself inside a lampshade, watching with great suspicion as Gabriel entered the room to do his own snooping. The cat kwami stayed silent as his holder’s father dug through the closet and dresser, ripping apart jacket and suitcase linings in search of something. After about five minutes, Gabriel let out a soft growl and stalked back across the room to the door. With one last glance around the room, he slammed the door behind him.

‘Seems he didn’t find what he was looking for either!’ Plagg thought suspiciously, he wondered what the kid had stolen this time.

The black cat kwami slowly exited his hiding place, making sure no one would be near to hear his next actions. Then he phased into the closet and began to toss the remaining collection of trousers, vests, and pristinely pressed shirts all over the floor while he cackled with glee. When it was in proper upheaval, he gathered up one each of Felix’s socks from the dresser, called upon his cataclysm, leaving only a small pile of dust on the floor as evidence of their existence. Plagg then burrowed into the underwear drawer, intent to claw some holes in the materials there when the door opened again…

“Plagg?” came Adrien’s hesitant whisper.

Popping his head out the leg of a pair of boxer briefs with a cheesy belch, the kwami called back, “hey kid, I’m over here!”

Adrien quietly closed the door and stalked across the room, tripping on a shirt and unconsciously kicking up the small pile of ashes as he recovered his balance. Plagg watched with satisfaction as the ashes settled to litter a bigger portion of the floor. “What the hell are you doing in here? Felix will be home any minute!”

“Just lookin’ for the miraculous, kid. Figured we know sourpuss has got the peacock, perhaps he’d leave it unattended, then we could get it back to the guardian.”

“Did you have to make such a mess?” the blond pressed his hand to his forehead as he looked over the random piles and ripped items on the floor. “I’m already stuck doing that photoshoot tomorrow instead of hanging out with Nino; if Father thinks I destroyed Felix’s room, I’ll probably be grounded for life!”

Plagg landed on Adrien’s shoulder, “About that kid… I got an idea. Why don’t we…,” as he whispered quietly in his ear.

Adrien’s eyes lit up and he chuckled, gathering up a few pieces of clothes from the floor to use as his disguise in the morning. “That’s sure to put him in a fowl mood!”

~~~Author's Notes: yes I referenced a historical event (Great Flood of 1910), a specific breed of dog, and made a peacock pun.

AO3 Link

[l4r5-iz-a-z0mb1e]

i think being obsessed with mulan as a kid made me trans. first of all, WHO is that girl i see…. second, this guy could make a man out of me. id let him

[sixrealmsbeneaththesea]

I’m so mad at myself. I didn’t want to like Ganon! Now I’m over here trying to figure out all the Ganons.😠

I found that on Pinterest lmao.

Pork gives me gas…but I like it so much. Must’ve been fate. Especially glazed…gassy fate.