#but sometimes there are miscommunications

[sinmartini]

"cherry flavored." // clark kent

notes: MDNI 18+ summary: getting clark kent's attention isn't for the weak. fortunately, you have a few tricks up your sleeve. wc: 1954 warnings: implications of oral, fingering (f receiving), slight miscommunication, pet names, fem!reader, established relationship, not proofread.

Clark Kent was somewhat of an enigma. Sometimes it was like the two of you were dancing through life with one another, bodies intertwined, a smile plastered on his face. You were almost positive that smile would hurt his cheeks if his muscles were a fraction as sensitive as yours. Other times, you felt like an afterthought in his life, like a nuisance clinging to him he could only hope to be rid of.

It’s been hard to get Clark’s attention recently, his mind constantly cluttered with thoughts that didn’t surround you. It was absolutely frustrating and nothing you were doing was sticking with him. You had pulled out nearly every stop you could think of— a skirt a little too short, a top a little too tight, climbing in his lap like a kitten. Nothing worked.

Despite your efforts, Clark’s mind remained elsewhere. His attention on everything except for his girlfriend. When things were good with Clark, it was amazing, but that feeling could only last for so long before something wedged itself in between you two, often causing rifts in communication and a lack of intimacy.

Sitting there, watching Clark jot down some notes, was absolutely agonizing. The way his fingers held the pen, how small he made it look in his hand. And when his pen traced a specific motion, the veins poked out just enough to garner a whimper from you.

And that’s when it hit you. There was one last thing you could try, one last trick that might work. On Clark’s desk was a cherry flavored lollipop, and it had probably been there for a lick too long, but if anything could grab his attention, it would be this. 

Sauntering over, your hips moving in a specific sway, you leaned against his desk and reached for the cherry lolly. “Do you mind?”

“Uh,” Clark muttered, not picking his gaze up from the paper, “yeah, that’s fine.”

With a deep breath, you tried to regulate your nervous system. The fact that he wouldn’t even look was beginning to drive you up the wall. Your stomach clenched with brows furrowed and lips presenting in a permanent frown as you peeled the wrapper from the lolly with a bit too much force. With a huff, you discarded the wrapper and then popped the lolly in your mouth, the cherry flavor coating your tongue.

You moved your lips around the lollipop, sucking and licking as if it were Clark himself. If you had heat vision like Clark, he might actually be at risk with the way your eyes were burning into the side of his head. And if he didn’t give you attention soon, you may be at risk for a permanent crease in between your brows.

It was time to take it up a notch. The less attention he offered, the more restless you became. As your tongue lulled over the pop, you let out a soft whimper. That’s all it took, because Clark was looking at you with concern laced into his features. His mouth was slightly ajar, his lips turned down in a frown, and it looked like he was about to ask if you were hurt because of that soft noise that sounded from you. Holding your gaze for a little over a second, Clark knew that there was nothing wrong, almost hypnotized by the gentle suck and flick of your tongue.

“Are you okay, sweets?” Clark asked you, the words coming out in a short staccato as he watched the clean stripes your tongue was making against the lollipop. He knew the answer, you were completely fine, but that was just who Clark was— constantly wanting to make sure you were taken care of.

“M’fine,” you shrugged, closing your eyes and tilting the lollipop a bit too deep causing you to lurch slightly.

Heat prickled at your cheeks, the gag on the lollipop not necessarily something that you were intending to do. When you looked at Clark, wishing he would bask you in some reassurance, a thin layer of sweat began accumulating on the top of your skin as his eyes raked every inch of your face.

“I can’t focus when you’re doing that,” Clark said, taking his lower lip in between his teeth as his thumb nervously clicked the top of the pen.

Click. Click. Click.

“Doing what?” Your voice was sweet, like your vocal chords had been dipped in honey. Feigning innocence like you hadn’t just made yourself gag on a cherry lollipop seemed silly, but if this is what would do the trick, then you were playing the game. 

With one eyebrow raised, you took the cherry flavored lollipop in between your lips and began flicking your tongue around it again. This time, much slower and much more calculated than before with your eyes fixated on Clark. As the sugary lollipop coated your tongue, you decided that you’d put on a show for him, working out a moan from the depths of your throat and rolling your eyes back.

Clark’s slightly annoyed expression shifted. His eyes now curious rather than frustrated, and you could tell that the thoughts that were once taking up too much space in his brain were placed on the back burner. His main focus was now you.

“You know,” Clark cleared his throat, pushing his chair out, “if you wanted some attention, you could have just asked.”

“I’ve been trying to ask” you whined, dropping the lollipop from your lips and setting the sticky candy directly on top of the paper Clark had been working on. You knew it was bratty, and honestly, you weren’t sure where this behavior had come from. It was just so much pent up frustration, agonizing over Clark’s fingers for days, watching him as he stretched just to catch a sliver of a glimpse of his happy trail. He was denying you of everything you wanted and that wasn’t very nice of him. So why should you be on your best behavior?

Clark shook his head, though his face didn’t contort in anger. No, instead, it contorted in understanding. Carefully, he moved the lollipop off of his paper, and gently placed it elsewhere.

“C’mere,” Clark said, stretching his legs out and opening his arms to offer you a spot on his lap. 

That one word was all it took in order for you to melt into his lap, curling up on him like a kitten. Clark was already getting there, his half hard-on pressing into your lower back as you shifted on his lap to wedge yourself into the crook of his body.

“If you wanted some attention,” Clark repeated, his voice neutral, careful to not sound patronizing, “you could have just asked.”

Oh.

Well, you hadn’t thought of that.

“I just thought you were too busy for me,” you told him honestly, pressing your palms flat against your thigh. The feeling of him against you was making that warm feeling shoot through your stomach, and if you weren’t wearing panties, you would definitely be dripping down your legs.

“I’m never too busy for you.” Clark made this very clear, gently grasping your chin and tilting your head backward so that you were looking up at him. With your back still pressed against his chest, you titled your head back compliantly. Slowly, he dipped his head down, connecting your lips together.

The kiss was soft, his lips parting yours with a gentle force as his tongue swiped against them. Clark was a good kisser; probably the best out there, actually. He always knew how to make you curl into him, how to make you grasp at his shirt and knead his skin like a kitten. As his tongue swiped your bottom lip, then danced with the tip of your own tongue, you could feel Clark’s smirk forming against you.

“Cherry flavored,” he muttered out, his lips still connected with yours. 

The way he kissed you was feverish, lips connecting and colliding, strings of spit as you pulled away from one another just to crash into each other once more. Clark’s tongue flicked against the roof of your mouth as his fingers found their way to your zipper.

“Clark,” you protested, clasping your hand atop of his, but his fingers had already worked your button open and your zipper down.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He asked, pulling back to get a better look at your face. His eyes scanned every inch, figuring if you were stopping him from getting what you wanted something must be wrong.

“It is,” you commended, your face slightly hot from the next words that were going to come out, “I just wanted to taste you.”

Clark wasn’t very good about shifts in microexpressions, and it wasn’t very often that he let you go down on him. He wasn’t a very self serving person, always fixated on wanting to make you feel good. And if you were going down on him, then what were you getting out of it? This was a common disagreement amongst you two. Gears turned in his brain, his brows flicking in slight disappointment as he rested his hand along the hem of your panties.

Clark paused, searching for the words, “let me take care of you first and then we’ll talk about it.”

You nodded gently, watching as his fingers made their way inside your panties. You were so wet, it was almost embarrassing, but Clark didn’t mention it. Even if he wanted to tease you for getting so wet just from a little kissing, he was more concerned about your feelings than anything else.

Carefully, with a tempo only Clark had mastered, he began rubbing his middle finger against your clit. You had tried this once before, trying to recreate the feeling Clark offered you while you were alone in the middle of the night, but it was never right. His fingers were big, one of them teasing the slit while the others rubbed the most sensitive part of you in a rhythmic circular motion.

It never took him long to get you to that place of pure pleasure. Every now and again, he would apply just enough pressure to make you gasp, arching your back away from him. While you may be at risk of squirming when it felt too good, Clark never minded because he could hold you in place with just a pinky.

“Feels too good?” Clark asked with sincerity as your back arched once more, a whimper that sounded slightly defeated pulling from the back of your throat.

“Clark!” You whined, arching once more as his fingers picked up the pace and moved directly across your clit. One finger slid into your hole for just a moment before he pulled it out and spread your arousal all over your core.

But that isn’t what sent you over the edge. What sent you over the edge was Clark’s soft lips attaching to your neck, just below your ear. Delicately, he pulled the skin between his lips, sucking tenderly. His teeth grazed the skin just enough to cause a guttural moan to rise from you as your breathing picked up and an orgasm washed through you.

Continuing to flick against your clit, Clark worked you through your first orgasm, letting you spasm and finish in your underwear. His fingers didn’t stop the rhythmic motion until you had completely come down, grasping at his wrist as overstimulation washed through you.

“Tired?” Clark asked, his fingers still resting against your sex, though being careful to not move them and cause any wincing.

You couldn’t even find your voice, only nodding in response to his question.

“I guess it’s time for a nap, princess,” Clark said, his words muffled against your skin.

[biomic]

wait are people genuinely upset that hanto and shoma resolved their argument on two episodes?? (/srs) this is my first rider series should I expect dozen episodes worth of miscommunication drama when I start watching the other riders? 💀

i wouldn't say anyone's upset about it lol, if anything people are incredibly relieved

when kamen rider came back in the 2000s, one of its most consistent writers for its first ten years was toshiki inoue, who just cannot fucking help himself from writing miscommunication storylines that can last up to an entire season of television. sometimes he's used this to good dramatic effect (agito), or hilarious effect (my beloved donbrothers), but i think what's stuck with people most over the years is how much kamen rider faiz made them want to bash their heads against a wall while breaking all our hearts

gavv is echoing a lot of tropes from those early years and subverting them by making the characters communicate more openly about their feelings, so a lot of people who've been around for a while are just surprised/amused by the novelty of rider boys being this chill

[sokkastyles]

Well, I actually do think he struggles with not necessarily knowing the right words, but that's because he's been gaslit his whole life, not because he's less emotionally available or insensitive. And I think there are many situations in the show where he gets characterized that way wrongly because he has that trauma, and I don't like the way the fandom tends to pathologize hlm that way because he's an abuse victim. I'm not saying that is what you are doing, but that is why it gives me pause when people make these kinds of arguments.

Like when he apologizes to the gaang, I think anyone would struggle with the right words in that kind of situation, and part of the reason for the miscommunication is because the gaang think he's trying to trick them and don't want to listen, sometimes to a ridiculous extent. Which isn't necessarily wrong of them because he has caused them a lot of grief, but it is acknowledged by Toph that they are letting their hurt feelings color the situation. It's not just because Zuko says the wrong thing. Same with Katara in the Southern Raiders. She tries to convince herself that the goodness she saw in him before was not sincere because she is scared of trusting him again, so it's not just Zuko's fault there or that he's being insensitive, it's that she's holding him to an almost impossible standard because she's mad at herself, and has to learn how to forgive him almost as much as he needs to seek her forgiveness.

And with Toph, the joke is that she was trying to force a "field trip," which is why it doesn't work. With Mai, Zuko was never in a place when he was with her to be an emotionally available boyfriend. He was trapped and scared and she wasn't listening to his feelings so I don't think it's very surprising at all that he shuts down and gets frustrated.

When Zuko is in a place where he feels safe and listened to, he actually gives really good advice. When he reassures Aang in The Firebending Masters, for example, or Sokka in the Boiling Rock, or when he tells Katara her mother was brave in The Southern Raiders. I also don't think he gets enough credit for being the first to apologize to Katara under Ba Sing Se. Or the fact that he's the one who tells Aang and the others what happened with Yon Rah so that Katara could have some space. We don't see that scene but Aang says Zuko was the one who told him what happened. And the subtext is that Katara was hesitant to confront Aang herself, probably because of his reaction towards her when they left, so Zuko is already in a position where he's mediating between Katara and Aang. And then in the next episode he's sitting between them while they're fighting. And then in the NEXT episode he's in that position again and telling Katara to let Aang figure things out himself. There's a reason the gaang looks to Zuko to lead them when Aang is gone, and not just because he knows how to track him. Zuko learned from Iroh, after all, and I think post-series he would be a lot like Iroh in this way.

I actually don't think he'd give hallmark-level advice if Katara told him that Aang forced a kiss on her, though. I think he would be angry. But that would be the right reaction. I don't see him being more worried about Aang if Katara told him that.

I do think people writing Zuko this way is a fantasy, and in general it's not my cup of tea, but I also think it's a valid reaction to the way the creators told zutara shippers that they would be abused for the crime of fantasizing about Zuko and not Aang.

Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t know who the consent-pilled, emotionally available, and unerringly sensitive Zuko that’s been popping up in fanfic the last couple of years is. This dude is The Perfect Man (TM).

That’s great and all and I’m not trying to knock it, necessarily, but I see it going more like this:

Katara: Aang kissed me! Why would he kiss me? This isn’t the right time! I’m so mad at him! Etc.

Zuko, who never met a woman who couldn’t kill him on sight: Uh…is he okay?

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

How much longer 'til your luck runs out?

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[ri-afan]

Danny, calmly, not facing the person he is speaking to. “As I’ve told you before, ghosts are beings made of emotion: when we feel things, we feel them 100%. While we can work on regulation and control, it influences even our speech on a metaphysical level, sometimes to the point of projection. Hence the need for control.”

Person: …

Danny, turning. “So when I say: ‘fuck you, get lost you bastard’,” Danny says, pushing his anger, hurt, and frustration into the words deliberately to where the other person is hit with it like a physical blow, “you know how much I mean it, with everything I am.”

[mickules]

Happy Pride?

---

[♥] [♥]

Another entry in Taka's accidental adventures in insulting people.

As someone who has an allergy to face-paint I have to duck and weave when folk bring out the rainbow face-paint sticks at pride, and I always have the urge to justify myself...

But no one believes you if you say something like 'I swear, I'm not honophobic! I just have an allergy!'

an "Allergy" indeed...

[hitlikehammers]

Rockstar!Eddie Leaves What He Had With Steve Behind in Hawkins 💔 to Chase His Dreams 🎸

(so why is it that he’s back in Steve’s bed Hawkins every couple months for ‘very pressing reasons’ that are straining Steve’s heart honestly anything but? 🫤❤️‍🩹🥺)

NOTE: this was originally a fill from @eddiemunsonbingo AGES ago, and I’m only bringing it over here NOW because something for the @steddielovemonth is going to be posted soon that is a standalone in its universe, but also very much a sequel to it ♥️

Steve really does try not to think about it in terms of…time.

Maybe that’s foolish. It’s mostly denial. Lots of it isn’t reliable anyway: the score his body keeps isn’t accurate, war-time left over from too many near-misses with a fucking alternate dimension but the popping in his joints and the ringing in his ears and the white hair he pulled out of his scalp and stared blankly at in the sink for a good twenty minutes: those are real things, but they don’t chart the passage of days, of hours, months and fucking years with any real meaning.

It’s been four years. Roughly. Depending on what the start point is. Whether it’s that Spring Break. Whether it’s the first winter. Or the spring after, when Robin begged him to go with her—there’s still time. She still begs, because they still talk given the thread inside them stays tied unbreakable to one another, oblivious to miles between. Maybe it’s measuring from the graduations, the kids—only Erica’s left at Hawkins High, now, though Steve gets calls from the whole bunch of them, Eleven the most, which was maybe surprising, then it’s a good split between Dustin and Will, another surprise. Max calls enough but her calls are calls, with a weight most of the others lack. Lucas’s calls aren’t super frequent but always long, mostly because he talks around the point forever, whatever the point happens to be. Even Mike usually ends up on the other end of the line once a month. It’s…that could be where the time starts from.

Or it could be the summer, that first summer. The one that taught Steve what it was to have a heart just to fucking break it.

Could be that. Impossible to say.

(It’s been 3 years, 7 months, and 14 days. Steve had only counted in retrospect, in the wreckage left behind, because while he’d known there was a deadline in it, to it all, he’d thought he could be enough. That he could change a mind. He’d thought…

Foolish things. Bullshit. Didn’t matter. Could be any fucking date.)

But since the point's come up, and it’s front of Steve’s mind, his least favorite (most favorite) place to find it: he hadn’t expected it. Robin liked to say she saw the signs but. Steve hadn’t watched it happen in slow motion because there wasn’t a single goddamn slow thing about it. Which was…for whatever it was worth, Steve knew falling fast and hard and with everything he was had maybe failed him every time, thus far, but at least he knows that for him?

That means it’s real. He’s all in. He might not be met equal on the other side of the equation—hadn’t been yet, maybe wouldn’t be ever, but he wasn’t having any luck trying to fucking change that fact so, learning to work with what he had was the best he could do. And he had love. He’d never been able to name it to himself so far: not before, and certainly never since. But.

Figuring out the sexuality thing had been a not-bathroom-but-definitely-floor talk on the shitty Family Video carpet sometime around November of ‘85. Slow days, idle comments, and Robin’s suspiciously-but-reliably-gentle-when-the-need-was-dire hand to his shoulder to say no, no: actually wanting to kiss people of any gender wasn’t really…the default Steve had always expected it had to be. How could anyone look at, say, Harrison Ford and not think, oh yeah, I would at least suck his face?

Turned out probably at least half the people on the planet. As in the straight guys and the lesbians. Steve had spent the majority of three days on that disgusting fucking carpet, open to close, popping up to ask Robin if she was sure because what about—

She was sure. And eventually, through a couple of needs for deep breathing and a handful of assurances that it was okay to cry—he appreciated that, but he kept the crying to his room after these long-ass shifts and if Robin stayed for some of those times, that was because she was half his head, half his heart, and she knew what he was going to do sometimes before he did.

They did end up on the floor of his bathroom, a clean one for once, at one point. Maybe because they both held to tradition. Maybe because Steve had largely come to terms with the mindfuck of yet another piece of his world, his self unravelling and rewriting itself, and thought the vodka in his dad’s liquor cabinet was a good way to celebrate. The label was entirely in Russian and Robin had been practicing on hers, said she was pretty sure it was the good shit.

Sometimes you can drink enough of the best shit on an empty stomach, though, and still spew the whole of it up.

Steve sometimes does think he drinks his dad’s best liquor that way on purpose, though. Delightful going down and yeah, it sucks to chuck it up but. The idea that it’s ultimately wasted feels…right.

Anyway: Steve had settled with it all by New Year's, and while he’d hosted the rugrats who could only blabber about their latest campaign with their epic DM, and he’d kissed Robin when the clock turned, well. It felt like a new start, a fresh page.

Something that had the chance at being a good thing.

And nothing much happened in the two-and-a-half-months that followed save for finally catching a glimpse of the D&D god who ran their little club while he was idling in his car to pick up the shitheads, this legendary DM who did not make Steve jealous one tiny bit and who was cool and was edgy and was so fuckin’ cool, Steve, did we tell you got cool he is?! and Steve had said language as monotone as he could before he squinted as out came all the metal and the ink and he’d said your club president dude is Eddie goddamn Munson and he should have kept his mouth shut because the amount of talking that ensued left him with a headache the size of Montana; but.

That was really all that happened until about…mid-March.

Then Spring Break happened.

It could be argued Eddie and Steve grew close enough to pass the acquaintances benchmark, ended up as at least tentative friends on top of necessary battle mates as early as the Upside Down. Whatever reason Eddie gave, he jumped in after Steve. Whatever speech Steve landed on, he didn’t want Dustin orEddie hurt.

It could be argued Steve wasn’t paying attention and didn’t stop in time and landed in the land of Tentative Friends You Wouldn’t Mind Added Benefits With after the…at least after the way Eddie leaned in close and his lips we so red and he called Steve big boy and…

Yeah.

When Steve carries what may or may not be Eddie’s still fucking corpse out of the Upside Down—he can’t tell, every time he tries to check again his own heart's too loud, his own breaths too shaky—but by then, they’re family. Bound in blood. Steve would die for him, like the others. He won’t let him die, if he can fucking help it.

Between him and Max, Steve almost crashes, breaks. Steve’s there when Max’s fingers twitch and he laughs with tears in his eyes and hands over hands and tells her he loves her and he’s sorry and he’s there, tries to talk around the letter he opened and resealed without evidence because Steve knows some tricks too, okay, and her words had broken him but now he could live up to what she thought she was leaving behind, could make sure she had every goddamn thing she thought she was giving up in spades, to roll around in in abundance. He was going to take care of her, whatever she needed. Whatever it took.

Her lips had quirked and the doctors called coincidence, don’t get your hopes up but; Steve knew Max. That was all her.

And there were more tears, he let her fucking feel them; he fucking hoped she’d notice, and remember, and give him so much shit.

Eddie takes longer, pulls out of the woods enough to exhale a few days later, and the way Steve slips out to find the hospital chapel, the only goddamn place he won’t be found by anyone he knows, and bawls his goddamn eyes out?

It’s family, and it’s love because it’s family but…it’s been so quick. It’s been intense, and that probably speeds it along but…

Shit. Shit.

That’s when Steve knows he sets a new goddamn record for himself and falls hard and heavy and stupidin, like, a week and change. Jesus Christ.

It’s in the recovery that they build something though. Something that’s not trauma or terror or the threat of imminent death. Steve spends most of his hours between two hospital rooms listening to progress reports and taking notes and the kids gravitate toward Max—Dustin would have been the outlier but Steve knows he’s not ready, and so he gives his own updates just to his brother when he drives him home after visiting hours—but that means Steve’s Eddie’s most common conversation partner. They talk about bullshit. Steve defends a-ha to the last breath he has. Eddie’s rendered speechless for a second and then frantic when challenged to pick his favorite band. Again when it’s his favorite song, from his favorite band. And again when it’s his favorite song of any song, ever at all. Steve's heart swells in the watching. He’s foolish enough to bask in the glittering of Eddie’s eyes when Steve indulges in talking, scene by scene as guided by the master in the bed beside him, about what his opinions on Star Wars really were. And then guided by no one, just invited to share what his opinions are on the last movie he saw and loved: which was Weird Science, the last movie he watched in a theatre because he and Robin had gone to face their fear or some shit after Starcourt and it was easier than he’d expected. Eddie listens, and nods, and asks if they can rent it when he’s out, before making sure to add  but you should really have a new choice like, eight months later, man, you work at a video store.

Steve was mostly just focused on Eddie more than implying, of his own volition, that he wanted to have a movie night.

Eddie’s released before Max, largely for mobility reasons, so they both go to visit her now. Robin’s put on the night shift when they schedule their movie night and Steve immediately moves to reschedule but she says no, she’s seen it, make Eddie suffer this time. So it’s just them.

They sit closer than they have to, on the couch.

And it’s little things that build from there. Max’s physical therapy is a government secret, like some fancy space-age protocol that has real hopes to put her on her feet again so she needs a ride, and while they could take turns, Steve and Eddie just take turns as to which vehicle they hop into to drive her. They stay when she needs them—not when she asks because she’s Max and she never asks—but it ends up three days a week back and forth and during: together.

And a lot of nights, for a movie or a smoke or a nightmare or a pulled stitch before they’re all taken out: together.

And shifts where Steve doesn’t even bother to bring his own lunch because Eddie Munson, unpredictable and wholly forgetful super-super senior—who Nancy and Hopper and most of all Joyce convinced the School would be finishing his final senior year at home save for tests, and only that once he was cleared by his doctors—that Eddie Munson brought Steve something every single time he worked. A burger, a chili dog, chicken fucking nuggets. A PB&J clearly homemade and cut diagonal.

So yeah. It starts out how it does when Steve’s in trouble. But it builds like…Steve’s never known before.

They kiss in May. Maybe so that it’s not their first, and a total cliche, when Steve kisses him for graduation behind the bleachers.

The sleep together after graduation, high on the thrill of it, and that’s maybe a cliche but Steve could not give a shit less.

And then they're EddieandSteve, only to find out they have been for a while; and this is just something a little deeper, a little bit more.

In ways that mean everything.

Looking back, Steve knows Eddie never minced words about his plan to leave Hawkins in the fall. With a mixtape and a prayer if I have to, Stevie-boy, he’d said once even, and Steve had laughed.

He’d fucking laughed.

So he’d known.

But July bleeds into August and Steve…Steve’s in love, okay, for real in a way that he’s never felt before. Right in a way he’s never felt before. He kinda just…overlooks it. Because Eddie seems to be at least on the same wavelength. Touches him first, reaches for him first: wants him. Looks at him with not just desire or attraction but…something no one’s ever looked at Steve with before.

And so he hopes. More than hopes.

But when Eddie starts packing, Steve can’t breathe.

He buys a set of luggage and goes home to start the same, has half of his not-excessive possessions shoved in when he realizes:

He’s not invited. Eddie’s never asked him to come.

Looking back, he’s afraid he wasted too much of those last weeks. Scared of giving too much away, the hurt from so many sides and the heartache that’s already taking root, but also: the way he clings, but tries not to make it obvious.

Fuck; but of course it was gonna be obvious, and how much energy did he waste, how many opportunities slipped by, because Steve was trying not to give away that Eddie leaving—to get away from a town that hated him, to try and make a real go with his music, to be anywhere without Steve so he could live out the dreams that predated Steve, that Steve had no place in—to try not to give away that all of it; it’d fucking destroy him.

Steve doesn’t know, to this day, how he stood and let Eddie kiss him breathless out the driver-side window, how he waved until Eddie was out of sight. He doesn’t know.

Kind of like he doesn’t know how he fucking keeps doing it.

Eddie throws tapes to every radio station with Van Halen or other top-played bands written on the insert in sharpie like that gives nothing away, and sneaks a demo in every underpaid delivery boy’s hands to record executives as he drives to the West Coast, sends Steve postcards what seems like has to be every goddamn day, filled up with his rambling until there’s no space left, has to draw lines around Steve’s address to make it clear where the damn thing’s going lest it get confused. Like they’re SteveandEddie still. Like only…only the things that changed after graduation are gone.

Steve sobs after about a month of it all, grateful and resentful, hateful and still so goddamn full of love it’s sickening. Literally, it makes him feel nauseous. He…

He keeps every postcard.

When one of them comes to say some idiot in San Francisco accidentally played Corroded Coffin on what’s apparently an important station, and Eddie got a letter in response from one of the labels, he says he’s coming back for the boys, they need to be ready. Steve knows he’s not one of the boys, but.

Eddie wouldn’t have told Steve he was coming if it wouldn’t matter to Steve. And maybe Eddie wasn’t in love with him anymore, maybe never was in love with him.

But he’d be lying if he said he thought Eddie didn’t love him. In a different way. A…you-don’t-get-to-come-with-me-but-I’d-still-want-to-see-you-when-I-stop-back kind of way.

And Steve…Steve’s not a fucking monk or anything. But even Robin doesn’t try to push him when he finally just tells her what he feels, lovesick and pathetic as it is:

I gave everything I had to someone else, and it’d be different if I wanted to back, to give again, but…I don’t.

I don’t want it back, not from him. Not if any part of him, wants to keep any part of it.

And because she’s Robin, she knows he means something else when he says ‘it’. And because she’s Robin? She’d push if she thought it was worth it.

She just holds him, and that’s really the best thing he could ask for.

But it becomes a thing. The boys go with Eddie, and they record new shit to impress...whoever. And they do. They come back for Halloween, because Eddie loves it. The label’s dragging its feet, but they’re not deterred, they’re energized. They come back for Thanksgiving because Wayne loves it—except he doesn’t, Steve knows that, Wayne actually hates trying to make a bird and Eddie had lamented more than once that they ended up with lunchmeat cut into cubes one year when Wayne was particularly frustrated with the process. They go out East, and try a few studios in New York. They come back for Christmas.

Eddie spends most of his time with Steve. Steve doesn’t fucking fight that; wants it…like…

There’s nothing to compare how he wants it to. Nothing exists that fits.

Eddie spends most of the time that he spends with Steve, though?

In Steve’s bed.

And here’s the thing: Steve had a decent amount of experience to compare to, but once they’d fallen into a rhythm, got past the awkward bits, the learning curve? Sex with Eddie had been a goddamn revelation. Not just because he was a man—after he’d left, Steve had forced himself to try, and dispelled that possibility quick as hell—and now?

Now, it’s like they never stopped. Every fucking time, it’s like they never stopped.

Steve’s not surprised in the slightest that he remembers every give and tell of Eddie’s body—of course he goddamn does—but that Eddie doesn’t miss a beat in touching, sucking, licking, worshippingSteve’s? That’s insane. That’s…

Unexpected. Every time it’s unexpected and every time Steve’s shown he wasn’t forgotten when he probably should have been. Eddie’s building a life that doesn’t include him.

He’ll only get in the way.

But Steve is selfish and stubborn and maybe it’s often, like almost strangely so, but it’s only a week or two at a go so he tells himself he’s allowed. He tells himself that it felt like making love in the beginning because Steve was in love, and that it still feels exactly the same because Steve…Steve never stopped.

Steve is still just as goddamn in love.

So yeah. Steve sleeps with Eddie and it’s like…it’s like rationed air. He gets a regular taste and he gets to keep breathing.

And it’s okay. Probably more then. Because he gets Eddie—even a little bit. Even just in scraps. When he has Eddie?

He has him, even for moments that were never made to last.

It’s Easter, this time. The band put out their first record in January. It’s doing really well. Eddie’s over the moon. Someone called about a magazine cover for a publication in Cleveland that’s apparently kind of a big deal, Alt..something. Steve will buy every copy in a fucking 100-mile radius. 200 miles. 500—

It’s Easter. Eddie didn’t lament not celebrating it after Spring Break in ‘86 but he’s back every year now. And if it’s just…come to mean something, or maybe did then and circumstances won out against it? Steve will be here. Steve will be comfort and a reprieve or a hot as hell romp with a familiar body, Steve will…

Yeah. Steve will do whatever’s needed. Wanted. Anything.

Pathetic.

But so much better than nothing.

Case in point: they’re both naked, sweat mostly dried, sharing a joint and it’s comfortable. It’s quiet and gentle and put up against sitting alone on a weeknight, not with Eddie?

It’s heaven.

“So when’s the dream happening?”

Steve looks cross-eyed toward his lips; he hasn’t smoked this thing long enough to have heard wrong. He squints up at Eddie, whose chest he’s laid out on, confused. Offers him the smoke but he waves it away.

“The dream?” Steve asks finally, when Eddie doesn’t seem to want to answer on his own.

Eddie looks at him weird. Not weird for its own sake but like: like he’s staring into him, and then like he’s disbelieving, but then also like he’s seeing him for the first time.

That kind of weird.

“Getting the fuck out of here,” Eddie answers like it’s obvious. “White picket fence. Little nuggets.” He spreads his hands as wide as possible without tossing Steve from where he lies. “See the sights.”

And Steve’s response is immediate. Doesn’t even require a thought.

He laughs. Like, ugly-laughs.

“Man,” he shakes his head as he catches his breath, and passes the joint off this time with purpose, not an offer or a choice as he snorts a little; “that’s not the dream.”

When Eddie doesn’t grab the smoke, Steve finally looks up. Eddie…

Eddie looks like what Steve’s always struggled to understand the word ‘poleaxed’ to mean. He thinks it might be this.

He looks…like something stuck him through the gut. Slapped him silly across the face.

“What d’ya mean?” And it’s just three words, one that’s a cheat, and he says it slow enough to take an age.

Steve breathes out, and then, if he’s gonna be honest, and if he has to keep holding the damn thing anyway, decides to take another drag before speaking:

“Figured out what the dream was, inside the dream,” Steve says, wondering if he’ll get away with the vagary; knowing he won’t.

“All we see or seem?” Eddie jokes a little, but it falls flat, his tone eerily kinda…strained but hollow.

“I like poetry.” Steve smiles up at him, soft, and offers the joint again straight to Eddie’s lips. He takes it this time.

“It was about family. It was about stability, not,” Steve shakes his head, stops talking half-assed around the lungful he’s holding, and lets it out slow; “not in a place, fuck, not in a house, but,” a person he doesn’t say, but he hears it in his head; “it was about sharing it.”

And that's it. That’s the simplest, most straightforward truth. Steve doesn’t think there’s anything complicated, or offensive in it. Hard to swallow. Even if he’s come to terms with it. Is mostly at peace with it.

Which is why it’s weird, that Eddie feels suddenly rigid beneath him.

So Steve turns, and braces his hand on Eddie's chest for balance, and frowns when he doesn’t even have to push down to feel the way his heart’s a fucking riot.

“What?” Steve asks, gentle; Eddie’s face is a portrait of conflict, of distress and Steve can’t fucking figure out why, they just came like four times between them and are sharing some very nice Cali weed—they’re nestled close, they’re together, it’s…

Eddie’s quiet, his breath disconcertingly steady for how his pulse pounds, and then he breathes out slow before covering his face:

“I don’t think I can fuck this up any worse than I already have, so,” he mutters, dejected for reasons Steve can’t even guess, then he laughs, humorless, shakes his head:

“Let me try, I guess.”

Steve frowns, uncomprehending, until:

“I’ve been in love with you forever.”

Steve thinks the world stops. His heart does, at least. Suspended. Silent so he doesn’t miss a syllable.

“And I told myself,” Eddie bites at his lip, worries at the bottom swell; “end of that summer, from the very first, I said: don’t ask him to come with you, even if it breaks your heart,” and oh god, oh god after all this time: Steve doesn’t think he’s projecting to hear the genuinely broken heart in those words for just remembering.

“Don’t ask him to settle, you’re not even in the same universe of what he wants,” fuck, what lies Eddie’s saying; did he believe them? Has he always—“what he needs.”

But Eddie is everything he needs, always was, will always be—

“You’ll never have the picket fence. You can’t give him his nuggets. You should never be trusted to park a Winnebago.”

They could have had a shitty studio apartment. They could have had the kids in college. They could have run the BMW until it died, or sold it to put toward a better van for equipment. They could have—

“You’re selfish, Munson, you’re a rat fucking bastard but,” Eddie’s still going, heart still hammering under Steve’s touch even as Eddie swallows hard and fails to smile, looks ill with the attempt like it hurts to try: “you love him too much for that.”

Oh. Oh god.

“It didn’t break my heart, though,” Eddie clears his throat and glances away, to the ceiling, eyes too bright: oh fuck; “broke my goddamn soul,” and a tear falls, and Steve can’t help but wipe it away, and kiss the track. Even just once.

So he does.

“When I saw you again that first time back,” Eddie starts again, voice rougher and shakier as he reaches a hand for Steve’s. “I could have asked the boys to fly out, the execs offered, but,” and this time, the attempt to grin is more successful, like a weight’s lifted from it: “and you smiled at me, it felt like,” and when he shakes his head this time it’s for disbelief, but the kind that comes with awe; “and when we slotted back together like we’d never been apart, it was…”

Eddie’s voice trails, but it cracks at the end—Steve doesn’t know which does more to stop his words.

He’s grateful, relieved, when they come back. He’s powerless but to give when Eddie touches his cheek so gentle and breathes:

“And I had to tell myself again, and again,” he murmurs, stroking Steve’s skin like he’s precious: “you love him too much to take his dream away from him.”

“What did it matter?” Steve can’t help but ask, no malice in it, just the need to understand. “You had your dream, you have—“

They have a contract. They have an album climbing the charts. They’re not just on their way—they’re there. The only next step is to get bigger, and bigger, and—

“Dreams within dreams, wasn’t it?” Eddie murmurs close to Steve’s cheek, where maybe he’s pressing to be close, or maybe he’s hiding a little, so Steve strokes his hair because he can either way and relishes how Eddie leans, melts into it like always. “Inside the dream?”

Steve nods, more to encourage more words. More Eddie.

“Break my dream open and there’s you with me, every step,” Eddie whispers, his lips warm on Steve’s skin. “Break my heart open, same damn thing,” and that causes Steve to shudder, and his heart to pick up now, too. “Both just kinda crumble if you take out the center.”

Steve can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Wants to. Doesn’t think they’re lies. It’s just, he…

“Those,” Steve tries to speak but his voice cracks; he clears his throat and kicks his lips while he tucks Eddie into his neck, under his chin: “those would be good lyrics.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head and nuzzles Steve’s throat with the motion and this can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening, can it?

“No, those words were only ever meant just for you.”

And Eddie kisses the pulse point close to his mouth and holds there, like a sentry and a miser, and holy shit.

Holy shit.

“And I don’t know,” Eddie’s saying more, but it’s pitchy, thready, like he’s barely holding the words together at all; “I don’t know if it’s nostalgia, or convenience, or routine,” his voice breaks again and the sob’s in the word when it comes even if it’s not streaming down on his cheeks: “pity,” and no, no, not fucking ever, how—

“I was never your dream then, and I don’t even know if I can be your inside-dream now, and,” Eddie’s rambling, and he does that when he’s desperate, when he’s overwhelmed and overfull with feeling—and Steve knows that. Steve knows that about him.

Steve knows. Better than he knows himself, Steve still knows him.

“I just want the world for you,” Eddie whispers, stroking up and down Steve’s jaw; “my sweetheart. My sunshine,” he smiles so real and soft and Steve melts, like the heart in his chest starts spilling through his ribs, warm and liquid: “you deserve more than the world, more than fuckin’ me and I,” Eddie shakes his head again, more this time like he’s stopping himself, like it’s a defense mechanism and Steve reaches for his cheeks, broad palms on either side to hold him still because…he doesn’t want Eddie to stop.

Ever.

“Did I ruin it?” Eddie breathes, and barely at that, eyes so wide and swimming and oh, god; “did I—"

And Steve can’t help it. He can’t help but kiss him with all he’s got, even if it couldn’t be all Eddie’s worth in all the world. Steve can’t contain all that Eddie’s worth.

But he can give everything, because this is the man who already has it.

“What the hell was I supposed to be to a rockstar?” Steve tries to talk through his own tight throat, his own growing smile, his own threat of tears bubbling close to the surface. “How the fuck was I ever going to measure up, ever do anything but hold you back when you could have—“

“I come back to you, for you,” Eddie answers immediate; it’s not what Steve’s asking but he won’t lie and say he didn’t want to know, at least a little. “The handful of times I’ve tried,” Eddie shakes his head once now, definitive; “I have always left my everything with you.”

The idea that Steve’s spent all this time feeling empty, and hollow, and missing the best of himself where it lived in the man he loved—the idea he was wrong, that they both were so fucking wrong is…insanity.

“I had a bag half packed.”

Steve doesn’t need to explain further. The noise Eddie makes is pure pain.

“Baby,” he nearly croons, falls into Steve somehow closer, wraps him up tighter; “I wanted to kidnap you in the night.”

“I sobbed in my bed after you were out of sight.”

“I pulled over before the town sign, because I couldn’t see the goddamn road.”

And Steve…Steve doesn’t really have a decision to make about what he says next. What dream he wants; always has.

“I never got rid of the luggage.”

And Eddie hears everything he says in those words, because after everything, Eddie Munson knows him, and…yeah.

Steve’s been kissed in a lot of ways before. By this man in particular, even.

But this: if leaving broke Eddie’s soul, if somehow the lack of Steve somehow did that?

This is…this is the body meeting another body, heart to heart and tasting the way a soul slides back in place. It's Eddie’s hands in his hair like hell never let go and he’s happy about the idea; blissful for it, even. It’s—beyond anything Steve’s ever known. So: yeah.

It’s not a decision. It’s just a fucking given.

♥️

🎸also on ao3

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here

[littlecrittereli]

Hey I'm writing a Wild Kratts x Avatar the last Airbender fanfic and a lot of inspo for Chris and Martins relationship comes from your guardian au! I was wondering if you had any things to keep in mind when writing them or little things about their relationship in your own au that I can steal lol

Well in guardianship AU specifically their dynamic is a little different from canon because their personalities are a little different too (stemming from the fact that their parents died and Martin has been raising Chris)

In guardianship AU, Martin is a lot more mature because he HAD to be. He frets over every little detail when it comes to Chris because not only is he worried about keeping custody of him, but also wants to ensure that Chris has as normal and healthy of a childhood as possible. He wants Chris to be able to be a kid for as long as possible, because Martin was robbed of that the moment their parents died. He's also very self conscious about his qualifications to be raising Chris. He's worried that he's not doing a good job, and Chris would be better off under someone else's care, and Martin sometimes thinks of himself as selfish for not being willing to give up custody even if it would be "better" for Chris.

Chris on the other hand, is not as naive as Martin likes to think. He knows about their struggles despite how hard Martin tries to hide them. He thinks of himself as mature and desperately wishes people would treat him like it. He sees Martin struggle for years after their parent's death, and wants nothing more than to help somehow, but Martin would never let him. So he gets angry and lashes out sometimes because of the restrictions Chris feels he's under. He's very aware that he can be a handful. He also believes that Martin would be doing far better in life if he had just given up custody. Chris is too scared Martin would go through with it if he ever mentioned it though. So they never talk about it. All Chris wants is Martin to be happy, he just doesn't realize he already brings that in Martin's life.

Basically they don't confide in each other like in canon. Mostly because of the age difference and the fact that Martin is in a parental role for Chris. They're not as close with open communication. They still care about each other more than anything, but with Martin's feelings of inferiority, and Chris' insecurities, they both assume the other would be better off without them. And those unspoken fears causes a lot of tension.

Of course they will work it out when Chris gets a bit older and is able to express himself properly, and Martin will feel less obligated to shield him from everything... but for now that's about how it is

[erinwantstowrite]

Ur so right abt the justice league thing bc there is literally no non-creepy explanation for why they’d think that. Also it reminds me too much of something d*vin gr*ys*n would write

EXACTLYYYY. there's no way to write that trope that doesn't fall into creep behavior. at the very least it implies that the JL think Batman would date someone far younger than him?? not to mention that while writing it, you would be putting yourself into the mind set of "how can i turn this completely innocent/platonic action, or familial love, etc, into something that someone would see as romantic?" and it's JUST weird.

[gayofthefae]

"It's like Carpenter's 'The Thing'. The original is a classic! No question about it."

But the remake? Sweeter. Bolder. Better."

"You're insane."

"So you prefer the original Thing?" "What? No."

But "That's insane. That's blasphemous! Putting fruit on pizza?"

"Did you try it?"

"No, I didn't try it; no, I obviously didn't try it."

"Try before you deny!" "Okay! Okay!"

"No, you're right. It's good."

[lloydfrontera]

related to this do you think part of the reason javier wanted to be a knight of the frontera family so badly was because. that way he could stay. that way he could always be with them. maybe he wasn't and never would be part of the family, not really, but as long he could stay with them... couldn't that be enough? wasn't being allowed to stay worth giving his loyalty and even his life for them?

and do you think arcos accepted javier's oath as knight because he thought that maybe this way he could get him to stay. this way the child he grew to love as his own son would never have to leave. that he saw the kid he'd raised all those years, barely an adult and already ready to put his life in the line for someone else, and when he was offered the chance to keep him at his family's side forever, he took it with guilty relief. aware that if javier left he would go on to do great amazing things, so talented he'd be sought after by kings and emperors, but equally aware of the dangers that carried. that if javier left there was a chance he would never see him again. but if he stayed with them, if he stayed in their quiet and boring estate where nothing really happened... maybe he wouldn't become the great hero arcos knew he could, but he would be safe. and he's not javier's father, he missed that chance and he doesn't know if he can ever have it back, but he loves the kid like he were and isn't a father's duty to worry about his children's safety above anything else? isn't it worth it for the world to have one less hero if he's keeping his kid where he's safe?

[eyebulb]

Yknow about Stolas...

It worries me that I keep seeing "he needs to stop playing the victim" as an argument against him.. Just because he's upset.

Regardless of who hurt who first, he has the right to be upset about it.... That is NOT making himself the victim.

He doesn't even put the blame on Blitz.. Not really.. He sings that he didn't think Blitz meant to hurt him, he is openly against the anti-Blitzo party, even at the party. He says on several occasions that he thinks that he, himself is the problem. That HE read the signals wrong, that HE has something to learn, that HE made a deal that made Blitz feel like a prisoner.

The ONLY thing that Stolas is actually mad about (well the striker thing too but I don't really agree with him there.. He has the right to be upset about them not telling him but not about Blitz not coming when he did send help) is that Blitz seemingly rejected him and THEN KEPT COMING BACK to harass him about it... Which Blitz admitted himself was fucked. But other than that he's sad and why wouldn't he be? He got seemingly rejected by someone he cares deeply for and got confirmation about being seen as just as much of a monster that he was afraid he was. But he doesn't blame Blitz for it. It's because of him, yes.. But not for anything Blitz did out of cruelty.

"Stolas needs to attone" what do you guys think the whole Asmodean crystal thing was about????? The bitch is trying. But he doesn't know the full story yet. He knows somethings HE did was wrong.. He just doesn't know what YET. He's fucking trying.. Give him a break. You can't call someone cruel just because they're bad at trying to do better.. That ain't how cruelty works.

Idk what show some people are watching, seriously....

[lover-of-mine]

Everyday, you feel a little bit further away and I don't know what to say...

[meyonherown]

[MILD SPOILERS FOR THE FIRES OF HEAVEN, Book 5 The Wheel of Time]

(extract from chapter 5 Among The Wise Ones)

Slowly making my way through WoT. And i'm again thinking too much of little narrative details like this one.

It's so important to change pov and to allow us to get into different characters' thoughts on a same topic (here ji'e'toh)

Robert Jordan's writing of male & female characters is often criticized (i could include myself in that) But I have so much appreciation for his writing and letting us know the "background" and true intentions of people, just like in this extract.

[maybankiara]

sometimes I think about all the friends to lovers fics I've read and written, about all of the "we were in love and didn't even think anything if it" tropes and the "loving you is as easy as breathing" and they were always so beautiful because they were unachievable, they were meant for stories, for people who didn't exist

and then I think about my boyfriend and think how I was wrong, how all of these things do exist, they are not unachievable, and maybe all the things we read about and yearn for could, after all, happen to any of us

[qulizalfos]

hey lol