#But It's Here

[jewishrat420]

No one has ever flirted with Steve the way Eddie flirts with Steve.

And it's not like no one flirts with Steve. God, no, it's not like no one flirts with Steve. Steve can't walk into the grocery store without at least three sets of heads turning and focusing all their attention on him.

And he's not even trying to be cocky about it. That's just the reality he was gifted when he came out of his mother's womb looking like the world's freshest Adonis. Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if they changed the colloquialism to "Steve."

Regardless. For as many people like to flirt with him, make themselves known, filtering in and out of his orbit like willing planets, no one knows quite how to get him going like Eddie. Maybe it's that they're not as confident as he is, maybe they're scared of the rejection Eddie was born facing and will die knowing.

Maybe they're scared of ruining their chances. Maybe Eddie isn't.

For whatever reason, Eddie doesn't seem like he's scared. Even though there was a long time before he knew Steve was bi, was just as into the flirting as Eddie was, even though there was a chance (not like it'd ever happen, but the unknown was there) that Steve could have beaten him up just for calling him "sweetheart," he did it anyway. He got right up into Steve's space, close enough that Steve could get high off the remnants of the joint he'd smoked earlier, and gave him a look that offered everything.

And, God, Steve wanted it. He wanted it all.

And so that began months of what Steve has so aptly referred to as torture. Apt, because he knows what it's like. He has the scars and the fear of ice cream and needles to prove it.

But this... this is a different kind of torture. Mental, emotional, spiritual, whatever you call it-- this is meant to tear him apart from the inside out, meant to make him want to rip his own bones out from his body and offer them to Eddie if it meant the other man making a fucking move.

And Steve would, is the thing. He would absolutely make the first move-- it's what he usually does, anyway, and he's got a pretty damn good success rate for it.

But, for whatever reason, this feels different. This back and forth they have, the constant teasing, the sliding in and out of each other's orbits, unable and unwilling to refute the most fundamental laws of gravity... it's something special, at least to Steve. Something sacred.

Which is why, when Eddie calls Steve "Harrington" for the first time in months, his first response is to pout.

They're about halfway through splitting a joint, the sweet smoke curling around wisps of hair and parted lips and filtering in and out of the holes in their sweaters. The air outside is getting colder, thinner, sharper, as the winter months dreg on. But inside the trailer, it's comfortable and warm. Safe.

Steve's being a bit of a hog, and he's man enough to admit that. But he had a shitty day at work and all he wants is to feel nothing other than the weightless relaxation of a good high buzzing through his bones. Sue him for taking a little more than his fair share of the good stuff, even if it is Eddie's.

"Steve," Eddie whines, reaching his hand out and curling his fingers in request. "Give it over."

"No," Steve responds, just on the edge of whiny. He brings the joint to his lips and takes a long, slow, deep drag, feeling the sweet heat of the smoke burning in his lungs, taking up the space where oxygen should be. He goes a little dizzy with it, feels his eyes lower. "Mine."

Steve can't see it, but he knows Eddie's rolling his eyes. Can sense the shift in the air, can sense every little fucking thing about Eddie at any given moment.

"C'mon, Harrington, you're being a brat."

And, normally, Steve would find another aspect of that sentence to freak out about. Would zero in on the word brat and relish in the flare of heat it sends shooting up his spine like firework sparks. Would squint his eyes at Eddie and tilt his head in the way he knows makes him look good, would give him his cutest little smirk and say, "Who, me?" and would preen in the response it gets.

This time, though, he's much too focused on the other name Eddie used for him. The one he hasn't heard come out of Eddie's mouth since before he realized that Steve was, as he put it, "actually a good dude."

He doesn't realize he's pouting until the sudden silence in the room starts to creep in, make a home in the buzzing in his ears. He didn't realize that he didn't say anything, and neither did Eddie, and now they're sitting in a mess of their own making. Of Eddie's own making, really.

His next words come out without effort, without intent.

"Don't call me that."

He chances a look over at Eddie, at the risk of appearing as vulnerable as he feels, and to his distress, he can't get a read on the man. His dark eyebrows furrow, brown eyes squinting slightly, and his lips part like he wants to speak. He licks them. Steve's eyes follow the motion unintentionally.

"Call you what?" Eddie says on an exhale. "A brat?"

Steve shakes his head. "Harrington. Don't like it when you call me that."

Eddie kind of softens, then, and Steve didn't realize he had stiffened until he isn't anymore. He sort of sinks into the couch, spreads his legs imperceptibly wider, and Steve wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't for the way his left knee brushes against Steve's just barely. Just enough for those heated sparks to send a couple pinpricks across his skin.

"No?" he says, looking over to meet Steve's gaze. His cheeks are flushed, whether from the weed or the heat of the room or the heat between them, and Steve's sure that his look the same. "What do you want me to call you, then?"

Steve's definitely blushing now. He looks away from Eddie, tucks his chin to his chest, lets the joint between his fingers burn away. Eddie takes it from him, gently, and brings it to his lips. Steve hears the paper crackling as he inhales.

His voice is quiet, almost meek, when he speaks. It's completely unlike Steve, completely unlike the persona he used to so proudly take on-- but then again, Eddie is completely unlike anyone that Steve has ever met. He's more real, more human, and in turn, Steve is too.

"...You know."

Eddie makes a little noise, then, something in the back of his throat that was born and died within the very same second it was released. Something soft, almost pained, like his body couldn't help the reaction it had to that sentence.

Steve watches the thin, long line of Eddie's arm reach forward and press the joint into the glass of the ashtray. He follows the motion until Eddie's hand settles into the rips over his knee, fingers intertwining with the thread. His pinkie is dangerously close to Steve's own sweatpant-covered skin, and he feels the contact as if Eddie were touching him.

Eddie's hand twitches like it wants to move, and Steve resists the urge to grab it, hold it within the warmth of his own palms.

"Do I?" Eddie says, his voice quieter than it was a moment ago. That thick silence fills the trailer once more, settling in between the soft buzzing of the lightbulb in the kitchen and the muffled humming of the crickets outside. Steve hears Eddie take a stuttering breath. "Tell me."

Steve sighs, feeling his chest burn as his heartbeat picks up. His throat pounds with the pulsing of it. He places his own hand on his right knee, pinkie finger edging closer and closer to the space where Eddie's meets his. Eddie's hand twitches again.

"Like it when you call me sweet things," he says on an exhale, as though getting it out all in one breath would make it easier. "Like how it makes me feel."

Eddie lets out another one of those noises, then, something more like a cut-off groan. His hand curls into the fabric of his jeans for no more than a second before he releases it, and Steve gets to watch as the blood blanches and then returns to his knuckles.

"Sweet things, huh?" he muses, voice only slightly strained. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd say Eddie is nervous. "Like... Stevie?"

Steve hums. "Yeah. I like that."

Eddie's pinkie moves closer. Barely. Imperceptibly, if not for the way Steve is tuned into his every movement, like a dog to the sound of their owner's keys.

"Yeah?"

Steve hums again.

"What about... sweetheart?"

Steve closes his eyes. Lets out a shaky breath, inhales a smoother one.

"Yeah."

Steve feels something brush against his pinkie. Something warm.

"Honey?"

Steve nods, biting his lip. "Mhm."

Eddie lets out a quiet little laugh. "Even big boy?"

Steve returns it helplessly, feels the edges of a smile pulling at his lips. The air feels cold on his teeth, as though he's burning up from the inside out and anything outside of his own body is a cooling salve.

"Especially big boy."

Eddie laughs a little louder, and the jostling of his body brings his pinkie even closer to Steve's. Completely pressed against his own, now.

Steve swears he can feel his heartbeat through it. Or maybe it's his own.

"What about..." Eddie takes a breath. "Love?"

Steve's own breath hitches. He opens his eyes, looks at where their skin is touching in more than one place. He feels it, feels every point of contact where the cells that make Eddie are existing with the cells that make Steve. Wonders, maybe, if they stay here long enough, if they'll merge and mold over time. Become one.

"Yeah," Steve breathes. "I like that one a lot."

Eddie hums, and the room falls back into silence for a moment. Steve's skin burns where their fingers are touching. He moves his hand to the right, just barely, just enough to let Eddie know that he feels it. Just enough to ask Eddie if he does, too.

His response is overwhelming.

Eddie moves his hand to the left, solidifies all the points of contact between them, and Steve feels like he's exploding. Feels like a bubbling pit of lava that's set to burst, to overflow, like it can't hold back anymore. Like it's tried for so long that it's hurting, now, pressurized and boiling and hot, way too fucking hot.

And then, Eddie crosses his pinkie over Steve's, and Steve thinks he's dying.

He takes in a sharp breath like it's the last one he'll ever get, and he doesn't even have it in him to be embarrassed about it. He knows Eddie is right there with him, knows he's not the only one feeling this irrefutable pull like gravity between them. Knows, hopes, it's only a matter of time before they collide.

Eddie hums again. He taps his pinkie once over the smallest of Steve's knuckles, almost like he's making a decision. He takes a long, slow breath before he speaks.

"You know which one's my favorite?"

Steve's throat clicks. "Which?"

"Look at me."

Steve turns his head to the right for no more than a second before Eddie's lips are on his.

It's hungry, it's indulgent, it's immediately addictive. It feels like breathing.

Eddie presses his whole body against Steve's, and he can feel the way his tendons flex where his hand is covering the back of Steve's. Where their pinkies meet, their fingers intertwine and cross over one another like the roots of a tree, their bodies the whole mycorrhizal network.

The next word is spoken against Steve's lips, and Steve can feel the way his mouth forms around it. Decides, from this moment on, that he never wants to hear it another way.

"Baby."

Steve's exhale is more of a moan, a dying sound that, like Eddie's before, lived for only a moment in his throat before pushing through the wall of his lips. Eddie takes it, holds it in his own mouth, swallows it down hungrily and slides his tongue against Steve's as though asking for more.

"That's--" Steve pants, getting his hands on Eddie's hips and pulling until he's seated in his lap. "Mine too."

"Yeah?" Eddie asks, his lips still pressed against Steve's. Their words are muffled against each other, but they don't need to hear them to understand. They only need to feel the outline of them, the shape of the consonants and vowels against and around each other's tongues. They only need to press their bodies together and know, intimately, the meaning in each other's hearts.

"Yeah. Want you to call me that forever."

This time, Steve feels Eddie's laughter against his lips. His chest. Feels it bubble up in the space between his ribs, feels it flow into his mouth like a river, swallows it down like the first glass of water after a run. Feels his own creep up behind his teeth in return, gives it back to Eddie like an offering, who takes it greedily. Hungrily. Gratefully.

"Think that can be arranged, baby."

[radiance1]

A byproduct of this au.

"I do believe that my greatest magical feat was figuring out how to remove stains from my clothes."

Zatanna paused. "Did you not use large scale teleportation magic on your home throughout time and space to land in our dimension?"

Sam laughs. "Oh dear, that one was on accident!" The witch waved a hand through the air, causing a tea set to hop through the air and set itself on the table. "Tea?" She offered.

The teapot poured itself as a plate of sugar cubes as well as a small pair of tongs appeared on the table, silent offer to take and adjust as they felt like it.

"You moved your entire castle here, on accident?" Constantine asked, dropping two sugars into his teacup and stirring with the spoon helpfully and magically provided for him.

The witch took a sip of tea, then nodded. "Oh yes, my calculations were quite perfect-that I made sure of- but something knocked my spell off and, well." She gestured around. "Here I am."

"And you would place removing stains above such a feat-even if accidental?" Zatanna raised an eyebrow as she picked up her teacup.

The witch merely nodded in response.

"I would have to agree with the lass." Constantine wrinkled his nose. "Stains are a shitty thing to deal with. What about you Batsy? Feel like departing your wisdom on us magic folk?"

Batman was quiet for a moment, staring down at his teacup before slowly reaching for sugar cubes and dropping them into his cup one at a time. It took 5 cubes before he decided to stop and stir. "They are." Was all he said before taking a sip from his tea.

Everyone present could swear they heard a faint, goddamn purr from the man.

Constantine stared incredulously, even going as far as pointing a finger as Zatanna held her face to her head and quietly cursed the gods in esasperation.

The witch just stared at them with amusement in her eyes and a smile on her lips that she hid behind her teacup.

[mr-cactis]

Menina veneno, o mundo é pequeno demais pra nós dois ~

[bluelolblue]

The Art of Negotiation

Summary: While it was supposed to be a simple talk, negotiation about what John has to do for Santino to honor the marker, it took an exciting turn. With John having full control over Santino, not bothered by the fact they're in the museum with art surrounding them and how the museum was still open for anyone to visit it. Good thing the door could've been locked.

Rating: Explicit

Relationship: Santino D'Antonio/John Wick

Note: It's finally DONE!!! This took so long, longer than I thought, actually. I needed to write at least one fic this month, and I decided to go with this one! I was kinda distracted while writing it with my irl stuff, so that's probably why it took me so long. So, all other fics I have planned to write will be done in the future, after I'm finally done with matura. Btw I love this pic of them sitting in front of the art piece so I literally had to include it.

✩ SPECIAL THANKS TO LOVELY @mrssimply ✩ for beta reading, for helping with the name of the fic, for helping me out on how to even send it and for explaining how everything works! Thank you so much for your support AND for taking your time to read everything and make corrections! That means a lot to me, I'm really thankful for this! It wouldn't be nearly as good if it weren't for you! :) 💙💙💙💙

.✽✦✽.◦.✽✦✽.

Snippet

"You want me to kill... Gianna D'Antonio?"

"It shouldn't be a difficult task for you. I know you're capable of doing it," Santino said confidently. "No, it can't be done," John replied. 

"You can't refuse this, John. Not a second time. You know how that went down the first time."

With a blown up house, yes.

John never felt this much frustration. Was Santino being an asshole on purpose or he was just in that mood?

"I'm going to kill you for that," John said, and he sounded like he meant it, having that cold tone in his voice. 

"Oh, yeah? I can't wait." Santino taunted. He was fucking smiling at him like the sick little creature he is.

John was really holding himself back. But he knew that was exactly what Santino wanted. He wanted him to snap, he wanted him to lose control.

Good thing those few people that were here started to walk out, probably going to see other pieces of art.

"You're fucked up," John said. He was ready to stand up and leave when Santino said, "You're not innocent either."

"Don't," John warned, not wanting to remember their past. Santino was such a hot lover. Stubborn, passionate, bossy, rough and needy. John could handle him well. His demands, his begging, his teasing, everything. He gave him everything he ever wanted. And it felt so damn good. No matter how many times John would wake up with fading scratches on his back, love marks on his neck and shoulders.

Santino was the one who always ended up with aching muscles and legs. There were so many times where Santino struggled not to limp while walking. As well as hiding his love marks on his neck when he had meetings, fixing his tie and collar around his neck.

"What? You liked it," Santino said with an innocent tone in his voice. Well, he wasn't wrong. John fucking loved it.

"Shut up," John muttered, avoiding Santino's playful look. That fucking look whenever he wanted something. 

"You don't have a choice, John. Do this for me, and your marker is honored." He said and paused for a second. "How can I convince you? Do I really have to beg you?" He moved slightly closer and John tensed up.

"I know what you're doing," John said, his voice sounding a bit husky, probably because his mouth felt dry. Why did Santino still have that effect on him?

"Of course you do. Look at you. You're thinkin' about it, aren't you?" Santino teased, smirking at him. Keeping eye contact with him felt way too intimate. It felt that way because it was the same look Santino used to give him when he was teasing him as he sucked him off.

Damn. John was getting lost in his eyes again. He loved getting lost in his eyes. He wanted to snap out of it, but Santino didn't want to shut up.

Read the rest on ao3

[cobaltfluff]

AND THERE IT IS! HIROKO UTSUMI'S SIGNATURE MOVE!! REFLECTED IN THE EYE OF YOUR SOULMATE!!!!!!!!

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Writing Masterlist.

Hello my name is Bex! Welcome to my blog and my writing’s masterlist.

May I ask that before sending me any asks or interacting you read my Rules/Who/What I Write For. Thank you so much!

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My Ao3 has a good portion of my stuff but you will find ALL of my writing in this list! Here are my tips for writing smut! Here is my writing process. And Here is my ramblings about things important to me to include in my writing if you care about some of the meaning behind what I do.

Here is the link to my Ko-fi if you wanna support me and what I do.

Did you know I also do commissions? Here is the info!

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"It Was Inevitable" Micheal Myers X FEM! AFAB! Reader. NSFW.

"We Match!" The Ghost/"Mitch" X AFAB! Reader. NSFW.

"Making Him The Exception." Machete Sam X AFAB! Reader. NSFW.

"King Of The Kayaks." Steve The Kayak King X GN! Reader. NSFW.

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"Something Life Affirming." Willaim Bludworth X AFAB! Reader. NSFW.

"A Deep And Festering Need." Edward Porris X GN! Reader.

[itachi86]

NOCTURNE SEASON 2 TODAAAAAAY!

[shittydirkdail]

Dirk in a bunny suit.

[talesfrommedinastation]

“Does the human heart know chasms so abysmal?

I'm about to waltz right into 72 hours of dance competitions for my oldest.

My editor is being a clown, my boss is ignoring me, and no one is filing their paperwork correctly at work.

My sanity is slowly edging away. I can't finish the second longfic.

But at least the internet is here and GAY AS EVER.

Don't know what happened in my overworked brain but damn it gonna get Target-in-June levels of gay up in this piece.

In another universe, these two hypersmart freaks hook up and it's nice. We'd all be smarter watching them debate on the Moon or whatever.

FWIW, this scene from 'Watchmen' is one of my favorites in a superhero movie: IMAX. Jon Osterman turns into Dr. Manhattan | Watchmen [+Subtitles] (youtube.com)

[haec-an]

nct u (haechan & taeil) - n.y.c.t out now!

[purplehairedwonder]

Fandom: One Piece Rating: Explicit Pairings: Donquixote Doflamingo/Trafalgar Law (nonconsensual) Words: 4,204 Characters: Donquxiote Doflamingo, Violet, Trafalgar Law, Donquixote Rosinante, Monkey D. Luffy, Diamante, Trebol, Pica Summary: In another life, Minion Island goes a bit differently: a gravely wounded Corazon is recovered by the Marines while Law is taken back into the Family. Years later, Rosinante teams up with Monkey D. Luffy to rescue Law from the clutches of his brother and set him free for good.

Notes: So, this story is inspired by my desire to see two of my favorite fic genres—Corazon!Law and Rosinante lives—in the same fic.

The title comes from the incredible monologue at the end of Andor episode 10.

[ghostly-werewolf]

[little-pup-pip]

since I saw a McDonald’s one, how about a Moodboard for the new McDonalds restaurant, CosMc’s? Gender neutral is ok, deco and pack also, and please make it space themed! Ty! :) -💫💜

Here you go!!

[tchtra]

FAITHtober day 1

I can't draw this ugly mf-

1-Gary Loves you

[capsensislagamoprh]

Victor looked over the garden view, wondering how Christophe managed to get a better room than he did. Pinsion Padre was a standard hotel, as places with standards go, a mere three hundred m from the Ostrava, which was nice. It also meant Yakov could time his escapades to and from to the minute. Getting to take a break with Chris was hard. They were both trying for the gold at the WFSJC, though one was bound for disappointment. Was it wrong to hope it was him? To even think about wanting it more than his friend?

"You are radiating deep, winter sleep." Christophe said quietly, propping his chin on the Ice King's shoulder. "What has you thinking?"

"I suppose," Victor hummed, "I feel constrained."

"Why?"

Victor shrugged. His eyes closed as he leaned back. "Do you think it will always be this way? Timed, carded, tracked, restrained, bound by rules?"

"It's possible. It may not be. You have to make life what you want it to be. It's not so easy to do that here. You have to fight for what you want. Through odds, preconceptions, your own doubt. There's more to life than life itself."

A silver brow rose. "Sr. Giacometti! Such a sentiment from a spring court fey lord!"

"My dear, Victor," Christophe trilled, "even a winter fey knows the value of life."

Victor scowled, pushing himself upright. "I do, and I want it, yet forever am I besieged by obstacle to my path of joy! The world rages in ice and fire, and I can't even get a room with a view! Seriously," he spun, hands pressing into Christophe's shoulders. "How did you manage it?"

"Booked ahead."

"Body parts in trade are considered taboo in the material realm." The blank, sanity considering look turned his way made Victor repent, if only for a moment. "There must be some way to feel alive while we're here and see if we can find our prey."

"Prey, is it?"

"Yuri is. Sort of. No. I just miss the whimsy."

"Min nära följeslagare... Are we planing a daring escape?"

Victor smiled. Christoph sighed. "Very well. Let us flee."

"Really?!"

"As long as we're back by check in, they need never know. After all, we're still minors here, but until that time, it's on them to know where we are, yes?"

Victor smiled. It reminded Christophe his friend was 'born' into Russia, where all fey were dangerous creatures, terrifying in there might. "Right."

"Come. We still have time to slip into the crowds, lost among disorder, to escape into the city itself," the spring fey cooed, bating Victor until he bent. Grasping the blond's arm, the Ice King beamed, ready to take on the whole of wonder if it gave him even a drop of glamour to enjoy the living.

They ran to the stairs, steps a mere memory. Jumps and laughs echoed thrugh the tunneling spiral as they dashed past doors. At the ground, they peaked out, slipped along the wall, desperate not to laugh until they were free. The outside world would know the sound of fey mischief, it would tremble, it would cry out in pleasure to know they existed. For five minutes. Their coaches caught them in the lobby. Christophe's coach raised a brow, shaking his head in sad disappointment. Yakov looked as if his head were a cartoon explosive.

The world gave them reprieve. "Let them go," Josef sighed. "They are in a new city. They are young." Yakov frowned.

"They are young! They cannot go in a new city alone!"

"Christophe, do you have your phone?"

"Yes."

"Set an alarm. You have until nine thirty this night to be back in your room. Same for Mr. Nikiforov. You will eat a balanced supper, and should I catch a wiff of junk food or you are a second late, I will let Yakov have at you both. Then Madame Baranovskaya, who is due to meet with us for lunch in less than three minutes. She is punctual."

It took the fey a second to recognize what was being offered. Victor peered at Josef for a long moment. He was emitting a rainbow halo. Christophe seemed to radiate with joy. His eyes went wide. Josef was feeding Christophe glamour based on trust! It was so potent he could barely see when he turned, arm grabbed by his friend, racing them out the door.

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15, part 16, part 17, part 18, part 19, part 20, part 21, part 22, part 23, part 24