#Everyone is gone and everyone is dying y'know?

[azure-bluet]

"sounds like you're asking me on a date", the extended cut

transcription below

Zam: So yeah you're not planning on dying anytime soon, right?

Bacon: Are you worried about me?

Zam: Am I worried about you?

[cut]

Zam: So, I don't know! [...] My mindset's shifted a lot. Because, when I killed you, I felt bad, I felt terrible about it, y'know? But... I think in the moment I definitely did, like, [...] enjoy it. I regretted it, [...] but my heart was pumping, getting ready to storm that room. I was expecting more of a fight, though, but, I mean, like, it's fine. [...]

Bacon: You could, uh, you could let me know, though, before you get there, and we can have a little bit of a fight?

Zam: Yeah, maybe I will. [...] I don't really regret it as much anymore, I don't think- I think I got over my regrets the day of, but now it's like really gone, y'know?

Bacon: I'm glad to hear you don't regret killing me.

Zam: Mhm.

[cut]

Zam: I feel like, [giggles] I feel like it'd be cool if I, I dunno, [...] if I got to kill you more, maybe. [...]

Bacon: Sounds like you're asking me on a date.

Zam laughs.

Bacon: I don't wanna make it weird, but, you really said that- am I crazy, or did you actually say that like...

Zam: I don't- I think you're crazy, but, that's fine.

Bacon, clearing his throat: Kinda sounded like... I don't think I-

Zam: No, I- I wanna do anything I can to protect the server, and, I mean, like, I don't normally like, y'know, beating up players that don't really have that many hearts, but. I mean, if I can, and, like, the opportunity arises, then... Yeah, no, I think that it'd be cool if I got to kill you

Bacon: Oh, nice. [Zam: Yeah.] Very sweet.

Zam: Mhm. At the risk of it sounding like a date, I think I would- Y'know. [...] [Zam laughs] Now that you said that I gotta, like, re-think how I wanna say this. [...] I just feel like it would be cool if, out of everyone- 'Cause you're planning on doing this until you get banned, right?

Bacon: That's the plan.

Zam: Yeah. Well, then- in that case, I'd like to make sure that I'm the one to ban you.

Bacon: Huh. [Zam: Yeah.] [...] That's nice, that's- that's cool, um. I'm, uh, kinda planning for success.

Zam: You're gonna plan for-? Well, yeah, obviously. I'd expect you to. I want you to live a very long time. I don't want you to die, y'know, too soon. [...] I want a battle that's actually enjoyable, and I think with you I can have that, so.

[cut]

Zam: I just feel like I have a nice understanding of you, and I don't feel like anyone else on my team does. [...] I feel like, because of that, it'd be nice if I was the one who got to kill you.

Bacon: Hmm.

Zam: Yeah. [...] And I did say that I'd never ban anyone, 'cause, y'know, "lives are valuable" or whatever, but Derapchu does have eight revive beacons, lying around…

[vio1315]

It is not in vain x50

[loucifersbitch]

tw: mcd

"I can't do this."

Buck's hands tremble as he tries to knot his tie for the fourth time. It's so stupid. He knows how to do a half Windsor. He's done this enough times, it shouldn't be an issue.

But his hands shake, and his fingers slip, and the pieces of fabric fall to his chest again.

"I can't do this!" he yells, reaching out for the nearest object and chucking it across the room.

The ceramic otter figurine shatters on impact, the sound pulling him from his anger. He sits on the bed, dropping like a puppet with its strings cut. His hands are still shaky as he rubs at his face, the burning sting behind his eyes growing stronger.

"I can't do this," he whispers, lip quivering.

He refuses to cry over this. He has to be strong, has to be there for his family, has to make sure everyone else will be okay, has to -

"Evan?" Tommy's quiet voice comes from the doorway. He doesn't move any closer, though the concerned furrow in his brow and stiff posture tell Buck all he needs to know. "Are you okay? I thought I heard something break."

Thank God for Tommy. He's been there through all of it - Bobby dying, making arrangements with the funeral home and planning the funeral, and now joining the procession as a casket bearer - and he's never wavered once.

"I can't do this," Buck says again.

It's different saying it to someone instead of talking to himself and an empty room. His chest feels cracked open, a hollow shell where his heart and lungs should be. A sob works its way from his very core through his diaphragm and out his throat, despite trying to hold it back.

"I - I can't - Tommy, I -" he tries, but speaking through the heaving sobs that have overtaken him is nearly impossible, and his head his starting to hurt, and he can't seem to get enough air suddenly, and is he having a heart attack?

Then Tommy is there in front of him, kneeling on the hardwood floor in his own dress blues so he can hold eye contact.

"Evan, hey," he says, hands moving to cradle Buck's face, "breathe, sweetheart. You need to breathe. I think you're having a panic attack. Can you breathe with me? Inhale, one, two, three, four. Good. Now hold, two, three, four. And out, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight."

Tommy continues directing him through the breathing exercise, slowly moving closer until Buck can rest his forehead against Tommy's.

"Good, Evan. That's good," Tommy tells him, thumbs rubbing soothingly against Buck's cheeks. "You scared me, baby."

"Sorry," Buck hiccups, trying for a small smile. "I don't know why that happened. It just suddenly -"

"Became too much?" Tommy finishes. Buck nods, and Tommy continues, "You have nothing to apologize for. This is -" he looks around as if hoping the right words will magically pop into existence, "Losing a parent is hard. Especially when you're so close."

"He wasn't my biological father," Buck says, but Tommy scoffs.

"Biology doesn't mean anything right now. Bobby was your dad. Period."

Truthfully, Buck can't argue with that. Bobby had been everything Buck had wanted and needed in a father figure when he was growing up. He nods, acquiescing.

"You've never had to process a loss like this before. He was a huge part of your life, and now he's gone. You're going to feel a lot of things about that. Grief isn't simple."

"I have to hold it in just a little longer. I can't break down during the funeral, Tommy. I have to be strong, y'know? For Athena, and May and Harry, and the rest of the 118. I need to be there for all of them."

"Evan," Tommy says seriously, "you can't be everything for everyone. If you're there for all of them, who's there for you?"

Buck opened his mouth but found he didn't have an answer. He knows, of course, that the 118 will always have his back, but they're all dealing with their own grief.

"Let me."

"Hm?" Buck hums, confused.

"Let me be there."

"Tommy, you're already going to be there."

"Let me be there for you, smartass," he says, rolling his eyes. Buck almost smiles. "You need a shoulder to lean on? I'm there. You want someone to hold your hand? How convenient that I have two. You need anything, and I'm there, okay?"

"You don't have to do that."

"I know," Tommy smiles. "But I want to, if you'll let me."

"You're not even my boyfriend anymore." Tommy tries to speak, but Buck continues, "And I know that you said you want to try again, but then we had that fight, and I -" he pauses, blowing out a shaky breath, "do you still want this? Us?"

"Evan, I will be whatever you need me to be today. And yes, I do want to try again, but your emotions are compromised right now. If this is an impulsive decision you're going to regret, I -"

"It's not. I promise it's not," Buck assures him. "I've thought about it pretty much every second since you walked out my door. Again," he adds. Tommy huffs in amused disbelief. "But I know what I want, Tommy. I want you."

Tommy looks at him with a gentleness that sends a pang through Buck's chest.

"Okay," he says, one side of his mouth curving up into a smirk.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Of course, Evan."

When Buck kisses him, it feels like home. It feels like healing, like hope.

"We should go soon," Tommy murmurs.

Buck hums in agreement, "I just need to get this tie right, and then I'll be ready."

"Here," Tommy offers, making quick work of the simple knot. "You look great."

"So do you," Buck says, reaching out to straighten Tommy's tie. "Ready?"

"Almost," Tommy says, moving toward the opposite side of the room. "Just need to assess the damage."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I don't know why I threw it in the first place. I was just so mad at how unfair this all is."

"Grief," Tommy shrugs, bending down to pick up the larger shards of the ceramic.

"Jee will be so mad I broke that otter. She loved that one."

"You'll just have to take her to the zoo and get another."

"Yeah," Buck says, a small smile on his face. "We will."

Tommy chuckles as he leaves the room to throw the shards in the garbage. He returns a few moments later with a broom and dustpan.

"We're back together for two seconds, and you're already planning outings for us."

"Get used to it, honey," Buck says. "This time I plan to keep you for good."

"God, I hope so."

[fxllfaiiry]

─ callin' it quits now, baby, I'm a wreck ੈ✩‧₊˚

✶ pairing: miguel o'hara x fem!reader

✶ synopsis: the aftermath of the argument with miguel.

✶ warnings: angst, hurt with comfort, occ miguel (for one scene only dw), shitty humour, one or two swear words, reader being slightly mean, mentions of death.

✶ notes: part two of "you're the sunflower" this part was originally 8k words long and i was like nope, so i had to cut it down, I'm sorry. I really hope this isn't bad ‼️

At first, you didn't quit the team. 

After the blow-up with Miguel, you thought about leaving the team for good, but yet you decided to show up, hanging around for a bit before quickly leaving. 

But slowly you stopped showing up altogether. The looks of pity were too much for you to handle, and frankly, you deserve an apology, you deserved better.

Every day was torture, and seeing Miguel only made it worse. No one thought this whole ordeal would go this far. 

Everyone noticed the changes, you were more serious, and your usual sunshine self was gone at this point. Everyone noticed the day you stopped coming in. 

You felt so lonely, sure, you had friends in your universe but yet, nothing felt the same. You sometimes wondered if they missed you or not. 

It had only been a few weeks and yet it felt like months. 

A part of you secretly hoped someone from the team would show up at your doorstep pleading for you to come back, but nothing. 

"You'll get used to it eventually" You'd tell yourself. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

It had been two whole months since you left. Nothing felt the same without you. 

"Does anyone else miss Sunflower?" Gwen said sadly. She missed your hugs, and your little girl talks with her, she missed everything about you.  

"We all miss her, kid," Peter sighed. Without you, he had no one to talk to about Mayday. 

"I hope she comes back soon," Miles said. 

"I think she just wants space right now," Pavitr replied.  

"This is all Miguel's fault y'know?" Hobie added bitterly, how dare Miguel take his friend away from him. 

"Someone should talk to him, maybe if he apologizes, she'll come back." Miles was hopeful, he knew you'd come back eventually. 

"Sure, kid. As if Miguel ever listens." 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Miguel on the other hand was depressed. 

He'd gotten used to your presence and it felt odd without you.

He felt horrible about yelling at you but he was scared. The thought of you dying terrified him, and his way of dealing with that wasn't the best. 

He thought about apologizing many times, but he didn't know how to. The last thing he wanted was to cause more damage. 

"You know a simple "sorry" could fix this all right?" Lyla said, breaking him out of his trance. 

"It's not that easy, Lyla." He sounded so broken to his own ears. 

"Well, you gotta try, Boss." 

"Sunflower used to call me that." 

"You're joking, right? Wow, you really are pathetic." Lyla snorted. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Dude, you're in love with her. You are absolutely smitten." 

"Lyla, that's enough-" 

"No, you love her and that's why it's bothering you so much." 

"I don't-" 

"Nah, Lyla's right, you do love her." He turned around to see Jess standing in his office. 

"Jess, not you too, and where did you come from?" Miguel groaned, he did not love you. 

"The door…? Anyways, just try to fix things, the first step is you apologizing." Jess stated matter-of-factly. 

Miguel thought about it for a minute, these last few weeks had been pure torture for him, Jess was right, the first step is apologizing.

"Fine, I'll do it first thing tomorrow, but I don't love her." 

"Sure, whatever you say, man." Jess snickered. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You got somewhat used to your new life. It was the same old plain routine every day. You tried to throw yourself into other things. Finding new hobbies, jobs, literally anything. 

But eventually, it all started to feel okay.

Things were finally starting to look good for you. 

You thought about the spider society way less and finally started living your life to the fullest. 

You were moving on. 

Crime fighting was easy today. You got to hang out with your friends and an old lady gave you a cheerio, which is something. 

You swung around the city for a bit, enjoying the view and temporary peace. 

Soon it was time for you to head back home. You climbed in through your bedroom window and quickly changed out of your suit, slipping into more comfortable clothing.  

When you went downstairs to get some food, you weren't expecting to see Miguel O'Hara sitting on your couch. 

"Holy shit, what are you doing here?" You scared him, because he jumped violently at the sound of your voice. 

"I was here t-"

"Humiliate me further? Because I thought we were done with that." You felt bad saying that, but he deserved it. 

"No, I'm here to apologize." He looked down, ashamed. 

"It's a bit late for that, isn't it?" You chuckled bitterly, walking past him into the kitchen. 

"Just listen to me for a second." 

"I thought I was incapable of doing that." You muttered to yourself. 

He got up and strode towards you, but he received no acknowledgment of his presence. 

"I'm sorry for yelling at you in front of everyone; it was wrong and I shouldn't have acted so immaturely." 

"Uh-huh, it's fine. You can leave now, the door's right there." You weren't buying his ridiculous apology. Even a five-year-old could do better. 

"I understand you're mad, but please give me a chance." That was pretty much the last straw for you.

"I'm mad? You humiliated me in front of everyone! You made me feel like shit, you made me think I don't belong on the team! You're an asshole." You were screaming at him, taking out all the anger and sadness you felt in the past two months.

"I'm sorry." He sounded so small, so vulnerable, and for the second time in his life, he didn't know what to do. 

"The best you can say is I'm sorry? At least give me a proper explanation." You scoffed, rolling your eyes. 

"I'm in love with you." What? 

"Right, if you're here to joke around and mock me just leave okay."  You open up to him and he mocks you in return. Amazing.

"I'm being serious. I'm not mocking you or joking around, I'm in love with you. You want an explanation, so I'm giving you one." He breathed, looking at you hoping to receive some reaction. All he got was a small head tilt which he took as a sign to continue. 

"The reason I yelled at you was because I was scared. I thought you were going to die and that terrified me, I've lost everything, and I don't want to lose you too. I didn't know how to handle it, so I lashed out. I truly am sorry, Sunflower." You froze trying to process everything, was he telling the truth? 

"Lyla and Jess helped me realize my true feelings for you." He whispered. 

When you said nothing for a few minutes he started to get scared, he was ready to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness if he had to. 

"Can you… say something? Please?"

"I can't forgive you just yet." He would never admit to what happened next but he started sobbing. All this was too much, being vulnerable was an unknown feeling to him. 

"Woah, wait hey, don't cry. Let me-" Before you could finish your sentence he fell to his knees, arms clutching your waist like a lifeline. 

You were beyond confused, you thought this whole interaction was some sort of weird dream. Miguel O'Hara down on his knees, for you? Wow, two months ago you would've scoffed and rolled your eyes at that. 

Nonetheless, you ran your fingers through his hair trying to soothe him. 

"Miguel, honey, listen to me. Just because I'm not ready to forgive you now, doesn't mean I never will." His face was still squished against your midriff, and his breathing was slowly returning to normal, with a few sniffs here and there. 

"So, you'll come back?" Seeing him in such a state broke your heart, you were still upset with him but were willing to give him a chance. 

"Yes, I'll come back tomorrow." At that, he smiled properly for the first time in weeks. 

He stayed there for a few moments, letting you comb through his hair gently, he would cherish this brief moment forever. 

"I should get going then. The multiverse needs saving." He said hoarsely, standing up, he was slightly embarrassed by this side of him. 

"Maybe use the door this time." He lightly chuckled at your statement, the warm feeling took over him once again.

Miguel did not want to leave, he wanted to stay here with you, but he knew that wasn't an option right now.

Before he left he had to get one last thing off his chest.

"Could you, not tel-" 

"Tell anyone about this? Don't worry, this stays between us only." 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Everyone was surprised to see you back the next day. 

The second you walked in, everyone was all over you, hugging you and filling you in on everything you missed. It felt good to be back. 

"I'm so happy you're back," Gwen whispered, hugging you tightly. 

"I'm happy to be back, Gwendy. I missed you guys so much." 

"Hey quit hogging Sunflower, it's my turn to hug her now." Miles huffed impatiently. 

"Me next!" Pavitr bounced enthusiastically. 

"Hey, not cool. I called dibs, man." Hobie groaned. 

"Hey, Sunflower, I have some new pictures of Mayday to show you." Everyone was so excited to see you again, it was chaotic, but it felt like home. They were your family. 

Miguel watched the scene from afar with a smile, he was glad everything was okay now. 

"So you fixed things up with her, huh?" Jess said, popping up behind him, once again taking him by surprise. 

"¡Ay, coño! Jess, stop doing that." 

"Sorry, not my fault you don't have a spidy sense." Jess hummed. "So, how did you get her to forgive you?" 

"I have my ways." 

"You got down on your knees and begged her, didn't you?"

"How did you know?" Miguel whisper-yelled. That was supposed to be a secret. 

"I have my ways." Jess winked. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── 

In a few weeks, everything was back to normal, you were back to your old self again. 

Except for the fact that you and Miguel were now closer than ever. That was new. 

You were always by his side, sticking close to him and he felt comfortable around you, always relaxed in your presence. 

He wasn't sure if you forgave him just yet, but he was willing to wait for as long as you needed. 

He did small things to show you he cared, sometimes it was bringing you coffee, other times it was giving you your favorite flowers. 

You knew he was sorry, and in your heart, you forgave him a long time back. 

So, you finally decided to tell him. 

You guys were in his office having lunch, he didn't like to eat out in the cafeteria. You both would usually sit in silence enjoying each other's company. 

"Hey, Miguel." 

"Hm?" 

"I forgive you." 

He raised his eyebrows in confusion taking a moment to realise what you meant. When he finally got it, his eyes widened almost comically. 

"Oh, you do?" He was trying to hide his smile but failed horribly. 

"I forgave you a long time back, but I just… needed some time." You nodded.  

"I understand that. Thank you for giving me another chance." 

"Actually, to forgive you fully, I want one thing from you." You declared, confidently. 

"I'll do anything, Sunflower." He'd indeed do anything for you. 

"I want you to go out on a date with me." 

His brain stopped working. You were asking him out on a date. 

"Miguel? Is that a yes or no?" You grew nervous at his lack of response. Did you cross boundaries? You thought he liked you. 

"I would love to." You quickly beamed at his response, after months of waiting it was finally happening. 

"So, how about tomorrow, at 7?" You giggled. 

"Sounds perfect." He sighed, softly smiling. 

He couldn't wait for tomorrow. 

[hitlikehammers]

PART 2/2: in which lock-picking⛓️‍💥 is 100% a valid love language, and waking up with ✨Steve Harrington✨ was NOT the future (exactly. maybe. ish.)

...but waking up in a hospital bed just might be ♥️

<<< last time: And Eddie thinks that’s highly fucking debatable—he’s not sure where it comes from, because it’s a little out of place, Eddie didn’t say anything but maybe he’s just that transparent, the heart of him so quickly, so completely, and if that’s the case then it’s entirely fucking debatable because Eddie thinks he’s going to burst, splinter like a starburst, glorious in the unmaking for how big this thing that’s building in him feels, how certain he is that it’s about to break his ribs and he fucking looks forward to it, so no: Steve doesn’t love most because he can’t, because Eddie is overcome with this feeling and he, he— He’s drifting, because Steve’s heat is a heady fucking drug, and his heartbeat’s a metronome, a lullaby against Eddie’s back and it’s instinct, it’s unquestionable when he shimmies tighter into Steve’s hold and sighs the weight of the world out between his lips because… Because goddamnit, this feels right.

OR: y'know. Eddie thought he was dying in the Upside Down but then he's waking up in the future, in bed with Steve Harrington like what the fuck

Eddie comes to—again: un-fucking-expected—with the same sensation of his ribs snapping, the pain of it a dull thing he thinks he can just float through because his heart’s so gone on the impossible possibility of some future imaginary day where he, where Steve, where they—

“Eddie?”

Wait.

Wait, that’s…okay.

Back up.

He tries to take in what his senses are willing to offer him: something starchy, itchy against his skin, both sides—definitely not the sheets from the bed he’d just felt visceral underneath him. Pressure and aching at his chest: but less sweet the longer he focuses on it. Stinging and the pull of maybe-bandages, maybe-sutures, maybe both and something deeper, like…oh, wow, fuck, it’s entirely possible his ribs are already broken. His heart still feels full, but also scared, unsure, wrong-footed as more and more little clues seep into his consciousness, before maybe the clearest of them all: a shrill little beep that’s fast, like embarrassingly fast—

A monitor.

He draws a shaky breath—iodine, like, burning levels as he inhales and holy fucking shit, he’s in a goddamn hospital.

He’s, did he…

Is this what Steve meant, when he said ‘wake up’? Did Eddie…

Did Eddie fucking survive?

It’s in the spiral of that thought that Eddie clocks the same voice that jarred him out of his own head…in his own head, before. With the fancy sheets and the warmth and the home and—

What…what if it wasn’t in his head at all—

But his body, his pulse recognizes that voice as safety. As…rightness incarnate.

“Oh fuck,” and that’s the Steve Eddie knows best, right there, a little breathy and a little pitchy for frayed nerves and constant worry and the weight of the fucking world to make sure everyone—everyone else—makes it out as okay as possible.

And it’s in thinking that, that Eddie recognizes what Steve-in-his-headin-the-future-in-his-dream-in-his-maybe-not-quite-death-hallucination meant, when he’d said Eddie’s eyes softened. Because Steve’s heart on his sleeve, in his eyes, had looked peaceful, then. Content, even.

Not so frantic. Not so…scrambling.

Still just as blinding, though.

“Thank fuck, you’re awake,” Steve half gasps, a tiny clattering against the tile floor vying to draw Eddie’s gaze away but there was genuinely nothing in the whole goddamn universe that could take Eddie’s eyes off of Steve just now, those lips parted ever so slightly, cheeks that tiny bit rosy, pulse maybe-maybe-not visible just below the bandages on his neck.

He’s beautiful.

“What do you need?” Steve’s leaning closer, hands reaching but then kinda fluttering, kinda hovering, not sure where to touch and even if they knew the answer, kinda like they’re not sure if they can touch in the first place, yet all Eddie can do when he sees them, when he feels the shift in the air for how close they are; all Eddie can do is remember what it’s like to be pressed close to Steve’s body, to feel Steve’s arms around his chest, like they’re keeping him.

“What can I do,” Steve asks, so earnest and Eddie’s pulse does a little skip for it, how good it feels; “I—”

And Steve’s eyes are already big, just short of pleading, darting to the corners of the room maybe for water, maybe for a button to call someone to help more than he can—as if anyone can help more than Steve can, just now, because Eddie’s waking up from what it feels like to have Steve, and the most pressing possible thing in the world just now is SteveSteveSteve, near enough to feel, to breathe in—

Steve’s eyes are already big, though, is the thing, even before the full-on fucking crash of something to the floor makes him freeze. Eddie tries to peer down, winces as it pulls to much at…everything, kind of, Jesus H., but he hurts everywhere, and…

“The hell were you doing?” he asks in the absence of being able to see because…metal. Metal had hit the floor, from the height of probably-the-bed, after Steve had pressed into the mattress, shifted the weight, and then he’d blinked all owlish and adorable: culpability for whatever he’d been up to written all over his gorgeous fucking face.

“Umm,” Steve chews at his lip a little, eyes peeking up through his lashes, that look that makes Eddie weak and wobbly at basically every juncture it’s possible to tremble at like that, but he doesn’t duck away; he doesn’t even blush. He’s not…whatever he was doing—and Eddie’s range of motion is fucked, he’s already super well aware of that shit when he even tries to move to see the floor, to follow the sound—but whatever Steve was doing, he’s unrepentant. But in a way where he maybe recognizes that other people would have been less brazen.

Eddie’s wrist tingles out of nowhere—weird, when all of him is already kinda in a sort of dull, narcotic-shrouded pain—and he frowns, glances down at least that far and notices the slightest ring of red that’s less angry, not attached to bite marks and broken skin, and he has the wildest thought cross his mind just then, and he steels himself to crane his neck as far as he can, to limit the strain he’ll put on his middle because now he needs to see, because he kinda knew before he cut the sheets and ran into the fray that coming out on the other side meant life behind bars if there was any life at all, yet here he is, increasingly seeming like this is real, and this is his ‘other side’, and…

He’s just in a fucking hospital. He’s…he’s here, and he’s, he’s not…he’s not in fucking chains.

And it stings like a bitch, and Steve’s a second away from stopping him, reaching for him and pressing him safely back onto the the bed, but Eddie gets the glimpse he needs. Recognizes the shape on the floor, shiny steel against the scratched-up linoleum.

“Were you,” Eddie traces the ridges of his teeth with his tongue, because there are layers to what he’s about to ask; “were, umm, were you picking the,” and the first little clatter from before makes more sense if he’s right, and if he’s right, well, fuck.

It’ll be hot as hell, if he’s right.

“That?” Eddie tilts his head toward the floor because: cuffs. What he’d seen, what had fallen: handcuffs. On the floor. And they’d have had to have been not on the floor, and probably on him before, and so, he—

“Possibly,” Steve answers with a straight face, as unapologetic as ever, maybe more; maybe even defiant, and oh, wow. Steve Harrington picking his fucking handcuffs, setting his stupidly-quickly-lovesick ass free.

Hot as fuck; seriously.

“How positively criminal of you, Harrington,” Eddie grins half-maniacal, feels the stretch of it burn against a cut that’s gotta run half the span of his cheek but fuck it, the warmth flooding him is undeniable, is incredible—he’s giddy all of a sudden, straight to his bones.

“S’nothing on hot-wiring,” Steve shrugs, like it’s not fucking everything; “but I wasn’t,” and Steve takes a deep breath before he squares his shoulders, looks at Eddie straight-on and shit, if he thought the warmth in him up to now was something?

It’s kinda got nothing on what consumes him under those eyes.

“I wasn’t going to let you wake up fucking…shackled.”

And goddamn if the fire in that voice, those words, doesn’t light Eddie up like burning, doesn’t shake him to the core and then blanket him in sureness and the kind of protection he didn’t think really existed.

Save that he does kinda think it’s exactly what this man’s made of; made for.

And Eddie can’t escape the certainty rising in his veins and pumping, fierce and unshakable, that he wants—more than maybe anything—to be the one to give that same safety, that same promise of something unwavering and permanent and beyond question, right back to Steve.

“You’re an innocent man,” Steve leans in then, emphatic with it; “you’re a goddamn hero,” and he means it, holy shit, he believes that:

“Like hell I was just gonna,” and he shakes his head, like the idea is just that preposterous; like he cannot even consider anything but Eddie being free, and okay, and here, and…

Eddie’s struck with the sudden slap of realization across the fucking face that he couldn’t have gotten topside by himself. That someone had to get him from the hellscape to here. And of the able bodies in the Upside Down, no matter how strong the girls were, only one could have wrestled him through that gate. Only one could have…whatever he maybe needed, between this bed and that bat-strewn ground, it was, Steve would have been, he’d have—

The force his heart trips, then leaps with, is fucking cataclysmic. Eddie’s honestly surprised it doesn’t just tear out from his throat then and there.

“Plus they’re in the process of finishing the paperwork to make it all official, dropping the charges and all that, clearing your name,” Steve gestures vaguely in the air, like it’s all routine, the feds and the cops sweeping shit under the rug but then he remembers all the side comments he’d collected in the back of his mind these last few days about the ‘last time’ and then ‘the time before that’ and fuck all also the first time—

Maybe it is, just…sick and twisted and harrowing and heartbreaking routine.

“They’re just really fucking slow,” Steve smiles at him, all small and devastating and…

And okay, so that overwhelming urge to be a constant in Steve Harrington’s life, safe next to his heart kinda for always, zero to forever in half-a-blink?

Eddie knew he wanted, when he threw his vest at Steve’s bare chest more for Eddie’s own fucking sanity than anyone’s modesty, but it was all washed in the hopeless-helpless colors of desperation, of why not when I won’t see tomorrow; and now.

Now, all Eddie wants is tomorrow. Every tomorrow. No tomorrows without this man. Without what he saw, how it felt: what he knows in his marrow loving him would be.

It’s probably that conviction etching into his cells that makes makes him softer, a little weepy around the edges; drives him to need through the next words that escape:

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, wishes Steve were just that little bit closer so that the distance he can reach could reach him:

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Steve waves him off almost, like he doesn’t think everything he is, everything he’s done is monumental. Not just the cuffs but with the cuffs like the cherry on top of how Eddie would—will, if he’s given the chance—devote all that he has and all that he is to making Steve happy. To making him as calm and warm and loved as Eddie could feel in that bedroom, in his head or in the future or on death’s fucking door.

“I mean,” Steve starts, and Eddie can already feel how he’s angling to downplay the thing that’s only swelling, building, growing under Eddie’s own ribs and, well: no.

No, Eddie won’t be standing for that.

“Stevie,” and Steve’s gravitated wordless just close enough for Eddie to be able to brush his fingertips against Steve’s wrist, to curl and pull his hand into Eddie’s grasp, palm splayed above Steve’s knuckles, holding. Keeping.

“Thank you.”

And Steve stills a little, stares at him like he can see what’s tucked up tight and dear in Eddie’s chest and maybe he can, because his voice is feather-light and a little bowled-over. A little…a little awed.

“You’re welcome.”

So yeah, maybe he can see what’s in Eddie’s chest, less tucked in this moment now than fucking, like…

Blooming.

“Do you believe there’s anything waiting when we die?”

Eddie’s gonna blame the frantic blossoming warmth coursing through him for the way he blurts that shit out with no preamble, like maybe the flowering wonder of it all pushes it out without permission, sweet on the back of his tongue but heavy because it matters so much; because it’s all just nostalgia.

For now.

“What?” Steve gapes a little, sounds dumbfounded; maybe a little wary. Fearful.

His hand’s still held under Eddie’s, though, so it’s only natural the way Eddie lifts his fingers and presses them palm-to-palm like it means something.

“Do you?”

“I…don’t know,” Steve swallows hard enough the follow down the taut line of his throat, fucking mesmerizing.

So maybe the way Eddie licks his lips before he says anything more isn’t…isn’t just for the sake of the topic and its weight, is all he’s saying.

“I,” and Eddie doesn’t really know where he’s going, here, or else: he knows exactly where he’s going.

He’s just not totally sure the path he’s planning to chart along the way for getting there.

“When we were down there, and I was telling you to go after Wheeler,” which yeah, okay, surprise direction there, weird little detour, but…it doesn’t feel wrong.

Which means, if it’s right instead: then that’s everything that is Steve in Eddie’s lungs for breathing, in the chambers of his heart. So he leans into it.

Squeezes Steve’s fingers laced together with his.

“Eddie,” Steve starts, sounds tired, spent, and Eddie was never going to let that happen; no matter where he’s going, or leading them down the path of his revelations, the truth etched new but also deep in his bones like it was only waiting to be found and known.

“It was because that’s what I wanted. For me. I wanted to,” and his breath catches on a little chuckle, so light and choked and a little hysterical as he adds, giddy and a little bashful all together at once:

“Unambiguously, umm,” and he trails a little, wants to hide behind his hair just a touch but to do that would require a broader capacity to move in the first place and more, so much more: it would mean letting go of Steve’s hand.

So: absolutely not.

Especially not when Steve’s gone full dropped-jaw gaping at him, his fingers in Eddie’s grasp twitching like he’s confused, like maybe there’s part of him short-circuiting, and Eddie feels his exhales tremble when he finally blinks, finally tilts his head and takes Eddie in at a new angle before he asks, genuine and not just a little lost:

“Seriously?”

And Eddie…Eddie’s actually never been more serious in his life, so.

“Like,” and he circles Steve’s knuckles delicate-like with his thumb: “I wanted the chance, to try, I guess, yeah.”

And he doesn’t know if he���s risking everything to own it, even if he’s owning just a sliver of the breadth and depth that he feels, but he does know unequivocally that he wouldn’t hold it back if given the choice, the opportunity to do it over and not show his bloody-beating heart on display.

A bloody-beating heart that’s moving quicker, slamming harder against his chest but…that actually feels like the only correct thing it could do. Because this merits it.

This kinda is his whole fucking heart.

“Do you still?”

It takes Eddie a longer string of seconds than he’d prefer to own to, to process the words as having meaning, no matter that he doesn’t fucking understand what they’re aiming at.

“What?”

“Want,” and Steve’s the one squeezing Eddie’s hand now, turning a little to graze at the line of his veins at the wrist; “the chance.”

And he says it deceptively casual, despite how he’s staring at their hands, determinedly not meeting Eddie gaze as Eddie gets his chance at the gaping.

“Fuck yes,” Eddie finally huffs on something not unlike unabashed fucking joy, save that this thing he’s feeling is so much bigger, and when Steve looks up, meets his eyes and his own glimmer, shine so bright and brim with such disbelief, but so much stronger and with such hope, Jesus.

Eddie can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of him. Like his whole fucking soul gets shaped into a single breath of exultant delight.

And they both hold to one another, trace across skin and map the lines and dots and scars, and Eddie’s not stupid, he knows this isn’t how it works but…

But he’d still bet money on the fact that the way he’s touching Steve, so innocent and so quietly intimate, is healing his wounds, shoring up his weaknesses and stitching him up fuller, better, breath by shared-sacred breath.

It’s heady as fuck. It’s exquisite.

“Why’d you ask me about when we die?”

Steve’s the one to break the still, and even that’s not breaking anything, really; he speaks so soft. He’s stroking down from Eddie’s thumb back and forth.

It’s not breaking anything.

“I saw something,” Eddie whispers, not sure what reaction that’ll get, and Steve’s staring at their hands again, marveling really, so Eddie can’t read any hint save for the crinkled furrow in his brow.

“But you didn’t die.”

Which isn’t the reaction he thinks he expected, even if Eddie couldn’t name what he did expect. And it’s also not a revelation he thought he’d receive.

“Not at all?”

Because he’s genuinely surprised. He at least figured he’d flatlined like…long enough to have visions of absolute and total domestic bliss and shit.

But Steve’s shaking his head decisively, holding on to Eddie just a little bit tighter.

“You had a pulse, whole way to he hospital,” he tells Eddie, voice gone a little hoarse; “it wasn’t strong but,” and Steve looks up at him, and fuck, those eyes are too shiny now and Eddie doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want his Steve to hurt, he—

“I fucking held you,” Steve croaks and oh, oh he’s shaking, Jesus—

“I kinda,” and he swallows with a click Eddie can hear, around a throbbing pulse Eddie can see, wants nothing more than to soothe with his lips against that tender skin; “I kinda had to make sure, so,” and the hand that’s not holding Eddie’s comes up, trembling as he reaches toward Eddie’s chest:

“Kept my hand pressed, just,” and his voice gives, and he looks up at Eddie with something like devastation, begging something like permission because he doesn’t know that everything that Eddie is, is his.

But he will.

He will know.

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes out, holds Steve gaze as he nods, as he tries to make it clear that anything Steve needs is his, and then some.

It takes a second, but the shine in those eyes finally shifts, finally brightens and then Steve’s breathing’s made of tremors, but his hand finds Eddie’s chest and sends something sparking like lighting through him just as the whole of Eddie feels immediately like he’s home.

And Steve’s hand on his chest feels exactly like it did in their future bed, in their future room, in their future life.

Their always love.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, then takes a moment, palm splayed wide just above Eddie’s bandages, before he’s gripping Eddie’s wrist with the other hand a little harder:

“It’s so fast,” he exhales like it holds the whole world and then some; he wonders at just Eddie’s heartbeat under his touch and god.

God, but Eddie…Eddie couldn’t have imagined he’d ever feel like this. Let alone feel like maybe it’s mutual, maybe it’s real, maybe he can keep it and stay in this feeling for forever.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Eddie murmurs, then he chuckles, inhales deep maybe just to better feel the weight of Steve’s hand; “making up for the lost opportunity, y’know,” and fuck, all he wants is to be able to lean, to kiss the pout of those lips, to taste what it means to love somebody like he’s never done before.

“Making up for what it missed the last time your hand was there to feel it.”

And Steve’s hand above his thrumming heart twitches just a little, but never flags or makes to move, to leave, and Eddie thinks that he’d be fine if he lived the rest on his days with Steve like that, near enough that he could press a hand to Eddie’s heart at all times and just…just know that it’s his.

Because maybe it’s sudden—it’s definitely quick—but Eddie’s never known anything like he knows this.

“Eddie,” Steve finally whispers, a question and a claim and a means of cradling Eddie to his heart, somehow, for how swathed in light and affection Eddie feels in that moment, in just the shape of his name like it’s never been spoken before.

“I saw the future,” Eddie blurts out in a rush, breath coming a little quicker and heart-under-Steve’s-hand pounding harder. “Maybe. I don’t know, I mean, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud but it felt so,” but then he looks into Steve’s eyes again and Steve is listening, Steve’s maybe doesn’t think he’s crazy, so he feels safe enough to say with his whole fucking chest:

“It felt real, Stevie.”

“What was it?” Steve asks, so quiet, so gentle like he doesn’t want to disturb this thing either, like he doesn’t need to hear it spelled out yet to know it’s delicate, the most important thing in the world, which fuck yeah it is, even as it cracks and chokes for the flood of feeling around it when it presses up from Eddie’s chest:

“Us,” Eddie breathes it out like the precious truth it genuinely fucking is:

“It was us.”

And Steve doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glimmer all the more, swimming with a riot of emotion to a degree than Eddie feels drowned in awe just to see it, and his hands on Eddie hold tighter, more fervent, devoted like a pledge for the way it runs through Eddie’s blood and sings in his veins:

“Even if it wasn’t real,” but Eddie’s doesn’t believe that, not really, not in his heart of hearts where it all pounds into the crevices that map Steve’s touch; “even if I wasn’t seeing the actual future,” and maybe he wasn’t, maybe that wasn’t their future, and maybe he’ll never know, but what he does know, is—

“It felt right, Steve.”

He knows that clearer than he knows the sky is blue.

“It was just a few minutes,” Eddie flounders a little, mostly because he remembers how good it was, written indelible into how much he wants, here and now:

“But I have never felt anything so right.”

He breathes, shaky and shallow and too fucking fast, but then Steve starts stroking his palm along the unmarked spaces of his chest, back and forth over the gallop of his heart like he means to stay there. Like he could ever want to keep.

“Well,” Steve whispers, his eyes on the path of his hand to make sure he doesn’t draw any pain—as if he ever could—until he knows the safe route over and back, again and again, and then he looks up, catches Eddie’s eyes and locks there, doesn’t pin so much as holds, holds, holds.

And good fucking god, Eddie feels it glisten through him like starlight; Eddie feels remade before Steve’s leaning in, lower than to meet Eddie’s mouth but then he’s pressing his lips to the dip between Eddie’s collarbones, holding there, breathing like he means to savor, like he means to cherish, like he means to, to…

To stay.

And Eddie’s heart’s under that hand and those lips all at once, wholly Steve’s while it quivers like a riot, while it leaps as Steve changes the world, writes their fucking future where his mouth drags wet and warm and ardent and there’s nothing in it at all that can be anything other than at least on the way to love as he breathes, fucking vows:

“We gotta try, then, don’t we?”

♥️

>>>also on ao3✨

for @penny00dreadful 🖤 still very fucking sorry it's this late

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here and here

[rottenpumpkin13]

Does Reno get his hair professionally dyed or does it do it himself? And if he does it himself, let me propose: What does Reno do when they're sold out of his regular brand. The shade and color he's been using for YEARS.

Reno absolutely dyes his own hair, ain't no way he's trusting a stranger with scissors and bleach near his head. The last time he let a salon touch it, he walked out looking like a flamingo. Plus, they never layer the bangs right. Ever. Now. Enter the tragedy: His go-to dye, "Inferno Lollipop #6," gets discontinued. Cue apocalyptic meltdown.

*Tseng walks into the break room and immediately freezes. Red goo is everywhere. On the counters. In the sink. The ceiling. It looks like a crime scene*

Tseng: AH. AH—AHH.

Reno: Chill, boss. It's just hair dye.

Tseng, visibly relived: Why is there hair dye everywhere??

Reno: Because Inferno Lollipop #6 is gone, Tseng. Gone. I'm synthesizing it from memory using my science knowledge.

Tseng: Reno, you do not possess science knowledge. The last time you made coffee, it had foam insulation in it.

Reno: Nah, nah, I do! I mix alcohol and other stuff all the time! Plus those "brownies" I make? Delicate chemistry. Gotta get the dosage just right or your consciousness ejects from your body like a cannonball. I

Tseng, covering his ears: STOP CONFESSING TO FELONIES. I don't have time to fill out forms.

Reno: No can do. We're this close. My last formula was almost right. I tested it on Rude!

*Tseng slowly turns to Rude, who is, as everyone knows, bald. his facial hair is still the same color, which can only mean one thing*

Tseng: !

Reno: It's not what you're thinking. I just applied some to his scalp, and like, it only burned a little. This batch's only flammable if you breathe on it too hard.

Tseng: Clean this up and get out.

Reno: Actually, I can't. Not yet. I'm waiting on Zack. His hair's the closest match to mine pre-dye. Y'know—volume, color, texture. I slathered him with Prototype Batch #12 before he left for a quick run in the rain. If it survives that, it's officially stormproof!

Tseng: Oh, I apologize. I doubted your progress. Please, continue.

*Zack walks in, completely bald*

Reno: Damn.

Tseng:

[starconchs]

[𝟒:𝟑𝟒 𝐩.𝐦.] 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔

notes: angst -> fluff, bittersweet, hopeful ending i swear, gn reader, ~650 words

you're like a sunburn, gojo thinks.

sure, sunburns hurt and they can be unpleasant at times, but they remind him of sweeter and easier times; of days spent exploring and swimming and discovering all the things that tokyo has to offer.

even though those days are long gone, dead and buried under the harsh realities of the world that you've all learned to live with as jujutsu sorcerers, gojo can't help but think about how lucky he is that you're still around. it doesn't matter that things have ended between the two of you, he can't help but gravitate towards you whenever you're around, always craving the warmth and safety that you've always seemed to provide him.

and either way, the break up had been mutual, everyone knew that. it just hadn't been the right time for you.

maybe it's selfish of gojo to linger around you even after the two of you have ended things, but he knows that he doesn't have the strength to both stay away from you or isolate you from your shared friend group.

"you really shouldn't keep doing this, y'know?" shoko says tiredly, sidling up to him when she notices the longing look that gojo's been sending your way. the blue-eyed sorcerer turns to his friend, mildly shocked at the fact that he's been caught in the act. "you'll only keep hurting them. and yourself."

"they're the one who keeps hanging out with you," gojo mumbles petulantly, choosing not to mention the fact that he insists on tagging along every time he hears about you making plans with his friends. shoko scoffs lightly, rolling her eyes before walking over to you. the smile you give shoko makes gojo's heart skip a beat, and he finds himself staring intently at you as you happily chat away with shoko.

there's a brief moment in which you spare a glance towards gojo, your eyes softening the slightest bit when you make eye contact with him. there's a part of gojo that's fairly certain that if he were to get on his knees and ask, you would take him back in a heartbeat. but he can't do that to you, not when he's too busy shouldering the weight of almost every single problem the jujutsu world has to offer.

it wouldn't be a fair relationship, gojo tells himself. besides, he gets sent on so many dangerous missions that he's always running the risk of dying, and he's not selfish enough to make you go through the process of worrying about him each time. even though he's pretty confident in his abilities as a special grade sorcerer, there's always the chance of something going wrong, and he doesn't think he can ever forgive himself if his selfishness ends in him leaving you heartbroken.

he watches as shoko leans in to whisper something into your ear, and he feels his cheeks heat up when you look over to meet his gaze on purpose this time, your lips curling up into the prettiest smile gojo has ever seen in the process. you tilt your head to the side when doesn't react, and he barely manages to compose himself by the time you wave him over.

there's no words to be spoken as he approaches his friends, and he wordlessly moves to take the spot next to nanami before shoko is pulling him and making him sit in between you and her. the conversation continues as you hand gojo a bottle of his favorite drink— non alcoholic because of course you know he hates that stuff— and he does his best to repress the shiver that threatens to run down his spine as your fingers brush against his.

he whispers his thanks, and when you give him a bashful smile in return, gojo finds himself thinking that maybe he can be selfish. at least, just this once.

reblogs are appreciated <3 ty for reading !!

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Break it first

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 2

Prompt: Came back wrong

Rated: M

CW: Mind control/brainwashing; Possessive behavior; Referenced character death; Aftermath of trauma; Aftermath of injury; Kidnapping

Tags: Kas!Eddie Munson; Dark Eddie Munson

Notes: So, I already had a fill for this prompt, but then @house-of-the-moving-image showed me this stunning piece of art and my brain broke like Steve's. We both have a bunch of other fills coming up for this challenge, quite a few of them collabs, and I'm so, so stoked to share!!! ❤️

He still remembers how fragile Steve looked. 

They were in the boat house, Steve and Eddie. The others had gone out for supplies, but Steve had insisted on hanging back. Eddie hadn’t protested, even though the thought made his heart rabbit. 

The second they were alone, Steve let himself slide down the wall and curled into a ball on the floor, face hidden between hunched knees, shaking hands clawing at his own temples. 

“Hey, man!” Eddie jumped in alarm. “You okay?” 

Steve took a while to reply. 

“Fine,” he claimed, but his smile was a tense thing in a too-pale face. “Just headaches. Been getting them a lot. Robin thinks it's 'cause I got knocked around a few times too many." 

Eddie quirked an eyebrow, pulled a strand of hair in front of his face. "That … happen often in your line of business?" 

And Steve told him. 

About fighting monsters with nothing but a nail bat. About Billy Hargrove. About Russian torture chambers and the headaches and the nightmares and the ringing in his right ear that never really went away. He looked so young, so beautiful, so broken. Eddie wanted to scoop him up and put him back together and hold him close so that nothing would ever hurt him again. 

But he didn't. 

Instead, he watched. 

Watched how Steve squared his shoulders and put on a brave face for the kids. Watched as Steve threw himself to the front lines so that others wouldn’t have to. Watched as Steve got choked and torn apart, that golden skin painted in new scars, and told everyone not to worry, he was fine.

Eddie watched and Eddie didn't do a thing. 

Because Eddie was weak. 

Eddie was a coward.

It's a good thing he's dead. 

*

Steve is still the one to throw himself into danger first. That's good. It makes it easy to catch him alone. 

"You still have the scar on your neck …" 

A flick of his wrist and the bats scatter into the clouds. Steve curses, scrambles to his knees, gropes for his fallen weapon- and freezes as he cradles his face in both hands, tilting his head up. 

"... Eddie?" 

"Not quite," he hums, sharp claws carding through soft hair. "I have his body and his memories, that's all. The name's Kas. I've been dying to meet you, sweet thing." 

Those caramel eyes go wide. Steve tenses under his hands, tries to scramble away. That's okay, to be expected. He tightens his grip. Steve gasps as the vines on the ground wrap around his wrists and ankles. 

"What are you-?" 

"Sssh…" he brings their foreheads together, softly, slowly. Lets his mind wiggle inside the boy's, just a sliver at first, so he won't notice. Finds a crack, fine as a hairline, slips inside. Waits. "He was so in love with you, y'know that? It ate him alive, watching you sacrifice yourself over and over again. Seeing you suffer. Being unable to help, being unable to fix it." 

Steve's mind flutters like a frightened bird as he encases it with his, gently, carefully. His arms twitch in their restraints, trying to break free.

He smiles. Always the fighter, his sweet boy.

"Dont worry," he coos. “I’ve got it all figured out now sweetheart. I’ll fix everything, promise." 

"Eddie, wait-" Steve's mind flails. Realizes it's trapped, panicks, tries to break free- 

And he pounces. 

Steve struggles, briefly, but he doesn’t stand the ghost of a chance. He's human, and humans are weak. All it takes is a little pressure, and the tiny crack opens wide, welcoming him in. 

Steve screams.

"I know, sweet thing, I know," he coos, curls himself around the boy's spasming body as he digs in deeper. "It'll only hurt for a moment. You'll feel so much better after."

He sees them now, the scars on that beautiful mind, the traces left by years and years of hurt. Sees how to fix them, sees what Eddie could never have seen. What Eddie was too soft, too cowardly to understand.

Sometimes, to fix something, you need to break it first. 

And he does.

Tears at the cracks of that mind until it comes apart at the seams, shatters the fragments into so many tiny shards, grinds what is left into fine, fine dust. Steve screams and sobs and begs him to stop until his voice breaks. By the time the dust is ready to be molded back into shape, he is silent, bar for the occasional whimper.

He tells the vines to release their hold, cradles the limp body against his chest. He hums softly and kisses the tears from under the boy's unblinking eyes while he completes his work. He takes his time. This needs to be perfect. 

"You with me, darling?" 

Steve hums against the crook of his neck, so softly he nearly misses it. 

When he looks down, those pretty eyes are blinking up at him, wide and wondrous like those of a newborn. 

He chuckles. It's true in a way. 

"Feeling all better?" he asks, claws softly tracing the shell of his boy's right ear. "Ringing should be gone?" 

Steve doesn’t reply, just slips his eyes shut and nuzzles closer, every movement slow and sluggish. 

He coos.

"Aw, sweetheart. You must be exhausted, that was a lot to take." He gently scratches at Steve's scalp, revels in the little sigh it gets him. "Don't worry. From now on, nothing's gonna hurt you ever again. I'll make sure of it." 

Steve stirs a little at the soft press of lips against his forehead. His lids flutter, but they don’t open.

"That's it, honey, you rest. Let's take you home now." 

By the time he has adjusted Steve's weight so that he can stand and start walking, his boy is fast asleep. 

All of my holiday drabbles

[fandomfluffandfuck]

NEED to know if you have evanstan thots around sebs fuzzy, bald head cuz every time one of them drops a new look you have great ideas!!!!!

If you're too busy, tho, that's cool. Feel free to ignore this 😌

I am busy, too busy to take real writing requests (but still doing asks! I love answering them!) 😮‍💨😮‍💨 but apparently never too busy to have evanstan thoughts 💀💀 because while I don't have thoughts particularly related to Sebastian having shaved his head for his role in Fjord... I do have thoughts about Sebastian's continued rallying campaign to get Chris on another project with him 👀 (Y'know, this whole fucking saga that I love that boy even more for)

The thoughts are messy and unrefined, but here, courteous of my drive home:

Somehow, fucking somehow, despite all the chemistry and allure of their 10 year Marvel run together, they haven't ignited anything more than a sparking friendship.

Yes, Chris and Sebastian have spent countless hours on set, goofing around, cracking open performances vulnerable and precious for millions of eyes, strung up on precarious, hilarious wires and rigs for stunts, giggling at each other, waiting, bored out of their minds between takes, and in varying states of the sleep-waking cycle as their intelligence slowly drips out of their ears being asked the same questions over and over for press in an endless loop. Yet, no, they haven't gone further. They know each other well--intimately--but not like that.

It's not like that.

The closest Chris and Sebastian have gotten to kissing is, amusingly, as Steve and Bucky. And Sebastian knows just as well as Chris how Disney feels about that.

However

Sebastian's unserious, serious battle cry to entwine their careers again, just for a short while, has fetched Chris his rose-colored glasses and perched them on his nose for convient strolls down memory lane.

And Chris finds himself taking his time as he walks back through the memories. He explained his initial pleasant downturning of texts away by claiming to be hesitant to take Sebastian away from his career when he's so fucking close to an Oscar, something he desperately deserves, c'mon, Seb, now isn't the time for you to take a break from films! Now is exactly when every director is dying to work with you!! Go do all those crazy, fearless films! Get every role that everyone else is scared to touch with a ten foot pole!

Now... Chris does, legitimately, feel that way. But, he also is always doing his favorite, least-favorite dance around his career, one foot in and one foot out. Does he want to keep acting right now? Does he want to leave his house, his dog, his family for all those months? He loves Sebastian, he does, but it's a difficult decision. His hesitancy is increased further by just how fucking good their sprint through film after film with Marvel went, except... all that was soured, wasn't it?

Chris knows he has to give up control. It's good for him to give up control sometimes. Yet, Steve was his--Steve was him--for 10 years, only to have vital parts of Steve ripped away right at the end. Sebastian, Bucky, too, was ripped away in the end.

As a result, Chris isn't eager to build something so special with one of the fucking once-in-a-life-time greats, someone so special, only to have it taken from him again.

So.

He's just... he's a big softie, okay? He's sentimental. He cries regularly at Pixar movies, tears up at every emotional commercial (especially if there's dogs involved), and feels his heart flutter in his chest with the cheesest of romcoms. Sebastian knows this. So, Sebastian should understand why it isn't an immediate, resounding yes. Sebastian is nothing if not resilient, though.

Clearly.

Chris has to chuckle, shaking his head fondly, at every public attempt. He's just as tickled by the person prods--calls and texts. It doesn't hurt, too, that his manager shows him a few fan-made pleading memes in a meeting, either.

The entertaining, nagging path Sebastian has set himself on and the rose colored glasses over Chris' vision leads Chris to do more than reminisce in his own head. He goes to the Internet. Killing time at first, he aims to find why, exactly, fans are so fanatically obsessed with the thought of Sebastian and him working together again. They know it's not going to be Steve and Bucky, right?

Right.

It turns out, seemingly, yes, some of them are thinking about their characters, but there's an awful lot of fans who are frothing at the mouth, thinking of Chris and Sebastian together. Them. As humans. Their chemistry. Not their character's chemistry and history. Chris finds posted and reposted compilations of Sebastian and him, some of them as mildly captioned as "I miss them! Their laughter is infectious!" to boldly titled "Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan Flirting" and worse.

Huh.

Chris didn't...

He, he wasn't flirting.

Was he?

Chris is no stranger to good editing and its propensity toward completely altering the telling of a story but. Jesus. There's a lot of repeat clips of the same thing.

Maybe he was flirting?

Was he really acting like that... the whole time? That entire press tour? For multiple press tours? How didn't he notice? Look in the mirror, Chris, jeez.

Shit.

How come nobody told him?

His heart does race around Sebastian, no matter how many times he sees him. It's never not exciting to see the other man. What can he say, Sebastian brings out the boy-on-Christmas-morning within him?

Soon, though, his Internet whirlpool sucks him down deeper than simple YouTube videos of strung together clips and tweets with exuberant captions and creative strings of emojis. Below the surface, Chris finds what feels a little like a conspiracy corkboard, plastered with image after image and connected by a blood red length of yarn. The Internet seems to think that they--Chris Evans, he, himself, and Sebastian Stan, not just the totally logical Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes--either were or are an item.

The thing that really fucking gets Chris sputtering, though, is how it goes beyond that. There's patterns of behavior a subset of fans have seemingly picked up on. They--a lot of them--think they know Sebastian likes to submit to his partners. Submission, in, like, a kinky way.

Oh.

Oh.

Chris... Chris doesn't know what to do with that except banish it from his mind.

Try to banish it from his mind.

It doesn't exactly work when Sebastian is constantly on his mind. Seb is everywhere. In every commercial break on TV, thank you, Thunderbolts. In every discussion of awards. In every meme he's sent. In every text. Just. Everywhere.

Seb.

Sebastian.

Sebastian Stan.

He won't get out of Chris' head.

Hell, he even won't get out of Chris' dreams.

Of course, then, the only thing to do is say yes. He does want to work with Sebastian again. He does! He loves the guy--platonically. He loves his buddy. His friend, who he does not flirt with and does not, suddenly, wonder how good of sleuths social media houses, thinking about the odds of Sebastian really liking to be told what to do in the bedroom or not.

So, as much as he voluntarily does want to work with Sebastian, Chris does also want to work with him because he's betting that after a few months of sharing green rooms with him, sharing the stage with him, and sharing a project with him, surely, he'll get sorta sick of him and forget about this whole silly little thing.

...Right?

He has to!

He's gotta do this.

Gotta--

Shit.

He can't.

He can't stop flirting with Sebastian. Through searching for their play, through casting, through rehearsals, through quick-changes, through after-show drinks, through weekends, through it fucking all, Chris just can't stop himself.

And really, by the time they lean in, lips finally against lips, it's been a long time coming. There's just one problem.

Chris, ahead of himself, vibrating with the desire to touch and hold and have, sort of forgets to ask about the whole our-entire-fandom-seems-to-think-you-like-to-be-told-you're-a-good-boy-when-you're-on-your-knees-giving-it-all-over-to-me-with-my-dick-in-your-pretty-mouth and instead, just, dives in.

And the problem isn't that Seb doesn't want it. The problem is that he wants it too much and he doesn't understand it.

So, Chris has to somehow manage to live through the mind-melting display of Sebastian being hit over the back of the head with primal desire. Oh. Oh.

It's an awakening, akin to finding religion.

The look in his eyes when it happens, too, Jesus Christ--

Chris could get off just to the heavy, almost glazed realization, hitting Sebastian's crow's-feet-lined eyes in slow motion and the wild moan that simply spilled out of his lax mouth. His devastating mouth. Those pretty pink lips and sharp jaw shadowed by that greying stubble as he moans.

Oof.

Sebastian is in heaven.

Oh, Sebastian really does like Chris' hands fisting in his grey-streaked hair, tangling it around those thick, strong fingers until he really has something to tug on. Pulling his head back, neck arching sharply, Chris' hands leaving his scalp tingling and static dripping down his spine.

Oh, he really does like to hear Chris tell him he's good. It sets off something desperately hungry and needy inside him, writhing inside, both awakening whatever the hell that is to scream that it's been starving and, at the same time, sedating it, satisfying it by feeding it enough to overfill it's stomach. Good. It's so good to be good. Chris thinks he's good! Perfect, even! He's exactly where he's supposed to be, good god, doing such a good job 🥴

Oh, he really does like having Chris' rough hands dragging, soothing, petting down his body. He's so easy and smooth until he's not. Suddenly, he's grabbing and moving him, using all that gym-honed strength building on top of a solid foundation of familiarity, knowing just how much Sebastian can take. Years of stunt work, bodies pressed together, breathing humidly in each other's faces. Chris is bending him. Manhandling him. Breaking him.

Sebastian is no fucking stranger to good sex. But, Christ, he, he, he's--

Chris is undoing him without even trying.

How does he know?

He's doing things to Sebastian that Sebastian didn't even know he wanted.

What the fuck?

How the hell has Sebastian been on fucking earth for just over four decades and never experienced this?

He is mindless, floating in a melted puddle of wax, his body just as melted with all the nerves exposed just for Chris to touch and caress, kissing him, strumming him until he sings. Chris isn't even trying. Chris isn't even looking. Chris is, is, is just--

Oh fuck.

Sebastian cums way too fucking fast, eyes rolling back in his head, a stupid, mindless, guttural sound that's supposed to be Chris' name but isn't even close to it spilling from his wide-open mouth as his body jerks and twists, writhing in pleasure, buttons hit that he didn't know he had.

What?

W h a t ?

At least, Chris isn't far behind him, crashing over the edge loud and messy. That saves Sebastian some embarrassment, but not much. How can he be a fully fucking grown man and still not realize the full extent of how he likes his pleasure?

This... this, uh, got away from me 💀

[biipbop]

Y'know how you sometimes have a fanfic that you made up in your head sometimes? And you don't have any writing skills to make it happen but you do draw so you keep telling yourself one day you're going to draw the au and you just never do bc of one reason or another and now it's years later and you don't have less responsibilities?

So here's the concept of the shuake fic that's been living rent free in my brain since 2016:

*Spoilers for persona 5*

The same day of Akechi's death scene the PT take down Shido. Boat sinks, everyone thinks Ryuji is dead for half a minute before he appears unscathed.

Realizing that Ryuji lived the protag runs off. In a secluded place he finds Akechi, barely alive just waiting out the last minutes of his life. Protag is like "fuck you, you ain't dying". Before dragging him to Tae. (He's able to do this by pulling all the favors owed to him by his confidants).

He hides Akechi upstairs in the attic with only Sojiro being aware. Akechi doesn't wake up for a couple weeks (not until yaldabaoth is defeated) during which the protag has a crisis of self. He doesn't understand why he's going so far but knows that this is what he wants to do. Not some hand of fate writing the ending, but his own will and autonomy. Therefore, he *must* save Akechi.

Once Akechi wakes up he is defeated. Everything he worked for is gone and meaningless. He was used. And he hurt so many people. He can't justify continuing when he went from a helpless child idolizing heroes, to a foolish teenager thinking he could become one, to a stupid adult that was always meant to be the villain.

For weeks Akechi would only lay there once he woke up. Not speaking, barely moving. Protag would come home everyday to nurse him but doesn't know what to do to make everything better. Worse yet, everyone is slowly forgetting the memory of Akechi. The protag becomes more and more desperate to get Akechi to communicate with him and prove to him that he's not a ghost.

When even his friends start to forget Akechi the protag begins to bring Akechi along everywhere he goes. He is afraid that he too will start to forget. After a while everyone becomes familiar with the thin man covered in bandages with multiple broken bones that follows the protag around.

After realizing his existence, his crimes, have been all erased Akechi's defeat turns into bitter anger. Because he wants to be able to redeem himself but he does not feel like he is redeemable so for anyone to see him and not see all the horrible shit he has done has left him angry. But in acting out with anger he further spirals with his regret.

Sojiro at this point steps in. Sojiro would begin to teach Akechi how to run the shop when Sojiro becomes concerned about how codependent two have become so he initially steps in to give them distance. He notices how listless Akechi helps him with the jarring reality of living the day after a tragedy.

Eventually this turns into shuake but that's all I got y'all

[they-call-me-emmy]

The Past is The Past 3

Part 1 and 2 on my account <3

Tara Carpenter x Fem!Reader

Summary: Tara was faced with her 3 ghostface, and this time got so seriously injured she was in a coma. When she wakes up, she has no memory of the past 3 years...including you, her girlfriend.

Notes: Imagine this as our gals scream 7...since Jenna apparently quit and left me fucking DYING

Warnings: Uh, injury, violence, blood, our boy ghostyface with knives. Coma and memory loss if thats even a warning. Swearing. Uhm. Shitty 7th grade writing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tara pushed the food around her plate using her fork. She'd barely eaten a bite all dinner, busy glaring at Sam and avoiding any sort of eye contact with Y/N.

"So." Sam began, putting a hand to her mouth and pausing, to finish chewing. "Y/N. How's life been treating you? I haven't seen you around in a while."

There was a second of silence as Y/N finished her food.

"Fine." She stated, setting her fork down on her napkin. "Work's been rough, but nothing besides that."

Sam nodded. "You work at that bookstore, right? The one with the bunny in the window? I drive by it on my way to the grocery store."

Tara had no idea what they were talking about. She hadn't gone shopping since she'd come home. What bookstore? What bunny? It was like listening to people speaking nonsense.

"Yeah. That's the one. Shifts have been longer recently, we're low on staff."

Sam nodded, continuing to eat. Y/N cleared her throat.

"Tara," Tara startled from her daze at the sound of her name, in Y/N's voice no less. "Sam's been telling me your getting back into horror? Is that true?"

Tara glared at Sam.

"I've always been into horror."

Y/N nodded, pursing her lips, sensing the tension in the room. The need to just...not talk.

"I was-" Y/N cleared her throat and took a sip of water. "I was wondering if maybe you wanted to watch some of your favorites...y'know, the few we watched in the last year you really enjoyed? I wouldn't mind re-watching them with you."

Tara couldn't help but feel weird. She's watched movies with this girl. She'd watched horror movies. She'd watched horror movies and enjoyed them. With this girl? This girl she hardly knew now?

"Maybe."

Y/N nodded.

"I've been busy lately." Tara pushed a cooked carrot into her napkin. She didn't like those.

Sam rolled her eyes. "Tara, you've been sitting on your ass for the past week-"

Tara suddenly stood up. "I'm finished. I'm going to go wash the dishes." She took Sam and Y/N's plates and left without another word.

Tara knew they'd talk the moment she left. She hovered at the door, running the sink in the background so they'd think she was cleaning. Maybe they'd mention the big thing tonight. Maybe they'd say something that would finally help her understand her past.

"I'm sorry she's being an ass." Sam's voice was muffled through the kitchen door.

"It's fine. I wasn't expecting a heartwarming welcome. I mean, come on, I'm practically a stranger to her. And it's hard on her too, Sam. Remember she's struggling too."

Tara would have felt mad if anyone else had said this, as if they pitied her and felt sorry for her state of mind. But hearing those words, those words in Y/N's sweet voice...felt like reassurance that someone understand how she'd been struggling.

"I know...I'm trying to get her to...connect. Y'know? Re-enforce those bonds...god, you two were like peas in a pod. I can't imagine how long it'll take for that to be back, especially with her new...attitude." Sam sounded empathetic, but there was still a twinge of annoyance in her voice.

"I'm not expecting it to just click again...but I can wait. I'm assuming you haven't told her?" Y/N asked.

Tara could feel her heart beat a little faster. Was this it? Was she about to learn what this secret was that everyone seemed so desperate to avoid?

"No. I don't feel like it's the right time. I mean, you see the way she is. Putting that much more pressure on her is bound to do no good."

"You have to tell her at some point." Y/N said. "You and her would both prefer you telling her rather then her randomly learning one day, or even worse, getting a flash of memory from it. The doctor did say those happen, especially with traumatic experiences, at least in her case."

"I don't feel like now is the right time."

"Soon, Sam. Please. The girl deserves to know. This is important."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'm a slut for comments people.

[payasita]

Speaking of fic stuff: The Lamb and Nari wake up one morning covered in bandages, surrounded by empty bottles. They have ZERO recollection of the night before. Now what?

He awakes to a taste like bile and rust, and with one hand wrapped in at least twenty layers of gauze.

Narinder takes a second to stare at it, wiggling immobile fingers and contemplating the mechanics of sitting up with a head somehow filled with both cotton and lead. He drops the hand and decides against it, rolling over and pulling a blanket over his head. The movement does absolutely heinous things to his stomach.

A slow minute passes before he realizes he is not under a blanket at all. It's comfortable regardless, so he cannot summon the effort to care. Far softer than anything yet available in the commune. The familiar scent doesn't hurt, warm and securely claimed with his own, and indeed does a good job in blocking out the currently unmanageable stench of the outside world.

Until it's nearly pulled away from him. He clutches onto it with a hiss, and instantly regrets moving so quickly.

"Oh good, you're alive." The Lamb gives it another tug. "Give me back my fleece."

Narinder vaguely remembers having lost a battle against them while at his full divine potential. He'd even had both hands available to him and everything. He cannot truly imagine the odds are with him now.

"Thank you," they huff when he unlatches his claws. He searches for something else to cover his face while they clothe themself. His skull appears to be imploding.

"I am dying," he declares. There's a few seconds of silence. Contemplation on the Lamb's end. Abject suffering on Narinder's.

"Nope. Not sensing it."

"Your competence with the Crown is dubious at best."

"You're not dying," they assure him, lightheartedly, "It just feels like it."

He groans, rolling over and hitting himself in the face with the large gauze lump in his attempt to throw his arm over his eyes. He snarls, and begins blindly picking at it with his free claw to find the edge.

The Lamb snorts, leaning over him. They have an armful of empty bottles under an arm, and are looking infuriatingly chipper.

"How'd you go and do that to yourself?"

He glares at them, pointedly.

"I clearly cannot have done this on my own."

"What, you don't remember?"

"...No," he admits. "What happened, then?"

"Oh, hell if I know," the Lamb laughs, and is saved from having that smile shorn off their face by his vertigo alone.

They move around him and pick up another bottle, inspecting it. "I was at the same feast you were, y'know. And if you'd had all this yourself, you probably would be dead," they gesture to the bundle under their arm, already five or six strong and slipping a bit.

"... Actually, we should probably both still be dead," they tut. "I don't even know what the flock puts in this stuff, 'sides from berries. But wow, they're good at it. Hey, actually, do you think maybe we have the makings of something worth exporting to the outside world? Plimbo's always making trips back and forth to who-knows-where, I bet we could--"

"Lamb."

"Mm?"

"Your chattering is causing me physical pain."

"Oop. ...Guess I should be grateful for the divine healing factor, huh?"

Narinder ponders the irony of wishing Death incarnate to choke, and finally finishes unraveling his hand. He squints at it. He sees no damage whatsoever that might have compelled anyone to waste medical resources on him. Not a strand out of place. He inspects his claws, and finds a bit of blood under them. Odd.

"There must be, like, a dozen bottles of wine in here. Do you think I drank most of it? I remember everyone in the temple cheering when I started chugging one. ...Or, uh. Three," the Lamb recounts, setting the pile down on a nearby table. Narinder watches them, scanning down their body for any abnormalities. No claw marks or stab wounds remain, but they would be gone by now. Still. The fact that he feels metal when he pushes his hand under his pillow is probably worth noting.

"You have a basket around here?" the Lamb asks after a point, "I need somewhere to put these."

Narinder says, "I do not live here."

"...Whuh?"

"This is not my hut."

The Lamb pauses. They glance around, newly curious. Narinder grasps at the bit of metal under his pillow, and retrieves a dagger. It is smeared with blood. He eyes it, vaguely toying with the way light plays off of the dull blade.

"Did I attempt to kill you last night?" he asks idly. The Lamb looks over. They see the knife.

"...Nnnno?" They try, not even attempting to sound certain.

"I believe," Narinder mutters, hardly feeling bothered to spare the focus, "I might have killed someone."

The Lamb looks at him, having the grace to at least look troubled. Narinder, on the other hand, remains far more concerned with the roiling in his stomach.

"... Okay, wait. Wait, I think I remember-- yeah," the Lamb snaps, and points at him. "Yeah! You lost your hand privileges."

"What," Narinder says.

"Yeah! You were doing-- something," the Lamb waves off vaguely, "Yeah, I think I remember-- I had to take the claws away? I mean. That would explain the bandages?"

Narinder glances over. It certainly sounds like the sort of logic they would act upon, in the event of his own uninhibited violence.

"...So I did try and kill you, again."

"Iiii, dunno? I mean. Maybe?" Again, they don't sound remotely sure. The "divine healing factor" does not, it appears, account for episodes of alcoholic blackout. Good to know.

So, trying to kill his spouse was one possible explanation. Admittedly, it wasn't even a far-fetched one. But the ambient stench of this hut offers another.

"Lamb," Narinder sits up, winning a valiant battle with his own vertigo, "Whose shelter is this?"

The Lamb pauses. They look around again at all the bottles strewn about. They look up. At the same time they do, a droplet of blood plops onto their cheek.

"...I think his name was Bremar," the Lamb hums.

"You think?"

"I mean, the Crown can only tell me so much. 'Specially when the corpse in question has somehow been reduced to... uh... streamers."

"Ah."

"So, uh, we should--- we should go."

Narinder growls. His stomach does not agree with the prospect of standing up anytime soon.

"Ten more minutes."

"Nari," the Lamb deadpans, "You eviscerated a guy."

"...Five, then."

[numberonetacostan]

In honor of the remake, i present, my official season 1 gijinka !!

writing - Dyes hair yellow Stopped dying it yellow before finale, kept the red + green Warmer skin tone more chub in S1. (i was gonna add hairclips, i feel like she would have SOOOO many of them.) some more designs of her >:P

S2!! kinda forgot her scar, so assume this is post truth or flare

Post canon! writing (and some add ons bc i love post canon taco hcs) Eye bags gone (she finale has an actual place to stay and worries less about predators! I imagine her sleep would get a lot better, and she'd probably be really careful to get as much sleep as possible to prepare herself for the day, y'know, once the nightmares wore off) Pepper showed her makeup (I YEARRRNNNN for Tacopep i love them) Mic gave her the sweater! I know it's July (June without the month between 15 and 16) when the show ends, and most of them have american accents, including cobs, implying if placed in the real world they'd be near the americas...but, they're on an island! Who knows what weather they have there! Maybe it snows in July. Cold. Scary. Matching bracelets with Microphone! Microphone made them, of course. I imagine she's got LOTS of kandi. Holes in her shoes, just from being homeless. I imagine she had to run a lot, and didn't have the money (if they had money) or resources to trade for a new pair. Post canon, everyone would be too focused on using resources to rebuild their lives to worry about some shoes. Still uses the invisibow. She's likely still anxious about being near some contestants COUGH COUGH pickle COUGH COUGH COUGH sorry i must be catching a cold Stained shirt (she can't get the stains out), about the same as the shoes. It's the forest. It's dirty. Her shirt is white. She's not gonna be focused on getting new clothing, and i doubt they have stain remover on the island ANYWAYS THATS ITTTT

Hi Moldy!!^^ Welcome back, and thank you for sending in your designs!! :]

They're all lovely, and you've put a lot of detail into them!! I like the little faces on her socks in her season 1 design, as well as the detail that she'd have more chub!! When i draw my Taco designs side by side, I always like to joke that she loses her baby cheeks in the paco divorce. I also like to think she dyes her hair as well- though for mine it's from a dirtier blond to a lighter one. Her macaroni hair is also lost in the paco divorce </3.

Is it June/July when it ends? I suppose in-canon it is supposed to be a challenge-per-month, but I tend to think of it as the contestants just having to fuck around for like a year while Mephone thinks of another challenge lol. Not sure why, but I've always liked doing it that way. Consider also that Taco is very thin from not having proper nutrition while being homeless and would not retain heat well! She'd get cold very easily.

How does she get her Invisibow back? /gen Does she get it back in the finale and I missed it?

Real, they're all gonna end up all dirty. Other than Clover, I suppose.

[vox-solaris]

Yknow what? Have some more deimos questions!

So how does he feel about his namesake planet? Has he been there?

How does he mimic people in 1999? And how does it go?

Thoughts on Narmer?

Whats his dynamic with Quincy like?

(aaaa thank you!! these were SUCH good questions omg)

So how does he feel about his namesake planet? Has he been there?

oh, he's been there alright. sure, he avoided it at first, being mostly preoccupied with combating the narmer during and after the events of the new war. but it's kind of hard to turn a blind eye the huge red infested moon that shares your name.

funny enough, the infestation isn't the part that bothers him–it's actually everything to do with the entrati. it was hard to meet 'allied' orokin in the flesh and not be furious with them. even if these ones weren't necessarily directly responsible for destroying the system.... let's just say he was very lucky to have his much better adjusted operator-self as an ambassador.

of course, this all only got worse when he started learning more about albrecht, and how it was here that he'd breached the wall of lohk, contacted the indifference, and set the stage for all that had happened to him–the zariman, duviri, and everything else. this revelation was where he really started to feel like he was cursed from the very start... though he hasn't actually told anyone about that part just yet.

probably better to keep it inside. don't wanna freak out the kid.

How does he mimic people in 1999? And how does it go?

ooo boy, this one's gonna take some untangling! (but first i wanna clarify, when i said mirror, i meant it in more of a "trying to reflect whats going on around him" way rather than literal mimicking)

SO. when deimos first arrives in 1999, after the events that lead to the time loop, he's kind of a mess. he's a loner by nature, suddenly saddled with the idea that he's personally responsible for bringing together a whole crew of dysfunctional super-soldiers, or he'll have to watch them all die… again, and again, and again. it's all so painfully familiar, except this time, it's not just him.

so what does he do? he freaks. for the first month, he barely leaves the backroom, trapped by the dread of his new circumstances. he knows the hex don't like him, and he doesn't blame them for it, because most people don't like him, himself included. any time he tries to break the ice, even through KIM, he inevitably screws it up by letting just a little too much of whatever poison he's made of slip through. (in actuality, he's just panicking and being awkward/rude, but he's got a real Complex about all this lol)

eventually, he realizes that none of this is going to work, and if he keeps going like this, they're all going to die. the indifference wins. but he's been here before, hasn't he? and all it took was one old man meeting him where he was to give him the strength to drag himself out of it. and, y'know... a big traumatic sacrifice... but hopefully he won't have to resort to that.

so he pulls himself together. he starts going out more, talking one on one with the hex, trying to figure out exactly what each person needs from him and molding himself into that shape, no matter how forced it feels. and things start to improve, so he keeps pushing, suppressing his own needs and stretching himself thinner and thinner to try and meet everyone else's.

he cracks at some point, obviously. but this is already getting long and i kinda wanna write about all that in the future, so i'm just gonna end this bit here. ;)

Thoughts on Narmer?

they're absolutely horrifying to him. he plunges through the damn void, finally escaping his personal hell where he'd had almost no control or self-determination… only to break through into a war-torn system where people are being mind-controlled en masse. even without the whole lotus dying/operator gone missing thing, there was no universe in which he wasn't going to do everything he could to fight back against that kind of atrocity.

What's his dynamic with Quincy like?

hate. HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I–

...mostly joking. :P though they definitely don't start off smoothly. deimos is too uptight in the beginning to do anything but stubbornly deflect quincy's attempts to get to know him, and as we all know, quincy loooves to wind a guy up and watch him spin.

even when he starts really trying to pull the hex together, quincy continues to trip him up, seemingly on purpose, always leaving him guessing as to what the guy even wants from him. also, he's infuriatingly pretty, and he won't stop flirting and distracting him, and he knows exactly how to get under his skin, and he cannot stop fucking thinking about him and–you get the picture.

it takes long while and a lot of rampant sexual tension emotional back and forth before they really even consider themselves in a relationship, and realistically, probably more than just one loop to actually work it all out, especially when considering that deimos is pretending very hard to be something he is not for a large part of it.

though, eventually... eveeentually...... they do turn out pretty darn sweet on each other. <3

[supreme-leader-stoat]

Legacy

Heroes exist.

Yes, heroes exist. But they're, y'know, special. Different. Chosen, maybe. They live in a whole other world than you. They've got these grand destinies you can only imagine. You? You work your nine-to-five and then go home and blow another six hours on whatever before turning in for the night and doing it all again. And it's good enough.

And then there's a disaster and you find yourself in a remote corner of the battlefield cut off from everyone else. And one of those heroes staggers out of the dust and the smoke and the rubble, and it doesn't take a doctor to tell they're on their last legs. And then the mask comes off, and it's a kid.

A kid who's way to young to be doing this and has been going up against odds way too big for them for who knows how long and the other shoe finally dropped. And they're a kid and they're dying and you've already called 911 but you already know, you can just tell, they aren't going to make it in time. There's nothing you can do to save them.

But God help you if you're going to let this kid die alone.

So you make them comfortable, as comfortable as you can. You keep them talking, keep them focused on something, anything other than the dust and the smoke and the rubble. And you hold their hand tight and they don't hold your hand anywhere near tight enough for someone with superhuman strength and it breaks your heart, but you don't let it show. You can't. You don't. cry.

They don't either. They don't rant or scream or rage about how unfair it all is, though they've every right to. (You wonder, as you often will afterwards, who did the choosing. Who exactly you should blame for handing this destiny, this responsibility, this fate, to a child). They tell you about the date they were going to ask to prom next week. They... they ask you to find their parents, once the news plasters their face everywhere. To tell them sorry.

And then they're gone. The light goes out of their eyes. And light, real light this time, real power, flows into you, through your hand that's still holding onto theirs. And there, in the dust and the smoke and the rubble and the tears, you make a promise. To them. To yourself.

You will be a hero. You will carry this weight.

Because for as long as you do, maybe one more kid won't have to.

[peachshadows]

Sundown world seems like a soap opera where communicate is a word nobody heard of.

When would cshadowpeach get their shit together since you said this happen during season 3?

The au is post s3 rather than during s3! Cuz I think that would be more hectic if things in the canon world are still not yet resolved with the whole lbd situation and everyone is just lowkey dying.

As for c!shadowpeach getting their shit together I feel like with MK gone and everyone on edge I feel like they have to get their shit together since y'know the kid who they care about and just saved the world just vanished and no one knows where he is or if he's still in this world in the first place so with that they'll most likely fix their issues faster than actual canon timeline cuz so far it's taking 5 fucking seasons just so they show that they still care about each other