#birthday prompts!

[slippinmickeys]

happy birthday! drabble prompt in re: the amazon scientist/archaeologist au for you if you want: scully finding out she's won the nobel prize

(I just love that fic so much, no pressure!)

Quick and dirty, no beta.

Above the canopy of the jungle, the sky was the same liquidy pink as a bottle of rosé. The heat was easing with the setting of the sun, but Mulder still mopped the sweat off his brow with an already soiled handkerchief. 

Byers met him at the trailhead with a bottle of water that was opaque with condensation. 

“Hey,” Mulder said, accepting it gratefully. “I miss anything while I was at the site?” 

Byers shook his head and fell in step beside him as they entered the perimeter of the camp. 

“Not really,” he said. “Frohike had some luck unscrambling the data on the last sweep, but it didn’t show anything.” 

“I’d like to take a look anyway,” Mulder said.

“I figured,” Byers replied. “We’ve got it loaded on the ThinkPad.” 

The calls of the night animals were beginning, a gradual swell of sound. Mulder bade Byers farewell, ducking under the flap to his tent for a quick towel bath and a change of clothes.

He was surprised to find Scully inside, leaning over the small table they had shoved into the corner of the tent. 

“Hey,” he said, feeling a smile blossom on his face with the greeting. “I thought you and Miguel wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Weren’t you overnighting in section three?”

Scully answered him but continued whatever she was doing at the table. “The locals reported a jaguar sighting there three nights ago. Decided to play it safe.”

Drawn to her by some unknowable force, Mulder sidled up to her and pressed into her from behind. She straightened and he bent to sniff her neck, mumbling into the warm skin there. “Good. I like when you play it safe.”

“Mmm,” she hummed, reaching up to wrap an arm around his neck from behind. The soft animal of her body pressed into his and he felt a flare of wanting. 

He was about to take things further when there was a call from outside the tent. 

“Mulder?” came Langly’s voice. 

With regret, Mulder took a step back from Scully and affirmed his presence. The canvas flap came up a moment later letting in the last of the day’s dim light. Langly’s eyes flitted between the two of them. 

“We’ve got a sat call,” he said, with some gravity. 

The camp had a satellite phone in case of emergencies. They rarely used it, and never – not once in the three years of the project – had they ever gotten an incoming call on it. 

Mulder was about to step forward when Langly licked his lips. 

“It’s for Dr. Scully,” he said. 

Mulder immediately met his lover’s eyes and she rushed out of the tent to the area of the mess where the sat phone lived. He was right on her heels. She was probably thinking the same thing he was: something had happened to her mother. To another family member. Someone was likely dead. 

She tore into the mess almost at a run and grabbed the chunky phone out of Frohike’s hands, who took a step back and swung his eyes to Mulder, mouthing something Mulder couldn’t make out. 

Mulder ignored him, his gaze intent on Scully who mumbled something into the receiver, swallowing thickly. 

Mulder could hear talking on the other end of the phone, but couldn’t make out what was being said. Scully’s forehead crinkled into a confused chevron and then she grabbed the table that housed a majority of the computer equipment, suddenly swaying on her feet. 

“Get her a chair!” Mulder shouted, but Langly, who’d come in behind them, was already pushing a camp chair up to Scully, who lowered herself into it shakily. 

“Okay,” she finally said. “Thank you.” And her hand holding the receiver dropped into her lap, the greenish light on its small screen flicking off. 

Mulder stepped forward and lowered himself until he was kneeling in front of her. 

“Scully?” he said. She had a dissociated look about her that scared him. He put his warm hand on her knee. “Honey?” he said. 

At this, she finally looked up. 

“I–” she started, still dazed. “I just won the Nobel Prize.”

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 235

“Mother, I have made a friend.” 

Now don’t get him wrong, Danny was delighted at the idea of Jordan making a friend, he really was. But the last three attempts had been borderline kidnappings, so he wasn’t entirely sure if he should be. Thankfully it doesn’t seem he’s kidnapped this one. Hopefully. 

Not that he wouldn’t be surprised if Dan managed to kidnap a tiny kryptonian, but the kid- Jon apparently- seemed happy enough to be there. Apparently his grandparents lived in the midwest too, and was happy enough to have someone to talk about it. 

Though um, maybe Danny should have checked to see if his parents knew where he’d gone, because he was not expecting a harried-looking superman to suddenly appear at his window. 

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Consider: Danny died in the accident but dying as the portal turned on gave him the ability to warp reality to an extent. He managed to salvage his body and breath life back into it, but he could never make it the way it was.

Thus, the "Halfa" statis.

All the spirits in the ghost zone represent one of the stages of grief, Danny's being Denial. He doesn't like confronting painful truths and will instead deflect with puns and misdirection.

Many times in the show people have gotten close to the truth or even started asking good questions that could lead them in the right direction. And what happens?

They get a strange look on thier face, pause for a moment and then either say, "nah." Or suddenly go with a completely different train of thought then what was implied they were leading up to.

Conclusion? Some form of mind altering force is at play. Maybe it's Danny and he doesn't realize it? Maybe it's the portal and it's giving Danny everything he desires in a vaguely monkey paw manner? Who knows.

Not the bats, who track down an old clone of one of them who was supposedly being raised by the evil mad scientists who made him and stumbled into this mess.

[novelbear]

"so i celebrate you, all about you"- birthday prompts

a prompt list by @novelbear 🎂

"i heard it was someone's birthday!"

waking up to breakfast in bed

trying to make them a birthday cake from scratch

decorating the house while they're still asleep

"what do you mean you don't want to celebrate?"

spending the first birthday together as a couple

^ therefore they're trying to make it as special as possible

taking a bit of the frosting from the cake and putting it on their nose

^ or spelling their name with it on the birthday person's forehead (i had a friend actually do this to me one year ??)

trying to find the silliest card to gift them

"did you seriously do all of this?" "of course i did!"

not letting them do a single thing that might stress them out that day (no work, no chores, no stressful phone calls, nothing)

getting them a little tiara or ribbon to wear throughout the entire day

organizing a little project or video for them with their friends and family

"happy birthday, my dearest."

setting off confetti poppers at random times of the day, finding their little yelps of surprise adorable

a birthday bear hug at the beginning of the day

staying up until midnight to make sure they're the first one to wish them a happy birthday

"what do you want to do today? name anything, i'm down."

having a number of surprises gifted to them throughout the day that coordinates to their age (turning 21? 21 little gifts and surprises <3)

"god, you're old." "shut up!"

[srapsodia]

hey, may you'd like to try 59 with kageyama and yachi, since it's her birthday (september 4th) and their friendship is so so WAAAAAH?

59: one giving a piggy back ride to the other

YACHI DAYYYYYY! Happy birthday to the best girl!! 🧡

Plus a team photo cause she deserves the love!

[wickcipher]

Happy belated birthday Miku 🎉

[starkeyisthelastname]

hello lily…. i just had a thought…… about dealer!rafe and me on my birthday his girl celebrating her bday 💖💖……. i cannot stop thinking about him

hi baby! 💖 you better get ready because this man is ready to spoil you even more than already he does and take you to pound town 😜.. hope you like it sweet angel and have the best birthday!!! @oceandriveab

The morning of your birthday, you get awoken by his head between your thighs. His tongue deep in your wet hole and nose hitting your clit just right. He would look up at you just as your sleepy eyes met his, a smirk on his handsome face as he pulled back. “Happy birthday mama.” His voice raspy, watching you bite your lower lip as he then dived back down into your ocean of a pussy.

It was when you walked outside, as he was going to take you shopping that you saw your dream car wrapped perfectly in a pink bow. Rafe did most of the driving, but when he was taking care of “business”, you occasionally needed to go somewhere and what better way now with the brand new luxury vehicle that cost him a pretty penny. Not that he worried how much it cost, he paid for it in cash. (Dirty money at that. 😅). You would open the door, the passenger seat holding a giant bouquet of flowers, along with neatly wrapped boxes that read Dior, Chanel, Cartier, Louis Vuitton and stacks of cash wrapped in silky ribbon. You always wondered how much money this man really made, but never questioned it as you enjoyed the princess treatment too much.

He would then take you shopping, letting you have a pamper day before a beautiful private dinner on the waters of the Outer Banks. He needed you blissfully happy and tummy full before we gave you a brutal birthday fuck.

You may have been drunk off expensive liquor, but you felt every thick and long inch of your man’s cock as he slid it in your soaked little hole. He made sure your knees were bent back, giving you that deep shit all while talking dirty to his birthday girl.

“Shit… that’s it my pretty fuckin birthday princess. Got that pussy soaked for daddy, huh?” Rafe drawled out, tone low and cocky as he watched his massive pipe stretch your fluttering hole out.

“Daddy…” You whined, your pretty eyes rolling back as he hit your sweet spot over and over. He was already about to give you your first orgasm of the night and you knew there were many more to come. “I.. slow down..” You gasped, the feeling almost too much as you reached out how to tap his toned stomach. It wasn’t that you wanted him to stop, but you were about to explode and embarrassed how quickly it was coming on.

“Move your hand and take this fuckin big dick. You know I’m not done with you yet, we are just getting started.” Rafe said between breaths, your plea following on deaf ears as he continued the hard thrusts to your sloppy cunt. “Giving my girl the birthday dick she deserves, yeah?”

He was about to give you round after round, making your birthday end with your pussy sore and the sheets soaked. A new car in the driveway, diamonds, designer bags, fed expensive food, and getting a dick one dreamed of having.

[finemealprompt]

DP x DC Prompt #30

Dick had seen how excited Damian was for his upcoming birthday party. Damian put on a front that he didn't really care that much, this it was childish to celebrate one's birthday party on such a grand scale. But Damian had also insisted on being involved in the process. Which decorations were allowed, what music to play, the food, the entertainment, all of it.

Damian pretended to not care about it, but it was clear as day to Dick that he did.

The day arrived, and at first no one showed up on time. They didn't even have the usual, "Oh sorry for being 1 hour early, but wanted to make sure I got here on time!" guests that they often did. Damian was clearly disappointed, but patient. Especially when Dick forced everyone to distract Damian and start some of the birthday celebration.

But then an hour passed. Then another. And soon it was pretty clear that no one Damian had invited from his school were going to appear. Damian pretended it didn't bother him, brushed it off as, "Hey, no big deal."

Yet, Dick saw the tears in his eyes.

So, while Bruce did his best to distract his son, rage in the way he held himself, Dick excused himself. Sneaking away from prying ears, Dick called the first number he could think of.

"Hey Boy Wonder, what can-"

"Danny, I need you to come by the Manor. No one showed up to Damian's party, and he's upset. There's plenty of food."

The line was silent.

"How many people can I bring?"

[youcalledsworld]

Summonings and Grave Misunderstandings

The Justice League summons Ghost King Danny Phantom to help save the Earth. They are tired, they have numerous allies unconscious or unable to fight they are willing to do anything.

Danny was having some trouble, the entertainment he had for Danielle's birthday party just cancelled because they had a family situation. He didn't blame them for cancelling but now he had to stop a civil war from starting in one of his territories and look for new entertainment and have their backgrounds checked. Thankfully he had two weeks to do it. That was when he felt someone summoning him.

Zatanna knew she was a beautiful woman and she knew any man or woman would love to have her. So it wasn't surprising when the Ghost King asked for her as entertainment for a day after he saved the earth and had his people's doctors heal everyone. He just showed how powerful he was and a portion of his people's technological advancement and power. She couldn't even look into her teammates eyes when she accepted. She knew they would do anything to get her out of this situation but it was her dignity or the lives of the people she loves and that was a no brainer. Sadly, after steeling herself to go with the King then and there he had told her he would send for her in two weeks.

Danny has one problem down now and he swears Clockwork was behind this because it was too coincidental but he's not complaining. He now has entertainment for his little sister's birthday party and the one, entertaining the guest was a superhero magician famous for protecting the innocent and performing magic on stage. Maybe his Fenton luck is turning around.

Two weeks passed and Zatanna, the Justice League and JLD couldn't find anything to break the deal. So, when a portal opened the Fright Knight walked out to greet her, she couldn't even look at her friends as she walked towards the portal. When she came out the other side she noticed ghosts scrambling around putting up what looked like birthday decorations.

I see this ending in one of two ways.

1. Zatanna tells Danny what she and the League thought she was going to do. Danny apologises and tells Zatanna that he can pay her to entertain the party and that the Justice League can come if was comfortable with that.

2. She doesn't bring up the misunderstanding and does the show. It goes so well that Danny pays her a huge amount, that has Zatanna grinning ear to ear and a promise to hire her again. She returns to the League smiling and tells them how much she enjoyed entertaining everyone over there and that she can't wait for Danny to call her again, not noticing their shocked expression.

[veroinfaciem]

23. birthday

Happy birthday to our special boy! 🥳

[winterrrnight]

you are obsessed with your husband’s freckles <3 more on this! <3 a husband!rafe x wife!reader blurb <3 cw: none! just a lot of fluff, intentional use of lower case <3 dedicated to the one and only @chenslucy; happy birthday anna!! 💐 I love love love you and i know I am late, but this is my small token of gratitude of how supportive you've been since the beginning 🦕

part of this little universe <3

the moonlight cascades over the white sheets under which you and your husband are snuggled close to each other. it’s nearing 2 in the morning, and rafe is asleep with his bare back facing you, your arm slinging over his waist and your face nestled against his back as you let his warmth flood over you completely.

you watch his body rise and fall with each relaxing breath he takes in his deep slumber, your own mind at complete peace watching him take his proper rest.

the silver glow casting through the windows of your bedroom dances along rafe’s skin, the small freckles littered all over his shoulders lighting up under the moonlight. you gently run your fingertips over the freckles, letting out a soft sigh as you feel his skin under your own touch. his skin is a complete contrast to his brooding demeanor; it feels so soft and supple beneath your touch that you glide your fingertips effortlessly over his shoulders.

his freckles though, as always, stand out the most to you as you shower them with your gentle touch. you reach out with the fingertip of your index finger and gently tap over each freckle as you quietly count them under your breath, something you do often when you find yourself awake late at night. it helps you fall into a slumber yourself, the activity feeling equivalent to counting sheep. sometimes, you find this small activity distracting you from your stresses and anxieties, your mind busying itself with wanting to know the exact number of freckles littered over his shoulders which over the course of time helps you feel more relaxed over the little things that are bothering you.

your finger trails over to his other shoulder to resume the count, the numbers progressing under your breath as you tap every freckle you can spot under the pale light of the moon.

you reach what you assume is the last freckle and stop the count, letting out a deep exhale as you finish the count. each time you do this certain activity, you turn up with a different number, although the result is always quite close to all the other results you get. some freckles go unnoticed by you, and sometimes you spot new ones that you are sure weren’t there before. but that’s the beauty of it; it’s not a predictable activity, it gives you a new conclusion every single time, and that makes you appreciate the freckles on his body even more.

you lean closer and press your lips gently to the freckles, peppering the softest kisses over the smooth skin. your heart is almost bursting with your deep love for him as you press kisses over kisses, starting to feel his body gently shift in bed.

he slowly starts to turn on his back and you pull back from his shoulder, watching his eyes slowly open and sleepily meet yours.

“hey,” he murmurs, his voice carrying the raspy tinge it always does after he wakes up.

“hey,” you murmur back, resting your head on his chest and he wraps an arm around your shoulders to keep you close.

“can’t sleep?” his soft voice reaches your ears as you shake your head against his chest, feeling him look down at you through his barely open eyes.

you look up at his face, your eyes trailing down his shoulders as you gaze upon the freckles again. your hand reaches up to run your fingers over them just like you were doing just a few moments ago. rafe lets out a deep exhale at your actions, feeling your fingertips circling over his shoulder in the most soothing fashion, his eyelids threatening to droop again.

“it’s okay, sleep,” you whisper as you watch how hard it is getting for him to keep his eyes open. rafe makes a feeble attempt to say something, but his tiredness wins over and he drifts off again, the feeling of your touch lulling him into sleep faster than ever.

you smile softly as you hear his breathing getting even, his heartbeat thumping rhythmically against your ear. you start to gently count the freckles again, tapping your fingertip over each spot just like how you always do. the counting falls perfectly in rhythm with his soothing heartbeat, and before you know it, you feel your own eyelids getting heavier, your entire body relaxing under the feeling of his comforting embrace.

— —

tagging everyone who wanted this specific fic 🥰: @maddsxfall , @zyafics , @destrolid , @drewsephrry , @ihe4rttwd <3 thank you so much for your support! 🌟

[hitlikehammers]

Steddie Wrong Blind Date AU 💜

what if you meet the wrong love of your life?

He doesn’t know how the fuck he got here. At a very nice bar in a very nice restaurant.

Sitting alone.

Or well: he knows. It’s more that he can’t believe he let it happen.

Again.

Because Steve had finally (finally!) made sufficient enough threats logical arguments to curb Robin’s attempts—well-meaning, dingus, well meaning attempts!—to set him up with so-and-so’s cousin or whoever-the-fuck’s roommate. The blind dates had actually been his first successful method to ultimately shoot down, on the basis that they weren’t just fucking humiliating: they were goddamn degrading.

For reasons such as his current situation.

And of all the things Robin desired for him, they both knew she’d never knowingly cause him pain. So that left him working with awkward introductions at parties, sometimes at completely random places even, like too-weird-to-be-coincidence run-ins at the grocery store and shit, where Robin just so happened to be shopping when both her targets were there. It was borderline frightening, but. It was very Robin. And Steve adored her more than anything and struggled too much to stay mad at her—he’s definitely tried his damnedest, more than once—so. He knows her intentions come from the heart, regardless of how disastrously they pan out in reality.

Which is why Steve is allowing this once—and only once—because he’s not stupid, but. He appreciates the ingenuity.

And getting your girlfriend to make the blind date pitch was…technically honoring his rules.

So. He’s allowing this to slide once. Once. One time.

One. More. Time.

And he’s already got his justification, fucking iron clad too, to call it on sight. Failed attempt, the guy’s already twenty minutes late and that’s…that’s past fashionable, really, especially for a set up like this. He glances at his phone, just to see if he’s got anything from Chrissy as an update—Steve loves her, and Robin adores her, and that’s the only reason he’s not spending the minutes he waits, sipping stupidly-slow at the same tequila sunrise, plotting revenge against her for being so gullible, so willing to not merely enact Robin’s last-gasp efforts but to participate, actively, because apparently tonight’s ’perfect match, he’s so your type!’ was Chrissy’s suggestion—but there’s nothing. Just the last message from an hour ago reassuring him against backing out in the first place:

he’s tall, dark, handsome, 100% your type. maybe a little *theatrical*: you’ll LOVE him 💕

Steve didn’t, and still doesn’t, understand what she means by theatrical, and honestly he’s kinda wary for it—he doesn’t like playing games when it comes to romance: he’s too all-in, and too quickly, for any of that.

Which also means that, as much as he thinks it’s a fucking laughable sham to have agreed to this, and as much as he’d walked in knowing that, knowing he was entertaining the farce against his own will: it still…doesn’t sting, exactly. But it definitely squeezes uncomfortably in his chest for no good reason that he’s been fucking stood up and yeah, yeah, that means it’s time to—

He reaches for his drink and notices it’s empty. Just another sign, really, so he move to gesture the bartender over to pay but—

Someone’s got a better angle, actually gets the guy’s attention before Steve can even try—a someone sitting two empty chairs down who lifts his glass for another, then gestures the exact same way with an empty toward Steve’s sad glass of ice.

“On mine,” he tips his chin Steve’s direction before the bartender grabs Steve’s glass along with the stranger’s and makes for refills, then it’s just the stranger turning the whole of his body around on the stool to face…Steve.

“For the handsome nobleman,” and he says it with a stilted lilt that’s somehow not disingenuous, and it’s odd, to put it mildly, paired with a little bow of his head that definitely matches the affected voice but also definitely gives the stranger a perfect window to run his gaze up and down Steve’s seated frame—it’s a good move, Steve can’t even deny it, no matter how…weird.

But…also, there’s a warmth in it? Maybe in the gaze, something that’s not just heat, or maybe in the tone that’s not just putting on a show.

Something.

“In fact I do say the very handsome nobleman doth sit alone beyond comprehension,” the stranger seems to correct himself, and the way his lips curl, wider and then pull back a little, like he hesitates, like he’s maybe bolder than this in other situations but is reserving himself just a touch for here and now—and goddamn but this is pretty fucking bold already, whatever it actually is:

“And he deserves plentiful libations,” and Steve didn’t even notice the new drink on the counter until the stranger reaches, tips precariously on his stool, and slides the glass closer before nodding toward it, almost like another little bow: “in his tarrying.”

Steve stares wordless for a second because, outside of that weird fucking Renaissance Fair thing the kids dragged him to, he’s never heard anyone talk like that. So the setting’s all fucked up because this is Manhattan, at a not-particularly-inexpensive bistro type venue, definitely devoid of turkey legs.

Plus the guy in question doesn’t quite look the part—gorgeous curls to the shoulders, facial structure to kill a man, legs for days draped down the stool and dressed in shades of black top to bottom, from the button up in charcoal fucking silk, to the weirdly-suited boots that might have a steel toe hiding or might just be playing, the only color on him the pout of his lips and the slight flush visible in the low bar light brushed over his cheeks before he leans a little closer, eyes maybe the darkest thing about him and kinda goddamn mesmerizing for it, especially for how they somehow tiptoe along a fine line between almost disorienting focus on Steve and Steve alone, and something close to hesitant, or maybe more bashful when he clears his throat and asks:

“Perhaps this very handsome nobleman would also enjoy some company,” and his tone’s not even playing coy about being hopeful, before he full-on lays a palm to his chest in old-fashioned apology as his lashes flutter a little and he goes all self-deprecating, and genuine in it, as he adds in that same bashfulness:

“Even if only that of a humble bard, such as myself?”

And Steve’s not above being wholesale dumbstruck for a good second, like his hearing goes tunneled and his pulse echoes for the narrowing: this man is unreal.

Very…theatrical. One-hundred percent his type. Two-hundred percent, even. Jesus.

So Steve’s quiet for a second, but he’s not known for his charm because he can’t bounce back quicker than average, certainly quicker than risking that gorgeous face falling for the dashing for the hope painted open all over it, not a stroke of artifice in sight.

Steve’s not even trying when he fucking feels his own automatic walls start to slip as he leans, meets the man move for move so they can hear each other close as the bar starts to fill a little more:

“Only if I can get the next round,” and if Steve purrs it, it’s a reflex; if it darkens those already depthless eyes, well. He’s close enough to appreciate the swell of the pupil, the deepening of the flush on those cheeks.

If Steve’s heart jumps a little, there’s not a soul who can call him out for it; tree in the woods with no one to hear it fall.

But it does. It so does.

The man does an adorable little shimmy across the seats between them, taking the one closest to Steve and then doing a little scootching of even that to settle all the closer, and it shouldn’t be endearing, but Steve feels like he can bet on his ribs being sore by the end of whatever this is, or ends up being, just for the swelling beneath them already underway.

“If my request is being so highly honored, so as to join you,” the man takes a little bundle of his curls and drags them across the corner of his lips before tucking it back and…Steve has the immediate urge to have done it for him instead, what the hell, too fucking soon, man—

“Does his majesty have a name?”

It takes Steve a couple long seconds to register that the man means him, though it doesn’t escape Steve that the reference, while it took a while to land? Never for an instant felt like it did in high school, or even shortly after. It felt…warm.

“Steve,” he says with a smile, more twisting his palm than extending his hand to shake given their proximity; “and you, my,” Steve licks his lips then presses them tight around a grin before choosing his words: “very odd but very endearing bard, was it?”

“It was, indeed,” the man lights up near fluorescent; “I’m Eddie.”

Maybe it’s the way he says it, or the way he takes Steve’s hand. But…Jesus.

It’s…a really good name.

“Then tell me, Eddie,” Steve doesn’t let go of the hand in his, their touches just slowly slide apart and it feels…like a loss but not a crushing one, Eddie’s still close enough to feel the heat of him.

“Unless I’m totally off, I think I know from exposure, not playing, that a bard’s a musician, yeah?” Or is it a storyteller, or maybe both, there’s a good fucking reason he never have in to playing the nerd game—

“Tell me what makes you introduce yourself like that right off the bat, then.”

And Eddie glows for the opening, the invitation, and the thing is? He doesn’t stop; he’s like a star unto himself, shining and bathing Steve in the glimmer as he talks about music, about growing up in a house of it, about it being tough sometimes but his mother took him to live with his uncle, the three of them and then it was easier and there was also more music, new music, and he tells Steve about bands he’s played in, joined and left, guitars he’s loved and lost, the whole shipping boxes he has piled with full notebooks of lyrics and ideas from years upon years; and then he pivots, or maybe that’s not even it, because what he really does is test the waters around where Steve thought the bard reference came from in the first place—the nerd game. Steve confesses he was a mostly an unwilling bystander but it was probably more because he didn’t get it, and honestly his reluctance was more for show than anything, he loved what his kids loved at the end of the day, what made them happy—which left Steve explaining the kids, explaining Robin, explaining his family in a way Steve hasn’t done in relationships that lasted months, let alone first conversations on very first dates.

He should be terrified. He isn’t.

He should be terrified of the isn’t. And…and yet.

“My turn for a question,” Eddie fills the first soft lull in conversation, one that stretches taffy-sweet and almost kinda giddy; Steve doesn’t even know what he’s feeling because he doesn’t know if he’s ever felt it before, like, ever—all he knows is that it’s kind of fucking fantastic, like something he already never wants to let go of. So of course he nods, welcomes Eddie’s turns for a question even if it doesn’t seem entirely necessary; the back-and-forths sliding so natural, so balanced.

“Why the choice of drink?”

Eddie nods at the glass almost empty in his hand while Steve squints and laughs a little.

“What?” Steve asks because he doesn’t understand, sure, but also because the unpredictability, alongside the sheer earnestness of this man is…it’s disarming in the best fucking way. Like maybe Steve’s falling but he never wants to stop and—

Too soon, too fucking soon even if that’s not what he meant, exactly; he thought it, and it’s too fucking soon—

“Everyone has a reason for ordering a drink,” Eddie explains with a grin that pops those delicious dimples; “habit, by which there’s a story of the first time you tried it,” he ticks off on his nimble looking fingers, the rings on them catching the lights; “spontaneity, by which there’s a tale of what inspired it,” and fuck, they’re so long, those fingers, Steve kinda wonders how many knuckles he could fit in his mouth; “memories, by which there’s something poking at them.”

Eddie pauses, takes Steve in, no doubt sees Steve hanging onto, damn near salivating over his every word even as he swallows and takes a breath to collect himself as discreetly as he’s capable; it just makes those dimples divot deeper.

“I could go on,” Eddie offers, a little sly in his smile, the knowing kind, but his tone is soft, like maybe Steve’s not the only one feeling…things. And maybe Eddie wants him to know it. Maybe so that he’s not alone. Maybe because they both fucking like it. Maybe—

“Habit,” Steve answers, unable to keep from smiling around the rim of his glass when he takes a sip. “I got sick on shots and swore off straight tequila, but I was always up for the, y’know, frou-frou drinks,” he swirls the maybe-two-swallows left for show: “so long as it tasted good I didn’t give a shit, y’know, and then a,” Steve pauses a second, wonders how best to describe that particular figure from his past before settling on:

“An old friend, told me once,” and then Steve pauses again, this time because he can feel the rush of heat to his cheeks because oh, shit, now he’s backed himself into having to say it—

“Oh, now you have to share,” Eddie coaxes, a singsong in his voice and a wide-eyed wonder to him, something like genuine investment in what comes next, what’s next in something solely about Steve, that almost soothes the embarrassment;

“Unless you’re displaying the answer with this,” and Eddie only just brushes the flat of his fingernail to Steve’s cheekbone, too quick to appreciate the shiver it sends down Steve’s spine, through his fucking veins, that’s not helped one bit by Eddie murmuring, a little sensual, but somehow also a little dazed, a little starry-eyed when he breathes out:

“Blush like the sunrise.”

And if he wasn’t already, fuck knows Steve is now.

He misses Eddie’s touch against it, too. Even so fleeting. Wishes he were bold enough, or foolish enough, to grab Eddie’s hand and let him feel what he’s doing, the heat in him. The way his blood rushes.

He’s not, because that’s fucking insane and way too much too soon, but.

Wanting doesn’t play by those rules.

“Almost,” Steve picks up the glass and swirls it again; “he said I was like sunshine,” Steve recalls with a little grin—it’s a softer memory now than it used to be. He laughs a little and downs the last of what’s left of his drink. “Think it was more because of a yellow sweater I wore way too much at the time, but,” and he places the empty down and so he doesn’t see it coming until it happens: Eddie’s hand. On his hand, on the glass.

“No.”

Steve looks up, barely breathes. Eddie has soft hands.

“No, I think it was more than that, Sunshine,” Eddie tells him, honest and certain and a little breathless and Steve’s of two equal minds: he’s never been so aroused. But he’s also never felt so seen.

And wanted.

“Another?” Eddie asks, but his eyes don’t leave Steve’s to look at their drinks, to be anywhere but in this moment, here with him.

“You’re sure?” Steve makes himself ask it, doesn’t bother forcing himself to sound anything but pulling for one answer and one answer alone. “Don’t have somewhere better to be?”

“Wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” Eddie does look away then, but down at their hands, strokes his thumb a little down where Steve’s wrist starts to curve. “And I’m struggling just now to think of anywhere better than right here.”

And then Eddie’s placing his fingers between Steve’s, just resting them in the middle spaces: they’d fit. So well.

They…will. They will fit fucking gloriously.

“My round, then,” though Steve’s lost count if they’re even, how many drinks they’ve actually had—not too many, he’s pleasantly buzzed at best and maybe more on the company than anything else if he’s honest, but he likewise doesn’t know how long they’re been there, sipping between baring their fucking souls in the most mundane ways that…

That Steve thinks have started to kindle something in him. Started to breathe life into a part of him he didn’t know was dormant, forgot he could feel until it started unfurling like this, deep in his chest.

“Need something to cut through the sugar,” he says idly, but he doesn’t miss the way Eddie’s breath catches when Steve tightens his fingers to catch Eddie’s before letting go, sliding the glass forward so the bartender can see and then he orders: “The Glenlivet 14,” he points; “neat,” then he glances at Eddie’s glass of melting ice—he’s been on Black Russians the whole time;

“Keeping at it, or something new?”

“You make a compelling argument for easing up the sweet,” Eddie cocks his head, taps his chin consideringly; “especially when you’re agreeing to remain as my company,” he shoots over a heated glance and a smile too big to be as wicked as Steve thinks Eddie might have aimed for but it doesn’t matter, it has the same bewitching, pulse-stuttering effect either way.

“Bulleit Rye, on the rocks,” Eddie taps his glass with a certain finality.

“A man after my own heart,” Steve comments with a nod; it’s a good order. He doesn’t think about the words themselves before they come out.

“And if I wanted to be?”

And then Steve thinks about the words with every goddamn cell in his body, like his blood repeats them and the electricity that works his brain as much as his heart is making little lightning storms around the comment, then the question, and then the implication because Steve…

Steve’s never wanted anything more. Steve’s never been offered anything even close and here’s this man? And he can’t be saying what Steve..thinks he has to be saying because what else can those words mean—

“Too quick?” Eddie pulls back the slightest bit and Steve misses him immediately; “I usually am, I’m so—“

Steve misses him, and will not have him doubting because Steve knows that feeling intimately, knows this man deserves none of it, and knows it’s anything but warranted when Steve’s heart, the one Eddie might want to be after, just took up leaping in his fucking chest like a goddamn gazelle.

So Steve doesn’t think, at all, when he grabs the hand Eddie placed on his a few minutes ago and cups it to his chest, the best proof he knows that can’t be overthought, or rationalized away.

Eddie’s eyes are confused, for a second, until he feels it.

And then: but, fuck.

Steve’s never watched a flower blossom all at once before but…that’s all he can think of with the slow crawl of a smile, the bright gleam of something like wonder in eyes that get impossibly wider, a chest that rises and falls heavy abd quick under the silk Steve wants to unbutton a little, see more of that milk-smooth throat save now that he’s looking, he can see enough to take note of Eddie’s pulse there: riotous.

It’s too good. It’s too much.

But Eddie feels it with his own hand. Steve sees it with his own eyes.

Here they are.

“That’s usually my line,” Steve finally exhales, tries to make it a joke between them, an understanding and maybe it works, maybe they’re both too distracted by the hinting promise of maybe never needing to have such a joke again:

“Not too quick.”

And Eddie stays there, riveted, beaming something blinding and Steve just…feels his own heartbeat. Under a hand that doesn’t seem inclined to want to move.

Not too quick.

Eddie blinks at him, almost like he’s waking up from something he wasn’t even aware he’d been sleeping through, or walking through half-dazed. Like he’s seeing something real for the very first time. His breaths are fast, a little shaky, and then he’s standing, pulling Steve’s hand from his chest up to Eddie’s mouth and kissing his knuckles, watching Steve every second as Steve’s own breath hitches, and then pulling away, but not letting go yet. Like he’s reluctant to.

“Let me hit the head real fast, throw some water on my face to make sure I’m not dreaming,” Eddie whispers to him, breathless still and looking almost like he’s trembling; “while he gets those poured,” he tips his head toward the bar where their drinks are still waiting their turn.

Then Eddie’s brining Steve’s hand to his lips again and whispering there, and yeah, the man’s shaking a little as he breathes, almost shy:

“Don’t go anywhere?”

As if it’s even a question.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve promises with all he’s got, because he thinks…it’s insanity, but he thinks maybe he walked so reluctantly into this bar however many hours ago and somehow, by some act of benevolent fate, he’s…found the man who’ll prove to be the love of his life?

Steve could not be moved for anything.

Eddie walks half-backward for how much he turns to look back at Steve, and Steve waves a few times, makes a few stupid faces just to see Eddie struggle not to giggle, and it’s…

He did say his chest was gonna be sore by the end of the night but, Jesus. He doesn’t know if he even has ribs left, or if they’re all broken, crushed to smithereens, for how full his chest feels. Nothing so common and simple as the bones of him could stand up to this and not be changed.

He smiles as he pulls his phone out—when was the last date he had where he didn’t look at his phone? Has he ever been on one before?—and he registers they’ve been sitting here, sharing themselves in a way that feels more like laying a foundation, deliberately, and that’s, that is…

Steve’s spent a very long time wishing for someone who’d want that, with him of all people. He was pretty sure he’d made his peace with never finding it. And then: here he is.

He bites his lower lip, lest his grin crack his face, when he thinks of texting Chrissy real quick and just…thanking her. Because, yeah.

Steve did, in fact, end up loving him.

Like…too-soon-but-for-real-pitter-patter-heart-skipping-beats shit.

So he thumbs open the chat and sees…unread messages.

He doesn’t full-on frown, too high on, just, everything, so he opens the texts before he can assume the worst of someone texting him during a date they, you know. Played a key role in setting up:

he may be running late for traffic, if you haven’t left please STAY I promise he is WORTH IT 🙏🏻💞

Steve’s not even sure Eddie was late, maybe they’d been sitting a few stools away for twenty minutes: it feels like a lifetime ago, now, and—

Then Steve sees the timestamp. Sent…like two hours ago.

He’d been at least two tequila sunrises in, with Eddie versus on his own, by then so, what was Chrissy even talking about—

He scrolls to the most recent message.

Seventeen minutes ago.

omg Steve I’m so sorry and *he* is so sorry, he’s absolutely cut up about this he’s still in traffic but he says he’s determined to try, he’s got flowers for you and everything he’s SUCH A GOOD GUY STEVE I swear I wouldn’t have done this if if I didn’t think he’d treat you like you deserve and this isn’t his fault, I even checked waze and it’s a mess but he understands if it’s too much and—

“Everything okay?”

Eddie’s already taken his seat, and is looking at Steve with polite interest, not leaning to see what’s on his screen like so many people do on instinct, but there’s actual concern underneath, and investment in it. Like whatever’s wrong, Eddie wants to help fix it.

Steve, reeling over the way the puzzle pieces are slotting into place—namely that, by all accounts, the earliest his intended date could have arrived was maybe ten minutes ago—looks up at Eddie, turns his phone screen-down on the bar and clears his throat, bites the bullet.

“This may seem like a,” Steve takes a deep breath, because he has to ask even if he is almost dead certain of the answer; “a kinda out-of-nowhere question but.”

And then Steve meets Eddie’s eyes square on, lets them wash over him and fucking hell: they steady him. Already, they’re an anchor for him in the worst of storms.

“Were you, by any chance, here for a blind date?”

Steve watches Eddie’s face cycle through maybe the five stages of…shock, more than grief given the context, he guesses, but they’re somehow closer to one another than Steve would’ve thought, definitely considering they only just met, though then he’s gotta consider that it feels like Eddie’s burrowed safe in his chest amidst all the blossoming joy, all the warm fullness like he lives there to be kept inside it always and also to maintain it, preserve it, as its sole cause and reason to be: but Eddie—Eddie looks at him with eyes that go wide, that fall with the rest of his face and then shutter a little, and that tears into Steve the hardest, to see something come up like barrier when Eddie’s the reason Steve feels so raw right now, and alive for it; he can’t let Eddie feel less than that, feel the need to pull back from that, from him—

Then he’s placid. Calm. Accepting.

But he deep wells in his eyes: they’re wet. They’re devastated, somehow.

And…no.

But before Steve can move, can speak: there’s a bright, colorful thing that stands out in his periphery—he catches it, flowers near the hostess stand—and his eyes flick to the person holding them, looking dismayed and definitely out of breath; attractive, brunet, weirdly familiar, and then he’s gesturing just so and…

Oh. Oh, that’s…

Steve made the comment two weeks ago, after the show he and Robin had gone to at the Gershwin, that he’d climb the lead like a goddamn tree. She’d groaned, pushed him into a nasty-ass wall that’d earned her the bill for dinner and drinks—but she’d had that look in her eye. And he’d ignored it but now—staring said lead, out of costume, still very handsome even while so fucking distraught, wilting more by the second as Steve tries not to stare too obviously, but then add in that Chrissy knowing half the standbys, that her being the reason they even got tickets, and Robin’s look—well.

“Theatrical” being…fucking literal, like a little clue, suddenly makes a whole lot of sense.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie says it under his breath but there’s…way more disappointment than their objectively-brief encounter should merit as he processes, eyes already having followed Steve’s, and puts the pieces together: no matter how late, Steve’s very-probable blind date’s entered the building.

Which—if Eddie answers the question the way the resignation making its home on his face suggests he will—makes Eddie…

“No, sweetheart,” and Eddie’s gathering Steve’s hands slowly, gently, and his face is mostly lax and his mouth tries for a smile but it’s just this side of a grimace as his eyes, god, they’re so bright, like maybe if you can’t stare you won’t see the hurt but Steve doesn’t have to look long for it to burrow into his own chest and flay at his beating fucking heart.

“No, I wasn’t.”

And Eddie looks down at their hands, like he did before, and the tenor to the staring is wholly different, now, subdued and mournful, and Steve’s mind’s already made up but, if it hadn’t been?

The unthinkable reality of witnessing this beautiful man’s heartbreak would seal the deal entirely.

“You know what?” Steve grabs Eddie’s hands back, and squeezes them tight as he makes to stand:

“Neither am I.”

Eddie’s lips part, and his brow furrows, eyes cutting to the front entrance, to the flowers, to a man who isn’t him as if that man could ever somehow be preferable, be more…more anything—

“But,” Eddie tries to protest, confusion undergirding the heartbreak, holding it still. Like…like breathless waiting, held in a frightful uncertainty, like weighing hearts against feathers: some cosmic importance in the balance.

Steve honestly couldn’t agree more. He just already knows how this scale tilts.

“You wanna get out of here, continue this conversation at any of the hundreds of other bars nearby?” Steve says, buttoning his blazer and reaching out a hand, hoping it stays steady; praying Eddie will read his conviction, his certainty, his heart and want to reach back.

And all the slow-rotting sickness in his stomach trying to climb upward and puncture all the buoyant joyful wonder in him for for every second that ticks by without Eddie’s hand in his, it’s all wiped away, burned by the flame of wanting and then getting, of Eddie’s hand in his properly held and Steve was fucking right.

They fit together gloriously.

“It would be my heart’s-sworn honor, my liege,” Eddie breathes, like maybe he’s afraid to hope and Steve won’t have that; and he thinks he knows what Eddie’s saying, knows what the fanciful words mean but he needs to be sure, so he lifts a brow and waits until Eddie grins again so his dimples start to show and he huffs, relief in it:

“I’d fuckin’ love to.”

They down their drinks in one go, gather their things and leave double their bill, barely paying anything so much as a glance when they could look at each other and marvel instead. They walk out opposite the flowers, paying neither the blossoms nor their holder any mind. The thing blooming between them, in Steve’s chest all the bigger and full and brighter for every step he takes with Eddie’s hand in his: it’s so much more than anything with stems and leaves, that grows in the ground. Like Eddie’s glow is more than a star could even hope for. Like the sunshine that’s maybe not Steve at all, that’s really just this feeling, and the way that it grows—it’s beyond explaining. It’s held between their hands alone.

And maybe Steve will text Chrissy and explain, ask her to send his regrets to the theater guy. Tomorrow.

Then Eddie tugs him closer unexpectedly, his laughter all music as he brings Steve’s hand to his lips again, then to his chest where this time, Steve catches the wild gallop of his pulse as proof.

He doesn’t think either of them have a fucking clue where they’re headed. They have every option in front of them, and want nothing more than the touch of the other, and the promise it holds inside.

So Steve does the tugging, now; curls one hand around Eddie and draws him in, his hand caught between their chests so perfect and tastes the coffee liqueur beneath the rye on his tongue and thinks of nothing else, not texting, not set-ups, not waiting: because he’s here. Right here.

And Eddie’s heartbeat feels like home somehow already; the taste of him is nothing short of divine. They’re fully clothed on a New York street and this is the most intimate thing Steve’s maybe ever felt, after the most meaningful evening he’s maybe ever spent with anyone. At a bar. Drinking tequila and grenadine.

He starts laughing, right against Eddie’s lips, right into Eddie’s mouth, so maybe some of the joy will trickle down into his chest, inside his heart so he’ll know even just a fraction of the joy that’s making Steve feel not lighter than air, or dizzy with the speed of it all—but again, maybe for the very first time: real. Solid. Worth something this momentous.

And maybe—increasingly likely, even, as if that’s not the most incredible, unfathomable, heart-starting thought he’s ever entertained but he thinks maybe he might just actually have a shot here, or can even already say just a little bit that he’s—

Loved.

Fuck. Fuck.

Scratch maybe sending a text by tomorrow—he’ll process getting ahold of Chrissy (and that conniving girlfriend of hers) to invite them to the goddamn wedding.

Because right now? Steve’s kissing the man he’s gonna spend the rest of his life with, the man he’s going to live and die learning to love better with everything he is and ever could be: one hand pressed between both their chests, and it’s not too much because Eddie’s pressing them together tighter, body to body and hanging on like he’s trying to hold Steve’s heart in from the back of his ribs just in case; and it’s not too soon because it feels like every single goddamn thing he’s waited for his whole life, beating and clinging and gasping and melding into place finally, finally because it’s…everything. This is everything.

They are everything.

For @starryeyedjanai, who requested 'Wrong Number/Wrong Blind Date AU' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST and incidentally also for @steddie-week for the Day Three prompt 'Long' (which is employed in a couple of abstract ways here)

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @lawrencebshoggoth

divider credits here

ao3 link here ✨

[wigglebox]

Suptober - Day 4 | Birthday

[elphabasthropp]

giftober 2024 • day 20: crowded

i never thought that hearing a litany of your near-death experiences would bring me so much peace. or maybe it's just the nearness of you.

[bbutterflies]

art by the wonderful @isabugs 🩷🩷🩷

Surprise! I wanted to do an Adrino event just for fun, so join me for Adrino week! I’m so so excited to have some fun with these two and hope you can join me. Write or draw or surprise me with something else!

And if you haven’t joined the Adrino discord, now’s the time! Come chat about Adrino week or just Adrino in general 💕 Members helped plan the prompts for this week!

Prompts are listed below the cut as well. See you all in a few weeks!!

Sunday 6/9: Music

Monday 6/10: Cooking

Tuesday 6/11: Hands

Wednesday 6/12: Kwamis

Thursday 6/13: Family

Friday 6/14: Heroes

Saturday 6/15: Sleepover

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 18

Danny raced through the ghost zone in a panic, how had he missed this? Appearently vlad had released Pariah Dark from his coffin again and got smeared into a paste. The mad king had then went into another dimension, hoping to conquer it and gain more power and skeleton soldiers only to be met in battle by a group of powerful warriors calling themselves the Justice League. Vlad had somehow survived the initial butt kicking and tried to use ghost tech to finally take the king down.

Unfortunately for him, pariah saw him coming in the reflection of a lady warriors blade and killed him.

Somehow the fight dragged on halfway across the US until they got to New Jersey where some billionaire guy was hosting one of his kids 18th birthday bash at his mansion. Pariah appearently crashed threw the roof, a hero dropped the weapon they had taken from Vlad and, in an effort to save his family, Brucie Wayne took the weapon and warned Pariah not to come any closer to his kids.

Pariah mocked him and raised his weapon to a young man with a white streak in his hair they was spayed across the floor in a daze.

Next thing anyone knew the King was dead.

Bruce Wayne had killed the previous king in single combat.

Bruce Wayne was the new Ghost King

Bruce Wayne was sitting on the throne in Pariahs keep looking very unsettled.

Crud. Danny needs to keep this guy and his kids safe doesn't he?