#Was gonna write tonight but

[aringofsalt]

some highlights from buck's instagram ft. tommy, maddie, and the 118

911 social media series 🚨

[donelywell]

If Sonic ever got stuck in Werefox form, what would happen?

I know this is technically not what you asked for- but I'm gonna use this as an excuse to draw Tails' first reaction to witnessing the start of a Super Full Moon transformation cycle.

It's odd that there isn't a lot of stories where Sonic teaches Tails something. I know Tails is a genius, but he's like 3 here.

But yeah! Sonic does sometimes technically get 'stuck' in his Hedgefox form.

Part 2

[anthotneystark]

Wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face

(Also on AO3 now!)

It doesn’t happen suddenly.

Or, it does, but it’s a long time coming.

It’s a long time coming because it’s been coming his whole life. It’s been coming since the first time someone looked at him and said “it’s a good thing you’re pretty”. It’s been coming since the first time he heard someone say “beauty over brains”. It’s been coming since he was old enough to know that his dad was already planning on having to make connections to get him into a school of his choosing. He’s always known his book smarts were lacking, but it always hurt when he was reminded of it.

But it’s been more recent than that too.

It’s been coming since he felt that slick tail wrap around his neck. It’s been coming since Robin helped to change the bandages on his back. It’s been coming since the first date after everything ended with him going to bed alone because “I’m just not in the mood anymore” followed him pulling off his shirt.

It’s been coming since forever.

His looks have been his biggest asset his entire life, the only thing he could really use to get attention. And now there’s scratches in the paint.

After everything, when they’re finally safe, everything changes.

He doesn’t change, or he doesn’t think he does, because his habits are the same and his thoughts are the same and his nightmares are the same. But life slows down. And with it slowing down, he changes anyway.

Where once he was all lean, taut muscle, he softens. It’s still there, his daily runs and exercise are proof of that, but it’s a little more insulated.

(Robin tells him it’s because he’s been living with the stress of monsters for years, that feeling safe has pushed his body out of survival mode.)

It’s been coming though. With each comment from his mother about how he’s clearly eating too much junk food. With his father’s comments about how long his hair has gotten. With how girls’ eyes just skim right over him and move on.

It’s not all bad, of course. The kids, surprisingly, don’t comment beyond their usual teasing over things within his control – “stripes again? Don’t you have any other patterns?” or “why do you have to wear those shorts while you’re cleaning the pool?” which is usually followed by Eddie smacking whoever said it. Max makes exactly one comment, quietly, when it’s just the two of them still awake during a movie night.

“You’re a better pillow these days.”

Maybe it’s a joke, maybe she’s just being nicer with her teasing, but whatever her reasoning he likes it. When he thinks about it like that, being different doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

It doesn’t usually last long though.

So it’s not a sudden thing, until it is.

He’s not even totally sure what causes it. Some comment, sure, but the words themselves are in one ear and out the other. His parents are leaving for another trip, his mother comments about eating healthier while they’re gone, his father makes some dig that’ll lodge under his skin with all the other barbs he’s thrown at him for all these years.

All he really remembers is that a comment is made. The rush of heat and sour bile in his throat. The door shuts and all he can hear are overlapping echoes of all the comments that have ever been thrown at him. All he can feel is the tightness of the tee shirt he’s wearing the weight that no longer rests on his shoulders, but which is spread over his entire body. He finds himself looking into a mirror and suddenly cannot look at that any longer.

His hands shake and he doesn’t trust himself, but he knows where he can go.

It should scare him that he doesn’t remember the drive. It should scare him that he’s here but doesn’t fully know how he got here. But he doesn’t have room for more panic in his head. They’re past the point of knocking, of waiting to be let in, so pushing through the doorway of the trailer is a familiar motion. Eddie looking up and smiling where he’s strumming his guitar is a familiar sight.

The way his smile faulters and turns into a frown is less familiar.

“Stevie? What’s wrong?” He feels like he can’t breath, can’t possibly explain everything in his head, but he can’t just expect Eddie to read his mind. He’s not Robin after all.

“I need it gone. Off. I can’t…I can’t,” he manages, one shaking hand sliding into his hair and tugging, the pain grounding for just a moment. Eddie might not be able to read his mind, but he understands him these days more than most people. It’s an unlikely friendship founded in terror and fortified by countless hours in hospital rooms and new homes.

“Oh sweetheart. Are you sure?” He knows it’s extreme, but he can’t help what he needs, even if Eddie is concerned. He nods, swallowing hard. Eddie doesn’t try to talk him out of it, just pulls him to the bathroom and sits him on the edge of the tub.

“Lets start small, okay? And we can go as far as you need from there.” He wants to argue, but at the same time he knows it’s reasonable. And it’s Eddie. He trusts Eddie. He can’t make any words come out, but he manages a little nod. Eddie, doing what he does best, just starts talking. He’s not really paying attention to the words, but he doesn’t have to. He can feel the chill of the metal scissors, the soft rumble of Eddie’s voice, the too gentle fingers pushing and pulling him into whatever position is best. Eddie pauses now and again, a question in his eyes, but continues on when he sees whatever he’s looking for still lingering.

It's not until Steve feels his shoulders slumping, his hands loosening where they’re clenched at his knees, the chill of the breeze from the open window hitting skin that no longer feels boiling hot, that Eddie sets down the scissors. He feels lighter, doesn’t even care about the itchy feeling of stray hairs clinging to his clothes and skin.

When he finally looks in the mirror, his hair is shorter than it’s been in years. It’s not gone, not buzzed off, but it’s not the same as it was.

Neither is he though.

Eddie’s giving him a knowing look, one that says he’s got something to say but is holding off.

The cut itself is a little rough, but in a good way. It’s clearly not a professional sort of thing; he likes it more because of it.

“Thank you,” he whispers, exhaustion and relief hitting him in equal measures.

“You know, when I buzzed my hair, there were a lot of rumors,” Eddie says softly. “Stuff about my dad punishing me, about looking too girly before, that sort of thing. But really, it was just…so much going on all at once. My dad had just gotten arrested, mom took off, Uncle Wayne was stressed over having another mouth to feed. I felt like I couldn’t breath and just-” he makes a buzzing noise and mimes shaving through the mop of dark hair, which he’s got tied back today now that Steve can actually see it.

“Just had to get it off?” he asks.

“Yep. Needed it gone. Growing it back was a pain, but it was good too. Felt like a fresh start even if it was a little like trying to get back to where I used to be,” Eddie explains. It makes sense, at least to Steve. “So, you know, I get it. But I also know you’d have another breakdown if we shaved it all off completely,” he jokes. It’s enough to drag a laugh out of him.

It’s very Eddie, baring his soul while he’s helping to bandage a lost sheep, and Steve wishes he had the words to say how grateful he is. Instead, he just takes the towel Eddie throws at him and the soft, well worn clothes Eddie sets on the counter. He showers, pulls on a shirt for a band he doesn’t recognize, and breathes out a sigh of relief when the vice around his body finally, finally, comes loose.

Eddie doesn’t wait long once he sits down on the couch, immediately flopping back to use his thighs as a pillow while he goes back to strumming along to the music in his head. It’s a quiet moment, a safe moment. He doesn’t even notice as his head drops back to rest on the cushions, his breathing slowing as he finally feels light enough to rest.

Later, he’ll wake up with their positions reversed, with Eddie playing with his hair in a way that’ll make his brain turn into mush. Later, he’ll gather the courage to finally stop toeing that line of friendship and more that he and Eddie have been dancing on for so long now. Later, Eddie will hear everything that’s been in his head and will hold him down while he kisses every last insecurity and promises that it’s only made him more obsessed with him.

Maybe that won’t fix the insecurities, but that doesn’t mean Eddie isn’t going to make it very clear just how happy he is loving Steve exactly as he is at every point in time.

Because it doesn’t happen suddenly.

Or, it does, but it’s a long time coming.

[narumi-gens]

heading north gojo satoru x f!reader

minors/ageless/blank blogs dni, pregnancy, major jjk manga spoilers, some angst (angst-adjacent?)

"your students are worried about you."

the heaviness of your words is undercut by your flippant tone. you wonder if satoru is surprised that you're waiting to greet him moments after he's finished slaughtering the higher-ups or if he was expecting you to be nearby.

"they tell you about their plan?" he asks, casually tossing his arm over your shoulders as he begins to lead you away from the carnage.

"you mean the plan for after you die? where yuuta cuts open your skull, takes out your brain, and swaps it for his?" you reply dryly as you wrap your own arm around his waist, instinctively holding him close for warmth as you both exit the dark corridor to be confronted with the early winter chill. you sigh softly and shake your head. "no, shoko did. I think they were too scared of my reaction."

"I don't blame them. those pregnancy hormones are no joke!" he teases, only to immediately hiss in pain when you give his side a harsh pinch. neither of you comment on how it only hurt because he let it.

silence settles over you and part of you thinks that he's going to let the conversation end there. after all, satoru has always been happy to let a serious discussion end prematurely with an annoyingly playful comment.

"you want them to leave my corpse alone?" it's as much a question posed out of curiosity as it is an offer. it's so unexpected that your feet come to a stop on their own.

he turns to face you and you can only look up at him thoughtfully, mulling over what he's asking you.

"no," you finally say with a shrug. "as long as it's disposed of properly after everything's over and done with, I don't care what they do with it. besides, you won't lose so it doesn't matter anyway."

a cheeky grin slowly tugs at the corner of his lips before he drops down to crouch in front of you. he slips his hands – the same hands that just wiped out the higher-ups in one fell swoop – beneath your coat to press a palm on either side of your protruding belly.

"you hear that? your mom's my number one fan!" he says in a stage whisper, speaking directly to your unborn child, his unborn child. you can only roll your eyes as you suppress the urge to flick his forehead.

you can feel his thumb rubbing circles through the fabric of your sweater and as he continues to gaze at your baby bump, something passes over his expression that you can't quite read.

"hm, maybe the jujutsu world won't have to wait another 400 years before there's another limitless user with the six eyes," he muses and your mouth suddenly feels dry.

the statement is weighted by the implication of his death, but it's something you look past to focus instead on what inheriting both the limitless and the six eyes would mean for your child's future.

"you'd curse our child with that?" you manage to finally ask with a small frown, your voice slightly rough.

it's not only the target that would be painted on their back that concerns you, but also the weight and expectations that would be placed on their shoulders from the moment they were born.

"if it meant their safety," he answers, his tone and demeanor both uncharacteristically serious.

you want to argue with him, to tell him that being given such great power would be the thing that puts them at risk. but instead, you ask him something else.

"you'd curse me with that?" there's something fragile in your question and your voice that has him lifting those cursed eyes to look up at you. you both know what you're really asking.

would he trust you to raise his child alone? would he trust you to keep them safe, until they were strong enough to protect themselves? would he curse you with doing what he might be unable to?

"with this?" he raises an eyebrow and glances down at your bump meaningfully. "who else would I curse but you?"

your eyes feel wet and you can only nod, unable to find the right words. instead, you lift your hands and cup his where they're still holding your belly.

despite the chaos and danger hanging over your heads and on the horizon, you take the opportunity to savor this moment – you and satoru together, your future, your legacy, held in your shared embrace.

a small thought comes to you and a faint smile forms on your lips.

"maybe they won't be born with the limitless and they'll get something different. or maybe even nothing at all and they'll have to find their own strength." your words seem to strike something in him because he gently rests his forehead on your bump. "maybe they won't have to be chained down with the burden of being the gojo heir."

he softly snorts, but you know him well enough by this point to tell that he's smiling.

"maybe they can start anew, huh?" he asks, amusement lacing his tone.

he stays where he is for another moment, his head bowed reverently to you and his child, and when he looks back up at you, he immediately takes note of the way your eyes are shining. a wide grin lights up his annoyingly handsome face.

"you cryin'? I told you those pregnancy hormones are wild!"

you're quick to shove his hands off of you and give his shoulders a hard push so that he falls over, relishing the way he cries out. as you begin to walk away from him, you're grateful that with him at your back, he can't see the grin on your lips that matches his perfectly.

[xoxoemynn]

I spent the night catching up on reading some fic after taking a bit of a breather to focus on writing and omg, it felt SO GOOD. The amount of TALENT in this fandom is unreal. Un. Real. For the past few hours I've been immersed in so many different worlds featuring my favorite characters and it was BREATHTAKING.

And now I'm sitting here thinking about how much fun that was and how I need to do that more often because oh my god the EXHILARATION truly I am just LIVING right now. I felt SO MANY EMOTIONS and I didn't even leave my couch?!

And it's so cool because I was reading one fic and losing my mind over it and mid-way through I went "wow, I want to write a fic Like That." Because it stirred a kind of emotion in me and I'd love to stir that kind of emotion in others and it's got my brain buzzing in a new way I doubt it would have buzzed on its own had I not read that fic and it's just SO. COOL. how creativity begets more creativity and how we all inspire each other.

And it's all because we found This Show and loved it and couldn't let it go, and there are still countless stories to be told and universes to play in and it's SO EXCITING and I love you all and I'm so grateful.

Thank you for sharing your love for OFMD however you share it, thank you for your fic and your art and your text posts and your tags and your comments.

Thank you for being here. 💕

[flowercrowngods]

based on this concept of steve and mike coming out to each other

🤍 also on ao3

The sun is setting in beautiful hues of pink and purple, tinging the town of Hawkins, Indiana, in a light of serenity and beauty it doesn’t really deserve. Steve’s hands are gripped tight around the steering wheel as he carefully scans the road and the houses he passes.

He almost misses the bike where it’s lying on the curb, carelessly discarded by the looks of it, and a tinge of worry shadows his frown. Worry that doesn’t quite dissipate when he spots the figure sitting on the roof, almost black against the lilac colour of the sky, but he breathes a sigh of relief. He considers grabbing the radio to let the others know he found Mike, but decides against it. Something tells him that maybe they’ll take a while. Something tells him there’s more to Will’s stunned silence and Mike’s sudden departure from where they were all hanging out at Steve’s after another successful Hellfire session. 

With a sigh, Steve cuts the engine and gets out of the car, keeping his eyes on Mike the whole time — ready for him to take off again, ready to go sit a while and wait for him to come back. But Mike doesn’t move, even after he shuts the door and approaches the Wheelers’ house. He doesn’t acknowledge Steve when he pulls himself up to the roof, easier this time than the first time he did this. 

There’s a snide comment in the air between them, a version of Mike that would have lashed out at him, made fun of and insulted him. But this one just sits there, hands in his lap, frown on his face, and stares ahead. 

“What do you want,” he asks eventually, though it doesn’t have the kind of heat that Steve expects. He barely even sounds like a teenager. Just sort of�� dejected. Steve aches for him; just a little bit. 

“Just making sure you’re alright,” Steve says, shrugging, looking ahead as well so Mike doesn’t feel watched. Or seen, maybe. 

Because the thing is, Steve does see him. He sees the way he looks at Will sometimes, and the way his eyes fill with something that can only be described as yearning, or aching, followed by regret and fear. Which always, always turn into anger. Into frustration. Into snide comments and rolled eyes and walls that keep getting an inch added to them each day. It’s never directed at Will, that anger, and rarely at the rest of the Party, but Steve still sees it. Gets the worst of it and takes it, because he knows something about how that feels. 

He knows something about looking at someone like that, about feeling that fear, that regret, that worry that come with it. He knows something about never really daring to meet someone’s eyes for fear of what they would see. 

“I’m alright,” Mike says, sounding anything but. There’s a bitterness in his voice. Frustration in the way his thumb is picking at the skin of his fingers. Confusion in the tension of his shoulders, and Steve feels like he only needs to make one wrong move, say one wrong word, make a single sound that’s off key to the melody of this moment, and Mike will jump off the roof and take off again with his bike. 

So all he says, after a moment’s consideration, is, “Cool.” Like he believes him. Giving Mike room to breathe, room to pretend. He knows something about that, too. 

He knows and he sees and he feels. 

And suddenly he wants to say something he’s never said before, something he didn’t even get to tell Robin because she knew and saw and felt, too, taking something from him that he hasn’t yet been ready to reclaim for himself. 

And maybe it’s because he sees something of himself in the way Mike holds himself, in the way he snaps at anyone willing to listen, in the way he frowns in regret and barely meets anyone’s eyes except when it’s in challenge — and, most of all, in the way he never, never meets Will’s eyes. In the way he looks away when the other boy turns to him, and in the way his eyes will snap back and take in everything about his best friend when he’s not aware of it. 

Maybe it’s because the sky is pink and lilac and purple above them, allowing for a certain magic to happen, allowing for a bravery that doesn’t come easy to him; but as he sits on the roof next to Mike Wheeler, the only one of the Party he never really connected with, he closes his eyes against the breeze that catches in his hair and opens his jacket a little further, slithering beneath the fabric as if in a brief embrace, a nudge, a sign to take this leap, and takes a deep breath. 

His heart is picking up its pace inside his chest, taking this leap along wit him, and pulls up one of his legs to wrap his hands around it — just to have something to hold onto. 

He opens his mouth once, twice, three times, but the words never really come out. They don’t know how, and he’s beginning to tremble a little with it, tension building in his chest where the words are still locked away, hidden among layers of truth. 

Mike looks over with a frown and eyes him warily. It makes Steve want to laugh, this sudden change of pace, but he just keeps staring ahead; even when Mike asks, “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says. And then then dam is broken and breaking further, and with another deep breath, still not meeting Mike’s eyes, instead focusing on the tree tops in the distance that shine in hues of purple, he finally says, “I’m kind of dating Eddie Munson.” 

And just like that, it’s out. He’s out. 

He doesn’t know if the world still spins, if time still passes, if he still breathes, because for a moment there is only silence. Mike stops picking at the skin of his fingers, Steve stops trembling, and neither of them moves. 

It’s both anticlimactic and momentous, this silence between them when their eyes meet. When the words unfold and grow wings, when Mike understands, his eyes growing big with something that Steve can’t quite read with how tense he is despite his best efforts. 

The silence stretches between them, surpassing comfort and overstaying its welcome, and suddenly it’s Steve who feels like he’s about to take off if Mike so much as twitches his brows. 

“You… What?” 

Forget it, Steve wants to say. Nothing. 

But also, I’m in love with Eddie Munson. And I used to be in love with Nancy. And that’s okay. Both of that, it’s okay. 

He ends up repeating his words, though, because they know what it’s like to be spoken now. “Eddie. I’m kind of dating Eddie.” 

“But…” It’s Mike now whose mouth is opening and closing without saying anything. Mike who’s blinking, trembling a little, twitching, picking at his skin again, moving further along his hand this time to pinch the skin between his thumb and pointer finger. Steve almost reaches out to stop him, but he doesn’t really dare to. 

“But?” he prompts after a while, not quite comfortable with this loaded kind of silence. 

“Eddie’s a boy.” 

But Tammy Thompson is a girl. 

“I know,” Steve says, his tone carefully neutral, wanting to see, to wait where Mike takes this, to hear what’s on his mind, to watch the wheels turn and the gears shift. He feels awfully raw and open, vulnerable with someone who hasn’t been treating that with care yet. But there’s something about this moment that feels bigger than his own fears, bigger than the light nausea settling in his gut; far more important than the way he wants to run and hide, away from the scrutiny. 

“And…” Mike continues, still battling the words inside his head. Steve wonders if there are too many or none at all. “But you… You loved Nancy.” 

Ah. Smart boy. “I did,” Steve says with a small smile. “And it was never a lie. But I found that… Yeah, I can kinda like boys, too, y’know? And that’s, like, okay.”

A beat. A frown. A confused, hopeful, small, “It is?” 

Steve just nods, smiling in reassurance and relief at equal measures. Silence settles once more, now that the sky has darkened into a deeper, darker blue; but it’s not as loaded this time, not as tense. It’s an invitation. An offering. A promise of I’m here, I’m with you, you can take as long as you need. To get down from the roof, to come back, to come out of wherever you think you need to hide from the world. 

Mike takes it. He stays, pulling up his leg, too, mirroring Steve’s pose and staring ahead, but not as far away. He seems alert, seems to be thinking rather than dwelling, seems to be gearing up for something. Steve watches and sees and knows, remaining patient beside him, his chin resting on his knee as Mike learns to deal with this new world that has been presented to him. This new world that comes with opportunities and chances and possibilities that are scary and big and difficult to make. 

“Y’know,” Mike starts at last, interrupting the silence, playing with it, his voice hushed and quiet to keep it from disappearing completely. “Lucas, when he had that championship game? He told us, Dustin and me, that we didn’t have to be the losers this time. The nerds. The outcasts. Different. And all I wanted was to scream at him, because…” 

Mike swallows his words, keeping them from tumbling out of his mouth, and Steve aches for him again. He wants to reach out, wants to say it’s okay, tell him it’s alright, to take his time. But he waits in silence, lets Mike find the bravery he needs on his own, and waits. 

“Because how could he say that, you know? How could he, when… Will wasn’t there. And all I did, all I ever did anymore, was miss him. And I loved El, I knew I did. And she was gone, too, but…” 

He trails off again, and this time Steve picks it up. To let him know he’s not alone. To let Mike know he understands what he’s saying. He understands. “But she’s not Will. You needed Will.” 

“But I shouldn’t!” Mike explodes suddenly, riled up because Steve adds fuel to the fire, because Steve has that same fire, too; and because they are so, so similar when they want to be. “And now he’s back and it should be fine, I shouldn’t be feeling like this, it doesn’t even make sense! How can I…” 

Steve looks at him, at his expression that is nothing but lost — completely and utterly. He’s seen it on the bathroom floor at the mall; high out of his mind as he was, he’ll never forget the way Robin looked at him, the sheer crestfallen expression. All that confusion, all that fear and frustration and, in the end, resignation. He’s seen it in the mirror, and he’s seen it in those pretty brown eyes that he just can’t get out of his head anymore. 

He offers, gently, “How can you need him when he’s right there? How can you love him when a year ago you loved El?”

And Mike just looks at him before he deflates completely, his shoulders falling along with his face. He nods. Shrugs. Looks away and hides his face behind his leg. 

Steve sighs softly, watching the boy and speaking the words he wants to say the sixteen year-old version of himself. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I really don’t, and it sucks sometimes, having this need to, like, decide. Or understand. Or stop and be like the rest of them.” Like Robin and Eddie, or like the rest of the world. “But I like to think, sometimes, that maybe it’s a good thing. That there’s just… I don’t know, it sounds corny as hell, but like, there’s just so much love to give, we can’t even stick to only boys or girls, y’know.” 

“That does sound real corny as fuck, man,” Mike says, and back is that long suffering tone of his, back is that eye roll and the twitching elbow, ready to nudge Steve in the side. It’s still tinged with that vulnerability, not quite Mike yet, but it’s an offering.

One of many tonight, it seems.

Steve grins, a bit lopsided and raw, shoving Mike gently as he remembers something he overheard once. “Sorry, mister Heart of our group, but I don’t think you have any leg to stand on here.”

That makes Mike freeze, though, and he stares at Steve wide-eyed; caught. Exposed. Reminded.

“What did you say?”

“Uh,” Steve falters, not sure where he went wrong — or if he went wrong at all. “I overheard Will calling you that, talking about you to, uhm. Someone. I don’t know. Why, what’s— What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Mike says, way too quickly, pulling away again with everything he has, hiding behind those walls once more, and Steve feels whiplash from it.

“Mike,” he says, his voice quiet and gentle as he turns to face him completely.

“No.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says. Promises, as much as he can.

“Shut up!”

“You’re not wrong or bad or broken. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

“I said, shut up, Steve.”

“You should see the way he looks at you, too. You should go talk to him. You—“

Mike lashes out, finally coming out from behind those walls again, only to shove at Steve, to push him away — hard enough for him to lose his balance and almost fall off the roof, clenching one hand on the edge, the other in the rainwater gutter with a bitten-off curse.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” Mike reaches for him immediately, snapping out of whatever anger Steve caused, and pulling him back until he’s safe again, apologising over and over, dead to Steve’s promises that it’s alright. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Steve, I’m so—“

He pulls Mike against his chest, finally reaching out to hold the boy who always pushes people away when they get too close — quite literally, too.

But he doesn’t shove this time, doesn’t move out of Steve’s grasp as the mumbled apologies become heaving sobs.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, you’re so okay, Mike,” Steve tells him over and over as he holds him. The sky above is almost black now and Steve lets Mike cry into his chest.

It takes a while for Mike to calm down, but Steve just holds him through it, ready to let go whenever Mike wants to pull back and snap out of it again — but he never does, and Steve feels a certain kind of affection for the boy that is usually reserved for Lucas or Dustin.

At last, when he’s calmed down, Mike pulls back a little. “Do you really… Does it… Is it really okay?”

Can it be okay? Can I really like both? Is that not just me, being broken and wrong and bad? Will I get the chance to not be alone?

Steve swallows hard, and his voice is hoarse when he says, “Yeah. It’s really okay. ‘N’ I’m with you, yeah? If someone gives you shit for it. Or if you need a reminder.”

And Mike — puffy eyed, snotty nosed, so, so young — looks at him with those trusting eyes and nods, like he believes Steve. Like he trusts him. Like he hopes.

“Just don’t fucking shove me off your roof again.”

Ans just like that, the spell is broken, the tension is lifted, and silence has left them, as Mike almost chokes on a laugh and shoves at him again, lightly this time, before jumping off the roof so Steve can’t retaliate.

“Asshole,” he mutters, shaking his head as he, too, jumps off the roof, dusting off his pants as he watches Mike grabbing his bike. “Hey, Micycle,” he calls, cackling when Mike flips him the bird. “You want a ride back?”

Mike stops, considering as Steve casually flicks his keys into the air and catches them expertly. “What kinda music do you got?”

“The Clash, ‘cause Eddie hates them.”

“Yeah, that’s because they suck!”

Steve snorts, opening the driver’s side door. “Y’know, they’re one of Will’s favourites, actually.”

He watches Mike freeze with a grin on his face, knowing there’s no way the boy would take the bike.

“You’re so annoying,” Mike sighs as he brings his bike close to the garage and carefully lays it on the grass this time before hurrying over to Steve, getting in on the front, rolling his eyes when Steve cackles. “I don’t know why Eddie would date you—“

His words are drowned out when Steve turns up Train in Vain, drumming along on the steering wheel with a shit eating grin. Though the atmosphere is wildly different now, the spell broken and the bubble burst, it’s undeniable that something happened between them. Something big, something important.

Something that makes Mike’s annoyed, long-suffering expression be broken by the smile he’s trying to hide. It makes Steve laugh, elated and feeling something that’s much, much bigger than he himself ever could be.

It’s going to be okay. So, so okay.

Before they know it, they’re pulling up to Steve’s and he turns off the car, is about to get out when Mike makes him still again.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Hm?”

“I think it’s cool. You and Eddie.”

He smiles, relief and fondness washing over him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.” He reaches over and ruffles Mike’s hair — a wild mane these days, but they could make it work with some care and some products. “Now go get your man, lover boy.”

“God, you suck so much, you’re so annoying!”

Steve’s cackling again when the passenger door slams shut and Mike lets himself into his house.

He spots a figure in the dark, their face lighting up when they take a drag of a cigarette — and Steve’s heart stumbles in his chest. He scrambles to get out, attempting to look calm and collected, even though Eddie always manages to see right through him.

“Hello, stranger,” he says, leaning against the wall beside Eddie, hiding away in the dark, where the world won’t see their shoulders touch, or their fingers tentatively playing with each other before they can’t take it no longer and lace their hands, holding on tight.

“Hi,” Eddie breathes. “How’d it go?”

“Fine, I think. But, uhm… I told him. About me. About us. That, uh. That okay?”

Even in the dark, Steve can feel eyes on him, but he just stares ahead, opting instead to give his warm hand a squeeze. He smiles when Eddie’s thumb begins to draw patterns on his palm.

“Hmm. Very. You think they’ll be okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, stealing Eddie’s cigarette from his mouth and pulling it between his own lips. “Yeah, I think they will be.”

[erwinsvow]

had the worst day ever😭 i need some shy!reader and rafe

im so sorry baby hope this makes you feel better ♡

bad days always felt the same—never ending, dragging on and on while you're too tired, bones exhausted and muscles weeping. your head hurts from the overthinking, and though you're hardly one to get mad about silly things, today you are—mad. it must be something you've picked up from your boyfriend.

everything feels unfair, feels wrong or like it's about to go wrong. you can't even describe it if someone were to ask, but you know your boyfriend will ask, and that you need to get an answer ready since he doesn't settle for your silence, even though today you'd really wish he would.

from the morning that started off late to the afternoon that dragged on, the barista that messed up your order and then was rude to you about it, nothing was going your way. the coffee had just been the tipping point—that was the one thing meant to cheer you up.

when you drag your tired body and achy head to tannyhill, you stop to glance in the mirror in the hallway.

this was your tipping point, how messy your hair was, smudged mascara from when you cried in your car outside the coffee shop and the nail you chipped slamming the door. everything sucked, and though rafe always made it better, you didn't even want to see him when you looked like this.

you want to turn around and go home, but your feet still drag you to rafe's bedroom. your brain knows he'll make you feel better, though it takes everything in your willpower to open the door.

"hey, kid. how was your day?" the second he asks, glancing up from his laptop to look up at you, you burst into tears. he rushes over, putting his hands on your shoulders to keep you upright, to calm you down. "woah, what the hell. what's wrong?"

words don't come out, just sobs. you don't think rafe's ever seen you like this before, but it doesn't take him long to bring you into a hug, and you cry against his chest until his shirt is all wet.

"what's goin' on, baby? someone do somethin'? huh?" rafe is a problem solver at his core—but you know there's no one person to blame for today, except maybe yourself. though you wouldn't mind a little roughhousing, you don't think rafe's gonna be open to beating you up. your words come out slurred in a mumble of tears.

you rattle off your day in between sobs, and when he sits you down on his bed, he's a little less concerned because at least you're okay.

"c'mon," he says, and you lean against his shoulder. "get it all out and then y'can take a hot shower. i'll get dinner. s'gonna be fine."

though you're not saying many words, and a part of you had thought he'd be upset that you cry over every little thing, everything rafe says and does makes you feel better. when you sniffle, moving to wipe your tears, he holds your face in his hands, running a thumb across your cheek to wipe them away. you lean into his hand.

"s-sorry about your shirt."

"don't worry 'bout that, kid. you feelin' better?"

"a little."

"c'mon, clothes off. let's go shower. water as hot as you want it." you perk up, even laughing a little—rafe thinks the water you use will scald your skin.

"really?" you question, smiling up at him.

"really."

"thanks, rafe."

"yeah." he follows you to the shower, and though it didn't take many words or much time, you feel better already.

[glitterslag]

ok this is my last one of these. maybe

[crybaby-bkg]

You try not to rustle the sheets too loudly when you sit up in bed. You rub at your eyes, frowning, as you tap at your phone screen to read the time. 3:26am, and you haven’t gotten the sleep you know you both need and deserve. you sigh quietly, sitting up against the headboard as you watch the dimmed colors pass on the tv.

“What’re you doing up?” A voice slurs to you from your left. You jump a little at the sudden gruff noise, before you deflate. You glance over to Bakugou, where he lays on his side, one crimson colored eye blinking up at you, before he yawns loud and wide, akin to a lion with his golden mane. You can’t help but rub gently at his cheek and jaw and neck, patting him once his eye flutters close at the warmth of your hands.

“Can’t sleep. You go back to bed, though.” You whisper to him, leaning down to peck at the corner of his mouth. You laugh under your breath when he frowns, hard and over dramatic. Silence passes on for a few minutes, with Bakugou’s frown slowly disappearing into a thin line, seemingly falling back asleep as your fingers continue to rub at his skin. Your quiet moment is interrupted though, when your stomach makes a whale-dying-classroom-interrupting-bomb-dropping noise. You don’t say anything, but blink down at Bakugou when he cracks his eye open again.

“You hungry?” He slurs once more, stretching a little in place as you run a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, but I don’t feel like getting up to fix anything, and we haven’t gone to the store yet to get some snacks, so,” you shrug to yourself, convincing yourself you’d fall asleep before the hunger pangs set in. It’s your turn to frown though, when Bakugou suddenly groans before rolling over and standing from the bed.

“Where are you going?" You ask him, afraid you and your loud stomach disturbed his rest too much. You watch how the muscle in his back ripple when he stretches again where he stands, guilty eyes tracking up his body when he looks at you from over his shoulder.

“To fix your hungry ass a midnight snack.” He tells you, finality lacing his voice as he starts stalking off to the kitchen in just his boxers before you can even answer.

“But it’s past midnight!” You call to him, scrambling up to put your slippers on as you try to keep up with his pace.

Bakugou doesn’t answer you by the time you make it to the kitchen, already boiling water, and dumping rice into the cooker. He’s pulling out different ingredients and knives and the cutting board, and it feels like too much to be so late, but you know if you try to speak up, he’ll only shoo you to bed until he’s finished. The only acknowledgment he gives you is when he turns, placing his hands on your underwear-clad hips and lifts you to sit on the counter behind him, pecking your lips once, twice, before he goes back over to the stove.

The next couple minutes go by gently, with quiet conversations about his most recent capture, about the paperwork you had to fill out, about Denki being an idiot, about Denki actually being a sweetheart, about eating all this damn food he’s cooking, about promising to clean your entire plate. The kitchens lights are low and dimmed, and it casts a soft glow on Bakugou’s high cheekbones and his pretty lashes and the sweet curve of his mouth when he grins at you.

And when the food finishes, you share a bowl, a respective fork for the each of you. Bakugou stands between your legs, chewing quietly and scolds for you to slow down when you eat too fast. He wipes away the rice from your mouth and you lick away the sauce from his chin. He grabs a water bottle from the fridge and lets you have the first sip, offers you the rest when you watch some of it dribble down his chin.

It’s a serene moment shared between the two of you, and when you’re both finished, he’s carrying you back to bed. Tells you that you better take your full ass to bed this time, and he doesn’t fall asleep until he hears your light snores first. Then, he can rest.

[darby-rowe]

keep thinking about university coryo and reader who are both very very smart, so they fucking love it when the other becomes pussy/cock drunk because it's the only time they're dumb as hell

i imagine it happens a lot whenever they're studying or something, basically situations where they're supposed to be using their brains and being productive...but they get distracted so easily, and they think it's funny to keep talking because they know damn well the other person is too wrecked to respond properly:

reader smirking down at coryo while she rides him because his eyes are completely glazed over and he can barely speak without stuttering...

coryo making snide comments to reader while he fucks her because she can't focus or answer any of his questions...

shit like "aren't there any thoughts in that pretty head of yours?" and "look at you, top student and can't even keep your eyes open" gets thrown around a lot

are you seeing my vision????

i see you… i hear you… and i love you

18+ | nsfw | mdni

cw fem!reader

thinking about a fwb situation with extremely smart and capable coriolanus snow that starts out as a harmless rivalry then snowballs into something so much more (and sexier).

and i’m thinking like you’re the best pussy this man has ever had the pleasure of fucking. so when you’re riding him, his perfectly groomed hair all messy from being too fucked out, the rings on his fingers pressing into the flesh of your hips… fuck, it feels so fucking good: the feeling of his cock throbbing inside you and to be in control.

“what’s that?” you ask mockingly, voice out of breath from working your hips. “can’t hear you. you’re not making sense, coryo. i — fuck — asked you a question,”

then reversing the roles, where coryo is piston-fucking his cock inside you, pinning down your arms as he uses you to get himself off and to dumb you down. your pretty eyes have already become so glassy, no thoughts in your head except his rock-hard cock and how it’s hitting that spot inside you so damn good.

“aw, little bunny can’t talk?” he taunts, grabbing your jaw and digging his fingertips into your face. “no thoughts inside that pretty head of yours? mmm, top student and you can barely form a thought, huh?”

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

so i've had a lil fic idea floating in my head for a bit. it's fun to think about!

[thevioletcaptain]

i make a nickel / boss makes a buck / so at work i write fic / where the characters fuck

idk is this anything?

[weirdfishy]

gotta urgent need for some not-quite-yet punkflower where hobie is chillin in some rubble post-(successful) battle all knackered out n miles is visiting (idk bc he just told his parents abt spiderman n it went well so he's bursting at the seems with love at being accepted n all yea? he's gotta tell someone, and why not him? why not hobie? it's no one else but hobie he's gotta tell, if he's being honest with himself [denile is not a river in his egypt, ok pav?] so yeah, he finds himself on 138) n catches the tail end of the battle, tracks down where hobie decided to make a couch outta concrete and lands in front of him, buzzing with cheezy lovey dovey feelins of elation, top o' the fucken world, and asks on abt hobie, rambling until hobie just lifts a hand, a silent ask for help up, (always asking for connection always makin sure they're actually there) n miles, have i mentioned he's happy? he's straight up a sap, so he takes that hand.

he takes that hand gently, bending at the waist a bit, dramatically sweeping back his other arm, bowing, for hell's sake, n plants a kiss on the back of hobie's hand, nice n proper, with a cheeky wink to boot (he'd finally fixed the eye mechanisms last week, thanks to penny), before pulling up new london's own spiderman chest to chest with a bright laugh that puts a different kind of stars in hobie's eyes, half dancing half belting out a song in spanish he doesn't quite understand but knows all the words to (it's some continental dialect, nothing his mami speaks, but would filter out the headphones of that kid in his building he walked w in middle school everyday)

before the sirens start getting closer n hobie can feel the warmth of miles-- the warmth of his smile, his hair that's still sparking from transdimensional travel, his arms, chest, laughter, everything, n all at once it pulls every affectionate n pining bit of hobie to the surface, if he weren't wearing his mask his blush would be so impossibly visible it's straight mad how much hobie loves n adores miles, how much seeing miles be happy lights hobie's whole fucking world

and oh, hobie's never seen a god he didn't punch, never believed in any one he couldn't, but right now, with his fingers entwined with miles', aches leaving his bones like he's never felt his left shoulder twinge the second it drops below 21 just because miles just yelled fuck off to the approaching pigs, he could fall to his knees n swear pious fealty to milesmilesmiles.

but hobie is cool (never has a label stuck to him like the one miles has given him), and his real, livin n breathing god is starting to ramble, so hobie webs them upupup, heat along his back as god wraps arms around him, breath on his neck as home weaves tales into the leather wrapping it.

then miles hears hobie's stomach growl, so he starts pulling them away from the path of what he knows is towards hobie's flat, and towards what he swears is the only good puerto rican food in the whole of hobie's haunt, his excitement steamrolling over his usual stuttering spanish, exchanging shouts n jeers with everyone behind the counter

bc everyone knows him, like miles has lived here, earth-138, new london, his whole life, like hobie brown being dragged into the shop every other week by miles morales to get the same two plates (n an extra something for miles to gush over n hobie to taste) is how the rest of this life will go, like hobie n miles are together, in a way that the unsubtle looks the owner's kid at the register is aiming at miles' left hand are correct, but don't involve stuffy socially religious systems like marriage

but they're not, as much as hobie would love to kiss miles, gaze into his eyes for ages, hear his laughter, his off-key singing, his scritch-scritch of something on paper everyday-- bc he can't go abt this like he does everyone else, can't do it with half a foot out the door n a shrug as agreed; it's gotta be both feet on the floor, n it's gotta be for the rest of this life, so he'll take what he can get, and he'll take the distance n devotion, take the faith n the heartache. take what he can get from his god, glad to be touched by his god, glad to be loved by his god, across universes n the fall from his bed to the futon on the floor where miles decides to lay his head for choice holy nights

(hobie doesn't know miles is putting himself at the base of his god's shrine, hoping for his deity to fall into his arms, spikes n all, (ready, so ready to tear apart dimensions again for hobie, to bleed and cry n go to war for hobie) fingers splaying on the side of the mattress warmwarmwarm after hobie starts snoring, before they slip down softly, a prayer imparting from the pads, memorizing the patterns of his god's breath, the smell of the room, the borrowed shirt he wears, the sounds of a second city he calls home, thrumming full with a bass note plucked from an electric guitar, usually shaky hands sure n still picking out a different shape to hobie's eyebrow piercing, deftly screwing a star onto the bar. miles brings offerings to his god in pins n patches on clothing, stickers n torn out sketches decorating a shrine)

so they'll song n dance in new york, in new london; learning each other's cities, earths, haunts, people, arts, each other, like new scars for the collection- permanent and signs of living, odes to loving and protecting.

chest to chest, fingers entwined, warmth in the skies above cities, right on the edge of it all until they fall together, eyes wide open, gods broken down into blood and teeth and lovelovelove

not-quite-yet 2 - 3

. my ko-fi 💛

ao3 link

[pansyofthesouth]

This ruined my life and gave me purpose at the same time 😭

[loganlermanstanaccount]

i want to write, pinky promise. actually writing? yh idk abt that one

[wikiangela]

last line tag

Rules: share the last line written, tag some peeps, have some fun!

tagged by @tizniz @bidisasterevankinard @evansboyfriend @perfectlysunny02 @honestlydarkprincess @hippolotamus

He scrunches his nose again. He’s so fucking cute, Buck has to kiss him about it. So he leans in to press his lips against Tommy’s briefly, but then moves to kiss the tip of Tommy’s nose, and then his chin, just because, reveling in the fact that his boyfriend can’t stop the beaming smile spreading on his face.

___

no pressure tags (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @dr-shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @ladydorian05 @diazpatcher @monsterrae1 @rainbow-nerdss @pirrusstuff @bucks-daddy-issues @rogerzsteven @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @diazheartsbuckley @giddyupbuck @thewolvesof1998 @underwaterninja13 @your-catfish-friend @kinard-buckley @beyourownanchor6 @weewootruck @kirkaut @jewishbuckley @loveyouanyway @daffi-990 @lonelychicago @reformedplayerbibuck @spotsandsocks @exhuastedpigeon @bucked-it-up @diazsdimples @theotherbuckley @drcloyd @harborstationhottie