#getting on a goddamn plane so i can go home

[alexanderwales]

The second chapter of Save the Cat! is about genre, titled "Give me the same thing ... only different!". The general principle is one that I strongly agree with, even if I don't always practice it in my writing: you must know how and why things work in fiction, you must be a student of the realms you're writing in, you must give your own twists on clichés if you think you might be writing them, and must be familiar with clichés so that you don't end up boring people. Study things that are like the thing you're trying to create. Analyze them, take them apart, understand how they work or don't work.

But then a lot of the chapter is taken up with Snyder's own system of ten genres, and when I was reading it I wanted to just stop him and say "hey, what the fuck, did you even watch that movie?"

Also I laughed for like five minutes at him putting Schindler's List in the "Dude with a Problem" genre, even though I agree that according to his typology it completely fits.

I'm a huge fan of making up arbitrary categories and then stuffing things into them. I don't think it's often very useful, no, but it's fun, and when you're done shoving things into boxes, you can pull them back out, find a new set of boxes, and repeat the process. I'm not going to repeat Snyder's categories here, but I think they kind of suck, and don't accurately reflect genre as we understand them, and the whole thing would have been better off is it was taking story archetypes and saying why they work and then what the usual deviations from them were.

Here are two examples that I take issue with, among others. First, by his accounting Planes, Trains, and Automobiles is a "Golden Fleece" movie, the kind of film centered around a hero's journey where what he ends up finding is, ultimately, himself, and every set piece along the way is important only in the way it relates to the hero's self-acceptance or whatever.

No. Wrong. Planes, Trains, and Automobiles is very very clearly a "Buddy Love" under this system. Look at this fucking image:

Could this DVD cover make this any more obvious? Literally all the promotional material is like this. It even says in the book that most "Buddy Love" movies start with the "buddies" disliking each other, and that their relationship is central to the movie. And if Snyder is getting this wrong, what else is he getting wrong about his own system?

Example two. I'm just going to quote it in full:

Now look at The Matrix and compare and contrast it with the Disney/Pixar hit Monsters, Inc. Yup. Same movie.

Fucking what do you mean.

Under this system of genres, Monsters, Inc. is very clearly another "Buddy Love" movie. There's a kid they have to deal with, but most of the movie is grounded in the relationship between Mike and Sulley. Like, what's the low point of the whole movie? They get banished to the Himalayas and then have a big fight! It's about their relationship to each other!

(I looked this up on the savethecat website and found an article claiming that it's an example of "Monster in the House", which is fucking stupid, because what's the monster and what's the house? Just does not apply. The child is takes the role of the "monster" for such a small amount of the movie, then they're looking after her and trying to return her home, and even before that it's not relatable as a monster to the audience. Blake Snyder didn't write the article, so maybe he had something different in mind.)

Meanwhile, The Matrix most closely falls into either "Dude with a Problem" (ordinary man thrust into extraordinary circumstances) or "Superhero" (extraordinary man in ordinary circumstances) and I would argue that it's actually neither of those because it's a goddamned hero's journey and those are their own thing and it makes no sense to try to split them into two parts because you don't get more explanatory power of what's working and what's not. His analysis of what he calls "Superhero" films also sucks for that reason and just totally misses the mark about what makes them tick.

So how are these the same movie? I don't know, it probably made sense to Blake Snyder. I have done my due diligence and searched for answers online, but haven't found much, just some weak ass defenses.

Also, I really hated that he says Chinatown and Who Framed Roger Rabbit? are basically the same movie because no shit. Who Framed Roger Rabbit? is a parody of noir, and was adapted from the script for a never-produced third film in what was supposed to be a Chinatown trilogy. But even then, I don't get how you can say they're the same movie without pointing out the strong "Buddy Love" through line in Roger Rabbit!

This whole chapter was a total miss for me. Decent advice at the start that I've been hearing and preaching for a long time, but this typology sucks and he doesn't even seem to understand it (or the movies he's putting in it) very well. And since the typology sucks, it's a bad lens for understanding the underlying rules of writing, of story structure, the components of story, etc.

[cheese-anon-real]

i dont like 3 am

or 4 am

i should be sleeping

[ferritins]

TOO HOT TO HANDLE (HOT TO GO!) | J. TODD

“I don't care how many years I've known you and how goddamn hot it is; we have not been friends for long enough to excuse you wearing short shorts in my home.”

“Short shorts?” Jason splutters. “They’re not fucking Daisy Dukes! These are US Army issue nylon tricot weave PT shorts! The Marines wear these!”

Yeah, you think, but I strongly doubt the Marines make them look borderline obscene.

Your eyes keep tracking to the thick, corded muscle of thighs, the ochre-gold of tanned skin cut through with dusk-rose scarring, the way the hems of his shorts strain against the sheer bulk of him.

(You’re ogling him. Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to look away.)

“Actually, they phased silkies out of Marine PT uniform issue in 2011.” You say, mouth dry. “The US Armed Forces is responsible for many atrocities, but your slutty choice in shorts is not one of them.”

Realisation of what you've said strikes like a meteor through marzipan. You start throwing silent prayers to every god you can think of that Jason doesn’t pick up on a particular detail of your response.

You can practically see the moment that any divinity that exists in the universe decides to spite you, and the second half of your comment registers in Jason’s head.

He blinks hard, mouth dropping into a comedic little ‘o’.

“Wait a minute. You think my shorts are slutty?”

"...I think that if you can look me in the eye and tell me that three inch inseam shorts aren't a questionable choice when you're packing heat like that, you're lying to both me and yourself.” You reply diplomatically, tearing your eyes away from those delectable thighs.

Jason's ears flush crimson.

“Oh, like your shirt is so much better with that many buttons undone.”

You start, glancing down at yourself. Sure, there's more décolletage on show than you'd perhaps feel strictly comfortable with in public, but your shirt is hardly indecent. You look back up to find Jason's eyes trained on the hook of your collarbone, right at the point where it dips into the suprasternal notch; his eyes flit up to meet yours, pupils blown, as a patchy flush floods his cheeks.

“Wha— are you a bloody Victorian? Is showing a little bit of collarbone in my own apartment really scandalous enough to make you blush?” You ask, laughing a little with incredulity.

“Nothing Victorian about either of us, if the way you were staring at my legs is any indication about how your mind works. ”Jason retorts. Your jaw drops, and Jason snickers. “Yeah, sweetheart, I noticed.”

You feel your blood rush to your face at a frankly mortifying speed, Jason's smirk turning distinctly wolfish at your clear embarrassment.

“Okay, so we're both godless slatterns. Good chat. Glad we can end this here before I die of embarrassment.” You mutter.

Jason quirks an eyebrow.

“Slattern? Why, was ogling my thighs doing it for you, sweetheart? Thinking about how one of them would feel between your own?”

Jason's voice tips into a baritenor rumble at the end of the sentence, the sound sending heat dripping into the pit of your belly.

You can see that goddamn smirk on his face, caught somewhere between teasing and a flash of teeth, clearly enjoying every second of your fluster.

You've got to get your lick back.

“Depends. What was it you were thinking about, Jay? How pretty my collarbone might bruise after you sink your teeth into it? Or is touch more your thing, huh? Wondering about my skin under your fingers?”

The sound that leaves Jason is punched-out, his pupils blowing out to the size of dinner plates.

Your lips quirk up, something like victory in the corners of your smile.

Before you can gloat, you find yourself pressed up into the back of your sofa, Jason we'll and truly in your personal space.

Hovered over you, he’s all supposition; unyielding muscle and sharp lines, hard planes to your soft curves, flooding your nose with the scent of cologne and gunpowder.

You find yourself blinking up into a pair of ink-black pupils, ringed ever so faintly by teal.

“You are playing,” Jason murmurs, “a very dangerous game.”

“Am I winning?” You laugh.

“Fuck.” Jason mutters, husky and emphatic, then; “if you knew how long I’ve wanted—“

He breaks off, a savage huff of breath leaving him.

“Look, if you’re just teasing, I need you to say something now, before—“

With a roll of your eyes, you press your lips to his in a brief, close-mouthed kiss. When you pull back, Jason looks sun-stunned, hope and disbelief warring in his eyes.

“Idiot.” You snark fondly. “You didn’t answer my question. Am I winning?”

A moment, then two, then he’s brushing butterfly kisses to your cheeks, temple, the tip of your nose and the soft hinge of your jaw before, finally, finally, his lips press to yours, close-mouthed and chaste.

The two of you trade slow, shy kisses, soft and sweet until you catch Jason’s full bottom lip between your teeth, tugging slightly.

You hear his breath catch, and the kisses abruptly turn filthy; Jason licking at the seam of your lips until you open up for him, the electric pressure of his tongue against yours, sharp, incisors nipping sharply at your bottom lip.

You could die happily like this, you think; Jason’s hands rucking up your shirt, his mouth on yours, the knowledge of how he tastes burned into your synapses.

When you part, your chest is burning with air hunger, and your lips are spit-slick and puffy.

As much as you’d like to continue, you’re desperate for a cold drink, and only some of the sweat at your hairline is courtesy of your marathon make out.

You say as much to Jason, who groans, full throated, and sucks a savage mark into the side of your neck.

“Okay, you absolute menace. I’ll go grab you a coke, and as soon it gets below 95 in the shade, I’ll show you just how much of a winner you are.”

wallahi england is a godforsaken nation and not just because of r*shi s*nak and k*ir st*rmer. how is the humidity 81% at 11pm at night??? “marley aren’t u african and from desert country” YES. WHERE HOT ALSO MEANS DRY, AS GOD INTENDED.

at least desert country is arid heat.

anyway: Jason Todd good hot, England bad hot (and also a failed state run by cartoonishly corrupt devils, but enough abt britpol).

this one goes out to my fellow Jason Todd apologists @sems-diarie and @stars-n-sweets !!!

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Just a little something something for you guys...as a treat😈

When Simon's away for a while on deployment, it can get lonely. He's knows by the way your texting, when he gets the chance and can text, that you are missing him like crazy. You tell him how you can hardly wait till he returns, how your body is just aching for him something fierce.

And fuck his aching for yours too.

If he could hop on a plane, he would in an instant just to get back to you. Unfortunately, that's not something available to him at the moment.

But that doesn't mean there's nothing for him to do.

Simon knows his baby needs something to take the edge off, something to tide over that insatiable appetite for him until he can come home and fuck her proper the first chance he can get. You never asked for it, but he knew you wouldn't mind.

Ding

Your phone goes off. It's late, but youre no stranger to staying up well past dark; sometimes that was the only way you'd get a minute to talk to Simon when he was away across the world.

You check your phone. It's a text... a picture...

At first glance at the small icon on the lock screen, the image is kind of dark so you have to click on it to bring it up and when you do you nearly faint.

The caption reads: “Gotta be stealthy so they don't fuckin' catch me, but this one's for you sweetheart."

Simon is clearly propped up in his cot, his legs splayed open, shirt off. All that you can see is his thick torso with it's small speckling of light colored hair across his abs. The belt and zipper of his pants are completely undone and the waistband flung open. In one of his meaty hands he has a hold of his cock, already swollen with a little glistening at the top caught in the low light - most definitely a product from thinking of you.

You have to swallow to keep the spit from dribbling down out of the corner your mouth. Instantly you feel the heat rise in your cheeks, burning through your face as the blood pools there. It feels like you are going to pass out.

He's done it, he's taken your breath away in an instant.

Not even recovered from that glorious image your phone dings again, this time downloading something for a few seconds. Your heart pounds in your chest, your breath caught in your lungs, as you wait to see what he's done now.

Ding

It's downloaded. This time it's a video...about a minute long. Your shaky, excited finger instantly clicks play.

"Mmmm..." his breath groan hits your ears as the vision of him stroking his length plays across the screen. His voice in hushed, clearly trying to be as quiet as he can while still making sure you can hear his words. "Fuck darlin', I wish you were here... rather have that sweet little pussy 'round me than my hand."

You've stopped breathing, literally; you could hear a pin drop in the room. The video of his abdominal muscles contracting and releasing as he continues to stroke his cock is all you can focus on now. Looks like he's in the middle of things.

He groans again, his breathing getting faster. "Fuck, I miss ya luv. It's been hell not having ya near for this fuckin' long. Nearly rippin' a hole in my goddamn pants from being so fuckin hard. I swear... gonna absolutely wreck ya when I get back. Don't even bother wearing any panties cause they're gonna get shredded off ya. Nothin', and I mean fuckin' nothin' is gonna keep me from buryin' all this in ya the fuckin' second we're alone. I wanna make you cum so fuckin bad baby."

The video fades out amongst the sound of another low, gravely moan and your sanity is gone. Dear God you were a lucky one tonight. You have to take several minutes just to relearn how to function properly again so you can text him back.

Before you can do that your phone goes off once more.

Ding

One final message pops up on screen: "Think of me later when you cum, sweetheart..."

Oh, you would, you would. And maybe just to be nice...you'd send him something back too.

Part 2:

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiesongfics.

If He Wanted To, He Would

July Prompt: Any Song Lyrics | Word Count: 2000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Eddie POV, Modern Setting, Sports AU, Rockstar Eddie, Baseball Player Steve, Very Public Love Affair, Corroded Coffin, Good Uncle Wayne Munson

I've used lyrics from Take Me Out to the Ball Game & Blank Space.

Even the news is covering it. 

That's fucking ridiculous. There's an animated graphic, a live tracker of where his plane is, a moving dot over the Atlantic, like it's Christmas Eve and he's Santa Claus.

Eddie's gonna make it. He was always gonna make it, even as the press ran the numbers, the miles, and milked every ounce of drama out of it.

He made game one, and game four, and now he's racing back from playing Wembley in London to make it for game seven. The media has tried to sell the idea that Steve wanted the World Series to go to seven, just so Eddie would be able to attend.

Eddie's glad he's getting to see it, of course he is, but if they could have swept it in four, or locked it down in five or six, that would have been fucking awesome. Even if that meant Eddie missed seeing it live, and had to watch on television, in the middle of the night, across the world.

There are a shitton of tiktoks every week, dissecting their every move, looking for easter eggs. Eddie is just living his life, even if a million people are always watching him like a fucking hawk.

Goodie is walking back from the beer garden in the stadium, carrying his plastic cup in his mouth as he fiddles with something in his hands. Not spilling a goddamn drop. Eddie can only see this because he's being broadcast onto the stadium jumbotron.

When he climbs the stairs into the suite, Eddie asks, "Where's Gareth?"

"Got spotted. Now he's taking pictures. I just slipped away unnoticed. Sucker," Goodie says, putting his cup down on the table.

"Unnoticed, huh?" Eddie teases. He won't tell him. He'll just wait until Goodie sees it online for himself. "There's free beer back there you know?" Eddie asks. Neither one of them needed to venture out into the crowd.

Goodie shrugs, "I wanted this kind."

He could have had that kind, could have had any kind, if he'd just asked for it. But no, he wanted to be out among the people. 

None of them are particularly fond of baseball, but they are fond of Steve, so here they are. The whole band doesn't always come, but it's the championship game, so they did.

And the score has been 1-0 forever. 

Wayne is pacing. Unlike them, he loves baseball, even if he's been a little turncoat, switching teams like a lifetime of dedication meant nothing at all. He's gotten a little shit from his friends back home, but Eddie thinks it's honestly very sweet. Eddie loves that Wayne likes Steve enough to put him and his team as his number one with a bullet, now.

It helps that Steve's part of a fucking dynasty. It's fun to win, even Eddie gets that.

Wayne doesn't always hang out in suites. More often than not, he'd rather sit in the stands. Focus on the baseball, not the celebrity that's now surrounding it. But Wayne's been dragged into their highly publicized love affair, and now he's starting to get recognized all on his own, so Eddie worries. 

Plus, he'd rather have him right here, where they can spend time together.

"What's the count?" Eddie asks. 

"3-2," Wayne answers.

Eddie's distracted, filling his plate with the various appetizers that came with the steep price of the private suite. Sliders, pigs in a blanket, and all kinds of other fancified versions of comfort food. He's just scooping some mac & cheese on his plate when he hears his main guitar riff from Buckwild. He puts down his plate, making his way to the big windows just in time to see Steve step towards the batter's box. 

Steve only changes his walk-up music to Corroded Coffin when Eddie's in attendance. He currently walks-up to Milkshake, which is fucking hilarious. He's one of the first openly out players, and he really leans into it, changing up his walk-up music, usually to something a little queer. Eddie knows it's partially to poke fun at himself first, before anyone else can. 

But tonight, it's his song. Eddie's sure he's being broadcast on the jumbotron from some camera he can't even see, and may even be on live television. Eddie watches as Steve briefly points his bat, and at first Eddie thinks Steve's calling his shot, but no. Not unless he's intending to hit a foul ball.

No, he gestured at Eddie. At least where he assumed Eddie would be.

Eddie fiddles with the rings on his hand, moving from finger to finger, twisting them around and around as Steve swings and misses for the second time. Eddie can hardly watch, it makes him so nervous.

"What's the count?" Eddie asks. It's the only question he knows to ask.

"2-2," Wayne says from somewhere behind him. Wayne doesn't stand at the front when it's likely the camera is on them. Eddie gets it, he does, but he'd like him at his side. The windows are open tonight, and the fans in the seats in front of the suite have leaned up to talk to them, to get things signed, and Eddie has done it. They all have. Waving off security.

Nobody is being shitty, just excited, and Eddie's grateful he's been accepted by most of Steve's fans. There was always the fear that he'd be seen as a distraction, and sure, that's been a bit of the narrative, but Steve's in the goddamn World Series. His head is obviously still in the game.

Eddie signed a custom Corroded Coffin jersey with Steve's number on the back earlier, and if that wasn't fucking weird and delightful. And Harrington jerseys have been increasingly spotted at their gigs, from one in the crowd, to a dozen or more.

Steve takes the next ball, and Eddie was terrible at baseball as a kid. He swung at everything. He never had the self-control to wait for something good. 

He's glad he grew out of that, at least a little, because he waited, and now he has Steve. A goddamn home run in human form. 

Eddie's relieved when he hears the crack of the bat finally making contact with the ball, and he watches intently until Steve's safely on first, Eddie leaning out of the open box window, hanging onto the frame, screaming.

He rights himself, clapping hard as he spins in a circle, screaming some more.

Then, Eddie watches as Steve steals second on a wild pitch, and the stadium sound system blares to life with Gimme Three Steps.

Steve dusts himself off from his slide in, and Eddie is so fucking smitten. 

And his ass looks damn good in those pants. His milkshake did bring Eddie to the yard.

It's the seventh-inning stretch, and Eddie hears the familiar, "for it's one, two, three strikes, you're out," being sung by the entire stadium.

He's nervous now. More nervous than he ever is going on stage anymore.

They've made it this far, and he wants Steve to win the whole thing. 

They do win. Steve fielded a grounder, whipped it to first base, and with one last out, it was finally over. Gloves being thrown in the air, lots of hugs and jumping up and down.

Steve did it.

And Eddie smiles.

Steve isn't released, not yet. There'll be interviews, and a parade that Eddie unfortunately can't attend, so Eddie only gets a few minutes in the tunnel with him. Some stolen kisses and a silly groped handful, just giving Steve's cup a squeeze, to make him laugh. 

It's all too brief, but he'll see him soon. 

They go from the game straight back to the airport, Goodie and Gareth both pretty drunk after too many celebratory shots, leaving Jeff and him to babysit as they get wheels up, to head back across the pond. Their world tour, waiting.

They'll make it. 

Steve swears jet-lag is a choice, and Eddie's choosing to believe him.

Another city, and his turn on the big stage, as Eddie looks out towards the VIP tent. Steve waves with both hands over his head, making himself larger, more easily seen.

Steve attended a few Monday shows with Robin, when their schedules lined up enough to allow it. But now his season is over. He's a fucking world champion, and it's the offseason, which is Eddie's new favorite word.

If he'd known he'd fall in love with a sportsball guy, he would have made sure their tour had a lengthy break during this magical offseason.

Next year.

And Eddie is confident that next year is a given. That's how in he is with their relationship, with Steve. They both have their own lives, their own fame, their own increasingly busy schedules. But they make it work, because they want it to work.

The fans have dubbed all their crisscrossing travel as "if he wanted to, he would" and have been straight up swooning. 

Eddie likes that thought, because he does want to, and he knows Steve wants to, too.

He's committed to this thing, and so is Steve. And if that means flying for hours to be there for the important shit, even if you have to turn around and fly right back, well fuck, you do it. And you don't even think about it.

Eddie slips in a pop cover, mid-set, just being silly, because he wants to shout out Steve a little bit extra tonight. He sings and when he gets to "'cause you know I love the players, and you love the game" and the crowd gets behind it. Steve, too, if his hands in the air are any indication. 

He's a pop girlie at heart, and Eddie loves him for it.

Steve is comfortable in his own skin, and he likes what he likes. He's supportive of Eddie, of Corroded Coffin, and very demonstrative with his affection and admiration. The love is always free-flowing. But, heavy metal isn't his thing. Not really. And that's okay.

So, a little pop is injected for his benefit, Eddie saying 'I love you for who you are' right back.

Buckwild is last, is always last, and Steve's here, so that means a subtle lyric change. He only does it when Steve's in attendance, and it makes the crowd go wild. Changing one word is enough to send them into a frenzy, like they're part of something special and sacred.

They are.

When he approaches the lyric, Steve has moved closer, right at the stage, in front of the barricade, and puts his hand up to his ear, hyping the crowd, getting ready for it, and Eddie can hardly sing through his fucking smile.

When they exit the stage, the first face he sees is Steve's, and Steve opens his arms and Eddie hugs him, pulling back and kissing him, over and over.

He's the one. 

The one he loves.

The one he'll marry.

The one. Period.

Steve waves to the crowd that's gathered to watch, and then he puts his arm around Eddie's waist, ushering him away, one more show over.

In bed, Eddie rests his head against Steve's bare chest. These last few weeks have been different, brand new, and exciting. It's the first time they've really gotten to feel like they're coming home to each other. Getting to be in the same place for an extended period of time, Steve following the tour.

Steve brushes Eddie's bangs off his face, and kisses his forehead.

"You were amazing tonight," Steve whispers, and Eddie grins. 

"So were you, working the crowd," Eddie says.

Steve laughs, and Eddie loves it. Steve's not shy. He's had all the media training, probably more than Eddie, because he's got a brand, a team, to protect. Eddie just runs his mouth at-will, always has.

Steve doesn't hide backstage where Eddie can't see him, no, he always makes sure he's supporting Eddie out loud and with his whole goddamn chest.

So, because he wants to, he does.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesongfics and follow along with the fun! 🎶

Notes: Obviously inspired by the very public relationship of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce. Goodie carrying the beer in his teeth is straight up a shoutout to Jason Kelce doing that at the Eras tour. 🍺

This one was so hard to stop writing for at the 2k max word count, lol.

[fettuccin-e]

Fires In Those Eyes

Kinktober Day 11: Seduction

Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, afab!fem!reader, oral (m!recieving), fingering, unprotected piv (pls wrap it irl omg please), joel is whipped, but also so is reader, degradation, possessive sex, joel's filthy mouth again my bad (w/c: 1.3K)

A/N: Second Joel fic of the month! Hooray! This time they actually get naked and get down and dirty so double hooray. I tend to just write Jackson!era Joel just because I want him to be happy okay. Also day 10 will be up eventually so sorry about that lol (I have been using these prompts from flightlessangelwings!)

Most of the time, Joel doesn’t think you’re even trying to seduce him like you do. You’re just you. Perfect, soft you, the woman he fell in love with when he didn’t think he was even capable of it anymore. And God, it’s embarrassing with how much he wants you all the fucking time. When you’re on patrol with him, when you’re making dinner for him, you, and Ellie, in the house that you managed to make a home. He feels deranged with the way he wants to tear your clothes off and fuck you until you scream for him at only the drop of a hat. And you’re not even trying.

You’re trying now, though.

He can tell, from the moment you step inside the house, peeling off your gloves and looking at him with a glint in your eyes that has his breath hitching and cock bulging in his jeans.

“Ellie’s sleeping over at Dina’s tonight,” you whisper, smoothing your hands over the planes of his chest. There are flames in your eyes, and Joel feels like he’s burning. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his voice rougher than he means it, but you only lick your lips and look up at him through your lashes. You look like pure fuckin’ sin. 

You perch up on your tip-toes, leaning close enough that your lips brush the skin of his ear. “What are you going to do about it?” you whisper, and Joel can’t help how he growls.

He’s got you slammed up against the wall before he even knows what he’s done, tearing your coat off your shoulders and letting it fall carelessly to the floor. You pull your shirt off, throwing it somewhere behind him, before you lick into his mouth in the messiest, dirtiest kiss he’s ever had. You claw at his back, rubbing against him like a damn cat in heat, and Joel feels lightheaded with how fast blood rushes to his cock. 

“What do you need, sweetheart?” he rasps against your lips, and you whine so sweetly for him.

“Need you to fuck me, God, I need it so bad, Joel.” Your hand comes down to squeeze the bulge of his cock through his jeans, and fuck, you’ve never been this bold, never taken him like you are right now. 

“C’mon, baby,” he groans, “let’s go to bed.” But you’re shaking your head, your deft hand unzipping him and freeing him from the confines of his clothes.

“No, no,” you whine, “‘S too far, Joel, need you now.” 

You look up into his eyes as you sink to your knees before him, and Joel’s vision blurs at the edges when you lick a long, slow stripe up the underside of his length. He has to brace his hands on the wall as you take him into your mouth, hot wet heat engulfing him as you sink deep. The tight clutch of your throat has him groaning, his hips pitching forward.

You grab onto his hips like you love it, sucking hard enough to make the breath punch out of his lungs. Your head bobs obscenely, your hair brushing his thighs every time to take him to the root. His knees tremble, struggling to hold himself up as you suck his cock like you’ll never get the chance again.

“Baby,” he groans, and you pop off of him, grinning with that same fire in your eyes that makes him want to rip you apart on him. Fuck, he thinks you want him to do just that. 

The way he gets to the floor, gets you on your hands and knees for him, is a goddamn mystery. It can stay a mystery, a blur in his memory for all he cares, because when he gets your pants off, peeling your panties halfway down your thighs, baring your beautiful, glistening pussy to his gaze, none of it fucking matters anymore. All that matters is the way his fingers drive into you, reckless, insistent, hammering into you so hard you see stars.

“Fuck, honey, you’re drippin’,” Joel mutters, and your face burns, even as your hips hump back into his hand on pure instinct. “She’s just gonna suck me right in,” he says, twisting his hand as his fingers spread you apart in a way that makes you sob.

And he’s right, he’s so right. Sinking into you is a goddamn revelation, hot and tight around him as you scrabble at the floor for purchase, moaning and pushing your hips back against him. Your pussy lets him in so easy, so perfect, and he shudders as your body clutches at him like a vice, hot and wet and at his fucking mercy.

“God damn it, baby,” he groans, thrusting into you to the fucking hilt and relishing in the way it makes you scream. “You’re so fuckin’ wet f’me.”

“Oh God,” you gasp, even as it feels like your pussy is being stretched to its fucking limit. “All day, fuck- I’ve been wet for you all fucking day.” His hips slap against your ass so hard, pressing in so deep that all you can do is gasp for air and fucking take it.

“Yeah, honey? Needed this cock all fuckin’ day? Comin’ home just to fuck me like a goddamn slut,” he rasps, and God, it’s true. His cock in your cunt is all you need, all you ever need. Even with the wooden floor digging into your achy knees, your panties tangled around your thighs, fuck, this is all you’ve needed since you woke up this morning. He’s right, you’re a whore for the way he fucks you.

“Yes, yes, oh my fucking- Joel,” you cry out as he hammers into that sweet spot buried deep inside, not letting you breathe for a second.

“This what you needed, sweetheart? Needed me to fuck you on the goddamn floor like we’re fuckin’ animals?” He presses a hand to the small of your back, shaping you into an obscene arch that has you getting tighter around him, practically choking his cock with your pretty pussy. “Such a fuckin’ whore,” he snarls. “Who can fuck you like this?”

“You, Joel,” you cry, tears dripping from your eyes onto the floor. He pulls your hair into his hand, yanking your head back and pulling your body onto his cock with every thrust. The sounds of your cunt smack, smack, smacking against his body are sticky and wet and fucking debauched.

“That’s fuckin right,” he says, sounding about as wrecked as you feel. “Only me. I own this fuckin’ pussy, right baby?”

“Fuck, yes, yes, yes,” you’re gasping, clawing at the wooden floor, and Joel fucking chuckles behind you, deep and dark and primal.

“C’mon, girl,” he rasps, and he snakes a thick hand under your heaving body to rub a calloused finger along your throbbing clit, and you scream. “Squeeze this cock with this slutty little cunt. Show me who owns you.”

And you can’t refuse him, you can’t, not when your body is already locking up with your orgasm. Your pussy strangles his cock, practically forcing his orgasm out of him, and he snarls as he fills you up with his cum. He takes his hand from your hair to wrap it around your chest, pulling you up to press your back against his chest. You tremble in his hold as spasms rock through you.

When you finally settle, he presses kisses to your neck, and you let out soft giggles in reply, running your fingers through his hair.

“Mm, I need a nap,” you sigh, sinking against him. You gasp as Joel nips harshly at your skin.

“Nuh uh, baby. You started this,” he rasps, dark with promise. “And I’m the one that’s gonna fuckin' finish it.”

[ronearoundblindly]

No Promises (3)

Lloyd Hansen x rival assassin!Reader

I Left You Something On The Body (see previous or LH Masterlist)

Summary: You and Lloyd take to leaving consolation prizes for whichever one of you 'loses.' It...escalates delightfully.

Warnings for DARKFIC. Language; descriptions of sexual situations, toys, various paraphernalia. Smut-adjacent (masturbation). MINORS DNI. I have plenty else for you on my Light Masterlist, but this is not for you! WC 982

And you do; you let Lloyd have several open contracts after the keycard incident.

Sometimes you wonder about the man providing the most fun you’ve had in years, but mostly, you relax in a noisy city high-rise with a spectacular view. A small vacation between assassinations. You drop off the network for a month or so, picking up a straight-forward job nearby, and then show up at the target’s house to find him already dead.

Pinched onto the body, overtop a blood-soaked button-down, are golden nipple clamps.

You snort in disbelief.

The sick bastard, he’s really wooing you now.

A thin chain between the clamps sports a tied tag.

To: The Cobalt Cunt

You let out a dreamy sigh, the little tingle in your mind of possibly fucking (with) him again vibrating to life. You even miss him in a weird way.

On the reverse of the tag, it reads, “not safe for lace.”

It’s on obviously and more fun than you ever imagined. At some point, you can’t tell if you two are letting each other get places first on not. The money is, oddly, totally irrelevant, and your career takes on a renewed joy.

Lloyd claims a target. You show up, kill them, and drop off an intricately-packaged Gucci jock strap with “Eat Me” embroidered at the back of the waistband, right above his asshole.

For good measure—and to remind him what he’s missing—you add a spritz of your perfume to the cup.

That’s where you want to be nestled, it implies. That’s where you belong, right against his dick.

Sadly, the next ‘surprise’ takes a while as you two are not after the same jobs. There’s plenty of work to go around till you find an oblong box wrapped in brown paper on the armchair ten feet from an enormous bloodstain.

 With an empty scotch glass and a crumb-covered plate beside it, you know Lloyd’s been trolling for your attention. His snacky, sweet-tooth is somewhat notorious.

Your inconspicuous, purposefully plain gift waits patiently, the soft whipped cream of a strawberry shortcake dripping down its serving stand.

There’s no rush though, and you make a little ritual of opening it to reveal a beautiful dildo with golden speckles throughout the silicone molding. It is absolutely from a cast of Lloyd; you’d know that curve anywhere.

If that’s as close as you can get? Fine by you…

The rest of him barely participated before anyway.

Geneva.

Lloyd’s pissed and tired after the flight. Suzanne is the fucking worst and made him repeat the plan three times because her pea-brain is as sharp as a limp dick.

He dances down the plane steps, noticing a welcome party that is not his people. One sunglasses-clad, black-suited fellow walks up to Lloyd with an enormous gift basket.

It’s so goddamn pink Lloyd recoils and squints his eyes.

Good christ, it’s hideous. He loves it in a sick way.

Pink cellophane, fuzzy pink handcuffs, a sparkling fuchsia cock ring, rose gold anal beads with pesto-colored rope connecting them, and strawberry flavored lube.

Mood restored, Lloyd chuckles, turning on his heel to get back on the plane.

He’s going home. He has toys to play with.

He doesn’t bother to explain shit to Suzanne. One of these days, he’s just going to pop her for free.

This one doesn’t coincide with a job at all, but that’s what makes it all the sweeter to you.

Delivered to the place you’re staying for the week is an adorable, yellow stuffed rabbit with a pull-cord. Across its tummy is 'sunshine' in cursive letters.

You honest-to-god squeal in delight as you listen to each of the five custom recordings programed in.

Lloyd tuts then says “should have sized up my ring, you cock-drunk whore,” a deep gasp and a squelch punctuates the end.

Oh boy. It’s Christmas in July. Happy you!

You fake your own shocked gasp at the second soundbite.

“Know you don’t taste like fucking strawberries,“ he grunts before bitterly adding, “but I’ll take one for the team and eat that pussy any day.”

Third: “Bet I was the best you ever had, even when I wasn’t awake, you poor thing. So needy…”

Fourth: “How hard did you come, Sunshine? Be honest.” He laughs like the cat who got the cream to end that one.

Finally, the last of the pulls is just the slapping noise of him jerking off and finishing with a deep moan.

Now, at least, you know what Lloyd sounds like when he comes.

Utterly self-satisfied, Lloyd goes about his life of luxury.

He’ll be damned if he’s going to break and go to you. Fuck that. The thrill of this taco-and-hotdog game is worth it anyway.

He still works, and not every job revolves around you.

For one such fulfilled contract, he’s being paid in artwork and has the delivery men bring in the large framed canvas to uncover in his current villa’s sitting room.

The expectation is a well-known portrait.

It’s a painting alright, but it’s…very modern.

Lloyd crosses his arms over his chest and smothers a proud grin.

The torso and open legs of you stretch out facing the viewer, gold leaf embossed nipple clamps and their chains dangle over your stomach, and the blunt end of a golden dildo sits nestled in your cunt. There are brush strokes and paint visibly raised from the surface.

He wonders whether it was done from a photo or whether you sat there, bare, for some artist to reference for hours, maybe even days.

Lloyd had a spot in mind for his real payment, but this will do nicely. He’s quite pleased with the view. It shall go over the mantle in the bedroom, and he shall fuck whoever he wants—his fist included—while staring right at it.

The half dozen or so other people in the villa’s great room who can all see the painting don’t say a fucking word.

How the hell is he supposed to top this?

A/N: Full disclosure, I'm pretty sure this is the funniest thing I'll ever write, and I'm okay with that. I can't stop laughing 🤣🤣🤣

[Next Part: A Blazer Full of Bullet Holes]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

blue art deco divider by @/saradika-graphics--thank you for your beautiful work!

[livwritesstuff]

i’ve been very quiet so srry - my week started with my annual performance review (which went well) and ended with an emergency surgery (also went well) so…a lot going on to say the least

this is a deleted scene from the first chapter of plant a seed

When Robin called, Steve and Eddie were in the phase of newborn parenthood where they froze every single time the phone rang (because said newborn was napping more often than not and when she was, there was a 50% chance minimum the phone would wake her up).

So when Robin called and the ringing of the phone broke the otherwise peaceful silence, Steve froze and he waited. When the baby didn't wake up, Steve exhaled a sigh of relief and answered the call.

"This is Steve."

"Hey Steve-o!"

Steve immediately recognized the voice as Robin's – of course he did, even if he hadn't heard it since she and Nancy left for a work trip in Japan a little over a month ago.

“Oh shit,” Steve said, because this means that Robin and Nancy are finally home, finally back in their Boston apartment fifteen minutes away from his and Eddie's in Cambridge instead of the opposite side of the entire world, “You’re home!”

“Yep,” Robin replied, popping the P, “That plane was a million degrees, I’m pretty sure. No more August flights if I have any say in it. Anyways – wanted to let you know we made it back unscathed. What’s new with you guys?”

“Uh…” Steve began, not totally sure where to start, because Robin didn't know about the baby he and Eddie had been placed with two weeks ago and she certainly didn't know that they're going to adopt her (because they'd landed on that decision that very day – about two hours ago, to be specific), “Well–”

“Hey, do you still have those placements?" Robin interrupted, "The kids who like to read the Goosebumps books?”

“Oh,” Steve blinked, “No. They went back with their mom a couple days after you left.”

“Damn. Been a while. Forgot this trip was longer than usual – wait, so are you between placements now, then? Hey, we should finally make that trip to P-Town!”

"Might need a raincheck on that," Steve said with a laugh, because at the moment a trip to the goddamn grocery store required at least a day's worth of planning, "We've got another placement right now – a newborn. We've had her for, uh, for just under two weeks, pretty sure."

“Shit, a newborn?" Robin repeated.

Steve faintly heard Nancy's voice, though he couldn't make out exactly what she was saying. He listened as Robin recounted to her what he'd just said, then started to laugh.

"Nancy just said that if she misses out on a chance to hold a new baby, she'll kill you," Robin told him, "Any idea when she might move on?”

Steve paused for a second. He and Eddie had decided earlier that they wouldn’t be telling anyone about the baby until the adoption was finalized, but…it’s Robin. 

He doesn’t think he’s ever kept a secret from Robin before, certainly not something this big and certainly not for very long.

He has to tell her.

“We’re, uh, we’re actually adopting her.”

Robin was silent.

Then –

“Holy shit – Steve.”

And then –

“I’m coming over right now. Immediately. Wait–” Robin stopped, “Damn, I can’t be a dick and come over unannounced anymore, can I? Because you guys have a baby. A baby. And she’s gonna be yours? What the fuck? Wait, let me start over.”

Robin paused long enough to take a deep breath.

“Steve Harrington – my best friend who’s finally fulfilling a lifelong dream of becoming a dad – when will you allow us to come and be formally introduced to our niece?”

Truth be told, Steve wouldn’t say no to a visit from Robin and Nancy that day (especially after the our niece comment), but their case worker had just started faxing over all the paperwork to get the ball rolling on the adoption process and Steve has a feeling that he might catch Eddie trying to fill that shit out as it came out of the machine so tonight they might be a little occupied.

"Tomorrow?" he suggested.

"Morning?" Robin added.

Steve laughed, "Sure. Tomorrow morning."

"Bright and early, dad. Holy fuck, I can't believe you're a dad."

"You can't?"

"No, I totally can."

[notmorbid]

yellowjackets, season 1 [pt. 1].

dialogue prompts from the first season of showtime's yellowjackets.

i still get chills just thinking about it.

i'm going to talk to you like an adult. is that okay with you?

i don't talk to reporters. but i'm guessing you already know that.

shouldn't we say a prayer first?

remember, anger can be good.

this already does not feel like a meaningful conversation.

just admit you did it on purpose.

you're the best friend i've ever had.

it's a good luck charm. now nothing can touch you.

i took the red cross babysitter training class. twice.

does that usually work for you?

you are so mad and yet so wrong.

i take it you know why i'm here.

i have a lot of theories, but do you want to go first?

talk about someone who didn't want to be found.

i come bearing gifts. you're welcome.

are you making fun of me?

for the record, i was trying to save you.

look at me and tell me what you mean.

i guess i didn't make much of an impression.

you're not out of the woods yet.

what about you? any secrets big enough to crash a goddamn plane?

dying is nothing to be afraid of.

we think we know what we're doing, but really, we have no clue.

if you want me busting kneecaps, it's gonna cost extra.

you should've brought your rifle.

are you sure this is a good idea? what if the neighbors see?

you can learn so much about a person by going through their personal refuse.

you're not that much of a bitch.

i didn't come here to fight crime.

home? yeah, what's that?

you two are the worst for each other.

it's so easy for you to judge others with your perfect life, right?

what's the point in having connections if you can't use them?

you're beautiful when you're honest.

do you know how weird you are?

uncomfortable silences make me uncomfortable.

i don't know about you, but i'm really scared.

i just need my best friend right now.

the worst is behind us, okay?

i know you're not asleep.

i'm different from what people expect, and it scares them.

the police are coming. we have to go. do you understand?

i think bad things happened here.

you said you wanted to make up for your misspent youth.

i know when you look at me, you don't see someone you should be afraid of.

if i win, you have to tell me something personal about yourself.

r.i.p., sorry. it was worth it.

i'm like a well you whisper your secrets into.

i've heard the official story.

you had to know i was like, totally in love with you. right?

it doesn't matter how shitty they are. it still fucks you up when they're gone.

i think the ghost decided it was time to get some sleep.

you've never been good at being anything other than yourself. it's your superpower.

i don't know how much longer i can keep doing this.

you taught me how to be like this, you know.

you make people feel like things are gonna be okay just by showing up.

if we can laugh at all this, maybe it'll help us feel better.

you know, you never get the time back. none of us will.

are you seriously doing magic right now?

when did you fall out of love with ____?

you're so not fine. do you think i can't see that?

you poisoned me. why?

have you ever heard of mutually ensured destruction?

i was just going to keep you company, if that's okay.

you won't tell anyone, will you?

[deeranger]

Sam letting Dean suck on his breasts to calm him down when he is mad or angry is so real… It also makes perfect sense because in canon Dean misses Mary a lot and Sam is so much like their mother (save me Sam/Mary parallels save me). Dean definitely has memories of her, he probably sees her in Sam sometimes.

Oooh..... Oh. Mommy kink, anyone? 😏

"Yeah, that's it, just let me—" Dean babbles, cutting himself off with a moan when his lips close around Sam's nipple. His little brother has barely had the time to properly open his shirt, but Dean's already shoving his face in there, eager and so damn riled up that he's hyperventilating. It doesn't take many seconds before teeth graze the tender flesh either, any restraint and finesse forgotten long ago.

"Oww, s-slow down," Sam gasps, but there's a small smile tugging on his lip despite the pain. Dean whines in response, a high-pitched noise stuck in his throat as he suckles, tongue lapping greedily at the hardened nub.

"M'right here, De.... Not going anywhere," Sam adds, voice shaky, as Dean eagerly palms his other tit, strong fingers squeezing it like he'll never let go.

"Hmmm," Dean just mumbles, his hot mouth leaving smears of saliva to cool everywhere on the tanned skin. By now, he's so hard in his jeans that it looks downright painful, and Sam's no better off. There's no way either of them is going to last long. Every few seconds their hips involuntarily twitch, small stutters that they don't quite manage to conceal, but right now there's really no need to hide it. Not now, not anymore. They're too far gone for that.

"Oh, God...." Sam grunts when his big brother nips at him, only to let go of his nipple with a loud and vulgar pop. It's nothing short of pornographic, and as Dean stares up at him through dark lashes, the younger Winchester can't help a moan falling from his lips, raw and blatantly wanton. As he sits there on the edge of the motel bed, Dean looks so small between his legs, so.... Devoted. And the way he's leaning into Sam, just clinging to him like his life depends on it, it's making every fiber of him want to relieve the pressure building in his groin. But he can't. Oh, he can't.

"Please, can I just....?" Dean asks, and he sounds wrecked. Both his hands are now on Sam's tits, squeezing them together like they're actually big enough for it. Like Dean has done a million times with the bar skanks he'll pick up at night. Only, Sam's chest is firm and muscular, not at all as supple as the various C cups he usually gets his hands on. It's not the same. Oh, but it's Sam. And he's so warm and beautiful, endless planes of golden skin, smooth under his calloused fingertips. It's like he can even feel the heartbeat underneath it, just thrumming away in a strong jackrabbiting rhythm that perfectly matches his own. It's intoxicating. It's safe, it's home. And it's so much like her.

"Fuck..." Dean says, the word punching out of him in a breathless moan. As his fingers pinch and caress and squeeze, his eyes never leave Sam's face. God, he's beautiful. And he has Mary's eyes. Shit, he even has her smile.

By now there's a wet patch forming on the denim fabric of his jeans, and Dean can't help but grind himself against the side of the mattress. Sparks zap up his spine as he does, and a loud moan tumbles out of him.

"Oh, God, I n-need... I need to..." he whimpers, dark green eyes laser-focused on Sam's lips while he humps the edge of the bed.

"You can have whatever you want, De- just- take whatever you want," Sam babbles in return, hips twitching and mouth open as his brother squeezes his chest. The coil in Dean's groin tightens, the heat there flaring up in an instant by Sam's words. It's like a goddamn flip of a switch. And without hesitation, he's suddenly hauling himself off the floor and into Sam's lap knees digging into the bed on either side of him with a protesting squeal of the metal springs in the cheap mattress.

There's no more hesitation. No more second thoughts. There's simply no room for it anymore, and Dean's mouth crashes against Sam's in a wild frenzy of clacking teeth and prodding tongues. It's primal, and there's something so unique in the way Sam tastes, something that sets Dean's groin alight. He tastes like cinnamon and raspberries and coffee, like something long forgotten, like everything Dean ever missed... He tastes like friggin mother's milk.

A pitiful mewling sound spills from Dean's mouth, desperate and so, so hungry. He almost sounds like he's hurt, and he's pawing at Sam now, big hands roaming everywhere to squeeze and tug and pinch like he can't get close enough. He's almost there. Shit. He's almost there, he's so, so close but still just too far away to slip over the edge, that fire blazing in his groin and in his mind and everywhere, like he's going mad with it, like he's friggin dying from it, and his dick fucking hurts and—

"M-Mommy..." he whimpers into Sam's mouth, mind a whirl and body ablaze. He can feel Sam tense, feel the way he stiffens ever so slightly, insecure surprise making his large body go extra taut under him. But it's only for a second. Just a second, as scary and fleeting as a ghost. And then, Sam relaxes once more, delves deeper into the messy kiss with a throaty groan of his own. There's even a stuttering roll of his hips, eager and clumsy, and then they're suddenly grinding together, denim against denim. It's rough and the angle is weird, but it's everything Dean ever wanted. It's electrifying. And while they breathe each other's breath, tongues lapping and swirling and tangling, Sam whispers into his brother's mouth:

"It's okay, baby boy... I've got you."

The reaction is instant. Dean groans against Sam's lips, hips thrusting and grinding against his little brother's crotch, seeking release, touch, anything, just more, more more. The fire in his groin feels searing, like it's lapping at his spine, scalding tendrils shooting through his abdomen and spreading like wildfire. He's right at the edge, the point of no return rushing past him so fast that he's forgetting how to breathe.

"Please—" he manages to choke out, but it bleeds into a helpless moan before he can finish it. It seems that Sam knows exactly what he wants though, because suddenly a big hand drops to the bulge in Dean's pants, long fingers rubbing at him through the denim:

"Come on, baby... Let mommy take care of you," Sam whispers, low and throaty into Dean's mouth.

And that's all it takes.

With a whimper, Dean shoots hot and messy inside his jeans, hips jerking in cramp-like thrusts against Sam's hand. It's as clumsy as it is mindless, both of them writhing against each other. It's animalistic. The sounds they make easily rival the dirtiest porn flick, and Dean's mind is reeling with want and more and Mary and Sam, Sam, Sam. It's everything Dean ever wanted and everything he should never have. Oh, but it's beautiful. It's perfect. And he's finally home.

[breelandwalker]

So a small moment of joy from this weekend -

Friend of ours calls up, asks us if Husband and I can look in on her dogs while she's away overnight with her girlfriend. (This is a semi-regular occurrence, we live close and have swapped keys for pet care purposes.) Sure no problem, Husband drives us over Friday night to meet and greet, since we haven't met the new girlfriend yet and her doggo will also be there.

What Husband DOESN'T tell me is that Friend's Girlfriend's doggo....is a corgi.

Now, at this juncture, it's important for you, dear reader, to understand something about me.

I FUCKING LOVE CORGIS.

You know that gif of Kristin Bell sobbing on television because she's going to meet a sloth? That's my dumb ass with every corgi ever.

So I walk in the door and see my precious pittie-mix goddogs....AND A FUCKING CORGI.

I make a Noise and promptly forget that I have any goddamn knees.

Husband and Friend proceed to cackle while I fuss over this precious baby, this fluffy angel, this darling creature of all time, too pure and precious for this world, twerking her fuzzy little hamhocks with glee at being petted, your honor her name is REPTAR and i would die for her.

Eventually I come to my senses enough to carry on a conversation. Friend's New Girlfriend is an absolute darling, we have a lovely chat, and at some point as I'm sitting on the couch, Sweet Corgi Babydog jumps up and lays her head in my lap.

I ascend to a higher plane and begin to weep with divine ecstasy.

(And then turn to Husband to tell him to shut up bc he's laughing again and calling me a dork in the most loving way possible.)

At some point, he suggests we go home and have dinner. I tell him to shut his filthy blaspheming mouth, I live here now, I am the servant of the fat furry kielbasa on my lap. Doggo is eventually bribed to get down and we leave.

And then we have the Best Weekend Ever romping around with these three doggos and I am once more rewarded with corgi cuddles. (And also a working-dog lapflop from my goddog The Bonafide Boneless Chicken Wing bc apparently my anxiety was high and my blood sugar was low. He is a Very Good Boy.)

I don't know what we as a species did to deserve domestic creatures but it must've been massive.

[curlsincriminology]

Crush on You - Steve Harrington x Reader

A/N: Hi yeah, can you tell this was written by someone with ADHD on a plane in 30 minutes? Sure! But it's the first thing I think I've published in 5 years so you're gonna have to just deal with it! Not beta'd because again, first piece in 5 years. Also if you are lactose-intolerant be careful, this shit is CHEESY!!

@boyfriendstevie

Steve was going to maim Robin. 

He swore to God right then and there, looking at you with that cute little teasing twinkle in your eye as you said, "so you've got a crush on me, huh?" that he was going to find a way to permanently silence her. 

Robin had to be behind this. It had taken all of 12 hours - from him spilling his guts about his debilitating infatuation as he drove her home from work, to you sauntering through the Family Video doors - to get to this moment. 

His face felt hot... was he dying? Could he actually be dying? The sound of his heart pounding in his ears made him think he might still have a few more minutes of agony to go before his body mercifully took pity on him and just... y'know. Ended it. 

You, on the other hand, were thriving. You were positively giddy, unsure when the last time you had felt solid ground under your feet; you had floated on a cloud (you were sure of it) over to Family Video. 

Honestly, it wasn't Robin's fault. 

No one in their right mind would tell her something that they didn't want you to find out. Robin had been spilling Hawkins' secrets to you since your family had moved to town. 

At first, it was protective - a welcoming to the neighbourhood that helped you to know what cliques to avoid and who was sort of cool. Then it was friendly, to make you feel more at ease that you actually weren't coming off like the idiot you thought you might be. 

Now? Now it was downright… messy? Fun? No, definitely mischievous. 

Why else would she have rolled up on her bike to your part-time spot, parked behind the desk at the Hawkins Public Library, with that shit-eating grin on her face claiming she had some positively delightful news to tell you?

Either way you didn't care. Because it had brought you here, still in your work getup, absolutely vibrating with the sheer force it was taking you to not be the biggest tease in the world about something that was okay, maybe a little sensitive. 

Steve could see the restraint on your face anyway. He knew you wanted to tease him - you were loving this. 

He was still contemplating just faking an emergency and leaving. It would have been hard with the way you were leaning over the counter, gripping the side closest to him to keep you supported as you blocked him from passing you. But maybe he could manage it if he put on a good enough show.

You were biting your lip in an attempt to not freak him out with the intensity of your grin. You really just wanted him to admit it.

Standing there, with your body basically draped over the counter, your lip worried between your teeth and your eyebrow raised, Steve thought maybe it wouldn’t be the embarrassment that killed him. Maybe it would just be from how goddamn pretty you were.  He had never seen anyone more enchanting than you - he thought there were probably damn hearts in his eyes as he stared at you. 

And if he thought about it, maybe you hadn't heard it from Robin... he wasn't exactly subtle when it came to you. He'd definitely tripped over himself, literally, to be the one to grab you a tape you'd requested be put on hold. More than once. 

There had also been the time when you had caught him watching you as you perused the shelves, completely ignoring the increasingly frustrated attempts of Mrs Jones to try and get him to check out "Trading Places" for her. 

"Steeeeeeeve." The melodic singsong of your voice was enough to bring him back to the present. And to cause him to realize he had just been staring at you, gape-mouthed, for at LEAST 15 uninterrupted seconds. 

Yeah, it would be the embarrassment that killed him. 

"I- I uh." You watched a muscle bob in Steve's throat as he swallowed hard, nervously running his hand through his hair. "I-"

"Are you always this articulate?" You said with a bat of your eyelashes and he groaned. You were gorgeous and funny and he used to be so much better at this. There's no way he would have fumbled this conversation back in high school. 

Then again, you hadn't been at his high school. 

Eyes closed he shook his head trying to clear his thoughts and quickly realised that could be interpreted as "no, I am NOT always this articulate which is to say, quite accurately,  sometimes I literally can't speak when you talk to me". Steve quickly opened his eyes to stammer out... something. Jesus. He was really killing it. 

You remain in your position, leaning on the counter as you wait for him to formulate a coherent thought. And no, you would not give him a reprieve. Not yet. 

Because you had been hiding your crush behind teasing comments and little jokes and playful nudges since the second you laid eyes on the man in front of you. Ever the charmer, he would flirt and tease and joke back with you, tit for tat. But sometimes… you could push it, and throw him off his game. You could reduce him to a blushing sputtering mess, and you loved nothing more than to watch him try to process if you were talking a big game or would really walk the walk. You wanted to see if you could get him to finally end this game of chicken.

Steve huffed and let out a tentative laugh. His hand had found its way back to the disheveled strands on his head. "I, uh, I feel like there's no way for me to get out of this."

If Steve hadn't spent the last few months studying your every goddamn facial expression, he would have missed the little narrow you did of your eyes. Almost imperceptible, but he knew you did it when you were processing something and not quite sure where that thought process was taking you. Or what you were going to do. 

It seemed like only a fraction of a second before you decided. 

"What if," you began, a small almost devilish smile starting to spread across your lips, "I made it easier for you?"

You leaned closer towards Steve, and watched his eyes widen ever so slightly as he looked down at your lips. He licked his own without realising it, following your movements as you leaned closer, closer... and grabbed the sticky pad and pen he'd been doodling on before you had flounced in. 

His cheeks warmed and it didn't escape your notice that there was a small flush spreading across Steve's face. Or that he absolutely wanted to kiss you. 

You grinned to yourself, pulling the used sticky off and pressing it onto Steve's chest. He glanced down in confusion at the piece of paper stuck in the gap of his vest, his eyes flying back up to meet yours as you beamed.  If you left your fingers splayed across his chest a second or two longer than necessary, he didn’t voice any complaints. 

Pulling your hand away from Steve’s chest, you curled it over the pad in your other hand, scribbling furiously, while keeping the note’s contents hidden from Steve's curious gaze. 

Pleased with yourself, you flipped the pad back towards him on the counter and slid the pen along with it, bumping his hand so that he would take over their possession. His fingers curled over yours briefly, and while you would’ve liked to have kept your hand under his a little longer, you were playing a special game and you weren’t ready for it to be over just yet.

Steve was so focused on your little smirk, and the way your eyes had crinkled when he looked down at your bottom lip, he didn't even register the note when he glanced down at it. 

"You can send it along with the town crier if you want." You teasingly gestured out the window to Robin who had just pulled up in front of the store. He struggled to process it all; everything that was you and the note you had slipped across the counter, and he finally looked up again at you, you were partially to the door. A wink thrown back at him as you passed Robin. 

"Hey Robs. Bye Steve." He heard a muffled “hello” and “bye” from Robin’s direction in response, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how easy it would have been to capture your lips against his with you as close as you had been. If not that, Christ, he could have at least admitted he couldn’t get you out of his head with you, there, giving him the perfect opportunity. 

The chime of the door wasn't enough for him to stop staring after you. In fact, he watched you walk away until he couldn't see you anymore. He was vaguely aware of Robin speaking to him as she buzzed around him, moving things he had left “in the wrong place” and “should have put away already”. He felt her push into her personal space, boundaries long forgotten if they had ever been present at all, as she tapped at his hand.

"Uuuuh Steve? What's that?" Robin asked, her large blue eyes studying him and the object partially hidden by his large palm. He blinked slowly, eyes focusing back on the room in front of him instead of the spot where he had last seen you, turning out of the parking lot.

He could be angry with Robin later he thought, flipping the pad in his hand to read what you had written. He felt the tips of his ears go red as he finally processed the words in your slightly messy scrawl, Robin yammering about something in the background. 

It was cute and it was cheesy and he was almost grateful you had left so you didn’t see the big stupid grin that spread across his face. Yeah, he had a crush on you. But you had a crush on him too.

He grabbed the pen and checked “yes”, pulling the note off the pad and shoving it deep in his pocket to get it away from Robin. He could deliver it himself.

[shoshiwrites]

In which I said “there’s no way I could make Jo and Stalag Bucky truly cross paths other than postwar but a bitch does wonder for the vibes” and then proceeded to take it totally seriously. Enabled by: @floydmtalbert, @basilone, @mercurygray

@junojelli, @upontherisers, and @rosies-riveters. (Seriously, most of this is direct quotes.)

My apologies for the time skips, but it’s just the way the brainstorming cookie crumbled. For those of you unfamiliar with Jo, 1. I'm sorry 2. More here! Bucky Egan/War correspondent OC

→ Jo’s even more restless in this version, and doing some very stupid things. Namely, getting herself in Buck’s fort for the Bremen raid. → (Why would you do that, Jo? Well.) → Bucky’s been wearing his heart on his sleeve — much more obvious, with regards to her, and she doesn’t want him to be a rebound. Maybe said something in an unguarded moment that sounded a lot like love, and she’s not ready to let herself be loved like that. Maybe a sleepy mumble into her hair. It just slipped out. → So she’s really running away. → Easier to fling herself up into a plane, clearly. → And maybe people are doubting her previous stories. Some pencil-chewing prick in the London office telling her the folks back home need to feel more of what our brave boys are doing in the sky to stick it to the Germans. Maybe Jo’s trying to record à la Ed Murrow, so they can broadcast it over the radio later. Maybe the original thought is a milk run, and she pushes for a mission over Germany. A milk run could turn into something else, but she knows it needs to be something bigger for a chance at a harder-hitting story. Tells them that if they want to know “what it’s really like,” they’ll send her on a different mission. → Kay would be furious but also ! at the story and good thing Jo doesn’t quite tell her. → The way she's trying to prove to herself that she has nothing tying her down. Benny’s not about this at all. Buck: "Come on then. Before I find you mid-flight in a place you shouldn't be." He’s practical like that. → If she hadn’t been up before she would not be getting the time of day. And Buck's not about to let her fly with anyone else. He sighs, just the tiniest bit. Gestures, like, well, come on then. "At least you know the risk." Benny's little "last chance to go to London, Jo. tell Buck to scrub this flight." Later — "Going to tell home about this, Jo?" (he’s shouting a little, gesturing at the amount of enemy fighters).

→ So Our Baby goes down. → "John is going to kill us" — Buck’s first words when he sees Jo. To be fair to him, Jo is alive. Which is Benny’s argument. “She’s not dead, Buck, I think we did okay??” Buck just shakes his head. → So Bucky’s in that phone booth. Unaware that Buck went down but also that Jo was even there. Red only tells him about Buck. Because the people who know he should be told about Jo are not anywhere near a phone. → He heads back to Thorpe Abbotts. Red is fuming about a reporter crashing with them. They’ve got the worst discipline, they’re not hitting their targets, and now they’ve gone and killed a reporter, and a woman reporter to boot. There’s no good way to sell that to the homefront. Red and Harding and maybe Kidd are having a bitch session in an office. Bucky goes up to the door, to tell them he’s back, and overhears. “What a goddamn mess. That reporter — she was on the goddamn plane too. Brown, was it?” Bucky, in the doorway, on the edge of the fucking darkness: “Brandt.” → Because he wouldn’t know what to do with himself beside get in the plane, right. → Like maybe no one saw any chutes. Maybe she’s reported missing presumed killed. → And let’s not pretend Harding would be able to keep him off the roster, Major Rear Backup Observation Pilot, who is definitely not in the rear or backup or observing. He'd assign himself another made-up role just to get on the next plane if he had to. → I’m even sorrier to Brady than to Bucky and Buck in this whole thing actually. Jo owes him drinks for the rest of his life. He wanted a passenger princess who could be trusted with the aux cord, and instead he got Bucky.

→ So Bucky’s lying on the ground in the forest thinking he doesn’t mind if he dies right there. → We see a man ten miles from the end of his rope and we drag him further away. → Jo seeing him again, seeing him all bloody and bruised. Maybe this is the processing camp and they see each other in the corridor — he’s coming in, she’s being taken somewhere else. The double-take. The recognition. Both of them fighting the guards to try to get to each other. In her jacket that’s too big for her and her hair messed. → I don’t know how this works from an intelligence standpoint shh I know it doesn’t but her using those few moments to tell him Buck’s alive. Just the quietest whisper, if she can manage to get that close to him, trying to hide it with a cough. → So he knows they’re both alive now. Can’t get that info out of him if he already knows. So all you get is John Egan, Major, fuck you very much. → I know it doesn’t really have lasting potential because she wouldn't really stay with them in the stalag (like any of this is really plausible lmao) but if I want her to then, well, it's my AU. Like, maybe she’s with them in the stalag for a little while, while the Germans figure out what to do with her/negotiate some kind of prisoner swap with the allies. They've never had this happen before. They’re wary because she’s a reporter — about keeping her but also about letting her go. She could get swapped home after the processing, or some time in the stalag if we’re going for something longer. → So there’s a version where he sees her first when he arrives at SLIII, standing back from the crowd or back at the hut. → The embrace though. He's never held on tighter. Her toes are scraping the floor. → He’d absolutely brawl if he sees her being flanked by soldiers being taken out of the camp by herself later on. Maybe she gets out on one of the Swiss Red Cross visits.

→ Also. The issues this causes between Bucky and Gale. Very chewy. Gale letting her. Not telling Bucky he is letting her. Bucky's "wouldn't flat out stop her from doing stupid shit because he also does stupid shit and also knows she's her own person" vs. Bucky’s "why didn't you stop her, Buck.” → Gale knows what running away looks like. And he knows she won't stop until she realizes some things. This will make her realize faster. IT SURE WILL, GALE. → This is the dumbest thing Jo has done in any universe in a very long time and I’m processing but also living for it tbh. → Benny, probably: can I interest you all in talking about how you fucking feel. → Buck and Jo at the same time: shut up. → Benny’s bailing half to get away from them lbr here. Composing a letter to Kay in his head about this. → I have a hard time believing that Bucky would hold onto this toooo much once he's in SLIII and they're all alive but also. Like the relief is there but so is the "why didn't you tell me what the fuck.” And Gale is very…easy about it. “She wanted to, John." (If you have to argue take it up with Miss Wanted To, John.) “Maybe you need to hear her out." → The unspoken "maybe you need to actually say things" at Jo (even though she's not here for this conversation). Which he’s made pretty clear — maybe no in so many words, but his "I hope you had the right reasons to fly with us" is loud. Jo: wow must be a coincidence that I feel nauseous rn it’s definitely not Buck’s tone. → Speaking of Benny’s “leave me the fuck out of this” — Brady. He’s sinking down next to Benny, holding his head like it’s about to explode. "He wanted to go down with the plane, Ben.” (Benny, not paid enough for ANY of this.) → Jo this is an awful lot of trouble to cause because of your situationship. → Benny's commiserating. telling Brady they will get a very strong drink when they get out of here. And Jo is buying. → Once again, Jo, drinks are on you for the rest of forever. → Uhhh that’s all, folks! → For now.

[hitlikehammers]

on the radio

rating: t ♥️ cw: criminal-levels of softness, love beyond the boundaries of what it even meant to love before the spring of ‘86 ♥️ tags: established relationship, rockstar!eddie, teacher!steve, rockstar husbands, tour dates coincide with summer vacation because Eddie can't sleep without his Stevie thank you for your cooperation with this policy, soul-deep love, slice of life, softness

for @steddielovemonth day fourteen: Love is being late to work because you can’t ever say goodbye in a reasonable amount of time (@sharpbutsoft)

more codependent rockstar!husbands of the je ne regrette rien variety, you say? oh, well, I mean: I guess ♥️

Steve can fucking taste freedom, he swears.

He looks at the list of student records he needs to close out to transfer to the high school before he can pack away the last of his office and sign the hell off for the school year—and start the summer tour cycle with his husband through the Midwest, up and down the East Coast, and then they’re fucking breaking Europe, got signed on to a couple festivals, and Steve is goddamn vibrating with excitement and shit, just: are there parts of your heart that like, fit together? Like bones where they connect and shit, or is it all just one piece?

Steve thinks is more like one piece, but he is gonna go with that it’s more like stitched together or something, just so he can fucking say exactly what he feels, which is that his whole goddamn chest—heart and ribs and lungs and all the other fucking bones and shit there—all of it’s seriously bursting at the seams just with so much fucking pride, okay, because his Eddie’s goddamn made it. This dream of his isn’t just gold records; it’s a plane across an ocean to play for tens of thousands of people who don’t even all speak their language and that’s…that’s just like…

Steve’s so goddamn proud he’s split between wanting to scream about it from the top of the school and maybe sob about it with all kinds of sappy declarations peppered in as he messy-cries, so: bursting at the seams. Heart in his chest so full it’s primed to just explode like a goddamn confetti cannon.

Though time has kind of served as testament to the fact that that sensation’s less exclusively about Eddie’s music, or his success, and more just about Eddie.

Eddie, and loving him beyond the boundaries of any understanding Steve ever had about what it meant to love before the spring of ‘86.

He’s almost through the ‘V’s at the end of his alphabet of names when he notes the time—shit, he almost missed it.

He reaches for tiny radio in the corner of his desk that literally just lives there for the purpose of Eddie and the boys doing interviews on local stations every so often, and tunes it in 93.9.

…elcome to most of the infamous lords of midwestern metal, Corroded Coffin, the DJ’s introducing and good, Steve sighs and flips through his…fifth-to-last folder—just in time, he can listen to the interview the guys are squeezing in before hitting the road, then he can get home while the band’s getting their flight to the first venue in Chicago, they’ve got a couple of days there and he and Eddie are planning to look at some houses; Erica’s out of high school they’re ready to make the leap, and Steve will take the 6:10 flight and head straight to the show like the often do, it should work perfect; it’s great to have you guys back but Jeff, I gotta ask, the maybe most…colorful?

You can say obnoxious, Lenny, if anyone knows, we do, Jeff’s shooting playfully, and Steve snickers, distracted by closer folder-number-five and flipping open number-four.

I would never, the DJ gasps theatrically to laughter, and Gareth’s muted holler almost like he’s here! and then he continues on; that does open the line of inquiry, though: where’s your notorious frontman, Mr. Munson?

Steve’s hand slips on the folder; he barely catches it before it falls to the floor.

Eddie…Eddie’s not, not there?

Steve tries to talk down the adrenaline response that’s never wholly died at the idea of the love of his fucking life gone missing, and worse, the idea of something happening to him while unaccounted for: Jeff was playful. Gareth was teasing. They have to at least have known somethingabout Eddie’s absence, Steve talks down his racing heart to something just a little anxious as he listens for clues, and doesn’t have to mine little hints or anything even, it’s clear and plain:

Eddie’s got a sore throat, so like the diva he is, he’s resting it before showtime, Dougie chiming in and yeah, two points to that: one, the only reason Eddie’d have a sore throat would have been fine by sun-up, yeah, and it was, because Eddie was all sunshine and manic energy when they parted ways that morning, and then two: Steve actually knows these guys well enough to be able to tell when they’re talking out their asses.

And Doug is maybe the worst liar of the three on-air.

Steve’s chewing hard on his Bic, trying hard to keep a level head about this: if anything drastic had happened, he’d have heard, they all have his office number, they all know where he is, it would—

Steve startles when he hears rubber squeaking down the hall outside the office; as far as he knows, though, he’s the only person here—everyone else takes at least a week free from this place after classes end, but Steve has a timeline, and a flight to catch, so y’know: sacrifices must be made and whatnot.

He barely gets to turn in his chair to consider getting up to check when the culprit and his perpetually-trashed Reeboks skids to a halt in the doorway.

“Sweetheart,” Eddie beams at him, a little breathless, hair a fucking mess but smiling so big, those dimples popped so deep: shit, if Steve’s heart hadn’t been quick already, that’d fucking do the trick.

“Eddie,” Steve stands, and meets him in the middle where Eddie’s already crossing to him, kissing him immediately and hungrier than the maybe-five-hours since the saw each other really fucking merits. “What, you, why aren’t you at the station?”

Eddie’s eyes flick to the radio as he clocks the question and of all the reactions Steve could predict from him, the fake-sheepish grin with the glimmering fucking eyes?

Probably could have guessed that one.

“I forgot something.”

“You forgot something?”

“Yeah, something important,” he nods fervently and Steve frowns.

‘Babe, you could have called, I’m meeting you at the arena, I could drop it with security if needed to,” he offers, argues: but not really, and not like it fucking matters, because here Eddie is, and the boys were planning to run straight to the airport from the interview, both of which are in the city but Steve’s not, and Eddie’s gonna have to be fucking quick, here, if he doesn’t want to be late for his goddamn flight; did he already swing by the house for whatever it is he needs, it—

“Nope,” Eddie pops the denial like a bubble; “can’t leave it with security.”

Steve squints at him, because now it’s a puzzle. Now it’s Eddie being…kind of a little shit.

And Steve doesn’t even begrudge him the momentary panic before; he’s too adorable. Steve’s too fucking in love.

And now he’s curious.

“You kissed me goodbye.”

“Oh, always,” Eddies almost offended by the suggestion he could have forgotten that. As in: ever.

“Said you loved me.”

“Bigger than the universe,” Eddie says exactly what he came up with that morning, like he does every morning, some new outlandish way to describe the scope of his affections and Steve rolls his eyes but eats it up every fucking time; “and the universe is always expanding so I love you bigger than what it’s expanded to since this morning, too.”

Steve can’t help but kiss him for that, because; well.

Because.

“What the hell else then?” Steve asks, because Eddie has a fucking timeline here and then his husband’s grin stretches slow, and sly, and then he’s drawing Steve in, and kissing him deep, licking as far as he can reach and wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist tight, knocking him a little off balance by design and Steve goes with it, because he fucking loves it, and then—

“Goddamnit, Edward,” Steve growls between them into Eddie’s shit-eating fucking grin as he smacks Steve’s ass, again, and keeps his hand there to squeeze while he pecks at Steve’s lips with feeling.

“It’s good luck, baby, for the journey!” Eddie protests between kisses. “It would curse the whole shebang if I left without showing the appreciation duly accorded to a goddamn masterpiece,” and then he leans in and goes deep one more time, draws a moan out and drags it slow from Steve’s lips before breaking away to declare emphatically:

“Unthinkable.”

And Steve…Steve fucking loves this man bigger than the whole expanding fucking universe or whatever, so he kisses him back until Eddie’s the one moaning, then pushes him away, kinda hard.

“Get out of here, you fucking lunatic,” but then he’s quick to drag Eddie back for one last kiss to mouth against him: “have a safe flight, I’ll see you tonight.”

And Eddie smiles against him, and makes to actually listen, but.

Not before Steve slaps that ass as it makes its way out the door.

Turnabout’s fair play.

Or whatever.

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

divider credit here

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith thinks he might actually sink into his bed, that’s how goddamn tired he is.

It’s just been — such a long day. Painfully long. Keith thought dragging his brother out of Black’s astral plane would make things less stressful, but nooooo. Of course not. That would be too easy. Of course Shiro decides he doesn’t want the Black Paladin title back, and that, actually, he’d like to retire. Of course Keith can in no way find it within himself to force his brother, who only ever wanted to explore, back into the crushing expectations of the leader of the universe’s strongest weapon.

So. It’s just — a lot.

There weren’t even any missions today. Honestly, Keith prefers mission days — they’re a one-and-done kind of deal. You fly into battle, you think you’re gonna die, you panic about your friends dying, usually no one dies, you either complete the mission or you don’t, you go home. Of course there’s the soul crushing terror and overuse of energy that comes at the price of actual genuine years off his life, but that’s so clearly a Future Keith problem. Once Keith parks Black into the hangar he can Stop Thinking About it, except of course for the horrifying and endless nightmares.

But all this planning shit is horrendous.

First of all, Keith is an action guy. An investigation guy too, sometimes, if there is conspiracy involved (and/or some fuckass has challenged him in any way no matter how minuscule), but what he is not is a tactician guy. A planning guy. That kind of shit is for people who have crippling anxiety and are plagued with constant thoughts about how everything can and will go wrong. That’s why it’s a job for Lance. And Allura. And Hunk. And Shiro.

But not Keith. Keith prefers to walk blindly into dangerous situations and deal with whatever is thrown at him after. Black Paladin Keith, however, motherfucker that he is, has to sit down in meetings for a thousand hours and listen to people argue and try not to wish death and curses upon a myriad of irritating Coalition leaders and allies.

Keith needs a goddamn nap.

Not even bothering to take off his boots, and ignoring the Lance-shaped voice in his head squawking about how disgusting that is, Keith stuffs his face into his pillow, reaching blindly for a blanket and yanking it up to his ears. He is going to Sleep, goddamnit. He is going to keep his comm where it is, stuffed under his mattress, and pass the hell out, to be woken only by some terrible and glorious act of God herself. The universe and all its associates can take an hour to kindly piss the hell off and leave Keith alone.

A knock sounds on his door.

Keith screams. Loudly.

“Keith?” calls a voice, muffled through the doorway, and of course it is the one person in the entire world who Keith has never and will never be able to say no to.

“Hnnnnnngh,” Keith responds. He actually tears up, a little.

The door slides open. Hunk pokes his head in, smile sweet and guilty and hopeful.

“I’m going to swallow engine oil,” Keith anguishes.

“Maybe don’t,” Hunk suggests lightly.

Keith groans again, shoving his head back into the pillow. Hunk patiently waits for Keith to get his shit together enough to lift his head again. Probably because he knows he’s more effective if he can manipulate Keith via facial expressions. Ugh. Keith should ask if he can return his friends. Get store credit, maybe. It’s not worth it.

Hunk smiles sunnily when Keith manages to pull away from his pillow, proving his point. Keith scowls extra hard at him.

“I am busy, Hunk.”

“I need parts,” he pleads, hands pressed together and under his chin. “Pretty pretty please.”

“You have a lion that you can pilot yourself!”

“I need the parts for the lion. Duh.”

Keith groans again. He should say no. He probably can say no. If it was urgent, Coran would be flying the castle for the parts. Hunk is coming to Keith because he knows damn well that Keith is a sucker with a saviour complex. Keith is not going to give in this time.

…Except he is so. Because he is a sucker with a fucking saviour complex.

Fuck.

“You’re bumped down to third favourite,” Keith grouches, rolling off the bed and allowing himself three seconds to sprawl on the floor.

“Yeah, right,” Hunk snorts.

Keith growls. Hunk, wisely, chooses against anymore teasing or commentary, deciding instead to quickly back away and head back down to his workshop.

“Okay thanks Keith bye! Love you bunches!”

Keith rolls his eyes, fighting off the smile that traitorously wants to fight it’s way across his lips, and reaches for his comm to get the details of Hunk’s errand.

“I am going to fucking bite him,” he says, carefully controlled, as he reads the message.

MISSION SHOULD YOU ACCEPT: get parts for hunk because you love him so

OBJECTIVE: obtain 174g of Noxalian black ore (pure as possible)

PEOPLE NECESSARY: two so you should take lance probably ;)

LOCATION: Noxalia-1242

DANGER LEVEL: like -2 but you’re so whipped for lance that it probably brings it up to like a 12 lol. loser

He’s red in the ears and it’s goddamn annoying, is what it is, because these are official mission documents, Hunk, which means they are technically public Coalition information once the mission has been completed. Public.

Hunk is the worst out of all of them for that. He actually had the highest record of diplomatic incidents caused, because he is actually physically incapable of keeping his comments to himself and this can, as one might anticipate, offend a large number of people.

But since he is a good fucking friend (the best, maybe) especially because his friends are class four menaces who do not deserve it in the slightest, Keith drags himself away from his bedroom and towards the materials room, where he knows Lance is.

He makes his frustration known.

Despite the fact that he was stomping like a petulant child and Lance has ears akin to the sonar receptors of a Navy submarine, Lance doesn’t react when he comes into the room, hunched as he is over a project of his.

Keith stops short. He grins wickedly, mood suddenly shifted.

Oh ho.

Oh ho ho.

Quieter, now, although he knows it doesn’t matter, Keith creeps towards the Red Paladin. He makes sure his footfalls are soundless and soft, just like he was taught by the Blades, and his body is directly behind Lance, in the blind spot of his peripheral vision. He focuses on the chair Lance is sitting on rather than his actual person so as to not envoy the feeling of being stared at. And quietly, quietly, he sneaks up behind him.

“RAH!” he shouts, seizing Lance’s shoulders and shaking them. Lance shrieks at the top of his lungs, jumping twelve cubic meters into the air, flailing wildly and sending his sketchbook flying at Keith’s face. Lance’s aim, as it always is, rings true, and the spine of the heavy book nails Keith directly on the bridge of his nose.

“Ow!” Keith yells, pain made worse by the heaving gasps of his laughter.

“¡Chingada madre de cráneo grueso!” Lance screams, hand pressed to his chest, and then, for Keith’s benefit, continues: “You mother fucker! You backwards, tumbleweed-guzzling, sand-eating, cow-fucking son of a minotaur! I’ll fucking get you! I’ll fucking — crush you to death! Come closer, Kogane, I swear to God I’ll wreck your shit —”

Breathless, weak, and wheezing, there’s nothing Keith can do to avoid Lance’s menacing advancing. He can’t even summon the strength to lift his arms to defend himself from Lance’s smacking. He just sits there, taking it, laughing harder every time he remembers just how fucking high Lance had jumped.

“You fucking — stop fucking laughing! Asshole!”

Lance’s expression is only growing more murderous. His mouth is pulled back in a snarl and he sure are shit isn’t pulling his punches. The only thing assuring Keith that he’s not genuinely about to die, curled on the floor, completely devoid of dignity, is the ever-present warmth in Lance’s brown eyes, even as they’re narrowed in fury.

“I — I’m sorry,” Keith wheezes, loosely wrapping his hands around Lance’s ankle as he kicks him. “Please. Oh my God. Stop. I cant breathe.”

“I hope you suffocate!” Lance shrieks.

“Lance, please,” Keith begs. With more strength than he knew he had, Keith heaves a giant, calming breath, shoving the image of Lance’s face as he’d practically flipped off the chair far into the recesses of his mind. Fuck. “I’m sorry. You were so focused. I couldn’t resist.”

Lance huffs. He kicks Keith one last time for prosperity before plopping on the floor next to him, scowl still affixed to his face, but lips twitching with a clear attempt to keep it there.

“I’m allowing your amusement because I laughed today when Senator Grmsx called you a toad. But watch your back.”

“Noted,” Keith says with amusement. He sighs, breath shuddering with the last of his laughter, and stretches out, sliding his feet under Lance’s thighs and resting the back of his skull on the floor. He stares at the ceiling until his vision gets unfocused and blurry, making the glowing blue streaks warp and swirl. He smiles slightly when he feels Lance’s arm hook around his bent knees.

“I got conned,” he laments, flipping his arms behind his head.

Lance hums. “Hunk?”

“Yep.”

“Capitalised on your intense need to do things for your friends to send you on errands?”

“Mhm.”

“Sucks to suck.”

Keith tucks his folded hands under his head and looks up at Lance, smiling in a mirror to Hunk, earlier, sweet and guilty and hopeful. “Well…”

Lance pulls away, waving his hands. “Nuh-uh. No way. You’re not dragging me into your shit, Superman. You want to help everyone around you like the tryhard golden retriever you are, that’s a you problem. I’m a bitch on purpose so I can be errand-free.”

“Please?” Keith tries, batting his eyelashes. The thirteen year old version of himself in his head is dying of embarrassment. (Good. He can suffer for a bit. He used to insist on sleeping on the floor because sleeping on a bed was ‘too mainstream’.)

Lance glares at him. Keith can actually physically see his resolve breaking. He’s very smug about it.

“Ugh,” Lance says.

“Thank you,” Keith says, smirking.

“Ugh,” Lance says again, much more pointed. “Where are we even going?”

Keith climbs to his feet, offering a hand to pull Lance up, too. He stretches and shifts his shoulders, leading them both out of the material room and down to the hangars.

“Noxalia-1242. Hunk needs some kind of ore.”

Lance gasps, dropping Keith’s hand. It is then that Keith realises that they were holding hands, and chokes on his own spit.

“Noxalia-1242? You sure?”

“Yes,” Keith rasps, still dying. Lance doesn’t notice, beaming so wide his eyes are nearly forced shut. He lets out this shout of excitement and wiggles, a little, like he can’t contain himself, and it’s so fucking cute that Keith somehow chokes again, which he didn’t think was possible. There’s a genuine concern that he may pass away.

“You should’ve led with that! Let’s go let’s go let’s go!”

He sprints the rest of the way to Black’s hangar, dragging Keith along. Keith tries desperately to get ahold of himself. It works about 27%, which is way more than he was expecting.

Lance is practically bouncing in glee the entire trip, scrambling out of his seatbelt and twirling around the cabin the second they breach the castle’s orbit. He’s actually humming to himself. Keith’s grinning so wide it hurts, and he doesn’t even know why they’re excited. Lance is just — infectious, as he always is; bright and all-encompassing and sparkling.

It’s a struggle and a half to land, and not just because Lance is being distracting. (Or, well, that Keith is distracted by him. It’s not really Lance’s fault. Keith was once distracted by Lance yawning, for reasons he’s too embarrassed to admit even to himself.) The surface of the planet is slate grey and thick with swirling, furious clouds, and it’s a testament to Black’s power that they manage to stay mostly steady, because Keith is a good pilot but he well and truly can’t see shit. The landing is rough.

“C’mon, c’mon!” Lance urges, out of his seatbelt faster than Keith can blink and rushing him to get out of his. “Let’s go!”

“I’m coming, Jesus,” Keith mumbles, finally releasing that damn buckle. He has to sprint to keep up with Lance, following him to the slowly opening hatch.

When they get to the open door, Keith is assaulted with a gust of frigid air and a spray of water. He curses, ducking to the side, hiking his collar over his head so he doesn’t get too soaked. He wishes he’d known to bring his armour.

“Fuck, it’s — pouring!”

Lance laughs, delighted, and before Keith can even think to stop him he sprints down the ramp, into the rain, soaked to the bone immediately.

“Lance! Lance — come back here! What are you doing?!”

But Lance only laughs again, and Keith can’t hear it because of a roar of thunder but he can see it in the giant grin on Lance’s face, open-mouthed, and the way he squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back and opens his arms to the skies like he’s worried the rain isn’t soaking enough of him.

“You’re going to get pneumonia, you anaemic dumbass!” Keith shouts.

“Come join me!” Lance shouts back.

The worst part is that Keith doesn’t even think.

He stumbles down the ramp without even a second of hesitation, before he’d even realized he’d moved, cursing the whole time, shocked with the sudden onslaught of cold and windy and wet. There’s something about the way Lance said it, not come out here not it’s just rain, dorkus not come get wet!, but come join me. Like it’s not about the rain but about the rain with Lance.

The very iron in Keith’s blood is pulled to him like the world’s strongest magnet.

“If I wanted to get soaked for no reason I’d jump in the pool fully clothed,” Keith grumbles, but there’s a breathless quality to his voice that cannot he muffled.

For the first time since he sprinted out of Black like a madman, Lance tears his face away from the heavens, looking at Keith with eyes that seem impossibly dark with from the reflection of the clouds, almost black as the storm.

“You hate the rain?”

“Yes!” Keith says emphatically, but he hears his own voice like a distant echo, far away. Lance’s laughter is bright and feels louder than the thunder, like clinking gold bangles. Keith’s heart drops to his stomach and his eyes go wider than planets.

Lance turns, slowly, hands still spread wide, face easy and open and peaceful in a way Keith has never seen on him, turned back up the the pelting rain, every droplet doing something to him that makes him glow.

“How could anyone hate the rain?”

Suddenly, wholly, breathlessly, Keith doesn’t. His collar slides from his slackened fingers and flops back over his neck, soaked through. His hair plasters to his forehead and it’s wet and cold and water drips directly into his eyes but suddenly he is warmed from the very centre of himself, ricocheting outwards.

“It’s breathtaking,” Keith finally admits, and he is, this son of the skies, this boy of the rain. He is the most breathtaking thing Keith has ever seen in his life.

He swallows, tilts his head up to the sky, and smiles.

———

based on this post

[ohdorothea]

This tournament is being run by and for queer fans so please keep that in mind! Homophobes will be blocked on sight <3 More polls here and more info here! Lyrics for the songs and FAQ under the cut!

Labyrinth lyrics

It only hurts this much right now

Was what I was thinking the whole time

Breathe in, breathe through, breathe deep, breathe out

I'll be getting over you my whole life

You know how scared I am of elevators

Never trust it if it rises fast

It can't last

Uh oh, I'm falling in love

Oh no, I'm falling in love again

Oh, I'm falling in love

I thought the plane was going down

How'd you turn it right around?

It only feels this raw right now

Lost in the labyrinth of my mind

Break up, break free, break through, break down

You would break your back to make me break a smile

You know how much I hate

That everybody just expects me to bounce back

Just like that

Uh oh, I'm falling in love

Oh no, I'm falling in love again

Oh, I'm falling in love

I thought the plane was going down

How'd you turn it right around?

Uh oh, I'm falling in love

Oh no, I'm falling in love again

Oh, I'm falling in love

I thought the plane was going down

How'd you turn it right around?

Uh oh, I'm falling in love (falling in love)

Oh no, I'm falling in love again (falling in love again)

Oh, I'm falling in love (falling in love)

I thought the plane was going down

How'd you turn it right around?

Uh oh, I'm falling in love (falling in love)

Oh no, I'm falling in love again (falling in love again)

Oh, I'm falling in love (falling in love)

I thought the plane was going down

How'd you turn it right around?

(You know how much I hate it)

(You know how much I hate it)

(You know how much I hate it)

🫶🫶🫶

Karma lyrics

You're talking shit for the hell of it

Addicted to betrayal, but you're relevant

You're terrified to look down

'Cause if you dare, you'll see the glare

Of everyone you burned just to get there

It's coming back around

And I keep my side of the street clean

You wouldn't know what I mean

'Cause karma is my boyfriend

Karma is a god

Karma is the breeze in my hair on the weekend

Karma's a relaxing thought

Aren't you envious that for you it's not?

Sweet like honey, karma is a cat

Purring in my lap 'cause it loves me

Flexing like a goddamn acrobat

Me and karma vibe like that

Spiderboy, king of thieves

Weave your little webs of opacity

My pennies made your crown

Trick me once, trick me twice

Don't you know that cash ain't the only price?

It's coming back around

And I keep my side of the street clean

You wouldn't know what I mean

'Cause karma is my boyfriend

Karma is a god

Karma is the breeze in my hair on the weekend

Karma's a relaxing thought

Aren't you envious that for you it's not?

Sweet like honey, karma is a cat

Purring in my lap 'cause it loves me

Flexing like a goddamn acrobat

Me and karma vibe like that

Ask me what I learned from all those years

Ask me what I earned from all those tears

Ask me why so many fade, but I'm still here

(I'm still here, I'm still here)

'Cause karma is the thunder

Rattling your ground

Karma's on your scent like a bounty hunter

Karma's gonna track you down

Step by step, from town to town

Sweet like justice, karma is a queen

Karma takes all my friends to the summit

Karma is the guy on the screen

Coming straight home to me

'Cause karma is my boyfriend (Karma is my boyfriend)

Karma is a god

Karma is the breeze in my hair on the weekend (Weekend)

Karma's a relaxing thought

Aren't you envious that for you it's not?

Sweet like honey, karma is a cat

Purring in my lap 'cause it loves me

Flexing like a goddamn acrobat

Me and karma vibe like that

Karma is my boyfriend

Karma is a god (Ah)

Uh-huh, mm

Karma's a relaxing thought

🫶🫶🫶

The question is which song is queerer to you! Queerer can mean whatever you want it to mean; you might consider a song queer because you think it was written that way, or because of Swiftian lore. It might be queer to you because of how you relate it to your own life. Maybe you think from a purely literary standpoint the lyrics have queer themes; maybe you're just thinking about vibes!!!

Put in the tags your interpretations or propaganda for a specific song! Tags will be used to decide what songs may be saved if there are extra slots in the next round!