#fluffy ficlet

[30somethingautisticteacher]

Buck had never been so nervous in his life. His leg was shaking, his palms were sweaty, and his stomach was doing somersaults. He looked at Tommy across the table, who had an unreadable look on his face.

Do it, Buck. Do it, a voice inside his head yelled.

He slipped his hand in his pocket and slowly pulled out the ring. "Tommy Kinard—" Buck began, his voice trembling with anticipation.

"I'm pregnant," Tommy blurted out.

"You're what?!" Buck's voice rose with shock.

"Oh my God, are you proposing?" Tommy's eyes widened as he spotted the ring box.

"Well, I was—" Buck stammered, still trying to process Tommy's news.

"But not now?" Tommy's voice cracked. "That's okay. I understand." A tear rolled down his cheek as his voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm damaged goods."

"No, no honey, that's not what I meant," Buck said urgently. "You're not damaged goods. I was just surprised."

"I'm so sorry," Tommy's voice wavered. "I wanted to tell you in a better way, a creative way, but it just spilled out, and I stole your thunder."

"Hey, no," Buck said softly, his face breaking into a radiant smile. "You are giving me the greatest gift. I am over the moon." He leaped up and pulled Tommy into his arms. "We're gonna be Dads."

Tommy held up his hand. "Can we be husbands too?"

Buck laughed, joy bubbling up inside him. "I would love nothing more," he said, sliding the gold band onto Tommy's finger.

"Happy anniversary, Evan," Tommy murmured.

"Happy anniversary, Tommy," Buck replied softly, pulling his husband-to-be into a gentle kiss.

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno May Prompts Faire. g-rated today, lol.]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) 17: chaos (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

'Daddy! Tiger!' 

John, who had been focused on his eReader, finds his daughter standing in front of him with a manic light in her eye. 'Tiger!' 

He looks around the sitting room until his eyes land on the plush tiger Sherlock had gifted her those weeks ago, then he holds it out to her. 'Say please, Rosie.' 

She grabs onto it and waddles off, definitely not saying anything resembling please. John rolls his eyes, lips twitching.

Two days later, she refuses to leave the flat, which is new and different. 'No, Daddy! Tiger will be lonely!'

John drops his head in defeat. 'Sherlock, will you--' Sherlock reappears, holding the toy, before John has a chance to finish the sentence. 'Thank you,' he says tiredly.

And so forth.

'D'you think she's got an imaginary friend tiger?' he ponders aloud as he and Sherlock wait behind a delicious-smelling Burmese restaurant for some counterfeiters. 'She seems awfully keen.'

'Hmm,' is Sherlock's non-answer, and John huffs, watching as the detective's mind churns through the facts of the case and completely ignores everything else. Some things never change, John thinks. Thank god.

Luckily (?), the mystery is solved the very next day.

Everyone in the household is very sleepy and warm, recharging from the excitement of the past week, so the sitting room is quiet and peaceful in a way it rarely is.

Which means, of course, that it must be shattered.

'Tiger!' Rosie suddenly shrieks from Sherlock's lap, and slides off so quickly she loses her balance but scrambles back up, unfazed, to shamble towards their visitor.

Which is a cat.

A rotund, wide-eyed, orange-striped cat.

'Tiger!' his daughter yells again, and the cat is off like a shot.

'Whoa there,' John says, scooping Rosie up and turning to follow the path of the creamsicle tornado. It's swift, the cat disappearing (back?) into Sherlock's room with alacrity, but surprisingly destructive.

John quickly assesses the aftermath while Rosie squirms to go after her new best friend. The skull is on the ground, books and papers are absolutely everywhere, a couple frames have jumped off the walls somehow, Sherlock's spindly music stand has wilted in terror, and Rosie's toys are, if it's even possible, even more of a chaotic mess than they'd been minutes before.

John closes his eyes and prays for patience. Both his and Sherlock's. But then he hears--

He opens his eyes to find Sherlock laughing. Doubled over laughing, in fact.

'Are you…' John asks dubiously, eyeing him. '... all right? Did it destroy something you hated?'

Sherlock snorts. 'No, no, it's just--' He puts his hands on his hips and clears his throat, the grin echoing on his face. 'Twenty years ago, if you'd told me I'd one day not only be sober, but with a partner and child and now a housepet--' He barks out another laugh, seemingly unable to stop himself.

John grins at the word "partner," then clocks the rest of the sentence. 'Wait-- We're keeping it?'

'Yes!' Rosie contributes with gusto. 'Keeping the tiger!'

Sherlock strides over and plucks Rosie out of John's arms. 'Yes, we are. Inasmuch as one can keep a cat used to the out of doors,' he amends. 'What shall we name him, Rosamund?'

'His name is Reginald,' Rosie says. Or at least, John thinks that's what she says. She's barely two and a half, after all, and John still sometimes feels like she's speaking a foreign language.

Sherlock, though, nods as if he heartily agrees. 'Reginald is a fine name. Your father will have to go and procure some food, a box, and probably some flea-preventative, and then our new friend Reginald will be all set.'

John starts to protest, but both his daughter and Sherlock turn big eyes on him, and he has absolutely no chance. 'Yeah, sure,' he says dryly. 'You can hold down the fort while I do so?'

Sherlock waves a hand, already moving on to walk Rosie around the room, presumably assessing damage. 'Of course.'

'Right.' John shrugs on his coat and heads out.

The last thing he hears is, 'Now, did you know, Rosamund, that a group of tigers is known as an "ambush" or a "streak"?'

Child, partner, cat, John contemplates as he steps out into the grey brightness. It's exactly what he'd thought for himself twenty years ago. Except... nothing like that at all.

Thank god.

[❤️]

[discoverywriter]

Writing is going so slowly these days, I’ll take any win, no matter how small.

[ghoulriver]

33: I won't hurt you Aether/Rain

Admittedly this is my first time posting any of my writing to this hellsite (or anywhere in general) so I hope this is okay! I also spent so long scrolling through to find the prompt list that I got dizzy, so I hope this actually fits the prompt!

366 words of Aether comforting Rain below the cut!

Aether is suddenly awoken from his slumber by the sound of whimpering and crying, he reaches over and turns on his lamp before glancing around the room to find the source of the sound. The large ghoul’s stomach drops to his feet when he sees one of the Cardinal’s newest summons curled up in the chair on the other side of his room, crying. Aether slips out of bed and slowly walks over to the smaller ghoul, not wanting to startle him.

“Rainy? Are you alright baby?”

Rain doesn’t seem to hear his words, not lifting his head from where it sits between his knees as he continues to cry. Aether places a large hand on Rain’s back starting to gently rub soothing circles on it in hopes that it’ll calm the smaller ghoul enough that he can tell him what’s wrong. Rain nearly jumps out of his skin at the contact, letting out a frightened yelp as he scrambles to move away from Aether’s hand. He quickly pulls his hand away from the startled ghoul, instead crouching down in front of him. “Shh, it’s okay Rainy. I won’t hurt you” he whispers, watching as Rain’s breathing slows to a normal rate. Rain turns to face him, his eyes red and puffy from crying “Aeth..?” he whispers, moving forward to wrap his arms tightly around the quintessence ghoul once he realizes who he is.

“‘M sorry, had a nightmare,” he whispers, burying his face in Aether’s neck to breathe in his soothing scent.

“I know baby, it’s alright. I’m here now, you’re safe.” Aether continues to hold Rain for a few minutes, whispering sweet nothings to help soothe him. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, the only answer being a shake of Rain’s head.

“Would you like to stay the night with me?” that gets him a nod and Aether smiles, carefully picking Rain up as he stands. He carries the water ghoul to his bed, happily settling Rain on his chest as they lay down together. A soothing purr kicks up in Aether’s chest, helping lul the smaller ghoul to sleep as he gently rubs his back.

“Goodnight, Rain. I love you”

[wishitweresummer]

Sapnap Birthday Tickle/Fluff Scenarios

Happy Birthday Sapnap! I hope you have so much fun and I hope you survive in the Squid Games! I love you and can’t wait to see what this next year brings!

Cuddles - The night before his birthday he dragged the other two into his room.

“Birthday cuddles.”, he insisted. Sapnap is such a cuddle bug. Inwardly, George had an instinct to whine about it being too hot for a three-way all-night cuddle session, but Sapnap has this dumb goofy smile and is getting all giggly over the idea of being so comfy and warm. It is his birthday in a few minutes technically. First George slides in, then Sapnap, then Dream. Arms and limbs tangled clumsily. George settles his head against Sapnap’s chest and finds himself melting from the love warmth. Dream spends some time nuzzling his nose into Sapnap’s curls. Little tickly whispers of ‘birthday boyyy’ and ‘happy birthday’, just enough to give him butterflies. Sapnap wakes up on his birthday morning completely surrounded by love; Dream’s big arm flung around his chest nearly crushing him and George clinging to him with all four limbs and his face buried in his neck.

Birthday Breakfast - The whole kitchen is slowly filled with the smells of bacon and pancakes as Dream cooks. George gets to work making Sapnap a smoothie. He’s been seeing him make them for himself every morning for weeks now. When Sapnap makes a move for the blender, George just pushes him towards the table, shaking his head.

“I got it.”, he says quietly, a little smile creeping across his face at Sapnap’s dumb expression. The older jabs his elbow into his ribs softly to make him giggle and back off. He sits. George reveals all these smoothie ingredients he was hiding and gets to work making Sapnap a smoothie he had found a recipe for online. George places it in front of him.

“Here idiot, I know you like having smoothies in the morning.”. Sapnap knows that’s George’s way of saying ‘I love you.’. He wants to cry. The smoothie is really good and he makes sure to tell George multiple times while he enjoys it.

“You guys are cute.”, Dream blurts. He can’t help himself. George blushes. Dream’s cooking is amazing. Sapnap’s feet kick under the table as he tastes the love in every bite.

“I love you guys.”.

Valorant - They do a Dream Team Valorant Stream. Sapnap’s friends from NRG pop in and out to wish him a happy birthday and get to know the Dream Team a little. Worlds colliding. Dream nudges him excitedly and Sapnap can tell he’s thinking of content. He’s excited for the year to come.

Karl’s Here - Karl is playfully whining in disappointment when Dream is the one to open the door.

“Where’s the birthday boy!!!”. Sapnap pops into the living room and Karl squeals with joy. Then, Dream and George watch in horror as Karl swiftly takes him to the ground and tickles him within an inch of his life. Karl’s face is buried in his neck delivering brutally ticklish nibbles and murmurs. His hands disappeared up Sapnap’s hoodie instantly and were roughly grabbing and shaking at his ribcage. In no time, Sapnap is screaming and kicking at the ground wildly.

“HELP MEEE!!!”, he wails. His raspy laughter overtook him and he shoves weakly at Karl, completely thrown by the speed of the attack. The tickling hands were trapped under two layers and Sapnap squealed helplessly.

Birthday Drinks - The night ended in the living room. More friends had come around eventually and everybody was sat on the couches and the floor. Sapnap was sat cross-legged on the floor leaning against the couch. He didn’t drink much because he wanted to hold on to every memory from his special day. It was just enough that his tummy felt warm and giggles would spill easily from his lips. Dream’s head plopped suddenly on his shoulder.

“Did you have a good birthday?”, he slurred. Sapnap squeaked as he felt a finger wiggle into his side. He grabbed Dream’s hand to prevent more tickles. Sapnap relaxed and played with his hand as he looked around the room. The night was winding down, many already asleep. The music had been turned down, but he could still hear it faintly. It was Dream’s voice. He spotted a giggly George in the corner, acting out some story he couldn’t hear to Quackity and Karl. Karl caught his eye and he watched him laugh and wave. Sapnap rolled his eyes fondly and waved back.

“I had an amazing birthday.”.

“Happy Birthday Pandas.”.

[mrsjellymunson]

That Was You?

Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader; Eddie Munson x gn!reader

Summary: A meet cute in a record store. That’s literally it.

WC: 1.6k

CW: SFW, FLUFF, swearing, flirting, awkwardness, reader relives an embarrassing situation. Reader’s physical characteristics are not described. Brief mentions of the devil’s lettuce and non-consensual touching. This was supposed to turn into a story but never did, and it was too cute to waste. IDK how homemade volcanoes or US schooling years work so if I’ve messed up let’s all just pretend I didn’t 😂 The gorgeous Eddie edit in the banner is by the utterly fantastic @jqmunson 🙏👏

I have a general taglist now, just ask if you’d like to be on it 😊

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1️⃣9️⃣9️⃣0️⃣

You’d first become aware of him in High School. You were a freshman and he was, theoretically, in his final year. But then you’d unexpectedly had two extra years in which to ogle observe him and commit his form to memory.

‘Crush’ would be an understatement. ‘Obsession’ would be more accurate. You’d doodle his name in your notebooks, covering the characters with pictures of roses or skulls, or hearts done with thick markers, before anyone saw. You’d always sit where you could watch him across the lunch hall, wondering what it would be like to hear one of his world-changing rants up close, or join in with that game he played.

But he was four years older than you, practically a lifetime in High School terms. So you always kept your dreams to yourself, not once even daring to catch his eye, let alone talk to him.

So when you see a familiar-looking, black-clad silhouette as you enter Hawkins’ only record store, you’re pretty sure it’s him. Eddie Munson.

You freeze. You’d come in to browse their ‘Rock/Metal/Indie’ section to look for a gift for your cousin, not that you really had any clue about what to look for, but a figure was already there. His presence somehow pervades the entire aisle, despite there being numerous bins of discs to look through.

The shoulders are broader than the ones you remember. The deep chestnut hair is longer, down to the figure’s mid-back, and by the looks of the shiny and softly-defined waves, it’s benefitting from a decent product regime. The hands that reach out to browse the cardboard sleeves make you shiver; tattooed and strong-looking, with prominent veins. The rings and bracelets that adorn them are less gaudy and more modern in style than the ones you recall from school; they look fantastic. And those biceps fill the sleeves of that tight, black shirt better than those of the skinny teen you once idolised. And even if it’s not him, you’re still enjoying the view, because those faded black jeans fit whoever it is really, really well…

You stand there gaping for a few moments, the hand nearest to your messenger bag clamping and releasing around the strap.

You swallow hard. You must look like an idiot, standing there in the middle of the aisle like a startled deer. But by the way your legs are shaking, you kinda feel like one.

Okay, just walk forwards. You need to look at the records anyway. Just… move your legs. There you go! See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Just go and stand next to him. If it is him, he’s not gonna bite. Okay, maybe you wish he would, but that’s a mental image for another time…

You slowly meander up to the racks of records, trailing a finger along them hoping it makes you look like you know what you’re doing: a knowledgeable music fan just casually browsing for new tunes. Yeah, that’s it, you can totally pull this off.

You stop short of where he stands, leaving a gap of a couple of bins between you. It’s close enough for you to catch his scent: cologne, cigarettes and a hint of the subtle earthy sweetness of another smokable.

You flick a couple of the records back and forth and inhale half a breath and huff it out, as if in thought. Not loud, just enough to let the figure know you’re there.

He turns his head towards you, and it makes the waves of his hair sway slightly. They shimmer and settle around his shoulders as he cracks a polite but friendly closed-mouth smile in your direction.

Fuck. You’d know those deep pools of melted cacao anywhere, and the merest hint of a dimple appearing in the cheek closest to you seals the deal. It’s definitely him.

As you make eye contact with the boy you had a crush on for practically your entire High School career, you offer a slight half smile back to him. At least, that’s what you hope you do, as you suppress a squeak that threatens to leave your chest. You acknowledge that it’s entirely possible you just look like you need to pass wind.

After what seems like a millennia, but in reality is probably only just slightly longer than is necessary, the figure turns back to the records in front of him. He continues to browse, but you think you see his eyes flick in your direction occasionally as he makes a show of checking out the album artwork of some band you’ve never heard of.

You’re nervous as all hell, but something inside you can’t risk losing this opportunity. You’ve got the chance to actually talk to him for the first time ever, and you really wanna take it.

Bravely, you take deep breath, and mutter,

“Hey, is it…?”

Your voice dies in your throat. He cocks his head slightly towards you, a quizzical look on his face.

God, he’s still so pretty.

Okay, that didn’t go well, but in for a penny, as they say…

“Are you…?”

Again, the words dry up in your mouth. Flustered, you almost give up, huffing out a breath and slumping your shoulders.

You close your eyes for a moment, before deciding to give it one more go, quickly blurting out, “Is your name Eddie?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m Eddie.” He looks at you fully now, lifting a brow and quirking one side of his mouth up in a smirk.

Shit. This is so embarrassing. He obviously doesn’t remember you. Why would he, you never spoke. Plus, you’ve changed a lot since school so why would you imagine he’d recognise you even if he did?

“Sorry. I’m- Ah fuck, I shouldn’t have bothered you, I’m just gonna take what few shreds of dignity I have left and just, y’know, go.”

You turn on your heel and take a couple of wide strides, planning to hightail it out of there, move away, leave the state, maybe even leave the country. But a gentle hand brushing against your upper arm stops you.

He’s quickly closed some of the distance between you, and is looking at you with a soft smile and genuine interest.

“No, wait. Please! You can’t leave without giving me at least some clue as to how we know each other.”

You slowly turn back to him, to find him cocking his head to one side in contemplation.

All you can do is blink at him, so Eddie starts speculating.

Warily, he begins, “Do I owe you money?” His eyes flash with mischievous excitement, “Do you owe me money?” Wincing, ”Do you have an older brother who beat me up in high school?” Then finally, more discreetly, “Do you maybe, um, need weed?”

You’re finally able to speak.

“No. No. It’s none of those. But we did go to high school at the same time. I was even more of a nerd than the guys you hung out with, if I recall.”

You tell him your name, like it would make a difference.

It’s your turn to wince now. Eddie still looks blank, registering zero recognition. You sigh, knowing there’s one thing he might remember. Bashfully, you continue,

“I’m the one who made the blood volcano disaster at that end of year science fair…”

Your most mortifying High School memory. Oh god, why the hell did you bring that up?

But it’s something that Eddie remembers.

His eyes blow wide and his eyebrows disappear into his bangs. Grinning maniacally, mouth wide open, he almost yells,

“Oh my god, that was awesome! The chemistry accident that made the hall look like that scene from The Shining? That was you?”

He looks amazed, and takes half a step towards you. It’s like he’s meeting one of his favourite celebrities.

He furrows his brow a little as he squints at you, looking you up and down. Pinching his chin between his thumb and first knuckle, he remarks,

“Wait, you do look kinda familar now… But- also a lot different…”

“Yeah, I suppose I do. Not all of us nail down our personal style in high school, y’know”. You gesture to his all black outfit.

Eddie looks down at himself, before looking back up at you and responding with faux seriousness, “Hey, I’ll have you know this is timeless. Time. Less.”

You grin at each other. He continues,

“Y’know, people still talk about that. The giant volcano turned blood corridor thing. I bet you’d still find stains under the floor panels, if you looked hard enough!”

You bring a hand to your face, feeling its heat beneath your palm.

“Oh, please stop! It was embarrassing enough at the time. I really don’t wanna relive it! Besides, it wasn’t entirely my fault. I was distracted when I measured out the ingredients because I’d just given Tommy Hagan a black eye for touching my ass.”

“Really?”

He’s beaming now, his smile as broad as you’ve ever seen it, eyes wide and deep dimples fully on display.

“Oh, you gotta tell me all about that. That guy was such an asshole. But seriously, sweets, that was one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen! You know, it was almost enough to get me interested in science. Almost. You should always be proud of that, and I’m totally serious.”

As you reel slightly from him calling you sweets, Eddie takes you in properly for the first time. His gaze wanders your form, then briefly flicks back to the display of records before meeting yours again.

There’s a beat of silence before he speaks again.

“Hey, uh, I'm pretty much done here. It’s hot out and I was gonna, um, go get a cold drink. Youuu… maybe wanna join me? Reminisce a bit more about the ole’ high school experience?”

He screws his face up at that last part. You muse that he realises the reminder of the age gap and how you know each other probably doesn’t make for the most enticing offer.

But you smile and twist in your place a little, your face and neck heating as you reply,

“Yeah, Eddie. I think I’d like that…”

“Great! Uh, great.”

You both turn and start to amble out of the store, a lot closer than you were a few moments ago, arms almost brushing. You spot a slight pink tinge to his cheeks as he turns his head to face you again, and you return his smile as he says to you,

“Goddamn. Tommy Hagan, huh? I can’t wait to hear the rest of that story.”

Thanks so much for reading!

Editing to add THIS edit by @sofiiel, which is so gorgeous and also so appropriate for this story 🧡

As always, if you enjoyed please support and reward your creators with comments and reblogs 💗

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Tags: @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @curlyjoequinn @madaboutmunson

[spicycinnabun]

stuff, things, and meatball

@steddiemicrofic ⋆ for prompt ‘stuff’ ⋆ wc: 483 ⋆ rated: g (this is a mild italian meatball, folks) ⋆ cw: none

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

The Munsons were having a yard sale. Almost everyone in the group had come by to help (Dustin was a particularly ruthless salesman).

Steve was doing the heavy lifting, bringing boxes out, while Wayne relaxed in his lawn chair outside, sipping a beer. Eddie had been ogling Steve shamelessly until he noticed something missing.

Steve caught him in his bedroom, frantically searching around. “What’re you doing?”

“Stuff, Steve.” Eddie cast him an irritable glance. “Things!”

Steve quirked a brow. “Care to elaborate further?”

“I can’t find my—did you happen to see a brown bear with red ears and paws?“

“Oh.” Steve frowned, scratching his jaw. “Yeah. With the white buttons? Mrs. Grisham bought it about an hour ago. Caught her daughter’s eye.”

At Eddie’s crestfallen face he failed to hide, Steve stepped closer. “Shit, I’m sorry, Eds.” His mouth downturned. “It was in your closet with some other old toys. I thought…”

“No, it’s fine,” Eddie interrupted, schooling his expression quickly. “It’s cool. Stupid of me to hang onto a dumb bear for so long, anyway, right? It should be with an actual child.”

“I don’t think it’s stupid. I’ve got sentimental things I hold onto, too.” Steve touched his arm, thumb caressing Eddie’s inner elbow and making Eddie’s brain screech to a halt. “You know what? I’ll go get it. I know where the Grishams live. I’ll be back soon.”

He left the trailer before Eddie could compute what had happened.

Eddie flailed. “Wha—wait, Steve—!“

He ran outside, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, but Harrington was already in the Beemer, lifting a hand from the wheel to wave at Eddie.

ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ

“Please don’t tell me you stole Meatball from some poor kid’s sticky little claws,” was what Eddie said when Steve returned. Steve handed him the bear, and Eddie’s fingers squished soft, artificial fur. He resisted the urge to clutch it to his chest. “You should give him back.”

Steve smiled at him. “I didn’t steal Meatball. I sorta… made a trade.”

“A trade?” Eddie repeated, perplexed. “What did you trade?“

“I, uh, went to the mall and bought a new stuffed animal?” Steve shrugged. His cheeks were pink. “No biggie.”

Eddie made an incredulous noise. No biggie? That… had to be one of the nicest goddamn things anyone had ever done for him.

He threw his arms around Steve, nearly bowling him over. Eddie hid his face in Steve’s neck as his traitorous eyes threatened to burn. Meatball’s shiny plastic nose dug in between Steve’s shoulder blades. “I can’t believe you fucking did that, you motherfucking sweetheart,” Eddie muttered. “Why did you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” It was Steve’s turn to sound confused. He returned the hug, arms settling comfortingly around Eddie. “It’s important to you, and you’re important to me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Eddie said. He sniffled. “Thanks, Stevie.”

Steve squeezed him. “You’re welcome, Eddie bear.”

ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ❤︎‬

[topsyturvy-turtely]

Fluffbruary with turtely

fluffinity edition. 14-11-2024

(i wrote this yesterday i swear!)

prompts: cuddle - happy - spell

special thanks to @totallysilvergirl @lisbeth-kk and @fluffbruary for reminding me to write 😩🙈

i am sitting here in the armchair. my cold feet covered by the body heat of redbeard, our dog. his - sherlock's - head lays on my chest. arms wrung around me. i feel his deep breaths through my jumper, on my skin. even after all this years, it tingles.

the fingers of my left hand are raking through his slowly thinning, grey but oh so luscious curls. my other hand - on his belly. it had grown a bit. he isn't quite as skinny as he used to be. you can barely see it. but i love the feeling of that tum underneath my palm.

the dying embers are shining weakly into the living room. putting everything in a spellbinding light. always loved that. love it now even more it seems. i smile about that thought.

sometimes i still can't comprehend how i got so lucky. how i found this man. how he died for me and then came back for me. how he raised my daughter with me.

rosie - she will be here. only a few weeks until christmas now. we'll be having dinner. she will give both of us terrible christmas sweaters. i'm looking forward to that look on sherlock's face after i convinced him to wear it. absolutely completely miserable but then those odd, gorgeous features breaking a smile.

and i will be as besotted as i have been since the beginning.

i press my lips to his forehead, close my eyes, breathe in his scent.

being old and happy. what a beautiful thing that is.

read "that stuff called fluff" (fluffbruary ficlets) on ao3!

(if you could show some love to this i would greatly appreciate it as i am in a massive writer's block and seeing people reblogging etc. might actually motivate me to write. thank you ✨) (i sound desperate, but- well, i am. ngl)

☕︎☕︎☕︎

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed please 💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain @mutedsilence @jawnscoffee @raenchaosandcozyadashofmurder @quickslvxrr @compact-and-beautiful @kabubsmagga @sunshineinyourmind @booksoversleep @startrekker2011 @justjayisfine0

[metalhoops]

“I think I’m seeing things, man,” Eddie spoke from his spot on the Harrington’s couch. His white skin appeared paler still against the brown leather. 

Steve didn’t blame him. He was on all kinds of painkillers. It’d been two weeks since the world fell apart. Two weeks since Vecna disappeared. Two weeks since Eddie almost died. 

Steve liked to treat those memories as others treated head-on collisions. It was better not to look at them directly. It was better to treat it like it’d never happened. 

“What’re we looking at?” Steve asked from his spot on the floor, following Eddie’s line of sight to the gap in the curtains. 

“Don’t know. Thought I saw somebody outside,” Eddie confessed. 

The Harrington house had always been filled with spectres, whether that of partygoers, like front lawn flamingos in need of an exorcism or the body in the backyard pool. But those were Steve’s hang-ups, not Eddie’s. 

If all it took to be a ghost was to haunt, Eddie might be included in the ranks of his own private phantasmagoria. He kept checking each night to make sure the boy was really there, that he’d really gotten out. People shouldn’t have that much blood in them, and they definitely shouldn’t have that much blood out of them. 

Steve went to the window because that was something he could do for Eddie. He wasn’t sure why he kept feeling the need to apologise. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but hell if Steve knew if he’d done anything right either. He’d gotten Eddie out of the Upside Down. He’d put his hands inside the boy’s body, shoved his shirt beneath his skin and held it in the dark cavity that oozed and throbbed warm blood like the rise and fall of the tide.

Don’t think about it. Check the window. His hands at his side felt cold. He wondered if they’d ever be warm again. There was a figure across the street. 

A boy in a basketball jersey circled passed the house. 

Things never ended smoothly. Steve liked to think once Jason went down the rest of the vigilante crew would stop looking for Eddie, but there were some stragglers who hadn’t got the message. 

Hopper had his hands full trying to clear Eddie’s name. Eddie’s uncle was still looking for him. The whole town was holding their breath in the midst of destruction, waiting for someone to blame. Steve shut the curtains, turned the lights off and moved to Eddie’s side in the darkness. 

“Hounds of hell still circling then?” Eddie guessed after one glimpse at Steve’s face. 

“I’ll call Hopper,” Steve reasoned, reaching up to squeeze Eddie’s knee. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Maybe to make sure he was real. Maybe to tell him he was sorry. 

“Don’t worry about it, Steve,” Eddie spoke, reaching out and snagging the hem of Steve’s sweater.

“No one thinks I’m here. If the cops show up at the Harringtons’ it’s going to turn some heads,” Eddie reasoned, and he was right.

So where did that leave them? Sitting alone in the dark with Eddie fading in and out of sleep and Steve watching car headlights dance across the curtains, waiting for the moment everything went wrong. 

“Steve?” Eddie breathed beside Steve’s ear in the blackness. He hadn’t realised they were so close. 

“Yeah?” Steve moved his eyes from the window to look at Eddie. 

“I think I’m crashing,” he noted, a grimace dancing across his face. Steve had never felt smaller. 

“Doc said we’ve gotta wait six hours,” Steve replied, hoping he didn’t sound as worried as he felt. 

“How long’s it been?” 

“Three.” 

Steve always wanted to appear cool in times of crisis, but he had no idea what he was doing. Some of the government agents Steve had signed countless NDAs for over the past four years had patched Eddie up as best they could and had started scrambling for a cover-up. 

In the meantime, Eddie would stay at Steve’s place. It made the most sense. Eddie was nobody to Steve. No one would go looking for Eddie at the Harringtons’, and unlike the other older teens, he didn’t have parents to answer to. Big house. No parents. Perfect place to lie low. 

Steve was nobody to Eddie and yet for the past week, they’d been an island unto themselves, trapped indoors together, watching shadows on the walls and trying to keep each other alive and sane. He felt completely unprepared. 

“Alright. Come on. Let’s go to bed,” Steve muttered, kneeling in front of Eddie. He watched the boy rise to a sitting position over his shoulder. Eddie snorted.

“What exactly is the plan here, Steve?” 

Eddie had been stuck oscillating between the living room, kitchen, and downstairs bathroom for days. They could both use a change of scenery. 

“Piggyback,” Steve spoke, trying not to think about the connotations that the word had garnered. He wasn’t going to think about Vecna. Not today. 

He expected the boy to argue, but instead, he felt Eddie’s arms snake around his throat. He held tight, but not as tight as he should. Steve had to hold on to his forearms like backpack straps as he stood. Eddie’s legs were stronger. They held firm around Steve’s waist. 

Eddie’s head flopped against Steve’s shoulder blade, nuzzling into the space. He was warm as the sun. Too warm. He was running a temperature. Steve tried not to think of the last time he carried Eddie. The boy was uncharacteristically quiet. Steve needed to do something. 

“Saddle up, buckeroo,” Steve spoke, hoisting Eddie further up his back. He felt a puff of air against his neck, a barely there laugh. 

“Hi-yo, Silver,” Eddie grumbled against Steve’s skin. 

Steve moved deftly through the dark, taking the staircase slowly and methodically. The last thing either of them needed was another broken bone. 

“I think I owe you one once all this is over,” Eddie noted. Steve was already shaking his head.

“You stick around, and I’ll call it a favour. I think Henderson would kick my ass if you died.” 

“The kid’s got spunk. I’ll give him that,” Eddie noted as the two reached the top of the stairs. 

“He’s got an attitude and a problem with authority,” Steve corrected, taking Eddie to his bedroom.

He moved to the edge of his bed and let Eddie extract himself. When they broke apart, Steve felt cold again. 

“That’s our boy,” Eddie chuckled, shooting Steve a lopsided smirk. He was definitely still high on painkillers.

Steve rolled his eyes and helped lower Eddie down onto his favourite pillow, the one worn down with age but all the more comfortable for it. He pulled the covers up around the boy’s shoulders.

“Yeah, our boy,” Steve echoed in a too-fond tone. 

He’d never let Henderson hear the term of affection. The kid had a big enough head as it was, but in the too-quiet world of just himself and Eddie, he felt okay admitting it. Once it looked like Eddie was settled in, Steve sat on the edge of his bed, feeling as he always did, like a stranger in his own home. 

“When did you last get some shut-eye, boy wonder?” Eddie asked, his foot tucking beneath Steve’s thigh.  

Friday. What day was it? Sunday. Not good. 

“Well, come on then, don’t make a guy beg. Lay down, Steve. It’s your bed. I could sleep in the spare room if it’s a problem.” There was something cautious about the offer Steve didn’t understand. 

He flopped down beside Eddie, so close the two shared a pillow. It changed the shape of the thing. It made the familiar strange. 

“You know, I had this dream last night,��� Eddie began, his dark eyes still open, glued to the ceiling. He cringed, knowing all the ways dreams could go bad, but Eddie shook his head.

“Not that kind of dream,” He insisted, his hands balling into fists on the bedsheets. 

“I had a dream I was a pinball machine,” the boy stated plainly. The absurdity of the statement shocked a laugh out of Steve. 

“These painkillers are legit, Harrington,” Eddie spoke, shooting Steve a sidelong glance. 

“What kind of pinball machine?” 

“You know the Centaur one? It’s black and white, mostly. The arts got this topless guy who’s half man, half motorbike,” Eddie explained. 

Steve had no idea what he was saying, but it was nice to hear him talk. 

“Wait, if you were the pinball machine, how did you know what you looked like?” 

“Great question Steven. I’ve got no clue. Dream logic,” Eddie reasoned.  

Steve screwed up his nose at the use of his full name. Only his dad called him Steven. Eddie raised a brow, seeming to take note. One of them had shifted closer. Steve wasn’t sure who. Eddie’s hand brushed against his side as he played with the sheets. 

“Remind me again why I needed to know about your pinball dream?” Steve asked. The sound of the wind in the trees outside his bedroom window set his teeth on edge. 

“Because you’re too damn serious and I thought it’d make you smile... Which it did.” Eddie added the last part in quietly and Steve rolled his eyes. 

Eddie craned his head to look around Steve’s room before screwing up his nose. 

“Anyone ever told you your wallpaper is gaudy as hell? Your curtains match your walls. Dude, I thought rich people were meant to have taste,” he observed, the boys’ shoulders pressed together. 

“This coming from the guy who eats cereal out of the box with his hands,” Steve countered, no heat in his voice. 

“Are you still mad I used to stand on your lunch table?” Eddie muttered, shoving Steve’s shoulder before tensing. When had Steve last checked his dressings? 

He flipped the bedside lamp on, leaning over Eddie to do so. He’d been helping the guy shower for days now. Privacy was a word reserved for other people. Intimacy was a necessity.  

“Once you stood in my mashed potatoes. It was disgusting,” Steve uttered, gently peeling up the hem of Eddie’s tee shirt. Really, it was Steve’s, but it seemed strange to make distinctions. 

Eddie’s eyes trailed down to Steve’s fingers, half-hooded and slowed with sleep or inebriation, Steve didn’t know which. He wondered how much of all this Eddie would remember when he got better. He would get better. 

“You never ate the potatoes. You’d bring your stupid bagels from home,” Eddie remarked, as Steve carefully unwound the bandage and gauze. It was stained brown with dried blood, but it looked better than it’d been a few days before, no longer as red or swollen.   

The bagel comment made Steve look up. Seemed like Robin wasn’t the only one that’d been watching him. Maybe Eddie had a crush on Tammy Thompson, too. Maybe it was something else. Steve’s friends had crappy taste in women. Eddie could do better. 

“What’s the verdict, doc?” Eddie questioned, noticing Steve’s sudden silence. 

He cleaned the wounds as best he could. Eddie’s fingers had found their way to Steve’s thigh, gripping so tight he thought it would bruise. It would be another to add to the collection. Steve hadn’t been thinking of how his battle wounds were healing. He was in triage mode. Eddie’s wounds were worse than his. 

“We're going to have to amputate,” Steve deadpanned as he found the first aid kit he’d hidden beneath his bed years before, starting to redress the wound. 

“How the hell can you amputate a side?” Eddie asked with a shaky laugh, his breathing more ragged again. 

“Well, you see, there’s this new experimental procedure that lets you transplant your brain into a pinball machine,” Steve began and felt Eddie’s elbow in his side. 

“Screw you.” 

Steve laid back beside Eddie, less space between them than before, if it was at all possible. They braced against each other, the contact grounding Steve. Eddie was alive. He was alive. Maybe one day they could look at each other and not think about death. That day wasn’t today, but Steve could hope for it. 

As Eddie drifted to sleep, his head fell on Steve’s shoulder. He wouldn’t sleep for long that night, but he was used to that. He knew the weeks and months after a run-in with the Upside Down were full of fitful sleep and nightmares, but they never lasted. 

On a long enough timeline, you could get used to anything. It was strange how short that timeline was when it came to getting used to Eddie. 

More days came and went with the same imperfect routines. The two boys woke at all hours of the night and spent the daylight hours behind closed curtains, trying to heal. 

By the third day, Steve got sick of the quiet. A sombre mood hung over them, shifting and changing like the phases of the moon. It never entirely disappeared, but there were moments it seemed almost absent.  

One of these such moments arose when Steve hijacked the boombox from the living room and dragged it upstairs to his bedroom, where a slowly healing Eddie sat bored out of his mind, aching and itchy. Steve knew the feeling. The wound on his neck had scabbed and begun to fade into a scar. 

“Hey, Munson?” Steve spoke, sitting beside Eddie, spreading his tape collection between them. 

“You wanna hear some real music?” He asked, watching Eddie’s nose scrunch and his teeth worry away at his bottom lip.

“These are all horrible, Harrington.” 

Eddie turned over several cassettes in his hand, treating them gently as though they were something special.  

“You have every WHAM! album, dude. The Outfield. Halls & Oats. Tears for Fears,” Eddie listed off, his tone one of disgust. 

“You’re going to have to pick something, or I’ll pick WHAM! out of spite.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes and shuffled through the tapes, tossing one Steve’s way. 

“Bowie isn’t horrible,” Eddie mumbled as Steve placed The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, into the player. 

The two sat shoulder to shoulder, as always, listening to the quiet swell of drums. Steve realised too late it was a song about the end of the world. He realised, later still, that it was a love song. Eddie’s fingers drummed against his knee. Steve tried to ignore the way the action made his heart swell. 

Steve couldn’t sit still any longer as Moonaged Daydream began. He remembered another life in Nancy Wheeler’s garage, asking her to pretend things were normal for a couple of hours. God, he wanted that. He needed a few normal hours.

He wasn’t the same person he’d been back then, but parts of him had stayed the same. He didn’t know how to change them. Nancy Wheeler faced problems head-on, but Steve? The passage of time had taught him how to stand his ground in the face of danger, but he hadn’t yet learned how to stop being chased. 

He caught Eddie’s eye and watched as a wicked grin spread across his face. Without words, he knew exactly what Steve was about to do. He grabbed the nail bat he kept by the bed, the same one from the Wheeler’s garage and sang, using the gnarly weapon as his makeshift microphone. He was a little too loud and a little off-tune.  He sang about alligators and space invaders, lyrics he knew off by heart, without understanding them.

He watched as a grin threatened to crack Eddie’s face in two. There was a reckless abandon to his smile. It was different from the glazed-eyed, half-high smiles of the past week. His eyes were keen and sharp as he watched Steve fling himself across the room in the way only someone who’d learned to dance drunk could.

By the time the album finished, he’d worked up a sweat. Eddie joined in, singing a couple of lines when he could before tugging Steve back to bed, his hand in Steve’s hair, smoothing it back in place. The action was intimate, yet familiar.

“Alright, Starman. Maybe Bowie doesn’t suck so hard, but when I’m not on the run from the law, I’m going to show you what real music sounds like.” 

“Promise?” Steve asked, his chest heaving. 

Then, Eddie did something so unlike anything the populous of Hawkins would expect. To them, he was a Satanist and a murderer. Steve had always known better, but he’d seen Eddie as a wildcard. He was loud and rough around the edges, but he also had the capability of being endearing when the moment called for it. Still, Steve had never expected Eddie to roll over, extend his pinkie and link their little fingers together. 

“I promise,” He assured, placing his lips to the knuckle of his thumb as though sealing the deal. 

The action was equal parts childlike and intense. Steve looked down at their interlaced fingers and knew he was in over his head. Warmth pooled in Steve’s fingertips. 

“Eds, I—,” A knock at the downstairs door made the words die on Steve’s lips. The boys pulled apart. Steve was cold. 

“I’ll get it,” Steve spoke, picking up the discarded nail bat and trudging down the stairs. 

He hoped it was one of the door-knocking jocks. Some primal part of him felt like hitting something. Years before, he would have questioned if he was the kind of person who could do it, but now he knew he could. 

Steve clutched at the bat hidden behind his back as he swung open the door, coming face-to-face with an older man dressed in too-short jean shorts, holding an armful of paper bags. He looked familiar. He’d seen the man with Hopper. A furrow etched its way onto his brow. 

“Aren’t you going to let your beloved uncle in, Steve?” The man spoke, loud enough for the people in the next neighbourhood to hear. 

“Right,” Steve mumbled, pushing the door open and stepping to the side. 

The man walked through the house as though he’d grown up within their walls, dropping the paper bags on the countertop, switching on the lights and examining the space. 

“Hopper sent me with supplies. It’d draw too much attention having the feds at your front door, but a visit from your favourite Uncle Murray? That’s incognito. I’ve got groceries and painkillers, slipped in some vodka too, on the house. Personally, I was thinking of making my homemade ravioli for dinner. Trust me, it’s to die for. Where’s the other one by the way?” The man, Murray, breathed, spinning on his heels to examine the interior of the house.  Steve let his nail bat fall to the floor.

“You really should invest in a gun, kid...Was I interrupting something?” The older man asked, gesturing absentmindedly to his balding head. Steve touched his hair and found it still out of place. He ran his fingers through it in an attempt to tame it. 

“No, we... I was sleeping. Eddie’s upstairs. I think he’s okay, but I could use another set of eyes. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing here. Are you staying?”

“I’m just staying for dinner. It’d look strange if your uncle only showed up for a few minutes, wouldn’t it?” Steve didn’t dignify that with an answer. 

“There’s the man of the hour,” Murray spoke, glancing up at the top of the staircase where Eddie stood, leaning heavily on the banister. 

“What happened to staying up there?” Steve spoke through gritted teeth, making his way back up the stairs. 

“You were taking too long,” Eddie muttered with an unbothered shrug. 

“And if it’d been one of Jason’s asshole friends, we’d have been screwed,” Steve rebutted, letting Eddie lean on him as they made their way to Murray in the kitchen. At least he could walk.

“But it wasn’t,” Eddie huffed, his breath warm on Steve’s neck. 

Steve kicked out one of the kitchen chairs and lowered Eddie into it. The older man watched them as a scientist observes a specimen. There was a morbid fascination to it.

“I see you two are getting along well,” He spoke. 

He’d found where Steve’s mother had stored their pots and had begun some strange kitchen alchemy. Steve had made risotto. This guy looked like he was completing a summoning ritual. The ingredients were splayed out on the countertop like objects of adoration. 

Steve sat down in the chair beside Eddie. It felt strange having someone else in the house. For what seemed like a lifetime, his world had consisted of one other person. He missed Robin, Dustin, and the rest of the kids, but he hadn’t let himself dwell on it. He’d known their isolation couldn’t last forever, but he’d never have guessed Murray would be the first person he’d see.  

“Tense mood. Why is it I always end up in the middle of couples in denial?” Murray breathed to himself. 

Eddie’s head snapped up with a speed Steve hadn’t seen him manage all week. Steve didn’t look at Murray, he was too busy trying to unpick the pained look on Eddie’s face. His eyes searched the boy’s body for some torn open wound he’d missed. 

“What? Don’t look so surprised. Contrary to what kids these days think, we did have homosexuality in the sixties,” Murray informed before pausing. He gave Steve a once-over that made his skin crawl. He felt as though he were a bug, pinned beneath a glass plate. 

“And bisexuality,” He clarified. 

Steve averted his eyes and reached over to squeeze Eddie’s knee. He was hopelessly lost in the conversation, but he knew something was wrong with Eddie. The boy jumped at the sudden contact and Steve pulled his hand away as though burnt. 

“So, what’s the problem? Still in denial?” Murray asked, levelling Steve with a knowing look. He scowled back at the man, ready for him to leave. 

“No. I think you know how you feel, maybe even how he feels.” Steve didn’t know how to respond. 

“You, however,” Murray continued, turning his attention to Eddie, the boiling pot on the stove, forgotten.

“I don’t think you have a clue. Self-esteem issues, maybe. You try to hide it, but you couldn’t imagine that someone in a house like this would look at you twice.” 

“What the hell, man?” Eddie breathed with a huff of indignation. Murray showed no signs of stopping. His eyes were back on Steve. 

“So, what’s holding you back? You got your heart broken after Nancy Wheeler. Let me guess, you keep saying how much you want commitment, but you keep dating the wrong people, people who don’t want to be tied down. That, my boy, is self-sabotage and him,” Murray spoke, indicating Eddie with a wooden spoon he’d been using to stir the rice. 

“He looks like a long-haul kind of guy.” 

“Dude,” Eddie interjected. 

“What? You’re both obviously attracted to one another. Don’t lie. I have eyes. You’re telling me that all this near-death stuff hasn’t made you re-evaluate your life a little? It’s just been you two, locked away together at the end of the world, helping each other heal. Seeking comfort in one another. You’ve got shared trauma. That kind of thing bonds you for life.” 

“Leave it alone,” Steve said, standing as he spoke. The chair scraped on the tile floor. A nails on a chalkboard kind of sound. 

Steve pushed past the older man, pulled the pot off the stove, and let a tense silence settle over the three of them. The subsequent dinner dragged on in uncomfortable silence. Steve and Eddie kept their eyes glued to their plates. Murray talked but neither paid attention. He gave Eddie’s wounds a once over, appearing as lost as Steve. He didn’t seem concerned, so Steve took it as a good thing. 

He thought he’d known what tense silence between himself, and Eddie felt like, but he’d known nothing compared to the moment Murray left. His whole body was on edge. Eddie wouldn’t meet his eyes. They needed to talk, but neither wanted to be the first to cave. 

“I was thinking of turning in early,” Steve spoke, not knowing what else to say. 

“Yeah. Me too.” 

The boys lay side by side, but sleep didn’t come. Eddie’s body was wound tight as a tourniquet. This time, Steve was the one bleeding out. 

He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. Maybe that he was sorry. Murray was right. Steve had known Eddie liked him and he hadn’t said anything because it wasn’t a problem he could throw himself in front of. It’d be easier if he thought telling Eddie would end up with him getting hit. There were worse things. 

Eddie’s feelings had become more apparent as their time together wore on, but on some level, Steve had known long before. When Eddie had leaned over into his space smelling of cigarette ash, dried earth and sweat and called Steve some god-awful pet name, he’d known. He also knew the feelings weren’t one-sided. 

That revelation came later. Eddie had been fading in and out of consciousness. Steve had shaken him awake to redress his wounds when it happened. The boy awoke, shooting him a lopsided grin, gazing at Steve with his drowsy, doe eyes.

He’d crooned, ‘Good morning sunshine’. And that had been enough. 

Steve’s heart had stuttered to a halt as it had all the times before when a pretty girl had called him a prettier name. 

As much as Steve hated to admit it, Murray had been right about a lot of things. There was one thing Steve desperately wanted him to be wrong about. 

He and Eddie were bonded because of what they’d been through. That’s what the man had said. Shared trauma. Was that all they were?

Steve was back in the bathroom with Nancy, her white shirt, red. The whites of his eyes the moment she left, red. 

He knew where shared trauma got him. He’d try to bury it. To move past it. He wanted to be more than what was done to him. People would say he was running. He was bullshit. 

How was he meant to sit with the kind of stuff he and Eddie had been through? How was he meant to fight it? Would Steve always look at Eddie and see his death? Would Eddie always look at Steve and feel like dying? 

“I wished I’d met you later,” Steve spoke to the dark room. Eddie’s locked body loosened, and as it did, he started to shake. In a moment, he’d start to bleed too. 

“You know, normally people say they wished they’d met you sooner.” 

“I mean... I wish we’d met after everything with The Upside Down. That you hadn’t gotten dragged into it. I wish that we’d gotten to know each other the normal way,” Steve explained. Eddie snorted. 

“Can you imagine me doing anything the normal way?” He had a point. 

Steve didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say. The silence was back, looming large as a lunar eclipse. 

“You aren’t... weirded out by what he said? About me liking you?” Eddie’s voice was small. The only time Steve heard Eddie whisper was when he was dying. 

“I think he also said something about me liking you back,” Steve replied, glancing at Eddie’s profile only to find the man was already watching him. His face was contorted in confusion. 

“Then... what’s the problem here, Stevie?” 

Steve had never been good with his words. 

“What if we’ve ruined it?” He tried. At seeing a frown cross Eddie’s face, he knew he hadn’t done a good enough job at explaining. 

“With what’s happened between me and you. You never would’ve looked at me twice if I hadn’t saved you, and what if that’s all we’ve got? Shared trauma.” 

Bullshit. What if all they had was bullshit? Eddie finally understood.

“I don’t like you because you saved me, Steve. I like you because despite all the terrible shit you make me want to laugh.  I love that you’re shit at dancing, but you do it anyway. Also, screw that guy your risotto is better than his. You’re a good cook. Your stupid hair makes me want to slam my head in a car door and before you say anything, that’s a compliment. You care so damn much about everyone.” To Steve’s surprise, Eddie’s hand reached up to touch his cheek. 

“I don’t like you because we’ve been through bad shit together. I like you because you make me feel like one day, we’re going to get out on the other side of it, that things aren’t going to be like this forever,” Eddie finished.

Steve’s heart was a cardinal, beating itself bloody against a windowpane. 

“Can I kiss you?” Steve breathed. For the first time in a long time, he was nervous. 

Eddie’s smile was a lightning strike, bright, beautiful and something they’d shape gods after. 

“I thought you’d never ask.” 

Eddie’s lips were warm. 

[mmmichyyy]

40? for the prompt

#40. "am i your husband or your taxi service?"

the first time it happens, mickey doesn't think much of it.

can you pick me up after my shift? too tired to take the L

when mickey is near the station, he parks the van a block away. force of habit from when he and his brothers used to sneak up and collect from people who owed terry money. plus, he doesn't particularly want ian's coworkers to see their stolen ambulance, even though it's completely unrecognizable after debbie helped them revamp the entire thing and paint over it with the logo sandy designed.

here

i don't see you

i'm parked a block away

pick me up at the station

your legs don't work?

i'm tired :(

i drove the van

it's fine no one will be able to tell lol

mickey rolls his eyes and drops his phone in the cupholder. as he pulls up across the street from the station, he sees ian standing on the curb, chatting with someone wearing a matching EMT uniform, a shorter man with tan skin and curly hair.

mickey honks once, a bit impatient since he's hungry as fuck and there's a large pizza he ordered earlier waiting for them at their apartment. ian lifts his head and smiles. as he waves goodbye to his coworker and jogs over to the van, mickey doesn't miss the way the dude is gaping at mickey with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

the hell is this guy's problem?

"everything okay?" mickey asks, once ian buckles his seatbelt and reclines his seat.

"just tired." ian yawns. "had a long shift today."

"well," mickey puts the van in drive, reaching over the center console to ruffle ian's hair, promptly forgetting ian's weird coworker, "i already ordered a pizza so we can eat then turn in early."

ian smiles sleepily and interlaces his fingers with mickey's. "you're the best husband ever."

mickey shakes his head, biting back a smile. "sappy fucker."

*

after almost two weeks of ian asking to be picked up, mickey suspects something is up. not that he minds or anything, since he makes his own schedule nowadays. after the security business started turning a profit and ian went back to being an emt, he hired a couple of guys to drive the routes so he could work from home and catch up on admin work, freeing up a lot of time in his day to day.

but ian never used to mind the commute. he's the kind of long-legged freak who liked to take the scenic route and go on long runs in the morning, just for fun. absolutely deranged behaviour, in mickey's opinion. but lately, ian has been flashing his kicked-puppy eyes and asking to be chauffeured like a pampered prince and, well. mickey could never resist spending more time with his husband, so he hasn't said anything. not yet, anyway. god he's so whipped.

the excuses ian came up with, however, were more unbelievable as it went on, ranging from the train broke down (mickey knew for a fact it didn't), to spraining his elbow (though he had no problem throwing mickey on the bed later that night with his supposedly injured arm), to how it was going to rain later (it was sunny all day without a cloud in sight).

when mickey tried to call him out on his bullshit, ian either got down on his knees or flipped mickey over and fucked him senseless into the bed, promptly making mickey forget what the hell he was trying to say.

it's gotten to the point where ian stopped making excuses and simply asked mickey to come get him. which truthfully, mickey doesn't mind at all. but he just finds it odd how his beefy athletic husband had gotten so lazy.

"what's with you?" mickey finally asks one day, as ian climbs into the passenger seat.

ian blinks innocently. "what do you mean, dear husband of mine?"

mickey rolls his eyes. "am i your husband or your fuckin' taxi driver? 'cause i've been picking your ass up every day for the past two weeks when you have two perfectly functioning legs."

ian huffs, crossing his arms. "maybe i just want to spend more time with you."

"we live together," mickey points out flatly, "how much more time do you need?"

"i–"

a tap on the glass interrupts them, and mickey turns to see a woman with brown hair tied back in a ponytail, enthusiastically gesturing at him to roll down the window.

"the fuck?" mickey turns to ian, whose face has turned slightly pink. "did you forget something at the station?"

"ah, no." ian scratches his head sheepishly. "sue is just being... sue."

sue waves her hand again and mickey reluctantly lowers the window.

"mickey, this is sue, my supervisor, and sue, this is–"

"the elusive husband." sue grins. "i've heard a lot about you, mickey."

mickey raises his brow. "have you now."

"oh sure," she says, ignoring ian's frantic head shaking, "ian won't shut up about you, yapping on and on about mickey this and mickey that. we're all jealous at the station actually, everyone just complains about their partners while ian keeps gushing about how perfect and amazing his husband is. his words."

"huh." that explains a lot, actually, why there was always someone different waiting with ian every time he came to pick him up, and why they all stared at him like a circus freak. "well, i bet ian didn't tell you the time we stole an ambu–"

"okay," ian cuts in loudly, reaching over to turn the key in the ignition, "we're leaving. i'll see you tomorrow, sue."

"come to the company picnic next month," sue calls out. "it's a potluck and everyone is bringing their family. it'll be fun!"

"uh sure," mickey says, even though a social gathering with ian's nosy coworkers sounds like the least fun thing he's ever heard of. he looks over at ian, slumped in his seat, avoiding mickey's eyes. "I'll check my schedule."

once mickey drives around the corner, he playfully flicks his finger at ian's temple and ian rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

"you yap about me to your coworkers," mickey teases. "you're so fuckin' whipped."

"whatever," ian grumbles. "stupid sue calling me out."

"is that why you keep asking me to pick you up?" mickey asks, amused. "to parade me around like a little show dog?"

"well, eduardo blabbed to everyone he saw you, then everyone kept asking about you and wanted to see you in person, so..."

"hm." mickey reaches over and brushes his thumb over ian's palm. "what do you say about me?"

ian links their fingers together and sighs. "that you're attentive. funny. caring. protective. loyal. the ideal man."

mickey laughs. "you're really overselling me here, gallagher. did you forget i'm an ex-convict, pimp and drug dealer?"

ian waves him off and continues. "kind. loving. perfect in every single way, except when you leave your socks on the floor. oh and that you're hot as hell with an ass that won't quit."

"you talked about my ass?"

"okay, i didn't say the last part," ian amends, "your ass belongs to just me. but i meant everything else i said."

"you really are a sappy fucker."

"you love it."

"i'd love it even more if i didn't have to be your chauffeur every day, at least they get paid to drive back and forth."

"you come with me to the picnic, i'll pay you with favours in bed. i'll even throw in a big tip."

"a big tip, huh..."

[sufferu]

Alright. Y’all asked for it. I’ve edited it down a bit so that it doesn’t spoil HOW things got this way (or exactly what happened), but…here’s an idea of where this is going.

Content Warning: bedridden injuries, medical dependency

Back to Zero III: Chapter 1 Snippet (Wilhelm)

“You don’t have to…” Subaru couldn’t even finish his sentence.

Wilhelm glanced at his very extensive injuries, which had been enough to leave him bedridden and were so complex that even Felix was finding the healing process difficult. Such injuries meant that the task of feeding himself — of holding a utensil, of lifting it to his mouth, of keeping the meal from spilling across his lap — all of it was beyond him.

“I believe I do,” he said. He picked up the spoon and began to stir the broth.

Wilhelm was so angry. He was ashamed, too — tremendously so. But he didn’t mind it, so much, that he was the one who had been put in charge of caring for the youth. He was the obvious choice, considering that he was the one who had made an active and sincere declaration of intent to adopt the boy into his household, but he was grateful for it all the same. Spoon-feeding him wasn’t a chore: seeing Subaru eat a full meal made him feel too warm for him to call it that. Neither was reading to him in an attempt to put a smile on his face. Helping Ferris and the other healers keep him and his bedding clean, making sure he was as comfortable as he could possibly be, standing guard all through the night — none of it was something he dreaded, not really. If the circumstances had been different — if Subaru has simply fallen ill, or gotten himself injured due to his own reckless behavior — Wilhelm may have even considered this a treasured memory in the making, the sort that he would tease his beloved future grandson about for the rest of his life. He may have considered it so even now, if only Subaru’s eyes weren’t so dull with despair and helplessness.

A bit of soup had dribbled down Subaru’s chin. Wilhelm gently used the napkin to wipe it clean. Subaru barely even responded, eyes dull and glazed over. He had swallowed most of it, though, which was at least something.

“Your stomach has been hurting you, right?” Wilhelm encouraged. “Mise broth is good for the gut. It should help you feel better.”

It was a liquid diet. Subaru couldn’t handle anything solid, and likely wouldn’t be able to for a long while. Wilhelm wished he could give him cake, or a cookie, or any other proper sweet, but for now they had to play it safe. They had given him ginger, chicken, and now mise broth, so he was at least getting a variety of meals even with his limited capacity, but Wilhelm wouldn’t have blamed him in the slightest for still complaining about it.

…He wished Subaru would complain about it. He barely said anything anymore, and when he did—

“Thank you, Wilhelm-san,” Subaru whispered quietly, as uncharacteristically polite and demure as he always was, nowadays. Wilhelm forced himself not to flinch as he set down the empty bowl, spoon clinking softly against the side.

He never mouthed off anymore, or tried to do things he knew he wasn’t supposed to do, or complained about anything. He never lashed out, either. Even when he had nightmares and Wilhelm had to rush to wake him up, all he did was apologize for disturbing him, his eyes still wild and his voice still hoarse from screaming in terror and pain. He didn’t even cry anymore.

Wilhelm now found himself wishing more than anything that Subaru would go back to acting like a brat. That he would mouth off, demand to be spoiled, throw a tantrum when he didn’t get his way — even him hinting at attempting to sneak out behind everyone’s backs again would be a change that Wilhelm would greet with relief. Hell, Subaru could start acting like a real delinquent if he wanted to: picking fights, breaking expensive heirlooms, sneaking off with prostitutes, Wilhelm would put up with all of it. ANYTHING would be better than this — this glassy-eyed doll that had lost all of its will to live.

“…Once you’re better, we can start training again,” he relented, extending the offer like an olive branch. “Ferris is a good healer. You’ll be able to use a sword again, I’m sure.” He’d be nicer this time. He wouldn’t— There was no need to kick Subaru while he was down. “We can start slow, this time: I’m afraid I may have thrown you into the deep end a little too early, anyway. We could even ask Julius and Reinhard to come and join us, if you’d like—”

“I don’t think I want to train anymore.”

Wilhelm stopped.

Subaru wasn’t looking at him. “I’m not actually interested in being a swordsman,” he admitted. “I think I was just trying to prove something. I was using you as an excuse to say that I was working hard, to try and…and make Emilia like me again. I was never really cut out to be a soldier like you. …I’m sorry.”

This was the conclusion that Wilhelm had been wanting Subaru to draw since their very first session. For Subaru to have come to the conclusion that he didn’t want to be a swordsman, that he didn’t want to fight, that he didn’t want to die — that had been his goal. This was what he had wanted. Somehow, his achievement of this result felt less like a triumph and more like a devastating failure.

“…Alright,” he said quietly.

(What had he done?)

[30somethingautisticteacher]

Buck's favorite words

Just a little idea I couldn't get out of my head so enjoy this ficlet 🙂

***

Buck isn't sure why he likes the word so much, but every time he says it, it's like sugar on his tongue. It makes him feel warm and fuzzy and like everything is right with the world.

"Sorry, I'm flattered but I'm seeing someone," Buck says to the pretty girl he's just evacuated from a 3-alarm blaze. His voice is kind but firm, a far cry from the Buck of old who might have preened at the attention.

"Oh come on, handsome hero man. Give me your number," she purrs, reaching out to touch his arm.

Her relentlessness gives Buck a little push, and he finds himself using the word for the first time in public. It rolls off his tongue easily, filling him with a quiet pride.

"Sorry, but like I said, I'm taken," he says, gently stepping back. Then, with a smile that's both apologetic and genuinely happy, he adds, "I have a boyfriend."

The word 'boyfriend' sits in the air between them, and Buck feels a warmth spread through his chest.

From then on, he finds himself saying it as often as he can, each time feeling that same warmth, that same quiet joy.

At the flower shop, where he's picking out a bouquet for his and Tommy's dinner date, the florist asks, "Do you need help picking something out for your girlfriend?"

"Boyfriend, actually," Buck replies with an easy smile. "And I'm good, thanks."

At the coffee shop, he leans on the counter, eyes scanning the pastry case. "Do you have any cranberry orange scones? My boyfriend loves them," Buck asks the barista warmly.

Later, at the bar waiting for Tommy, a pretty girl sends a drink over. Buck catches her eye, raises the glass in thanks, and then gently shakes his head. When she approaches, he's ready with a now-familiar phrase: "I'm flattered, but I have a boyfriend."

Each time he says it, 'boyfriend' feels more natural, more right. It's not just a word anymore—it's a declaration of who he is, who they are together. And Buck finds he loves that feeling almost as much as he loves Tommy.

There's nothing better than the word boyfriend. That is, until a new word takes its place.

At a restaurant, the waiter approaches with menus in hand. "Would you like to order an appetizer while you wait?"

Buck's eyes light up, a grin spreading across his face. "No thanks, my fiancé should be here soon." The word 'fiancé' rolls off his tongue like honey, sweet and perfect.

On a work call to a new gym, Buck finds himself pacing with excitement. "Wow! This place is nice. Do you have a free trial? I bet my fiancé would love to try it out." He can't help but emphasize the word, feeling a thrill every time he says it.

Later, meeting with the wedding caterers, Tommy sits right next to him, their hands intertwined. Buck squeezes Tommy's hand as he says, "No, we definitely don't want German chocolate cake. My fiancé is allergic to coconut." He glances at Tommy, catching his soft smile at the word.

With each use, 'fiancé' becomes more than just a title. It's a promise, a future, a declaration of forever. And Buck realizes that while 'boyfriend' was wonderful, 'fiancé' is magical—a constant reminder of the commitment they've made and the life they're building together.

But the magic of 'fiancé' only lasts for so long before it's also replaced with something even more profound.

At the hospital, Buck's heart races as he approaches the reception desk. "Hi, I'm Evan Kinard. I just got a call that my husband was here." The word 'husband' feels both new and familiar on his lips.

The receptionist nods reassuringly. "Oh sure, it looks like your husband has just been discharged. Just smoke inhalation and a minor concussion."

Later, at Maddie's place, Buck finds himself chuckling as Chimney and Tommy argue about movies. He turns to his sister with a grin. "I don't know whose husband is more stubborn, yours or mine."

At the 118's karaoke night, Buck takes the stage, his eyes locked on Tommy. "I'd like to dedicate this song to my husband," he announces, his voice full of love. As the opening notes of "I Can't Help Falling in Love With You" begin to play, Buck starts to sing, his voice soft and sincere. Tommy's face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and deep affection as Buck serenades him in front of their friends and colleagues.

Each time Buck says 'husband', he feels a surge of pride and love. It's more than just a word—it's a testament to their journey, their commitment, and the life they've chosen to share. And Buck knows, without a doubt, that 'husband' is his favorite word yet.

[marragurl]

Not the first to say it, but damn can’t believe Galladay really went from toxic yaoi to doomed tragic yaoi.

Alright fellow Galladay trash, where’s the modern AU fix-it fics?

I need to see Gallagher single dad with Misha plus their dog/cat Sleepie falling for entertainment company CEO Sunday. Don’t ask me how they met, fuck it, throw in bodyguard AU Gallagher who works part-time at a bar, boom there that’s how they meet, idk I’m making this up on 3 hours of sleep.

You’ve heard of slow burns, now get ready for Galladay blaze it.

They’re speedrunning the relationship from hate -> annoyance -> mild disgruntlement -> weirdly vibing -> ok wow never knew I needed that in my life -> Sunday is way too ok with spoiling Misha -> ok so we got married -> alright we’re dismantling the government now -> Sunday went to jail for 5 minutes for attempting “peaceful” world domination, don’t worry we (Gallagher) forgave him -> Sunday’s stepping down as CEO to run a coffeeshop idk look someone get him some therapy -> Robin is president now while she still goes on tours -> Misha won an engineering competition while this was all going on

Bottom line: Robin is out living her best life while Sunday is in the back somehow having the most insane week of his life. I have no other notes for her here except that she is happy, and successful, and is Sunday’s last remaining brain cell. She and Misha are having some fun Aunt/Nephew bonding times while Galladay are accidentally-on-purpose committing multiple war crimes.

No, we don’t have time to unpack 2.2 and all its trauma, we cope with modern AU :)

[puppy-steve]

steve's been missing robin something fierce since she's been at college. he's proud of her and all, but phone calls and facetimes can satiate his loneliness so much.

eddie notices this, of course. what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn't? so he plans and schemes, and steve is none the wiser. eddie tells him he's planning a campaign and that's that.

robin's end is a little trickier. unfortunately she can't lie to steve to save her life. "he's my platonic soulmate, eddie," she moans over the phone when eddie calls her with the plan. "it's like he can smell when i have a secret. all he has to do is pull out those puppy eyes and i'm done for."

eddie has to agree with that. he used to think he was the master of the pouty puppy look, but then, in true harrington fashion, steve came along and stole the title out from under his nose.

eddie's a little proud of him, if he's honest.

but he has to give credit where credit's due, it's been a month and robin hasn't snitched any of it to steve. though, he's tempted to do it himself when he goes over to steve's one afternoon and sees his boyfriend bundled in a cocoon of blankets on the couch, sisterhood of the traveling pants playing on the tv.

"you alright, baby?" eddie asks, sitting next to him and running his fingers through his hair.

steve leans into the touch and sighs. "i miss robin."

eddie bites his lip at the forlorn look on his boyfriend's face. he very well can't tell him that he's planned for her to fly in from boston tonight, or that he's planning on picking her up from the hotel on his way to steve's under the guise of taking him on a morning date.

"i'm sorry, sweetheart," is what he says instead, shifting them both until steve's head is in his lap. "is there anything i can do?"

steve shakes his head. "unless you can magically teleport her here, then no."

haha, yeah, eddie thinks. if only.

steve grabs eddie's hand and kisses his knuckles. "thank you for asking, though, baby."

eddie smiles softly and continues playing with steve's hair. "anytime, babe."

when he pulls up to steve's the next morning, he doesn't even get the van fully stopped and in park before robin's throwing the passenger door open and she and steve are flinging themselves at each other, steve's travel mug of coffee spilling all over the sidewalk as the two of them tumble to the grass.

"you lying bitch!" steve yells at eddie over robin's shoulder. he's too busy wrapping his arms tight around her and rolling her over underneath him. she does the same and soon they're both rolling this way and that in his front yard, not caring about the stains they're getting on their clothes or the stares they may be getting from the neighbors.

eddie just relaxes back into the seat and watches his favorite person orbit like a sun around his favorite person.

[blutopaz15]

ready

read below or on ao3

She shouldn’t really be worried—not with Callum following close behind, wing spell at the ready—and yet…

Rayla peers over the ledge they’ve sat at, breath shaking despite herself.

“Alright, Mr. Mage,” she starts, steeling herself, sucking in a gulp of air, and swiveling around to him, hands held out in fists. “Work your magic.”

Callum snickers—as expected—as he strokes the back of the hand he takes—not as expected—and her breath catches again, seeing his face all lit up like that, feeling his warm fingertips on her skin...

Face hot, she watches his thumb trace her knuckles, watches her fist open at his bidding, watches him slip one loose band onto her wrist, watches him cinch the knot tight, watches him weave his fingers around hers…and then pause there a moment.

He’s serious, pensive and frowning, when she tears herself away from their entangled hands…and then, like he’s thought better of it, he loosens the wing-bracelet a little, slipping a couple of fingers between her sleeve and the smooth, enchanted fabric. “How’s that?”

“Tighter is better, I think.” She pulls at the knot again herself, then rolls her wrist around in circles, testing the motion. His head is obviously already where hers is—her wrist binding had been Sky magic too, after all—so she smiles at him, unbothered by that part of all this. “Sure these things aren’t just decorative?”

Callum smiles back, and she knows he remembers that fib of hers too.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he assures her, answering what she hadn’t quite said. He takes her other hand, then—the one she’d told that fib about—and lifts it to his lips first: one kiss to her knuckles, a second across the back of her hand, a third lingering against her sleeve. She makes sure it’s silent when she sighs, but she bites her lip, mesmerized all over again. “I’ll do the spell, and then—poof! Wings!”

“Poof?” Rayla questions, adjusting this second band to be tight as the other, raising an eyebrow at the dramatic, dorky little finger-wiggles Callum had dropped her hands for. “I don’t know if I trust poof.”

“Oh, but ting is good enough for you, Miss Moonshadow Powers?” he teases, leaning in with a grin, and she scoffs back, looking skeptically again at the clouds beneath them.

“I think going invisible’s a little different than jumping off cliffs, hoping to sprout wings and fly, but—”

It’s a gentle touch, his fingertips on her face just firm enough to insist that she turn to him, to make her eyes meet his.

“You trust me, though,” he says, steady, thumb settled at her chin, voice warm and low.

“I love you,” she half gasps, nodding and near speechless, watching his lips part and his eyes shut and—

Callum cradles her close while he kisses her, his hand cupping her cheek…and she can’t keep this sigh silent. It’s just…so sweet having this back after so long. She lets him pulls her close, lets herself collapse into it, lets herself breathe him in…lets him comfort her.

“—and trust you, yeah,” she finishes with the last puff of air he leaves her with.

They both let out a choked giggle, both red-faced and beaming.

“I love you too,” Callum says, staring at her so tenderly, so fondly that she can hear her heartbeat in her ears. “Ready?”

Her hand still on his elbow, she tugs him in again, kissing him hard and feverishly sure…and he’s the one humming against her lips this time, though they’re both breathless and starry-eyed once they part.

“Ready.”

[nimue44]

something something loose lips sink ships

Whether it was a prod from the Force or simply the comlink’s incessant beeping, Obi-Wan was roused to half consciousness in the darkness of his quarters. While he would have preferred to remain asleep, snugly pinned in place by the arm his commander had wrapped around him, calls in the middle of the sleep cycle during a galactic war were unlikely to be ones he could willfully ignore. 

To preserve the only benefit of his newfound wakefulness — being able to indulge in the steady breathing and radiating warmth at his back — Obi-Wan pulled the comlink to him so as not to disturb what were sure to be the last few moments of Cody’s sleep. 

“This is Kenobi,” he said quietly.

(431 more words below the cut)

There was a longer pause than Obi-Wan would have expected given the urgency of a middle of the night call. 

“Of course, sir,” Crys replied through the comm. “Only, I was trying to reach Commander Cody.”

Oh. Kriff. Surely he could come up with some explanation for answering the wrong comlink. But then Cody stirred behind him, sliding his hand farther down Obi-Wan’s torso and tucking his head into Obi-Wan’s nape. Momentarily overwhelmed by sensation, all he could muster was, “I see, very odd.” 

“My apologies, sir, I must have entered the wrong code.” 

Obi-Wan silently cursed himself for making Crys feel he was in the wrong when it had been Obi-Wan’s mistake to pick up the wrong comlink. “It’s not a problem—” 

“What’s the message, Crys?” Cody grumbled, cutting off his apology and assuredly necessitating an even more elaborate explanation on Obi-Wan’s part. 

“Uh,” Crys said, hopefully not too distracted by trying to piece together what was happening on their end. “That special ops unit is on approach from Kashyyyk with, um, they said a pet? But it really sounds more like a large bug, sir.”   

Immediately, Obi-Wan’s interest outweighed any desire for decorum. “Like an insect?” he asked, perking up.

Not nearly as amused, Cody sighed, the warm burst of air tickling Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “I’ll meet them in the hangar bay. Send a couple nightwatch teams, too. And Crys?” 

“Yessir?” 

“Good soldiers keep their mouths shut.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

With the comm delivered, duty called. Like most mornings, Obi-Wan maneuvered in practiced coordination with Cody as they extracted themselves from the small bed. 

“Firm but fair,” Obi-Wan observed. Certainly a swifter approach to handling his misstep than whatever Obi-Wan was working towards have come up with. 

“I’m glad you approve of my leadership methods,” Cody wryly replied, pulling on his blacks. 

Obi-Wan snorted and, while picking up his own tunic, retrieved a hand guard that had ended up across the room. “Always, my dear,” he said, taking Cody’s palm in his and pressing the armor over the back of his gloved hand. 

Cody’s free hand rose to softly cup Obi-Wan’s cheek, drawing Obi-Wan’s attention. In one of their moments of shared understanding and purpose, both were drawn together for a soft press of lips and a kiss of foreheads before parting. 

“Now, would you like to go see this bug in our hangar?” Cody asked, flipping his helmet onto his head with a flourish.

“How do you always know exactly what to say to woo me, Cody?” Obi-Wan said, falling into step at Cody’s side as they began another day.