#best prompt possible!

[sleepy-writes-stuff]

DP X DC PROMPT #27

(Time for something a little more lighthearted/found family. Could probably also make this a crack prompt instead.)

(#) = Notes at the end of post

(*) = Just me building off of other ideas.

✦

Visitation Rights

When Danny went to list Dani/Ellie as his heir after she'd come back from her years of traveling the world, he was quickly informed that he already had one in line for the thrown.

"What? Since when?!"

The pretentious, floating eyeball looked like he wanted to be anywhere else other than here, providing information to King Phantom, but explained anyway.

"The day you officially achieved royal status, you permanently linked your being to the Infinite Realms. When this happened, however, a child was in the process of being created with the assistance of ectoplasmic runoff that's been leaking into the mortal world for centuries. As a result of your power being incorporated into the Realms at such a time, this human child retained an imprint of your core signature. The Infinite Realms itself has recognized this child as your offspring. Your... other offspring has yet to be recognized in such a way and would therefore be considered your second heir once claimed."

Danny stared at the Observant with wide, blank eyes that were slowly filling with dread and panic.

"Why are you just telling me this now?? My coronation was over a decade ago!" He held his face in his hands and gave a horrified groan at what he just learned.

"If you really wanted that clone as your heir, I'm afraid it's too late to change it-"

Danny's head shot back up with a snarl and furious green eyes.

"That's not what I'm upset about you walking cataracts! Eleven years! I've missed eleven years of this kid's life!! How could you think I-"

At a loss for words, he growled deep in his chest. Deep enough that it echoed throughout the halls and rattled the floors.

"Who is this kid, and where can I find them?"

Once given the information and learning of the child's other parental figures, he gets to work. A few weeks later, he appears in the home office of a well-known billionaire with a stack of papers that he promptly slams onto the desk in front of the startled man. (1)

"I demand visitation rights to our son, Damian Wayne."

✦

(1) Danny actually visited Talia first to get visitation rights. Needless to say, that didn't go very well. He's still got a couple knives floating around in his chest cavity because of it.

(*) ALSO! I'm not sure how this lines up with the DC/Batman timeline. All I figured out is that if Danny waited to be crowned until after he graduated college as an astrophysicist, which take 5 to 7 years, he'd be about 36 years old when he finds out about Damian. Bruce would be about 41, so the age gap is only 5 years. If y'all wanna make this Danny/Bruce, go ahead!

[evilminji]

I just remeber a post from a while back ( >.>)

Remember the Dairy King? Ghosts that STAY for one reason or another, instead of moving on? I made a prompt about HAUNTS, but?

What of Haunted Houses? Haunted by what? Themselves. Their People are gone. They lay abandoned. Dead homes. Limnal places. Haunted and alive.

And yes, some of them are angry. Who wouldn't be? They did nothing wrong! Their People are gone, the world strange, and they have known nothing but neglect and suffering. They of course lash out.

Maybe they saw horrors, inside their walls. Abuse they could not stop. Death they could not prevent. Humans are terrible things to them. Painful. Ugly.

But there are also those, we must imagine, who are DESPERATE. Clinging. Covetous. Trapping any unfortunate enough to stumble into them, because they can not bear to be alone again. Ugly cycles of suffering and need.

Not all, of course. There are houses you would never know were Haunted. So comfortable and warm, they just feel like a hug. Blankets ready just where you need them, tables always set for just as many as arrive. If they have gardens, they can even feed you!

The problem? For there always IS some sort of concern.

You can't just... let ANYONE live in these Houses. These manors and castles, huts and homes. In the same way you can't let just ANYONE keep a disable eagle or tiger. And even beyond that? Guess who's voice is still cracking, just got a crown that doesn't fit, and needs to CHECK on these homes?

Because unlike other Ghosts? Most of these ones? Can't run away. They exsist where they exsist. Many in need of careful, patient, therapy and socialization. They're scared. People keep trying to EXSORSIZE them.

It hurts.

They don't understand why people are hurting them.

Why they are punching HOLES in their walls to "renovate" them instead of asking for things.

It HURTS.

And? If we want to do a cross over? I bet you two coffee and a doughnut, Danny meets Constantine and the Bats at one such house, in old Gotham. Where the last of one branch died and when then greedy mofo OTHER branch tried to turn their stately home into a McMansion? They nearly died.

Which, to be fair. Great Aunt Agatha DID warn them. "Leave the house be. She's a good girl."

But of course, things escalate. Building crews are lied too, nearly die. Batman gets involved. Breaks a rib. Now Constantine is staring down a Haunted House, who is very scared and just wants the bad men to go away. Wants her Aggy back.

And all DANNY sees is the equivalent of a terrified cat, cornered by a group of thugs, who is puffed up desperately to make themselves seem Scary(tm), all while those same group of thugs level WEAPONS at that poor creature.

Ghost king FROM THE HIGH BAR! With the FULL BODY FLYING TACKLE!!!

You get away from THAT HOUSE, you magical BASTAAAAARD! *SLAM*

@hypewinter @ailithnight @hdgnj

[chiropteracupola]

I destroyed a bond of friendship and respect / Between the only people left who'd even look me in the eye / Now I laugh and make a fortune / Off the same ones that I tortured / And a world screams, "Kiss me, Son of God!"

[hitlikehammers]

Steddie Post S4: If All That's Left of Steve in the Final Battle is Ashes—

...are they REALLY JUST ashes? 🔥 

The final battle—like the last part of the very final battle—ends with shattering, and with dust.

It starts, the first bad dream and the first bloody nose and the first Code Red on the radios: well, that’s three months into something, for the first time in Eddie’s sorry-ass-but-honestly-actually-since-almost-not-having-any-life-at-all-any-more-and-miraculously-making-it-through-a-night-then-a-week-then-a-month-then-rehab-then-chronic-pain-then-more-friends-than-he’d-ever-had-before-and-frankly-in-the-beginning-more-than-he-could-count-plus-three-new-mother-figures-and-two-maybe-three-extra-maybe-father-figures-plus-one-friend-of-Dorothy-who’s-the-platonic-soulmate-of-maybe-the-love-of-Eddie’s-not-actually-still-sorry-ass-life: he’s about three months into something wild and reeling in his chest, brushing hands and lingering looks and flushed cheeks and little secret smiles ducked in toward shoulders or behind stray curls, or falling asleep pressed arm-to-arm only to wake up in one lap or another, and the whole of it’s shameless and intentional and giddy somewhere low in Eddie’s belly because it’s not uncertain, it’s honestly just fucking bashful, it’s shy and it’s the both of them wordlessly leaning into it, careful but sure, and almost all the more buoyant for it.

It’s three months in, and when they step up to that last battle—that final turn, do-or-die—maybe Steve pulls him behind a truck Eddie doesn’t even know the owner of, where it came from or why it’s there; but maybe Steve pulls him behind and draws him close without a word and kisses him relentless, drags his teeth and draws a little blood for the force and leaves them both raw, and panting, and desperate: it couldn’t really go any other way, like this—here.

Now.

“Live through this,” Steve had breathed against his angry red lips, hard enough that it stung; “so we can pick up where we left off.”

“I will if you will,” Eddie had shot back, defiant; still begging.

And Steve had kissed him again, and Eddie’d watched as Steve walked away with the lightest smear of Eddie’s blood on his lower lip as he’d spoken:

“I’ll hold you to it.”

And they’d parted, to do their fucking jobs, to play their fucking roles. They’re come back together, ready to take the final boss down as a unit, and Eddie remembers that he’d felt hopeful, he’d felt so fucking relieved because this was it. They were gonna nail it, all for one, and—

So it might be near the end, actually—they may have almost done it, finished the job and killed every last bit of this hellscape, every beast big and small, crushed what’s left of the husk of Vecna orchestrating it all: it might happen near the end. Or maybe just shy of the beginning. Somewhere in the middle.

All Eddie knows is that it happens. There’s light, and people floating in the air and then more light, dragged back down by the same lightning-spark power, and it’s back and it’s forth and when it hits anyone, Supergirl pulls them back to the ground and fights back harder, her face blood red dripping to her neck, her teeth bared all wrath and fury, and then—

Then there’s something that shoots different, hits Steve and he doesn’t float. It looks different, so it probably is different, and he doesn’t float when it hits him.

And so: Eddie holds to the bargain.

But Steve.

Steve…Steve Harrington, with the bitchiest glare and the brightest smile and the goofiest laugh and the biggest fucking heart, the bravest of all of them and the best part of Eddie’s whole soul—

Steve gets hit, and disappears from the world in nothing but a cloud of dust.

No one tries to shush Eddie, when he screams, when he wails and sobs; drops to his knees and fucking howls.

No one tries to stop him when he crawls to the space that held his whole heart, and now lies empty, save a dusting of something almost shiny, coarse to the touch but fine to the naked eye, hard to distinguish from the dirt on sight alone—is that him? Is that his Sweetheart, all that’s left of him—

Eddie thinks maybe they try to stop him halfway through the way he starts frantically sweeping, scooping up the ash and filling every pocket he has with as much as he can. He vaguely feels a hand on his shoulder, maybe the sound of his name, but it’s all white noise because Eddie’s picking up the pieces of his heart, here, Eddie’s trying like hell to hold on to something of the man he loves and anyone who doesn’t like it, or thinks he’s crazy, or wants to rush him, ask him to leave any little pouch in any layer of his clothes unfilled, less than overflowing with all that remains?

Fuck them. Fuck them all. Because Eddie kept his side of the deal.

Live through this.

I will if you will.

And now he has to live with the way his Stevie…didn’t.

——

The rest of the Party sticks together after it’s done. Dustin is inconsolable, Erica and Max scowl in each other’s direction but not really…at each other. Mike’s having a weird…frenzy response, denying Steve’s dead at all and demanding Lucas help him get El to look for him, he has to be somewhere, he has be saveable like Max, like Eddie. Robin’s fucking catatonic—the real adults take most of the burden, trying to figure out who to call, because Steve’s their only casualty, the beating heart at the center of all this and it’s gone, no wonder they’re breaking—

The Party stays together. Eddie falls back on what he knows.

He runs.

Specifically: he runs home, carefully though, he can’t jostle his pockets, and he knows exactly where he’s looking when he gets to his room, crawls to the farthest corner of his closet in this still-weird-to-be-so-big bedroom after the trailer: and he finds it.

His mom’s old little hope chest.

There are a million little fake velvet pouches inside, a couple pieces of actual jewelry kept in an empty film canister, and then a smaller jewelry box type thing meant for a dresser or something: Eddie doesn’t think he can fill the hope chest.

But the rest…

He starts with the jewelry box, since it’s already empty, carefully cups his palms to fill it with the precious dust until the lid doesn’t close.

Then he sorts the pouches, puts aside the ones that don’t pull tight enough shut for his liking. The rest…those will be temporary. He’ll find a better home for the ashes soon, but for now they’re safe, and all that’s left is…

The film canister is special.

It’s stupid and plastic and like every other fucking black-and grey tube thingy that smells like vinegar on the inside of you hold it up too close. But this one—

He’s always gotten a little teary-eyed to think that this was the one his mother kept.

Because he’d poked a hole through the rough little peak in the top of the lid with a fork, took a piece of thread from the junk drawer and made himself a necklace to match the one she had and she’d smiled at him so bright, poked another hole next to his, and threaded his string-chain through the back of the lid so it’d close up tight, to keep all your most secret prized possessions, my sugarbean and he had. For years.

Now it held what was left of her jewels, mostly cheap stuff with sentimental worth he couldn’t calculate—but now he has to take the faulty pouches and give the jewelry a new home.

Now he’s never had something more prized and precious to keep.

He finds fishing line in Wayne’s stuff, stronger than the thread worn and aged over a decade and a half, swaps it out with the string. Covers the inside with electrical tape to make sure nothing can sneak out of the holes, even so.

And then he fills it. Last of the ashes, and it all only just fits but the lid pops on perfect.

Then he pulls it over his head, and lies down on his bed.

And fucking sobs when the canister falls to settle right over his heart.

——

Some of the kids try to coax him out, argue grief is better shared or whatever, but Eddie’s deaf to the knocking, the way they try to yell at his window—not even cracked open, he won’t risk a rogue bird or a stray breeze disturbing all he has left of his, his—

The kids go away, eventually.

Wayne finds out through the grapevine what’s happened—he comes into Eddie’s room and holds him even if Eddie doesn’t want it, doesn’t ask. He’s grateful, though, even if he doesn’t say it, and Wayne sheds more than one tear; he’d been warming quick to Steve, called him son.

That wasn’t something Wayne did lightly. Not that anything Wayne did was done lightly.

However many days pass, Eddie doesn’t keep track. He wakes and runs to the little box on his dresser, just to make sure it’s safe, clutching the film tube around his neck while he does, weighing it desperately until he can be sure the bulk of the ashes are undisturbed. The rest of his time is spent lying in his bed and rolling the little canister across his fingers, taking off all his rings so he can just…touch it. Be close to whatever lifeless pieces of Steve—and likewise, then: pieces of Eddie—remain anywhere at all. He passes the hours like that, largely. Sometimes he thinks he’s hungry, like his stomach aches in that pang kind of way, but thinking of eating in a world where Steve doesn’t breathe makes him sick every time, so he doesn’t follow through. Wayne pesters him to at least drink something, so he sometimes shuffles to the bathroom, or the kitchen, drinks from the sink because glasses are for people who make plans for the future, who intend to drink things over the course of a lifetime, a life maybe with a purpose, a purpose that—

Eddie throws himself back into bed again, every time. Presses his film-canister-talisman tight to his sternum until the hurt of the pressure blurs with bigger hurts, and ultimately blurs into black.

Until one day, he opens his eyes. And after he’s done with the subtle disappointment that he had to, that morning came at all; when he gets up and checks the box?

The lid’s flipped off.

And there’s a tiny pile of dusty ash, glittering next to it, when there’s no light in the room to even catch it.

Eddie’s heart drops, then seizes in his chest.

What the fuck. What the fuck.

No one comes in but Wayne, and he just pokes his head in. Nothing can get in, either, unless…but they closed all the gates, there is no Upside Down anymore—

Eddie’s hands are shaking as he tries to brush the little pile into his hands, pulse tripping when the thinks of what it is, inside his hands, and he carefully lets it sift back into the jewelry box, tries to judge if any’s been lost, closes the top when he starts breathing too heavy, when his anxiety threatens to make the situation worse as he tries to bend down and see the furniture at surface level, find any precious speck of—

Not a speck. Not a…mote.

The escaped ashes were on top of something, though. Something Eddie’s never seen before. About the size of a notecard but, kinda like…ancient, weathered; that yellowed look you can never fake just right, traced alone with…some kind of calligraphy out of fucking Camelot or some shit, metallic gold in script:

I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.  

The…fuck?

Eddie tries to squint, because the text is weirdly positioned; it does look like something’s worn off, and some of what’s actually there is brighter, bolder than the rest, and then there’s a whole other style, almost backward, like a mirror-image of handwriting, and Eddie lifts the card up to the mirror instinctively, only to see…

There’s writing on the other side.

Eddie’s breath catches when he recognizes the handwriting. Small, and more words than should be able to fit but…it fits. It’s dried blood in color, and Eddie’s not convinced it’s just a color for how it’s a little raised and flaky, but it doesn’t come off when Eddie touches it, traces it because the cramped little letters, tall and short all mixed and mismatched, so familiar, so tight in Eddie’s chest—

It’s…Eddie…

Eddie’s eyes skim the first few lines in Steve’s handwriting, and he cannot fucking breathe—

Hey, wow, that’s some crazy shit there on the other side of this piece of paper, my gran says it’s a warning even if I don’t personally get it, but I’m pretty sure it’s enchanted? The paper, I mean. The warning’s probably about being too close to…this, without being prepared. But that’s, whatever. Point is, I don’t think I can make new enchanted paper, so here’s the deal: First, thanks for grabbing the ashes? I didn’t actually expect anyone to do that. I hope it was intentional, like that you weren’t sweeping or the ash got stuck in your shoes or something, because intentional will make the rest of this way easier (hopefully, or like, maybe), and if you’re a part of the bigger Hawkins fuckery it’ll be way easier to believe at the least so, fingers crossed I guess but: I’m kind of a phoenix? Firebird? Thing? It’s a bloodline “curse” but especially since the, umm, incidents with the Lab I’ve been thinking maybe it’s actually kinda cool? Like insurance. But the extra fucked up thing is that someone has to grab the ashes without being, like, told to. Free will or some bullshit. And apparently we’re not a very spontaneously likable bunch of dungeons-and-dipshit-type creatures, because not many of us even get to re-birth ourselves. Because of the ash…thing. But you! You did that! And now I can do the rebirth thing! Which I hope is okay. There are a lot of, like, bond-type things that go along with the person who ‘cares selflessly to gather ash unbidden’—I think that’s what makes someone more than a ‘mere human’ consumed by the Fire and they won’t get burned, they’ll be…well, if they wanted. Bond-stuff. Not important. I’m not gonna hold you to any of that shit, like, nothing you don’t want to happen will happen because of this, I 100% promise. Except maybe I’ll do some over the top gestures of gratitude—and on the off chance you already know me, at all? Over-the-top is kinda how I do most feelings, so. Should not be a surprise. Only thing I will ask, and if it’s too much no worries, the whole resurrection shebang was a gamble from the get-go but, if you can just keep this pile of ashes safe for a little bit? It takes longer to heal based on how old you are when you, y’know. Kick it. So…yeah. I never learned how to come back as a baby because that sounded weird. Quicker, but weird. I only learned the slower way so I can just…come back how I left, like no time passed. But if you can keep the ashes safe until then that’d be totally cool. Anyway, thanks, whoever you are. Kinda owe you my life, here. I’ll show you the appreciation you deserve when I’m, you know. Not-ashes. Once I have opposable thumbs again and stuff. But really. Thank you. See you soon, hopefully (if that’s cool, I mean, I can get out of your hair ASAP too if you’d rather, just say so soon as I pop up)— ~SH

Eddie…falls to the floor at some point, nearly ripping the note, no: no, actually, he should have decimated it, macerated it the with the way his hands clench and his tears have fallen and made not a single mark: enchanted paper.

Ashes that…maybe are Steve?

That maybe mean Steve could come…will come back?

Eddie really can’t breathe, now, and when the black swallows everything, he’s still on the fucking floor.

——

When next he comes-to, Eddie splashes water on his face after he checks on the jewelry box, reads the letter again, clutches the ash-filled pendant in his hand as he drinks, considers eating—no.

No, not yet. His stomach’s still unsteady. His chest is swollen, pressed with something like hope for the impossible because what the fuck, first and foremost, but then, then…

There was a horrorscape under his feet for years before it came for him personally, before he almost died at its hands once, and then again by proxy when, when it took his…

His maybe-love-of-his-life-and-also-possibly-something-like-a-phoenix-who-might-be-coming-back-to-Eddie-which-would-mean-Eddie-could-keep-breathing-and-his-heart-would-be-returned-to-his-chest-by-the-hands-of-the-man-he-loves-because-he-thinks-it-died-with-Steve-but-if-Steve-isn’t-dead—

He basically almost died again when…maybe his Steve—who Eddie fully acknowledges at this point he’s absolutely fucking gone on with his whole heart and soul, because there’s no other real explanation for his total and complete shutdown as a human for the sake of Steve’s loss—when his Stevie died, but maybe didn’t.

But then now, now maybe…

Maybe the impossible could be something that saved them, saved him, instead of something that only sought to ruin.

Eddie doesn’t think he can believe he’s that lucky.

But it’s easier to entertain the possibility, than to continue just…knowing Steve died before Eddie could acknowledge with his everything that he—certified cynic and self-deceiving dumbass Edward Elliot Munson—was ass-over-ankles in love; and more than that: before he could tell Steve as much, because of anyone Eddie’s ever met, Steve Harrington deserves to know how impossible it is not to; how ineffably much he is loved.

“Hey,” Eddie ultimately finds himself curled up back in his bed again, clutching his film canister to his chest, tight enough to leave an impression on his skin.

He wants it to. Right over the way his heart slams against his ribs. He wants a bruise. He wants a scar. He wants inviolable proof.

“Umm, so I don’t know if this is real,” Eddie’s eyes flicker to the jewelry box of ashes, the strange potentially-enchanted note on his dresser; “or if it is, how this works?”

This apparently being talking to the cobbled together film-pendant around his neck, he…he’s so fucked, isn’t he, this is insane—

But it’s not like that’s ever stopped him before.

And before never had love in the mix. So.

“If you can hear me,” Eddie runs his thumb around the circumference of the cap, over and over; “I pretty fucking sure I’m in love with you,” and it’s maybe fucked up, how it feels as nervewracking to say it to a plastic canister of ashes as he imagines it’d feel looking into those stupidly-wide amber eyes, but yep: said plastic ash-pendant’d be fucking bouncing with his heartbeat if he wasn’t holding it so tight to the furious drumming of his pulse.

“I know it’s fast? But,” and Eddie swallows, shakes his head for reasons that are maybe about dispelling the idea that anything’s too fast or too much in the life they’ve led, one where more might be possible, where a future might still exist beyond all possibilities, all hope except for the fragile frail thing in Eddie’s chest written in blood red, in Steve’s hand on Eddie’s fucking bones:

“I don’t think losing someone hurts like this if your heart’s not in it all the way,” and that’s, that is…

That’s the crux of it, isn’t it. His heart is the heart of it.

“Sorry, about that, if you,” Eddie swallows, sour around the idea that maybe, even if the impossible’s possible, this part, where he feels like this, is just…maybe not too far but in the wrong direction.

But he wants to believe. He wants to think Steve saw something pointing in this direction when he told him to survive, so they could have, so they could finish, so they—them, together—could…

“Yeah.”

Eddie’s voice is hoarse enough to hurt, now, so he lifts his little film canister to his lips and presses them hard, sure: it’s weirdly warm against his mouth, held too close to his chest for too long.

Not long enough. Not close enough.

“Be careful about taking care of yourself, about, coming back and,” Eddie grips his pendant of ashes back tight to the center of his sternum;

“I’ll watch over it, watch over you,” he promises; “long as you need.”

And he breathes, holding the canister close before he brings it back to his mouth again and whispers to it like it matters, or…just in case it matters:

“Come back to me,” his words come out in a shudder, all trembling; “I’m just a mere human, maybe less than,” and that’s true, that is so fucking true but:

“But you already consume me,” Eddie speaks it honest, and kisses the rim of the cap— if there’s any chance of getting in, it’s there:

“So burn me up, as much as you need to,” and Eddie means it, he fucking means it with everything he is; “just,” and his voice cracks, and he shoves the canister back tight to his shaking heart when the first tear falls on it, covers it with both hands and cups it safe and damn-near painful as he whispers to whatever might listen:

“If any of this is real,” he barely fucking breathes: “please come back.”

He loses the battle for consciousness to his tears, but awake or asleep: he doesn’t once let go of the pendant pressed to his heart.

——

Eddie’s warm. Like, fell asleep in the sunlight, swaddled in a blanket, embraced and held and wrapped up in pure comfort warm.

“You’re more than a mere human,” a voice exhales right behind his ear: also warm, also comfort, also fucking impossible and he turns, frantic and even more so when he feels the lack of his film canister against his chest, and he tries to scramble for it but he’s…he’s held the whole time in strong arms that he knows, same as he knew that voice, same as it’s clear that he’s warm because he’s wrapped up in a body, tangled from the legs up with, with—

“How,” Eddie barely speaks, more mouths as that chest lifts, those lungs fill, that mouth curls warm and sweet and his Steve is watching him, those eyes so alive and then those strong hands are reaching for him, cupping Eddie’s cheeks and marveling like Eddie’s the wonder, here, like Steve isn’t lying in his arms like a full-on fucking miracle.

“You offered burning, and pledged your heart unasked,” Steve says it in this…this way that is exactly that simple, and exponentially more profound.

“That is some lore shit,” Eddie breathes out almost on instinct because…that’s some lore shit.

And Steve—Steve, his Stevie, wrapped around him and moving and breathing and being and definitely one-hundred-percent naked but that is totally irrelevant right this moment because Steve—

Steve laughs at him, soft and fond and god, god but Eddie thought he’d lost it. He was so sure, and his heart was so broken but now Steve’s heart is strong against his skin and Eddie can, he can…

Eddie can fucking breathe.

“I don’t think anyone expects our kind to be…cared about, like that,” Steve shrugs a little, and Eddie wants to protest because Steve Harrington isn’t only cared about, he is adored, and fuck anyone who says different, who so much as thinks otherwise—he wants to push the point, but Steve’s eyes are so intent, so saturated with feeling.

And fuck, but Eddie missed those eyes.

“Speeds the whole re-personing thing up, apparently,” Steve’s smile is a little wider before he shakes his head with a cute little toss of that hair.

“Old magic things,” he dismisses; “for later,” and then he draws Eddie back down close to his chest and snuggles him in so, so close.

“Tired,” Steve sighs a little into Eddie’s mess of curls; “and you need taking care of.”

And it’s…out of everything, the protective certainty in those last words are maybe the most unshakable proof that settles in Eddie’s chest and reminds the still-reluctant, still-too-scared parts of Eddie’s heart to commit and start back to beating because: only Steve Harrington is protective…quite like this.

“You’re really here?” Eddie whispers, wondering and hesitant all at the same time.

“Thanks to you,” Steve kisses Eddie soft, sure: taste strangely of smoke and cinnamon but underneath—all Steve.

His Steve.

He folds into Steve’s chest and just, fucking, clings.

“So fast,” Eddie mouths against Steve’s skin, because the heartbeat under his lips is almost indecipherable, one beat to the next. “And you’re so warm, are you,” Eddie props his chin up and looks up at Steve, anxious and flooding with worry before he sees Steve’s smile, still sweet and steady.

“Bird,” Steve drums his fingers against Eddie’s forearm, lightning quick; “fire bird, so,” and the heat makes sense then, too, as Steve wraps him up again tighter and sighs, satisfied as he envelopes Eddie’s frame.

“Also extra energy, I think,” Eddie listens to Steve’s words around his heartbeat through his chest; “like, I couldn’t make it past your kitchen but, I don’t know how I know it, but I know I can give some of it to you while it’s settling.”

Magic. Steve. Can share his phoenix magic. To take care of Eddie. Immediately after coming back from the fucking grave.

On brand, Eddie guesses. Jesus fuck.

“I am pretty damn positive I’m in love you with you, too, by the way,” Steve shakes Eddie back to his body, to the moment, to the soft sure way he breathes those words and kisses Eddie’s temple like Eddie’s pulse doesn’t trip around the sentence, the sentiment.

“Also thank you, for,” Steve adds, and drops another kiss while Eddie reels, floats in the moment of hearing the words, of knowing for sure, of feeling it: “for loving me, somehow, enough to,” and Eddie can imagine where that’s headed, the way Steve says somehow like an unthinkable thing.

And there will be none of that, so he stops it and kisses hard, wet, open-mouthed at the center of Steve’s chest, over his bird-flutter heartbeat.

“It broke me,” Eddie breathes there, cracked open and still raw; “I already mostly figured but,” and his voice breaks, and Steve pulls him closer, so warm, and the bird-heart-flutter feels more like full broad wings, majestic, almost embracing and ensuring Eddie of all things is safe, and kept.

And warm.

Fuck if Eddie doesn’t fall into the feeling, full body; whole heart and soul.

“If there was any question whether I already loved you with everything, the way I fell apart,” and Eddie just moans a little because there aren’t…he doesn’t have words for it at all, he—

“Let me put you back together?” Steve murmurs low in a way that’s so soft and gentle but trembles the marrow inside Eddie’s bones.

Timeless. Endless.

Eddie kisses Steve’s chest again and hopes Steve knows that means yes, and please, and forever.

Unequivocally.

“Could we maybe talk about that, um, bond stuff, that the letter…” Eddie eventually speaks muffled into the hair on Steve’s pecs, after soaking in the heat and pulse and realness of him.

“I meant it,” Steve murmurs straight into Eddie’s skin; “I’m not holding you to—”

“I want you to.”

Eddie did not for a second think or feel otherwise, from the moment he saw the words, before he even started to believe at all: his mind was filled with possibilities by those words. His chest was…

“You…” Steve nudges Eddie’s head up from his chest and studies his face, reads something in his eyes before his breath catches, this time; before his bird-pulse skips, something light and giddy against Eddie’s weight and Steve huffs, disbelieving but…maybe happy for it.

Maybe…maybe overjoyed, even.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, and leans to kiss Eddie full on the lips again, consuming: familiar for it.

“Yeah we can talk about that. But later.”

And then he settles Eddie back against him and wraps him in his bare skin, the still-radiant warmth.

“Now you sleep, and when you wake up, I feed you, you shower, you put on new clothes,” Eddie wrinkles his nose, doesn’t even know how many days it’s been since he cared for those things; abandons any shame for it when Steve feels him recoil and presses him closer, chuckles once and nuzzles his hair;

“Then I feed you again, and then,” Steve kisses his head once, and then twice, and then three times and Eddie feels it tingle through his goddamn veins like a vow, filled up with promise when Steve whispers, so alive:

“Then, we can talk.”

For @klausinamarink, who requested '"I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed.”' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST and also for @steddie-week for the Day Seven prompt 'Free Space'

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @lawrencebshoggoth @mensch-anthropos-human @micheledawn1975 @lumoschildextra @dotdot-wierdlife @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @grtwdsmwhr @eddie-munson-addict

divider credits here

ao3 link here ✨

[marlynnofmany]

Someone should write a very practical and down-to-earth story about a dragonriding culture and how they deal with the potential for whiplash and related injuries. I just saw a gifset from a certain realistic dragon show, and watching those tiny CG riders bobbing around up there makes me concerned for the sake of their spines.

Do the saddles have backs and headrests? Does part of training involve teaching the dragon to hold its back unnaturally steady? Is there a handy magic spell to counteract inertia/gravity? Or are a number of riders lost each year to snapped necks, along with the ones who pass out from G-forces and are forbidden from flying?

[jessicas-pi]

y'all got me all hyped to do more merfolk AU art so I finished the Love's Lights scene

[skrrtscree]

I really need to draw her more, she has a great design 🥲💗

[red-flagging]

💛 seb/lewis :-)

(kiss fic prompts!)

a little epilogue to rabbits are chasing :)

Lewis's flight lands at 8:02PM, which means that by 7:31PM, Seb is parked outside the airport arrivals door, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel and scanning the sky for approaching planes.

It's quite silly, getting here so early, but it's not as if there's much left to do at home. There's roast vegetables waiting in the oven, the cauliflower steaks that he started marinating earlier this morning chilling in the fridge. Mina and Ellie are safely ensconced in their duck coop with the heater turned on for the night. The sheets on the guest bed are freshly washed.

The car parked behind him starts up. Its headlights illuminate Seb's cabin. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of himself, harried and too-bright, in the rearview mirror. He scrubs his hands down his face. Christ. Get it together, Sebastian. He is a full 39 years old. Far too old to be getting the same jitters that he did the first time he invited a girl over at age 17, agonizing about what album to have playing when they came back to his room. Lewis is far too old for Seb to be doing all this. Lewis might not even be gay.

His phone buzzes. Seb nearly jumps out of his seat.

Lewis

just landed

getting my luggage now

hows it so freaking cold here

The inside of the car is already fogging up. When he'd asked Lewis to send dates he could come visit and Lewis had said just so you know the next few months are kind of crazy for me, Seb had expected late fall, maybe the holidays. Not the middle of slush season, when all the roads up the mountain have a 50/50 chance of being so muddy that they're undriveable.

Sebastian

I'm outside, in the blue Infiniti :)

He glances back up at himself in the mirror. The scab from where a wood chip caught the corner of his eyebrow while he was sanding the new planter box is almost healed over. His hair looks as good as it's ever going to. If Lewis asks whether he's been using conditioner, he's fucked.

It shouldn't feel like this. Seb beat Lewis to Senna's record, and Lewis still laughed at all his jokes the next season. Lewis watched Seb DNF twice in five races and still said in the media pen that he was waiting for the day Seb would be back up on the podium with him. When they inevitably auction off Lewis's Le Mans racesuit, it'll have to be with Seb's snot all over the front of it, because Lewis let Seb sob all over him and then laughed as he wiped sweat off of Seb's cheek with the sleeve. After all that – the fact that he's about to be in Seb's house for the next week shouldn't make Seb feel like he's standing in front of Lewis naked, without even the promise of a fast car or a good competition to distract Lewis from looking right at him.

His phone buzzes again.

Lewis

outside i think

Seb peers through the windscreen. Lewis – or rather, the blurry figure lugging a giant suitcase behind him that he assumes is Lewis – waves at him from the sidewalk. Seb flashes his lights at him twice.

The back door opens and Lewis's head, along with a burst of cold night air, pops in. "Hey," he says, a little breathlessly. "I don't think this is going to fit in the back."

It does, eventually, but not without a fight that involves Seb having to climb into the trunk alongside Lewis's suitcase and physically wrestle it into place while Lewis shoves from behind. They're both out of breath by the time they finally climb back in the front and slam the doors shut.

"You know, there are beds at the farm," Seb points out. "You didn't have to pack your own."

Lewis shakes his head, tugging off his gloves. His coat collar is turned up around his neck. He's wearing an an ear warmer headband, held in place by two butterfly pins. Every other bit of uncovered skin is pink, even with the heat in the car up at full blast. Lewis shoves his fingers in front of the vents and sighs with relief, closing his eyes. "Ugh, thank God," he says. He sounds exhausted. "Listen, you're lucky I fit everything into one." It sounds far less like a joke than Seb would hope. The fact that the fondness in Seb's chest still manages to outweigh the exasperation is probably a sign that Seb's beyond salvation.

"Next time I'll bring a trailer so you can fit your bathtub and toilet, too," he says, reaching for the keys. The engine purrs to life as he flicks the lights back on, then leans forward to scrub the worst of the fog off the windscreen. The thermometer on the dash says it's still 3 degrees outside. They might still be able to make it back before the slush freezes over. "Okay," he says, sitting back down and twisting around to reach for his seatbelt. "Ready to go?"

Lewis doesn't say anything. When Seb looks over, he's staring out the front window, playing with one of his rings.

"Lewis?" Seb asks.

Lewis's head jerks around. "Hm?" he says. "Oh. Yeah." He doesn't move to put on his seatbelt.

Seb frowns. Kills the engine so he can properly turn in his seat. "Lewis," he says. "Is everything –"

Lewis leans across the console and kisses him.

It's barely half a second. Seb still hasn't moved by the time Lewis sits back down on his side of the car.

"Uh," Lewis says, after a second. He clears his throat. "Sorry. I just – Shit. Sorry. The whole way over, all I could think about was – I had to get it over with before I chickened out."

He's fiddling with his rings again, but his eyes stay fixed on Seb's. His jaw is set. He still looks half-ready to bolt through the door behind him, out into the night.

"Well, you don't have to make it sound like taking your medicine, Christ," Seb says hoarsely, and drags Lewis back across the console to kiss him properly.

Lewis's lips are still cold. When Seb opens his mouth, Lewis sighs, pressing in closer with a soft sound that makes Seb want to go twenty years back in time and kick himself for not figuring out how to make Lewis make that noise sooner. His hands settle on Seb's wrists, holding him in place. Seb slides his own hands up, cradling the back of Lewis's head, to return the favor.

When he finally pulls away just far enough to catch his breath, Lewis follows him, close enough that their noses bump. His eyes are wide. This close up, Seb can see the dark circles under them more clearly.

He closes his eyes. Lewis is still there when he opens them.

"How long have you been awake?" he asks.

Lewis blinks. "What," he says. "Are you talking about."

"Sleep deprivation," Seb says. His heart is pounding hard enough that he feels it in his throat. "People start to get delirious when they're tired enough –"

"I was awake for 24 hours and I didn't kiss you at the end," Lewis interrupts, his eyes sharp and bright. "I'm not making the same mistake twice."

Seb opens his mouth and nothing comes out. He tries again. Still nothing.

"Fuck," he says, closing his eyes. "Okay. Okay." He drags himself back upright and reaches for the keys. "We can – tomorrow. But we should – you need to shower. And sleep." Lewis's hand settles on his leg. Seb rests his own on top of it; after a second, he squeezes Lewis's fingers gently. Lewis flips his hand over and laces their fingers together.

"Yeah," Lewis says. His thumb traces over Seb's knuckles. "That – tomorrow sounds good."

The slush crackles under the tires when Seb starts to move. Ahead of them, the headlights carve a path through the darkness. Lewis's hand is a solid, steady weight against his leg. "Okay," Seb says, to himself, to both of them, to no one. Lewis hums softly from his side of the car. He squeezes Seb's knee gently.

Seb closes his eyes for a second. "Okay," he says quietly. "Yeah. Let's go home."

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma Month: Day 5: Sickness

Ah yes, my specialty. (making him suffer)

Bundled in a blanket, feverish yet chilled, vision very blurry.

whose cool hand and gentle voice does this belong to...?

alt version featuring my own whump prompt :3

wanted to try drawing it at least once

he's getting dehydrated but can't move...

so he gets a helping hand from a capable detective <3

[peaceoutofthepieces]

hi! for the angsty hurt/comfort dialogue prompts, could i please request 7 for kevin and jean from aftg? i'm not sure if you'd like to write for these two, but still thank you and have a great day :)

wow you all really like seeing these guys go through it huh? (same)

in all seriousness i have lots of feelings about kevin and jean (individually and as a dynamic) so this is like therapy thank you <3

7. "I'm here. I've got you. You're safe now."

Kevin remembers everything.

To say he'd gotten away more lightly than others would not be a lie—even Neil was proof of that—but he had never been ignorant. None of the Ravens were. True, many never would have known the full extent of the darkness in the Nest, but all had at least a vague idea. All had at least borne witness to physical evidence in the things that could not be brushed off as rough play.

Kevin's sure that's part of why so many of them have fallen now. He, like the rest of them, had lived with it for too long, knowing that whatever else it meant to be there, it meant being the best. But he, unlike some of the rest of them, is no stranger to guilt.

He felt it, every time Jean showed up with a broken bone; every time a new welt appeared on Jean's skin; every time a new bruise marred Jean's neck in the obvious shape of teeth. He felt it in the broken French they shared, Kevin's apologies always feeling untranslatable in the end despite désolé being one of the first ten words he'd learned.

It was a funny thing, this guilt. Kevin was never directly responsible, given he was never himself violent and he was not even Jean's partner. His inability to prevent it was cause for guilt, of course, but he was not any guiltier for this than their other teammates. Kevin was not really in any way responsible for Jean Moreau.

Still, in some way, Jean had always felt like his.

It was more than the numbers on their cheek. More, even, than Riko's hold over them both, than their mutual love-hate for the man who had never, Kevin is now sure, spent a true second of care on either of them.

Kevin cared for Jean. Cares. Beyond any traumatic bond linking them together, beyond worrying that 'without Jean' would mean without anyone, would mean Kevin being alone in his hell, because he hadn't been, even then, and he certainly isn't now. Still, Kevin cannot, does not want to, forget about Jean.

But now, there is distance. Now, there is more guilt than ever before.

Kevin knew, at the time, that his lack of action would be something he could never make up for, but he had done what he could by being there.

Then he had acted, and it had meant abandonment, and he doesn't think that it something he can ever come back from.

So when Jean widens the distance, Kevin allows it, and when Jean gives him anger, gives him guilt, gives him violence, Kevin takes it. It is less than he deserves.

But when Jean calls, Kevin comes. It is more than he deserves, and the least he can do.

Jean's new teammates do not bat an eyelash at his arrival; they point him to Jean without hesitation. This, too, is more than Kevin deserves, but he does not waste time on that. Jean is waiting for him, and Kevin will not turn away from him again. He will not make the same mistake twice.

At first, Jean does not speak. He does not even look at Kevin; the slight stiffening of his shoulders is the only indication he knows Kevin is there.

Kevin isn't sure what makes him break. One moment, Jean is rooted in front of the window, staring blankly out, and the next he is turning on Kevin with a vicious stream of French. It's too quick, almost, for even Kevin to follow, too baseless and broken, a ramble more than a speech, but Kevin understands what he needs to. He understands 'you bastard'; he understands 'I hate them'; he understands 'he will not die'; he understands 'we can never be free'; he understands 'I hate you, I hate you'.

He understands, and it is less than he deserves, so he takes it, and does not retaliate as Jean pummels at his chest—weakly as far as Jean is concerned, but not weakly enough not to hurt. And finally, muffled into Kevin's shoulder where Jean has come to rest, but in English, so there is no want of understanding, Jean asks, "Why?"

Kevin does not have an answer. All he has is this—he gathers Jean in his arms and holds on tightly, keeps holding on when Jean weakly fights him, until eventually the fight has gone out of them both. Then, when Jean shudders and quiets and clings back to Kevin as if Kevin will turn to smoke otherwise, will dissipate and disappear, this time never to return, all Kevin can give him is this.

"I'm here," he murmurs; a promise he will never break again, not so long as it is his choice. "I've got you. You're safe now."

[smilelikethesunagain]

does anyone remember that really popular post about the story idea of a king making one of his injured soldiers a concubine in order to be able to bring him into war council meetings and get advice and stuff?

so I did make a bkdk fic about that

izuku is the king

katsuki was placed next to too many loud ballistae and lost some of his hearing and was discharged from the army

izuku needed his expertise and katsuki needed a job

it's ancient greece flavored??

[verfound]

FIC: "Of (Maybe, Finally) a Wedding" (MLB; Lukanette; LBSC Lukanette Month 2024)

@lovebugs-and-snakecharmers is doing a Lukanette Month for September 2024, and we all just kinda tossed some prompts in the disco to compile a list?  We ended up with 71 prompts, so I decided I’d roll some dice to pick a prompt, do a twenty minute (ish, bc we all know sometimes they run away from me) sprint, and try to get some short fics out this month?

The last in the series, I swear

Read on Ao3

Prompt 57: Fortune

This could not be happening again.

There was no way in hell he was this unlucky.

He was marrying Ladybug – Lady Luck herself! – in just under an hour!  He could not be this cursed!

“…she’s going to kill me,” he groaned as he stared into the definitely, very, no doubt about it empty box in his hand.  He dropped back onto his old bunk, barely aware of the rock of the boat around him.  Barely aware of anything beyond the fact that he had lost the fucking ring.

Again.

“Bullshit,” Juleka said, peering over his shoulder.  “She hasn’t yet, and you’ve given her ample reason to.”

“Thank you so much, beloved sister, you are encouraging as ever,” he groaned, slumping forward to land his head in his other hand.  The one holding the empty ring box dropped between his knees, and he groaned as his fingers twisted in his bangs – then groaned again when Juleka batted at his hand, trying to stop him before he undid all her hard work.  “Juleka!”

“Luka!” she snapped back.  “Do you have any idea how much product I had to use to get that damn cowlick to stay flat?  I’m not about to let you mess up your hair now.”

“Yeah,” Dingo snickered from the other side of the cabin, where he was busy adjusting his tie.  “That’s Mari’s job later.”

“…disgusting,” Juleka sniffed.  “But accurate.”

“I don’t think either of us are really going to care about my hair in…oh my God. Thirty minutes.  Thirty minutes,” he gulped, looking up and staring in horror at his best men (well, technically Juleka was his best man, but no one had been able to convince Dingo of that).  “She’s going to be here in thirty minutes and I lost the fucking rings.”

“Breathe, dumbass,” Juleka sighed, rubbing his back.  It felt too stiff, but that might have been the suit.  Why had he agreed to this it was all going to pot Marinette was going to take one look at the too-stiff suit and ringless box and leave him on sight.  “Where do you remember having them last?”

“In the box!  Last night!” he cried.  “I was double-checking everything just so this didn’t happen!”

“So is it possible maybe you grabbed the wrong box?” Dingo asked.  Luka blinked at him, his eyes narrowing, and he shrugged like it was a perfectly valid option.

“Exactly how many ring boxes do you think I have lying around, Dingus?” he asked.

“Oi, now, no need for all that,” Dingo said, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he walked over.  Luka wondered what it meant, if both Dingo and Juleka looked better in their suits than he did.  Even the mohawk – which usually clashed with everything – was working with the dark blue color.  “’Sides, don’t Mari make jewelry, too?  You could have a lot of extra little boxes lying around.”

…he had a point, but Luka wasn’t about to admit that.  Besides, all of Marinette’s extra little boxes were usually kept in her studio, and the rings hadn’t been in her studio since…well, since the night she had finished them and first tasked him with keeping them safe until the ceremony.

He’d had one job, damn it, and he’d gone and fucked it up.  Again.

“Maybe they fell out?” Dingo continued, poking the empty box.  “They’re probably back at your flat, Lulu.  I can pop over lickity-split and be back in plenty of time for the vows.”

“…the vows,” Luka gasped, his eyes widening again.  Oh God, the vows…Marinette was going to hate his.  He was terrible with words – what was he thinking, opting to write his own?!

“…ooook,” Dingo said, nodding.  He looked up at Juleka, who looked entirely too amused for her own good.  “You make sure he doesn’t jump ship.  Handle…this.  I’ll go get the rings.”

“Good luck,” Juleka said, though from her tone – from the absolute wreck losing his shit on the bed – Dingo honestly wasn’t sure which one of them needed it more.

– V –

Two.  Hours.

The wedding was supposed to start two hours ago.

And Luka was no calmer than he had been half an hour before it was supposed to start – or even at the exact time it was supposed to start, when Dingo still hadn’t made it back and he was getting a text from Marinette claiming there had been a slight emergency, no need to panic, she’d be there soon.

And Juleka had received a text from Rose ordering her to stall, they needed more time, get Jagged playing or something!

He supposed he should be grateful it was a small wedding on his ma’s boat, and that the only guests were a handful of family and close friends, but that wasn’t stopping the panic from clawing at his throat.

Marinette was standing him up.

She’d heard about the rings, realized he was a lost cause, and…

“Sorry!”

His head snapped up as he stopped his pacing, and there she was.

…dress-less?

She was…running towards him in the most bizarre getup.  She was…still wearing her pajamas?  The ones Rose had specially bedazzled for their hen night, with the pink tank top with the rhinestone BRIDE stamped across the chest.  (He did not know about the matching rhinestones on her ass, which had their guests cackling as she raced forward with PROPERTY OF L.L.C. stamped across her backside.)  And pink, fuzzy flip-flops.  Her veil was blowing behind her as she ran, one of her hands holding it in place as she waved at him, and then she was there, grabbing for his hand and grinning.

“You are never going to believe the day I’ve had,” she said, leaning up to kiss his cheek.  She turned out to the small gathering, all staring at her with wide eyes and open mouths, and waved.  “Sorry, everyone!  I know, I know – I’m so late.  Classic Marinette, right?”

There was a smattering of laughs, but she still winced as she turned back to him.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, stepping closer.  “There…was a series of accidents.  You would think Plagg had a field day at Juleka and Rose’s – the fire was the least of problems.  Jocelyn’s impending termination and murder are still on the table.”

“…fire?” he asked, his mouth dropping open.  Like a fire – and not Marinette threatening to murder her beloved assistant – was what had really shocked him.  She reached up to close it, her smile softening as her finger ran along his chin.  “Marinette –”

“We’re all fine,” she said.  “The dress…is not, and I’m sorry for that.  Well.  It might still be – the backup dress was the one that caught fire.  My actual dress…”

She bit her lip and looked down, shaking her head as if she was trying to erase some unpleasant memory.

“Marinette?” he asked, laying his hand on her cheek.  She shook her head again and grinned at him.

“Joce will find it,” she insisted.  “It’s not her fault I stupidly put it in one of my usual garment bags.  Anyone could have made that mistake, right?”

“…she gave your dress to a client?” he asked, his eyes widening again.  She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but he knew her.  He knew it had to be killing her – she had worked so hard on that dress.  He hadn’t even been allowed to see the designs for it, because ‘bad luck’ or whatever.

“I was really looking forward to you seeing it,” she sighed.  She leaned up, and he bent obediently so she could whisper in his ear.  “I was really looking forward to you removing it.”

…she had tried to say it low enough that only he could hear, but his ma had damnably good hearing for a former rock star who should have gone deaf years ago and had heard every word.  She threw her head back with a raucous laugh, but Marinette was still grinning at him as her cheeks turned pink.

“…nevermind,” she said, tucking some hair behind her ear.  “She’ll find the dress, and we can worry about it later.  This will have to do for now, right?  At least I’m here.  So…can we just get married already?”

…and yeah, she was there.

But Dingo still wasn’t.

“I’d be more’n glad to, lass,” the Captain laughed as Marinette turned towards her.  He shot a desperate look over Marinette’s head to his sister, but Juleka just rolled her eyes and gestured for him to turn like the missing rings didn’t matter.

The hell they didn’t…

“Wait!” he cried, tightening his grip on her hand.  She turned back to him, frowning, and he sighed.  “We can’t.  Not…not yet.”

“Luka?” she asked, squeezing his hand.  “What’s wrong?”

“Just marry her already, dumbass,” Juleka hissed, but he shook his head.  “Before she gets smart and changes her mind!”

“Marinette…darning…I…” he started, but then Dingo was swinging onto the deck like a bad Tarzan impersonator????

…he was a Couffaine.

Chaos was in his blood.

But surely there was a point where…well…wasn’t this too much chaos?

“Not objecting!” he hollered as he landed on deck.  He held up the rings, his manic grin somehow even more insane than usual.  “Got ‘em, mate!”

“…what?” Marinette asked as Luka groaned, dropping his head into his hands.  Dingo blinked at her before lifting his shades – a custom blue and pink pair he had ordered just for their wedding.  They even had ‘BEST DINGO’ stamped along the legs (in rhinestones, of course, thank you, Rose).

“Ain’t you a bit underdressed, baby girl?” he asked, squinting at her pajamas.  “Pretty sure you’re supposed to be the one in the big, fancy dress.”

“We’re not talking about the dress!” Rose screeched as she came running up the gangway.  “Oh my God, what is wrong with this city?!  Traffic –”

“I know, right?!” Dingo cried, turning to her.  “Stupid Mayor Bourgeois and his reelection parade – nobody wants you anymore, André!”

He had spun back towards the shore, raising a fist to shake at the city, and Luka wondered if he’d be justified in shoving his Best Dingo overboard.

…after he got the rings back, of course.

“…oi, lads,” the Captain whispered, leaning over to the bride and groom.  “We sure this not be the dress rehearsal?”

Marinette shook her head, laughed, and grabbed his hands.  And suddenly, with her smiling at him like that, the rest of it just…didn’t matter.  Because it was her – it was them – and what more had he ever wanted?

“…I forgot the rings,” he whispered, leaning in.  She laughed, and if that wasn’t his favorite sound in the entire world…

“Star,” she whispered back, dipping her chin towards her chest, “I forgot my entire dress.  I think we’re good.  You ready to do this?”

…God, yeah.  He really was.

(Later, after one hell of a kiss and too much cheering and not enough cake, she’d chide him for freaking out about the rings again.

“You know I’d have my craft bag on me,” she’d tell him, rolling her eyes.  “Or the Captain would have some spare rope somewhere.  I could have whipped something up until we found the real things.”

He supposed he should have known that, in the end.  He was marrying Marinette Du…Couffaine, after all, and she was just kind of amazing like that.)

[rosetterer]

send me bucktommy prompts to write, i have a day off and i'm bored :)

[sabineweek]

Prompt Voting is Open!

You can vote for up to 12 prompts! The form is below.

[actual-changeling]

Focusing a bit more on their ptsd lately because I want to and I can, this is set a few weeks after they got to Jackson so still pretty early on. Completely fluffy though, promise!

-

There is nothing worse than being alone in a crowd with no one to have your back.

Ellie's hypervigilance is in absolute overdrive after Silver Lake whenever she isn't too dissociated to perceive anything at all, and leaving the house becomes a choice between constantly looking around and driving herself half insane trying to look for something, anything dangerous and gritting her teeth and pushing through it while her brain screams at her that the worst things imaginable are seconds away from happening.

Both options are terrible, both leave her shaking and on edge, and any loud or unexpected noise makes her jump even when it is three streets down and completely unrelated to her. Going outside isn't safe, isn't fun, so she doesn't, and she is acutely aware that it's a problem she will need to solve one day, but for now her skin is stretched less tightly over her bones and the back of her neck only gives her the occasional jolt of paranoid electricity.

It doesn't even fully occur to ask someone for help when there is a movie at the theater she really wants to see that night, she thinks about it all day with a heaviness in her heart that almost has her put on her shoes and go anyway, but then the bell ringing for lunch has her almost falling out of her chair and she settles with the sour taste of defeat on her tongue. She would ask Joel to go with her, but they both know he is just as jumpy as she is, especially with her around in a closed space, and yeah it's a problem, but for now it is what it is, and she doesn't ask.

However, while she forgot about the obvious solution, Joel didn't.

That evening, Tommy comes over, which in by itself isn't surprising, that man is more at their house than at his sometimes, but he doesn't take off his shoes like he always does and waits for them in the hallway instead. She leans against his side in the greeting half-hug they tend to do, his arms around her shoulders, and the weight of it in her neck does the same thing Joel's hugs do - they absorb the panic and let it run through them into the ground, redirecting the lightning jumping across her skin. Ellie looks up at him and her face lights up before Tommy even gets the words out, putting two and two together and vibrating with excitement so bright she can't even feel stupid for not thinking about it herself.

"Ready for movie night?"

"Are you sure?"

Asking him that feels like she is stomping on a christmas present before even opening it, but her fingers are twisting in her shirt and joy is a warm, yellow sun in her chest, and she needs him to wants this as much as she does or she will feel bad for dragging him along. His hand settles on the back of her head and her gaze flicks between him and Joel, who is watching her and her only.

"Are you kidding me? Alien? Of course I'm gonna go see it, it's one of the best fucking movies ever."

There is a few seconds of silence and dizziness shoots straight into her head when she forgets to breathe, but then she falls forward and squeezes Tommy so tightly she can hear the air rushing out of him before letting go to put on her shoes. She is so focused on getting there before everyone else so they can get the best spots, planning out the quickest path to the building (although there really aren't that many options, more like three and a half possible routes), she only realizes Joel is shrugging on his jacket too when she turns to say her goodbye for the next few hours. There's a familiar tightness in his jaw, and she is pretty sure there's at least a knife somewhere on him, but his eyes are soft and she realizes that Tommy isn't just an additional anchor of security for her.

Paranoia grows all over her skin, a deep-seated itch she can never scratch enough, but Joel is right next to her and she can hear Tommy's footsteps behind her, and it is enough to keep it subdued enough for her to handle. They all silently come to the agreement to sit near the side rather than in the center, neither of them fully comfortable with being surrounded by people like that, and having space on one side, Joel on the other, and Tommy behind her makes it easy to forget about everyone else once the movie starts.

She jumps when someone accidentally kicks over a chair, and Joel gently squeezes her hand whenever she crushes his during the few times her brain tries to convince her everyone in the room is out to kill her, but they all make it through the next few hours without chewing on their panic the entire time. Tommy's quiet comments from behind her make up half the fun, and on the walk back, she paces circles around them while talking a mile a minute about a conflicting mess of a thoughts she cannot sort through in her excitement; Joel watches her just like he has been doing the entire night, and she doubts he heard a single line from the movie. The tension in his jaw has dissipated, though, and her lungs expand without resistance.

They stop right between their two homes, and for the first time since arriving in Jackson, Ellie feels almost sad to go back inside again. There's a moment of silence before she wraps herself around Tommy in another hug, her thank you a muffled whisper against his chest before she leans away, and it is hard to tell whether she is thanking him for having her back or for being family.

"Any time, sweetheart."

Both, she decides, and they all know without having to say a single word.

There is nothing worse than being alone in a crowd, but she is no longer just by herself, and although she forgets sometimes, there will always be someone to have her back now.

[liyashi]

What do Ellie & co do in a world of endless holiday? Go on carnival rides, stargaze, watch a circus performance, play some games, and then have some snacks! Anything you could want is available here