#makeout fic

[rivalswrites]

Backstage

Before you read, please be warned that I'm writing based on my impressions of them not only in the game (though it's the biggest inspiration), but some of them with the movies/shows in mind too.

Definitely suggestive (making out, possible inappropriate touching if you wanna consider it that way), but nothing explicitly specified.

Y'all this is so nasty, super self indulgent because OH MY GOD SHE'S GORGEOUS UUUGH

Masterlist

The music pierced through the air, bass practically causing an earthquake from the large speakers around the stage. Illyana was- well, she was next to you, jumping up and down while screaming the lyrics to the song like everyone else.

While she was super into the concert the two of you were attending, her focus was still somewhat on you. Her hand held yours while her other was raised up and fisting the air repeatedly with the beat. When she had asked you to go with her to a concert, you don't know what you expected- but it wasn't really hard metal.

Throughout your time being with Illyana, you knew her taste in music was hardcore- loud and barely verbal lyrics- but it still surprised you when you showed up to the venue to see a bunch of metalheads. And by no means did you hate it, it was just going to take a moment to get used to. Except you weren't used to it after about two hours of it, the continuous music and screaming, band after band going up on the stage.

All you could do to try and make yourself calm enough in such a high energy atmosphere was focus on her hand in yours, how it was tugged up and down by her jumping and other movements.

When the next song had finished there was a pause in the music, the bands were switching again, which allowed Illyana to stop her dancing and turn to you- taking large deep breaths to calm her heart a little. “Are you okay?” She asked, huffing it out while using her free hand to wipe under her bangs that practically covered half her face. “Yeah, yeah,” you replied, using your sleeve to help her wipe off some of the sweat, “I'm not used to concerts going this long.”

The hold of your hand tightened before she started tugging you along, making way through the crowd to the back before making it past everyone to where the food vendors were and then beyond, finding a small crack between empty buildings.

“Better?” She turned back to you and looked into your eyes, though you couldn't see it, to get an estimate on how you were feeling. “Yeah, you didn't have to-”

“Nonsense,” she cuts you off. “I dragged you here, you should've told me earlier you were overwhelmed.” And just like that she had clocked your entire mood since the beginning of the concert. Though you suppose you should've known she'd eventually find out, she was very in tune with not only her own- but with your emotions too.

“But you'll miss part of the next band” you whisper, looking over to the large crowd that was now yelling the name of the next band to get them to come on stage. “Eh, they're not my favorite.” She shrugs and looks around for a small moment.

“Yeah, you, Illyana Rasputin, don't like a metal band” you said sarcastically, chuckling at your own statement. “I'm serious,” she says, taking a few steps closer until your back is against the wall and she's just about entirely touching you with her own body. “they're music isn't great. Bad tempo and stuff.”

You couldn't even reply, paying more attention to how her body heat radiated into yours with the close proximity. Your hands that were holding each other suddenly felt sweaty, though maybe that was just you and your nervousness. All you could do to show some respect was let out a little “uh-huh” after what she had said.

Illyana looked down at your hands that were connected, bringing them up and placing yours gently on the wall, holding it there with her own while her other hand had settled on your hip. “I’d much rather be here with you anyways.” Her statement made you flush red, looking up at her with admiration. “This is way better than some music.”

Before you could ask what ‘this’ was to her, she leaned in and pressed her lips against yours, turning to deepen the kiss soon after and fully pressing her body against yours. Both her hands tightened their grip on you. You raised your free hand to wrap around her shoulders, careful to avoid the spikes, and grab onto the fabric of her shirt.

She pulled back for a deep breath before diving in for more, barely letting you catch a breath for yourself. Music started playing in the background, the two of you being just far enough away to where it felt like music you'd have playing in the car. The pounding of the drums ran through the wall and verberated onto your back.

The make out was turning messy, her hand on your hip trailing back and gripping your shirt tightly before letting go and rubbing back and forth- the friction causing your shirt to raise enough to where her hand eventually just laid on your bare skin underneath. She only pulled back on occasion, breathing deeply- and letting you catch your breath a bit this time- before going back in for more. The saliva easily trailed from your mouths to covering your lips from all her movement, it was as if she wanted to devour you.

Her hand holding yours to the wall let go, moving to join the one on your lower back and gripping the skin there gently, her nails scratching in a satisfying way. With a free hand you used it to grip her shirt in the front, trying to keep her close even though you knew she wasn't going to detach from you for a while.

“You're right,” you whispered in-between sloppy kisses. She hummed in a questioning tone, not quite paying attention as her tongue laved against yours. “Bad tempo.”

[flowercrowngods]

it's yearning steddie get high with the others and make out about it hours (smut-ish)

Eddie hates being reminded that making promises to himself, and only himself, is pretty much useless if the only person holding him accountable to stick to his promise is one Eddie fucking Munson. Because that guy can’t be trusted. 

Especially not when it comes to Steve and his stupid perfect hair, his stupid perfect dimples, his preppy fucking everything, and — perhaps most importantly — the breathy note his voice gets when the boy replaces his beautiful piece of brain with Eddie’s finest weed. 

Steve in all his sober glory is unbearable at best, sure, that’s old news. But high? When the pained frown he’s not even aware of until he complains about a headache smoothes out and the tension in his shoulders disappears? When his scars no longer pull at every movement and he can hold himself again in the way he used to before everything — broad movements with a clumsy little edge to them that have Eddie’s heartstrings play rope skipping with his sanity.

That. That’s it. That’s it for Eddie. 

And it’s no surprise that it’s also what leaves him helpless in the face of Nancy hopefully suggesting they get high again tomorrow night; all of them. Offering Eddie the chance at getting to see that tension fall away again, and that pale smile be replaced with an easy, genuine, lingering one — dreamy and so fucking pretty. 

Luring Eddie with the most beautiful insanity.

So he says yes, despite having promised himself that he wouldn’t. Not after what happened last time. With Steve all the way up in his space, brushing his hair behind his ear with wonderment, trailing his hand down that lock until he forgot what he was going to say. What he was going to do. 

Forgetting, too, that Eddie was sober, because he wanted to watch Steve without getting caught — but Steve, all high and sweet and tactile, apparently decided to do the same. He looked. And touched. And smiled and breathed and stayed right there. Fingertips dancing around the frayed ends of Eddie’s hair.

Something shifted — first between them, then around them. And then between them again when Eddie stepped back and turned away, in desperate need of a cool drink to stave off the feeling of being caught, of being trapped, of being so fucking gone on the prettiest god-damn boy in all of Indiana. And of having said boy look at him like that. 

They shouldn’t get high again. They shouldn’t. 

But he knows it helps with the pain like their meds never do; he knows it helps Nance sleep better, breathe better, exist in this post-apocalyptic world that doesn’t even remember the apocalypse, whose only reminders lie in the scar tissue of some teenagers and some graves that nobody knows are empty. 

He knows that if he says no, they��ll find someone else to provide; and he doesn’t like the thought of that. Not one bit. 

So it’s not even the thought of Steve’s dazed little smile that gets him to agree, nodding at Nance with an easy smile, saying, “Sure, let’s do it.” 

But it is the thought of Steve’s dazed little smile, his breathy voice, his tactile nature that comes out even more when he’s high out of his mind like he knows he’s floating and needs someone to anchor him, and the memory of that stolen little moment, that makes Eddie curse himself to all hells once Nancy’s blooming smile is out of sight and he’s free of judgment to kick the kitchen counter beside him with a hearty curse. 

He can do it. He can. All he needs to do is not stay sober this time, take the edge off and get out of his head about all of this, because he’s actually far less likely to do anything stupid under the influence, and also not look at Steve All Eyes On Me Harrington. 

Easy. 

Right? 

Totally. 

Except, as it turns out, ignoring Steve is both easier and harder than Eddie expected. The thing is, he’s good at diving into any conversation with just about anyone, making it larger than it needs to be until everyone in the room will give him funny looks but still roll with it, because Eddie Munson is just Like That, right? 

But Steve doesn’t give him funny looks. Oh, they’re far from fun. There’s something in there that reminds Eddie of a kicked puppy in those fleeting moments that he lets his eyes meet Steve’s, never letting them linger, never letting them take him in and hold him and bask in the sunlight that is stored in those… Those beautiful, beautiful eyes. And that pretty, pretty face. 

A face that shouldn’t look so sad. 

He wants to ask what’s wrong, ask him if it’s a bad pain day, ask him if he didn’t sleep last night either, or if something happened. But how is he supposed to ask, to let any words come out of his mouth, when Steve just won’t look away. When he’s looking at Eddie like that again, when the little something that has shifted between them suddenly becomes massive enough to steal all the air away from his lungs and make his arms tingle in a way that he knows will only get better if he gets to wrap them around Steve. 

He can’t. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask. But he doesn’t look away either, and he knows he’s already lost. He knows he broke this promise he made to himself. 

But it’s fine, maybe, if the slight twitch in the corners of Steve’s lips is anything to go by. Like he, too, wants to say something but can’t. Like he knows Eddie is the same. Like his heart is racing, too, and he tried not to look but they’re so stupid and looked anyway and now they can’t— 

“Guys?” Robin interrupts their little moment, the bubble bursting with a loud snap of her fingers that makes Eddie physically flinch. 

He looks at her, spooked to shit and gasping because he does not do well with sudden loud noises or the impromptu bursting of bubbles — not after everything that happened. 

“Shit, sorry, oh my God!” Robin’s there immediately, reaching for his hand, Nancy laying hers on his shoulder, Jonathan making himself known with a gentle little, “You’re fine, man.” 

Eddie regains his footing and breathes away the panic, thinking that maybe getting high today wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He hands Robin the baggie and stuffs his hands into his pockets, making himself a little smaller by muscle memory alone. 

Steve’s hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades — reassuring and warm. Like a flower, Eddie rises to follow it. He catches Steve’s smile out of the corner of his eyes and wants to rest his face against it. Wants to feel it against his skin. Wants to feel it shift into something deeper. Something real. 

God, he’s so hopeless. 

Good thing that Robin’s got the blunt under control, because Eddie does not trust his hands right now. 

They grab the snacks and drinks and head outside to where Steve and Robin laid out pillows and blankets on the lawn, framed with dimly glowing white Christmas lights that Robin insists upon whenever they do this. Makes it feel a little less fucked up for her. Like we’re doing this because we want to, and not because we need it to sleep or to cope with the pain or whatever, you know? Put pretty lights anywhere, and it’s a choice. 

Eddie has to admit that she has a point there, but the truth is he’ll smoke anywhere, fairy lights or no. Although there’s something, a capital-s Something about watching Steve framed by a thousand little lights smoothing out the worry lines on that beautiful face and making him seem all the more angelic for it. 

Eddie actually called him angel once — the first time they did it like this. Made Steve smile like nothing else Eddie’s said to him since. Or anyone else for that matter. If he were any better at feeling the ground beneath his feet and the air in his lungs, he’d call him that again. Make him smile like that again. 

But the ground is shifting and air is always scarce these days, with Steve’s hands on his body so fleetingly, so accidentally leaving marks on scar tissue, making Eddie wish he could feel more of Steve’s warmth there. 

Making him wish he could ask. Touch me higher. Lower. Longer. Make it last. Make it count. Let me feel it, just for a second. Let me feel it where they didn’t steal chunks of my skin and my soul and, apparently, my sanity. 

Argyle is the first to spread out on the blankets with a hearty groan that leaves everyone with a fond smile, gathering around him in a semi circle of amusement. He makes grabby hands at Robin, or maybe at the unlit joints she’s safekeeping — but either way, she follows suit, cuddling up to Argyle and in turn making grabby hands at Steve, who does as he’s told and laughs in that gentle, melodic way that they so seldomly hear these days. 

Steve’s eyes fall on Eddie then, but a surge of worry and panic overcomes him, half expecting Steve to follow Robbie’s and Argyle’s example and reach for Eddie next. Or not reach for him. Either way, Eddie doesn’t want to find out, his heart beating in his chest at the endless possibilities stowed away in his overactive imagination. Instead of waiting for Steve’s next move, he sits down right here at the opposite end of the blanket, reaching for one of the pillows so he can hug it to his chest and have something to hold on to, just to keep his hands busy. 

“Just don’t crush the goods there, birdie,” he grins, watching Nancy and Johnathan find a place to sit, too. He scoots over to make room for them, moving further from Steve in the process and feeling the distance in his chest. It’s so stupid. Fucked up, really. 

“Oh, the goods are plenty safe, my dude,” Argyle says, earning himself a giggly groan from Robin that sounds a lot like, Gross!

Jonathan throws a pillow in Argyle’s face, which he deftly catches with just as salacious a grin. 

Eddie tunes them out for a moment as he catches Steve’s eyes boring into him. He cocks an eyebrow and inclines his head, silently asking him what’s up in way less magical a way than he has with Robin. 

He doesn’t really expect Steve to react in any way other than maybe a shrug or a brief, reassuring smile that really has no meaning other than, I’m fine, except for all the ways you know I’m not. 

But Steve doesn’t smile. And he doesn’t shrug. He keeps his eyes on Eddie and fucking pouts. Looks like he’s not even aware of it, his eyes a little glazed already, seeming far away. Far away and right here and looking so fucking sad about it. About the few feet between them and Eddie being all the way over there. 

It’s a bit like the moment they shared earlier, with Steve looking so sad and Eddie wanting to do something about it. He couldn’t then. But now… 

Eddie’s breath hitches a little as he mirrors Steve’s position, falling backwards and leaning on his elbows., never once dropping his eyes. Stretching out his legs until he can nudge Steve’s ankle with his foot. Watching as those eyes snap down to the briefest contact in surprise, watching as Steve looks caught. And watching, too, as his lips twitch and his foot slowly, incrementally moves closer to Eddie’s like he can’t help it. Like he needs to touch him. Always, always needs to touch him. 

And Eddie can feel it there, so he doesn’t move away. He wants to hold his hand, wants to run his fingers through his hair and for Steve to do the same. He wants to breathe him in, wants to live in a Steve-filled world and feel welcomed in it. 

But he can’t. Because they’re not like that. And because this moment is not like that. And Steve is… Well, he is like that, he’s pretty sure. But maybe not for Eddie. Maybe not like that. 

Steve’s foot is warm against his, pristine white baseball socks so stark a contrast against Eddie’s;  threadbare and black, with more holes than fabric these days. He can’t really help the wave of embarrassment that washes over him, or the urge to pull back his feet and hide them in his shoes again. Sacrifice the warmth for safety.

But then Steve seems to notice just a second after Eddie does, and he smiles. Huffs a little with it, like it just bubbles out of him. Eddie wants to lean across the blanket and chase it. Chase the fondness and keep it there forever. 

And that’s another thing about Steve that is so very fucked up: he doesn’t let Eddie hide. He doesn’t let him trade warmth for security, because — smile in place — Steve slowly moves his feet along the side of Eddie’s like he’s playing fucking Connect the Dots with the holes in his socks. It’s ridiculous. 

It’s ridiculous, and Eddie is helpless. He’s so gone, a hundred percent. He’s so fucked up over that silly boy and the way he smiles at the most lamest of things. 

It’s not his fault that he leaves his feet where they are, the warmth of Steve’s slow, teasing touch shooting electricity up his legs that leaves him with goosebumps and a sudden case of uncomfortably tight jeans.

He’s glad there’s still a pillow in his lap. And he’s glad, too, that the night is dark enough, the fairy lights not bright enough, to reveal the flush rising to his cheeks as it feels like the bravest thing he’s ever done stay like this. To have Steve looking at him like this. Eyes hooded and intense. Like he sees right through Eddie. Like he likes what he sees. 

With a dull click, Robin’s Zippo pulls him back to reality in what must be the gentlest of ways, and Eddie manages a smile as he watches her gently place the doobie between Steve’s lips before she lights it, one hand on his cheek. Their faces light up, leaving the rest of the world in the dark, and Eddie is struck with how good they are together. 

There’s something in the way she lights the joint for him, some kind of love language from the girl who burnt down the hell dimension below them and left it in ashes, and the boy who held her hand through it. 

She holds his eyes as the flame dies and something passes between them as Steve slowly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Takes that first hit. 

Eddie’s smile falters as he watches, the glowing cherry coming to life and lighting up Steve’s face, revealing that relaxed little smile on his lips as he holds it in for five, six, seven before exhaling  around it in a slow, drawn-out way. He blows it in Robin’s face like he always does, and Robin laughs and shoves him back, like she always does. 

And Eddie wants to trade her place. Like he always does. Eyes transfixed on Steve as he takes the next hit and pulls the joint from between his lips. Holding his breath again. And Eddie wants to be held like that. Wants to fill Steve’s lungs like that, wants to leave an aftertaste that is both sweeter and biting as he does to Steve what that first hit does to him. Leaving him all soft and gentle and so, so at ease, his eyes droopy and all those lines of pain and worry smoothed out by him. Eddie. On his lips. In his mouth. Fuck, anywhere, really. Everywhere. 

He follows Steve on his exhale, his head getting a little dizzy with the lack of air, but still he is slow to breathe in again. It feels strangely intimate, watching him like this. Watching as that tension falls away and he hums a little around the bud — relaxed and relieved and appreciative. It feels like they’re the only people left in this town, in this state, maybe in the whole world. 

Eddie wants to stay alone like this forever, chase Steve’s breath and wish it would hit his face like that, caress his cheeks until the air around them claims it and erases all traces of Steve; but not from Eddie’s skin. Never from his skin. 

But they’re not alone. And Steve opens his eyes. And Eddie is caught. 

Still he doesn’t move, doesn’t look away as Steve blows out the smoke, sweet and earthy in the air between them as it slowly finds its way to him across the blanket. He imagines that he can feel it as the smell grows stronger, imagines the smoke to feel warm against his cheek as he breathes it all in, holding those hazel eyes in the dark that refuse to look away from him. 

It’s like that moment the other day in Steve’s kitchen when he was so close Eddie could smell all of him, frozen as he was, rooted to the spot — too scared to move and reveal himself, reveal all of himself, all the ugly truths and dreams. His wishes. His desires. 

Why do you keep looking? Eddie wants to ask. What are you looking to find? Am I just an experiment to you, are you looking at yourself through my eyes? Say something. Anything. 

But Steve doesn’t. He never does. Steve Harrington isn’t really the type to just say what’s on his mind, too used to Robin by his side to just read it all and react in her own way. Too used to Dustin, who’d do the talking for him. Too used to just letting his eyes, his arms, his posture convey his message. 

Too used to people knowing him. Getting a good read on him. But not Eddie, because Eddie never learned how to fucking read people like Steve Harrington cast in pretty light and relaxation. Angry, he can read him no problem. When he’s pissed, when he’s annoyed, when he’s sad. Tense. Worried. 

But not this. Never this. This intensity, this steady gaze resting only on him. He never looks at Robin like that, and he doesn’t fucking look at anyone else lately. 

It’s driving Eddie insane. 

It’s too much. 

He snaps when Steve passes the joint back to Robin, and sits up to pull his feet back to himself, covering them with his hands to pretend the warmth is still there. Frowns at the holes in his socks, feeling more exposed than ever. He curls in on himself a little, pretending to be very fascinated with a little thread that’s come loose in the blanket beneath him while the others hold casual conversation around him. 

This was a bad idea. He’s so fucked. 

Part of him debates if he should leave, if he should just call it a day and bid them goodnight. The other part of him wants to just close the distance between him and Steve and settle in beside him so the weight of that gaze won’t fucking wear him down any more. 

But knowing Steve, that wouldn’t work. 

Knowing Steve, nothing works. 

Feeling pathetic and small, Eddie lets himself fall to his side, hiding his face behind Nancy, whose hand comes to rest in his hair, combing through it just a little bit. Allowing him to collect himself. This isn’t new, and they don’t really question when Eddie just randomly lies down anywhere, or if he just stops talking all of a sudden. 

It’s why they do this, after all. No judgment. No questions. Just the sweet, sweet release of Mary Jane. 

It helps, having her hands in his hair like this, grounding him. It helps, finding no question or worry in her eyes as she looks down at him with a little smile — her way of including him in the conversation. He smiles back, just a little bit, and closes his eyes to better focus on her hand rather than the moment. She chuckles when he begins to purr, and then the smile stays a little longer. 

After a while, when she offers him the joint, Eddie shifts to lie on his back and gazes up to find the clouds have cleared and revealed the night sky behind them. It’s pretty, the summer sky, and he takes a long drag trying to think of nothing else. A hot wave of smoke hits his lungs, and it tickles a bit just like it always does, but the urge to cough it back out has been gone for years. These days, his lungs allow the warm embrace of the smoke and allow him to hold his breath as long as he wants, feeling a pleasant buzz after the fifth drag. It’s the good stuff after all. Munson’s Finest. 

He passes the joint back to Nancy, too comfortable to get up and pass it to anyone else, trusting her to do it without complaint. She does. She’s an angel like that. Puts her hand back in his hair and plays with his overgrown bangs a little while Eddie just stares up at the sky. 

Steve’s talking, but the words don’t really translate. It doesn’t matter, though. Just hearing his voice is enough for Eddie to sort of drift into a pleasant sphere of nothingness, his chest tightening a little with it. Always, always tight when he hears that voice. Like his heart has grown three times its size and his ribcage didn’t get the memo that Eddie Munson is hopelessly, helplessly, endlessly gone for a boy who refuses to look away. 

The thing is, Steve has always looked. Always. Even in the Upside Down. The first time, and the second. And then, the third. And Eddie wants it to mean something. Wants it to mean everything, or at least carry that possibility. 

But there’s no way to find out. There’s only him and the stars and Nancy Wheeler’s hand in his hair after his life took several wrong turns that left him with more scar tissue than skin these days, and the horrible realisation that, after the world ended and rebuilt, he can fall in love. That he can want. That he can have these cravings that he’d always heard everyone else talk about, wondering if that was just another layer of freak to him, or if he was simply Like That. 

They’re lonely realisations, he finds. Alienating, in a way. Because not only does he not know how to navigate Harrington, no, he’s a riddle even to himself right now. 

All he knows is that he wants to touch. To hold. To kiss. To crawl into him, on top of him, beneath him, and pull his own name from those lips in tiny little gasps that have nothing in common with the frantic gasps of panic after their first stint with the hell dimension. He wants a do-over. He wants a chance. A real fucking chance to have all these smiles, all these looks mean something. 

Arm outstretched, he reaches for the blunt again, taking it from whomever has it right now, aiming to shut off his brain a little more. Not to suppress it, but to shut it off. Even if that means he has to finish this thing. It’s fine. They have more. They always have more, because Jon and Argyle have an unreal fucking tolerance. 

With a chuckle, Nancy bypasses his hand and puts the joint between his lips and ignores his indignant hum. 

“Treat yourself”, she says, her voice wonderfully slow and lower in pitch. “I’ll be right back, yeah?” 

“‘Kay.” 

The warmth of her hand leaves his scalp, and with her body gone — getting up in way too swift a motion even for sober people — the night air seems a little colder. Eddie shivers a little, refusing to look at anyone, and just takes drag after drag, deciding he’ll finish this one. It’s his weed after all. 

By the sounds of it, Robin is already lighting the next one. Good girl. Smart girl. Best fucking girl in the whole wide world. 

Thick clouds of hot smoke waft through his lungs and all the way through his body up to his brain, leaving his arms and legs with a tingling feeling and his head with a pleasant buzz and tunes out most everything else around him. It’s great. It’s good. It’s wonderful. 

It’s why he doesn’t realise that the air is warm again and a body shielding him from everyone else until there’s a hand in his hair again. He opens his eyes to snark at Wheeler, but— 

It’s not Wheeler. It’s Steve. Knees pulled to his chest, chin resting on top as he smiles down at Eddie. 

Neither of them says a word, but Eddie’s breath hitches. Stops, stutters. Just like his heart. And yet all he can do is stare up. Wonder if it’s real. Wonder if it’s real. 

“Is this okay?” Steve whispers, fingers barely touching Eddie’s skin as he sort of plays with his hair. 

After a beat or two, Eddie nods, careful not to move too much. Careful not to chase those fingers and all the things they could mean. 

“Good.” 

And then Steve pulls the joint from between Eddie’s lips, and Eddie wants to warn him because this one’s close to the end and bound to be stronger, but it doesn’t seem to faze Steve as he just sucks in the smoke like it’s the first lungful of air he gets after a long day stuck inside. Smiling around the bud as it dies between his lips, he presses it into the grass beside him, extinguishing the last of it. 

He exhales, and Eddie can make out a tiny cloud of smoke against the night sky, watching as it wanders toward him. He waits for Steve to say something. There is what feels like intent in the movements of his hand, in the sudden appearance by his side, and in the way he— he fucking looks at him again. The sky is full of stars, the backyard full of fairy lights, and Steve Harrington is looking at him. 

“You okay?” Eddie asks at last, breaking the silence, wondering if his voice always sounds so small, so quiet, so endlessly tiny. Wondering if Steve even heard. 

But he did, because he smiles again. He did, because his hand stills. Touches Eddie’s skin. His scalp, his temple. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking from Eddie’s eyes to his own hand with something akin to wonder. Or marvel. 

And Eddie shivers again when that hand travels down. Caressing his cheek, definitely with intent. Electricity shoots through his body again, and the intensity in Steve’s eyes leaves him with goosebumps. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. Barely even swallows as Steve bites his lip absently and moves on, trailing from Eddie’s cheek down to his... 

He’s touching his lips, and Eddie doesn’t breathe. Steve runs his forefinger along Eddie’s bottom lip, and in another world would he open his mouth and nip on his fingers or gasp at the touch and be better at this, be so much better at everything. But in this one, he lies motionless as Steve just fucking… explores. 

And his touch is so light, it’s so gentle, so sweet on the rough scar tissue, and yet so absent, it doesn’t have to mean anything. He could pull back his hands now and claim that Eddie had something there. He could pull back and live his life unchanged. Leave Eddie behind in this state of paralysis, changed irrevocably, and be safe. 

But that’s not what Steve does. 

Steve was never one to choose safety over bravery, and he has the scars to prove it now. The permanent stiffness of his back that barely lets him feel anything these days. The set in his jaw when he breathes through the pains phantom and real, the crease between his brows when the memory pains flare up. 

But his back is hunched in comfort now rather than in pain, and his shoulders are at ease. His lips are lightly ajar around a barely-there smile, and the skin between his eyes is smooth. Eddie wants to reach out and trace it, wants to caress it in the hopes that it’ll stay smooth forever. 

He’s so pretty. Golden light catching his skin in all the right ways, leaving him positively glowing with that look he gives Eddie. That look. 

Eddie’s never felt so exposed. So vulnerable. Laid bare, ready for dissection and willing to be taken apart in the hopes of letting him find what he wants and take it. Rip it right out of his chest. Now that he has Steve’s hand on his skin in the lightest of touches that’s anything but fleeting, he knows he would let him take anything he wants. Knows he would be helpless to stop him. 

Helpless in the face of that gaze that trails down to his lips now, if only to follow his fingers. 

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, barely moving his mouth at all around that single syllable. 

Golden hazel eyes flit back to his, and they widen a little. Like suddenly it’s Steve who’s caught. 

What are you doing? Eddie wants to ask. What are we doing? Don’t stop. Never stop. 

But words are for moments lighter than this one. Words are not meant for a world that’s changing. 

Maybe that is why Steve puts his hand on Eddie’s chin, tipping it up and turning his face toward him in a gesture so tender it’s almost possessive. Electricity shoots through Eddie again and the air between them is sizzling with it, sizzling because Steve is moving, shifting, dipping his head, his hand coming to rest on Eddie’s throat to keep him from moving away — except there is no force in his touch, and Eddie could still run. 

He could. He should, maybe. Like last time. 

But he is suspended in time, chained to the ground by the weight of Steve’s gaze and the hand on his throat, and his heart is beating so hard, so fast, that he is sure Steve can feel it. Imagines that those fingers move to find his pulse. Imagines that they find their home there, imagines that they hear the tales of stolen hearts and desires that leave his blood rushing. 

Imagines that Steve falters a little, hovering just above Eddie. Dreams of it all, dreams that this is real and that he can have this, just for tonight. He nods, and it’s a tiny little thing, far from enough to ruin this moment or wake him from his dream.

But then Steve captures his lips with such care that Eddie snaps back into his body and realises that this is no dream. Steve is kissing him. Hovers above him with one arm resting in the grass above Eddie’s head, his other hand pulling Eddie’s face towards himself and being oh so gentle about it. 

A whimper escapes him when this new reality settles inside his body, leaving him reeling and pulled towards a world of possibilities as those lips, those warm lips, rest so indulgently against his. 

No longer chained, Eddie carefully lifts a hand to Steve’s head, because Steve can feel him there, too, and because he doesn’t want this to end. Because he needs to touch. All night, all week, all this time he has needed to touch. To cradle. To hold. 

To keep. 

Steve hums, and those lips pull into a smile before closing around Eddie’s bottom lip. The first touch of Steve’s tongue has jolts of electricity and arousal zinging through Eddie’s body again, lingering this time and making a home in his legs that begin to tingle with want. 

Eddie opens his mouth, tilting his head a little to get a better angle, and is rewarded with the careful, addictive touch of Steve’s tongue against his. It makes Steve smile again, just for a second — but long enough to make Eddie’s heart jump. 

He chases those lips when they pull back, capturing them with a little hum as he realises he comes more and more unchained, regaining feeling and control over his body, his mind, his scared little heart. Steve doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate, pushing Eddie’s head down into the grass again with an urgency that Eddie is beginning to understand matches the hunger he’s feeling. 

The hunger that is reserved only for Steve. It leaves him breathless, leaves him with the sudden need to gasp for air, but then Steve’s tongue is in his mouth again and maybe he doesn’t need to breathe ever again. 

He loses himself in the wet slide of their tongues that feels so sensual it’s almost obscene, and all he can do is tangle his fingers in Steve’s hair and keep him right where he is while Eddie himself lies boneless, all the blood rushing down, down, down. Every nip of Steve’s teeth as he devours Eddie so entirely and yet so innocently, so sweetly, so carefully, and every time he sucks on his lips or his tongue results in another wave of intense arousal. And Eddie is stuck in the riptide of it. 

It doesn’t take long for the first moan to break the silence, a gasped little thing, almost like an afterthought, and he’s not sure if that was him or Steve; but he doesn’t really care either way, because he’s so hard, he feels like he can come from just Steve sucking on his tongue alone. 

And isn’t that an enticing thought. 

“Steve,” he whispers, not entirely sure what he’s going to say, or if that’s really all he needs to say. All that’s left to say. Steve, Steve, Steve. 

The only response he gets is a breathy little, “Fuck,” and it sounds like a revelation. Like an epiphany. And Eddie wants to hear it again, wants to swallow all the little noises and murmurs and everything Steve will give him. 

“You’re so—“ Steve begins, interrupting himself with another deep, hungry kiss. “Fuck. You’re…” 

“Yeah?” Eddie counters, breaking the kiss by pulling on Steve’s hair a little. “I’m what?” 

Steve hesitates, panting breaths dancing over Eddie’s skin and he smells so fucking good. Eddie wants to lick the aftershave and perfume and sweat off his neck and keep the taste on his tongue for days. Dark, blown eyes wander over his face, and the hand that was on his throat comes up to rest on his cheek again in a gesture so gentle that it almost gives him whiplash. The hunger is gone — or, not gone, but unimportant now. 

Steve smiles, hazy but genuine and so, so sweet, eyes zeroing in on Eddie’s no doubt swollen lips. 

“Been wanting to do that forever.” 

Eddie’s heart jumps, falters, falls. Just a little. Just the rest of the way. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Wanna kiss you forever.” 

“Yeah, well,” Eddie breathes, voice barely there because his breath has well and truly been taken away, and this moment feels so fragile. So easily broken by quick movements or thoughts that are just a little too loud, just a little too soon. “‘M not gonna stop you.” 

Steve’s eyes snap back to his, and there’s something in there that not even the weed could ease away. “Yeah?” 

Eddie nods, frowning a little, wondering what makes him so unsure. 

“Cool,” Steve says, and it’s almost nonchalant and definitely charming in that way he always is. Makes Eddie laugh a little, his other hand coming up to wipe a strand hair out of his eyes. “So…” He trails off. 

“Hmm?” 

“Wanna stay here? Or go inside, or…” 

And then it’s not arousal that overcomes him but worry. And guilt. And a bit of fear, because that’s not what this is for him. Not like this. Not when they’re high, not for the first time. 

He swallows, schooling his face to cooperate and not give it all away right now, not give away how helplessly gone he is for that boy and how he would do anything Steve wants, how he would take anything he can get and try to make it be enough. But instead of choosing the easy thing and betraying himself, he moves his hand from Steve’s hair to his cheek, melting at the way Steve leans into it, moving his face to press a kiss to Eddie’s palm. 

“Steve,” he says, and his voice is shaky again. And small. So, so small. “That’s not what this is for me. I don’t… I wanna kiss you forever. And more. Much more. But not… I don’t—“ 

“Not while we’re high? Inebriated?” He says the word with a chuckle, referencing the way Robin will always use big words when she’s hammered. There’s a gentle sort of understanding on his face after the chuckle, though, and Eddie melts a little again. “Wanna do it right, hmm? Wanna treat me right and make sure I won’t regret it, angel?” 

Eddie whimpers at the sudden use of that nickname, because he’s not, but he does. He didn’t realise until Steve said it how scared he was — is — that Steve will regret this. The kiss. And anything that might follow. 

Not trusting his words right now, he can only nod, wondering if his eyes are as blown as Steve’s are. If Steve thinks he’s pretty, too. 

“God, you’re unreal,” Steve whispers, coming down again to press a kiss to Eddie’s forehead, brushing them down to the tip of his nose. He leans into those kisses, tips his chin up to chase it, but Steve pulls away again, his thumb tracing the pout he leaves behind on Eddie’s lips. 

“You’re one to talk,” Eddie grumbles, watching the delight on Steve’s face and deciding that he’s addicted now. Fuck the weed, fuck everything else. Steve can get him just as high. 

Along with that thought, reality works its tendrils into Eddie’s consciousness again, and he looks around the backyard around them — but there’s only him and Steve out here on the blanket, framed as they are by the fairy lights. 

“Hang on, where are the others?”

Steve huffs, his face shifting into an expression of fond amusement and gentle annoyance. “Last time I checked, Robin and Argyle were raiding the fridge, Nancy was lying on the living room carpet, marvelling at how soft it is, and Jonathan was just kinda spaced out on the couch with a bowl of chips. Don’t think they’re gonna come out here again in the next half hour or so.” 

“How convenient,” Eddie grins, wondering just how obvious the two of them had been all this time. Wondering, too, if it can really be that easy. If he can have this. If they can; after everything they went through.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, his body shifting so he’s half lying on top of Eddie now, positively vanishing any and all thoughts Eddie could have spared anyone else. He would worry about the hard-on he’s sporting, but it becomes obvious very quickly that Steve has the same predicament. It’s enticing, feeling him against his thigh like that, and Eddie has half a mind to do something about that, especially when Steve keeps shifting against him. “So. Do you wanna make out some more before we light the next baggie? It’s fine if not. We can just… I don’t know, cuddle or something.” 

“Steve,” Eddie says, pulling on his hair a little bit to underline his deadpan. “What about I wanna kiss you forever was unclear?” 

“Hey, I said that first,” Steve retorts, digging his fingers into Eddie’s sides, making Eddie squeal and squirm right into his arms. “I also kissed you first,” he continues, sounding so damn smug about it. Eddie’s never wanted to kiss him more. “So I’m winning.” 

“Hmm, I don’t know about that,” Eddie murmurs, pulling Steve all the way on top of him, his hands finding his way to those magnificent thighs, so firm underneath his grip. “‘M feeling pretty lucky right now.” 

“You think you’re so smooth,” Steve hums, dipping his head to hover just above his lips. 

“Is it working?” 

“Unfortunately.” 

They’re both laughing when their lips meet again, but that doesn’t deter them from kissing and tasting and swallowing moans like they’ll find new purpose in each other. Like they’ve already found it. 

Just like Steve’s hand finds his, weaving their fingers together and pressing him further into the grass. Eddie holds on tight, not ready to let him go anytime soon, and marvelling at how sensitive his hand has become. 

There is no urgency in the way Steve slowly begins to move against him, grinding their crotches together in slow, sensual motion like waves of the ocean gently lapping at the shore. Eddie meets him right where they both need it most, not once breaking their kiss even when it becomes open-mouthed panting and moaning that the other is trying to chase and swallow and keep only for himself. 

“You feel so good,” Steve rumbles, catching Eddie’s tongue between his teeth and pulling a high-pitched whimper from him. “So fucking good, Eddie.” 

“Don’t stop, Stevie, fuck.” He’s panting, his legs tingling with want and need and a weightlessness he’s never known before. “I know I said— We can stop. We can stop, we can, but— fuck, I’m close.” 

“Yeah?” Steve taunts, and oh, there’s purpose now in the the way he’s lifting his chest off Eddie, putting his weight behind the way he’s grinding into him. “You gonna come in your pants, baby? While the others are still inside? Means you’re gonna do this with me again later, right? Try again when we’re not high, hmm?”

“Yes,” Eddie rushes to say, working his fingers into Steve’s belt loops to keep him from stopping. “God, yes, I wanna—“ 

“I’ve got you,” Steve says, kissing the words right out of his brain, chasing his own pleasure, too. “God, you’re so pretty. So fuckin’ pretty, Eddie. Wanna come with me?” 

“Uh-huh,” Eddie can only nod and moan around all the words he wants to say, all those cheesy fucking words that leave him all the more vulnerable for how true they are. The tingly feeling builds in his legs, climbing to his core, and he wonders for a split second if Steve can really make him come like this — worries that somehow it’s not enough and that he’ll ruin this, that he’ll fuck it up and make it awkward between them because he doesn’t actually have any idea how his body works when someone else is taking the reins. 

But then Steve kisses him like that again, sucking his tongue into his mouth, holding his hand and groaning when Eddie moves in just the right way, and the sizzling pleasure finally finds its release. 

Eddie comes with a broken groan that Steve swallows greedily, panting into his mouth as, shortly after, his hips begin to stutter in their movements and he follows Eddie off the brink of this beautiful madness. Steve was always beautiful, there’s no question about that. But like this, face slack, kiss-swollen and spit-slick lips open around a silent moan as he grinds his trapped cock against Eddie’s, wrecked with aftershocks as his orgasm washes over him? He’s a fucking revelation that makes Eddie’s eyes roll into the back of his skull, over sensitive as he is  and yet so helpless against Steve’s aborted little motions. 

Getting high on weed doesn’t compare to getting high on Steve. It’s a high Eddie wants to chase forever, and he starts by wrapping his arms around Steve and pulling him down onto his chest again, just to hold him. Steve purrs as Eddie’s hand finds its way into his hair, combing it away from the sweaty skin it sticks to. He cages him with his legs, too, tingly as they remain on either side of Steve’s body. 

It’s stupid, maybe, and a bit much, but he wants to keep Steve like this for a little longer. Putty in his hands, his weight on top of him grounding him after that high, and allowing them both to come down slowly. 

“Man,” Steve says after a while, just letting that word hang in the air as he regains conscious thought. 

Eddie hums, prompting him to say what’s on his mind even though he’s scared he won’t like what he’s about to hear. Still, it’s only fair to let Steve say what he wants. 

“I like you so much.” 

Eddie holds his breath as he waits for the but. For the regret. But none follows. That’s really all Steve’s saying; and soon Eddie can’t fight the wave of giddiness that overcomes him. 

He hugs Steve a little tighter, not entirely ready yet to look him in the eyes and face this new reality they’ve kind of just created, needing to be a little scared for just a bit longer. But still he laughs, because scared is no longer all he’s feeling. There’s so much more now. So much more. 

“I like you so much right back.” 

Now it’s Steve who hums, shifting to lift his head and look at Eddie, but Eddie closes his eyes before Steve can catch them. 

“Said it first again.” A hand lands on his cheek again, just above the ugly scars that Steve doesn’t seem afraid to touch. “So I win.” 

And Eddie is looking now. Dares. If only to drive his point home when he says, “God, you’re so fucking lame.” 

“Is it working?” Steve grins, and Eddie never stood a fucking chance. 

“Unfortunately.” 

@izzy2210 here you go darling hehehe 🤍

[buckley-diaztruther]

when buddie does happen they better not take away buck and eddie always being a little bit mean to each other bc if you can't bully ur partner with equal measure fondness and exasperation about things that would probably hurt them coming from anyone else then what's the point of being gay

[choccy-milky]

Hey just wanted to say how much I adore the Raven and The Snake! It kept me sane during some hard times last year screaming at Seb distracted me from my real problems LOL! In fact I love it so much I would love to print the fic and turn it into a book for my own personal enjoyment of course, would it be okay with you if I did that and posted the final product on Twitter? I'd tag you of course! Don't know if it's a dumb question but I wanted to check. Anyways love your work you are SUPER talented!

YES YES YES??? OMG PLSSS I WOULD DIE!!!!!!!

IM HONOURED YOU LIKED IT ENOUGH TO WANT TO BIND IT!!! AND PLS, TAG ME EVERYWHERE WHEN/IF YOU DO IT😭😭 ive considered commissioning someone to bind it myself just to have as a memento bc im the author, but omg the fact that someone else would wanna do it too......im glad sebs dumbassery (and lets be real, clora's too. if not MOSTLY cloras) could distract you from your irl problems by yelling at those two idiots🥰🥰 THANK YOU AGAIN IM HONOURED ARGHHH🧎‍♀️💖💖

LMFAOOO THE WAY I THOUGHT THIS WAS ANON HATE AT FIRST LMAOOO i mean i guess it kinda could still be considered it??? but i love your love for clora BAHAH bc you are so right, let seb drown, this aint about him✋😔...to satiate you heres a wip of her ive had for a while, and maybe ill finally finish it soon JUST FOR YOU🫵🫵💖

[vinelark]

"this chapter will probably be on the shorter side," i said, like a fool. like an absolute buffoon.

[velbs]

holiday party ‘05

[birchbow]

Chapter 45: Lose For Me

Summary:

It's a long flight back to the Condescension.

[kalashnikovlobotomy]

alright it's polished now it's finished for sure for sure...

[rivalswrites]

Horribly made better

Before you read, please be warned that I'm writing based on my impressions of them not only in the game (though it's the biggest inspiration), but some of them with the movies/shows in mind too.

This totally isn't based on my own experience with cooking…

Summary: Clint wants to make you something nice, but screws it up. (Lots of only Clint content, my bad)

Warning: they make out (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧ (self indulgent)

Masterlist

It was one of those days for you, he could tell. The look of your face said it all, and your sagging shoulders. Clint could somewhat pay attention, at least to his favorite person.

When you came into the bedroom and just fell into the bed, shoes still on and basically suffocating yourself in the pillow, he knew it was his duty to cheer you up- at least a little. And so, with determination running through his veins, he got to work- after wrapping you up in his own jacket (that was absolutely drowned in his shitty cologne) and beloved scarf so you wouldn't truly be alone.

He sets himself up in the kitchen, a pan already on the stove with oil in it. Making something from scratch he knew he couldn't do, so he rummaged through the freezer before he found what he wanted. Definitely freezer-burnt pot stickers, they'd been in there forever but neither of you wanted to throw them away just in case. They'll be okay, freezer-burn hasn't killed anyone, right?

Eh it's fine, he shrugged to himself, ripping the bag open. The bag had instructions on the back, he can't fuck this up. Reading them was simple, crowding a punch onto the oiled pot and adding water into it.

Oh shit, that looks like too much water? Okay, it's alright, he'll just pour some of the water out. Now it looks worse, are they meant to look like soggy towels? No, it's fine, he's overthinking it, definitely overthinking it. With confidence he turns on the heat and watches for a moment, it doesn't look good, but it's still frozen, it'll be alright. The cupboards open as he kneels down to look for a lid so it can simmer- or boil? They're like the same thing anyways. It was all the way in the back, and he thought he was going to pull a muscle or drop other stuff that sat on top of the lid trying to grab it.

With the lid successfully on, he checks the time and makes a mental timer and then puts the bag back in the freezer for them to collect more icicles. It doesn't take long for him to hear the water inside boiling, that's how it works when you've got a lid on, he took science class in highschool, he's smart.

It also didn't take long for him to start panicking, rushing to grab a paper towel. The water slowly started to bubble under the lid and some of it trickled out, sliding down the sides and making sizzling sounds. He dabs the paper towel on the sides and lifts the lid to check, the water level was the same so why was it doing that? Whatever, one time thing right? Wrong, but he toughened it out.

When the timer in his mind went off he took the kid off and looked at them, they seemed okay. Mission successful? He tries to grab one off of the pan and onto the plate but it doesn't work, it's sticking to the pan. Maybe it needs to cook longer, he thinks, so he puts the lid back on and lets it sit for a couple more minutes. Lifting the kid and again attempting to pull them out, but again, they were sticking to the pan. Oh well, he followed the instructions, they were cooked fully, he'll just pull them off with his strength. It took awhile, but it works, he gets them all on the plate: they don't look good at all, but that's fine.

He picks one up and eats it whole, huffing like he didn't know it just came off the stove. It tastes fine, looks didn't matter anyways. He opens the fridge and grabs the soy sauce, rummaging around in a drawer and finding a small container to pour in. Setting the small container on the plate he grabs a fork and his plan is complete. Mostly, he still has to give it to you and make you feel better- like the amazing boyfriend he is.

Shoving the door open with his shoulder it doesn't take long for him to announce his presence. You're huddled up underneath the covers, face being the only thing not covered.

“Sweetheart, I made you some food, get up and eat some, yeah?” He says, sitting next to you and resting a hand on what he thinks is your shoulder.

With a gentle ‘hm’ you get up and reach your arms out. He hands you the plate, but keeps the fork so he can feed you- he's so romantic, he thinks to himself. It's a long while before either of you talk again, him feeding you shitty cooked pot stickers and you just letting him. They weren't bad by any means, just torn up. It's the thought that counts, you know he's trying his best, he can't help that he's a loser (affectionately).

After all of it's gone, he sets the plate down on the bedside table and focuses his attention on you, arms coming to wrap around you. “Feeling any better, sweetheart?” He murmurs, leaning you back onto the bedframe and wrapping himself around you- he's practically straddling you. All you can give back is a smile and a hum, still feeling iffy but not as much as when you got home. He hates seeing you like this, it's like his duty to make you better.

“C'mon sweetheart, I know you're down. How can I help?” He rests a hand on your cheek and rubs his thumb over it, relishing in the contact when you lean into it. “I got you, baby” he whispers, leaning in and leaving a kiss on your lips. It's gentle, something you both needed.

He keeps leaving soft kisses, before eventually he stopped pulling away- locking his lips with yours with soft passion. There's moments where he pulls away for a deep breath before he goes back to you, almost as if he was entranced by your slightly chapped lips. Which he most definitely was. The way he straddled you, leaning down to keep his face with yours and holding your face, his other hand coming up to hold the other side of your face.

The soft make out session lasted for a while, longer than either of you thought, but it ended when he pulled away for good. His face stayed close to yours though, his breath mixing with yours and warming each other's faces. “Any better?” He mumbles, eyes barely open as he looks into yours.

“I think I need a few more kisses” you mutter back, closing your eyes as you lean in to grasp his lips with yours. He gladly accepted, leaning forward into you. Anything to make his darling partner feel better.

[flowercrowngods]

Steve’s foot is warm against his, pristine white baseball socks so stark a contrast against Eddie’s; threadbare and black, with more holes than fabric these days. He can’t really help the wave of embarrassment that washes over him, or the urge to pull back his feet and hide them in his shoes again. Sacrifice the warmth for safety.

But then Steve seems to notice just a second after Eddie does, and he smiles. Huffs a little with it, like it just bubbles out of him. Eddie wants to lean across the blanket and chase it. Chase the fondness and keep it there forever.

And that’s another thing about Steve that is so very fucked up: he doesn’t let Eddie hide. He doesn’t let him trade warmth for security, because — smile in place — Steve slowly moves his feet along the side of Eddie’s like he’s playing fucking Connect the Dots with the holes in his socks. It’s ridiculous.

It’s ridiculous and Eddie is helpless. He’s so gone, a hundred percent. He’s so fucked up over that silly boy and the way he smiles at the most lamest of things.

It’s not his fault that he leaves his feet where they are, the warmth of Steve’s slow, teasing touch shooting electricity up his legs that leaves him with goosebumps and a sudden case of uncomfortably tight jeans.

high yearning makeout fic, coming soon…

[purplebass]

Calla was Lila's fairy godmother in agos and made her have an unexpected Cinderella moment when she wanted a disguise to attend the party. Calla believed Lila wanted to get pretty for Kell because she assumed they were together so she gave her the dress and did her hair and make up and subtly told her: go get him, tiger <3 Bring Kell's guard down he will fall even more for you it will make him look stupid and at the end of the night he would 100% want to rip this dress off you like the feral kitties that you both are

[saturnwisteria]

As I was saying earlier, hambrady time. Springing off of @corrosivesaints last line tag game, a rare fluffy moment from the Cat Depression Fic

----

John reaches for his collar to pull him up at the same time he moves to stand, and they wind up crashing together, a small umph knocked past John's lips before Ham gets his own there.

John's lips are sticky from syrup; he likes to drown his pancakes in an obscene amount of syrup, then take the cut fruit-usually strawberries-and scoop up whatever is left over after the pancakes. Ham licks into his mouth, chasing the sweetness.

Ham likes to keep it simple, with his pancakes: he slathers them in butter, and fruit if they have it. Sometimes he mashes the blueberries, too, treats 'em like a little handmade spread. He wonders, distractedly, while his hands travel down John's back, whether there was a shiny oil sheen on his lips when John was teasing him. He wonders if his own mouth tastes sweet, too, from the fruit.

----

Yes, ww2 rpf discord gang, this scene is a runner up to pancake sex as well. Ifykyk. I don't remember who's done this recently but if anyone's itching to share something here is an open invitation!

Tagging some besties as well <3

@andrigyn @deanology101 @latibvles @upontherisers @hesbuckcompton-baby @softguarnere @itstheheebiejeebies

[danwhobrowses]

My dear Critters and Callowmoores, Divergence has had its beautiful ending and thus, only the Wrap Up Party remains. The Wrap Up will officially close the book on Campaign 3 as a whole and frankly, I'm still not ready for it. If I'm honest, a lot of that unreadiness is from being nervous, because it's the last chance until the next one shot of Bell's Hells - whenever that'll be - for there to be catharsis for my beloved ship, Callowmoore.

Now, I'm not foolish enough to expect that a question or a discussion about it is guaranteed to show up - even if I do pluck up the courage to submit a question myself - and I'm not parasocially demanding that it's owed to us to be brought up either. I'm just hoping it will, but in this case 'hope' is less in the context of being confident and more in the context of being wishful - especially since even if a question is asked the answer can still risk being unsatisfying.

In the month since the finale my feelings about the ship's vague outcome hasn't really gotten better, I think LaterKaterSays said it best in their post about how we didn't get that 'shiny golden ending' - that feeling of vindication that proves that our support was not for naught, that it's real and intended and will serve as a comfort to get through the days after C3's end - but it was a little more than just that which left me a little forlorn. The finale already had us go through a lot; we had to endure Ashton dying - after it felt like everyone was finally safe - with a visibly distraught Fearne being their last embrace before their sacrifice, and then when they fell from the sky we watched Matt decide that a Nat 20 and a +1 Gust assist from Orym isn't enough for Shoebill!Fearne to catch Ashton like she wanted (but enough for Chetney at the same speed to push through a crowd and get underneath them for the Banish) and her desperate demand that the Kryn give her a beacon - all while holding Ashton's lifeless body in her arms - is brushed off without even a potential roll to try and sway the Bright Queen. Then, after Ashton comes back to life, after both of them become visibly altered in the aftermath of the god matter, and after all the other Hells and side characters get their time for their own stuff, we finally get back around to them and their last interaction's resolution is left up in the air. Every other ship gets to run, fly, and gallop off into the sunset - and I am truly happy for them, don't mistake this as me saying that they don't deserve it - and we're just left waiting, wanting, and wishing we could join them.

And then the next week is Valentine's Day.

One of the main times of the year in every fandom for a ship tag to flourish with art, writing, and overall positive content, and ours just, doesn't, not to the same extent. It feels like we're all holding our breath, holding our headcanons and creative ideas close out of fear that we'll curse or jinx it by letting it out. And I know Tal and Ashley - who I still admire greatly - didn't intend for this to be the reaction, but I think a lot of us riding into the finale were feeling hopeful, in the confident context, that things would work out and our patience would be rewarded, but then over 9 hours later, it wasn't; instead we're left reeling by a series of gut punches, nearly moments, and vagueness at the end of the tunnel.

I know that not everyone sees it this way, and there are those who are simply content or are able to lean on their other, more beloved ships for comfort - which, again, is not in any shape or form a problem or a slight if you do - but for me personally, I don't have that. This IS my number one CR ship, this is my comfort ship, and I know I made a post after the finale saying that we shouldn't sink into despair - and I do still mean every word - but as a result, this last month has been kinda rough on me emotionally. For someone who has used tumblr to do reviews and critiques, when it comes to my personal feelings I really do hate complaining - people are facing far worse problems and have far more legitimate reasons to be upset than I do after all - but I can't deny that since the finale I've felt less motivated for pretty much anything, everything just feels a little less than it used to - like a fire in me has been dimmed - and I keep looping back in my mind fearing that I missed something to explain why we didn't get the moment we wanted and could just live in forever, and I don't find it; every time I think back to their moments together I can't see anything less than the fact that these two characters love each other, that they understand each other on a level no-one else does, and, as they've already admitted to each other, they have the best time of their lives when they're together.

I know we each have our perspectives on where things go from here, and what suits them best, and yes, infinite possibilities does have its merits in this regard, but those possibilities also include bad ones that I could do without intrusively crossing my mind; I don't like fearing that Fearne will put off thinking about it, or that she won't be honest about her feelings and decides to settle for less, I also don't like feeling like this is the nervous energy we'll have to carry with us until whenever we see them next. Granted, if we do end up having to wait until the currently-unconfirmed reunion one shot with this uncertainty I Will Wait, you best believe that I will wait, but obviously I don't want to - nobody likes being persistently anxious after all, especially in places of comfort, and we've already waited a long time as it is.

If a question does get asked about it or the matter is brought up by the cast, I think all that those like me really need is assurance. Confirmation that Yes, Fearne thought about it and she didn't change her mind - that would honestly be enough. It still means the possibilities are endless, but they'll all be good possibilities that feed and encourage us to create and gush and flourish without the shadow of doubt. I have absolutely no right to ask, because in the end it's not about me, but I don't think that's asking for much; it's, after all, nothing as elaborate as retconning a hag pact that promised eternal service, or something as fantastical as bringing mortality back to an undead PC, much less doing it twice. But for those wondering what I am wishful for, that is it: that's all that I wish to get from the wrap up and that's all that I'm hoping for, and on Friday morning when I get to check it out before -and likely during - the start of my shift, I hope with all my heart that this wish will have come true.

[this-was-a-terrible-idea]

I'm gonna break the trend and ask about the jaysteph, please 👀

jaysteph heatwave!!! thank u for asking!!! (and @paprikadotmp4 thank YOU for asking about them as well!!!) this was supposed to be a prompt fic for jaysteph weekend back in august but. uh. well. these two losers have taken the reins from my hands and steered my fic off its neatly outlined course. anyways!!! heres a snippet <3

She grabs a strawberry lime popsicle and bites off the top. She lets out a hum of contentment at the coolness of the treat and smiles happily, and Jason promptly forgets what he was going to say in response. Blinking hard to try and reset his brain, Jason says the first thing that comes to mind. “I thought you would be more of a grape gal.” He motions to her popsicle. “Y’know, because of the purple?” “Grape?” Her face twists in disgust, voice incredulous. “The medicine flavor???? Eugh, get outta here with that shit. Gross. Even my love for purple has limits. No, strawberry lime is where it’s at.” “Then why-“ “Why do I have them if I don’t like them? Blame Tim. They’re his favorite; he brought them over.” They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, savoring their popsicles and the minor reprieve from the heat they grant. 

please ask me about my wips!!!

[verfound]

FIC: "Luka's Secret" (MLB; Lukanette; LBSC Lukanette Month 2024)

@lovebugs-and-snakecharmers is doing a Lukanette Month for September 2024, and we all just kinda tossed some prompts in the disco to compile a list?  We ended up with 71 prompts, so I decided I’d roll some dice to pick a prompt, do a twenty minute (ish, bc we all know sometimes they run away from me) sprint, and try to get some short fics out this month?

(Rated M for half-dressed smoochies)

Read on Ao3

05 September 2024

Prompt 66: Secrets

Luka had a secret.

Juleka was fairly sure of that.

It was pretty obvious – about as obvious as that time Marinette had been keeping a secret and their squad had gotten themselves akumatized trying to get her to come clean.  Luka and Marinette had that in common: they were both terrible at keeping secrets.  They had multiple tells, some pretty obvious and some less so, but what that meant was when Luka started jumping at the sight of her own shadow she was pretty sure she knew what was up.

…well.  She didn’t actually know what was up.  She just knew he was keeping something from her.  And while she respected that – they were both keenly aware of how important privacy could be, growing up in such close quarters as they had – it was still driving her a bit nutty.

Because Luka had always been big on truth and honesty.  Being open with people was very important to him.  So she knew, when he got squirrely like this, that he had a secret, and keeping secrets was bad for him.

She was pretty sure secrets were what had gotten him akumatized, the last time around.

She was just trying to be a good little sister.  Help him out.  She didn’t actually care what the secret was – that was his own business – just that he was being weird about it and she needed him to stop.  The weirdo.

She had been planning on confronting him when he got home, but as she walked towards their cracked door and heard his low voice on the other side she realized she had lost her element of surprise.

“I think she knows,” she heard him sigh.  “Or suspects.  I told you I was bad at this.”

…no shit, Sherlock.  At least he was aware of it.  It’d probably be worse if he tried to play it off like everything was fine when, clearly, it was not.

When no voice answered him, she assumed he was on the phone.  He chuckled, and then she heard a thump.

“Shut up,” he said.  “It’s easier for you.  You don’t share a room with her.”  There was another beat, followed by: “…she will not.  I promise you…she won…but…”  Another heavy sigh.  Another thump – the sound of his head hitting the wall, she was sure.  “Fine.  We’ll do this your way.  But…it’s not a bad thing, you know.  I think she might even be happy about it.”

Her brow furrowed.  It was obvious they were talking about her, but what exactly was she supposed to be happy about?

“I know,” he said.  “Ok.  Ok.  I’ll be there.  I love you.”

There was a harder clattering, like he had just dropped his phone on the amp he used as a nightstand, and another sigh.  She blinked as she stared at their door, fairly certain her heart had just stopped.

Luka…loved someone?

Well…shit.

Who the hell was going to tell Marinette?

. : .

“I think we have a problem,” she said the next day from her place on Rose’s bed.  Rose was busy changing – she had just returned from visiting her brothers, and Frankie’s husband had taken her shopping.  She had called her over for…well.  Juleka was pretty sure for make up makeouts, since she’d been gone a week, but she’d also wanted to show off her haul.  She tipped her head back, looking at the closet door that blocked her girlfriend from view.  “Rose.  Did you hear me?”

“I did,” she called, tossing the lilac dress she’d just shown her over the top of the door.  Juleka had liked that one.  The hornier part of her couldn’t wait to peel it off her.  “I’m waiting for you to tell me what the problem is.  I need to assess for optimal reaction.”  She poked her head out, and the bra strap sliding off her otherwise bare shoulder was very distracting.  “I’m trying to not be so extra, remember?”

“I think Luka’s seeing someone,” Juleka said.  She dropped her head back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.  “He’s…been avoiding me.  And acting weird.  Like he’s keeping something from me.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s seeing anyone,” Rose said, stepping out from behind the door with her arms folded across her chest.  Juleka glanced at her before forcing her eyes back up, because if her shoulder had been distracting…  “He could just be busy, Jules.  You know he’s taken on a bunch of students over the summer.”

“I heard him on the phone,” she insisted.  “Didn’t sound like a student he was talking to.  He…said he loved them.”

Rose’s brow furrowed.

“…did he have the call on speaker?” she asked.  Juleka shook her head.  Rose sighed and looked down at her feet.  “Well.  Shoot.  Have you asked him about it yet?”

“Didn’t really know how,” she sighed.  Her eyes closed as she settled back onto the bed.  “I just…I guess I always thought he’d work things out with Marinette?  I like Marinette.  I don’t want to have to get used to someone else.  She was going to be a great sister-in-law.”

“…it’s been a long time since they tried to make it work, Jules,” Rose said, her voice sympathetic.  Juleka sighed and rolled onto her side, reaching out a hand for her.  Rose smiled as she walked over, climbing onto the bed beside her and cuddling up against her side.  Juleka smiled as she wrapped an arm around her, the skin of Rose’s back hot against her own.  “Maybe it’s for the best.  Maybe it’s time they both moved on.”

“…who are you and what have you done with my hopeless romantic girlfriend?” Juleka grumped, smiling at her.  Rose giggled and leaned up, kissing her slowly.

“It’s called growing up,” she said.  “It’s supposed to be good for you.”

Juleka hummed and leaned in for another kiss.  She’d worry about Luka’s secrets later.  There was entirely too much half-dressed Rose to occupy her attention to worry too much about stupid brothers just then.

. : .

A few blocks away, hidden in the depths of the Liberty (or: hiding out in the laundry room, where suspicions Captains and sisters couldn’t catch them), Luka was busy with his own…distractions.

Specifically the lapful of half-dressed Marinette, who had pushed him back onto the dryer and climbed on top of him the second he’d set the timer.  And while he had been the sole focus of his sister’s attention lately, he could safely say she was the absolute last thing on his mind.

It was a little hard to be concerned with worrying about her, when Marinette’s hands were in his hair and her tongue was in his mouth.  Or when she tipped her head back like that and made such delicious little sounds when his lips moved along her neck, lower and lower to…

“N-no one’s home, right?” she asked, breathless, and he hummed as his lips found her chest.  His hands slid up her back, toying with the band of her bra.  “Luka.”

“Jules is at Rose’s,” he said, nipping along the lacy edge of the cup covering her breast.  He was starting to think she had fallen into the river on purpose, though she should have known by now there were easier ways to get her shirt off…  “Ma’s…not home.  We’re safe.”

“I’d hope so,” she giggled.  “I mean…it’s bad enough if they catch us together, but if they catch us like this?”

She pushed her chest a little closer to him, wiggling as if to emphasize her point, but all that made him want to do was kiss her more.

“Don’t fall into the river, then,” he teased.  He glanced up at her, his eyes darker than they had any right to be.  “If you weren’t still such a klutz, we wouldn’t have needed to toss your clothes in the wash.”

“And wouldn’t a gentleman offer me a shirt, too, instead of making me walk around practically naked like this?” she quipped.  He hummed, dropping another kiss to her chest.

“I’m a boat kid, not a gentleman,” he reminded her, “and I happen to love you like this.”

“You love me anyway,” she laughed.  He chuckled, picking at the hooks of her bra again, and nodded.

“I really do,” he said.  He glanced up at her with a wicked little grin.  “…klutz and all.”

“…why you…” she huffed, and then he wasn’t sure what happened.

There was a brief moment where the world seemed to spin and flip, and then he was lying on his back across the washer and dryer with Marinette hovering over him, his shirt pushed up around his neck and her lips closing around a nipple.  Her teeth scraped the sensitive skin before she sucked, and he gasped as his entire body twitched beneath her.

“Who’s the klutz now?” she hummed, and his laugh turned into a strangled little sound he couldn’t bother being embarrassed about.

“M-my point,” he huffed, his hands sliding up her thighs and around to cup her ass, “is that your secret – our secret – is safe.  For now.  They don’t suspect a thing, and no one’s here to find out.”

It was just them for the foreseeable future, and he had every intention to take full advantage of that.

“…don’t say it like that,” she sighed, her teeth grazing his nipple again.  “We will tell them, Luka.  Just…not yet.”

“I know,” he said, squeezing her ass and encouraging her to look up at him.  He pushed her up, lifting his head to catch her lips in a slow kiss.  “I just…don’t you think it’ll be worse?  The longer we keep this from everyone?”

“We could always elope first,” she said.  “Then no one will be able to complain.  It’ll be too late to, by the time they find out.”

“Bullshit,” he laughed, pecking a kiss against her lips.  “Your dad will flip.  He’s probably been planning our wedding since you were in collège.  He’ll kill me if I marry you and he’s not there to see it.”

“And the Captain won’t kill me?” she teased.  He chuckled and shrugged.

“She’s more lenient,” he said.  “Eloping has just enough chaotic flair to make her proud.  Plus, she already likes you.  It’ll just cement you as a keeper in her books.”

“Papa loves you,” she reminded him.  She sighed as she settled against his chest, her ear resting above his heart.  “We’ll tell them.  Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, the word sounding more relieved than he’d probably meant it to.  “Until then…”

He rolled her towards the wall, and she squealed out a laugh as he was suddenly on top of her.  They’d tell everyone tomorrow.  Eventually.  For now, she was still his secret to keep, and he was determined to enjoy every last minute of it.

[dontbelasagnax]

for you, only you

Pairing: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 11,269

Tags: Order 66 Didn't Happen (Star Wars), Jedi Temple (Star Wars), Clone Troopers and Jedi as Found Family (Star Wars), Misunderstandings, it IMMEDIATELY gets cleared up, they actually do a great job of communicating clearly all throughout, Getting Together, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Making Out, Demisexual CC-2224 | Cody, First Time, Top CC-2224 | Cody, Bottom Obi-Wan Kenobi, Barebacking, POV CC-2224 | Cody

Summary:

“What's next for you, my dear, now that you’re a citizen of the Republic?” Obi-Wan tilts his head, expression alight and imploring. “You could get a job and find a place of your own amongst the many levels of Coruscant- or the stars.”

[ OR: The Clones' Rights bill finally passes. Cody and Obi-Wan discuss the promise they once made of "after the war". Admittedly, not much talking happens ;) ]

Cody deserves good things and he is getting them on this special day of 2/2/24! @codyday2224