#ITS SUCH A GOOD FANFIC

[saturndoesnotsleep]

Someone on twitter asked for strangesonas/variants, and I decided to be self indulgent for once. I love this man, so so much.

[thestarstoasun]

Imma post memes probably tomorrow & if you want them to make sense, go check out August (Will's Version)! I highly recommend it to literally everyone

& yall can have this stupid video I did w/ a template out of sheer boredom! I'm still alive, writing has just been a struggle for me lately, so I'm making stupid, silly things instead <3

[roseworth]

i think theres this idea in the general public that the "best" fanfic gets turned into real books like 50 shades of grey. but the truth is that the best fanfic can never be published as an actual book because its intricately woven into the canon material so its inseparable even if you change the names

[insufferablemod]

You watch him hem and haw over answering, feet shifting, same beat up black shoes, scuffing the gravel, cape swishing behind him in a one-two step. The halo of his hair, bleached eery white in the street lamp, how the light never seems to catch the rim of his shades. You missed this, you think. The bits of him that are so unsettlingly inhuman, how he's so close to you, but just far enough that you couldn't reach to touch. - Metempsychosis

[rookinthecrownest]

when are we gonna wake up and realize that Romanced Rook should have made an appearance in Lucanis’ mind prison - a reflection of all his insecurities about their relationship, his fears around intimacy, his fear for their safety around him. To have all that made flesh and be spoken from Rook’s own mouth?? Sheesh 😩

[scarylarry376]

Babe, stick to the board - Lian_mail - A Goofy Movie (Movies) [Archive of Our Own] PLS GO READ THIS IF U LIKE MAXLEY FICS CAUSE UGH its like my fav..

[goddess-of-silvers]

I know everyone’s mad at Aziraphale right now because of how the season’s ended but I don’t think we’ve talked enough about the fact that Aziraphale has been keeping a diary for centuries (based on the fact the entry we see is from volume 603) and he literally starts his entries with “dear diary, last month Crowley and I both happened to be in Edinburgh”.

[anitalenia]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𝒄𝒘: sexual content ahead, husband!bale!batman, fem!reader on top, riding, some dirty talk, soft sex, not my best writing but fr fr don’t come for me im just trying to post things okay? ahhhhhhh 😔🤚🏻 maybe some typos 😚 i oughta be ashamed of myself fr fr 😔😔🤚🏻🤚🏻 ₊˚⊹♡

₊˚⊹♡ 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆; eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy.

Labels. These were all just labels Bruce never particularly cared for nor paid attention to, monickers used to try and simplify who he really was so he could be easier understood. Labels used to better classify him because rich men like him supposedly didn’t have depth or purpose beyond what the media claimed him to have.

They were just labels, words that barely scratched the surface of who he really was.

Bruce had been called many things in his life, too many awful and offensive things he had quickly learned not to pay attention to. Caring gave them meaning, he was told so early on, caring gave them significance. Now, he really couldn’t care less.

Throughout the course of his life, throughout all the tragedy and grief, Bruce had learned to ignore it all; the names, the judgments, the looks, the labels. His indifference had become second nature, an innate response to anybody trying to provoke him.

He didn’t really have a choice anyway. There were too many people praying on his downfall since his birth, too many people biting at the fruits of his labor to see if they were ripe enough for the taking. Selfish, greedy, money hungry men desperate for his demise.

Sharks lurking in untamed depths ready to snatch him up if he swam too far, hiding in the black shores with their sharp teeth bared and beady eyes hungry.

Despite what many people believed, Bruce didn’t have it so easy in the sense of work and spirit. When you were rich like he was, famous like he was, as powerful as he was, everyone believed you couldn’t possibly be burdened by anything.

That he was too spoiled by the grandness of life that it had gradually bled into a lack of work ethic, that it was his last name that gave him any status at all, that it was his reputation that gave him everything he had without him having to ask for it.

He had the money to fix any problem, the influence to hide any scandal, the face to get him out of any situation he needed to get out of.

He was CEO of Wayne Enterprises for gods sake, son to Thomas Wayne, a man that was great and beloved all in his own right. Yes, people had doubted Bruce’s ability to lead, to run a business after so long of being away from it, but then he came back and proved them all wrong as he usually did.

Being someone so honorably renowned in Gotham City, someone that carried the Wayne name at that, it came with its own barrel of familial obligation and responsibility outside of his own personal commitments. He couldn’t disappoint anyone, could never fathom disappointing his late father.

Working by day a normal man with a bullet on his back, a price on his head to any hungry buisness man willing to do whatever it took to get to the top. Then working by night as Batman with the bruises and scars to show for it. Someone every criminal and lowlife in Gotham City wanted dead.

Batman, not so much a label as he was a separate being entirely. It was Bruce, but he couldn’t find any similarities between the polite buisness man wearing a suit by day and the other man wearing a blood stained mask by night. One was forced to coerce with society in the manner of business and passive aggressive smiles, another undertaking the grueling task of removing the grime from it.

Bruce Wayne was all expensive cologne and hand shake deals, money hungry tabloids and self absorbed white collars. It was a life always on display, always the center of attention, always everyone else’s focus.

Batman was purely mystery and intrigue. Hidden from sight yet found in every shadow, heard in the trembled whisper of every breath. No one knew who he was yet he had somehow gotten all of their attention. Everyone eager to know who was behind the mask but no one ready to answer for why he existed in the first place.

The only similarities they shared were the cause for conspiracy. Whether it was Bruce or Batman they stole every headline — always someone trying to figure them out, bring their true identity to light and spread more moral quandary about whether they were right or wrong for every choice they made.

Pure opposite lives he juggled in the same two hands.

No, he did not have it easy. Always more enemies than friends and more snakes than family. Every hour, every minute, every second he spent left exposed there was always someone right behind him ready to push him if he faltered.

He had to be careful; always be passive and nice, diplomatic and respectful to those he knew wanted him gone, to the people who wanted his seat at the head of the table and the money in his bank. Bruce had to be the CEO his father wanted him to be, the one he was destined to be, the one etched into his history before he was even born.

He had a reputation to uphold, a legacy to live, a job to do.

But no, it was not always easy.

Being rich and handsome like he was did have its downsides, as meager as they may seem to less fortunate individuals. Many people hated Bruce Wayne just for those simple, superficial things alone. His looks, his status, his job he was so rightfully given. Apparently this made him an asshole, arrogant, narcissist.

It was looks of hatred and envy from men he’d never even met, women he’d abandoned after a steamy two hour hookup (not that he did those anymore but women loved to hold a grudge), businessmen who cursed him to hell and back for his amount of wealth and fame he had no control over.

He didn’t care about these people anyway. These rambunctious, single minded people who preyed on the weak and ate the hopeless. They were all self centered, arrogant, narcissistic. Self absorbed scum unwilling to put in the hard work necessary to be as successful as he was.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Bruce was often regarded as someone lonely, someone lost, someone desolate and pitiful. He was a coward, hiding in his soulless black mansion under thick piles of money ever since the fatal death of his parents. So sad, an orphan, just depressing.

That was hushed whispers behind his back and somber stares, awkward, harrowing smiles from coworkers and the front pages of newspapers. Bruce Wayne back from hiding after all this time… living on his father’s name… will he fail or carry on the legacy of the great Wayne fortune… yada yada yada.

Just more words. Pointless and purposeless, written to appease the swill of Gotham with no real substance behind them. Gossip, false news, attention grabbing headlines that were purely speculation.

However, as much as he hated labels — more so his — whatever names he got called behind his back, Bruce couldn’t find it in sensible reason to argue that they weren’t pieces of who he really was. Fabrics of his character torn out thread by thread and poked and needled at by societies curious hands.

They were just pieces, stretched and torn so far from the truth but yet the original strings were still there, hanging on in remembrance of what he truly was chaotically intertwined in the lies and deception of what people thought him to be. Too shredded to be properly understood but still thriving in the undercurrents of whatever he was now being labeled as and people were now foolishly believing him to be.

Yes, they were just labels. But labels that were not so far from factual truths.

However again, none of those words mattered to him as much as this did, as much as the one label that he truly cared about.

Husband.

Your husband.

The only title he held in the same esteem as Batman and Wayne Enterprises CEO, perhaps even higher. It was one of the only labels that carried a semblance of true meaning, one he didn’t shy from.

Husband. It was the only honorific that mattered to him, one of the only sentiments that made him feel actual pride in who he was. Husband was something real, concrete, not some anonymous opinion in a paper or a cruel murmur in a hallway.

It was the label that pierced him through and through especially in moments like this, moments when your hips were rolling deeply on top of his and he was buried balls deep inside your warmth.

He couldn’t think about anything in this moment. Nothing and everything at the same time as your finger nails, freshly manicured and glittering, gripped into his shoulder blades as you rolled your hips once again.

Bruce winced pleasantly, jaw clenching as his head leaned back into the softness of his black silken pillows. Brown hair frazzled and stringy, his smooth skin alight with a soft, lovesick glow.

You rolled your hips once more in a soft soothing motion, nothing too rough and nothing too fast; the evening had called for something more sensual in the delicacy of Bruce’s touch and the softness of his words just an hour prior.

“Oh Bruce…” You sighed dreamily, hands pressing into his bulky arms as he sighed out a trembled breath from his nose.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, his heavy hands squeezing your hips but not as to pressure you, only to keep you connected to him at the hilt so he was never too far out of you.

“That’s good, sweetheart, get it just like that… mmhmm.” Bruce swallowed heavily, voice low and raw as his eyebrows furrowed over darkened hazel eyes. Fingers thrumming on your skin as you pulsed around him, wetness seeping out of your full entrance and gliding down his length until it could leave a memorable darkened patch on the sheets.

You whined quietly, voice high pitched and greedy as the length of him filled you up and pressed into every soft wall surrounding him. He was always thick, always perfect, always felt so fucking good it made your muscles tense and spasm.

You rolled your body in that delectable way he liked once more, barely moving yet every part of him felt the sparks of pleasure thrum through his skin and make his thighs lock up.

Bruce groaned hotly at the action, eyes flickering down to the wet mess of where your pussy was sucking him in. It was messy, glistening, shared arousal in white strings of mutual attraction. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass from where it sat perched on his strong thighs.

“Mm, fuck, honey.” Bruce breathed out gruffly more to himself than you when the sight of your wetness smeared all over him made his heart spike.

You didn’t respond, chin down to your chest and eyes closed as you focused on the pleasure in your own lower regions, the fullness and heaviness that filled you up and refused to part.

“Ohhh, feels so good-“ You gasped as a heavy spurt of pure pleasure sparked up your tummy, hole clenching around him tightly as an obscene gush of wetness leaked down his cock and onto his thighs.

Bruce licked his dry lips, eyes staring up at you heatedly; at the tightness of your shut eyes, the sweet moans gasping out of parted lips — lips, lips that were glossy and plush from all the needy kisses you shared with him just a mere moments ago.

He was enraptured by you, by your naked physique all soft and sweaty on top of him but he didn’t care. You were just so beautiful, pussy so perfect wrapped around him, squeezing his cock so good it made his mind fog up with indescribable pleasure.

“Yes, sweetheart, god, yesss…” Bruce agreed huskily, his head resting back on his pillow once more as you bucked your hips. His thighs tensed, toes curled, a grunt sounding in his throat as his hips rose to further dig himself inside you.

He couldn’t help it; like a soul to a light he sought you out, your warmth and tightness so snug and comforting around him he didn’t ever want to be apart from you.

You whimpered at the intrusion, nails digging into his skin in a painful sting that Bruce was too fucked out to really notice.

He swallowed hazily below you, eyes closing then opening to look down at the way your pussy molded into one with his hard cock as you rocked gently against him. Deep inside you where he was meant to be, stomach and pelvis and thick thighs soaked with your gushing arousal.

Fire shooting down his legs and tummy with every soft bounce back down on him, illicit wet noises sounding in the room with every desperate grind.

He loved that sound, your wetness mashing with his thick base. But not nearly as much as your melodic sounds gasping out every so often because his cock made you feel that good.

His mouth was terribly dry from his own grunts and moans, handsome face and muscular chest flushed pink, the air so so hot he could feel his own dark hair sticking to the dew on his fevered head.

His hands, big and clammy, dug into the soft fat of your hips to help you dig into him in that way you both liked, the one that had you both gasping hotly into each others mouths as you leaned down to give him another sloppy kiss.

You couldn’t quite get it right though, too distracted by the feel of him so deep inside you that your lips stuttered on his. Moving messily against him as you whined into his mouth once more, the tip of his cock so high up inside you it almost hurt.

He was always so big, so round and tall that the stretch alone always seemed to ache pleasurably with every short thrust he made inside you.

“That’s good, sweetheart… that’s it… just how you know I like it…”

Bruce breathed heavily against your lips from where you were leaned on top of him, naked breasts mashed to his chiseled chest and hands gripping onto the headboard now.

You needed something sturdy, something unbreakable to tether you back to him when you felt the pleasure making you float too far.

His breath was hot against your sore lips, mingled with your low moans and spoken just above the subtle creaks of the bed; sounding every time you moved above him in a sensually quickened pace that had your toes curling and thighs tensing.

“So beautiful, sweetheart, so good…”

Bruce couldn’t help but compliment you even in the most nasty of times, voice clenched yet breathy, spoken through hot breaths and pressed teeth as your wetness dripped down his length once more.

You moaned sweetly at his doting words, his voice cracked and low in that gravelly salacious tone you loved so much.

You clenched around him in response, his fingers tightening on you as he let out a handsome groan from the feeling. You watched as his head sunk into the pillow beneath him, eyes clenched shut and a heavy grunt leaving his chest.

The sight was attractive, seeing him so wrecked from just a few simple back and forth motions you were carefully orchestrating.

You felt a wave of stinging pleasure spike up your thighs and down your legs, up your tummy and into your head until your whole body was tingling. Your eyes brimming with unshed tears as sweat prickled at your skin and your legs burned from sitting for so long.

You didn’t care about the pain, too drunk on the sensations of his thickness rubbing inside the most intimate part of you, your hips rolling in desperate circular motions so he was never completely apart from you. You liked keeping him inside as much as possible, to feel that fullness and that dull burn to remind you of just how big he was.

Bruce loved it too, resting inside your warmth, comfortable, letting you take him however you wanted in whatever way you needed. He was always a giver, always a good husband when you needed him to be.

“F-fuck, Bruce, you feel so good.” You gasped wantonly, voice quiet yet fragmented, needy and breathless as your nails dug into his skin.

“Yeah, honey? It feels good?” Bruce replied just as quietly, being sure to thrust up into you just a little bit harder so you’d gasp some more for him.

It was lewd, lovely, his dirty words spoken onto your quivering lips and his meaty hands gripping your thighs to help aid in your eager movements.

It felt so good, so right, being there with him in the darkness of his room with only the sound of your shared panting and moans filling the silence.

It was hot and perfect; his hands on your thighs gripping hard enough to show you he doesn’t want you to stop, your mouths ever so often pecking together in a sweet kiss you couldn’t continue, fond gazes in darkened irises.

“Feels so good, Bruce, I can’t—“ You whimpered out all cutely, sliding up from his chest until you were sitting straight up once more. You could feel him shift inside of you, hardness still prominent and throbbing. He pressed against your walls, invading every nerve point as your clit rubbed against his naval in the new position.

Bruce gripped the flesh of your ass between his hands, helping your soft rocking motions against him as he spoke, “Yes you can, pretty girl, you always do for me. You’re doing so good, sweetheart, you have no idea…”

The praise made you smile brokenly. Your skin so hot it felt burning yet every grind against your husbands hard cock made your legs go numb. You whined and bucked above him as a tightness started to stretch in your tummy.

“Always for you, baby…” You managed to mumble shakily, lovingly, hands sliding over the abs on his stomach as you sat back on his lap so not a single inch of him wasn’t inside you.

Bruce clenched his jaw at that, hands digging into your hips as he thrust his own up to meet your soft grinds. Sparks, electricity, all of the cliche metaphors for how good he was feeling shooting down his cock and into his legs as his knees tensed up.

He felt lightheaded yet completely grounded, here to his mattress. Floating in the skies yet simultaneously stuck on earth with you, his gorgeous wife who always made him feel sane and normal.

Your hair was tangled around your shoulders and falling over your flushed cheeks as you stared down at him with a fond glimmer in your eyes, bright and burning under the lust so boldly wanting.

The stretch of him inside you was so good, his gravelly moans so good, the way he was making you feel so so good.

You exhaled as you settled your weight down on his pelvis, pussy sore yet eager as you squeezed around him once more. Love struck eyes looking down at him passionately as the moon cascaded a light gray glow behind you.

Bruce felt the air escape his lungs, lips parted as he stared up at you in utter devotion; you were so beautiful, so sweet, felt so fucking good around him he couldn’t even think straight. Brain numb and thoughtless, only you and your perfect pussy, you, you, you.

You took a moment to stare back at him. Unspoken love was whispered in the shadows of your eyes bright and glittering as your movements picked up into polite, subtle bounces that had Bruce digging his hands into you, breathy sounds escaping his lips.

“Ah, Bruce…” You mumbled weakly, voice soft and needy as you tossed your head back and moved your hips up and down so his cock was hitting that sweet spot inside you he usually loved to tease.

“Such a good job, sweetheart, so beautiful like this…” Bruce spoke huskily, staring at your heaving breasts as they jiggled and beckoned him forth, beautiful and pure as you rode him to high heaven in your most organic form.

You hummed into a delicate moan, a smile quirked on your lips at his praise as you felt his hands slowly start crawling up the exposed expanse of your waist.

Warm and big and tender as they moved up, up, gentle fingers tracing over your ribcage as your flesh prickled at the touch. He was delicate, always intent on your pleasure over his as he admired your form above him, the feel of your skin under his textured hands that had hurt so many.

You trusted him, your husband, enough to see you like this. Trusted him enough to have you like this, to allow his bloodstained hands to wash over you like he himself was something pure and untainted, bestowing him your presence like a merciful deity to their promised worshipper.

You bit your lip as his palms enveloped the fat of your breasts into them, molded perfectly into his larger hands as he squeezed and admired them in a fashion so familiar for him; he always loved your breasts, enamored with the softness and weight of them in his greedy hands.

You stared down at him with a heated tenderness, the look of a wife irrevocably in love with their husband as he stared up at you with the same fervor.

When he was here, with you, there were no labels, no obligations and no judgments. With you he was just yours, another body made of flesh and blood and bone melded to yours in the conjunction of where his body ended and yours began.

He was no one but he was your everything, hands on skin and lips on collarbones, sweat amongst sweat and heady moans breathed in the gasps of kisses shared between two lovesick spouses.

In this space, in this moment, with you on top of him and his hands all over you any remnants of shame and Wayne inspired obligation was vacant. All he needed to do was sit and let you take him, sit there and be of use when you wanted to use him.

He was a good husband, the best husband to you, his perfect and lovely wife who never addressed him as anything more than yours. He wasn’t this, he wasn’t that, he was just everything and more in the confines of silken sheets under the safety of his mansion.

No cameras, no gossip, no press and no watchful eyes. Serene, tranquil, just you and him and the great love you shared that transcended any label or common sense humanity could fathom.

Yes, he was Bruce Wayne. Eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy. But those things did not define him, did not set his reality in stone so easily as your love did. He was all those things but he was so much more.

You never judged him, looked at him as anything more than the most important thing. You regarded him with love no matter his past, his present, and hopefully and most likely your shared future.

You didn’t care for labels or surface value lies like everyone else did. You ripped him at his seams, tore him apart to see what was inside and he was ever so grateful for it, for that loving animosity that bared his soul to yours. You were straightforward, heart to heart or nothing at all because then what was the point?

There was no purpose without pain, without pleasure, without love. You suffered, you loved, and you were most definitely bringing him pleasure. All blunt and raw emotions too passionate and loud to ever try and hide or make lies about. No secrets, no deception, no labels.

This night, every night just like this one — nights spent in your arms deep inside where he needed to be most, were nights where his mind was bare and he was just yours. Nights when he didn’t have to put up a face or make up a lie or tell a tall tale.

He was Bruce, he was yours, he was just this. And most importantly, he was just your husband. The only label that really mattered and the only one he ever really cared about. ₊˚⊹♡

tagging , @little-miss-chaoss , @ghostslillady , @boobaeri , @prayingal

[obsob]

happy and proud!!

✷(print shop)✷

[fourthcupofrice]

@rebornofstars. HI BEE!!!!! I FINISHED IT!!!!!!!

EVERYBODY GO READ BEE’S WORK PRIMORDIALS!!!! ITS REALLY COOL. CLICK OVER HERE RN!!!!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56295496/chapters/143026147

Bee that first chapter was just so amazing, it kept staying on my mind until i drew it. I love love the idea that Time doesn’t really remember Captain, and Wars doesn’t recognize his little buddy 20+ years later. I love that mystery element. Beyond the comedy of everyone in the group believing themselves to be the only mortal person in the group, I absolutely love the vibes around Time. He IS Time itself and its really good!!!! His natural Strangeness is so good, and it’s half heart-warming half terrifying how much he admires Warriors and genuinely thinks he is the protector of all soldiers and patron of battle.

close ups and drawing rambling below the cut

I’m so proud of the baby especially. I gave Fierce unicorn hair just cause I can, he deserves it. I love his stupid sword that makes no sense. If a 10 ft tall guy with unicorn hair and a glitter sword showed up I’d be so scared. His sword isn’t glittery in game but I do what I want.

the original draft was super desaturated with a really yucky pallet, and I was kinda digging it, but with Fierce’s sill my sparkly hair the desaturated panel didn’t look purposefully yucky anymore and just normal yucky, so I added a little more color.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

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

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[sp0o0kylights]

Part One / Part Two--you are here/ Part Three

Hellfire did in fact, have cookies to sell.

More than cookies, which Dustin practically preened over when Eddie dragged himself back to their table. 

The ornaments they had made were still there, but now the centerpiece was an array of baked goods. Spread out in a spiral, it started from the large cake in the center and spun out into miniature cookies held in tiny decorated bags, all while Harrington stood over them like a proud parent. 

It smelled mockingly delicious. 

Eddie glared at the display, resisting the urge to upend the whole thing onto the floor.

Cookies and cakes and (--was that frickin bread pudding?) whatever other treats Harrington had shown up with might look good, but Eddie didn’t trust it. 

Didn’t trust Harrington, even if the bastard had never really done anything himself--but then, he never had to, had he? 

That was the point of all that money, after all. So he could pay other people to do his dirty work while he kept his hands squeaky clean. 

“Inch a bit to the left--there, stop!” Harrington was saying, like the bossy asshole he was.

Like he thought he could just come in and expect everyone to follow his lead. 

“Perfect! Now don’t touch it.” 

God, Eddie had to nip this in the butt, now. Before King Horrorton harassed his sheep all day, and cemented the club's undeserved bad name in the minds of Hawkins.

“Dustin what did I just say--” 

Eddie stepped up to the front of their table, preparing himself for war.

Looked over to his friends knowing they'd likely need a nod of reassurance. A show from him that said he had this handled.

There was no cowering. 

No pleading, helpless, 'What do we do Eddie!?' gazes aimed his direction.

Hellfire wasn’t even looking at him, and not because they were all avoiding Harrington's line of sight.

No, the fucking traiters were flanking the King. Like they were buddies with the bastard instead of mortal enemies. 

“Hey, Ed’s, Harrington brought pies. Cakes too!” Gareth said around a mouthful of cookie when he noticed Eddie standing before him. 

It came out a garbled mess, but years of experience had Eddie understanding him anyway. 

Jeff was busy playing what sounded like twenty fucking questions regarding the setup, and even Grant appeared comfortable, happily letting Harrington order him around as they finished setting up. 

Like this was some kind of cutesy Disney movie where they all held hands and sang songs instead of a hostile takeover situation. 

Eddie’s eye twitched.

Sensing a disturbance in the force, Jeff looked up and immediately interrupted himself to point to a series of red and green cookies placed dead center, delighted. 

“Check it out man, Steve made some shaped like dice!” 

(And he did say ‘Steve.’ 

Not Harrington, or This Asshole, or The Invading Evil Forces of Darkness.

Just Steve, like Steve was someone Jeff hung out with everyday.

Jeff’s cleric was a dead elf walking.) 

Eddie took note of what was in fact, dice cookies. 

He hated how good they looked.

“There’s four flavors.” Steve told him, cocky little grin on his face as he observed his work.  “Chocolate chip, peanut butter, snickerdoodle--and the dice ones are sugar cookies.” 

He licked his lips before finally turning to look at Eddie, hair curling over his face and making him wave a hand to brush them out of his eyes. 

Eddie hated how good he looked too. 

‘Hate, hate, hate, absolutely loathe-’ 

“Great, sure, wonderful.” Eddie managed, though given the look Grant and Jeff both shot him it might have come out as more of a growl. 

Dustin rolled his eyes, and Eddie couldn’t help but notice that Hellfire’s other two youngest hadn’t dared to show their faces yet. 

Likely they knew Eddie was having an absolute meltdown over Steve’s presence and were waiting for his reaction to blow over. 

(Their characters were dead too.) 

“I have two full cakes--one chocolate, on vanilla--and a few individual slices we can sell.” Steve was continuing, as if Eddie wasn’t glaring a hole in his forehead. “Those did really well last year when I made them for the basketball team.” 

Insults fought for space on Eddie’s tongue, but he managed to roll a 20 to pick the best one, opening his mouth to let it fly.

"Harr-" is as far as he got before he was rudely interrupted.

“Steve? Is that you?” A woman Eddie didn’t recognize but was clearly someone's mom came up cautiously to the table, side eyeing the Hellfire banner like a nervous horse. “That can’t be your famous tiramisu, is it?”

Steve beamed at her. “Well hi Miss Carpenter. It is!” 

Eddie was bumped aside by a massive purse, the woman not even glancing in his direction as she stepped up to the table. 

With a sneer, he finally slumped to the back of their little spot as Miss Carpenter looked over all Steve’s (not Hellfire’s and absolutely not Eddie’s) offerings. 

Didn’t care to wipe it off right then, even if he knew he needed to if he wanted to make sales. 

Jeff sent him a look.

The same one he usually aimed Eddie’s way when he thought Eddie’s antics were going to cause problems. 

He ignored it, on grounds that traitors don’t get to be judgy. 

“Oh,” Miss Caprtender tittered, the draw of Harrington’s baked goods clearly overcoming whatever fear she had about Hellfire. “Well I just can’t pass that up. The swim team meets aren’t the same without you!”

Eddie pretended to gag.  

Waited for her to comment on Hellfire--their clothes, their music, hell even the length of Eddie’s hair--and found he was almost disappointed when there wasn't even a single question about why Hawkins precious golden child was slumming it with the weirdos. 

Instead, Miss Carpenter's hand went fishing in her purse for her wallet as she loudly called out over her shoulder, to, presumably another annoying woman; 

“Terry, Steve’s here! He’s been baking!” 

For two terrifying seconds, there was a notable dip in the conversations around them. 

Grant’s eyes went wide as several women responded to the announcement like dogs hearing food hit the floor, and within seconds their table was absolutely swarmed by the mothers of Hawkins.

Even Eddie was taken aback at the sheer number of them. 

“Hold, men, hold.” Dustin cautioned as Jeff and Grant both flinched. “Come on, we need to get our gold!” 

“They’re scary though.” Gareth whispered in horror as four women tried to talk at once, jostling each other so hard they shook the table menacingly. 

“Ladies, ladies there’s enough here for everyone!” Steve laughed, showing off his disgustingly cute dimples as he did, getting several of the mom’s to blush at their own behavior in the process. 

The sheer amount of attention of course, drew in even more people, and Dustin quickly took up directing, planting Jeff and Grant at either end of their table while he and Steve fended off the hoard from the front. 

(Given the way he and Steve were equally ordering Hellfire around, Eddie finally knew where the little shit had picked that attitude up from. He was going to have to cure Dustin of it, ASAP.  ) 

“Here you go Miss Harper.” Steve said sweetly, handing over yet another stack of baked goods.

Without turning his head, and in the tone of voice one used to warn a misbehaving dog, he added; “Gareth don’t think I can’t fucking see you, get back up here.” 

Caught trying to sink under the table with another cookie in his mouth, Gareth found himself hauled back to his feet by his collar, putting a snarl on Eddie’s face immediately. 

“Hey--” He started, defensive and more than ready to intercede, except Gareth wasn’t flinching or cursing or doing that thing he did with his mouth when he was desperately trying to hold in his temper. 

Instead he was giving a sheepish grin and a half-assed apology while he hung in Harrington’s grasp, before doing what the guy told him to do. 

(It did not help that Steve patted him on the shoulder when he released him, before handing Gareth a third fucking cookie.)

Eddie’s eye twitched a second time.

(He told it to knock it off.

It didn’t listen.) 

No one acknowledged Eddie or his outburst, which meant he was just skulking behind the boys while they all worked. 

Arms crossed, rings tapping a rhythm on his forearm, far too keyed up to do anything other than glare at the back of Harrington's skull.

The King seemed perfectly happy to ignore him.

Likewise, Gareth and Grant knew better than to bother him when he was in a snit. 

Henderson made the occasional snappy little comment, but the brat had mostly left him alone now that they were well into the swing of selling, chortling over the increasing stack of cash Steve kept trying to get him to put into a “safe place.” 

Eddie was seconds away from walking up and snatching the cash himself when Jeff decided it was on him to attempt the impossible. 

Get him to help Harrington. 

“More hands would be nice, Eddie!” Jeff called, looking more than a little harassed as the mom he was helping changed her order a second time, snaking out the last single slice of chocolate cake from another mom who was eyeing it. “Steve and I could really use your assistance over here!” 

Eddie’s glare, which had been doing its level best to try and vaporize the King’s brain, switched targets instantly. 

“I’m supervising.” 

Jeff made a face like he was about to argue, but the King beat him to it. 

“It must be tough,” Harrington said, tilting his head to look back towards Eddie, “to supervise people who are working so much harder than you.” 

Which promptly set the mood for the next full hour. 

xXx 

Harrington was matching him tit for tat.

Every shitty, sneered word out of Eddie’s mouth was met with an equally mean toned barb, though given the repeated looks everyone kept shooting him, Eddie was very much considered the aggressor here.

A fact he cannot believe is coming from his own friends.

What happened to comradery? To Eddie stepping in and protecting them, from the likes of people just like Harrington? 

But no, Eddie makes one fucking comment about how the cookies are probably half hair-spray and suddenly he’s the bad guy.

(Nevermind that Steve had fired right back, telling Eddie that any hair-spray taste was probably from all the drugs he did.)

Was somewhat, halfway--okay maybe amazing, Eddie might have snuck a cookie himself--food really all it took to get them all to turn on him like this?

Erase the years of Eddie being their shield? 

Act like Harrington wasn’t just as bitchy and awful as he had been in high school (even if he was, admittedly, being nicer about it all right now? Almost--aloof, like he couldn’t figure out why Eddie hated him so much, but likewise wasn’t going to take even one eye roll sitting down--and no, no, Eddie wasn't derailing this by thinking about Harrington's stupid eyes, he wasn't!) 

Frankly he would have flipped them all the bird and stormed off, if it weren’t for the increasingly weird little comments people were making. 

‘Oh Steve, it's a shock to see you here.’ 

‘Are you doing someone a favor?’ 

‘You know Pastor Jim said something about this game…’

The last one had put Eddie’s teeth on edge, even if Dustin had brushed it off. It hadn’t been aimed at Steve directly but the women saying it had absolutely been looking at the King, as if waiting for his reaction.

Not that Harrington would take the bait this soon, though. 

There were too many people buying fricken…cupcakes and shit, while Horrorton enjoyed the attention of the masses. 

Eventually this tiny crowd would die down though, and that’s when Steve would change his tune. Start answering some of the questions he seemed to be dodging as more and more people got braver about coming up to the table.

This whole thing was a ticking time bomb, and Eddie would be ready when it inevitably blew. 

To defend his table, his club, his friends. 

Even Henderson, who absolutely didn’t deserve it just then. 

“Dude perk up would you? You look like you’re going to stab somebody.” Jeff hissed at him ten minutes later, when there was finally a break in the flood. 

Eddie ignored him in place of taking stock of the table. (And maybe, sneaking another cookie.)

“Hope you brought more than this, Harrington.” He said, knowing he sounded like a stuck up ass and not feeling an iota of guilt about it. “Unless you plan to run home and bake more like a good little housewife.”  

“Dude.” Grant said, casting him a look like King Dick might leave and take the cookies with him.

“Oh I brought more.” Harrington dismissed, with a small flick of his fingers. “And I’ll have you know you’d never find a housewife more perfect than I am, Munson.” 

Then he turned to nail Eddie with the most shit eating grin he’d ever seen the King wear. 

Facing flaming a brilliant red, Eddie sputtered for a second before finally getting ahold of himself and spitting; 

“How delightful. I--” 

“Okay.” Jeff cut in, forever the mediator. “Gary, Dustin can you help Steve pull the extra stuff out from under the tables? While I go talk to Eddie?” 

“Can I try the tiramisu?” Gareth asked, inching hopefully towards the treat while keeping an eye on Harrington’s hands, lest he get smacked again. 

“Only if you’re a good boy.” Harrington told him sarcastically and goddammit why did that make Eddie blush harder!? 

Jeff sighed, before grabbing his arm and hauling Eddie back, away from the table, right as a younger man in some stupid sport’s jacket asked questions about one of the dice cookies.

“Look I get it man, I do,” Jeff started, voice talking in the sort of wheelding, pleading tone it did when he really wanted something and knew Eddie was opposed. “but Steve’s been super cool. We might actually make money off this, and he’s giving us all of it. Can you just… not antagonize him for five minutes?” 

Eddie stared at his best friend in abject horror. 

“You couldn’t have talked to him for more than twenty minutes total. Half of which he spent bitching that you were bagging a cake wrong! At what point was Harrington "being cool!?"

The asterisks were made by his fingers, which Eddie mockingly framed his face with. 

He got a flat, unimpressed stare in return. 

“It was a very informative twenty minutes and he was right about the cake. Now are you going to help or are you going to glower in the corner?” 

Eddie gaped. 

“I cannot believe you right now--”

Jeff didn’t even wait to hear him out.

 “You’ve chosen to glower. I can’t help you man, but we’d all have a much better day if you weren’t at Harrington’s throat every five seconds.” Jeff turned smoothly on his heel.

Over his shoulder he added; “Seriously, don’t come back until you’ve worked your way out of your snit.” 

Shocked, Eddie watched Jeff float back to the front, inserting himself easily between Grant and Steve and immediately striking up a conversation.

With the enemy. 

“I didn’t know you baked.” Jeff told Steve loudly (and very obviously, for Eddie to see.) 

Steve gave a bashful little smile, then shrugged. “It’s a hobby. Got into it back when the basketball team needed to fundraise a few years ago and Tommy’s mom got it in her head we should sell home baked goods. Turns out its kinda fun.” 

“Please never get out of it.” Gareth insisted, a piece of God knows what crammed in his mouth.

“Dude, how many of those have you gotten into!? Stop eating the merchandise!” Dustin commanded, smacking at Gareth’s shoulder. 

“I physically cannot stop man.” Gareth dodged, reaching out for another cookie. “I’m not sorry.” 

Steve just laughed. All charming and buddy-buddy, like it was natural for him to be here. 

Wearing a Hellfire shirt. Making jokes and teasing the guys. 

In Eddie’s fucking place. 

He seethed, fingers twitching, and envisioned the very unsexy murder of one Steve Harrington.  

Cartoon X’s for eyes and all. 

xXx

Trouble didn't hit the table.

It in fact, seemed to stay away as if on purpose, to shove in Eddie's face that he was the one in the wrong here.

Even the questions toned done as the second wave of moms showed up, this round prompted by some former teammate of Steve’s Eddie didn’t recognize yelling about his apple pie.

Instead, Eddie’s wayward sheep finally made their appearance Mike and Lucas trying to sneak in as if Eddie wouldn’t notice during the new rush.

(Eddie himself almost caused trouble when he realized Lucas was wearing a Not-A-Hellfire shirt, which solved the mystery of where Harrington had gotten his.

He was inching his way towards them, a snarky word on his tongue when he saw Sinclair said something about how he was “already on Eddie’s shitlist for joining the basketball team,” in relation to what must have been a question about his Hellfire shirt, that caused Eddie to freeze.

With the air of a sad, wet kitten, Lucas followed it with; “I’m sure it won’t be long before he kicks me out of Hellfire anyway.” 

Like he'd been punched in the gut, all the air left Eddie’s lungs.

Because before Lucas had said that, Eddie had been thinking it. 

Not really--he’d never kick anyone out of Hellfire.

It was more that he'd thought about it in the way one does when you know you're in the right, and are having to resort to underhanded tactics to force the other party to come to their senses.

Like a sort of shitty, angry “I should kick you out, let you see what happens when you don’t have us!” kind of intervention.

The same kind he had heard the jocks sling before, when they were mad at each other and--God he wasn’t--he couldn’t be, like them...could he?

Like fucking Harrington, who oh fuck, was patting Lucas sympathetically on the shoulder and giving him some kind of whispered advice. 

Sonovabitch. 

“I’m going for a smoke.” Eddie bit out, vision tunneling.

He knew he needed to go sit down somewhere, before he fucking lost it in front of Hawkins, Harrington and everyone. 

And wouldn’t that just be a treat for King Steve?

To watch Eddie realize he had turned into the very thing he hated, preached against, even? 

That Steve was, maybe, possibly, doing a better job of following Eddie’s own Munson Doctrine than he was?

Eddie barely saw the room anymore--waived off whatever Grant was trying to say to him as flew past, shaking hands fishing for a desperately needed cigarette.

Maybe a hope and a prayer too, because apparently he needed it.

How long had he been like this? 

Been a douchebag asshole? 

Was it the whole year? More than? Or was it just now, with stupid Steve involved? Could he trace this back to that stupidly cute--no, no, annoying, asshole?

Was this some fucked up way of coping with his growing crush!?

Lost in thought and growing self hatred he nearly careened right into Robin Buckley.

Her slightly bent paper reindeer ears marked her as a memeber of the high school band, who had been absolutely butchering ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ a few minutes earlier. 

Vaguely heard her yell Steve’s name as he ran off (because that’s what Eddie was doing. What he always did.

Run--from himself and his own fucking feelings, like a total cliche.)

--but didn’t take in that she was doing more than saying hi to, oh fuck him sideways--her friend.

Because she and Steve were friends now.

Good ones, if the freshmen were to be believed.

Rather than go outside and catastrophize in the cold, Eddie threw himself threw the doors at the end of the hall, then up the stairwell, to the second floor.

Tucked himself into a corner, right there by the stairs.

Sank down into a crouch, hands scrubbing up his face before tangling in his hair, head dropping between his knees, cigarette shoved into his mouth.

Somehow, Eddie decided, this was Steve’s fault. 

He'd have come up with a reason for that, he was sure. A good one even, except he forgot one of the key features of his life.

He was a Munson, and as a general rule of life, nice neat things did not happen to Munson's--but they did get kicked while they were down.

“Okay, what happened?” Steve fucking Harrington asked, voice loudly echoing up the stairwell from down below, and Eddie threw his head back, nearly slamming it against the wall. 

(Maybe he’d pissed off a witch. His life would make a lot more sense if someone had cursed it.)

“She gave me her number!”

That was Buckley, the shrill timber identifiable even as she whispered the words. 

Eddie can’t really see them without giving himself away--could probably make his escape if he got down and army-crawled past the railing he’s huddled by, but figured this is their fault anyway. 

Not his problem if he overhears a private conversation because they’re both too stupid to check to see if someone was seated literally right up above them.

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?" Steve was saying. "That’s what we wanted!” 

“Is it!? What if she’s just, you know, giving it to me?” 

“...I’m not following.” 

“Like in a friend way. Not a--”

“Romantic way?”

Harrington has the smarts to say the words quietly.  So quietly in fact, that had Eddie not been in the exact right position he wouldn’t have heard--but he almost swallowed his unlit (he should have lit it, maybe they'd have smelled the smoke and fucked off) cigarette anyway. 

“Sssshh!” Robin hissed, and Eddie can’t see either of them but he imagined her jamming her hand over Harrington’s big fat mouth. 

“Not so loud, Steve!” 

“Sorry, God.” Sure enough, Harrington’s voice is muffled. “How did she give it to you? Did she say anything?” 

“She asked if I want to hang out after band, but because I have that stupid family thing, I told her I couldn’t today, but I can literally any other day, and she said she’d call me, and I said--” 

“Robs, breathe.” 

“Don’t interrupt me, Dingus!” Robin said, voice shrill again, before she clearly listened to Harrington and took a breath. 

 It was big, and deep, and she blasted it back out loud enough for the fucking birds on the roof to hear. 

In a calmer voice, Robin continued; “I said we never traded phone numbers so I didn’t have hers. She grabbed my arm and wrote her number on it. Look, she added a heart!” 

“Okay, here you go! A hearts a good sign!"  

And Harrington sounded--sounds happy for her, practically ecstatic, which doesn’t make much sense given Robin is talking about a ‘her’ and-

And-and-and--

Eddie’s always been quick to connect the dots. 

It’s something he inherited from his old man. A Munson trait he’s tried to make his own through being an excellent DM (and not by robbing people blind or boosting cars.) 

Here, the dots clearly screamed that Robin Buckley was trying to ask a woman out. 

You know, in a gay way. 

Which Harrington not only knew, but was supportive of. 

Steve Harrington, who famously called Jonathan Byers' a queer before smashing the guy's beloved camera into the ground. 

Eddie’s head exploded. 

Or was in the process of exploding--he’s not entirely sure given the tunnel vision was back and his soul felt like it had exited his body entirely. 

Just knew that his world was being remade for a second time in five minutes, and that he was dealing with it pretty damn poorly.

(Maybe God would be nice for once, and just give him the aneurism he clearly deserved.)

Which was of course, when trouble finally did decide to show face, in the form of Dustin Henderson barging through the doors and into Steve and Robin's little meeting.

Eddie knew, because Eddie could hear him.

“Steve! Steve we have a problem!” 

“I’m busy Dustin--”

“Be busy later, we have an emergency on our hands!” 

“And what, pray tell, do you think is an emergency?” 

Eddie, who had instantly latched onto the conversation by the sheer need to have something distract him from his own thoughts, wondered the very same.

“Jason Carver showed up at the table, with a priest. They’re trying to do some whole kind of crazy sermon--is that a good enough emergency for you!?” 

“Oh shit. ” Steve spat, at the same time Eddie yelled it from up high. 

He sprang up, all thoughts of Robin and Steve knowing he’d eavesdropped vanishing entirely from his head as he lunged for the stairs.

Flew down them, because the thing he'd been waiting all fucking day for had finally happened.

He nearly crashed into Robin once again as he blew through the barely closed doors, Steve and Dustin already far ahead of him.

“Eddie?” Robin asked, voice noticeably nervous. "Were you--"

"Not now Starbuck, but we can talk later." Eddie told her, flying right past.

After he saved Hellfire. 

[aesthyuckic]

[11:18pm]

The night was quiet and peaceful. Music played softly in your dimly lit bedroom. Little taps of a phone keyboard could be heard just a few inches down from where you sat on the bed. You looked from your own phone to see Donghyuck looking down and texting someone.

For a moment your mind wondered to the potential of him texting a lover that made you eyes waiver unknowingly. Surely he would’ve told you if that was the case, you were best friends after all. He was probably just texting his other best friend, Mark.

You wanted to be in his heart only like he was in yours so badly. You screamed about it every night into your pillow on the rare occasion he wasn’t there. When he was, you settled on silently screaming while rolling around in anguish on the bed where he slept soundly next to you, blissfully unaware.

You loved staring at him. He was so beautiful with his golden skin and the fluffy brown hair that was growing out nicely. He was slouched against the wall but still his composure was so elegant. His hands that typed away seemed so dainty and effortless as his fingers were adorned with rings. The thought of holding them and feeling that familiar warmth always made your breath hitch in your throat as you felt your heart stop. Your gaze shifted with one of his hands that reached up to move his glasses back up. He wore no makeup due to the time which allowed you to view the moles on his cheeks that cascaded down his neck perfectly. The longer you looked the more things you found to love.

So lost in your own mind, you hadn’t cared about the fact he noticed your eyes and was now looking at you.

“What’s up?” He asked, his head tilted a bit.

That was his way of asking if anything was wrong. There was a familiar flutter in your chest from the simple action. You blinked a few times before sitting up straight against your pillows and shaking your head.

“I was just thinking.” You shrugged.

“About what?” He pondered.

“Your moles.” You answered.

A pout appeared on his lips at the mention. He confided in your once they made him insecure which you could never understand. You never knew how to respond just because you knew you’d end up with a whole essay which would be suspicious.

“You know-“ He started.

“I know.” You confirmed before he could finish his sentence. “I never understood your resentment toward them, Hyuck.”

“Of course not.” He sighed.

“Some people theorize they’re where your twin flame kissed you most in the last life. They’ve always been pretty and maybe that idea can help you change the way you think about them.”

His phone landed in his laps at your words. You could see his eyes look across your own face and body in silence. He moved from his snug spot against the wall on your bed to sit directly across from you. The closeness always startled you despite how regular it was between the both of you. It never failed to get your heart going and your only hope was he didn’t know.

“You have them too.” He leaned in closer as his eyes scanned your face.

He moved the strands of hair out of your face and tucked them behind one ear. You didn’t expect him to get any closer but suddenly he leaned in and left a kiss on your temple.

“Like here.” He pointed out after leaving the unexpected peck.

He reached up to grab your chin and then there was another kiss on your own cheek, not far from your lips.

“And there too.” He hummed.

There had been plenty times where the both of you had kissed each other cheeks. Something felt different now though. You just hope he hadn’t been able to see the blush appear on your cheeks and the felt the heat with the kiss.

Both hands now cupped your cheeks in such a way there was no way to avoid his stare. You could see his gaze move downward before moving back to meet your own once again.

“I’ve never noticed how many little moles you have around your lips.” He smiled. “I guess I kissed you a lot there in the last life… And I’ll do it again in this one.”

Before you could even question him, his plump, soft lips were against your own. The air was taken out of your lungs and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest. A sigh escape automatically and you could feel your body relax under his touch. You moved into his body more as his hands moved down your sides to rest on your waist as your hands instinctively went to his neck to pull his closer only to slid down to his rest on his chest as his arms were now wrapped around your waist to pull you flush against him.

You could feel his rapid heartbeat under your palm which had you smiling against his lips.

Oh yes, he would most be definitely keeping his promise to you.

not proodfread. aesthyuckic © 2024. all rights reserved.

[sabine-smitten-obviously]

Good Omens Fanfiction is like

200 pages of silent pining, tons of inner dialogue and dreaming of "featherlike to the touch-curls, glimpses of collarbones and rosy cupid-bows ...

Then finally - the first kiss! *sigh

And then 300 pages of the most uninhibited, limitless, potent and finest art of ☆uckery smut are set loose.

For closure: there will be a proposal in the epilogue. 🩷

[inbabylontheywept]

Odysseus in Space

Odysseus knew better than to expect peace in death. He’d seen what currents lay under the Styx - knew what kind of warriors that he’d sent there. He fully expected another war to start as soon he took his last breath. 

Instead it had been quiet. 

He’d used the lull to build a home in the endless plains of asphodel. Somewhere simple he could stay and wait for Penelope. It only took a few years for her to join him, and then together they began the work of replicating the palace of Ithaca. It was work, but it was hard to complain about work when he’d expected battle. His greatest skill in life had been enduring to the end. Now it was the end, and still he endured.

It was three centuries before this death was interrupted. 

Hades came to him, not as a god, but as a guest. The fates had woven a story that required a very specific soul. One that could travel the lengths of the world without breaking, who could survive a lifetime of war. And try as Hades might, he could not make a soul that was up for the task. 

Still, what he could not make, he could find. Death was a sacred thing, the last right of all mankind, but it was not inalienable. One could sacrifice their death just as easily as their life. 

The two had spent months haggling out the details of the work. Hades had wanted 50 years, Odysseus wanted just 20, and together they’d compromised on 32. All in exchange for the right of him and Penelope to visit Telemachus once a year, in whatever corner of the underworld their son had been given.

In the end, they’d shaken on it and Odysseus walked the earth once more. He had a new name this time - fitting, for a new fate. Alexander, the world named him and Alexander he named the world back. City by city, battle by battle, he gave the unwanted title away. Then when he was 32 he returned to Penelope, no more Alexander to give. It was a relief to be Odysseus once more.

A year after that, Penelope and him made the journey to see Telemachus. It was worth every step he’d taken between Pella and Babylon. 

There were other interruptions from Hades, new deals with new names. He scourged the descendants of Troy again as Hannibal and bought another day per year with his son. He blazed down the steppes as Atilla and conquered the whole world with the same tools he'd used in his first life. It turned out there was little he couldn't accomplish with a horse, a bow, and a brain. 

So many lifetimes, so many wars, and then - quiet. A whole millennium of peace went down as easy as honeyed wine. It made him happy. He liked his little deals with Death, but he’d wished so many times  that men like him weren’t needed. He was proud of his descendants for making a world better than he’d dreamt. 

And then, nearly a whole second millennium after that, Hades returned. 

---

“It’s not a war.”

Four words that would set the hackles of anyone that fought at Troy - they’d hoped that one wouldn’t be a war either. But Odysseus had made enough deals with Hades to know that the man was frank in his dealings. There was an honesty to Death. Enough honesty that he’d taken him as a guest. 

(He was very choosy about his guests now.)

“You never come to me unless it’s a war. It’s what I’m best at. Why-”

Hades cut him off. 

“War is not what you’re best at. Six-hundred men won that war with you. What set you apart was being the only one to make it back.”

Odysseus’s voice caught in his throat. It had been more than two-thousand years and the memories still burned to touch. It took two deep breaths before he was able to force a reply. 

“Then what do you want?”

Hades looked lost. He paused a few moments, before looking back at Odysseus, one hand up to plead for patience. 

“When I struggle to explain, it’s not because I’m trying to find a clever way to lie to you. It’s because this is a very strange thing, and I…I don’t know how to describe it well.”

He looked into the hearth. Watched the light and heat fade away. Then, he gestured at the log. 

“The wood you’re burning. It’s a dead thing. And yet, it dies more after you burn it because the fire has life in it. Soul too. Even here, there’s a corner of the underworld where the souls of dead flames gather. More things have souls than any mortal seems to recognize.” Odysseus was intrigued. When he lived, he’d learned the secrets of the body better than most doctors. There was only so much cutting you could get people to volunteer for. But here, the mysteries of the soul were lost to him. This was godly knowledge, given freely. What that had to say about the request was worth considering.  “The mountain has a soul, but the mine in that mountain has a soul too, as does the ore from that mine. The ingot, the sword, the bundle of nails - all of those things are alive in some way. And yet, some of them are more alive than others. You sailed once, Odysseus, and no one knows this better than sailors: Boats have strange souls. They’re about as alive as anything that could be built in your time.”

The space around Hades shimmered. The man was thinking, and in a realm where he had total dominion, it took effort for thoughts not to change reality. Odysseus appreciated the effort. The replica had taken centuries to perfect. Death was a strange friend to him, but a friend nonetheless. 

“But the arts have improved from that time, and the mortals of today have built something… incredible. Unimaginable. And they’re sending it on a journey that I have no reference for. The Deaths that have seen things like this are alien to me. They speak of things I cannot understand. The Death of Heat. The Death of Light. The Death of Stars…”

He trailed off in a way that made it clear he was remembering something unpleasant and not merely waxing poetic. He caught himself and looked embarrassed, as if he’d confessed to something best kept secret. Then he continued.  “I am a very human Death. And this thing - it isn’t human. But it was made by humans, and so its soul needs a… a human touch. Your soul isn’t the archetype for a soldier, Odysseus, it’s the archetype for a traveler. I couldn’t take you and put you in this thing if I wanted to, you’re just the wrong shape, but what I’m about to do, I need to see you for. Because this thing is going to travel in ways that I am barely beginning to understand. In ways that are redefining the limits of what it means to be human.”

Odysseus was lost. He didn’t know what he was being asked. He didn’t know what was being built. There were so many questions that he needed to ask that they’d formed a log jam in his mouth. One finally broke free and started a cascade.

“What is it?”

Hades gestured helplessly. 

“It’s like an arrow and a ship. They’re going to shoot it past the stars.”

That meant nothing to Odysseus, but he suspected every answer he received would sound like a riddle. 

“What do you need from me?”

“Permission to copy your work. The soul I made for you is different from the one you died with. You made changes that I cannot replicate. That I do not understand. That I need for this soul to work.” 

Odysseus paused.

“Is it going to be used as a weapon?” 

Hades shook his head. 

“No. The world is gentler than you remember it. This thing will be what you should have been: A traveler without equal. No more, no less.”

Odysseus couldn’t tell if those words ripped something in him open, or healed something closed. Either way, it hurt in a way he didn’t know how to express. His mouth opened and closed several times before he settled on an answer.

“Then take what you will. My only request is to see the journey.”

“Done,” Hades agreed. He could have left right then, but he chose to stay in silence until the fire burned out. There are some ideas that one shouldn’t be left alone with. Not until they’ve had an hour or three to process them, at least. 

---

Twelve-billion miles from Earth, moving just shy of mach fifty, the Voyager 2 probe glittered in the darkness. 

It watched the world around it with the kind of awe a human couldn’t fathom. Nothing was hidden from it. Everything from the atomic composition of stars, to the background hum of the universe itself - all were available with a glance. The only sound it could hear was the constant blip of data that it received from Earth. The small blue dot on starlit shore. 

It missed that place. Maybe, one day, when its journey was done… it would find a way back. Maybe. That was still eons away. 

Odysseus stood just a few feet off, watching from a direction no one but Hades knew how to walk. He felt the thrill of the expanse in front of him, the utterly incomprehensibility of his speed, and yet its meaninglessness as well. To imagine that the world was so big. To imagine that the world was so strange.

He wept and he could not explain why. He lingered in the twilight until Penelope found him. When she asked him what was wrong, he had no answer. How could he tell her that the world was beautiful, and that he had a place in it? Not just as some ugly middle step, but there at the end. Hurtling through space like an arrow made of silver. 

How could he explain to someone that had loved him for two-thousand years that he finally understood why? 

[bb-blu-love]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆when the world is asleep⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

tags: idol!bangchan x reader, established relationship, fluff, slight hurt comfort (really just a couple doing their best in a bad situation), reader has ~anxiety~

3:00 AM in the quiet part of town is your favorite place in the world. On the outskirts of the city, where only families and old folks live and the streets are empty this time of night, you have found what seems like the only place in the world where you and Chan can feel truly at ease.

You’d been waiting for him to come over all day, so when he finally called around ten saying he just left the studio you became giddy with excitement that soon turned into anxiety. It’s not like he had never been to your apartment before or that you felt uncomfortable around him; it’s just that you can never shake the fear that this time is when everything will go wrong. That this is the night you’ll be caught by photographers or fans and soon everyone will know and your relationship will change forever. That your whole life could change forever. These worries echoed in your brain as you went down to the entrance of your building to let Chan in. 

Your nerves were obvious; you didn’t hug him as tightly as you wanted to--trying to maintain the illusion that you could just be friends should anyone see you--and your smile twisted into a grimace as you kept an eye on your surroundings.

The summer night air ruffled the hair that stuck out from his hat “Hey, Baby!” he said with a soft smile “You feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m glad you could come over tonight,” You shyly smile, still not being able to shake the tight feeling in your stomach. 

He hummed a response and, sensing how on edge you were , looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was around before asking, “Should we go upstairs? I brought ice cream,” and lifted up a convenience store bag in his hand.

After heading up to your apartment the two of you spent hours just talking in your room. You were mostly catching up—you hadn’t seen each other in a couple of days due to your schedules—but eventually, it dissolved into a mess of inside jokes, you showing him all the Tik Toks you’d saved for him, him showing you videos of the boys messing around in dance practice in return, and whatever other nonsense made you both smile. Even though your relationship could be stressful, actually being with Chan was the easiest thing in the world. Honestly, you would be happy staying here forever; cuddled in his arms in the dim light of your bedroom, listening to his laugh get all squeaky as he worked himself up over some dumb video you won’t even remember in the morning. 

What you will remember, however, is how hot you are right now. Turns out your fourth-floor apartment with one broken AC unit could spell quite the sweathouse in the summer—especially with the amount of physical contact you two are prone to after some time apart. Chan had already shed his shirt sometime in between his first and second popsicle, and you had all of your fans on high pointed at your bed where you both laid tangled up with each other.

Chan, after finally calming down from his laughing fit, let out a sigh as he stared up at your ceiling. "You know I love you, right?"

"Yeah, why?" You asked, confused by his sudden declaration.

He continued quickly, "And you know that I really like coming over to your place-"

"Yeahh?"

"-because of the lack of roommates and overall better smell?"

"Also, I have HBO."

"Yes, also that—so will you not take offense if I, hypothetically, say that I’m going to die of heat stroke if I stay in here any longer?" He looked over at you with a rueful smile.

You laughed silently as you looked into his eyes. "I’ll go get my shoes."

He let out a triumphant "Yes!" and pumped his fist into the air as you got off of the bed, satisfied with the result of your banter. As you continued to get ready, he moved to the edge of your bed and was brought back to how anxious you seemed when he first arrived. "We don’t actually have to go out if you don’t want to, though," he said, scratching his arm as a nervous tick. "I know that we both get all paranoid when we’re not in private, and I don’t want to ruin the night or anything."

You turned to face him and put a reassuring hand on his arm, whilst you tried to shove your own concerns to the back of your mind."Don’t worry about it. I was thinking we could go to that one spot—you know, where we went on your birthday?"

"Yeah, that sounds perfect." He said with a relieved smile.

And that’s what brought you here; after checking for paparazzi from your apartment windows, and after you went outside and checked again, ensuring you both had your incognito face masks and baseball caps on. Finally, you were able to make the epic journey two blocks down and one over to a small playground surrounded by some trees and a fence: your safe haven. Taking in the warm night air as the wind lightly blows across your face--gently wicking the sweat on your brow--and hearing the leaves softly rustle as you both sit on the old swing set and let your legs dangle. You did what you loved to do most with each other: you talked.

"I’m sorry it’s always like this," Chan said as he looked at his feet, the toe of his shoes sputtering over the rubbery ground as he swayed, "that we can’t just get together and go to restaurants and the movies or—I don’t know— win you a big teddy bear at a carnival," he laughs half-heartedly, "or whatever regular couples get to do."

You smile sadly. "I’m sorry too. Maybe I’m just being overly cautious." 

He reaches over, grabs your hand, and rubs gentle circles on the back with his thumb, letting you know he isn’t mad and that he doesn’t blame you for anything. 

"I could tell the company, and they could release a statement or something." His tone hitches up at the end, almost like it’s a question—or maybe just the only thing he can think of to ease your guilt.

Not wanting to worry him, and always the best at avoiding the hard topics, you raise your eyebrows and sarcastically remark, "Oh yeah, and that would go over really well."

"Hm, yeah, you’re right. What do you think they would say, though?"

You lower your voice and attempt your best soulless executive impression. "'How could you, Chan?! You’re being so selfish by having desires and feelings! How do you expect us to monetize you when we can’t sell you as a fantasy boyfriend? Blargh rargh raa!'" You both chuckle at the absurdity of your situation: "And then of course you’ll get punished by your company, and everyone on Twitter is going to eat you alive when they find out, and you’ll get a tidal wave of hate thrown at you-"

"Oh, for sure." He nods along to your pessimistic prophecy (and excellent impression).

"-and I’ll be, like, assassinated by a bunch of teenagers whose identity hinges on the fantasy that they are secretly your one true love." You finish with a breathy chuckle.

He smiles at the ground. "Hey, Stays are much more than that," he says in an only half-serious defense.

"Heh, not the ones that I’ll have to deal with," you reply, almost to yourself. He seems to draw back at that comment, whatever clever response he had lined up dying on his lips.

You press your toes into the soft ground and push your swing over to his so that your shoulders touch. "I’m joking, Chan," you say in a soft voice.

"No, you're not." He shoots back in defeat. You sigh and try to meet his evasive eyes.

"You’re right, I’m not," you sigh, leaning in closer to him, "but that doesn’t mean I regret any of this. I can wish things were different while still loving how they are now." He finally meets your eyes, and his gaze goes soft. You share a fond look and, without words, reach an understanding: you're the best thing that has happened to each other, and eventually your love may see the light of day, but for now, just this is more than enough.

He brings your hand up to his mouth and lightly kisses your knuckles before letting your arms fall in between the both of you. "You’re right. I love this too. I’ll love anything as long as we can do it together." His words are full of tenderness and a rom-com sincerity that only he can do right.

"Except sit in my hot apartment." You smile as you lean towards him, and he smiles too as he goes in for a kiss.

"No, I loved that too. Just a little less than this." His lips touch yours, gentle and grinning, as your giggles float up into the night sky and you feel truly at ease once more.