#i don't know how to end fics

[kettlefire]

A Panic in Time (DP x DC)

This is all thanks to the awesome @tkiesai for basically being the foundation of this idea! This is probably going to be long, and probably won't delve that deep into my ideas about this idea. Largely so it's not insanely long. But here I go!

°•°•°•°

Bruce's head felt like it had been shoved through a straw and spit out on the other side. The throbbing was annoying, but it wasn't anything the man couldn't handle.

His mind was muddled, memories of what happened prior to him awaking was blurry and unsure. Bruce knew it wasn't something good.

He vaguely remembered a league meeting, a threat, something looming. It wasn't world ending, or at least that's what Bruce remembered. It should have been something they could handle.

But now, here was Bruce. Waking up in the grass of some random park. He was dressed in casual attire, something he'd wear in public as Bruce. Although last he remembered he was in the Batsuit.

The sun felt too bright in the sky. The sound of families filled the air and children's laughter. No one seemed to blink twice at Bruce as he pulled himself together.

It took a moment to steel himself, to gain composer again. It took a few sweet lines, and a charming smile for a nice mother to slide him a few painkillers. The lies rolling off his tongue like second nature.

To his luck there was a newspaper at the top of the trashcan. He was in some town called Amity Park, and the year... the year was the problem.

It was 1996. Whatever had happened had sent Bruce back in time. There was a few suspects Bruce can think were the cause of this. But something in his gut kept drawing his train of thought to the Flash.

It seemed like each time the League had any time related problems, Barry was in the center of it. Which also leaves Bruce with the question if he was the only one sent back in time.

God, he could only imagine the nightmare if the others were sent back in time. Yes, they can be professional. They understand the risk of changing things in the past.

But Bruce also understands that his team can be less than... intelligent at times.

Despite that, Bruce needed to find a way to get back to Gotham. He might not know for sure where everyone was right now, but he knew Alfred was the safest bet.

A plan laid out in Bruce's mind, a list of people he knew wouldn't be a risk to approach. He just needed to find a way to get to them. He had barely made it to the gates of the park before a shrill cry pierced the air.

There was just one loud outcry, before it quieted down. Bruce glance around the space, spotting a young boy curled on the ground. Tears streamed down the boy's chubby cheeks.

And no one even moved to the boy's aid. Not a single mother spared more than one glance in the kid's directions. No parents came rushing over to the boy's side.

Bruce almost walked away, he really did. This wasn't his time, anything he does can cause immense damage to the timeline. But when Bruce caught sight of blood bubbling from a scrape on the boy's knee, Bruce couldn't ignore him.

Maybe it's just the father in him, but Bruce barely even notices when he's crossing the small distance. His mind zeroing in on a hurt child that needed help. Kneeling before the small boy with a gentle smile, and pulling his handkerchief free from his pocket.

"You're alright there, buddy. It looks like you took a bit of a tumble there." Bruce slipped into the same tone he used to use when his kids were young. Gentle and understanding, as he pressed the handkerchief to the small scrape.

The boy sniffled, tears slipping from his eyes. Bruce was more focused on the way the kid was looking at him. Like he couldn't fathom someone coming to his aid.

That look had Bruce's heart breaking slightly. He's seen a similar look before. The few times he's come to the aid of a hurt child that wasn't used to getting help.

Something no child should ever feel or experience.

"Where's your parents, kiddo?" Bruce asked after a moment of silence from the boy. He had waited until the kid's breathing settled down when the boy's chest stopped pumping so quickly.

Except his question only seemed to bring a new wave of tears to the boy's eyes. The small child just seemed to curl into himself further, ducking his gaze away from Bruce.

And as much as Bruce didn't want it to be true, it was clear the kid didn't have the support he needed. It might not as be as far as some of Bruce's kids have had in the past.

But it was clearly not good.

"That's okay, it's alright. What's your name?" Bruce tried again. The boy's silence was leaving an uncomfortable pit in Bruce's stomach.

"D-Danny..." The boy spoke out his name between sniffles, and Bruce felt a wave of relief hearing the boy speak.

In hindsight, Bruce can see how strange the scene might look. A slightly disheveled man comforting a lone young boy in a park. It wasn't exactly perfect.

But with the lack of reactions from the parents around, Bruce had a feeling the town had an idea who this boy was. The whole situation just didn't feel that right for him.

It took a few more comments before Bruce managed to get the boy to crack a smile. A laugh had felt like breaking a massive wall.

Before long, Bruce had Danny actually like any other boy he's known. Carefree and happy, just like a child should be.

"You didn't tell me your name, mister." Danny had suddenly cut down the relaxed moment they were in. A pout laced the boy's lips as he looked up at Bruce, almost accusatory.

"I'm Bruce. Bruce Wayne." Bruce responded without missing a beat. He knew this might cause problems in the future. He wasn't supposed to be here.

But when his gut is telling him something, he can't just ignore it. He checked his pockets, finding no business cards anywhere. So, Bruce fell back in plan B.

"No matter how long it's been from now, you can come to me for help. Just look for Bruce Wayne in Gotham City, and when you find me... just say Fairbanks sent you."

Bruce wasn't sure if he'll ever see Danny again when he goes back to his own time. Wasn't even sure if this was the same universe as his own. But he couldn't walk away without at least offering the boy help in some way.

When Danny's eyes filled up with tears again, Bruce thought he said something wrong at first. That was until the boy was suddenly clinging to his shoulders in a tight embrace, muttering 'thank you' over and over again.

Bruce felt himself almost close to tears just from that alone. His heart was aching for the small boy. Even if Bruce couldn't help Danny anymore than this, he was hoping the boy would have a better life.

One where he wasn't clinging to a stranger for comfort that family should be providing him.

THWAMP

It didn't hurt, but it did cut their hug short as Bruce suddenly pulled away. Turning his head to see a young girl wielding a wiffle bat, and another young boy standing behind her.

Her purple eyes glared at Bruce like he had done the worst thing in the world. Her grip on the bat was threatening and ready to swing again. Her knuckles white from the tight grip alone.

Maybe leaving this time era might not be as easy as Bruce thought as the young girl probbed him with angry and scolding questions. Not that Bruce could blame her.

He just hoped this hiccup didn't get back to the league. They'd have a field day hearing about how Batman got scolded by a child with a wiffle bat.

°•°•°•°•°•°

Danny wasn't sure if this was the best idea. It's been years since he met Bruce Wayne. So many years. Danny had just been a kid, not even ten, when Bruce had introduced himself.

When he had an adult, actually check in on him. Yet, it was a memory Danny couldn't forget. Maybe it was just the kindness that Bruce radiated.

Or maybe it was when Sam came to his "rescue" near the end. Regardless, it was cemented in his mind. A core memory that Danny cared with him through the years.

Now, here he was, roughly seven years later. Standing in front of a manor that put even Sam's place to shame.

It took a lot of courage for Danny to knock. Barely a second later, an old man answered the door, an accent Danny was certain Bruce hadn't had.

A stuttered explaination of being here to see Bruce Wayne, that the man knew him, barely left Danny's mouth before the old man ushered him inside.

The man, Alfred, told Danny to wait by the door before vanishing further into the manor. It took a lot for Danny to not just vanish.

Being half ghost nowadays had its quirks, Danny could just vanish, and no one but Alfred would know. But he couldn't.

It had taken a lot for Danny to make the journey to Gotham City. He hadn't even thought to look up a current picture of Bruce either. Which was probably a big mistake on his end.

Danny didn't even know if Bruce was offering this kind of help. But Danny didn't have many allies to turn to. He needed help.

Not just for himself but for his family. For Amity Park. He couldn't be afforded the ability to run away. Not now.

Danny felt all the air leave his lungs when Bruce entered the area. The man didn't look a day older than what Danny remembered. Bruce looked a bit more put together, not like he had just jumped out of a moving car, but it was Bruce.

"Uhm... I don't know if you remember me. But my name's Danny... we met when I was a kid." Danny started trying to explain himself before Bruce could speak. He recognized that confused look anywhere, and Danny didn't have the guts to go through with this if Bruce asked any questions.

"You told me if I ever needed help, to come find you. Bruce Wayne in Gotham City... you, uh, told me to tell you Fairbanks sent me?"

That came out more like a question than Danny would have liked. But it did ease his nerves a bit as he watched Bruce's slightly confused expression turn to alarm and surprise.

Danny wasn't sure what this would do. If Bruce could truly help him. But he was out of options. Just seeing Bruce recognize something he said was enough to calm the teen's anxiety slightly.

"I'm sorry, Danny... I don't remember you. But I believe you and I want to help you. Come inside, have a seat, and tell me what's going on."

That response was enough to have Danny's eyes fill with tears. His chest filling with a sense of hope he hadn't felt in weeks now.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

[hitlikehammers]

PART 2/2: in which lock-picking⛓️‍💥 is 100% a valid love language, and waking up with ✨Steve Harrington✨ was NOT the future (exactly. maybe. ish.)

...but waking up in a hospital bed just might be ♥️

<<< last time: And Eddie thinks that’s highly fucking debatable—he’s not sure where it comes from, because it’s a little out of place, Eddie didn’t say anything but maybe he’s just that transparent, the heart of him so quickly, so completely, and if that’s the case then it’s entirely fucking debatable because Eddie thinks he’s going to burst, splinter like a starburst, glorious in the unmaking for how big this thing that’s building in him feels, how certain he is that it’s about to break his ribs and he fucking looks forward to it, so no: Steve doesn’t love most because he can’t, because Eddie is overcome with this feeling and he, he— He’s drifting, because Steve’s heat is a heady fucking drug, and his heartbeat’s a metronome, a lullaby against Eddie’s back and it’s instinct, it’s unquestionable when he shimmies tighter into Steve’s hold and sighs the weight of the world out between his lips because… Because goddamnit, this feels right.

OR: y'know. Eddie thought he was dying in the Upside Down but then he's waking up in the future, in bed with Steve Harrington like what the fuck

Eddie comes to—again: un-fucking-expected—with the same sensation of his ribs snapping, the pain of it a dull thing he thinks he can just float through because his heart’s so gone on the impossible possibility of some future imaginary day where he, where Steve, where they—

“Eddie?”

Wait.

Wait, that’s…okay.

Back up.

He tries to take in what his senses are willing to offer him: something starchy, itchy against his skin, both sides—definitely not the sheets from the bed he’d just felt visceral underneath him. Pressure and aching at his chest: but less sweet the longer he focuses on it. Stinging and the pull of maybe-bandages, maybe-sutures, maybe both and something deeper, like…oh, wow, fuck, it’s entirely possible his ribs are already broken. His heart still feels full, but also scared, unsure, wrong-footed as more and more little clues seep into his consciousness, before maybe the clearest of them all: a shrill little beep that’s fast, like embarrassingly fast—

A monitor.

He draws a shaky breath—iodine, like, burning levels as he inhales and holy fucking shit, he’s in a goddamn hospital.

He’s, did he…

Is this what Steve meant, when he said ‘wake up’? Did Eddie…

Did Eddie fucking survive?

It’s in the spiral of that thought that Eddie clocks the same voice that jarred him out of his own head…in his own head, before. With the fancy sheets and the warmth and the home and—

What…what if it wasn’t in his head at all—

But his body, his pulse recognizes that voice as safety. As…rightness incarnate.

“Oh fuck,” and that’s the Steve Eddie knows best, right there, a little breathy and a little pitchy for frayed nerves and constant worry and the weight of the fucking world to make sure everyone—everyone else—makes it out as okay as possible.

And it’s in thinking that, that Eddie recognizes what Steve-in-his-headin-the-future-in-his-dream-in-his-maybe-not-quite-death-hallucination meant, when he’d said Eddie’s eyes softened. Because Steve’s heart on his sleeve, in his eyes, had looked peaceful, then. Content, even.

Not so frantic. Not so…scrambling.

Still just as blinding, though.

“Thank fuck, you’re awake,” Steve half gasps, a tiny clattering against the tile floor vying to draw Eddie’s gaze away but there was genuinely nothing in the whole goddamn universe that could take Eddie’s eyes off of Steve just now, those lips parted ever so slightly, cheeks that tiny bit rosy, pulse maybe-maybe-not visible just below the bandages on his neck.

He’s beautiful.

“What do you need?” Steve’s leaning closer, hands reaching but then kinda fluttering, kinda hovering, not sure where to touch and even if they knew the answer, kinda like they’re not sure if they can touch in the first place, yet all Eddie can do when he sees them, when he feels the shift in the air for how close they are; all Eddie can do is remember what it’s like to be pressed close to Steve’s body, to feel Steve’s arms around his chest, like they’re keeping him.

“What can I do,” Steve asks, so earnest and Eddie’s pulse does a little skip for it, how good it feels; “I—”

And Steve’s eyes are already big, just short of pleading, darting to the corners of the room maybe for water, maybe for a button to call someone to help more than he can—as if anyone can help more than Steve can, just now, because Eddie’s waking up from what it feels like to have Steve, and the most pressing possible thing in the world just now is SteveSteveSteve, near enough to feel, to breathe in—

Steve’s eyes are already big, though, is the thing, even before the full-on fucking crash of something to the floor makes him freeze. Eddie tries to peer down, winces as it pulls to much at…everything, kind of, Jesus H., but he hurts everywhere, and…

“The hell were you doing?” he asks in the absence of being able to see because…metal. Metal had hit the floor, from the height of probably-the-bed, after Steve had pressed into the mattress, shifted the weight, and then he’d blinked all owlish and adorable: culpability for whatever he’d been up to written all over his gorgeous fucking face.

“Umm,” Steve chews at his lip a little, eyes peeking up through his lashes, that look that makes Eddie weak and wobbly at basically every juncture it’s possible to tremble at like that, but he doesn’t duck away; he doesn’t even blush. He’s not…whatever he was doing—and Eddie’s range of motion is fucked, he’s already super well aware of that shit when he even tries to move to see the floor, to follow the sound—but whatever Steve was doing, he’s unrepentant. But in a way where he maybe recognizes that other people would have been less brazen.

Eddie’s wrist tingles out of nowhere—weird, when all of him is already kinda in a sort of dull, narcotic-shrouded pain—and he frowns, glances down at least that far and notices the slightest ring of red that’s less angry, not attached to bite marks and broken skin, and he has the wildest thought cross his mind just then, and he steels himself to crane his neck as far as he can, to limit the strain he’ll put on his middle because now he needs to see, because he kinda knew before he cut the sheets and ran into the fray that coming out on the other side meant life behind bars if there was any life at all, yet here he is, increasingly seeming like this is real, and this is his ‘other side’, and…

He’s just in a fucking hospital. He’s…he’s here, and he’s, he’s not…he’s not in fucking chains.

And it stings like a bitch, and Steve’s a second away from stopping him, reaching for him and pressing him safely back onto the the bed, but Eddie gets the glimpse he needs. Recognizes the shape on the floor, shiny steel against the scratched-up linoleum.

“Were you,” Eddie traces the ridges of his teeth with his tongue, because there are layers to what he’s about to ask; “were, umm, were you picking the,” and the first little clatter from before makes more sense if he’s right, and if he’s right, well, fuck.

It’ll be hot as hell, if he’s right.

“That?” Eddie tilts his head toward the floor because: cuffs. What he’d seen, what had fallen: handcuffs. On the floor. And they’d have had to have been not on the floor, and probably on him before, and so, he—

“Possibly,” Steve answers with a straight face, as unapologetic as ever, maybe more; maybe even defiant, and oh, wow. Steve Harrington picking his fucking handcuffs, setting his stupidly-quickly-lovesick ass free.

Hot as fuck; seriously.

“How positively criminal of you, Harrington,” Eddie grins half-maniacal, feels the stretch of it burn against a cut that’s gotta run half the span of his cheek but fuck it, the warmth flooding him is undeniable, is incredible—he’s giddy all of a sudden, straight to his bones.

“S’nothing on hot-wiring,” Steve shrugs, like it’s not fucking everything; “but I wasn’t,” and Steve takes a deep breath before he squares his shoulders, looks at Eddie straight-on and shit, if he thought the warmth in him up to now was something?

It’s kinda got nothing on what consumes him under those eyes.

“I wasn’t going to let you wake up fucking…shackled.”

And goddamn if the fire in that voice, those words, doesn’t light Eddie up like burning, doesn’t shake him to the core and then blanket him in sureness and the kind of protection he didn’t think really existed.

Save that he does kinda think it’s exactly what this man’s made of; made for.

And Eddie can’t escape the certainty rising in his veins and pumping, fierce and unshakable, that he wants—more than maybe anything—to be the one to give that same safety, that same promise of something unwavering and permanent and beyond question, right back to Steve.

“You’re an innocent man,” Steve leans in then, emphatic with it; “you’re a goddamn hero,” and he means it, holy shit, he believes that:

“Like hell I was just gonna,” and he shakes his head, like the idea is just that preposterous; like he cannot even consider anything but Eddie being free, and okay, and here, and…

Eddie’s struck with the sudden slap of realization across the fucking face that he couldn’t have gotten topside by himself. That someone had to get him from the hellscape to here. And of the able bodies in the Upside Down, no matter how strong the girls were, only one could have wrestled him through that gate. Only one could have…whatever he maybe needed, between this bed and that bat-strewn ground, it was, Steve would have been, he’d have—

The force his heart trips, then leaps with, is fucking cataclysmic. Eddie’s honestly surprised it doesn’t just tear out from his throat then and there.

“Plus they’re in the process of finishing the paperwork to make it all official, dropping the charges and all that, clearing your name,” Steve gestures vaguely in the air, like it’s all routine, the feds and the cops sweeping shit under the rug but then he remembers all the side comments he’d collected in the back of his mind these last few days about the ‘last time’ and then ‘the time before that’ and fuck all also the first time—

Maybe it is, just…sick and twisted and harrowing and heartbreaking routine.

“They’re just really fucking slow,” Steve smiles at him, all small and devastating and…

And okay, so that overwhelming urge to be a constant in Steve Harrington’s life, safe next to his heart kinda for always, zero to forever in half-a-blink?

Eddie knew he wanted, when he threw his vest at Steve’s bare chest more for Eddie’s own fucking sanity than anyone’s modesty, but it was all washed in the hopeless-helpless colors of desperation, of why not when I won’t see tomorrow; and now.

Now, all Eddie wants is tomorrow. Every tomorrow. No tomorrows without this man. Without what he saw, how it felt: what he knows in his marrow loving him would be.

It’s probably that conviction etching into his cells that makes makes him softer, a little weepy around the edges; drives him to need through the next words that escape:

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, wishes Steve were just that little bit closer so that the distance he can reach could reach him:

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” Steve waves him off almost, like he doesn’t think everything he is, everything he’s done is monumental. Not just the cuffs but with the cuffs like the cherry on top of how Eddie would—will, if he’s given the chance—devote all that he has and all that he is to making Steve happy. To making him as calm and warm and loved as Eddie could feel in that bedroom, in his head or in the future or on death’s fucking door.

“I mean,” Steve starts, and Eddie can already feel how he’s angling to downplay the thing that’s only swelling, building, growing under Eddie’s own ribs and, well: no.

No, Eddie won’t be standing for that.

“Stevie,” and Steve’s gravitated wordless just close enough for Eddie to be able to brush his fingertips against Steve’s wrist, to curl and pull his hand into Eddie’s grasp, palm splayed above Steve’s knuckles, holding. Keeping.

“Thank you.”

And Steve stills a little, stares at him like he can see what’s tucked up tight and dear in Eddie’s chest and maybe he can, because his voice is feather-light and a little bowled-over. A little…a little awed.

“You’re welcome.”

So yeah, maybe he can see what’s in Eddie’s chest, less tucked in this moment now than fucking, like…

Blooming.

“Do you believe there’s anything waiting when we die?”

Eddie’s gonna blame the frantic blossoming warmth coursing through him for the way he blurts that shit out with no preamble, like maybe the flowering wonder of it all pushes it out without permission, sweet on the back of his tongue but heavy because it matters so much; because it’s all just nostalgia.

For now.

“What?” Steve gapes a little, sounds dumbfounded; maybe a little wary. Fearful.

His hand’s still held under Eddie’s, though, so it’s only natural the way Eddie lifts his fingers and presses them palm-to-palm like it means something.

“Do you?”

“I…don’t know,” Steve swallows hard enough the follow down the taut line of his throat, fucking mesmerizing.

So maybe the way Eddie licks his lips before he says anything more isn’t…isn’t just for the sake of the topic and its weight, is all he’s saying.

“I,” and Eddie doesn’t really know where he’s going, here, or else: he knows exactly where he’s going.

He’s just not totally sure the path he’s planning to chart along the way for getting there.

“When we were down there, and I was telling you to go after Wheeler,” which yeah, okay, surprise direction there, weird little detour, but…it doesn’t feel wrong.

Which means, if it’s right instead: then that’s everything that is Steve in Eddie’s lungs for breathing, in the chambers of his heart. So he leans into it.

Squeezes Steve’s fingers laced together with his.

“Eddie,” Steve starts, sounds tired, spent, and Eddie was never going to let that happen; no matter where he’s going, or leading them down the path of his revelations, the truth etched new but also deep in his bones like it was only waiting to be found and known.

“It was because that’s what I wanted. For me. I wanted to,” and his breath catches on a little chuckle, so light and choked and a little hysterical as he adds, giddy and a little bashful all together at once:

“Unambiguously, umm,” and he trails a little, wants to hide behind his hair just a touch but to do that would require a broader capacity to move in the first place and more, so much more: it would mean letting go of Steve’s hand.

So: absolutely not.

Especially not when Steve’s gone full dropped-jaw gaping at him, his fingers in Eddie’s grasp twitching like he’s confused, like maybe there’s part of him short-circuiting, and Eddie feels his exhales tremble when he finally blinks, finally tilts his head and takes Eddie in at a new angle before he asks, genuine and not just a little lost:

“Seriously?”

And Eddie…Eddie’s actually never been more serious in his life, so.

“Like,” and he circles Steve’s knuckles delicate-like with his thumb: “I wanted the chance, to try, I guess, yeah.”

And he doesn’t know if he’s risking everything to own it, even if he’s owning just a sliver of the breadth and depth that he feels, but he does know unequivocally that he wouldn’t hold it back if given the choice, the opportunity to do it over and not show his bloody-beating heart on display.

A bloody-beating heart that’s moving quicker, slamming harder against his chest but…that actually feels like the only correct thing it could do. Because this merits it.

This kinda is his whole fucking heart.

“Do you still?”

It takes Eddie a longer string of seconds than he’d prefer to own to, to process the words as having meaning, no matter that he doesn’t fucking understand what they’re aiming at.

“What?”

“Want,” and Steve’s the one squeezing Eddie’s hand now, turning a little to graze at the line of his veins at the wrist; “the chance.”

And he says it deceptively casual, despite how he’s staring at their hands, determinedly not meeting Eddie gaze as Eddie gets his chance at the gaping.

“Fuck yes,” Eddie finally huffs on something not unlike unabashed fucking joy, save that this thing he’s feeling is so much bigger, and when Steve looks up, meets his eyes and his own glimmer, shine so bright and brim with such disbelief, but so much stronger and with such hope, Jesus.

Eddie can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of him. Like his whole fucking soul gets shaped into a single breath of exultant delight.

And they both hold to one another, trace across skin and map the lines and dots and scars, and Eddie’s not stupid, he knows this isn’t how it works but…

But he’d still bet money on the fact that the way he’s touching Steve, so innocent and so quietly intimate, is healing his wounds, shoring up his weaknesses and stitching him up fuller, better, breath by shared-sacred breath.

It’s heady as fuck. It’s exquisite.

“Why’d you ask me about when we die?”

Steve’s the one to break the still, and even that’s not breaking anything, really; he speaks so soft. He’s stroking down from Eddie’s thumb back and forth.

It’s not breaking anything.

“I saw something,” Eddie whispers, not sure what reaction that’ll get, and Steve’s staring at their hands again, marveling really, so Eddie can’t read any hint save for the crinkled furrow in his brow.

“But you didn’t die.”

Which isn’t the reaction he thinks he expected, even if Eddie couldn’t name what he did expect. And it’s also not a revelation he thought he’d receive.

“Not at all?”

Because he’s genuinely surprised. He at least figured he’d flatlined like…long enough to have visions of absolute and total domestic bliss and shit.

But Steve’s shaking his head decisively, holding on to Eddie just a little bit tighter.

“You had a pulse, whole way to he hospital,” he tells Eddie, voice gone a little hoarse; “it wasn’t strong but,” and Steve looks up at him, and fuck, those eyes are too shiny now and Eddie doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want his Steve to hurt, he—

“I fucking held you,” Steve croaks and oh, oh he’s shaking, Jesus—

“I kinda,” and he swallows with a click Eddie can hear, around a throbbing pulse Eddie can see, wants nothing more than to soothe with his lips against that tender skin; “I kinda had to make sure, so,” and the hand that’s not holding Eddie’s comes up, trembling as he reaches toward Eddie’s chest:

“Kept my hand pressed, just,” and his voice gives, and he looks up at Eddie with something like devastation, begging something like permission because he doesn’t know that everything that Eddie is, is his.

But he will.

He will know.

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes out, holds Steve gaze as he nods, as he tries to make it clear that anything Steve needs is his, and then some.

It takes a second, but the shine in those eyes finally shifts, finally brightens and then Steve’s breathing’s made of tremors, but his hand finds Eddie’s chest and sends something sparking like lighting through him just as the whole of Eddie feels immediately like he’s home.

And Steve’s hand on his chest feels exactly like it did in their future bed, in their future room, in their future life.

Their always love.

“Yeah,” Steve whispers, then takes a moment, palm splayed wide just above Eddie’s bandages, before he’s gripping Eddie’s wrist with the other hand a little harder:

“It’s so fast,” he exhales like it holds the whole world and then some; he wonders at just Eddie’s heartbeat under his touch and god.

God, but Eddie…Eddie couldn’t have imagined he’d ever feel like this. Let alone feel like maybe it’s mutual, maybe it’s real, maybe he can keep it and stay in this feeling for forever.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Eddie murmurs, then he chuckles, inhales deep maybe just to better feel the weight of Steve’s hand; “making up for the lost opportunity, y’know,” and fuck, all he wants is to be able to lean, to kiss the pout of those lips, to taste what it means to love somebody like he’s never done before.

“Making up for what it missed the last time your hand was there to feel it.”

And Steve’s hand above his thrumming heart twitches just a little, but never flags or makes to move, to leave, and Eddie thinks that he’d be fine if he lived the rest on his days with Steve like that, near enough that he could press a hand to Eddie’s heart at all times and just…just know that it’s his.

Because maybe it’s sudden—it’s definitely quick—but Eddie’s never known anything like he knows this.

“Eddie,” Steve finally whispers, a question and a claim and a means of cradling Eddie to his heart, somehow, for how swathed in light and affection Eddie feels in that moment, in just the shape of his name like it’s never been spoken before.

“I saw the future,” Eddie blurts out in a rush, breath coming a little quicker and heart-under-Steve’s-hand pounding harder. “Maybe. I don’t know, I mean, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud but it felt so,” but then he looks into Steve’s eyes again and Steve is listening, Steve’s maybe doesn’t think he’s crazy, so he feels safe enough to say with his whole fucking chest:

“It felt real, Stevie.”

“What was it?” Steve asks, so quiet, so gentle like he doesn’t want to disturb this thing either, like he doesn’t need to hear it spelled out yet to know it’s delicate, the most important thing in the world, which fuck yeah it is, even as it cracks and chokes for the flood of feeling around it when it presses up from Eddie’s chest:

“Us,” Eddie breathes it out like the precious truth it genuinely fucking is:

“It was us.”

And Steve doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glimmer all the more, swimming with a riot of emotion to a degree than Eddie feels drowned in awe just to see it, and his hands on Eddie hold tighter, more fervent, devoted like a pledge for the way it runs through Eddie’s blood and sings in his veins:

“Even if it wasn’t real,” but Eddie’s doesn’t believe that, not really, not in his heart of hearts where it all pounds into the crevices that map Steve’s touch; “even if I wasn’t seeing the actual future,” and maybe he wasn’t, maybe that wasn’t their future, and maybe he’ll never know, but what he does know, is—

“It felt right, Steve.”

He knows that clearer than he knows the sky is blue.

“It was just a few minutes,” Eddie flounders a little, mostly because he remembers how good it was, written indelible into how much he wants, here and now:

“But I have never felt anything so right.”

He breathes, shaky and shallow and too fucking fast, but then Steve starts stroking his palm along the unmarked spaces of his chest, back and forth over the gallop of his heart like he means to stay there. Like he could ever want to keep.

“Well,” Steve whispers, his eyes on the path of his hand to make sure he doesn’t draw any pain—as if he ever could—until he knows the safe route over and back, again and again, and then he looks up, catches Eddie’s eyes and locks there, doesn’t pin so much as holds, holds, holds.

And good fucking god, Eddie feels it glisten through him like starlight; Eddie feels remade before Steve’s leaning in, lower than to meet Eddie’s mouth but then he’s pressing his lips to the dip between Eddie’s collarbones, holding there, breathing like he means to savor, like he means to cherish, like he means to, to…

To stay.

And Eddie’s heart’s under that hand and those lips all at once, wholly Steve’s while it quivers like a riot, while it leaps as Steve changes the world, writes their fucking future where his mouth drags wet and warm and ardent and there’s nothing in it at all that can be anything other than at least on the way to love as he breathes, fucking vows:

“We gotta try, then, don’t we?”

♥️

>>>also on ao3✨

for @penny00dreadful 🖤 still very fucking sorry it's this late

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here and here

[dreamerdrop]

Kai Winn is wrapped in so many terribly layered flaws and shortcomings, and they all make sense, because even at her worst you can still see the core of her: a frightened and powerless woman who begged the prophets to grant her guidance and strength through suffering, and who was ignored and looked over at every turn, pushing her to seek power of her own volition, clinging to whatever she can to make her feel strong and in control.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

so, i’m currently taking a west civics class in college, and i am currently researching ancient greek civilizations, most notably, the arts and culture of ancient greece. i know you have written a fic based on its mythological stories, with minotaur könig (bless your beautiful soul).

but through my readings, i couldn’t help but come up with such a dirty daydreams while in class. i couldn’t stop myself from thinking about könig and… the ancient olympics…

i know, realistically speaking, women were not allowed to attend or watch these games for the most part. so, in a universe where könig’s dedication not only falls upon him being a top man, but being the perfect man in honor of being recognized by the god of strength himself, he becomes so enticing in the way he trains and readies himself for such a significant event of his life. he’s never really had much to care for, neither does he need to prioritize anything that isn’t him or his training. he’s a workhorse, nothing stopping him from being the best, most valuable follower of zeus. that is… until…

well, it was your fault, and you admit that, but he wasn’t stopping you either. i mean, who could blame you, this little thing sneaking and peeping at a man who’s at work in order to provide to cute women like yourself. in fact, you argue that this was your way of appreciating a man, to observe them in their element in such a loving gaze. it didn’t help that könig was a man who preferred to train naked too, in all his glory, so of course there was no missing you, you were just too obvious for a man like him to notice you.

and with every grunt he’d give after each swing of a fist or a blade, a mew is what you’d give in return, your own form of a cheer for him to keep going. and you promised you didn’t mean to stare and make distracting noises, but an innocent maiden like yourself was just too hypnotized by this new anatomy that was found between this man’s legs. so outspoken, so dirty for your mouth to spew such beautiful filth to a stranger.

was this könig’s new test of endurance? part of the program to make him stronger for the olympic event that was just around the corner. he has heard man advising others to refrain from sex before the games, but he hadn’t even been given the chance to work on that since no one was bold enough to approach him like you did. he wonders, does fucking before a game really make a man weak, does thinking about shoving his big dumb cock in his soon-to-be wife distract him too much to succeed? perhaps, perhaps not, one thing he does know though, he’s got someone else to honor and worship, which makes his training all the more necessary.

Oh my god….. I’m totes not getting caught up in the fact that women were not allowed to participate in these activities….

This led me to think, what if some misbehaving little creature decided to peep at this Hercules reborn? She gets caught one day, but because she’s absolutely carefree and unhinged, she asks König if he could show her how to train.

CW: Nudity, implied sexism/misogyny (Ancient Greek society thang), teasing König to the point where he gets a boner and growls

Our Olympian hero gets so confused that he forgets he was supposed to report you or throw you out of the gym. Outside, where birds fly free and the sun tortures the trainees, he has picked a spot where he can train in solitude and silence: for some reason, other people’s stares make him uncomfortable… Until this curious, sweet little nymph came around, perched atop a wide rock, munching some wild mountain herb as she watched him train.

He allowed her to watch him train for two days, but on the third, he marched over to her and told her she needs to leave. Women are not allowed here, doesn’t she know that? Where are her parents? Does she have a husband?

No, no husband, and her parents don’t really care what she does. Well, this explains why she’s behaving this way. Running around the hillside so untame, watching men train—can’t she see she’s putting herself in danger? Any one of these men could decide to just take her on the barren land if she’s not careful.

She just giggles and asks, would he like to take her? Then points out that men shouldn’t waste their seed before a big competition. Also, Zeus’s wife would not think well of him if she saw him rut innocent women on the hill... There’s nothing but heaven above them, surely someone would see. The gods could curse him with a weak ankle, or a sprained muscle, a failing heart or a snake bite…

“All right, all right, that’s enough,” he says, but there’s even worse to come.

Next, she asks if he could show her how to lift those smaller rocks, how to throw a javelin or a discus. Could he teach her how to wrestle…?

“Absolutely not,” he scoffs while his groin floods with warmth at the thought of wrestling with this pretty, wonton woman. She’s absolutely disgraceful, and yet, he doubts she’s running from man to man, teasing them to death. She’s not begging to get raped, she’s just… a little gullible, or something. Happened to take interest in him, little thing. As she should, after all, he’s the pride of this city...

“You fear I’ll become better than you?” She asks with little stars in her stare.

“Bah. Don’t be ridiculous...”

They’re both smiling, now. This kind of banter and games he has never experienced with a lady, she’s making him extremely uncomfortable and at the same time, fly high like Icarus. He’ll have to be careful he doesn’t get burned…

When he still refuses to show her how to train, she shrugs and goes over to the wooden javelin that’s taller than her. Picking it up, he expects the gods to smite her down with a sudden hail or thunder, but nothing happens. The sun keeps on shining, and the sheep keep on baaing. She weighs it with two hands, then starts to look for a spot to try and throw it.

“Wait,” he calls after her, but she only looks back at him with a smile. Picks off to run, with the javelin securely in her right hand, she runs like a deer while he lumbers after her, completely perplexed.

Insufferable woman… He’s growing hard from the cock as he runs, somehow aroused by this silly chase. Like Apollo trying to court Daphne, but his Daphne is not meek and unwilling; she’s giggling as he huffs and runs after her like a stumbling giant.

At a distant field of nothing but rock and weather-beaten flowers, she stops. Shields her eyes as she looks for a perfect spot, she’s not even breathless when he finally catches her. She turns around to look at her hero, catching his breath in the sun.

“You’re not fit enough for a marathon,” she comments. “Did you lift too many weights?”

“Give me the javelin,” he pants, dismissing her blunt analysis of his weaknesses. Stepping towards her, he extends his hand, offering her a chance to return it to him without fuss.

“Wrestle it from me,” she smiles, so playfully and brightly that his cock suffers another throb.

Gods damn this woman... She’s toying, playing with him, teasing him to the point where he’s left no choice.

He doesn’t want to hurt her, which means the “wrestling” becomes an awkward battle of snickers and limbs. His cock gets in the way, and to an outsider, this might look like a scene of an oddly gentle, upcoming rape… This little minx is giving him such an ache in his head and his loins that he’s gritting his teeth by the time he gets his hands around the wooden spear. By then, she has her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms above her head as she’s lying on her back with him on top of her.

“I’m not letting go,” she laughs as they both hold the spear, his erection now blissfully trapped between her legs.

“Who sent you,” he grunts, head spinning as he tries to figure out which of the gods is trying to give him trouble this time.

“What do you mean…?”

“You’re here to thwart and tease me. Tell me who sent you, now.”

“You think I’m sent by some angry god?”

Her eyes sparkle even more, if possible. She even giggles under him and under the sun, her laugh like a thousand little bells in his ears.

“That’s so cute…!”

His grunts turn into a hollow, painful growl – even Tartaros is better than this.

“Train me, and I’ll let you have your silly javelin,” she smiles, even licking her lips before they purse together innocently.

But he knows she’s far from innocent. She has to be a curse of some sort, a plight sent here to torment him, because he finds himself sighing, “Alright…”

He gives her one condition: she has to wear clothes; no flaunting herself around him and especially not around the other men if they were to ever see her. They will both get flogged or worse if this mockery comes to daylight… She gives him a soft, adoring smile this time, and says of course, whatever he says.

The next day, she’s waiting for him at the training grounds, javelin in her hands…

Completely, utterly naked.

[chiropteracupola]

granby + iskierka + keynes

[crow-with-a-pencil]

Hi @naffeclipse I'm very normal about your fic. Have some frantic midnight sketches as extra kudos along with some tag rambling :)

[winged-self-indulgence]

Dearly beloved we are gathered here today to honour @queeniesblog, who enables the demon living rent free in my brain. Consider this an early-early-early gift. 1.9K words, AFAB!MC, Favor VN wedding night DLC lmao

Z insists on carrying you across the threshold. You’re not even sure where he heard about the tradition, antiquated as it was. Perhaps the demon had overheard one of your more imaginative bridesmaids daydreaming about it, or maybe Z had crashed some medieval wedding in Europe and liked the idea of tossing his chosen human over his shoulder and making off with them like a beast out of the darkest folktales. You hadn’t been able to get a straight answer out of the demon, which was such a common occurrence you wondered why you'd even tried in the first place.

“You only had to carry me into the house,” you roll your eyes, wrapping your arms tighter around Z’s broad shoulders. “Not all the way from the wedding venue. I didn’t have to be in your lap for the whole trip.”

He’s partly shifted, the transformation dial swinging somewhere between the mostly human veneer you met them as and the massive abyssal creature you’ve only seen when the demon slips into your dreams. Even then, the shape was unclear, leaving only the vague sense of being utterly dwarfed by a thing so far beyond human comprehension that your brain struggled to put the separate pieces together.

This form is easier to perceive. At the very least, the 7ft 5” frame didn’t make your brain struggle with the wretchedness of the chthonic depths.

Z’s arms tighten around your frame, tar-drenched hands sliding over the pearl-studded filigree of your snow-white gown – their idea of a joke – to squeeze the plush underside of your thighs.

“And let those weaklings doubt my claim over you?” Z’s lips pull down into an exaggerated moue of distaste. “Perish the thought, Dove. Besides, you were the one who vetoed the other ritual–”

“I’m not letting you fuck me in front of your entire court!” You cut him off, face hot with what you are choosing to label as pure mortification. The lascivious flash of Z’s teeth tells you otherwise and you do your best to glare right back. “It’s not happening, you horndog!”

“Mm, I don’t know sweetheart,” Z murmurs and holds you closer, pulling you flush against his frame. Curved fangs nudge at your throat, exerting a sharp pressure through the delicate collar wrapped around vulnerable flesh. It’s a heady reminder. It is also a delicious threat. You shudder, a breath hitching somewhere in your chest, and the demon laughs at the sound, breath hot against your skin and sending another shiver down your spine. “I bet I could figure out some way to convince you.”

As soon as the door to the bedroom opens, Z’s lips are on yours. The kiss is fervent, devouring, an arrogant forked tongue pressing into your mouth with intent that has you squirming in place. Your own hormones and the weight of his huge frame pin you to the bed while rough hands roam over your body, greedy and insatiable, the demon unable to control the sheer voracity of their appetite for you. They caress the shape of your body through your clothes, groping with palms that feel burning hot even through layers of beading and silk.

Their tongue traces a slick trail up to the sensitive skin behind your ear. The jagged pinch of canines against the helix of your ear has you choking back a desperate whimper, and the demon retracts long enough to click his teeth. “Nuh-uh. Whine for me, baby. I wanna hear every sound out of that pretty little mouth.”

The next bite is far less gentle, and the wordless cry that falls from your lips burns your cheeks. You want to retaliate somehow, but Z’s tail is infuriatingly out of reach, lashing back and forth behind the demon’s back in a manner that betrays their obvious excitement.

“There’s my Dove,” Z coos against your lips, smirking at your overheated expression. “Poor thing, you must be so uncomfortable in all those layers, darling. Here, let me help you get those pesky clothes off.”

A hand grabs the front of your strapless dress and yanks, filling the room with the sound of tearing fabric. Before you can open your mouth complain, Z’s mouth is on your exposed breasts, and your mind instantly goes blank. Your back arched, head falling back against the pillow as the demon laves his tongue over your nipples, drawing them deep into mouth and sucking as though by sheer dedication he can force your tits to grow swollen with milk.

Muscular arms reach down to hitch your hips around Z’s waist. It’s a stretch in this form, huge as he is, and your thighs split embarrassingly wide. You gasp, feeling the solid weight of his bulge prodding against your barely clothed cunt and you can’t stop yourself from pushing harder against the thick length. The lingerie you’d worn for your wedding night was designed more for form than actual function, hardly more than a few thin pieces of pearl-white lace held together by thinner ribbons. A single tug from your fingers would send it fluttering to pieces.

Already sheer enough to narrowly fit the definition of underwear, your juices have turned the fabric nearly transparent, moulding it against the lips of your pussy. In the face of that, Z’s cock seems like overkill – prominent veins grinding back into the motion of your hips with enough force to knock the breath from you.

“Look at you, getting my cock all nice and slick,” Z groans into your ear, an arm hiking your left leg higher while the other pinches your chin and drags your face to meet his fiery gaze. “Fuck, you’re drenched baby. Such a needy hole, huh?”

“Z!” You spit out the demon’s name, fed up with their teasing. “I need–! Just put it in already!”

“Put what in?” He taunts, blinking those amber eyes innocently while a fat glob of precum pools at the tip of his cock. You feel the obscene warmth when it reaches the sodden cloth barely protecting what’s left of your chastity. You open your mouth to repeat your demands, but another jerk of Z’s hips has you whining again. When he speaks again, his voice drips with false regret. “Whoops, I’m so sorry Dove, I didn’t mean to. Come on, use your words baby. I’m listening. Where exactly do you want me to put my cock?”

“I-Inside,” you gasp, struggling to hook your ankles at Z’s back so you can draw the demon closer to you. “Please, I need you inside!”

“Then get those pretty panties off, Dove,” Z pushes themselves up, taking the weight off their arms and off you. The sudden change fills you with a strange sense of loss, until you lift your head and find the demon still looming over your, eyes still fixed on your debauched state with terrifying intensity. It’s inhuman; a flat, hungry stare that promises to swallow you whole – bones and all.

A hand is wrapped around their cock, rhythmically squeezing dark flesh up and down and occasionally pausing to thumb the bulbous tip that oozes sticky precum. The sight makes your mouth water, until Z lets out a dark chuckle.

“Dove,” he croons, hand never stopping or slowing down, “you know how impatient I can be. Unless you want me to shove my cock down your throat instead of that pretty little cunt, I’d advise you to stop looking at me like that.”

Huffing, you manage to tear your eyes away and focus on reaching for your underwear. It’s practically tissue at this point, scarcely more than scraps clinging to your cunt, and yet the act of peeling them away feels somehow obscene. Instinctively, you try to inch your legs shut, but a large hand catches you by the ankle and drags you into the embrace of an inferno.

You catch yourself against Z’s broad chest, yelping when you find yourself back in a variant of your earlier pose – this time balanced upright in the demon’s lap instead of pinned prone on the bed. Z’s cock finds itself back against your pussy lips, this time without even the minuscule protection of your underwear. A glance down reveals the sheer difference in size between the two of you, his cockhead reaching beyond your navel.

“You can take it, honey,” Z hums, reaching down to press two fingers through your slick folds. The stretch has you gasping his name, wrapping your arms tighter around his shoulders as your pussy squeezes around Z’s pointer and middle digits. He stretches you out, whispering filth into your ear while he fondles you with a teasingly condescending sort of affection. “Aw, is it too much for you, pet? You can handle a little more for me, can’t you? Oh no, no, no, don’t you dare hide your face from me, darling. You’re so cute when you cry. That’s it, give it to me.”

Z jams his thumb against your clit, curling his fingers at the same time. Your vision goes white, blurry with tears, as you careen into an orgasm so intense that you swear you see entire galaxies spinning before you. When you manage to come back to yourself, the head of his cock his lined up with your hole. A pleading moan is all the acquiescence Z requires before it pops in, and you scramble to cling to your sanity.

The stretch burns, a pleasurable heat that arches your back and forces another inch of Z’s cock into your cunt. “Shit,” the demon curses, an arm holding up your weight and the talons of the other gripping the mattress below in a concerted effort to hold back as best he can. “Fuck don’t do that, Dove. So goddamn tight, you’ll make me come if you don’t stop squeezing me like that.”

“Feels too good,” you moan back, fighting the urge to obey gravity and sink down onto the girth splitting you open. Only Z’s grip on your waist prevents that from happening, and it’s your turn to grow impatient. “You said I could have anything as long as I asked. Are you going to deny me on our wedding night?”

“Hm, I see someone’s grown spoiled,” Z smirks down at you, unmoving despite the flush high on his cheeks. Behind him, his tail thrashes back and forth, belying his smug words. “Ask me nicely pet.”

You barely refrain from rolling your eyes, before biting back a sardonic look of your own. Leaning closer, you force yourself to balance on your knees – dislodging Z’s cock completely, causing him to curse under his breath – and press your lips to his ear.

“Pretty please, oh Great Marquis, won’t you please come inside my cunt?” You whine in the most breathy, put-upon, amateur porno actress voice you can muster. “I’m so wet for you, and I need you to shove your fat cock into my tiny little pussy and fill me up so much that I can’t even stand. Please Z, please fuck my wet little – ah!”

“Be careful what you ask for,” Z hissed, spearing you on his cock. Once again, your world vanishes, reduced to nothing else beyond broken moans and the burning pleasure of Z’s swollen cock abusing your aching cunt. “Don’t worry, Dove, I’ll make it up to you. Since you want my come so badly, I’ll make sure to fuck you niiiice and full. After all, we have all the time in the world…”

[separatist-apologist]

How do you keep boundaries and find balance around your fandom experience?

I feel so bad saying this bc everyone is so nice but I feel pressure to keep up with and promote mutuals’ work and its starting to burn me out from being able to write

I hear this all the time and maybe this is the depression talking but oh man I want to respond to this.

People write SO. FAST. Can you imagine if I got angry every time one of my mutuals didn't reblog/comment/read one of my fics? I'd have no mutuals, no friends, nothing at all. Like at some point you have to trust your mutuals are actually your friends and they're not going to get upset if you don't hype every project they do.

And if they DO get upset, well...thats a reciprocal relationship built on a foundation of weeds and if it can crumble so easily, were you ever actually friends/mutuals at all? I know this is common in fandom spaces and I talk to people all the time who are like, so-and-so doesn't interact with me anymore since I didn't review/read/WHATEVER their last fic and I'm always like. Couldn't be me.

There are a million fics I'd like to read and a million more I'm 10+ chapters behind on. It's just not possible. And I think about like...me and @ablogofsapphicpanic who has only read the fics I've written FOR her. We talk every single day about everything and nothing at all. Or me and @the-lonelybarricade who spent so much time beta-ing for each other that if you went through our work during that time period, you'd probably find SO much overlap in our phrasing/structuring/whatever else. It was never a conscious decision to stop, just kind of a mutual recognition we were busy with our own things but were supporting the other (loudly!) from the sidelines.

My POINT is that this is your hobby! And of course engagement is important- we should hype up our mutuals whenever possible, and read their excellent work because we like what they do. And I think its okay to free yourself from the pressure of trying to do ALL of it, all of the time.

[total-drama-brainrot]

uhaam. like a dog by ferry. rk noah. Am i insane

I saw this ask, blacked out, and woke up to this on my screen.

So I think we're both a little insane. (The song, for context.)

[amee-racle-ofmyown]

I've been unable to work on my longer WIPs for some reason but take this. for lack of a better title:

idiots locked in the world's most romantically charged staring contest

Heist Mark x Y/N (reader) | 628 words

You wait just around the corner, quiet and out of sight, and lightly smack Mark's arm with the back of your hand when he tries to peer around you, lest someone see and you have both your covers blown.

Your partner rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and you level him with a stare.

You understand the anticipation, but patience is crucial for jobs like this. You wait for the signal. One wrong move could cost you a lot more than just your loot.

The little nook of the building you're waiting in is, rather conveniently for means of slinking around unnoticed, out of the way, and quite narrow. Even with Mark leaning back against the opposite wall, you are mere inches apart.

He checks his watch. 'Should be any minute now,' he utters in a hushed voice.

You nod. Several seconds pass. Distant chatter echoes down the halls, muffled into a steady background ambience of rich party attendees blissfully unaware of the thieves in their midst.

You look at your partner, simply because you have nothing else to do. He's craning his neck again in a futile attempt to peek around the corner more subtly.

His suit for the night is crisp, and gives his silhouette a sharper outline than the more typical cosy sweaters and soft flannel shirts. His hair looks especially dark cast in shadow, but there's enough light from outside the enclosed space that you see it reflected in his eyes. Softly glowing white and orange and magenta specs, floating on deep brown. Pretty.

It's as he turns his head back to face you, that he notices you staring, and meets your gaze without missing a beat.

Mark smiles, faintly roguish, but gentle and just for you.

He holds your stare, and something to the way he does so makes you wonder if he sees the same lights sparkling in your own eyes, and if he finds the sight as oddly captivating as you do.

A minute passes.

Mark loosens his tie.

It's a simple, small thing, but it stirs something inside of you, and you don't know why, but your breath hitches a little and your eyes widen slightly and he definitely notices. But he doesn't say anything and neither do you. All he does is keep looking intensely into your eyes until he doesn't because his gaze is flickering elsewhere — trailing across your features, settling on your mouth for longer than can be dismissed and when you bite your lip subconsciously it's as if he's mesmerised. You can hardly recall where you are or what you're doing here, none of it matters as much as his head tilting ever so slightly and then—

A voice through your earpiece jolts you out of your stupor. You suddenly take stock of the warmth from Mark's breath on your face. Your noses almost bumping. When did he get so close?

You press a button on your earpiece to answer the call, and by the look on your partner's face, he hears it too. It's Wubba and Bubba, giving the signal as agreed, and the moment is gone and your friend clears his throat and straightens up, as a confusing mixture of disappointment and frustration and lingering excitement flutter and twist in your gut.

When he moves out of your immediate space, the inches feel like miles.

You push the feelings down. You have work to do.

Mark mumbles something over the voice channel before turning back to you once again.

'You ready, buddy?'

The corner of your mouth quirks up, matching his own eager grin.

'You know I am.'

His grin widens.

'Good,' he says, adjusting his sleeve and finally getting a better look around the corner, now that the coast is decidedly clear. 'Alright, partner. Showtime.'

[anoant-haikyuu-dump]

Fukutora Drabble — Kenma and Fukunaga have a little chat

Roughly 680 words, Kenma's POV, this is Fukutora but Tora's mostly just mentioned, TLDR Kenma is tired

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As a general rule of thumb Kenma avoids other people’s love lives like the plague. He stands idly by at training camp when Bokuto makes goo-goo eyes at Akaashi instead of the balls he’s supposed to be spiking. He ignores Shoyo’s weird insult-flirting with his setter (a difficult task since they do it mid-game) and turns a blind eye to whatever fruity mess is going on between Karasuno’s tall bitchy blocker and their pinch server. Not even the romantic escapades of his own team interest him— who cares if Inuoka and Shibayama have been hanging out more? That’s none of his business. But this. This is his business. Because the dumb oaf he reluctantly calls a friend keeps making it his business.

He caught Fukunaga before practice one morning and pulled him aside, careful to make sure the topic of today’s discussion was safely out of earshot. Once the coast was clear he turned back to Fukunaga, who stared at him with those beady little eyes of his. Ugh, this was gonna be horrible. 

“Ok, normally I wouldn’t get involved,” Kenma started, already cringing at their impending conversation. “It’s not my job to run around spreading gossip I don’t care about, and I definitely don’t care about this. But he’s actually driving me insane.” He sighed. “Tora’s into you. Like, really into you.” 

Fukunaga blinked, waiting patiently for him to continue. When nothing else came he simply nodded. “I know.” 

“You do?” He nodded again. That made sense, it’s not like Tora was subtle in the slightest. He was pretty sure everyone on Nekoma (minus Lev) knew. Hell, people on other teams knew. Akaashi certainly knew cause Kenma always complained to him about it. A guy as perceptive as Fukunaga was bound to catch on. “Well can you hurry up and turn him down already?” Kenma continued, “I’m getting sick and tired of hearing about it.” 

Fukunaga shook his head, “No can do boss.” 

“What? Why not?” A shrug. How foolish of Kenma to expect an actual response. “You know, it’s kind of messed up to lead him on like that, even if it’s Tora.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Wait… do you actually like him back?” 

Fukunaga gave him a slight smile and flashed a thumbs up. The gears in Kenma’s brain were really turning now. Setting aside Fukunaga’s abysmal taste in men, this wasn’t computing. “Let me get this straight. You know he likes you.”

“Mmm.” 

“And you like him back.” 

“Mhm.” 

“But you’re choosing to sit back and do nothing about it?”

“Bingo.”

It took all of Kenma self-restraint to stop him from slamming his head into the wall. At this rate he was gonna have wrinkles before hitting his 20’s. “Why would you do that?” he groaned, “Don’t you wanna date him or whatever? Actually don’t answer that, thinking about it’s gonna make me gag.” 

Though his expression barely changed the look Fukunaga gave him sent a chill down Kenma’s spine. “I wanna see what happens.” he said.  

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“What he’ll do next.” 

“Huh?” 

“How far he’ll go.”

Kenma rubbed his forehead, exasperated. He almost felt bad for Tora, before remembering that he’s the most insufferable person on the planet. “So what you’re saying is you’re dragging this out on purpose just to watch him embarrass himself week after week trying to impress you.” 

Another nod. “It’s cute.” 

“For you! Not for us! It’s getting really pathetic to watch, Shibayama said it’s giving him second-hand anxiety. Also gross.” 

“Sorry.” He sounded about as sorry as that time he dumped a bucket of water over him and Tora in their first-year. That is to say not at all. 

Kenma just sighed. It was too early for this, and they still had a full morning practice to slog through. “You know Fukunaga, there’s something deeply wrong with you.” 

Before he could respond a voice echoed from the gym. “KENMA! SHOHEI! HELP SET UP THE NET YA JACKASSES!” 

“There’s your man.” Kenma grumbled.

“Yup!” 

“Eww, don’t agree with me.”  

Together they head towards the gym, silently agreeing to never mention this conversation again.

[graveposting]

me when

me hwhen the------

the brainworms-

[cartwrong]

Whumptober / Day 22 / Tourniquet

"Oh, that's not good."

“Roddy, that’s not fucking helping!” Shirley sneered, and River thought she might strangle the tech expert if her hands weren’t currently covered in River’s blood.

“What? It’s not,” Roddy said, offended as he turned a shade paler.

River didn’t need to be told things were dire; the pain and the large amount of blood staining his jeans were enough to tell him that. Well, that and the bullet hole in his thigh.

“Give me your belt,” Shirley yelled at the tech whiz, holding her hand out impatiently, leaving one still pressed against River’s wound.

“It’s Gucci,” Ho scoffed.

“I don’t give a shit. If you don’t give it to me right fucking now, I’m going to strangle you with it.”

It would be quite amusing to watch Shirley threaten Roddy’s life if River wasn’t also concerned about bleeding to death.

“You’re buying me a new one,” Roddy said as he reluctantly unbuckled his belt before sliding it from his jeans but holding on a second too long for Shirley to rip it violently from his hand. “That hurt!”

“Oh, does that hurt?” River yelled, pressing harder to the bullet wound in his thigh while Shirley wound it around his upper leg. “I’m sorry my gunshot wound led to a little rope burn!”

River groaned in pain, his vision going white as Shirley tightened the belt around his thigh, just above the hole in his pants, before inserting the empty clip from his gun into it and twisting.

“Fuck! Did you have to tighten it that much?” he asked once he recovered, his breath coming in heaving gasps.

“If you don’t want to bleed out, I did,” Shirley answered, and that was fair enough. “Where the fuck is the ambulance?”

As if on cue, Marcus returned, paramedics trailing behind him.

“Thank fuck,” Shirley said, waving them over. “Took you fucking long enough.”

“I couldn’t make them appear faster now, could I?” Marcus argued.

“Look at him, he looks half dead,” Shirley replied.

“I can hear you,” River slurred.

Shirley ignored him and turned to the paramedics checking her watch, “I just applied the tourniquet a few minutes ago.”

River found it more difficult to follow what they were saying as he realised the pain in his leg had begun to lessen. That had to be a good thing, right? Only now was he suddenly freezing, his body beginning to shiver slightly as the first paramedic, a man around his mum’s age, knelt beside him.

“Does he have any medication allergies?”

“Fuck if I know,” Shirley answered.

“No,” River said, his voice quiet.

“What was that?” the other paramedic, a woman a few years younger than him, asked.

“No,” River said, attempting to be louder.

He was getting tired now, and the paramedics were here, so maybe he could rest his eyes a bit.

“Wait!” he said, his eyes flying open as a surge of adrenaline coursed through him. “You should leave. Lamb–Lamb’ll be mad. Go.”

He tried to lift his hand and shoo them away, but his limb wasn’t cooperating. He tried again, his hand merely twitching on the blood-stained concrete beside him. Well, that was annoying. He tried, but he couldn’t make them move now; it was up to them if they didn’t want to be fired.

Again.

He let his eyes slip shut, the pain now almost gone, though he was colder than before.

“River, wake up!”

“Tired,” he mumbled.

The other voices blended together. Some he knew, some he didn’t. He hoped they were listening to him. Roddy Ho’s unmistakable voice was the last thing he heard before he succumbed entirely to the darkness.

“Can I have my belt back now?”

[yujeong]

I've made my fascination with filth and how it connects to VP loud and clear at least three times on my blog, but I seriously can't state enough how much it occupies my mind. There's just something really powerful about someone not only being not grossed out by your filth, but, on the contrary, being attracted to it. Pulled into it. Turned on by it. That's what happens to Vegas at the safehouse. Pete is at the worst state he's ever been (debatable, since we don't know much about his past), and yet it's at these moments Vegas starts to become obsessed with him. I love how it's kind of subtle in its presentation. After all, KinnPorsche The Series is a very polished and "clean" show. Everyone is dressed nicely and the fight scenes never get too dirty or too bloody. The sex scenes never get too messy, either. And yet, at the safehouse, Pete is allowed to show parts of his filth to the audience. His hair is greasy, his skin is feverish, his lips are parched, there's black under his eyes, his voice changes, not even mentioning the dirt on him and the blood trickling down his chest. The rest is implied: the bad breath, the yellow teeth, the smell, the digestive problems he 100% has. What's implied is more important, because it's those filthy parts of Pete that Vegas embraces with fervor: he kisses a pill into Pete's unwashed mouth, and he eats Pete's unwashed ass. I love thinking about the juxtaposition of internal vs external filth as well, because to me, the VP arc kind of flips them on their head: Pete's filth is, as I explained above, external. He's filthy in appearance, in body, while Vegas' filth is internal, in his mind, in his heart. By the end of the show, Vegas ends up with external filth (another thing I've posted about that got some mixed reactions lol) that he has to find how to navigate his life with, and this time, it's Pete who embraces it. Don't get me wrong here. Both of these men have internal filth. Pete isn't some innocent, pure angel and he knows it, and Vegas does, too. Self-loathing just doesn't let him remember it most of the time. I'm going to end this post with this screenshot, which is probably one of my favourite VP moments (besides the sex itself), and that's because it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever witnessed on my screen. Look at the pores on their skin, at Vegas' bags under his eyes, at Pete's wet hair above his ear, at the stubble on Pete's chin and Vegas' upper lip. Look at them being filthy and at home. Aren't they gorgeous?

[glitterrosesnzz]

I saw you might accept tiny drabble reqs for Wanderer?

What about Sethos, Traveler, or even Childe (if you wanna go Scaramouche) finding a "malfunction" in his body that when triggered immediately causes a sneeze/sneeze fit, no matter what. Could be tweaking a certain mechanism, could be a surge of elemental energy (specific element or not), could be dragging a touch in a specific line or rythym along his face/nose?

Might suck idk

this went through so many rewrites that i felt like i was bordering on losing it entirely. i cut off a huge chunk of words cause i just couldn't figure out how to conclude it through that route. maybe i'll reuse it for a different fic later....

anyways. i took creative liberties when it came to what the "malfunction" was hope u don't mind-

"Hh'InKkyYSHhii!"

A particularly strong breeze ruffled Sethos' hair as he startled, almost dropping the cat in his arms as he spun around to stare at the Wanderer, who had been standing behind him. Of all the responses Sethos' could've gotten to off-handedly comparing the other to the cute little kitten in his arms, he hadn't been expecting that.

It was obvious the Wanderer hadn't been expecting it either, if the startled and slightly hazy look on his face was any indication. Sethos opened his mouth to ask- and was interrupted before he could even begin as the Wanderer snapped forwards with two more drawn out sneezes, the resulting pulses of anemo making the loose edges of his clothes flutter.

"HihH'KksShHnii! Hh-heEH-hH'iikKSHyhn-tii!" The Wanderer pressed the back of his hand against his nose, rubbing it for a moment before stopping and just letting his hand rest there, pressed against his nose.

"Woah, are you okay? Those sound way worse than normal." Sethos finally managed to ask- and, as he sort of predicted, the Wanderer responded to that by glaring at him.

"Tch, I'm fine." The Wanderer's voice also sounded different than usual, though Sethos couldn't really place his finger on what, exactly, was different. "Just ihH- ...ignore it-hH'IinNkSHhiiu!!"

"Kinda hard to ignore it when you keep doing it." Sethos said, trying to fix the strands of his hair that'd been blown out of place- and oh, now he knows why the Wanderer's voice sounded off- "You sound a bit congested- are you sick?"

"Wh- no. I-I'm not."

"Then what's up with you?"

"It's just- hH-hiH-.... a-a cat allergy."

"...A cat allergy." Sethos deadpanned, glancing down at the cat in his arms to see if it was believing this complete bullshit before looking back up at the Wanderer, who avoided his eyes.

"What, do you need me to... to repeat it?" The Wanderer rubbed slightly more intensely at his nose, clearly trying to hold back another sneeze.

"No no no, it's just- well, I've seen you hanging out with cats before, and there's never been any-"

"HhiH'KkyYSHhii! Fuck!" The Wanderer swore, before rapidly turning and starting to hurriedly walk away from Sethos.

"Wait, hey! Where are you going?!"

"None of your business!"

~

Over the past three days, Sethos had come to collect a mental list of the Wanderer's supposed 'allergies'. Cats, dust, Sumeru roses, a passerby's perfume, and... sand.

Sethos took issue with that last one specifically, he was absolutely certain that one was not possible, and besides, they're in the city. Sethos has been staying in a rented room and hasn't been back to the desert in over a week- there's not even any sand here to be allergic to!

So, overall, Sethos is 99.8% sure the Wanderer is just outright lying, and should really really be resting in a bed, because he did not seem to be getting better- and the redness of his face, whenever Sethos managed to catch a good glimpse of it from under the Wanderer's hat, was just red enough to indicate a fever.

And, of course, this conclusion is what led Sethos to, at the first opportunity, grab hold of the Wanderer's arm and start practically dragging him back to the Sanctuary of Surasthana.

From the moment he grabbed hold of him, Sethos couldn't help but note that it felt like the Wanderer was shaking.

Shockingly enough, the Wanderer had stopped protesting after the first few minutes, obediently letting himself be pulled along in silence. Or, well, near silence- the Wanderer sneezing intermittently as they walked upward.

(There was also a faint sort of... whirring noise that Sethos couldn't place. He chose to ignore it for now, focusing on the Wanderer's obvious illness first).

Nahida standing at the entryway to the Sanctuary with her arms crossed wasn't much of a surprise.

Aether standing next to her in the exact same pose kinda-sorta was though.

"Hey," Aether said, sliding up between Sethos and the Wanderer, "Hand Mr. Hat Guy over to me while you explain... whatever is going on to Nahida."

After a moment, Sethos obediently handed the Wanderer over (the Wanderer himself too busy focusing on holding his breath in an attempt to keep himself from sneezing to protest), and then turned to begin to explain the situation to Nahida, not even noticing Aether leading the Wanderer off to the side.

"You have to tell him." Aether whispered, "You can't keep this up forever."

The Wanderer, still holding his breath, shook his head no.

"No as in you don't wanna tell him, or no as in you agree that you can't keep this up?"

Aether smirked as the Wanderer glared at him, before turning to pay more attention to Sethos' explanation.

"-and he keeps insisting that he's just allergic-"

"Ha, allergic to blushing maybe." Aether mumbled. The Wanderer harshly elbowed him in the chest, before snapping to the side with a sneeze.

"Hh-hIH'KksSHhyii!! HehH-" The Wanderer's wavering breath was quick to hitch again, and he hurriedly pinched his nose shut, attempting to hold his breath again. Aether noticed with some amusement that the whirring noise that had arrived with the Wanderer had just gotten considerably louder.

"Y'see!" Sethos said loudly, snapping both Aether and the Wanderer's attention back to him. "He clearly needs to be in bed!"

"I-I'm finehH-hH'iikKSHyhn-tii!! Hh'InKkyYSHhii!!"

"His room is on the right, five doors down the left hallway." Nahida said, ignoring the Wanderer's sputtered attempts at protest through hitching breaths. Sethos promptly thanked her, and wasted no time in snatching the Wanderer's wrist and dragging him into the Sanctuary. Aether walked back up to stand beside Nahida as they both watched the Wanderer willingly get led to the left and then vanish down the hallway.

"Y'know." Aether started, "I don't think he hates this treatment, as much as he's trying to make it seem otherwise. ...How long do you think until he tells him-"

"-that his systems are overreacting to being flustered, and the whirring vibration is affecting him in very unsubtle ways?" Nahida finished for him, "Hm... I'd say about a week."

"You wanna bet on it?"

"Sure!"

[32girassoisdevangogh]