#can i call this a ficlet

[stevebabey]

part one here. ze part two to touch-starved stevie that absolutely no one requested hehe <3 but i gots to let my boys have a wee kiss :")

So, hugs with Eddie become… well, a thing.

Not a thing. They’re not a thing, Steve and Eddie. It’s totally the same as when he gets hugs from Robin. Eddie’s doing him a favour as a friend. It’s got the 100% platonic energy of getting a hug from a friend — a hug that usually melts into some form of a cuddle, limbs all tangled together until they can’t tell whose are whose.

Except, Steve doesn’t really do that second part with Robin. Like he hasn’t done it ever with Robin.

So, it’s an Eddie thing.

But they’re not a thing. Not matter how much Steve would actually very much like for that happen. Okay, maybe Steve’s overthinking the whole thing a bit, but he just can’t tell.

Where’s the line? It’s infuriating not being able to discern between platonic and more, just because Steve wasn’t held enough as a fucking baby. Out of all the things he resents his parents for, Steve’s surprised that this is so near the top.

Because, sure, Steve’s had more than his fair share of hookups. He knows that sort of touch. He knows the shape of lust; the scrapes of fingernails down backs, the tight grips over skin, the push and pull of the heat of the moment.

And this thing with Eddie… is not that.

So, really, Steve knows that it’s all friendly. Eddie is just being nice. He’s being a decent dude and helping his friend out — by catapulting himself into Steve’s arms at every opportune moment.

(Steve’s only dropped 3 mugs of coffee because of this so far. It’s only because Eddie says good catch, big boy with a devilish grin every time that Steve manages to catch Eddie that Steve hasn’t completely told him to knock it off. Just yet, at least.)

And he’s different in other areas. He’ll always seem to choose the seat next to Steve on movie-nights now, content to snuggle right up to him. They get thigh to thigh, arm to arm — and Eddie only needs to get about 20 minutes in for him to do a big sigh, like an old dog, and slump over, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve notices though. He always notices.

It’s impossible not to— the skin, even if there’s 3 layers between them, burns blazing warm. Eddie’s hair drapes over his arm, a curl inevitably tickling along Steve’s collar. He can feel the rise and fall of Eddie’s breathing, the little shake of when he laughs.

It drives Steve a little insane— insane in the way that makes him think about burying his fingers in those curls again, about pressing his lips against Eddie’s pretty mouth just to feel the smile against his skin, about digging into his chest so he can climb into his chest and live there.

Yeah, it’s— well, it’s safe to say that the effect of Eddie’s touchiness has sent what was once a fleeting thought of a crush into mind-melting levels of affection.

But he can’t fucking tell.

-

To Steve’s credit, neither can Eddie.

Which is not surprisingly considering sometimes he catches himself wondering how the hell he ended up here; in a close-knit friendship with band-geek Robin Buckley, princess Nancy Wheeler, and King Steve Harrington.

Okay, the Robin one sort of makes sense. He thinks that if no matter when their paths crossed, he and Robin would’ve always even some sort of strange friends - her snark complimenting his bitchiness. Also, the whole super queer thing helps too. Even the friendship with Nancy works, in its own weird way.

Steve though? He’s the fucking curve ball.

It works though, the two of them. Surprisingly well, actually — the two of them get on like a house on fire, bitchy quips back and forth. Even better, is the quiet that they can share. Steve loves to come around and do… nothing. Do nothing with Eddie, though.

So, even though Eddie had noticed the tension in Steve with touch, little moments where he turned rigid when Eddie’s usual wandering hands got too comfortable — Eddie chalked it up to the usual. Guys bring too uncomfortable with him, too weird about another guy being touchy. It didn’t matter than Eddie wasn’t even out to Steve yet, he was still might be that type of guy.

Well, Eddie had certainly thought so. Sure, Steve might not be one of those jocks who smacked around boys who looked too long in the locker room, but if he knew a smidge of the truth, who really knows. It would explain the tenseness at least.

But then— ‘Can I… have a hug?’ There had been a dozen things Eddie was thinking that Steve could’ve asked for but that? Wasn’t even in the ballpark. It was so left-field it left Eddie speechless for a whole moment. And Steve had been staring at the ceiling, his hands curled up tight again like- like he thought Eddie might say no.

A ridiculous thought, honestly. Anyone who knew Eddie well enough knew he was touchy; loved giving it, loved getting it. Like an overly affectionate cat, Wayne had once called him, just 11 years old, because Eddie’s need for affection seem to never be sated.

After that night, Steve’s lack of touch became far more obvious. It’s always hair ruffles or high-fives, yet never hugs. Normally, Eddie would keep to that boundary; some people are less touchy other than others, he knows that.

But… “Sometimes I realise it’s been awhile, since I’ve had some touch.” That’s what Steve had said, his words. Eddie doesn’t even think he meant to say something so heartbreaking. In fact, the guy seemed embarrassed.

It had thrown Eddie for a loop— because Steve gets around. He’s nearly notorious for one-night stands and failed flings, as Robin loves to drone on about considering she’s subjected to all the flirting. What had originally been a point of envy for Eddie, just saturates the bleakness of Steve’s words. Sex but without a moment of intimacy.

So, while Eddie is miles away from being the person who gets into Steve’s pants — not for lack of want, mind you — he does try hike up the touchiness. Little things. Lingering when he taps him on the arm, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder to peer over it, leaning up against him when they’re side by side watching a film.

It’s good. It helps Eddie release the pressure of his stupid monumental god-awful crush he has. Yeah, yeah, it’s laughable, even to Eddie. It’s like Gay 101; don’t get crush on straight dudes, especially the ones you’re friends with. And yet…

Steve lets him. He lets Eddie give him touch, more than he lets anyone else. He still tenses; there’s still always a moment before he can remember to relax, like he’s trying to shake off bad thoughts but then he melts. He always melts into Eddie’s touch eventually — in a way Eddie knows Steve actually loves it, drinks it up as much as he can.

And maybe, Eddie is the biggest fool to grace the Earth to let that fact give him some hope. Sue his gooey heart, he’s a romantic. It’s a quiet hope but, it’s there.

Tonight, it seems relaxing for Steve is been harder than usual— several times has Eddie traced a quite long along Steve’s arms, a subtle point that they were far too tense for someone who was wrapped up in cuddles on the couch. ‘Cos that’s 100% what they are now. Eddie will still call them hugs, but usually, when it’s just the two of them, it becomes this.

Steve, tucked up into the corner of the couch, one leg flush along the back of the couch and one hanging off the edge. It’s the prime position for Eddie to crawl up, wind his arms around Steve’s middle and give him a good squeeze and then settle there. Head on Steve’s chest, lying in the cradle of his hips. Safe. Warm.

It makes him warm, oh very warm to know that he gets this. That Steve doesn’t give this amount of trust to many, if any, other people but Eddie — he trusts Eddie.

“Y’know,” Eddie says, cheeks smushed against the plain of Steve’s pec. It feels deliciously warm and Eddie’s fairly sure he can feel how toned it is just through his cheek. Hot bastard. “I’m actually real glad you asked for that hug all those weeks ago.”

He leaves it there ‘cos he knows Steve will ask. Eddie’s eyes stay on the buzzing tv-screen even as Steve’s head shifts, turning to peer down at the boy slumped on his chest. Eddie’s pretty sure he can see Steve’s mouth twitch up into a smile.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie affirms, giving a nod and his eyes flick up to meet Steve’s for just a moment. “Think I’ve had some of the best hugs in the world.”

Okay, that was maybe more honest and sappy than Eddie was going for. He is just letting Steve know he isn’t just doing it for Steve — that he enjoys these moments just as much. He lays it on thick, tries for a smarmy angle.

“Swept up in these pillowy arms?” He croons, giving Steve’s bicep a quick squeeze, making the other chuckle softly. “Who wouldn’t think so? I’m a lucky guy.”

Despite the joking tone, there’s no quick comeback from Steve. That’s alright. Eddie’s quite happy if this is one of the times Steve just takes the compliment; let’s the word sink in and hopefully, believes them, even if it’s just a little bit. He watches the film and doesn’t read into the silence.

Not even when Steve says, “Eddie?” all soft. Nearly shy sounding. It doesn’t quite register to Eddie’s ears.

“Mm?”

“Eddie.” Steve says again, a little firmer and that catches Eddie’s attention. He turns his head and rests his chin on Steve’s chest, his brows drawn together in silent question.

But the moment he makes eye contact, Steve’s doing that scrunched up face again. Is studying the ceiling instead of facing Eddie. And just like all those weeks ago, his hands clench up tight. Twists up the fabric of Eddie’s sweater in between his fingers and uses it to ground himself.

Last time, he asked for a hug. Considering he’s currently just about squishing Steve beneath his body weight, Eddie can’t fathom what he might be worked up to ask for. Unless he was going to ask for something more than a hug— which, well, just wasn’t going to happen, even if Eddie really wanted it to.

“Can I-” Steve starts. He sucks in a breath, almost like he’s gathering courage. But he’s not, because he’s not about to ask for what Eddie hopes for, he’s not, he’s—

Unless…?

“Can I… have a kiss?” Steve asks, barely audible. The sentence is murmured, soft words that hit Eddie like a gentle kiss in itself — imprinting right onto his heart. Steve Harrington wants a kiss — from him!

“Oh.” Eddie says, in a breathy delightful way. He’s fairly certain the little monkey in his brain is clapping its cymbals at double-speed as the words process; or maybe it’s his heart, which feels like it’s leapt up his throat.

“Oh?” Steve echoes, a smile already playing at the edges of his mouth, because he can see Eddie’s want. Because he knows him.

“Yes.” Eddie says suddenly, with a frantic nod, pushing up closer so their faces are aligned. “Yes, absolutely, you can.” He affirms.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh at the eagerness and then his arm that had been slung around Eddie shifts. It moves up til his hand caresses along the line of Eddie’s jaw, tilting him just how he likes.

Eddie holds his breath. Counts the freckles he can see this close. Tries to feel Steve’s heartbeat through where they’re pressed so closely together; can Steve feel his? Thundering and hurried, beating so hard Eddie thinks he might bruise the inside of his ribs.

Then Steve kisses him. And shit, Steve’s lip are better by ten-fold than every daydream Eddie’s ever had about them. They’re warm and so soft — plush and pressing against his own and Eddie is freezing. Fuck, wait, how does this go again? Right, Eddie’s never… well, kissed anybody before.

Steve pulls back and Eddie screws his eyes up — not ready in the slightest for the disappointment of his own shoddy kissing skills. Fuck, did he really just freeze? Steve — Steve Harrington — asks for a kiss and Eddie decides to stab himself in the back by not figuring out how to fuck to kiss back.

“You call that a kiss?” Steve teases and Eddie’s well aware of the parallel — of the irony of Steve repeating his own words back at him. But he can’t make himself laugh even though it’s funny. Instead, a little groan wiggles out his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, earnest. He forces his eyes opens — he needs to see what’s Steve’s thinking. Where he’s expecting disappointment or perhaps regret, is only patience. Maybe a touch of concern. Eddie continues, despite the humiliation that makes his throat sticky.

“I haven’t- I don’t do this often.” He coughs awkwardly clearing his throat and hoping it hides the next word. “Ever.”

There’s a jump in Steve’s eyebrows, a moment of surprise in his eyes that lets him know he did, indeed, hear that final word. It makes Eddie feel… well, it’s nice that Steve had expected him to have been kissed by now. Even if he hasn’t. He tries to take it as a compliment.

“That’s okay,” Steve assures. Absentmindedly, his thumb rubs soothing along Eddie’s jaw. It makes Eddie shiver, some outrageous amount of joy clawing into every nerve. Steve likes Eddie. He wants to kiss Eddie.

“Do you want to try again?”

Eddie nods before the questions even out of his mouth. Steve smiles, all sunshine. This time when he draws Eddie in, he notices the way Eddie holds his breath — the rigidness in his body.

Steve kisses him again, another short and soft one and then whispers against his lips, “Relax.”

‘Cos isn’t tonight just full of the parallels, Eddie thinks. He listens, tries to focus on how sweet Steve’s kiss is than his panicky heart, forcing out a breath between the kisses. His hands along Steve’s sides find a grip, grounding and good, and by the fourth kiss, he begins to feel a bit melty.

It’s good. It’s really good. Kissing Steve is top 5– nay, the top moment of his life so far. Somehow, it’s made all that much better knowing the build-up behind it. Knowing that Steve knows he isn’t just kissing him for a heat of the moment — that Eddie wants kisses here, kisses before bed, in the morning, on dates. Eddie wants Steve.

And with the way he kisses, Eddie’s pretty sure Steve wants him just as bad.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to reach what Eddie decides is an ultra pretty fuckin’ state; lips swollen from kisses, cheeks flushed, hair a little mussed up. He bets he looks no better. The thought makes him grin, enough they have to break the kiss ‘cos Eddie can’t stop his stupid happy grin ‘cos shit— he actually gets to have this Steve.

“What?” Steve asks, somehow half heart-eyed and half suspicious at the mischief in Eddie’s eyes.

“Can I... have a hickie?”

now with a part three !

[loucifersbitch]

When they finally make it to the bedroom, Buck shoves Tommy so that the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he falls back, bouncing a little as he lands. Tommy stares up at him, that smirk on his face, as Buck yanks his shirt over his head, discarding it carelessly to the side.

"See something you like?"

Tommy thinks for a moment, pulling Buck down to straddle his lap. "Hmm, no."

When Buck pulls back, confused, Tommy says, "I see something I love."

[starry-bi-sky]

Clone^2 - Separation Strikes

"Why do I have to go?" Damian asks, surly and accent-thick, it sounds more like a demand and a whine at the same time. Sitting on the kitchen table with his arms crossed, in a green t-shirt that Danny bought him at a whim when he was at a thrift shop, and black shorts, he's never looked more like a kid. There's a little backpack leaning against the table leg, Damian begrudgingly picked it out when they went shopping.

His English has grown in leaps and bounds since Danny found him -- er, or more accurately; since Damian was spat out in front of him. -- and very little did they have to use the translator on Danny's phone these days.

Which meant one thing: Damian can start attending school comfortably now. And 'go' was the Amity Smiles Child Care Center. Danny and Jazz went as kids until they were twelve, and Mom and Dad actually managed to convince the center director to let Damian enroll for the summer.

And it was summer; Damian starts today.

"Because," Danny says, trying and failing to hide the smile pulling on his face, his heart warm and soft, and also laughing at Damian's expense; "being cooped up in the house all day isn't good for you, and you're starting school in the Fall. And, in Jazz's words: you need to have interactions with other kids your age for the benefit of your social development. And besides, it's only for the morning."

Damian's nose scrunches up, and his eyes roll so violently that for a moment, Danny thinks about joking that he'll get his eyes stuck like that. He holds his tongue; his little brother already looks like he's five seconds away from committing an act of violence.

"I don't need social interaction." Damian sneers, his cheek in his hand; a neverend pool of pride. "I am--"

"The Blood of the Demon Heir, better than everyone else." Danny cuts off, waving his hand in dismissive circles, his voice mockingly deep. Damian's brown skin darkens in embarrassment, and he scowls at Danny. "I know, bud. But Jazz is right, -- don't tell her I said that, -- you should be around kids your age."

Especially when he starts First Grade in the Fall. Honestly -- Danny was a little nervous to send him to the center. Damian's long since cut the habit of trying to kill or otherwise maim people, his palms ache-burn with gentle reminder, but his tongue was as sharp and as cutting as his sword. He still struggles with trying to quell it when he's upset. Vicious child-weapon that he once was, and will never be again.

Danny knows that it comes from a place of fear and defense, that Damian lashes out because that's what he's been taught. That at the end of the day, he doesn't really mean what he says, and he's learning to express himself better. But the other kids don't know that, and kids can be unforgiving and cruel.

Danny just...

His slow beating heart sighs, melancholy settles behind his lungs.

He doesn't want Damian to be outcasted. He doesn't want him to be alone.

Not like he was.

Damian sneers again, but says nothing, his shoulders crawling up to hide his ears like a turtle receding into his shell. Danny watches him silently, leaning against the kitchen counter with his own arms crossed. The clock hanging on the wall ticks in their ears -- it's almost time to go.

He watches Damian, careful, and so he sees it when his little brother's stone-shell pride and petulance shudders, and cracks. The darkened furrow of Damian's brows weakens, and for a moment, slants back.

Ah, Danny thinks, his own shoulders slumping. Epiphany washes over him, and his sad-heart soothes in warm understanding. So that's what it is.

His head tilts, and his hair spills over his shoulders, messy and fluffy, tickling his neck. Some of his bangs fall into his face. "Hal 'ant easabiatan ya habibi?" He asks, voice low and soft. Just as Damian's English has improved, so has Danny's Arabic. He still stumbles over himself some days, and Damian says his accent is trash, but they can have whole conversations now in Damian's mothertongue.

(Danny was incredibly proud of himself for it.)

Damian's face darkens, his blush spreading across the rest of his face, and he ducks his head down. Grown-out curls, black-brown and springy, falls over his eyes. "La!" He yells, loud and indignant, and not at all convincingly. "La 'asheur bialtawaturi!"

He was nervous. Danny can see it now, in the hunch of his shoulders and the tightness of his face, and faintly, he can feel it too. In the ecto-rich air of the Fentonworks House, it thrums, barely-there, like a hummingbird behind his lungs.

Danny can't stop the little, fond smile that forces itself across his lips and upticks the corner of his mouth. "It's okay to be nervous, little brother." He says, he sounds like Jazz when he says that. He doesn't think she'll mind him borrowing the nickname.

He pushes himself off the counter, and Damian refuses to look at him, hiding behind his hair and in his shoulders. It takes three long strides for him to reach the table, and Danny turns, plants his hands on the ledge, and hoists himself up. Right next to Damian.

Damian leans into him easily when Danny's arm wraps around his shoulders and tucks him close to his heart. He can feel his ear against his ribs. Danny hunches over him, resting his chin on Damian's head. "It's so okay to be nervous, actually. I was nervous, Jazz was nervous." He tells him, scratching the blunt edge of his nails across his scalp. "Everyone gets nervous."

"'Ana last aljumiea." Damian mumbles, as small and feeble as he was the night on the OPS Center balcony, realizing that his mom and the League weren't coming for him. Realizing that he was replaceable.

Danny's half-working heart squeezes; in grief, in rage, and his faucet eyes sting. He breathes in carefully, and presses his nose into Damian's hair in a loving faux-kiss. "You're right, you're not everyone." He says, steady and strong, because if he's not a pillar for his family, who else is he?

He can feel Damian's eyes flick up to him, and Danny smiles into his black-brown curls. Tilts his head to squish his cheek against him instead, hand dropping to thumb below Damian's lashes. "You're Damian Fenton," Because the adoption went through a few weeks ago, and he's still riding that high, "You're my baby brother. O' Artist Extraordinaire, Kickass with a Sword, Vegetarian and Wonderful Co-Ghost Hunter."

Damian tries to stifle a smile, and fails. Score! Triumph gathers in Danny's gut, his smile grows wider. He squeezes Damian tight, and only releases him so he can look him in the eyes. "And if anyone gives you a hard time at school, and I mean anyone--"

Danny has bad memories of the teachers looking the other way when the other kids were bullying him, all because he was a Fenton.

And Danny, bleeding heart, bleeding hands, loves his family more than he will ever love himself, will never let Damian experience the same injustice. Not if he can help it.

His eyes narrow, and the buzzy-film of ectoplasm covers his eyes, making them glow, "--You tell me. And as your awesome great big brother-and-technically-dad-but-only-biologically, I will handle it."

Damian, wonderfully made, full of light, his little brother Damian, giggles weakly at him. A sound that's worth it's weight in gold. The scary eyes dissipate, and Danny matches the sound with a cock-eyed, impish grin, dragging Damian into a soul-crushing, too-tight hug. The kind that only annoying older brothers can give. "Got it?"

That gets a proper, if short, laugh out of Damian. He wriggles in Danny's arms, trying to break free. But Danny does calisthenics, his arms are as big as Damian's head, so it doesn't work. "Understood, now, daeni 'adhhab ya 'akhi!"

Danny laughs, loud and bright, and loosens his hold just a smidge, only so he can adjust his grip and hop off the table with Damian still in arm.

"Never!" He crows, hoisting Damian slightly. One eye flick at the clock, and in one quick move, he secures Damian under one arm like a football, and hooks his foot under the strap of his backpack. Kicking it up, he tosses it into the air and catches it with his free hand, and slings it over his shoulder. "Now, to the car, my boy! Before we're late and Mom and Dad get charged."

Damian groans, childish and dramatic and long, but his face is all squished up with a wide grin and glee. Danny can taste his joy beneath his tongue.

"And, if my little pep talk didn't encourage you," He says, reaching the door to the garage, flipping Damian up onto his hip instead. "If you have a good day today, I'll make you bal mithai when you get back."

Like all kids at the promise of sweets, Damian's eyes widen and glitter. Danny loves seeing Damian be a kid, it's his favorite thing in the world. "I will!"

[cod-dump]

Early into their relationship, Soap got to witness Ghost's temper go off from his corner. It was a rough day for him and he was pissed at everyone except for Soap. And Soap was determined to help his day get better.

"Anything I can do, babe?"

Ghost just grumbled while he typed aggressively. Soap actually felt bad for the keyboard with how hard Ghost was pressing the keys.

"Snacks."

"Snacks? On it!"

Soap left Ghost's office and headed to the kitchen, walking with purpose. But, halfway to the kitchen, a thought crossed his mind. What kind of snacks does Ghost even like? Soap can't recall ever seeing the man munch on anything between meals. Soap was already a third of the way to the kitchen and decided to not call Ghost to bother him with such a stupid question.

So, Soap decided to just grab anything and everything remotely 'snack-able'. Crisps, fruit, string cheese, a pack of crackers, some biscuits— Soap didn't realize how much he grabbed until he was heading back to Ghost's office, his haul in one arm and a freshly made mug of tea in the other. He got looks from soldiers as he passed them in the haul which he ignored. After struggling to open the door, Soap entered his boyfriend's office victorious.

He set everything down on the desk and only when Ghost's eyes widened at the sight of all that Soap grabbed did the Scotsman start to think he may have gotten carried away. Ghost stared at the pile of snacks before he looked up at Soap with a confused look in his eyes.

"Uh... What's this?"

Soap looked down at the food, "I might've of gotten carried away... I didn't know what you liked to snack on so I panicked and grabbed whatever I could."

Ghost stared and Soap starts to get nervous, thinking he might have offended Ghost by not knowing what he would like to eat. Then, Ghost chuckles, grabs a pack of crackers, and rips it open to eat.

"You're adorable."

Soap's heart swells before he takes his seat next to Ghost once more, leaning against the man as he quietly ate his snacks, appearing much happier now.

[manicpixiedreamedwins]

8 [monty]

Monty is rescued by the Cat King after Esther is gone.

He’s probably a little bit lost about what to do at first, because he was her familiar. He’s all alone. His job as a witch’s helpful companion has been dissolved.

The boys didn’t remember him to let him out of the house before they left. Luckily, cats know everything. And while Thomas may have foiled Monty’s plan to lead the boys into a trap, he certainly doesn’t hate Monty. He feels a little sorry for him, actually. What a waste of a perfectly pretty face, working for that old witch.

So he saunters on over and makes sure Monty makes it out of the house, but even then Monty isn’t entirely sure where to go.

The Cat King saved him, he reasoned. So he supposes he should follow him. He flies after him, stopping on light posts and signs whenever he does.

Thomas realizes he’s being followed pretty quickly. Then he realizes this is going to be a fucking disaster to lead a bird into a den of cats, so he holds out his arm, waits for the crow to land—

Then shifts him back into a human.

He didn’t expect Monty to look so disoriented, almost wounded about the whole thing. He realizes the problem when the raven haired boy almost falls onto him when he tries to take a step forward.

Ah. He hasn’t got his land legs back yet.

Monty asks him if he always shifts so quickly, if it always feels like… well, if it doesn’t feel like much of anything. The Cat King says maybe it comes with time. He wonders what Monty thinks it should feel like, but decides not to pry for now.

He asks if he’s comfortable— he could turn him back into a crow, only he can’t keep following him if he does. He’s about to go sit in a den of cats. But if he wants, he can come with him like this.

He thinks back to Edwin telling him he’s lonely, and he almost hopes the newly shifted crow will say yes to his offer to come with him. Such a pretty thing would be a nice distraction from the loneliness.

Who is he kidding, though? Thomas is only good at seducing and playing games with mortals. It would be foolish to think that this pretty thing would willingly come with him—

He’s startled when a wide grin crosses Monty’s face and he says yes— but he has missed the little cafe down the way. Could they please stop there? He’ll be quick. Also he’d like to pick up some stationary, and then he’s asking something about signs and charts—

Thomas sighs, but smiles. Well, perhaps this is the price you pay for companionship.

[sgt-tombstone]

43 definitely caught my eye.

(Don't mind gore, it can be fun. But. No dying ppl plz.)

43. A bloody kiss

So I’m somewhat shamefully plugging my MCD fic, Funeral Blues, because the idea that keeps swirling around in my head is an expansion of one of the flashbacks BUT I know you said no dying, so this snippet won’t have any MCD, I promise! It can be read as a complete stand-alone scene, separate from the rest of the fic entirely!

~~~~~~~~

The mission had gone to shit, because of course it had. That seemed to be the 141’s entire MO: make a plan, then have it thrown out the window hours or even minutes later, because the intel had been bad, or their targets had moved, or there were more defenses than expected. The consistency of it all would’ve made Ghost laugh if the result of this particular mission going to shit hadn’t been… this.

This, of course, being Johnny, laid out on his back in the middle of the helicopter, combat medics swarming like flies, prodding with various needles and tubes and instruments, all while trying not to slip on the copious amounts of blood seeping from… everywhere, honestly. Some of it was Ghost’s, undoubtedly, but the vast majority of the slick blood coating the metal floor was Soap’s, rapidly cooling in the chilled air.

His eyes were open, which was a good sign. He was still conscious, his heart rate not steady, but strong enough. He was breathing, and that’s what Ghost forced himself to focus on. Not the indentation of Johnny’s skin as the IV needle punctured, injecting unknown substances directly into his veins. Not the white dressing that instantly stained red where it was pressed against the gunshot wound in Johnny’s thigh. Not the blood running in rivulets across Johnny’s face from the gash to his temple, forcing him to squint one eye and lick his lips in a vain attempt to keep his own blood from dripping into his open, gasping mouth.

Ghost couldn’t look at any of it. The needle reminded him of Roba, of the drugs he’d been injected with against his will, despite knowing that these combat medics would rather die than lose a soldier; they didn’t know Soap, but that was the nature of their work. The blood-stained cloth reminded him of his family, laid out under the Christmas tree, thin sheet draped over their corpses, soaked in viscera and gore, red blooming like flowers where gravity pulled white to red. The rivulets of blood reminded him of Las Almas, of the gunshot wound that had nearly taken Johnny from him the first time, before he’d even known him; Ghost might’ve been able to handle it then, but it’d kill him now.

Instead, he focused on Johnny’s eyes. Bright blue, wide, alert, and trained directly on Ghost. They were upside down, because Johnny’s head was cradled in the divot of Ghost’s crossed legs, the sides of his face supported by Ghost’s gloved hands, his thumbs moving subconsciously in soothing arcs over Johnny’s cheeks, smearing the blood even further. It was everywhere, seeping from everywhere, staining both of them and everything around them gruesome, grim red, but Ghost only had eyes for the flash of blue in the midst of it all.

There was fear in those eyes. Anyone else would’ve missed it; Johnny was too well-trained to let his terror shine through, too eager to please to display anything that could disappoint a superior officer, too warm-hearted to project anything less than confident assuredness to the men around him. But Ghost wasn’t just anyone, and he didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss the way Johnny’s gaze clung to Ghost’s own like a lifeline, the way his breath hitched on every other inhale, the way his fingers twitched against the cold metal floor, like he was desperately stopping himself from touching something he shouldn’t.

Ghost’s mask was pulled up partially because in their rush to exfil, no one had given him a headset, so he’d had to rely on the medics’ ability to read his lips as his shouted report was drowned out by the helicopter rotors. Not that they’d really needed his help; it had been obvious what was wrong with Johnny. The two of them had limped their way towards the helicopter from the tree line, exposed on all sides and reliant on the air patrol to cover them as Ghost nearly carried Soap to the RV point. Blood had soaked the entire leg of his fatigues from the knee down, and his tac vest was coated in mud and blood too; Ghost’s arm around his torso had been the only thing keeping him upright by the time they made it to the safety of the medics’ waiting arms.

He wasn’t stable yet; the kind of blood loss that he’d suffered would need a transfusion or two eventually, but the medics weren’t looking so concerned anymore, and Ghost found it within himself to take a deep breath.

Johnny finally reached up, his arm moving slowly, lethargically, like every twitch of the muscles was a monumental effort, and Ghost watched as his fingertips brushed against his blood-stained forehead, probing at the scabbing gash. Normally, he’d slap the sergeant’s hand away, would growl at him to leave it well enough alone, because that’s how shit gets infected, but he also knew the deep-seated need to self-analyze. His eyes never left Johnny’s fingers as they shifted lower, following the blood trail to his own lips, meeting the tip of his tongue as it peeked out, tasting his own blood. His mouth moved, silent in the roaring air, but Ghost knew what Johnny’s lips looked like when they wrapped around his name, and he could hear it perfectly in his mind’s eye.

Soap’s arm was on the move again, stretching up, impossibly high, until the warmth of his palm met Ghost’s jaw, smearing red across his skin, hot like a brand, straight from the source, and Ghost’s breath caught in his chest. He saw Johnny’s eyes dilate, blue swallowed by black, fear overtaken by…

“I’ve got you, Johnny,” Ghost rumbled, knowing that the sound would be stolen but that Johnny would understand anyway. He always did, somehow.

A tear pooled on Johnny’s lash line before spilling over, racing down his temple, mixing with the blood smeared over Johnny’s skin before soaking into the cloth of Ghost’s glove, and he could almost convince himself that he could feel it against his skin, damp and warm and so full of life.

Johnny’s hand curled, cupping the back of Ghost’s neck, resisting the tug of gravity pulling his arm down like dead weight, except… No, Johnny was definitely the one pulling. Pulling Ghost down, closer, urging him to lean over him, to—

Their lips met, blood slick and offset, the upside down angle making any real kiss impossible, but it was enough. More than enough. Never enough. Ghost cradled Johnny impossibly closer, ignoring the medics’ warning sounds as he maneuvered Johnny’s body, but he’d never do anything to hurt him. Something this perfect couldn’t possibly hurt, not when he had Johnny’s lips on his, Johnny’s hands on him, Johnny’s love pouring into his mouth like too shelf bourbon, intoxicating and burning and addictive all at once.

They separated when they couldn’t breathe anymore, but neither of them went far. Ghost’s lungs were burning, his back already making its displeasure at the harsh angle known, his hips and knees aching at the stretch of folding himself damn near in half, but a direct order from Price himself couldn’t have urged him any further from Johnny, and Johnny evidently felt the same, his fingers tangling in the fabric at the back of Ghost’s neck.

“Ghost,” he said, breath brushing against Ghost’s blood-smeared lips, and Ghost brought one arm down to curl around Johnny’s torso, pulling him slightly upright and slotting their bodies together, back-to-chest.

“I’ve got you, Johnny,” he whispered into Soap’s ear, and he wasn’t sure who he was comforting. All he knew was that, when the helicopter touched down back at base, Johnny was still in his arms, still breathing, still holding on, and he thought that maybe, he could have this.

[thevioletcaptain]

I know the ask is about ships but could you make a non ship one with Dean and Carlos from the Winchesters? I can't think of an exact thing for Dean to say, but the first sentence can be what Dean would say for their first meeting. Thank you if you can (*^‿^*)

"I like your hair," Dean says, staring up from where he's clinging to the bottom of Mary's winter coat, and Carlos grins wide when he adds, with all the breathless gravity of a four year old eager to impress their opinions upon a new friend; "It's swooshy and it's pretty like Mommy's hair, and your-- your beads are pretty and shiny and shiny is my favorite color."

"Swooshy and pretty and shiny is exactly what I was going for, so thank you, little buddy."

Even with almost six years between now and the last time he'd seen Mary, Carlos is relieved to find that they still have a good sense of one-another -- can still communicate silently, swiftly, like they used to when it was life or death. He meets her eye, and her face softens, and understanding passes between them before he slides one of his lucky beaded bracelets -- the bloodstone one -- free.

Dean's eyes light up when he takes it.

When he smiles, he looks just like his mother.

[for this askbox game if anyone else wants to send me a prompt]

[stergeon]

say it

Byleth makes Edelgard say swear words.

(~350 words; too stupid to post on ao3)

“‘Shit.’”

“Grotesque.”

“Give it a try.”

“… Shit.”

“Very good. ‘Ass.’”

“That one is easier. I’ve said it before.”

“Then why don’t you say it now?”

“I… er…”

“If it’s so easy, then do it.”

“… Ass.”

“Excellent.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“How about this one? ‘Cunt.’”

“Wh—I actually, um, don’t know what that means.”

“You don’t know ‘cunt’?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Byleth, it’s simply not in my lexicon.”

“It means va—”

“All right, I understand. The gesture was absolutely unnecessary. I’m astounded at how many words there seem to be for the same thing.”

“If you think that’s bad, you won’t believe how many there are for pe—”

“Well, this has been a fun exercise and hopefully a source of great amusement to you, but I think I’m finished.”

“Wait, wait.”

“No.”

“One more, one more.”

“Mm, no. I don’t think so.”

“Please?”

“… You know it’s not fair of you to give me those eyes.”

“Is that a yes?”

“All right. All right. One more.”

“Yesssss. ‘Fuck.’”

“Byleth!”

“What?! You said one more, and that’s the one to say.”

“I’m—I am not—”

“Please?”

“You can’t pull the same maneuver twice in a minute and expect to succeed. That’s poor strategy.”

“Is it working?”

“… Regrettably, it is.”

“Then it seems like a good strategy to me. Just say it. ‘Fuck.’ It’s easy.”

“It most certainly is not!”

“Try it. Say ‘fuck.’”

“… Fuck.”

“Oh, that’s rich. That’s very good.”

“Are you quite satisfied?”

“Nearly. Now use it in a sentence.”

“Byleth.”

“I’ll give you one. It’ll be easy.”

“I did not—and do not—agree to this!”

“Just repeat after me.”

“No!”

“Say, ‘Byleth, I want you to fuck me.’”

“… Oh.”

“Go on, El. You can do it.”

“… Byleth, I…”

“Keep going.”

“Byleth, I-I want you to… f-fuck me.”

“Good girl. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Less than I—ah—thought it would be.”

“Mm. Well, you’ve certainly earned a reward, haven’t you?”

“Yes, my teacher. Fuck…”

“Aren’t you a fast learner? I’m impressed.”

“If you don’t shut up and kiss me right now, I’m going to start swearing in earnest.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Your Majesty.”

[frankenjoly]

"youre so, so, so pretty" + higusano

Come to think about it, it was funny, how not so long ago they were throwing defeated unconscious Black Lizard members through the office’s windows. And now, they had basically saved their direct superior’s ass, the same woman who had tried to trick them and then opened fire on Atsushi and the Tanizakis on the first actual meeting.

Funny indeed, how things could change.

“Wow.” Yosano heard from the bed she had placed Higuchi once done with healing her, announcing how she had awakened. It might still take her a bit to adjust and/or focus, though. “You’re so, so pretty.”

“Aw, thanks.” She answered, turning around on her seat to look at her. Holding a conversation would be easier like that, after all, and if nothing else she had to check on Higuchi’s status before officially allowing her to walk away from the infirmary.

“And I mean, absolutely goddamn beautiful. Like an ang–”

“No.” Yosano hadn’t meant to sound as cutthroat as she did, but had no regrets either. Besides, her demeanor changed completely when Higuchi’s expression darkened. “That’s so sweet, and I’m not mad. Just don’t call me an angel. Please.”

It was easy to see how metaphorical gears were turning inside Higuchi’s head after that last part, as she likely considered whether to ask something related or not.

“Alright.” She said instead, and the question she actually let out was completely different. “Can I say ‘princess’ or ‘fairy’ and so?”

(Also on ao3.)

[everybodyshusband]

rivers post about phantom loving octopi got me thinking about regressed phantom and that octopus baby rattle that river had as the final picture

aah, thank you for your asks, anons !! i think this is the post by @ominousposting that you're referring to?

1.8k words of nonbinary rain/swiss/nonbinary, little new ghoul under the cut, or on ao3 :)

~

“Quinty?” Swiss hollers, pulling back the curtains of each of the bunks as he walks his way down the bus, heedless of the indignant groans he receives from his packmates. “Quinty, you in here?”

Quinty isn’t the real name of their newest quintessence ghoul, but when the poor thing had first been summoned, they’d had such trouble keeping up with everyone’s names that they’d instead called the pack by their elements. The rest of the pack had chosen to do the same thing to them in some kind of gentle mockery—all in good faith, of course—and even now the quintessence ghoul knows and uses all their names, their little nickname has stuck fast. Swiss can bet it won’t be long before the pack forgets their real name in favour of their given one.

There’s no response when Swiss calls out for them a third time, and the multi ghoul is beginning to get worried. It’s a rest day, so there’s no real need for Swiss to find them, but he finds himself growing fond of the new summon and their company, and things can get lonely on the road for Swiss, even constantly surrounded by his packmates as he is. Even on their darker days, Swiss cannot seem to stop himself from finding contentment in their company, and with every conversation they have, Swiss finds his affections for the younger ghoul growing tenfold.

He finally locates the quintessence ghoul once he pulls back the curtain of the last bunk—his own—but the sight in front of his eyes is not what he’s expecting at all.

The quintessence ghoul stares up at Swiss with big, round eyes filled with adoration and something else that Swiss can’t quite place—fear, maybe, but that doesn’t seem right… the two of them are on good terms, he thought—as they suck their thumb with a mouth that looks too slack.

“Quinty? You– You okay, buddy?” Swiss tries to reach a hand out to touch them, but they let out a hurt whine and shrink away before his hand can even make it halfway towards them. “No touch? That’s fine…” Swiss trails off, not because he’s disappointed, but because he has no idea what to do. He’s never seen the quintessence ghoul act like this, and he feels way out of his depth in how to deal with it. He doesn’t even know what it is that’s causing them to act like this, if they’ve simply gone non-verbal and touch averse, too anxious to deal with touch, or something else entirely. All Swiss knows, really, is that he’s found himself with one very distressed ghoul on his hands, and he has no idea how he should go about comforting them. He’d have some idea of how to help them if they were able to communicate in any way—after all, the two of them have found themselves in similar situations to this before—but by the look of it, it would be impossible to garner so much of a whisper in Swiss’ mind from the ghoul in front of him, and so, the multi ghoul finds himself at a loss.

“I– I’ll be right back, Quinty, okay?” He stutters out, mind already racing as begins to think about which of their packmates the quintessence ghoul would be most comfortable with like this. “You just stay there, buddy. We’ll get you some help, yeah?”

They just stare up at him with their big, round eyes and nod their head mindlessly, which Swiss hopes is a yes, rather than some kind of subconscious action their body is imposing upon them.

Swiss closes the privacy curtain and turns on his heel, racing to the common area in search of Rain. They’ll know what to do, he’s sure of it.

They look up at him with a smile that quickly slides off their face as Swiss runs into the sitting area. “Swiss! I was wondering where you’d– Is everything– Is everything alright, my darling?”

“It’s– It’s Quinty.” Rain shuts their book and gives Swiss their full attention, waiting for him to continue. “Something– Something’s wrong, I think. Help?”

Rain jumps up and instructs Swiss to lead them to the quintessence ghoul. As he pulls back the curtain for them to see, the water ghoul does the last thing Swiss expects them to do; they coo.

“Awh, nothing’s wrong with them, Swiss,” they reassure him, crouching down to the quintessence ghoul’s level. “They’re just feeling a little, uh, little, is all.” They laugh at their own unintended wordplay.

Swiss blinks. “You mean… regression? Like you?”

Rain chuckles softly at a particularly curious blink that makes the little ghoul’s entire face scrunch up in earnest, reaching a finger out to bap at their nose before turning their attention back to Swiss. “Yeah. Except Quinty looks like they’re a lot smaller than I ever am.” They turn back to the ghoul in front of them, directing their words at them now, despite the fact they won’t be able to fully understand. “You’re teeny tiny, aren’t you, sweet thing?”

The little ghoul looks up at Rain and blinks slowly, their mouth going slack around their thumb as they take in the new scents surrounding them. They let out a noise; half squawk, half whine. Swiss finds it hard to decipher, and clearly, so does Rain. The water ghoul, however, takes it in their stride as always and doubles down on giving their attention and affection to the babbling ghoul; cooing at them and tapping their wandering hands and feet lightly with their fingers.

“Yes, you are, little one, you’re so small. Awh, look at you, my sweet darling…” Swiss watches on in awe as Rain continues talkings and manages to rid that strange look—Swiss is now sure it was some kind of worry or fear, as he’d first thought—from the quintessence ghoul’s eyes, having them giggling and curling in on themselves delightedly in barely any time at all. Soon, Rain is turning to him and speaking, and Swiss has to make a conscious effort to stop directing heart eyes at the two ghouls in front of him and tune back in to what Rain’s saying. “Would you mind waiting here with them while I fetch a few things from the commons? They’ll be fine on their own I just… We shouldn’t leave them alone like this.”

Before Swiss even registers their words, he finds himself nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘s fine, Rainy. I don’t mind.”

Rain stands and presses a chaste kiss to Swiss’ lips. “Thank you, darling. I’ll be right back.”

Swiss watches them walk back down the bus towards the common area before turning his attention back to the little ghoul in his bunk. Their eyes are unfocussed and shine with tears as they stare after Rain. When the water ghoul disappears entirely, they begin to twist and flap their arms where they’re lying, letting out a series of hurt puppy noises that Swiss swears he can physically feel.

“Oh, no, bud, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he does his best to reassure. “Rainy will be back soon, okay?” He leans in close, twisting his grin into something softly conspiratorial. “Between you and me, little one, I think they’re gettin’ somethin’ for you.”

The quintessence ghoul stops their jolting and whining and looks up at Swiss slack-jawed. Swiss knows they’re not able to speak like this, but everything in their body language is screaming: “Really? Something for– For me?”

“Yeah, little one. Just for you. Somethin’ real special, too, I bet.” He tentatively reaches his hand out again, just as he had seen Rain do, and is overjoyed when the little ghoul doesn’t flinch away this time.

They grip onto two of his fingers, and Swiss has never been more thankful—for the sake of his packmate—that his glamour doesn’t fit quite right and makes his hands just that bit too large for the rest of his body, if only for the fact that the quintessence ghoul’s fingers just barely manage to overlap each other, and it’s clear that it’s helping them stay in their regressed headspace. Their grip is surprisingly strong, and Swiss catches himself hoping that Rain brings back something else for them to hold; it’s not as if Swiss doesn’t love the idea of curling up with the little ghoul and falling asleep side by side, but dammit, he has things to do today.

Thankfully, Rain returns soon enough cradling a few toys in their arms, the majority of which, Swiss is surprised to note, he doesn’t recognise. “These yours, Rainy? I haven’t seen ‘em before.” He yoinks an octopus plushie out of their arms, it’s squishy. “Awh, cute.”

The little ghoul must see the octopus, because they immediately let go of Swiss’ fingers and make their best attempt at grabby hands in the toy’s direction, whining softly. Rain takes the octopus back and deposits it into their arms, telling the little ghoul its name. They gasp out softly as they feel the softness of the toy for themselves and immediately hug it close to their chest. 

“Yeah, they’re mine.” Rain’s voice is hushed so as not to disturb the little ghoul from their excitement. “Mount got them for me a while ago but I never really reach for them when I’m small. Besides, this one’s been rambling on about octopi ever since they were summoned. It seems only right to let them have these.” The water ghoul shrugs and turns away to dig back through the pile of toys, but Swiss catches their arm before they can turn too far.

“You’re lovely,” he says, genuinely delighted in the soft blush that settles over their cheeks as his words sink in.

“...Thank you, Swiss.”

Their moment is interrupted by the quintessence ghoul doing their best to sit up and point at one of the toys still hidden in Rain’s arms, babbling incoherently in excitement. It’s a rattle shaped like an octopus. The head of the rattle is hidden inside the soft, plush head of the octopus, and its arms disguise the handle. Rain shakes the toy for them and the arms splay out, twisting in the air. The little ghoul seems to be entranced by the motion of it, and even more desperate to grab a hold of it for themselves. The water ghoul holds it out to them, both they and Swiss chuckling as their packmate does their best to get a strong enough grip on it. Eventually they manage it and swing the rattle around, giggling to themselves at the noises it makes with every movement.

Now that the little ghoul seems relatively content, Swiss and Rain are able to sit back and watch them play with the rattle, lost in their own thoughts. Swiss wraps an arm around Rain’s shoulder and lets the water ghoul lean into him. “Thank you for your help, Rainy,” he whispers softly, not wanting to disrupt the little ghoul’s playing. “Couldn’t have made ‘em happy without you.”

Rain just hums quietly and leans further into Swiss’ side, both of them content to watch their mate play with their toys until they grow too tired to sit upright.

[stevebabey]

no one asked but this is the post that inspired this! thank u immensely for the luv <3 number 1 comment was wondering what steve’s bids were & from his pov, so without further ado...enjoy — part one here!

—

Begrudgingly, Eddie has to admit that Robin might be right.

It’s impossible not to be looking for the bids since he brought them up to her. Even though Eddie was fully expecting to tell Robin to suck it, maybe even wager what little money he had against this working out, Eddie can’t help but watch for them in every interaction. And fuck, she’s right.

They’re little, but they’re there.

The first one Eddie would’ve missed if he wasn’t looking for it. Actually, that’s a lie; Eddie does miss it, until Robin points it out, the nosy bitch. It’s minuscule and honestly, it just seems like Steve asking his opinion — which friends do all the time! It’s why Eddie brushes right over it.

“Okay, be honest,“ Steve had said, walking and talking as he entered the living room where Robin and Eddie were sprawled across the couches. They were both waiting on him, the three of them set on heading out to the drive-in to catch a film.

Eddie can’t fathom why Steve felt the need to change his outfit for it, but when he returns, he gets it. It’s not quite the usual polo Eddie had grown to like on Steve, this one hanging a little looser, the colour a bit darker than Steve’s usual choice, the sleeves a little shorter — almost midway to a muscle tee.

Steve’s fingers fiddle with the distressed collar of the shirt, smoothing invisible wrinkles and fussing over nothing. He swishes back his floppy hair with a flick of his head. “It’s a new shirt, I know it’s a little different - but what do we think?”

He says we but he’s looking at Eddie.

Eddie, who has taken to trying to reel in his gawp because what the fuck Steve? It’s like he’s well aware of what drives Eddie insane and has specifically leaned into it. Some evil goblin in Eddie’s brain whispers think how good he’d look in your shirt and he squashes it, giving a visible twitch to shut down that train of thought.

From the other couch, Robin clears her throat loudly and smiles sweetly at her best friend. “It looks great, Steve.”

It’s sincere and Steve’s mouth tugs up, nearly a smile but his gaze fast-tracks back to Eddie. Eddie nods in agreement, a bit sluggish from his distracting thoughts and god dammit, the extra exposed skin of Steve’s arms are so not helping. “Yeah, looks... looks good, man.”

Steve smiles, lips pressed together but his shoulders curl in just a bit, deflating just a tad. From where Steve can’t see her, Robin waves her hands wildly and catches Eddie’s attention. He watches as she gestures wildly and it takes a moment to realise what’s she mouthing — ‘A bid! That’s a bid, you idiot!’

Oh fuck, Eddie thinks. Cos it totally was; the question, the focus on Eddie. He doesn’t even think about the logistics of it, of the fact Robin was right, just jumps right into picking up the bid.

“You trying a new style?” Eddie asks and then thanks whatever god invented the whole fake-it-to-you-make-it schtick because he’s feeling so far from casual or confident. “Going metal on me, big boy?”

Eddie just manages to catch the grin that breaks across Steve’s face as he turns away, giving a scoff — it comes out too soft though, giving away his complete lack of annoyance. He pulls that usual Steve Harrington pose, hands sliding onto his hips, and screws his face into some melted smiley-grimace. “Shut up, Munson.”

Eddie grins and goads on the blush that’s beginning on Steve’s neck, a glorious tinged pink colour. “If this shirt is any indication, you’d pull it off just fine.”

Eddie watches the blush climb higher as Steve ignores the comment, his smile still giving him away. He grabs his coat and pats down his jeans — ridiculous tight acid wash jeans that Eddie hates he’s somehow become attracted to — ensuring he has his keys and wallet. Once assured, he looks up at his two friends again, brows raised, and says, “Ready to rock and roll?”

That comment alone has Eddie seriously reconsidering his type in men.

There’s only a brief moment to talk about it when Eddie and Robin cajole Steve into going and getting them both popcorn to get a moment alone. Steve had scoffed, face twitching in the way it did whenever he tried to hold back a bitchy comment, but he still stomped off in the direction of the snack stand.

The moment he’s out of earshot, both voices explode in the back of Eddie’s van.

“What did I say—”

“Jesus H Christ, you were right—”

“Literally how many times do I have—”

“Oh my god, you were right—”

“ —before you realise I’m always—”

“Robin.” He cuts her off, hands landing on her shoulders. Robin eyes them warily, lips still parted from how her rant had been cut off. “Robin, I’m gonna kill you.”

“What?” Robin’s nose scrunches up. “What the hell are you—”

“Oh Christ, I can’t believe- how long have you noticed those bids?” Eddie’s aware he sounds a bit estranged, eyes probably wide and it doesn’t help when he softly shakes Robin back and forth. She lets herself be shaken, hair flying back in forth. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! You are such a bad gay friend!”

Robin smacks his hands off her shoulders with a frown, her freckly face perturbed at Eddie’s outburst. “Dude, it’s not my fault! May I remind you that until very very recently you were seeing someone else? What difference would it have made?”

Eddie waves his hand, disregarding the point with a shake of his head. His unkempt curls cover his face and Eddie sweeps them back in one motion, “What difference would it have made? Oh my, Jesus—“

Whatever long-winded sentence Eddie was about to spit out is lost by the sound of Steve’s approaching footsteps, effectively shutting both of them up.

Eddie flings himself to the other side of the van, putting an unusual amount of distance between Robin and him like they were being caught doing something they shouldn’t.

Robin frowns at him and gestures wildly with her hands in a way that means what the fuck man? Eddie gestures back, though he’s not entirely sure what his fast hand motions are supposed to mean when Steve rounds the door.

He’s got two buckets of popcorn tucked under each arm and Eddie quickly crosses his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits like his stupid hand motions will somehow give him away. 

Steve looks up, stopping just a way from the edge of the van, and looks at the pair of them. His eyes track from Robin still sitting on one of the old cushions and looking two seconds from burying her face in her hands, across to Eddie. He huffs a laugh and kneels on the edge of the van.

“I know he’s gross Robin,” He begins, tone light, as he holds out one of the buckets for Robin to take. “But c’mon, is the distance really necessary?”

Robin snickers as Eddie makes an appalled noise, both of which make Steve smirk. He holds out the other for Eddie to take and Eddie snatches it, glaring at him over the buttery rim for his comment. Then takes a handful and shovels it in because he can’t think of a witty comment to retaliate. Steve crawls into the van and plops himself between them with a content sigh.

“See? Gross.” He teases, shoving his hand into Eddie’s popcorn bucket to grab a handful. Eddie scowls and chews a little faster when the flavour on his tongue seems to register in his brain.

His eyes stare at the popcorn bucket as he chews, then swallows — up the front of the van, the radio that’s tuned into the correct frequency begins playing the opening credits song as the screen changes. Silence sweeps across the drive-in but despite the sudden hush, Eddie has no qualms about breaking it.

“Sweet n’ salty flavour?” He asks Steve, only half attempting a whisper. Robin shushes him instantly, her focus already on the movie that’s beginning. Steve smiles, looking a bit sheepish beneath the glow of the drive-in screen, but he nods.

“I know you like it.” He whispers with a small shrug of his shoulders. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Fuck, Eddie thinks again and hastily feeds himself another handful of popcorn before he says anything majorly stupid in response to that, like: Oh, amazing- have you noticed the big fat crush I have on you as well?

He doesn’t even need to look at Robin to know she’s smiling, smug as ever.

—

Steve, God bless his oblivious little heart, doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

Steve likes Eddie. Eddie is— god, Eddie is different but he’s good.

He’s this strange amalgamation of traits that Steve can’t comprehend how they fit together in one body or how Eddie manages to pull it all off completely charmingly.

He’s loud, he says rude things, he’s fucking dorky, and far too sweet on the kids — he likes to tease Steve, and yet somehow, when Eddie calls him ‘pretty boy’, Steve knows he’s not actually making fun of him.

Steve likes Eddie, likes his boyishly endearing charm, likes his touchiness towards Steve that no other boy his age is like, likes his messy curls and his ‘holier than thou’ attitude about metal music even though Steve doesn’t get it, like at all. And fuck, Steve really wants Eddie to like him.

It reminds him faintly of when he first started working alongside Robin at Scoops. That thought tickles in the back of his mind, something along the lines of how he had wanted Robin to like him for other reasons, but he doesn’t delve into it.

To Steve, it’s simple: he just wants Eddie to like him.

After the night at the drive-in, between Eddie acting strangely skittish and Robin giving more amused snorts than usual, Steve knows something is up.

He knows they must have discussed something when they sent him on popcorn duty, the bastards. He tries his best to not feel left out; god knows Robin and he have more than a dozen secrets they’ve sworn not to tell anyone but each other.

Besides, Steve trusts Robin to come and tell him if he really needs to know, even if it does worry him a bit. He bites down his anxious thoughts, even trying for a moment to see if there’s a pattern he’s been missing.

That train of thought gets derailed when Steve recalls instead Eddie’s delightful reaction to his new shirt — that Steve definitely hadn’t bought for that specific reason.

Even though Robin had given him that look when he’d first shown it to her — her bright eyes had narrowed, her smile turning a little more coy, and Steve had felt his ears get a little hotter. She hadn’t said anything though, just suggested that he should wear it tomorrow night when they were going out with Eddie.

God, he was glad she suggested it.

Rewinding over Eddie’s parted lips, the way his brown eyes had drank in the details as they trailed up his body and lingered on his arms— Steve had the sudden thought to flex the muscle, just to elicit some reaction, but it had gone out the window at Eddie’s original dismal reaction.

‘Yeah, looks... looks good, man’. Said all aloof, like he hadn’t really thought it. It was like bursting a balloon hidden behind Steve’s ribs, one he wasn’t even aware was there until it was deflating pathetically, making his shoulders sag.

Then— ‘You trying a new style? Going metal on me, big boy?’ And dammit, it’s like Eddie had clocked exactly what calling him ‘big boy’ had done the first time in the Winnebago.

Eddie had then grinned, done another once over of the new shirt, even as Steve pretended to search for his keys and wallet while saying something snarky to try to cover up the heat crawling up his neck. Yet, Steve found himself smiling too because, fuck yes, Eddie liked it too.

But, apparently, whatever Eddie and Robin had discussed wasn’t considered important enough because Robin never brought it up.

The thought and worry about it melt away in Steve’s mind until the memory of that night is about Eddie’s compliment, about his cat-like grin over the popcorn bucket, and how he had leaned over to whisper every bad joke into Steve’s ear all through the movie.

Some of them had been down-right filthy jokes which Eddie only seemed to enjoy more when Steve screwed his face up and nudged Eddie in the ribs, yet unable to hide his smile.

After the third vulgar joke and subsequent nudge, Steve had chided ‘dude’ with a poorly hidden grin. Eddie, smile all cheeky, had nudged him back with a ‘dude’ of his own.

Which, of course, ensued a nudge competition til Robin had given a shush that librarians all over the world would be jealous of. But Steve didn’t even care because he and Eddie were arm to arm, pressed close together and Eddie…didn’t move. Stayed close, like he wanted the closeness the same way Steve did.

Steve only remembers the strange drive-in moment when Robin brings it up finally, on one interesting Saturday night.

It’s not the usual routine; it’s not very often that the whole group gets together to share drinks and get rowdy.

But it was for Robin’s birthday and she’d been persuasive enough to get even the introverts, like Jonathan, to come along. Though, she was aware he’d probably spend the night on a pool lounger, stoned to high heaven. Whatever floats your boat, she’d said, happy for the company in any form.

There’s enough of them there that it almost resembles some sort of party— and makes Steve try not to think about the last small party he threw here. He can tell Nancy notices it too, eyeing the pool a bit too long in a way he’s very familiar with, then taking a swig of beer.

So, Steve heckles them inside — doing a fantastic mothering impression as he waves the group indoors with a promise of pizza, and that has both Jonathan and Argyle perking up and beginning a fast discussion on the best pizza toppings.

Eddie makes a fuss, because of course he does, and moans terribly when Steve tries to roll him off the pool lounger he’s on. He’s had a bit of a joint and some beer, and Steve’s learned that he gets adorably stubborn after some substances.

“Stevie, this is mean,” he had pouted, gripping the edges of the lounger and staring up at Steve with those big brown eyes. “You telling me I did all that bonding with you for nothing? Can’t even lounge by the pool! I’ve got a couch at homeeeee.”

Steve had sent him an amused look of disbelief, hands on his hips after his first round of flicks against Eddie’s arm were apparently fruitless to get him to move. “Really? Didn’t peg you for a gold-digger, Eds.”

Eddie had snorted at that, one hand coming to slap over his mouth. Steve couldn’t quite hear what he had said but the words pegging and anytime slipped through and Steve thinks he could get the gist of that.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Steve muttered, feeling the tips of his ears turn warm. He didn’t know how Eddie could be such a menace— or why he enjoyed it so much when he was. Steve waved a hand in the direction of the doors, ignoring Eddie’s delighted snickering. “If you go inside now, you can be on music, alright?”

And that had finally got them all indoors, Eddie whooping and skedaddling through the doors in an instant, with a call of ‘no take backsies!’ echoing behind him.

Inside was much cozier, the whole group a little more connected when squished up on the couches together. Eddie had taken Steve’s word and was jamming a cassette into one of the speakers when Steve made it back inside after scouting around the pool for leftover cans and butts to throw out.

He’s just been thinking about what playful jab he could make at Eddie’s music, like Eddie always did to him when Robin hollered at him from the kitchen.

“Steve!” She’d yelled excitedly and he come to find her quick, brows raised as he entered the kitchen. She was grinning, already a bit jumpy as she got when she had a bit of liquor — but apparently not enough because when Steve saw what she’d called him in for, she’d announced, “Tequila shots!”

Which lead to now. A hazy combination of beer, tequila, and a bit of weed, and Steve is feeling good. Robin had managed to hijack the music not too long ago, with a hiccup of ‘it’s my birthday’ that had Eddie surrendering with a pout.

She’d since put on a bit of everything: some Blondie for Nance, Talking Heads for Jonathan, and some Bowie, just so she and Steve could dance along to ‘Magic Dance’ and she could do all the silly little goblin voices that made them both cackle.

Steve realised at some point that Robin was playing their mixtape, the one she’d made for driving in the morning, and nearly tripped stumbling over to her in his excitement. He grabbed her shoulders, not too hard, and squeezed.

“Is it- is this our mixtape?” Steve asked, words slurring only a bit. Robin gleamed, hair bouncing with her excited nod.

“Yes!” She was already dancing, even though the tape was between songs — because she knew what song was coming. “It’s Springsteen time, Steve!”

Right as the drums to Born to Run filtered out the speaker.

And oh, Steve loves Robin so much. He loves having a best friend that knows his favourite song and gets jittery and excited because she knows it’s about to play— that she put it on this mix for him.

“You’re my best friend!” Steve says, the words bursting out like he can’t control them. He doesn’t even feel embarrassed, just happy, just drunk, and overwhelming happy to be able to have this.

And even though Robin knows this, she still beams, feet dancing along and just begins to sing along with the song, “In the days, we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream…”

It’s a brazen drunken performance from the both of them. Steve’s chest is heaving after just one chorus that he’s pretty sure he put his whole soul into and he’s so fucking happy —and it feels like pure instinct to seek out Eddie, his eyes scouring the room for him.

Eddie’s leaned up against the wall, hiding his smile behind a can and Steve doesn’t think twice about it— doesn’t think about why he’s so drawn to Eddie, why he wants to include him in this happiness — just extends his hand out and grins.

Eddie sees the bid coming this time.

Part Three.

— 

yes i saw all ur lovely tags and MAYBE cried about it. but thats none of ur business.

@orangeandthefairroadkill @swimmingbirdrunningrock @sadcanadianwinter @phantypurple @omg-elledubs-things @henderdads @farfaras @mixsethaddams @prismandblue @kerlypride @bushbees @legitcookie @temporalcoffin @callmesirkay @beautifully-useless @millyditty @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @ninjapirateunicorns @darkwitchoferie @vi-the-best-you-can @psychosnowfox @desert-fern @scarletzgo @cr0w-culture @softpink-candlelight @livingforfictionalcharacters @makewavesandwar @kozuuji @rhapsodyinalto @eddiethesexy @cassaloopa @lightwoodbanethings @qu33rcommunist @moonlitkilljoy @starkdusk @theysherobinbuckley @sanguineterrain @loganwright @sillysparrow @hotcocoaharrington @eddie-munson-is-my-wife @she-is-tim @steddiehearts @sideblogofthcentury @sidebarre @corrodedcoughin @stevieclaus

[st0p-sign]

tiny PSA for trolls fanfic writers who are making (or have made) the move from wattpad to AO3

referring to your fics as "books" is a dead giveaway that you came from wattpad

[starry-bi-sky]

Love and hate can sometimes cross wires - DPXDC Ficlet

She props her up against the far wall, and kneels before her, fingers deceptively gentle against her cheek. Danyal is cold and trembling, her once bronze skin now dull. She meets her other half— self— sister— mother— predecessor’s eyes, and they are still wet. But now they are sharp, focused on Her face.

Danyal takes a shuddering breath, one that wracks itself down her spine. One that She can feel sinking into her — their? — shared soul. “You’re going to kill me.” She says, matter of fact, something like grief choking in her voice, making it shake.

She blinks at Her mother—sister—friend— predecessor, a feeling She knows is horror but thinks is hatred filling up Her lungs. Her cool palm trails kind down to her throat, Her talon fingers wrapping around the fragile skin. With very little effort, She could break her little neck. “Yes.” She murmurs, a sound only the two of them can hear. “I am.“

Her mother-sister-other half— predecessor shudders again, and yet makes no sound. Simply goes limp with acceptance in her arms. She doesn’t bother to even fight; she looks tired. Make it quick, it’s like she says.

I will. She promises, running the gentle padding of Her thumb along her jugular. It’s the only mercy She thinks She’ll ever give. But first…

“Give me a name?”

(Mother— sister— mine—) Danyal stares at Her, confusion parting her slowly paling lips. There’s silence between the two, thickening the air like the rise of an oncoming storm. Hurt and rage begins to toil beneath Her skin. Was the thought of naming Her so abhorrent, that she’d rather not say a thing at all? Her name is nothing?

Before She can take Her anger out, Danyal breathes in sharp. The sound is painful, jarring like jags of broken glass. She raises a hand, her palm — rough and calloused, proof of her fourteen years of life, of hardship — finds Her cheek too. It’s almost loving, the way Danyal swipes her thumb across Her skin, her clammy fingers tucking a strand of hair behind Her ear.

An emotion sweeps across her, boiling and toiling, burning hot and consuming her whole. Thick, bubbling in her throat, curling behind her teeth and under her tongue and tinging her peripherals with spots. An overwhelming emotion.

It must be hatred, she thinks. What other feeling can encompass one so much?

When Danyal breathes out, so with it comes a name; “Layal.”

Danyal always did love the nights.

(If you ask the Mother of Monsters why she killed Danyal al Ghul, she’ll tell you it was because she loved hated her.)

[copper-skulls]

grillby dad momence

have I mentioned?? why fuku is green in this au?? well that's because Grillby found her shortly after she popped into existence and he had to pump her with green magic for several hours (with the help of Gaster giving him his reserves) so she wouldn't dissipate. congratz! you came into being and caused your future dad to be The Most Terrified Creature In The Underground for several hours

[typinggently]

I can’t lie, my head is spinning. Maybe I SHOULD put my ficlets and stuff on AO3 because frankly, there is some good stuff I should reread more often.

[catrlarbeno]

Prompt: Soap on an hospital bed high as a kite because of a shot wound, realizing that he got a vertical slash on his left eye as a bonus. 

Ghost is sitting beside the bed, tired from the mission, having not slept for the past 48 hours, but he doesn't want to leave Soap alone, not after that. 

“Oh no,” he said in a morose tone. “My boyfriend will dump me.” 

Ghost snorted, deciding to amuse the man lying in front of him. “How so?” 

“I’m ugly now, look at this,” he pointed to his own face that was recently stitched. “He won’t like me now.”

“You do realize that you already had a scar on your chin, right?”

“Ye’re jus’ being nice,” he drawled.

“He would be stupid to leave you, Johnny.”

Soap widened his eyes, like he just discovered the biggest secret. “Only my boyfriend calls me that!”

Ghost hummed, scratching his bare face. He wanted Johnny to wake up to a familiar face. “Yeah, I would know, since I’m your—”

“I didn’t know I had two boyfriends,” he interrupted, a little amazed by the idea.

Ghost groaned. “Soap, you don’t have two boyfriends.”

“Are you jealous of the other boyfriend? That’s not cool, mate.”

“I’m not, I’m your only boyfriend.”

“I don’t believe in you.”

The back and forth continued for a long time until Soap fell asleep because of the drugs.