#anyways here's a ficlet

[mythmagicetc]

eddie has to work a shift without buck and comes home to find buck in the kitchen, washing dishes. he lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching him, before buck feels his presence.

"hey, how was the shift?" he asks, turning just long enough to visually check over eddie's body for injuries.

"not bad," eddie says. the nape of buck's neck is beautiful.

buck lets the silence linger for a moment. "just not bad? nothing interesting? no freak accidents?"

humming noncommittally, eddie lets his gaze drift across buck's upper back. "hen referred to you as my wife."

buck's shoulders tense.

good. that's good.

when buck speaks, it's a touch too high, breathy, just slightly off. "because i'm home cleaning while you're at work? that's sexist. not that hen is sexist, i mean, it's just—"

"buck." eddie moves closer. "i don't think she was being sexist."

the ladle buck has been washing for two and a half minutes falls into the sink. he picks it up, shivering just a bit. "homophobic then, you think? because we're—well, no, because i'm—"

eddie's moving closer again, just a step behind him now. "no, not that either. i don't think she was being anything you might be about to accuse her of."

buck is shaking his head already, ladle and sponge abandoned. "well, she shouldn't have said that. it wasn't—it wasn't very nice."

eddie smiles softly. he steps up to buck's right side, draping his arm loosely around buck's hips, and feels buck shiver against him. "yeah? should i take that as a no, then?"

buck is standing very still. "eddie."

"hey, it's up to you." eddie tilts his head, trying to catch buck's eye. "if you'd rather wait until the IRS accuses us of tax fraud, that's fine by me. i'll wait."

buck finally looks at him. "you'll wait?" he asks, almost absently, like he understands the words but not the context.

"yeah, sweetheart," eddie murmurs. "i'll wait." he reaches for buck's left hand, raises it to his lips. "i mean, you could say yes, or i can just ask you again tomorrow." a kiss to the back of his hand. "and the next day." another to his knuckles. "and the next day." his ring finger. here, eddie lingers a bit.

when he looks back up at buck, eddie feels the prick of nerves. not that buck doesn't feel the same, but that this isn't the right time, or the right—anything. but buck is looking back at him with the fiercest hope and apprehension burning in his eyes.

"i love you" buck says, like a confession. "i'm in love with you."

eddie smiles. "i love you, too. but that wasn't the question. you don't get a say in that."

cheeks pink and eyelashes fluttering, buck says, "you still haven't asked me the question."

"i didn't? i definitely did."

"you didn't."

"come on, i absolutely—"

"eddie?"

"what?"

buck waits a beat, like he's savoring the moment. "marry me?"

eddie sighs, though his smile certainly ruins the effect. "i thought you'd never ask."

well, technically, buck never did say yes. eddie will just ask him again tomorrow.

[selenocentric]

I know we deserved at least one moment of Steve being vulnerable after CATWS, but the MCU is a coward so...

You know when something big happens which changes your life forever, but you're so overwhelmed by the change, you aren't able to process it until much, much later.

Now, I'm imagining Steve Rogers, who couldn't even properly process Bucky's death before crashing into the Arctic, being forced to live in a new century. Everyone expects him to be stoic and grateful because, well, he is Captain America (the propaganda), and his survival is nothing short of a miracle. And Steve is just existing.

And then, Bucky is back from the dead, and Steve, he is running on pure adrenaline. He knows if he stops to think about it for even a second, he will just stop. And he can't afford that. He needs to make sure Bucky is safe first.

Fast forward, Bucky is with Steve. He is recovering. They both are alive, safe, and with each other. And with no immediate danger, Steve's mind just comes to a halt, and he breaks down. He starts crying. The kind of crying where he is trying to control his sobs and keeps wiping away his tears in attempts to stop them.

And Bucky, who was in front of Steve, freezes for a second. Only for a second, because in the next, he pulls Steve close and tightly holds him in his arms. He knows how much Steve needs this, how much he needs to let it all out, and how much he needs to stop being brave for a second. He keeps whispering reassurances in Steve's ear and runs his hand through Steve's hair. So, who cares if there are tears on Bucky's face? He needs it, too.

And when they sleep at night, their hands are firmly holding the other. Steve's breath still comes up short. Maybe they will talk about it in the morning, maybe they won't. But they know they will have each other, and they can figure the rest of the stuff along the way.

[lsunstreakerl]

2.3k of tiny gax verse! alex, george, and charles POV. sickfic.

They're big fans of denial in the flat. It's easy enough, because if you don't address something, it's not real.

So when Max has a coughing fit one morning, shoulders shaking from the force of it, sounding worryingly thick— well. He blames it on choking on a piece of food. George and Alex let him.

It's getting colder outside, pavement wet from the rain, and they've shoved all of the blankets together. Max is starting to be scouted by teams junior teams, and...

In hindsight, it's stupid. Thinking that just because they'd never seen him get sick meant that it wasn't possible. He gets pale, paler than normal, and Alex curls his fingers into his palms. Max is curled in the middle of the futons, face hidden in George's chest. He's not snoring anymore, just a soft wheeze.

George looks up at him nervously.

"Alex, he's really hot."

Alex knows.

The season has been brutal, and Max and George have spent countless hours on sponsor offers and contracts, and they're all thin, struggling to keep muscle on. Max has been working extra at the garage, because George and Alex just keep growing, and they need nicer clothes for nicer sponsor agreements, and—

It's a vicious cycle. Alex chews at the inside of his cheek, mentally doing the math. If he and George do extra gig work, they might be able to afford medicine, but he's not sure what kind Max needs. A fever reducer for sure, and something to handle the wheeze in his lungs.

Naively, he's hoping maybe cough drops will fix it.

------

George is working at the bookstore. Alex is glad, because each cough from Max gives him a full body flinch, cringing quietly.

He hasn't gotten any better.

Alex pets a hand through Max's hair, damp with sweat. He's hot, even with the fever reducer Alex had convinced someone to buy for him in exchange for crumpled cash outside the store.

Max struggles up onto his forearms suddenly, coughing violently. It sounds wet, wheezing and thick, and he makes a wounded noise when he finally catches his breath, dropping back into Alex's lap.

"Max."

He reaches for the bottle of medicine, prepared to measure out another dose. It's probably not time for it yet, but it's the only thing that helps bring his fever down.

Max's fingers curl weakly into his pant leg, wheezing out another breath.

"I am fine, Ale—"

He breaks off in another coughing fit, doubling over, and Alex feels his blood run cold at the small droplets of crimson Max tries to hide in his elbow.

He tugs Max closer to his chest, panic steadily welling inside of him. They're in over their heads here, and there's only so much denial they can do.

Max wheezes harshly against him, forehead boiling hot against his shoulder.

"Meds."

His voice is weak, but he's fighting through it, defiant shine in his eyes even through the fever haze. Alex measures out another dose, fingers shaking. Max's cough is only getting worse, and they can't afford to get another bottle.

There's a race this weekend, and he knows, as sure as he knows the color of the sky, that Max is still going to try and attend. If they allow him to race is an entirely different story, but he'll try.

Insanely, Alex thinks he wouldn't be all that surprised if Max managed to still win. It feels otherworldly sometimes, living with him, watching him race. He's got a feel for the car that Alex and George can't quite reach, a fiery determination that seems to fuel him further than the rest of them.

Max takes the medicine like a shot. He's not even complaining about the taste anymore, like he did on the first day.

Alex tries to pretend the sinking in his heart is anything but cold, nauseous fear.

------

George is on the beanbag in the back. The bookstore knows he's stressed, and they'd mentioned having a potluck soon, to celebrate some arbitrary holiday George has never heard of. He's hoping there will be enough leftovers for him to sneak some home.

Right now, his priorities are elsewhere, anxiety skating up his fingers and arms, trembling as he types at the keyboard. He doesn't know what else to do.

They'll be out of medicine soon, and Max isn't getting any better, and there's a race coming up.

He hugs his knees tight to his chest, nervously shaking. He can't make it go away— the twitchy, nervous moments that have snuck into his everyday life. Every movement has to be worth it, every action justifiable.

He's going to throw up.

He sends the email.

------

Alex drives them to the race. Mostly because Max can barely make it to his feet, eyes glassy and perpetually sweaty, hair damp at the edges. They keep waiting for him to call it off, for him to admit that he can't do it, but somehow...

He's standing, moving like every breath hurts. Alex has to repeat himself two or three times before Max can hear him, and they can both hear each individual breath.

It sounds more like a rattle than a wheeze, and Alex and George have quietly, without ever speaking about it, taken up watching him in shifts. Sometimes the rattle pauses, and Alex feels everything inside of him plummet with fear until Max takes in another painful breath.

He's sure George also wakes up in a cold sweat, lying frozen to listen to the sound of Max's continued breathing. He's not sure George knows about the blood.

He doesn't have the heart to tell him.

------

George doesn't want to open the email. It's sitting in his inbox like a ticking bomb, because if he doesn't open it, it can't hurt him.

Can't let him down, can't shatter him into a million pieces, can't resign him to a fate of watching Max die in front of him.

He's not stupid. Max isn't getting better. Not without help, actual help, help they can't get. They can't go to a hospital, because the hospital will ask for an adult that they don't have.

They live in a precarious house of cards, and George is watching it wobble dangerously in front of him, growing increasingly unsteady with each struggling breath Max manages.

He can't possibly race— but that's not something they've said out loud. Alex is driving them, and George has a plan.

He opens the email.

From: Fernando Alonso

To: George William

Subject: Re: Why you should lie to the government

George. I am not sure how you got my personal email, and I do not want to know. Your PowerPoint was very engaging.

I will not pretend to be your brother's legal guardian. However, I have the location of a clinic that will see him and keep their mouths shut.

I have attached their contact details.

- Fernando Alonso, FIA Formula 1 World Champion [2005, 2006]

He swallows, opening the email attachment. There's an address, and a list of names. If they detour now—

"Alex, Alex pull over."

Max has fallen back asleep in the passenger seat. His breathing is worryingly shallow and wheezing, and he's both pale and flush, chest barely moving.

Alex pulls over.

------

The detour takes them six hours and more gas than they can afford, but they're almost there. Max hasn't woken up once.

George calls Max's team, apologizing profusely about missing the race, that Max would be there if he could. They're far more understanding than he expected them to be, mentioning that they're glad he's getting rest, that they'd also been worried.

They know Max would be dead before he missed a race. It scares George just how close they're getting.

He has one of the bottles of water uncapped, nudging gently at Max's shoulder. His skin is waxy, and he occasionally shakes with small shivers.

"Max."

He never responds on the first try anymore. George shoves at his shoulder a little harder, fingers tight around the water.

"Hey, wake up, we're almost there."

Usually, that would at least get something. A flutter of his lashes, an attempt to try and drag himself to the surface. George blinks back the hot press behind his eyes, trying to keep his voice steady. He doesn't want to alarm Alex, who's been driving the entire time.

"Max."

His voice cracks. Alex hears it, because of course he does.

"How is he, Georgie?"

George isn't sure he can answer without falling apart, and the panic is starting to seep in through the corners, crawling up his lungs, strangling his heart.

"Max get up. Don't be— come on, don't be lazy."

He's never called Max lazy a day in his life.

"Georgie, hey, how is it?"

Alex sounds worried from the front seat. George presses two shaking fingers below Max's jaw, resting his head featherlight on his shoulder. He doesn't actually know how to check for a pulse, only that this is what they do on TV, on the medical dramas Alex likes.

Max is still breathing, but there's a low, watery sound to it.

"George."

Alex sounds more insistent now, but George doesn't know what to tell him.

"Drive faster."

------

The clinic is a nice building, until George runs inside out of breath, frantically trying to explain that Fernando Alonso sent them, that his brother is sick in the trailer, that he's not waking up.

Max disappears into the back of the building, and he and Alex aren't allowed to follow.

Alex tugs him tight to his chest, one hand shaking as he tries to pet at the back of George's head, still trying to be strong for them both. He can feel his hot tears drop onto his hair.

------

The clinic gets one good luck at Alex and George thirty minutes later and takes them into the back too. They're both put on fluids, and the clinic was apparently planning to cater lunch, so they'll get some extra for them as well.

They're still not allowed to see Max, but Alex has his fingers locked with George's.

"Georgie."

George sniffs, still trying to pretend like he hasn't been crying.

"What?"

Alex squeezes his fingers.

"Who'd you call? To get this?"

George has been a steel trap about how he'd managed to get Max a doctor. He'd told Alex very solemnly that he had a place for them, but he needed Alex to trust him.

So far, he has. Still, George shakes his head, frowning.

"Doesn't matter."

Alex actually thinks it matters quite a bit— not that it does him any good, because George clams up, refusing to tell him anything. He confirms it wasn't a gang, he's not indebted for life, and that it was a stroke of luck, but he won't tell Alex anything else.

By the time the food shows up, a catered table of salad and fruits, roasted meats and vegetables, Alex has accepted that he's not getting an answer out of him.

------

Max has pneumonia. It's bad, apparently. It wouldn't ever have cleared up on his own, and the knowledge sits like a stone in George's gut.

It would've killed him. Slowly, relentlessly suffocating him. There wasn't any kind of over the counter medicine they could've gotten, no amount of cough drops, no miracle words to fix it.

Max is still asleep when the clinic lets them see him. There's an oxygen mask across his face, stickers on his chest attached to colorful cords that lead up to a monitor. There's another one wrapped around his finger, and he has an IV in, running up to bag of fluids above his head.

George tugs his chair closer and gingerly rests his head on Max's thigh. He's always felt untouchable, above everything else, stronger than anyone else George knows.

He doesn't feel untouchable now. He feels fragile, and George wants to curl around him, wants to protect him from everything the way Max does for him, but he can't. Not against this.

Alex's hand rubs softly against his back as he cries quietly.

------

12 years later:

Charles bumps Max's hip with his own as they walk closer to the cooldown room, grinning. The podium endorphins are starting to hit, and he's ready to chug the entire bottle of blissfully cool water waiting for him.

George is ahead of them, already scrubbing a towel through his hair, cap in one hand. He's grinning too, the special wide one reserved just for Alex and Max.

Max yanks his balaclava off, slamming his fist against his chest as he coughs briefly. Charles winces in sympathy, but George darts over immediately, nudging Max out of view of the cameras. He's gone ashen, eyes wide as he checks over Max frantically.

"Christ, Georgie— it is the fucking humidity here, always, you know it makes my lungs act up. Chill."

"Do you need an inhaler? Aleix keeps one in his bag."

Max levels an impressively unimpressed face at George.

"So does Rupert, because they are my lungs. If I needed it, I would be using it. Seriously, go sit. I'm fine."

Charles quirks his head.

"You have asthma?"

Max wrinkles his nose, rolling his eyes as he grabs his own water.

"No. George is just being a worrywart."

George glares, jaw tensed.

"Sorry, I think it's fair that it makes me anxious."

Max sighs, gripping George by the hand and pulling him into a tight hug. Charles doesn't catch what he says, too quiet for anyone but George to hear, but he sees the way his shoulders relax, leaning their heads together briefly.

He didn't know Max had problems with his lungs. Or at least some kind of problem, if it's earned him George's anxiety. Then again, George is anxious about a million things at any given moment— Charles has never met anyone with the ability to juggle as many problem as George and manage to be equally as stressed about every single one of them.

He wonders if Mercedes has designed a ThunderShirt for him yet.

Max manages to appease George, and Charles attempts to put it out of his mind. He'll ask Max about it later, when there aren't hundreds of cameras capturing their every movement.

For now, he has a podium to get to.

[dangerpronebuddie]

Eddie doesn't say a word as they step into the Diaz home, for all the four days it's going to remain so. Buck bunches his shoulders around his ears, sticks his hands in his pockets to keep from pulling Eddie close and demanding he just talk to him.

But Eddie doesn't say anything. Won't even look at Buck. Buck debates staying out on the porch. He doesn't think he's allowed inside after tonight.

One look from Eddie has him padding inside though. If he had a tail, it would be between his legs.

Buck can't keep this up. Can't spend the last days he'll ever have Eddie not speaking to him.

"Why are you so pissed at me?" Buck scowls. There's no venom in his voice like the time he questioned it in a grocery store. There's nothing but resignation, accompanied by a helpless shrug.

"Because you're-" Eddie stops himself as he whirls around there in the living room, takes a step closer.

"Exhausting?" Buck scoffs. "Yeah, I know."

"No, Buck," Eddie growls. "You're acting like you don't matter. Like you don't give a damn if you get hurt!"

"I wasn't going to let that poor dog die in there," Buck fires back, "all alone. I just couldn't. And you wouldn't either, you can't tell me otherwise, Eddie!"

"Of course I wouldn't," Eddie huffs.

"Then what's your problem, man?" Buck demands, taking a step closer himself. He wants to grab Eddie by the collar, shake the answer from him, or claw it from his skin or... Something.

"You," Eddie says, his voice lower than Buck has maybe ever heard. He opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it. Buck wishes he didn't. Because what he does say threatens to shake Buck apart. "You didn't wait for me to go with you."

Buck shakes his head. "I couldn't ask you to do that."

"Why not?" Eddie demands, pleas. "We're a team, Buck. I'm supposed to have your back!"

And that is what breaks him. He's been hanging on by his fingertips since he flipped over Eddie's tablet, and now? He lets go. Lets himself plummet, off a lightning rod of a ladder, or a crane. There's no ground beneath his feet. He just falls, and falls, and drags Eddie down with him.

"You're not going to be here to have my back!" Buck cries.

Eddie flinches like Buck struck him.

Regardless, Buck keeps talking. "You're leaving, Eddie. Leaving me behind just like everyone else does. And I- I know, it's selfish as hell to even think it because you- you need to go, and I can't stop you. I wouldn't ever stop you, you need your kid, but I need..."

He has the good sense to stop there, but he thinks it's too late anyway.

Eddie stares at him, a little like Buck just informed him of a death. And yeah. If that death was whatever Buck had with Eddie, the comparison would be an accurate one.

Eddie nods and ducks his head. Sniffs and looks anywhere but at Buck. Buck wants to keep talking. At least then, Eddie's eyes would be on him.

Then, in a voice too small for the space Eddie's supposed to occupy, he asks "why won't you stop me?"

Buck's tense shoulders drop in defeat. "Why would you want me to?"

Eddie shakes his head. Rolls his lips. Lets out a bitter laugh that, for all it's anger, still makes Buck's heart jump. "You know, I thought..."

Buck steps closer again, and it's probably the most dangerous step he's ever taken in his life. He's run into burning buildings, up ladders in lightning storms, through flooded streets, gunfire. And still, this one step is the most terrifying he's ever made.

Because they're close. Closer than they should be for the fight they're not really having. But still not close enough. There's maybe six inches between the toe of Buck's sneakers and Eddie's boots. But he doesn't dare close that gap.

"Eddie..." He doesn't know what to follow that up with. He hopes Eddie has some idea. Hopes, probably derangedly, that the words he wants to say are ones Eddie understands already.

"I'm going to get my kid back," Eddie says, looking somewhere over Buck's shoulder.

"I know you are."

"Why won't you stop me?" Eddie asks, finally meeting his eyes. There's something desperate there, something Buck hasn't seen since Christopher wouldn't look his father in the eye.

"The same reason I couldn't let you follow me into that building... I can't ask you to put your happiness aside for me," Buck admits, a desperation of his own forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

"Evan," Eddie says, and it makes Buck want to fall to his knees. He takes that last perilous step closer to Buck. Buck doesn't dare breathe. "You are my happiness."

Buck shakes his head, that isn't right. He's been bad, for so long, he doesn't make people happy. Eddie reaches up, cups his face in his hands to stop his movement. "Yes," Eddie continues. "Buck, I have spent... probably my whole life denying myself joy. And I'm finally learning that I don't have to. I found my joy, Buck. It's you."

"Eddie," Buck says, reverent like a vow. He had endless things he wanted to say to Eddie, but it all pales in comparison now.

"I'm coming home, Buck," Eddie promises. He swipes his thumbs across Buck's cheekbones, wiping away the tears Buck didn't even notice he'd started crying. "If you'll be here for us to come home to."

Buck pounces on him like a dog offered a treat. Better still, a place to stay. Someone's feet to curl up by.

He throws his arms around Eddie, burying his face in the crook of his neck. "Yes," he whispers against Eddie's skin. "I'll be here for you to come home to."

[louis-quatorze]

Look, Giulio knew Aldo was going to lose.

He'd estimated, generously, a 75% chance of failure. Aldo was a flawed candidate. He was too familiar, but not in a way that helped, the right hand with a raised eyebrow alongside all of the late Holy Father's unpopular reforms. His anxiety manifested as haughtiness, a certain willingness to hide behind titles and textbooks as if they'd do the work of explaining himself for him. He took no satisfaction in the game of politics itself, finding it tedious and confusing. None of his traits suggested a successful election.

But oh, how could Giulio not try? For that 25 percent. For the sincere knowledge that Aldo would make a good, even great, Pope. For the clarity of vision he had for the Church, a sense of where it should go and how to get it there. For his compassion, for his care. Because it was Aldo, and Aldo deserved Giulio's best attempt.

They lost. Well, it was to be expected. Giulio's only regret was that the world wouldn't know what he knew, the Pope they could have had.

[wormdebut]

WALK HIM LIKE A DOG

@hellion-child you did this. Inspired by this legendary post.

‘It’s not illegal to go to the dog park, just to hear hot dads say Good Girl.’

Rating: M CW: overusage of the term daddy and Eddie just being a horny bastard.

——

“You know, this is fucking insane, right?” Chrissy laughs while Eddie lounges on the park bench.

Yes. He’s aware.

He and Chrissy don’t even have a dog and yet—

“Chris. Look at all of these great pet parents, taking care of these little doggies. Look at em. Wonderful. Stunning, very normal.”

Chrissy levels him with a glare. Being on the wrong side of a Chrissy glare is a scary thing, but alas his dog park visits are worth it.

“No. Look, listen. You’ve got all of these doggy daddies taking their lovely pups out for runs and walks and what not and then daddy wraps up his run and takes the precious ones to this here dog park. Woof.”

It really was worth it to Eddie, alright? There is nothing wrong with going to a public dog park to maybe hear a hot sweaty man coo at his dog.

‘Good Boy’

‘Precious Girl’

Bark bark bark or whatever.

Would Eddie ever talk to any of them? Absolutely the fuck not, but a man could dream.

He was bummed though because none of the hot guys were out, today.

Damn.

He is busy scanning the area to see if he missed anyone, Chrissy yapping on and on about how they could just get a dog when someone slows their run to chat.

“Hi!” She says. This woman is tall, short hair messed up from running, she’s got a bright ass orange jacket on, and she is most certainly Chrissy’s type. Thats not fucking fair at all, now is it?

Chrissy’s complaining tapers off. “Hey.”

They smile at each other, and this is truly unfair, Eddie thinks. This whole dog park thing was for him and yet.

“I hope you don’t mind, but me and my best friend just moved to the area and honestly, I think you’re pretty so—I just thought I would say hi.” She hardly makes eye contact with Eddie. So it’s clear who she’s talking to.

Like recognizes like, he supposes.

He can respect the straight forwardness of it all. Chrissy is just kinda staring at her so he speaks up. “Well, I’m Eddie and this is Chrissy, and I can confidently say that she also thinks you’re pretty.”

Both woman turn to stare and him, Chrissy with big eyes and the other woman with a smirk. She speaks, “Well, it must be my lucky day.” She turns back to Chrissy, “I’m Robin.”

The two get talking and Eddie is happy for his best friend, he really is, but where are all the hot men?

He’s about ready to call it quits when he sees a fucking god, running with a ridiculously stunning dog.

Hot people own hot dogs, he supposes.

This guy is—fuck. He’s sweaty from running, and his hair is fucking gorgeous, even after activities. Thats a green flag. Eddie is just shocked.

This is the dog daddy of all dog daddies. He’s wearing tiny fucking red shorts that expose thighs for days and—

“Jesus fuckin’—see?” Eddie doesn’t even care that he is interrupting the girls conversation cause this guys is—god damn. “He could slap a collar on me and walk me like a dog.”

Chrissy balks. “Eddie. We are in the company of a new friend. Robin doesn’t deserves this.”

Eddie simply shrugs and Robin laughs, “No. I think it’s hilarious which guy caught your eye?”

Oh, he likes Robin. “I like her. Get her number—“ He smiles big at Chrissy, before gesturing towards the fucking Adonis in tiny little running shorts. “Anywhozle. That one, look at him. On my knees in a second.”

He ignores Chrissy’s eye roll, and watches as Robin takes in the guy, before busting out in a laugh. “Oh my god—Steve?”

Oh shit.

“I—do you—“ Abort mission. Abort abort.

“Oh yeah, remember that best friend I was telling you guys about?”

She is still laughing, and Chrissy joins her before handing Robin her phone.

Eddie feels like he just got bamboozled.

“Chrissy, babe, I’ll text you. Eddie? I’ll see what I can do.” She smiles at them both before running over to ‘Steve’ and his—their?— gorgeous dog.

“No wait I—“ Eddie tries but she’s already over with Steve who is listening intently to what Robin has to say.

Oh god, oh no. Oh god.

Chrissy is just laughing softly into her hand, which turns into full laughter quick because Steve turns to look at them, smiles and winks.

[phneltwrites]

It's my one year young royals fic anniversary! I watched the entirety of the show in 3 days and I really didn't think I'd be fannish about it. and then LITERALLY THE NEXT DAY

"i don't have a fic idea" and other words said before writing like 200k of yr fic in a year.

Anyway happy birthday to Be The Place You Call Your Home, it was fun to write and I let myself indulge a bit in talking about music 💜

if ur curious, fic is here: on ao3

[grandpa-boyfriend]

Rick comforting Morty is so cathartic in the sense that it's sweet to see Rick actually be nice to Morty, and coddle him a bit for a change.

But what about Morty comforting Rick?

Rick starts to have a meltdown because someone in the family hurt his feelings over something small. (Maybe Summer made a joking comment that cut too deep, or Beth was feeling resentful and said something callous. Or Jerry actually snapped back at Rick for once and the shock of it made his words land harder.)

But Rick's too emotionally stunted to process it normally, so he just yells and hits stuff and then goes off by himself in the garage.

And Morty just...follows him. Because of course he does.

And Rick then yells at Morty, takes all his emotions out on him, and even makes several threatening movements at him.

But Morty just stares at him, unimpressed, like "....Are you done?"

That's when Rick breaks down. He's canonically a crybaby. Maybe it's not hysteric sobs or anything, but he sheds a few stressed out tears and Morty just comes over and hugs him. Rick then just caves, holding onto Morty for dear life.

But then, when he starts to feel better, he pushes Morty away and wipes his face. He acts like he wasn't crying. Morty just rolls his eyes and suggest they go watch some TV.

He tells Rick to set up some inter-dimensional cable and then comes back in a few minutes later with some liquor, Rick's favorite snacks, and even a blanket. They then watch their alien shows all night, making fun of the dumb stuff and arguing over what interesting shows they should actually watch.

And if Rick somehow ends up asleep (because he's drunk) and flops onto Morty, resting his head on his shoulder, Morty isn't complaining. Even when he sees Rick's eyes still moving behind his eyelids and hears his audible sigh of relief as Morty begins to play with his hair, Morty still just pretends like Rick is sleeping.

By morning, Rick is feeling a lot better. And Morty? He's not sure why it feels so good to basically cuddle with his grandpa and watch as the stress literally melts out of him. But, damn, he can't wait to do it again the next time Rick is feeling sad or stressed.

[the-broken-pen]

“You’re going to blow out your arms,” the villain observed. They watched as the hero merely grit their teeth, shoving themself through another pull-up. It looked painful, and if the sweat slicking the hero’s brow was any indication, it was.

They waited for the hero to let themself drop from the bar and accept the villain was stronger. But they didn’t.

Three more pull-ups, and the villain stepped in.

“Hero,” they said slowly. “You’re about to tear the ligaments in your arms. You need to stop.”

The hero blew out a shuddering breath. Struggled for purchase, fighting gravity—and let themself drop.

The hero’s hands were bleeding, calluses torn open by the bar. The hero didn’t seem bothered when their own hands shook so much that their blood began to splatter on the gym floor.

For a moment, the villain could only stare at them.

Shit.

They didn’t know how to handle this. They knew the hero was dedicated. They knew the hero was strong, and perpetually trying to be stronger, but they hadn’t thought…

They hadn’t thought the hero would be so willing to tear apart their own body for success.

It was supposed to be fun, the villain thought. They felt a little sick as the hero pressed their palms together to soothe the bleeding, an action that was practiced and familiar. As if they had done this before.

The hero reached for something in their bag, smearing blood on the side, and pulled out a roll of blue electrical tape. The villain didn’t understand why, until the hero tore a strip off and made to wrap their hands with it.

The hero would be the death of them.

They crouched in front of the hero, plucking the electrical tape out of their hands.

“What are you doing with this?”

The hero blinked at the villain like they were the strange one in this situation.

“Wrapping my hands?”

The villain hissed in a breath.

“With electrical tape?”

The hero flushed slightly, looking down at their bloody hands. They looked close to tears.

“It…sticks to skin, really well. And it doesn’t move, either, when you move your hands or wherever else, even if you’re fighting. Plus, blood doesn’t make it come off, at least, not for a while.”

The villain blinked at them.”

“Blood doesn’t make it come off,” the villain repeated, processing. The hero nodded, reaching for the electrical tape. The villain settled it out of reach.

“Not if you wrap it right.”

Dimly, the villain realized that meant the hero had done this enough times to have it down to a science.

“And you couldn’t use a bandaid?” The villain asked incredulously. The hero shrugged a shoulder, then winced at the motion.

Yeah, the hero had absolutely blown out their arms.

“Bandaids move—“

The villain hushed them.

“Be quiet for a second.”

The hero, wisely, went quiet.

The villain rubbed a hand over their face, then studied the hero for a moment. They took one of the hero’s hands into their own, studying the damage.

“Why did you do this to yourself,” the villain murmured.

“What do you mean, why,” the hero snapped. “It’s my job.”

“Your job is to save people,” the villain corrected. “Not destroy yourself.”

“I’m not destroying myself—“

“You are.”

“Shut up—“

“Hero.”

“I need to be better,” the hero snapped. Their voice rang out across the gym, echoing into the rafters, and they both froze. After a moment, the hero spoke again, voice soft. “I need to be better.”

They said it like they needed the villain to understand. The villain wondered who they were really saying it to—the villain, or themself.

“Better than who?”

“Everyone.” It was hushed, like a secret.

The villain watched them, waiting.

The hero took a shaky breath

“My whole thing is being the best. I have always been the best. That’s the only reason I matter. If I’m not strong enough, then I am nothing, so I need. to be. better.”

The hero had started crying, very quietly, like they were afraid to take up too much space.

The villain was not equipped to handle gifted kid burnout.

“There’s more to you than just being a good athlete,” the villain said hesitantly, and the hero shook their head.

“No. There isn’t.”

“Hero.”

“Can you give me back my electrical tape?” They hiccuped to contain a sob.

“No,” the villain said firmly, and then the hero really was sobbing.

“You don’t understand—“

The villain didn’t. Not really. They had never been the kind of talented that the hero was.

They wondered now if maybe that was a blessing.

“I don’t,” the villain agreed. “But I do understand that you’ve saved half the city, and you give everything you have to give, and you always do your best.”

“But I-“

“No.” The villain stopped them. “You are doing your best.” They tipped the hero’s chin up until they met the villain’s eyes. “And it is enough.”

The hero froze, eyes darting over the villain’s face. They wondered if anyone had ever said that to the hero, if whatever mentor they had was giving them anything other than orders to be stronger. Be better. Be more.

The villain had some new targets to take care of, it would seem.

For now, though, they had to take care of hero.

“We’re going to go wrap your hands,” they said softly. “And then we’re going to take care of your arms, and you’re going to take a nap.”

The hero nodded, watching them like they were some kind of good, selfless person.

“And if I ever catch you using electrical tape again, so help me, I will put you six feet under.”

That startled a laugh out of the hero, and they let the villain guide them to their feet.

“Fine.”

The villain turned to them. “Okay?”

Are you going to be alright?

The hero seemed to understand.

“Okay,” the hero agreed.

Yes.

And so, it was.

[mamawasatesttube]

all the quiet nights you bear

T | fluff, hurt/comfort | timkon hair washing | 7.6k

Kon has a rough day. Tim is determined to take care of him. After all, he didn't memorize all the variations of Kon's curl routine for nothing, now, did he?

Click!

The lock on the door flicks open as Kon alights on the balcony outside. Grateful for the distraction (typing up reports for his latest R&D-related tinkering is by far the most boring part of his job), Tim swivels around in his desk chair to welcome him home, a greeting on the tip of his tongue—

And pauses.

Kon's hair is a frizzy mess.

That's the first red flag. Kon is ridiculously vain when he wants to be; Bart’s called him a prissy peacock on more than one occasion. Especially about his hair, especially now that he’s been growing it out. He’s got a whole hair care shower routine, and an array of curl creams and oils and whatnot that he had to explain to Tim twice before any of it stuck in his head properly. Tim teases him for being extra now and then, but he knows it's not just vanity.

Kon doesn't like people seeing him at anything but his best. He got too used to being picked apart by vultures behind cameras, years ago, to ever be comfortable with that.

So the fact that his hair is unkempt and mussed as he lets himself in is... concerning.

{ read on ao3! }

[fazedlight]

Irish (soft season 6 ficlet)

Kara knew something was wrong.

Not dangerous wrong. Lena’s heart rate was steady and calm, and there was no one else in the apartment with her. But as Kara flew above the few buildings left to her apartment, she could see how Lena was hunched over, see the stress and sadness in her body. And it made Kara’s heart ache.

Landing in the open window, Kara stepped inside, the small taps alerting Lena to her entrance. “Kara,” Lena said, trying to hide the distress on her face as she rose from the couch, grabbing at VHS tapes spread in front of the TV. “You’re home early.”

“They put out the fire before I got there,��� Kara said softly. “The winds weren’t as bad as they thought.”

Lena nodded, hurriedly placing the pile of tapes into a familiar box. Kara had flown the box back to National City herself - one of the many artifacts carried over from Lena’s mother’s home, which Lena inherited at the age of 18. Lena had only gone once or twice as an adult, until the discovery of her magic made her curious to reconnect to what she could of her mother. “Are you okay?” Kara asked.

“I’m fine,” Lena said.

“Lena.” Kara stepped forward, kneeling on the rug, gently taking Lena’s busy hands into her own. “Lena, I’m here.”

Lena paused, leaving the remaining tapes next to the TV, taking a slow breath as she dropped back to sit on the floorboards instead. “I just didn’t expect to feel this way.”

“Feel what way?”

Lena stared down at the floor, not quite ready to look Kara in the eye. “I was so young. There’s so much I don’t remember.”

Kara took a seat in front of her, still holding Lena’s hands. She waited patiently - silent, and comforting, letting Lena take her time to think or talk as she wished.

“In one of the tapes,” Lena said, her voice a touch deeper than normal, “She sang an Irish lullaby. I haven’t heard it in decades. The melody slammed back into me.”

“I’m sure it was lovely,” Kara said.

“She spoke to me. In Irish. She spoke to me, and I didn’t understand what she was saying,” Lena said, frustrated. “And in the tape, I spoke back, and I didn’t understand what I was saying. It’s all gone.”

And that’s when Kara stiffened, a bolt of lightning running through her as she understood. It was different in her case, of course - she had once thought herself the last to speak a language, carrying a dead culture in her soul. Through sheer luck, she was able to get her father, her mother, her people back - but the feeling of being orphaned, she understood, if in a different way than Lena. “The Luthors don’t speak Irish,” Kara replied.

“Language attrition is common in children who stop speaking their first language before the age of 12,” Lena said softly, in a tone that made Kara realize that Lena must’ve read about this a dozen times before. “I didn’t know what I was losing until it was too late.”

“Lena,” Kara said, leaning forward to give the brunette a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know it sounds so silly,” Lena said. “It’s not like I have much need to speak Irish.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t mourn what you’ve lost,” Kara said, thinking back to a million conversations she’d had with Kelly about her own traumas, even if later they were reversed by fate. “You can still be sad about it.”

Lena sighed, melting into Kara’s arms, and Kara felt relieved. They sat, wrapped in each other’s embrace and breathing in the peace of the evening, Kara rubbing gently at Lena’s back until Lena was ready. “Well, I can put the rest of this away,” Lena said, pulling back, her voice steady for the first time that evening. “We can start cooking dinner.”

Kara nodded, watching as Lena gazed back - a bit mournful, a bit sad, but a certain lightness compared to before. “If it helps,” Kara said gently, with one last thought, “I can learn Irish with you? It may not be like before, but sometimes getting some of the pieces back can mean something.”

Lena looked at her for a moment, before smiling. “I’d like that.”

[imaredshirt]

It takes Fiddleford a while to realize it.

It takes years, actually. Which he theorizes could be a side effect of using the memory gun so often - one downside of many, apparently - but it finally hits him one day when he's exploring his new mansion.

He's only been living in the place for a few months at this point. The Northwests left a lot behind but they didn't leave a map, so Fiddleford spends a few hours a day drafting up blueprints of each floor and every room. He's looking through a printout of his current draft and as he's distracted, he doesn't notice that there's a staircase three feet ahead of him.

The fall takes him by surprise. He tumbles down, hitting every carpeted step with a yelp, and when he finally reaches the end, he lands wrong.

Very wrong. He should be permanently injured. He knows it. Landing on your head at his age after a tumble like that - can't be good. No siree.

But he gets to his feet and dusts his knees off and rubs his aching head and he's just fine.

So he sits on the first step and thinks back and realizes with snap of his fingers - he can't die.

Which is not to say that the fall would have killed him or that he's completely invincible, but he thinks back to all the mishaps he's had.

People have hit him with cars (multiple times) and he's always walked away with a spring in his step. Piles of trash and scrap metal have toppled over him in the scrapyard (also multiple times) and he's climbed out from under them without a scratch. He's been eaten by a pterodactyl, electrocuted by multiple inventions, tumbled off a cliff, struck by lightning, attacked by supernatural creatures around Gravity Falls, and has used the memory gun more times than anyone in town.

His arm's not even injured. He just likes how the bandages look.

Stanford would likely be stunned and worried by everything Fiddleford has survived (understandably so) but he would also find it all fascinating.

Fiddleford's not sure he would agree with that. He's worried. But the researcher in him is convinced it has something to do with the Portal Incident, when 1/3 of his body spent all of fifteen seconds inside the portal.

That's when it started, he thinks. It has to be.

But then, he wonders - if the portal has had this effect on him from something that happened years ago, what has it done to the Pines brothers? Stanley, who spent years working on the portal, and Stanford, who spent just as long on the other side?

It just so happens that at that moment, the doorbell rings. Fiddleford throws the massive doors to find the very brothers he's been pondering standing there, still in their travel gear. They've returned from their voyage on the Stan o' War II three months early. He can smell the sea on their coats.

Stanley barges in, pulling Stanford after him, and when Fiddleford shuts the doors, Stanley throws his coat open to reveal the metal end of a broken harpoon head sticking out of his chest, right over his heart.

"Fiddleford," Stanford says as Fiddleford stares, aghast. "We need to use your machinery. We can't exactly walk into a hospital with our very new statuses as, ah, very wanted criminals--"

"We got on the wrong side of the law, what's new about that?" Stanley interrupts. He gestures wildly at the metal sticking out of tender, reddened skin. "Anyway, you think any old doctor is gonna be able to fix this? Ford says you're the only guy who can help, so I'm just gonna get to the point, McGucket - four days ago, some stupid pirate got lucky and hit me. Four days ago! Why aren't I dead?"

Fiddleford pulls out his trust notebook, and as Stanford details the attack and how well Stanley has fared with a metal spear stuck between his ribs and likely puncturing his heart, Fiddleford thinks he knows that the brothers are well aware of the possible cause, but are perhaps too shocked to admit it.

Even months after Weirdmageddon and the dismantling of the awful invention beneath the Mystery Shack, it just seems that messing with an inter-dimensional portal is not without consequences.

[jazzy-mass]

When he processes the words, its almost audible, the click into place.

He said you were competition.

Oh.

It should be ridiculous; the idea that Eddie was ever competition for Buck and Tommy’s relationship. He and Tommy had been friends. He and Buck are best friends and they have been for years.

They’ve been through so much together and okay, yeah, maybe the closeness they’ve grown into could make someone feel like they’re competing for attention. Buck has been there for some of his worst moments, they’ve laughed and cried and fought together. Buck has been there for his kid - over and over again a support he could count on. And he did.

He chose Buck as the one person he trusts most with his entire world.

And oh isn’t that just.

Something.

It’s something and ridiculous isn’t the word he can use, doesn’t want to use, suddenly.

Because it should be crazy, the idea that he’d be competition for a relationship with his best friend but he finds that. Huh.

It doesn’t feel all that crazy.

He glances back at Buck, his mind a whirlwind while he processes and accepts and realigns, all within a very short moment that feels like it’s been extended across years.

Because it has and how did he not see this.

Something in Eddie’s expression must give some of his thoughts away, Buck’s eyes widening just a fraction. Theres a flash of something crossing Buck’s own expression and it’s something, not ridiculous and. Maybe he was competition.

He feels himself settle, the chaos of a moment replaced with surety and peace. Because nothing really changes here does it? Some things, maybe but not a lot. Not the important stuff.

He locks eyes with Buck and sees that something in his eyes grow stronger, brighter, and he quirks his mouth up a little. He lets out a soft huff that could almost be a laugh, if it didn’t come out just a little on the side of breathless.

“I think I won.”

[slashmagpie]

“Pearl? Why are you in my house?” 

Pearl blinks up at Bdubs from where she’s sandwiched between the wall and the waterstream, curled up on herself in the narrow space. “Somebody destroyed all the lights in my base and now it’s full of mobs,” she says bitterly.

“It wasn’t me!” Bdubs cries, raising his hands.

“Well, I didn’t think it was you, but the way you just said that’s making me think—”

“No! I’d never! I swear!”

“...I believe you,” she says after a moment, and Bdubs feels himself relax. “Can I stay with you tonight? I don’t really feel like…” She gestures in the direction of her house.

Bdubs nods. “Oh, sure, for sure,” he says. Then, “Should we invite Joel over? His house got blown up too.”

“Ah, yeah, probably. Good idea, Bdubs.” She fumbles in her pocket for her communicator, eventually fishing it out. The screen is cracked. Her fingers shake as they tap against the glass. 

“Are you okay there, Pearl? You look a little…” Bdubs forces his hands to tremble. 

She glances up at him, face scrunching in confusion, before she lets out a small laugh. “Just the adrenaline, y’know.” She grins. “I’m red. It’s great.” 

“If it was anyone else, I’d think they were being sarcastic. But with you! With you, I’m pretty sure you’re being serious!”

She giggles, hitting send on the message and shoving her communicator away. Bdubs doesn’t feel his own buzz; it must have been a whisper. “You know,” she says after a moment, “I’m a little surprised.”

Bdubs blinks. “Surprised about what?”

“That there’s still three of us.” 

He laughs. “Yeah, I’m a little surprised, too! I thought for sure Joel would die today. For sure.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Oh, no, never. But between you and me… that guy’s kind of a loose canon!” 

She snorts. “Throwing stones from glass houses, there, Bdubs?”

“Surely I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mhm.” She pauses, eyes glancing down to where her fingers pick at a stray thread on her hoodie sleeve. “That’s kinda what I mean, though. Joel doesn’t live here, and you’re making friends with half the server, I’m surprised I’m not spending tonight alone.”

“Pearl…”

“What?” She snorts. “I know how these games go, Bdubs. People don’t stay loyal. Not for long, anyway.” She glances up at him, eyes half obscured by her hair. “People like Joel, people like you? I know how this ends.”

And Bdubs—

Well, he can’t pretend he doesn’t know what she means. Can’t pretend he doesn’t remember Impulse yelling as Bdubs’ arrow had found home in his throat. Can’t pretend he doesn’t remember Etho backing away when Bdubs had tried to get just a little too close. Can’t pretend he didn’t fight when he promised he’d run. Can’t pretend he hadn’t taken advantage of his broken home. 

…He can’t pretend he doesn’t remember telling Martyn about their plans, or planning to do harm to Etho. Can’t pretend he doesn’t cross his fingers behind his back every time he makes a promise, just in case.

But at the same time, he remembers—searching for Cleo in a castle she’d been too dead to return to, pushing Lizzie to her death for a life he’d never received, taking two hands in his own and vowing to face the end as four instead of two, for once, for once in his life, choosing three and being pulled apart because of it—

Bdubs lets out a breath. “Pearl, hey, no,” he says. “I told you, didn’t I? I’m your weapon.” He gets down to his knees, lowers his head before her, feels her gaze burn into the top of his head.

“Bit late for that,” she says. “I’m my own weapon now, mate. Don’t need you to attack for me anymore.”

“Well, no—but—” He looks up at her. “Pearl. I’m yours. I promise.”

“Right. And you’re Martyn and Etho’s too, huh? We can share.”

“I’m using Martyn!” he protests. “That’s—that’s all it is—I’m usin’ him because he’s the first red and he knows his stuff! And Etho—”

“I don’t mind about Etho,” Pearl interrupts. “Like I said, I know you guys have your little thing going on. I don’t care about that.”

“I set a trap in his base,” Bdubs blurts.

Pearl blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

“I set a trap in his base. Tripwire hook.” He grins. “Right outside the bedroom. I—I think I got Grian, in the end? But—could have been Etho. I coulda—could’ve been Etho.” He swallows.

“And you’d have been okay with that?” Pearl asks, smile gone from her face, expression suddenly very serious.

“I—after I set it, I went up to them. Had a chat. Lied the whole time. I coulda—coulda told him. I didn’t.” 

“And you’re okay with that?” she stresses.

She sounds dubious. Bdubs can’t blame her. He feels sick, swallowing back the bile that’s building in his throat.

“I—Pearl.”

“Bdubs?”

“I learned my lesson, Pearl. I learned—don’t put all your eggs in one basket! Because—because either they die, and then you get left alone, or—or it gets you killed, and you die. You gotta—I have two hands. I can be loyal to multiple people. But then I learned—when you do that? People aren’t loyal back. They don’t trust you anymore. Nobody else…” He laughs. “I feel like I’m the only one who can trust people like that anymore!”

“So…” She frowns. “So you’re making friends with everyone so you don’t get betrayed or left alone?”

“Exactly.” 

“And you know none of us are gonna trust you for doing that.”

He swallows again. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you’re doing it anyway?”

“Well, what else—what else am I supposed to do? I can’t… I can’t go back, Pearl. That’s… I can’t go back. You know how it is.”

“…Yeah,” she says quietly. “I’m—I want you to win, Bdubs,” she says. “Out of everyone—I want it to be you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So… You better not make me regret this.”

He blinks at her. “Regret what?”

She bows her head to him. “I’m your weapon,” she says, an echo of his earlier words. “And a bit more of a dangerous one at that.” Her smirk leaks back into her words as she glances up and winks at him. “So use me well, alright, Bdubs? I want you to win this.”

Bdubs’ heart is in his throat. He swallows it back down. It burns.

“I’ll do my best,” he promises. 

The door slams open, startling them both out of their skin.

“Hey guys—uh. What are you doing?”

“Oh, for—Judas Priest, Joel, learn to knock!”

“You invited me over! Or, Pearl did—hey Pearl.”

“Hey,” Pearl says. “Come on in! Sleepover at Bdubs’ time.”

“I can’t believe this is the last of our bases left standing. It’s, like, the worst one.”

“Hey!” 

“There’s no space in here!” To punctuate his statement, Joel slumps down against one wall, kicking Bdubs in the ribs as he does so. Bdubs grunts. “See?”

“It’s definitely not the most spacious…” Pearl acquiesces.

“Anyway. What were you guys doing before I came in?”

“Swearing loyalty,” Bdubs says. 

“Oh.” Joel blinks. “Do you need me to do that? Because I’m a Mounder for life. Loyal to the end.”

Bdubs and Pearl glance at each other.

“Somehow I actually believe him,” Bdubs stage-whispers, and Joel squawks in offence as Pearl barks out a laugh.

“No, I think you’re good,” she says. Leaning her head back against the wall, she says, “This is probably our final night.”

The three of them are quiet for a moment.

“Well,” says Joel. “We gotta make it to the end then, don’t we?”

He’s looking at Bdubs. They’re both looking at Bdubs. 

Bdubs nods.

“May the best Mounder win,” he says solemnly.

Joel grins.

[everybodyshusband]

cirrus/dew mutual masturbation because i need to practice writing smut :3 savour cis dewdrop while you can because that is not something i write often sdfhkjsf

blame @divine-misfortune idk

"Oh fuck." Cirrus groans into Dew's mouth as he pets at her clit just right.

"Uh huh," he agrees, brow creasing and mouth dropping open in a silent moan as Cirrus shifts her leg, inviting the fire ghoul to hump against her leg as she drops her hand to fondle his balls.

They've been going at this for what feels like hours now and knowing them, it probably has been. It's hard to say when they started, the time bleeding together as they moved from sleeping, to cuddling, to kissing, to petting, to... Well, this.

Dew whine again as the tip of his cock drags over the delicate lace on the bottom of Cirrus' sleep shorts and she chuckles at his desperation. But her own laugh is quickly cut off by a surprised gasp as Dewdrop choses this moment to shift his fingers down and in. She grips at his bicep and groans as the flex of his muscles match the movement of his fingers inside of her.

Never one to leave her partner's waiting, she too shifts her hand, dragging her fingers from Dew's balls to instead wrap them around his cock once more. He whines as she resumes her gentle stroking, and twists his arm so he can place his thumb on her clit, rubbing it side to side as he pumps his fingers inside her.

Cirrus moans and surges upwards, connecting their mouths once more in a filthy kiss. She rubs her own thumb against the tip of Dew's cock, collecting the beads of pre dripping there and smearing them over the length of it. On the next stroke, they both groan at the slick sound of it. They're both close and they know it. The only trouble is that neither of them are going to get there.

It's never an issue though, especially between the two of them. Both much more familiar with the movement of their own hands rather than those of others. So...

"Hey, can we–"

"Do you wanna–"

They cut each other off and pause staring at one another before scrunching their noses up in laughter.

"Fuck yeah," Dew nods.

"Let's do it."

They're in tune enough with each other and they've done this enough times to know exactly what the other means. They roll off and over one another and position themselves on Cirrus' bed, facing each other and close enough to kiss. Dewdrop does exactly that, leaning across the tiny gap to press their mouths together in a soft kiss.

"Ready?" He asks.

Cirrus nods. "Ready."

They both reach down once again, this time into their own pants and moan in tandem with one another as they begin stroking. Cirrus' fingers flick over her clit lightening quick, in a pace and style that in her experience, only she can perform. From the looks of it, Dew is doing exactly the same with his cock, twisting his hand over the head and squeezing the shaft just the way he likes it.

As the pull of her orgasm begins to grow deep in her navel, Cirrus moans and pulls Dewdrop closer with her free hand. He groans into the kiss, deepening it as much as possible in the position they both find themselves in.

Soon enough, the pull of her orgasm grows, overwhelming Cirrus with it's strength.

"Dew, I– I'm gonna–"

"Fuck," he whines. "Me too, me too."

Their respective paces speed, hands working overtime to push themselves over the edge.

Dew goes first, swearing and grasping at the pillows as he spurts all over his hand, covering the inside of his boxers.

It doesn't take long for Cirrus to follow, shrieking and gasping as her orgasm washes over her. Her legs stiffen and her hand keeps flying over herself, desperate to draw this out for as long as possible.

As they both come down from their respective highs, Dewdrop pulls her back in for another breathless kiss and they stay like that for a good while before breaking away from each other, still panting.

Their moment of bliss is soon broken however, by a knock at the door. "Hey, uhh, are you guys done in there?" Mountain's voice floats through the crack. "Papa said he wants Cirrus for the vocals practice with Lus and Rory."

Cirrus sighs and pulls herself up, already switching out her sleep shorts for something more appropriate for the rest of the day. "I'm on my way, Mount," she calls, glancing back apologetically at Dew, who's still laying on her bed.

The fire ghoul shrugs and smiles. It's fine, he mouths, affectionately gesturing for her to go before she's even later for practice.

She smiles back at him as she leaves blowing him a kiss that he pretends to catch before flopping back onto the bed and pulling the blankets back up over himself and presumably falling back asleep.

[adhd-merlin]

I love that moment during Arthur and Gwen's first picnic when Arthur goes "stay stil!!" and Gwen is like "is it bandits?? :O" and then Arthur lies back on the blanket and says "a wasp :)" with that little self-satisfied smile like. he was just being goofy. 'twas just a silly joke. that's so precious to me do you understand