#an excuse to write about the kissing

[afewproblems]

So it's my birthday today, and I originally wanted to try out the microfic challenge for this month's prompt - cake, but this drabble definitely got away from me! So, please enjoy this little Steddie bday gift to me and to everyone else in the fandom ❤️

🎂🎂🎂

Eddie wipes his cheek with the crook of his arm, as he pours the finished batter into the first greased cake pan on the counter. His shirt sleeve comes away from his face dusted with the same flour that covers almost every inch of the Harrington's kitchen.

Robin turns a page of the open cookbook on the counter, her eyes scan down the page, "the icing recipe is on this page, did you take the butter out?"

Eddie groans loudly and as he pours the rest of the batter into the second pan, knowing that the other block of butter is still sitting in the fridge on the top shelf.

"If you didn't remember, what makes you think I did," he grumbles, running his pointer finger along the edge of the now empty bowl before popping a large dollop of batter into his mouth.

It's perfect, and Steve deserves nothing but perfect.

Steve who confided in Robin that he hadn't had a birthday cake since he was twelve years old, let alone anything made from scratch.

Made with love.

Not that Steve needs to know that…or Robin for that matter.

Eddie hazards a quick glance at the clock on the stove, they should have time to give everything a wipe down before--

"Guys?" A voice calls out as the front door unlatches and swings open.

Robin whirls around in a panic, grabbing to recipe book and tossing it into the cupboard beneath the sink while Eddie picks up the mixing bowl and shoves the rest of the dirty dishes into the sink.

"Their shoes are still here," the voice continues, soft and contemplative this time as Eddie turns too quickly, colliding with Robins side.

He fumbles with the mostly clean mixing bowl in his hands, watching as it slips through his fingers and clatters loudly across the floor, flinging chocolate batter across the tile and baseboards before rolling to a stop beside a pair of socked feet.

Eddie looks up from the feet to see Steve standing in the kitchen entrance with a bewildered expression on his face.

He's in the middle of taking off his Family Video vest. Steve's shirt rises to reveal a slim patch of skin, his eyes shift from the bowl, to Eddie, before landing eventually on the oven.

"Well…it looks like you two had a busy afternoon," Steve says slowly as his mouth curls into a fond grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. He pulls at the bottom of his shirt, stealing the hint of golden skin that has Eddie practically drooling in the kitchen.

God he's so unfairly pretty it hurts.

Eddie barks out a laugh and steps forward to block the view of the two pans on the counter.

"You know what they say about idle hands," Eddie laughs, his voice tinged with panic as he wiggles his fingers. He winces even as he says it and quickly drops his hands, god could he be any more of an ass?

He spots Robin standing to the side with clear panic on her face, mouthing the words, 'Get Him Outta Here' with wide eyes.

And, well, never let it be said that Eddie Munson couldn't think on the spot.

Steve tries to walk further into the kitchen as he drapes his vest on the island, "okay, you two are being more weird than normal what's--"

It's like Eddie moves on instinct, his hands dart out to cup Steve's cheek and the back of his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

Steve's startled gasp is muffled by Eddie's mouth as he walks them backwards until Steve is over the threshold and back in the living room once more.

Steve is frozen, tense, against Eddie and shit, he can't believe he tried this shit, he's so getting punched for this.

But then, Steve seems to relax slightly as he crowds closer into Eddie's space. His lips part as Steve breathes out a low moan.

Two broad hands come up to circle Eddie's hips, they squeeze once as Steve slots a leg between Eddie's own.

And holy shit, Eddie feels his brain go offline as Steve takes charge of the kiss, walking them backwards until Eddie is pressed against the wall of the living room.

It's good, so good, it's like something out of his dreams, the hot slide of lips against his own as Steve nips at his bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth to sooth the bite with his tongue.

"Fuck," it's Eddie's turn to moan this time as Steve pulls back slightly to run his nose along the crest of Eddie's cheek. Steve's right hand is splayed beside his head, against the wall, while the other rises to thread long fingers into Eddie's curls.

"You taste like chocolate," Steve hums softly against Eddies lips, "good choice for birthday cake".

Eddie winces, surpressing a groan, "Shit, you saw the pans?"

Steve laughs as he pulls back further and lifts his hand away from the wall to gesture behind him at the foyer.

"I mean, I saw the birthday bag and decorations you two left at the door?"

"God Dammit!" Robin yells from the kitchen; Steve snorts at the string of muttered expletives she continues to spout and shakes his head.

"I wasn't expecting a birthday kiss though," Steve continues after a beat, a small crease in the middle of his brow grows the longer he looks at Eddie with nervous eyes.

Oh.

It's Eddie's turn to grin now, he snags a handful of hair to pull over his face, hiding the pink flush he can feel spreading from his cheeks to his ears.

"Oh yeah, I mean, that was just a sample, see if you, uh, liked it or not," Eddie says softly. He steps closer, emboldened by the way Steve's breath hitches.

"I did," Steve whispers, "like it, I mean, a lot," a light pink flush rises in his cheeks to match Eddie's own blush.

"Ugh, get a room dingus,preferably one not in hearing range," Robin yells again, the sound of the oven door opening and closing punctuates her words, "cake'll be at least half an hour anyway".

"Is the rest of gift upstairs?" Steve asks slyly with a grin.

Eddie's head tilts as he processes the question, until Steve cocks an eyebrow and his eyes dart towards the stairs, then back to Eddie in one fluid motion.

Eddie swallows harshly and nods vigorously as Steve takes his hand, "Yes, jesus, it's supposed to be your birthday not mine".

"Best one I've had in awhile," Steve says softly before leading Eddie up the stairs and towards his room.

Robin's voice trails after them, exasperated but fond, "you assholes owe me, happy birthday you horn-dog".

Eddie can't help but laugh as they cross the landing and open the door.

This wasn't the surprise he and Robin had initially intended; but as he watches Steve walk backwards until his knees hit the plaid bedspread, Eddie can't help but feel that this was much better than he'd planned.

Perfect even.

Permanent Tag List: @eriquin @luvinthefreaks @cinnamon-mushroomabomination

[llamahearted]

they were playing & milly had been planning to lean in and catch her priest man off guard with some joke, but. well. now she's forgotten whatever-it-was she was gonna say

[chessb0r3d]

i cracked the code.

[romance-rambles]

eden ayn | the best of distractions

A moment in time, where Ayn attempts to write a letter and then promptly gets distracted.

1.7k, takes place during ayn's eden reborn ssr [traveler's letter], domestic fluff + light angst, reader is mc, series: none

— and happy birthday ayn!

[EXCERPT FROM AYN'S LETTER]

...

That day, I told you that you were my first—the first time I missed someone as deeply as I miss you. Thinking about it now, you've always been a series of first. The first one to tell me I'm worth it. The first person I ever kissed. The first person

[The rest of the line has yet to be written.]

As I'm writing this, I think of you, sitting on the couch with me. I'm sure your ears are as red as mine, but you'll still reach out and pinch my cheek. And I'll kiss the palm of your hand and you'll say, "You like me." As if you won't kick your feet and squeal, when you're alone—the way you do when you're reading a good book.

Since I'm a good lover, I'll pretend I didn't hear anything. Or that I don't know why you're suddenly in a clingier mood than normal. And I'm sure the next words out of your mouth when you read this will be, "That's only because you like being mean to me."

Whenever I write my letters, I think of everything about you. Your eyes, your smile, your cold feet—and the way you use me like a personal heater. About how I'm grateful you stayed, no matter how selfish I feel afterwards. About what it would be like if we were sitting together, instead of kilometers apart.

And now you'll say, "That wouldn't be a problem if you'd just take me with you."

...

[End of excerpt]

AYN STARES AT HIS HALF-FINISHED letter, keenly aware of the warmth traveling up his cheeks—a scene that, much to his chagrin, can't be chalked up to the rising sun outside his window. His only saving grace is that you remain entranced with the Ayn of your dreams, muttering blissfully about how cute he is, all the while oblivious to how cute you are.

It remains to be seen whether he'll include that part in the final letter. Or the part about how you clung so stubbornly to his sleeve as he was leaving that he feared you would wake up the moment he shook himself free.

Because, as it turns out, baring his soul on paper is no less embarrassing than it would be in person.

In fact, he'd wager it's more embarrassing.

Words spoken will eventually disappear. Only their memory will remain, and only in the hearts of the parties involved. Words written, however, can live on forever. So long as the letter remains, anyone can read it.

…provided they can wrestle it out of your zealous grip.

And, truthfully, not many can.

As he sets down his weapon of choice, his promise to you rings out clearly in his mind, reminding him that there's no escaping his commitment. After all, it was the only way he could think of to ease your disappointment—his deepest thoughts exchanged for another stay in Eden, where you would await his safe return.

Where you'd be safe.

Then a spark of inspiration paves the way for his next paragraph. The truth is, Ayn is aware that his desire to keep you safe is, in many ways, selfish. You were not the one who nearly lost control of your powers. You were not the one bedridden for weeks, vaguely aware of the hand holding yours, yet unable to open your eyes.

That was him.

And if something happened to him out in the harsh world that resides beyond Eden, you would be forced to twiddle your thumbs as the manifestation of your bond left you in agony. But you would be safe. He's allowed to hope for that much, isn't he?

Until he finds an end to the sands outside of Eden, at least.

After all, there were times when the roles nearly reversed, and it was him who had to stay by your bedside, even if only for a night or two.

"Alright, what else?" he mutters to himself, his gaze flickering towards the sizable gap left between his paragraphs. Somehow, it's enough to help him swallow down his guilt. Temporarily, at least. "What to add…what to add…"

Home is where the heart is, and where his heart sits is in the palm of your hands. And with that distinction comes his clumsy dreams for the future—a ring on your finger, and a matching one on his, followed by a kiss that comes too early.

But you laugh against his mouth, painted lips slanting into a smirk as you pull away first. The friends that have followed them both this far have many things to say, and on the topic of his affection, in particular. It boils down to this:

Ayn is whipped for his wife—and proud of it.

In that way, you are also a first.

He just has no idea how to tell you that.

Closing his eyes, Ayn lets out a sigh. It happens to coincide with the creaking of the door. This room was once a bedroom, but you had it converted into an office for the nights when you'd bring your work home with you.

When he asked—jokingly, wanting to have a turn at seeing you stutter and blush—why you couldn't have made this into his bedroom, you merely raised an eyebrow at him. Ayn had read enough of O'Connor's trashy romance novels by then to know that the correct answer was to back out of the discussion entirely.

As he leans back against his chair, twirling the pencil in his hand aimlessly, the feather light footsteps he's grown accustomed to come to a halt. Neither of you dare to breathe. A stalemate—and you're the one to break it.

You draw closer; the anticipation leaves him antsy. His heart is stuck on taking a peek. His mind is intent on biding his time. The hand left empty hovers by the edge of the desk, its owner knowing well how much you love your spoilers.

If he can discretely grab the letter before you notice—

A pair of hands—frosty, despite the lovely weather indoors, not helped by the ring on your finger—cover up his already closed his eyes. The empty hand changes its prerogative. It comes to rest on your wrist, squeezing gently before its other half joins it on your other hand.

Ayn opens his eyes and sees darkness.

"Morning," you say, and even without seeing your face, he knows of your silly grin. "So this is where you've been. Couldn't sleep?"

The weight against his back assures him you have no intention of swiping his draft. Your gentle tone asks, nightmare?

A faint smile slips onto his face. There is a kind of affection he's come to realize exists only for you. And if his heart is a cup, carefully built glued back together with a technique he's read of in the history books (kintsugi, he remembers, the art of mending broken pottery), then the surge of affection he feels is threatening to overflow.

For once, what kept him up was not a nightmare.

It was this letter—and you.

"You tend to snore, remember?" he tells you, mischief dripping from his words.

You do. Just not enough to disturb his sleep. But it's always fun to pretend, especially when it leaves you huffing and pouting indignantly. Like now.

"I do not."

"Ask anyone else." Before you can pull away and cross your arms, Ayn tugs your hands down. They sit encircling his neck, leaving his own hands to properly grasp yours. "They'll say I'm right."

Your hands have always been on the softer side. It's a consequence of your upbringing, in a world that knows mostly peace. Sometimes, he'll catch a paper cut on one of your fingers—and Ayn does not believe kissing it better works, but he makes sure to give it a try anyway.

As his scarlet eyes soften, he leaves a light kiss on the palm of your hand, then on the cool metal band on your ring finger. A simple promise ring, one he'd clumsily welded together with his powers.

"Morning," he greets, for no particular reason.

Something soft presses against his cheek, a flash of muted purple appearing in the corner of his eye. It's succeeded by a soft laugh, one that—like others of its kind—lodges itself in some distant corner of his brain, for the days when he misses you the most.

"You're okay?" you ask softly, seemingly having forgotten your earlier exasperation.

Ayn hums. "I'm okay."

Despite his words, he can feel your skepticism seeping out into the air around you. Letting go of your left hand, he taps the half-finished letter on the table. You lean over his shoulder, your slightly unkempt hair obscuring your side profile.

"It turns out I had a lot to say," he says, mirroring your tone, and watches your hair gleam in the sunlight. "Enough that I couldn't sleep."

Silence, as comfortable as it can be, engulfs them both. You pull back, burying your head in the nape of his neck. Your breath is warm—and if you ever ask why his ears are too, he'll chalk it up to a transfer of heat.

When you pull away, your tone is chipper and he's given up wondering about the words bouncing around in your head. But he thinks I'll miss you and Let me come too might comprise some of them.

"Come on." You exhale, as quietly as you can, and pat his shoulders cheerfully. "Let's get breakfast."

Ayn leaves I'm sorry for the letter, hidden amongst his fear of losing you. Instead, he swivels the chair around and catches you standing under the door frame, one hand holding onto the edge of the door.

And calling your name, he says, "I love you."

You whip your head around, startled. He thinks it has less to do with the frequency with which he says those words—a fact he knows only because you're no longer wide-eyed about it—and more to do with the thoughts in your hand.

Once you recover from your surprise, a grin spreads across your face. "I know."

Laughter accompanies you as you slip out into the corridor. Then, warmth spreads across the palm of his hand, dissolving his annoyed expression into a fonder one. I love you too spell the letters, with a little heart at the end.

Ayn glances at the unfinished letter with a wry smile, before following you to kitchen—where last night's leftovers wait to be devoured.

It isn't until night falls upon Eden once more that he remembers to pick up where he left off.

[rainbowresurrection]

Kinda got a love/hate relationship with the history of K/S because it's like. Can I please have a queer discussion about this 1960s television show without it being reduced to "shipper discourse". I thought Spock and Kirk were homo long before I knew that their characters spawned a fanfiction counterculture. The bisexual dude who wrote the episode that really kick-started the movement didn't know it was going to coalesce into the fan phenomenon that it did, he was just writing what he knew how to write best: the repression of burning male desire, and two dudes doing homoerotic shit. Can I just talk about the repressed burning male desire please, and the implications of a gay angle to Kirk and Spock's story, without it being referred to as shipper discourse. Can I do that. Does this make sense

[kevinsstuffsworld]

If someone seriously

wants to be a part of your life

They will seriously

make an effort to be in it.

NO Reason, NO Excuses

.

.

.

.

.

[echoes-ofdawn]

your honor im just simply in love with every version of him ♡

[sastielsfandom]

Not a new idea by any means, but I love the idea of Castiel and Sam watching rom-coms together. Castiel is trying to figure out the way to woo Sam and figures the best way to learn is from TV. Sam saw Cas watching them and decides to join, which was not part of the plan, but it works. The two become closer as they joke and make commentary about whatever rom-com they're watching. A few times they'll act out scenes which is how they ended up in the position of Sam holding Castiel's face looking as if he was about to close the distance. Except he pulls away, and excuses himself. Leaving Castiel with a million questions. While they may have been watching a lot of rom-coms together, they still somehow are oblivious that they're in one of their own. Maybe they notice some similarities, but both are so sure, unlike those rom-coms, there's no way they'd ever be together. Which cue the rain and the confessions, which have the two laughing at the irony. They made fun of those scenes so much; they ended up living through them.

[softspeirs]

Hi Katie! From the prompt list, "I haven't laughed like this in a long time" for Grace and Rosie if you're feeling that vibe?

A/N: Hi Battie! Thank you for sending this in! I hope you like this. These Heartbeats Clear Masterlist

The Officer's Club is a flurry of activity as the Red Cross girls enlist the Nurses to help them decorate for the evening's shindig.

Grace straightens to her full height, wiping perspiration from her brow when the door opens, and Rosie's large frame fills the space, the light from behind illuminating him.

Helen winks at Grace, who flushes and bats her friend away.

Crusher cap in hand, Rosie takes in the scene as he approaches. "Thought I'd find you here. How's it going?"

"Fine," Grace says, stepping closer and lowering her voice. "You're sure he has no idea?"

"He's too busy to notice. I'm a little worried we won't be able to get him away from his office, to tell you the truth."

Crosby has been promoted to Major, and everyone decided it was worth celebrating, even though the man himself would probably be mortified. Really, they all need a reason to have a party.

Morale has been low. They need an excuse to have fun, even if it's only for one night.

"Well, we're counting on you to convince him, Major."

She loves the slow smile he gets sometimes that's she's trying hard to believe isn't just for her. It gives her butterflies. There's a simmering heat between them now, weeks after Rosie's hardstand confession that had left her breathless.

She's pretty sure she loves him, and is working up the courage to let him know that fact before he flies again.

"Major, can you give me a hand for a second?" Tatty asks from across the way where she's trying to hang streamers. "Sorry to interrupt, but you're taller than anyone here."

One last soft smile at Grace and then he heads over, talking to Tatty quietly as he holds up one end so she can tape it to the wall where she's perched on a stepstool.

Grace busies herself with other party prep, but she can't stop herself from sneaking glances at Rosie every chance she gets, biting her bottom lip to keep from smiling when she catches his eye a few times.

She feels like a teenager.

It's a few more moments of trying not to eavesdrop to Rosie's low voice before she registers his presence at her back again, turning around to give him a grin.

"So, Major, what time should I pick you up?" She asks, delighted at the incredulous laugh that bubbles out of him.

"Oh, you're taking lead on this mission?"

She nods, face serious. "That's right. You deserve a night off. Let's see... seven o'clock? Can you be ready by then?"

He nods, scratching at his jaw in that way he does when he's trying not to laugh. "Yes ma'am. With bells on."

.

And so it's Grace loitering outside Rosie's hut in the early evening light, wearing the one non-uniform dress she packed for this exact type of occasion.

The door opens and Douglass is there, straightening the tie on his uniform, and he smiles when he sees Grace twisting her fingers together anxiously.

"Captain," he says, "You look great."

"You look handsome, Dougie." Grace says, smiling shyly. "Any chance you can let Rosie know I'm here?"

"Oh, he knows. He's been checking his watch for the last five minutes." His grin is shit-eating. "Not every day you get a girl askin' you on a date, you know? He'll be out in a minute." '

Grace shakes her head, watching as he walks in the direction of the officer's club. The door squeaks open behind her one more time, and she smells Rosie's familiar cologne before she turns around. His eyes are pinned to her, dark blue traveling up and down her body as he smiles gently at her.

"Wow, Grace."

"It's not anything--"

He cuts her off before she can continue by taking her hand, lacing their fingers together. "Don't say it's nothing special," he chides. "You look beautiful."

"Thank you." Grace whispers. There's no one around that she can see, so she takes a chance and lifts up on her toes to press a soft kiss to his lips that immediately part for her, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw. "Hi."

"Hi." He echoes. "Ready to go? I told Croz to come but there's still a chance we'll have to go by his office if he doesn't show up."

"Ready." She confirms, and they swing by command first, both of them letting out a sigh of relief when Crosby's desk is empty.

At the officer's club, he's waiting by the door, a sheepish grin on his face as he accepts congratulations, pats on the back, and a beer from Douglass.

"I knew you were up to something," he says, pointing a finger at Rosie when they get inside. "And you!" He switches his attention to Grace. "You said it was urgent--"

"It is urgent! It's urgent that you take a night off and have a good time. Doctor's orders." Grace replies.

Distantly, she's aware that Rosie hasn't let go of her hand, but she's past caring. Their relationship isn't exactly a secret, not after they had their first kiss in a post-mission induced haze on the hardstand where anyone could see.

She also suspects no one cares, not as long as they're happy. This war has been too long for anyone to care how other people find their bit of happiness.

"Congratulations, Major." Rosie says to Crosby, stepping forward to shake his friend's hand. "Now let's have some fun."

They spend the night drinking and dancing, Grace laughing as she trips over her own feet until she gets the hang of letting Rosie lead. He only teases her about it once, and she basks in the glow of an evening where no one is worrying and where they all get to let loose. It's so rare these days, and she can't remember the last time she had this much fun.

"I need a break," she whispers in Rosie's ear after awhile, sweat curling the hair at her temples.

"I'll get you another--"

"Water, Rosie. I need water."

He nods, smiling as he leads her over to an empty table, pulling out the chair so she can sit down before heading back to the bar. He comes back with a water for her and a coca-cola for himself, and it's not long before he takes her free hand again, his fingers tracing the veins on the inside of her wrist casually, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

"I haven't laughed like this in a long time." He tells her, voice soft. "This was a good idea."

Grace looks around the room at all the smiling faces, people dancing and propping up the bar, split in pairs or in groups of friends, and she looks back to Rosie, who is watching her like she's hung the moon.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Can't help it."

The party winds down sometime in the early hours, and there's no missions scheduled for the next day because of inclement weather. They all take a collective sigh of relief knowing that the high of their party won't come crashing down the next morning.

Grace has the afternoon shift at the hospital the next day, and as Rosie walks her back to her hut, she squeezes his hand in thanks.

"What?" He asks.

"Just-- I had fun. And this--" she holds up their joined hands, "I like this."

His cheeks flush. "Me too."

They come to a slow stop near the door, and Grace laughs when Rosie tugs on her hand to pull her to the side of the building, away from, the harsh light above the door and away from prying eyes.

Grace is sure Rosie has never done one improper thing in his life, and it makes her light up from the inside out to see the way he wants to keep these moments between them private and just for them.

It's still up for debate if the way he kisses her would be considered proper. Certainly not to any poor soul who might wander by and catch them, but Grace is past caring. It's just-- he's so passionate about everything he does, his feelings for her included.

She responds in kind, and there's not a second where she feels the need to slow things down. She trusts him implicitly, and she knows the feeling is mutual. She can feel it in the way he gives himself over to her, lets himself be his most vulnerable in front of her.

Foreheads pressed together, both of them trying to catch their breath, he gives her a blinding smile before kissing her temple. "Goodnight, Grace." His voice is a low, low rumble that makes her break out in shivers.

"Goodnight," she replies in a whisper. "Pick me up for breakfast tomorrow?"

"You got it."

He walks her back to the door, and stands there, hands clasped behind his back as he watches her go inside. She gives him one last smile over her shoulder before she closes the door. Sitting down on the edge of her mattress, she lets out one more breathless laugh before getting ready for bed, hoping they both have many more laugh-filled nights ahead of them. Together.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

listen don't look at my bucket list of things to write that's only growing but i'm thinkingggg

girl!luca and the vr46 academy. she's one of the boys she's too pretty and too girly (have you seen luca marini???) to be one of the boys she has way too many people trying to control her career (sickeningly aware that girls who aren't valentino rossi's little sister aren't going very far. selfishly grateful and going for that chance like someone has a knife to her throat)

analytical self-assured kinda lowkey girl!luca. hard-eyed at ice princess but laughs along at iceman. only cries once that she receives more modeling proposals than contracts then vows to know bikes better than any of them

and the vr46 ritual of getting a horrible, horrible crush on her that they vow to hide from her because she already deals with way too much bullshit from all other riders

(everyone gets over it unless you're pecco bagnaia who's made to suffer)

like. franky had a normal ass crush on girl!luca that lasted like. two months. he's a go with the flow, very mercurial kind of person. celin's was horrible and humiliating and awkward as fuck and everyone was on his ass about it but he was never quite sure if he just thought girl!luca was really cool or having an actual crush. bez is half in love with all his friends. pecco is. going through the Horrors about it

[jichanxo]

sunday six :D

taking the initiative for a change.... so i'm going to boop @four-white-trees @passthroughtime @skysquid22 @overdevelopedglasses

chipping away at sensei fic this week! here's kitakata and yagami making out lol excuse my bluntness... don't feel obligated to read if you're not into that o7

Yagami reached for Kitakata’s arm, found his hand, and guided it to his hip. Yagami pulled away from the kiss.

“Touch me, would you?”

Kitakata’s breath was warm on his lips. “Where would you like it?”

“Figure it out yourself.” He said and kissed him again. Kitakata didn’t seem to complain. His fingers slipped under the hem of Yagami’s shirt, meeting skin. He touched along the base of his spine, and Yagami couldn’t suppress the slight shiver that went through him. He could only imagine how gratifying this was for Kitakata. Hell, just seeing Yagami checking him out probably made his whole week, now this. He’d never be able to stop him from flirting now.

Yagami leaned into Kitakata’s hold, into his mouth, against that eager tongue. He was about to make Kitakata’s whole damn year.

[tathrin]

Kiss #44 out of lust? If you want! Not sure how spicy you want to make it if you do, it’s up to you

Ooh okay, I'm excited to give it a try! (Let me know what you think of the results, please, folks?) Prompt taken from this; anyone can feel free to send other numbers in at any time, I don’t care how long it’s been. (Just maybe add some context to your ask if it’s been like a month or more since I posted this, because otherwise I won’t know what to do with the random number in my inbox lmao).

"Thank you, Master Legolas," one of the Gondorian counselors said, rising with a thin smile that somehow failed to reach his phlegmy eyes. Legolas was not sure of his name; too many of them looked too much alike, with their pale and wrinkled faces and their dull, lank hair and their duller eyes, all wrapped in heavy robes despite the summer warmth.

Legolas paused, confused by the interruption; why was he being thanked? He had not finished…

"However," the counselor continued unctuously, "I must wonder…and with all due respect to your efforts on behalf of our great city and indeed all of Middle-earth, of course…" He pressed a hand to his chest and gave a shallow bow. Legolas responded in kind instinctively, but the man hardly seemed to care; he went on, still with that thin smile, without pausing for a response. "Well, I must wonder, what would a Wood-elf know of such things?"

"My fellow counselor makes a salient point," said another, rising to his feet beside the first. They exchanged thin and cheerless smiles. "We are indeed grateful for your assistance thus far, Master Legolas, but this is one case in which I fear that an elvish perspective will be of little aid. Let us turn our attention to the aqueduct designs proposed by Beringrond…"

Legolas opened his mouth to explain that he was not speaking of the ways things were done by the trees of his forest, but rather those employed within his father's underground hall, which had a great deal more in common with this stone city and which had furthermore been largely built according to dwarven engineering, not elvish—but the other men were already talking among themselves, their backs turned and their ears closed to him for all that he was still standing there.

He sat down abruptly, the stone bench suddenly very hard and cool beneath him.

Aragorn caught his eye from the far side of the room and grimaced expressively, a silent apology. Legolas understood that his friend was too new a king to wish to risk offending his counselors for so polite a snub. Arwen was more direct in her response, sending directly to his mind her apologies and irritation, along with a firm assurance that the men who thought they would be able to bully her husband and his friends lightly would learn otherwise soon enough.

Legolas was not nearly as skilled in gohanath as Galadriel's granddaughter, and he could not reply in kind without a calmer heart and more time to muster his concentration, so he merely nodded his appreciation and acceptance of her mental words. He even mustered a smile in response, so that she and Aragorn would both know that he nursed no grudge nor held any blame for them over the actions of these arrogant men.

Arwen's answering smile was thin, and the expression in her eyes when she turned to look at the counselors again glittered with grim warning. Legolas had a feeling that this discussion of the city's infrastructure was not going to end the way they expected.

That did not necessarily make him feel better about being snubbed, but it was comforting to know that one's friends were offended on one's behalf.

Gimli was considerably more than merely offended. Legolas could almost feel the bench beneath him vibrating with the outrage that thrummed in the dwarf's veins. He pressed a hand to Gimli's knee and squeezed, hoping both to convey how heartening it was to see such rage kindled on his behalf and to convince the dwarf to keep said rage bottled-up for now; better to let Aragorn and Arwen tear down the arrogance of their council politely rather than for he or Gimli—interlopers here, both of them, for all that they had come to help—shout about it.

Gimli tensed, then slumped in resignation. He nodded glumly, but his eyes still smoldered as he glared at the pompous men swanning around before them in their heavy robes and tawdry jewels. Legolas smiled, and patted his knee again before withdrawing his hand and resuming a polite, attentive posture.

He could do nothing about the flush of shame that darkened his ears, of course, but none of the men were paying him any attention anyway so he doubted they would make much note of it.

The discussion of the proposed aqueducts droned on and on, circling in a pointlessly repetitive fashion that would never have occurred in Eryn Lasgalen. Legolas wondered if all men were like this, or if it was a trait specific to those of Gondor; he fortunately had to deal with very little of this sort of thing in Ithilien, for Faramir oversaw all cooperation between his people and the elves who dwelt in those slowly re-awakening lands, and Faramir was a sensible and gallant soul. If such discussions happened in Ithilien, Faramir made sure that they were sorted out before any elves got involved.

Legolas made a mental note to ask Gimli later how such matters were handled in Rohan. He had a hard time picturing the Horse Lords squandering their hours on needless discourse like this, but he had been wrong about men before. They could be such strange creatures, with such very odd ways of looking at and approaching all aspects of the world. Legolas did not think that even if he lived among them for a thousand years he would ever truly understand their minds.

The ones who stood before him now were surely not the best representatives of their peoples, anyway. It was all Legolas could do to keep himself still while they prattled on and on and on, and a sweet summer breeze wafted through the tall windows that lined the conference room. He longed to be out there in the open air doing something, not sitting here in this stuffy room listening to even stuffier men swell themselves up on the empty words of their own self-importance.

When Gimli motioned for him to lower his head so that he might whisper in Legolas's ear, he leaned over eagerly to hear whatever distraction the dwarf might be about to offer—but instead of speaking, Gimli planted a kiss on the tip of Legolas's ear. He gasped, and quickly pressed his lips together to stifle the sound, and none too soon; for Gimli's teeth followed his lips, closing gently around Legolas's ear and biting down just hard enough for a swift, sharp ache to run through him like a trickle of lightning.

Legolas shuddered, and glanced sideways at Gimli with eyes gone wide with shock and horror, but he did not pull away from the grip of those blunt teeth upon his ear, either.

Gimli smiled and released him, but Legolas still did not move; just hung there half-bent, breathing hard, as Gimli spoke at last. "There is something I have wondered," he said, his voice so quiet that his breath barely stirred the hair around Legolas's ear, "for some time now, Legolas."

Legolas's eyes darted around the room. "Yes?" he breathed.

"I have noticed," Gimli said, "the extraordinary sensitivity of elvish ears." So saying he stuck out his tongue and slid it up inside the point of Legolas's ear, as though exploring every curve and crease of the skin within by touch alone.

Legolas pressed his lips together tightly and managed to suppress all but the faintest gasp of a moan. His eyes had gone closed, and he was not sure precisely when; only that he did not dare open them, for fear that what little control he had would evaporate at the sight of his dwarf.

His hands were on Gimli's knees now, his long arms trembling with the effort of keeping himself upright; his fingers dug in hard, clinging to that solid dwarvish flesh as though Gimli's legs alone held him up above the edge of an endless cliff.

Gimli grinned—Legolas could feel it in the way his beard moved as it brushed his flushed and tingling ear—and murmured,  "Sensitive indeed! So sensitive, in fact, that I have long now been wondering…"

He paused, and Legolas swallowed against a throat gone suddenly as dry as the plains of Gorgoroth.

"Is it possible, do you think," Gimli said, "to move an elf to spill his pleasure by a touch upon his ears alone?"

Legolas moaned aloud, he could not help himself. He sank into Gimli's lap, going as loose and limp as molten gold—and then quickly thrusting himself back upright on their bench, his eyes snapping open again in horror as he remembered where they were, what they were doing.

As ignored as he had been before, the eyes of the whole council room were on them now. Legolas could feel the hot flush sinking down his ears and spreading sideways across his cheeks. "Oh," he said, swaying to his feet. "I—forgive me, the—I was only—the air is very close in here, I—I did not mean—"

"I think our Wood-elf needs some fresh air," Gimli said over his stammering. He climbed off the bench and dropped down beside Legolas, then took one of his hands and patted it soothingly between both of his. "If you will excuse us both, your highnesses, I will see to it that he is properly attended to."

Legolas trembled, and bit the inside of his lip to restrain the noises that wanted to slip free of his mouth in response to Gimli's promise of attending to him.

"Of course," said Aragorn. His eyes were bright with confusion and concern alike, and Legolas forced himself to smile reassuringly at his friend. Aragorn raised his eyebrows, a silent question.

Legolas replied with a gesture so vague that even he wasn't sure what he was trying to say, and he saw Aragorn's gaze drop to Gimli's face instead. Gimli nodded confidently and Aragorn gave a little shrug, as though resigning himself to trusting the elf and dwarf to look after one another instead of prying further.

Legolas was so relieved he almost melted off his feet again.

"Thank you," he murmured, ducking his head to avoid the stares of the councilors.

"Do feel better soon, Legolas," Arwen chirped, and Legolas felt his blush deepen.

"Er," he said. "Thank you, your highness."

He sketched the swiftest, shortest bow of his life and fled the room.

Gimli followed him, chuckling to himself, and Legolas shot him a surly glare the moment the door closed behind them.

"What in the name of your precious Mahal was that about?" he demanded.

Gimli raised his eyebrows, a hirsute picture of innocence. "Whatever do you mean?" he said. "I thought I made my intentions…" He grinned, and there was no trace of innocence left on his bearded face now. "Quite plain." He caught Legolas's hand again and pressed a kiss to the sharp knuckles, then pulled Legolas along after him down the hallway. "Quite plain, indeed."

Legolas shivered and did not withdraw his hand.

"Yes," he said, widening his stride to catch-up so they were walking now side-by-side. He was a little annoyed to hear his voice come out in such a low rasp. "But why there? Why now? Why," he implored, "in front of the entire High Council of Gondor?"

"I did not like how they spoke to you," Gimli growled, his grip on Legolas's fingers tightening.

"I did not much care for it myself," Legolas agreed archly, "but I do not see where the one thing follows the other!"

"I did not want to cause trouble for Aragorn by speaking-out against them as I wished to," Gimli explained, "so I resolved to take you away from them and show you the proper appreciation that a treasure like you deserves." His eyes twinkled up at Legolas like polished agates. "For as long as it takes until you are suitably assured of my high regard for every last inch of you, my dear. Starting with those two long points, if you please."

Legolas's knees wobbled under him. "Gimli…"

"You are lucky," Gimli rumbled, "that I cannot easily reach your pretty ears without breaking stride, or I would have you singing your pleasure right here in the middle of the hallway."

Legolas choked on his own breath. Only Gimli's hand in his kept him moving, pulling him forward when his feet would have faltered and left him standing there stupefied on the floor. Two clerks nodded to them politely as they passed and Legolas could feel his ears burning afresh.

"Gimli!" he hissed. "What if they'd heard you!"

"If I could reach your ears," Gimli grumbled, "they certainly would have heard you."

Legolas whimpered. He saw Gimli's beard twitch over a smug smile in response, and flushed darker. It was hardly his fault that dwarves kept all their most sensitive parts well-covered—save their beards, of course, but it would have been exceptionally rude to fondle a dwarf's beard in the sight of strangers. Legolas was far too polite to do such a thing to his friend (the occasional subtle tug or tweak or twist of its long, rich strands when no one else was looking was something else altogether) and now as thanks for his forbearance, he was being tormented!

"Gimli," he hissed again. "Stop it!"

Gimli only chuckled and pulled him along, now walking a little faster.

"Once I get you into that bed and down within arm's reach," Gimli told him, "I do not intend to stop until neither of us can remember a word of Westron, least of all you, Legolas." He shook his head fiercely, sending his braids bouncing. "Not for anything short of the return of another Dark Lord will I stop—and even then, I would be hard-pressed to find a reason to let you out of that bed while you're still in any state to draw a bow, so we might as well stay put and let someone else deal with it this time."

Legolas was finding it extremely difficult to remember how to breathe, and not because of the speed with which they were currently clattering down the stairs. "Gimli…"

"The sounds I am going to coax out of your bare mouth, Legolas…" Gimli seemed to be speaking as much to himself now as to anyone else, but that did nothing to blunt their effect upon Legolas, who nearly slipped a step—clumsiness that was quite unsuited to an elf!

This whole thing was intolerable. Never before had the exchange of their banter been so unbalanced, not at least so that Legolas could recall—although, admittedly, his recollection abilities were likely not at their best right now, distracted as he was by the images that Gimli's words were sending tumbling through his mind like intoxicating starbursts.

The thought of that skilled and silvertogued mouth applying itself so fervently and extensively to his sensitive ears had his breath catching in his lungs, his blood throbbing in his veins like liquid mithril. He was all but quivering with need, undone by desire for his dwarf.

Their rooms had never seemed so far from the king's chambers before!

"Gimli," he breathed, "you are a menace."

Gimli chucked but did not disagree. "And you are not?" he retorted. "Legolas, the sight of your ears flushing like that in the council room…Mahal, it was all I could do not to have you right there on the bench in front of all those half-bearded fools."

"What?" Legolas squawked. "Gimli!"

"I speak no jest!" Gimli insisted. "Stars above and gems below, Legolas, you know what seeing those ears of yours go dark with pleasure does to me." His broad chest heaved in a sigh like a mountain settling and Legolas's heart skipped a beat in response.

"It was hardly pleasure I was blushing from in there," he protested.

"I know, I know," said Gimli, grimacing, "but I could not see your face from behind you to make note of whatever distress their rudeness caused, my dear; only the tips of your ears, dark and red and so cursedly far away from my hands. How I wanted to touch you, to watch that flush spread down your cheeks and your hair flow loose around my fingers and hear your voice rise in incoherent song under my hands…"

Legolas swallowed and put a hand out to brace himself against the wall. The white stone felt cool under his palm, cool and much more steady on its foundations than was he. Gimli's masterful and lyrical wordsmithing had always been able to move him, but these words fell like an avalanche upon Legolas's heart.

"Gimli," he said and shivered, "Gimli, you…"

"Do you have any idea," Gimli continued as though he had not heard, "what a torment it was to sit there beside you with your blushing ears just over my head, unable to cradle and caress them in the sight of all those foolish, stoneless men? To see that tempting flush, and not dare to touch it? To touch you? Ah, Legolas, I could not bear it. I could not!"

"You did not bear it long, I'll note," Legolas murmured, and Gimli laughed breathlessly.

"No," he agreed, "I admit I did not. But how could anyone have expected me to? A dwarf can endure much, yes; but that!" He shook his head fiercely. "That was too much, Legolas. Even great Mahal himself would have crumbled before such a trial! Stones below, Legolas," Gimli breathed, "the sight of you…"

Legolas shivered again, trembling under the weight of Gimli's adoration—and then he remembered that it had not been men alone who had been in that council chamber.

Perhaps it was time to balance some of those scales from earlier.

He glanced down at the dwarf and said, as calmly and as casually as he could manage with his heart thundering against his ribs and his ears burning so hot it was amazing they had not yet scorched his hair, "Ah, Gimli, you will recall that you mentioned the acute sensitivity of elvish ears before?" Legolas looked up again quickly, before Gimli could see the impish smile he could feel tugging at his lips.

"Yes?" Gimli said. His impatient tone seemed to add, Is that not exactly what we are on our way to explore further?

"Well," Legolas said, as he at last lifted the latch to open the door to their shared rooms, "there is no denying that they are, indeed, quite sensitive to the touch; but you seem to have forgotten that they are very keen of hearing, also."

"Yes?" Gimli said again. "What of it?"

Legolas smiled. "Queen Arwen," he said, "you'll remember, has the keen ears of the elves."

For a moment Gimli just frowned up at him, as though confused as to why Legolas was bringing up Arwen, of all people, when they were about to climb into bed together—and then his eyes widened and his ruddy cheeks went pale.

"Oh," he said in a strangled voice. "Oh, no. Then—you mean—?"

"That she heard every word you spoke to me in the council chamber?" Legolas said. He grinned and stooped to press a kiss to Gimli's forehead before twirling back around and bounding inside. "Yes!" he laughed. "Yes, she most certainly did!"

Gimli moaned and closed his eyes. "I can never show my face in this city again," he declared.

"Then bring your face in here to the bedroom, and the rest of you with it," Legolas suggested. "For you have quite a lot of work to do in here 'ere you will have need to face Arwen or anyone else in Minas Tirith again, my most beloved dwarf!"

"Impudent elf!" Gimli yelled and followed.

The slamming of the door behind him shivered in Legolas's bones like an avalanche and he lay back upon the bed, grinning with anticipation as his dwarf climbed up beside him.

Elven ears, it transpired, were every bit as sensitive as Gimli had hoped, and more.

[adamnablelittledevil]

Look, if you like a show that's problematic, fine. Pretty much everything out there has issues and we still need entertainment. But if you post or reblogging something with offensive content and/or mocking people who have all the right in the world not to like it, I'm gonna block you. This isn't a threat btw, just wanted to give an explanation in case somebody wonders. And, yup, I'll block people even if I've constantly talked to them before. You don't owe me anything and neither do I. 🤷‍♀️

[dudeshusband]

if he kissed me and joked about how attractive i was i would have never come on his show again lest i be a home wrecker

[thornilee013]

Happy Wednesday! YAY!! I’m so excited for you! I hope you have the most amazing time! Also, as someone who spent roughly 14 years with a marine biology special interest, I absolutely did not notice that you didn’t include the names of fish so you are so good haha. I’ve really been enjoying the aquarium scenes in baby Jean! I spent years watching documentaries about aquariums/aquarium construction/marine biology and begging for trips the the aquarium any time we were close to one. The little aquatic theme to baby Jean so far has been so fun for me!

When you have some time, could I please get some baby Jean? I hope you and your dogs are staying warm!! 🤍🤍🤍

prev | Baby Jean | WW 18.1.2024

Jean fought the urge to cry as he looked around himself for any hint of his family. Instead, he was surrounded by strangers. He leaned back against the glass of the exhibit and sat down, cradling his chin in his hands.

MASTERPOST

[harmonictechnicality]

helloooo harmony dear 💕 all of your wips sound SO intriguing but i am going to go with whose lips are these? so consider this your sign to add 3 more sentences to that one (and to share a lil peek if you are so inclined!! 💕)

Hieeee dear sweet mack!! ❣️ so this started out as a blurb in my tumblr drafts and somehow evolved into a one-shot (because I cannot keep things short apparently 😂)