#my ficlet is done!

[baronessblixen]

I wish you’d write a fic where mulder and scully are at a restaurant in Rome ! (Am I too late ?)

You were not too late, anon, it just took me a while to finish this! I loved it and I immediately knew it had to be a fluffy fic(let).

Tagging @today-in-fic

There are, he presumes, easier ways to catch Scully in a sundress than whisking her away to Italy on a random Tuesday. Not that he’s complaining; if he could, he’d sit here for hours – no, days – just watching her.

It’s not just the sundress; it’s the way the sun kisses her skin, reminding him of when his lips did the same. He knows how soft her skin is, how her freckles taste against his lips. The smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth is unavoidable. Not that Scully is paying attention to him. While she’s taking it all in, he’s mesmerized only by her. Rome might be beautiful, but it has nothing on Dana Scully. In a sundress, no less.

“Mulder,” she says, her eyes drifting over to him. “Are we really here for a case?”

Ah yes, that.

“We are,” he replies, pretending to look for the waiter. Now would be a good time for their food to arrive. Food that Scully ordered for them both in impeccable Italian. At least Mulder presumes she did. He sat there grinning like the love-sick fool he is when she started speaking to the waiter.

“You told me to bring comfortable clothing,” Scully says, her eyes scrutinizing him. “Is this restaurant being haunted by ghosts?” Oh, he loves this woman. He smiles, matching the amused glint he catches in her eyes.

“No,” he says, leaning forward, as if what he’s about to say was a secret, ”we’re here for the Gata Carogna.” Scully’s eyes widen in curiosity. When he pitched it to Skinner, their boss merely nodded, and Mulder is certain he just wanted them both out of his non-existent hair for a week.

Scully remains quiet, seems to be waiting for him to continue, so he does.

“It’s a cat-like creature,” he says, leaning closer and closer still. The city around them is bustling, but he only has eyes for her. He’s close enough that it would take less than a whisper to close the distance between them. “It has an appetite for children’s souls.” He blinks at her and waits for her to react.

“That’s a fun story,” Scully says in her no-nonsense voice. “There’s just one problem with it.”

“Which is?” Scully takes a sip from her water and Mulder swallows, feeling thirsty himself. Moments slip by as he watches her. Then she leans in, and he’s momentarily distracted by how wet her lips look.

“The Gata Carogna, Mulder, has its haunting grounds in Lombardy, not Rome.” He’s too stunned to reply to her, frozen in his place where their noses are still almost touching. What might people passing by think, seeing them? Would they think they’re a couple on a romantic getaway?

“Does that mean Skinner didn’t buy the story either?” He grins sheepishly at her. “Skinner sanctioned this?” Mulder nods. “This isn’t- oh my God, Mulder, I thought this was- I thought you were only using this as a ruse!”

“A ruse? For what?” he asks innocently. They’re on the same page after all. He can no longer hold his laugh in when he sees color shoot into her cheeks.

“It is,” he admits, finally. “I mean I did go to Skinner and he did sanction it. We’re here on, well, let’s call it an official vacation.”

“We’re not here to chase after ghosts, or soul-stealing cats?” He shakes his head no and smiles at her, knowing the sun isn’t to blame for the warmth running through this whole body. “We’re here to…” she trails off, her eyes searching his.

For this, he thinks. To take a breath. To leave behind the world, the monsters, and their pasts; everything that keeps chasing them.

“For whatever you want,” he says instead. He knows exactly what he wants. Knows that he wants to hold her hand and make happy memories for a change. Knows that he wants to kiss her when the sun sets. And he knows he wants to go to bed with her, snuggle up, and ward off any nightmare that might have followed them here.

Now it’s up to her.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll think of something.” And then, just before the waiter arrives with their food, she leans over the table and presses a soft kiss to his mouth.

For once, he’s done everything just right.

[muffinlance]

Hi ! prompt idea : What if Zuko was armed during the first episode and was stranded with the water tribe while the avatar left with Katara and Sokka, Iroh on his trail for white lotus reasons.

Oh we are going to have us some FUN with "stranded with the water tribe", say no more.

---

Zuko was dripping, and steaming, and staring down two dozen women and their gaggle of small children, plus that old not-the-Avatar crone from earlier. They were all cowering away from him. Which was--

Good. It was good. If they were cowering, then they hadn’t noticed how steam was not flames. He wasn’t sure he could make flames, not after the arctic water he’d landed in, with that last sight of the Avatar glowing; not after surfacing under the ice pack, after swimming, after kicking slamming breaking through and his ship was gone and there was only ocean all around and

and he’d made it back to this pathetic little camp of the Southern Water Tribe, because that was the only place he knew for sure would have shelter, and he wasn’t going to die just because they were all staring at him, even if felt like he would.

Even if the old not-the-Avatar woman could probably take him, right now. But she didn’t know that.

Zuko pulled himself up, taller than her by at least a few inches, and blew steam from his nose.

“I am commandeering one of your huts,” he said. And added, because Uncle said even a prince should be gracious: “You may choose which one.”

---

She choose her own.

...The only one without children that flames might scar, or younger women to catch a soldier’s interests.

Zuko sat by her fire and determinedly started struggling out of his wet clothes and she was still in here with him--

Zuko pulled one of her animal pelts over himself, and finished fighting off his clothes. When he stuck his head back out, cheeks still reddened from what was obviously the cold, she dropped a parka on his head.

“Dry clothes, Your Highness,” she said.

The parka was much bigger than he was. He fell asleep hoping that the camp’s men were on a long, long hunting trip.

---

He woke up again. Kanna tucked her favorite ulu knife away, newly sharpened, and stopped contemplating the alternative.

---

“I am commandeering a ship,” he said.

The crone led him across the village, all twenty paces of it, to a row of canoes.

“Take whichever one you want,” she said. “Will you need help getting it to the water?”

Zuko looked at the canoes. Looked at the ocean. Watched a leopard seal, easily the size of the largest canoe, dozing just past the ice his own ship had broken through the day before. It was frozen again, a great icy arrow pointing from the waves to the village, snow already starting to cover it over.

Beyond was blue sky and gray ocean and white ice, floating in blocks like stepping stones, like boulders, like cliffsides.

There wasn’t even a hint of gray steel, or smoke. Or any land, besides what they were standing on.

He looked down at the canoes again. Somehow, they seemed even smaller.

“I, uh,” Zuko cleared his throat. “I’ll require supplies. Before I go.”

---

They... did not have supplies. Not extra ones. This didn’t stop them from trying to give him supplies, food and blankets and anything else he could think to ask for. But each blanket was a pelt hunted by someone’s grandfather, had been inked with images and stories by someone’s mother, was the favorite of someone’s husband or brother or uncle or cousin--

They couldn’t go to the nearest market to replace things, here.

And when they talked about food, about what they could spare, they kept sneaking glances to their children, who were sneaking glances at Zuko from the huts, sticking their heads just over the snowy ledges like their fur-trimmed hoods would hide them. Their mothers and aunts shooed them away, and they crept back, like barnacle-crabs. Zuko glared, and they disappeared.

“When are your men coming back?” he asked. “They’re hunting, aren’t they?”

Oh. So that was what they looked like, when they weren’t trying to hide their hate.

---

Zuko wrapped himself up in the same blanket that night. It was printed inside with fine lines and images, telling a story he didn’t know. He wondered whose favorite it was.

---

Kanna wondered how quickly he’d wake—if he’d wake—if she built the fire up with wet driftwood and tundra grass, if she had one of the younger girls boost up a child to plug the air hole, if she let the smoke draw its own blanket down over this fire child.

---

It was hard to know when to wake up, because the sun never set. So everyone was up before him, and they all had spears and clubs and—and nets, and trap lines, and snow googles with their single slat to protect the eyes from snow blindness. Zuko had seen those once, at the Ember Island Museum of Ethnography, where they’d gone when it was too rainy for anything more exciting.

Oh. They were going hunting.

“Give me that,” Zuko said, and took a spear.

The women looked at him. One of them adjusted her googles.

“I can hunt,” he scowled.

He did not, in fact, know how to hunt.

---

“Give me that,” the Fire Prince said, and Kanna almost, almost gave him her ulu. Humans, like most animals, had an artery in their legs that would bleed them quick enough.

She kept skinning the rabbit-mink one of the women had snared.

“I can help,” he said, with less grace than most of their toddlers. Likely with the skinning skills of a toddler, too. She wasn’t going to let their unwanted visitor ruin a perfectly good pelt.

“Chop the meat,” she said, and gave him a different knife. “It’s dinner.”

“...This is really sharp,” he said a moment later, looking at the knife with some surprise.

“Is it,” said Kanna.

---

Things the Fire Prince was convinced he could do: hunt (until he realized he couldn’t tell the tracks of a rabbit-mink from a leopard-rabbit apart); spear fish (at least he could dry himself); pack snow for an igloo (frustrated princes ran hot); ice fish (the prince was a problem that kept coming close to solving itself).

Things the Fire Prince could actually do: mince meat, increasingly finely; gather berries and herbs, once he stopped trying to crush them; dig roots, under toddler supervision; mend nets, after the intermediary step of learning to braid hair loopies.

“Can’t I take him ice fishing again?” asked one of the women, as she watched Prince Zuko put as much apparent concentration into braiding her daughter’s hair as his people had into exterminating hers.

“Wait,” said another woman, sitting up straight. “Wait wait wait. I just had an idea.”

---

Three words: Infinite. Hot. Water.

---

Summer was coming to an end. The sun actually set, now, and the night was getting longer, and colder. The salmon-otter nets were mended and ready. The smoking racks were still full of cod-lemmings. The children were all a little older, the women all a little more used to doing both halves of their tribes’ chores; a little more used to not watching the horizon, waiting for help to come.

The Fire Prince was staring at the canoes again.

“Are you actually going to try leaving in one of those?” Kanna asked.

“...No.”

“Come on, then; someone needs to watch the kids while the women are hunting.”

She didn’t leave him alone with them, of course. But she could have.

---

Elsewhere, the war continued.

The moon turned red, for a moment none could sleep through; they did not learn why.

The comet came and went, leaving their castaway prince laying on the beach, his breath fogging up into the night sky above him, as the energy crashed from his system as quickly as it had come. Above, lights began to dance in the sky; Zuko pulled his hood up, so none of those spirits—children, dead too soon—got any ideas about kicking his head off to be their ball.

The war had ended. The world didn’t feel any different; no one in the south would know until spring came again.

---

Suffice it to say, Sokka and Katara were not prepared for this particular homecoming.

[a-most-beloved-fool]

Spock knew he was dying. It was, he supposed, quite inevitable. In truth, he was surprised that death had not claimed him much sooner; there had been many instances throughout his life and career when it had seemed inescapable.

Now, however, it would be time that would claim him.

All told, it was a significant improvement upon his last death, trapped within the Enterprise's warp core. Though his bones ached with age, his flesh did not burn with radiation, and his vision remained quite clear. He hurt, yes, and was cold, but he was not in agony.

However...

The last time he had died, pressed up against the glass, he had not had to face it alone. Jim had been with him, as had Doctor McCoy and Mr. Scott. He had been unable to touch them - and indeed he had wanted to, had wished quite illogically for the glass to fall away and allow him to tumble into Jim's arms - but they had still been there, at his side.

He was a Vulcan, and so perhaps it should have been inconsequential, but he was old now, and sentimental.

He could not help but want.

And then, as though a breath had passed through the room, Spock sensed a change.

Suddenly, without any fanfare at all, Jim stood at his side, smiling warmly down at him. He looked just as young as he did when Spock had seen him last, before he had been swept away by the Nexus and held away from him for so many long decades. He was, thought Spock, so beautiful.

If this was an illusion, it was a welcome one.

When Jim's hands clasped his own, they felt real, somehow, soft and warm against his chilled flesh, and Spock gripped back with all the strength he could muster. Illusion though it may be, Spock would savor it.

Jim, he wanted to say, how I have missed you, but his voice was well beyond him. To even try would be an exercise in futility. Kaiidth. Perhaps it was for the best. It would not do to frighten his doctors by speaking to a hallucination.

Still, he allowed himself to look, drinking in Jim's appearance like a man parched. It had been so very long since they had been together, and Spock could find no shame in taking advantage of his situation. He was dying, and if an illusion was the only way he could have the company of his husband, he would accept it without question. It felt like Jim, and it looked like Jim, and that was enough for him.

To his other side, a light began to bloom. Sunrise. He had not expected to make it to this sunrise. Memories, long cherished, of watching alien sunrises with Jim bubbled up in his mind, and a sigh fell from his lips.

Oh, how he had missed him! And now, at his very last sunrise, Jim was back with him, hands holding his.

Yes, this was by far an improvement on his previous death.

With some effort, he turned his head towards the sun. Jim, too, turned to face it, and together they watched, as they had so very many times before. It was peaceful. Wonderful.

He did not know how long he lay there, gazing at the rising sun, Jim's hand still in his, before the change became apparent to him: breath no longer stirred in his chest, and his heart no longer beat in his side. Gone, too, was the ache of time that had so suffused him these last years.

And yet, the sun still shone before him, and Jim's hands were still warm against his own.

He blinked, wondering.

"Jim," he whispered, and the name fell with shocking ease from his lips. Cautiously, he pulled himself to a sitting position, and his form moved more smoothly than it had in many years as he turned to meet Jim's eyes once more. "Jim."

"Hello, Mister," Jim replied.

Jim beamed at him, that beloved face warm with affection. The barest hint of sadness lingered at the edges of his eyes, and Spock's hand raised almost of its own accord, brushing lightly over his cheek.

"You grieve," he murmured. "Why?"

Jim just smiled, leaning into Spock's touch. "Illogical, I know," he said, a light puff of laughter escaping his chest. "I only - well. It isn't pleasant to watch you die, peaceful though it was. And, while I'm terribly pleased to see you again, I can't help but feel sorry. Death is - quite permanent, most of the time. I'm afraid no strange Vulcan rituals will be bringing you back, this time around."

Spock understood. Gently, he threaded his fingers into Jim's hair. "I confess that I am relieved by that," he admitted, cherishing the feeling of Jim beneath his touch. "I would not wish to be taken from you once again, so soon after arriving."

Something honey-warm softened in Jim at that, his eyes alight with a deep fondness.

"You sweet talker, you," he said, squeezing gently at the hand still within his grasp. Then, something almost tentative crept into his face. "Spock," he started, eyeing him cautiously, "I know it's been... quite some time, for you. But - to say it bluntly, I still love you. If you've moved on, I'll never mention it again, but-"

Illogical, Spock thought, silencing Jim's words quite suddenly with his lips. Jim melted against him easily, and for a long moment they did nothing but kiss, breathing into one another as they traded touches. When Spock finally pulled away, Jim looked almost kiss-drunk, lips swollen and eyes besotted.

"I suppose that's my answer, then," Jim chuckled, squeezing Spock's hands again.

"Indeed," Spock replied, allowing his eyes to crinkle with some of the delight which pumped through his veins. Gently, he rubbed his nose against Jim's, then pulled back again.

"I'm glad." Jim looked at Spock for a moment, and then glanced down at the bed he still sat upon. "I'll admit, I expected you to have more questions."

"I have surmised that I am dead, and that you are here," Spock said. "Anything further seemed unimportant, for time time being."

Another huff of laughter escaped Jim. "Imminently logical, Mister Spock," he teased. Spock merely inclined his head in response.

Jim stood, and pulled Spock with him, rising from the bed. Disconcertingly, he could see his own body laid out beneath him, eyes closed in death, but then Jim leaned in to press a brief kiss to his cheek, and it was forgotten.

"Well, suffice to say, it seems there's some kind of afterlife. It might be a part of the Nexus, believe it or not." Gently, he tugged Spock along as he started walking, linking their arms together "I'm not the only one who's been waiting for you, I'll have you know," he said, an almost impish smile playing at his lips. "You'll have quite the greeting party, I'm sure. I think Bones has been saving up gripes just for you."

A smile found its way to Spock's face, and he did not try to stop it. He had Jim in his arms once again, and soon he would see their friends. But, before they could continue, Spock pulled lightly at Jim's arm, stopping him.

"Jim?" he said. "I am glad you were with me."

For a moment, Jim looked at him, clearly surprised. Then, an expression which shone like the sun spread across his face. He stepped forwards, enclosing Spock in a hug. Spock went willingly, tucking his face into the crook of Jim's neck.

"I am, too."

[milf-harrington]

hi i wrote a short little something inspired by this post bc it wouldn't leave my head

season 2 canon divergence, in the aftermath of Steve being taken in by Hopper (don't ask me why it's happened, bc i dont know it's just how the story took shape in my head)

--

Steve was pulling a pizza out of the oven when El drifted into the kitchen, bumping hear head against his arm like one of the Henderson's cats. Her hair was starting to curl at the ends, longer than when he'd met her.

"Can you please tell Hop to go to the store? We are out of Eggo's."

She was already holding the walkie when he turned to give her a look, eyes wide and quietly expectant in that intense way of hers. He rolled his eyes, sucking pizza sauce off his knuckle as he reached for the walkie.

They had a quiet stare-off as he held the button down.

"Hey Hop, you there? Over."

Soft static buzzed through the speaker as El leaned further into him, turning her gaze away to inspect the pizza, before Hopper's voice came through with a crackle.

"I'm working." A pause, and then a reluctant: "Over."

He and Hopper shared a similar opinion on walkie-talkie etiquette, but the kids were insistent so they did their best. El looked from the walkie and back to Steve without blinking. He sighed a short laugh. Pressed the button again.

"Jane needs you to go to the store. Over." Better to use her other name if he was working.

"Eggo's?"

"Eggo's."

Satisfied that her demand request had been passed on, El slipped out of the kitchen and plopped down in front of the tv, crossing her legs underneath her as the screen flickered to life. The remote remained untouched on the bench. She wiped her nose with her sleeve.

"Well, I currently have an 18 year old in the back of my car and I'll have to run him to the station first." Another pause. "-ucks sake, over."

The words fell out of his mouth without any real thought, a years worth of comfort in himself dissolving any filter he might've had. "Is he cute?"

The walkie crackled. Steve wanted to smack himself in the head with it.

"My son wants to know if you're cute."

Oh, he was going to kill him, even if he did feel warm and fuzzy over being called Hops' son.

"Uh, I want to say yes, sir?"

There was a second of loud laughter before the walkie cut off and Steve pressed it to his forehead in silent mortification. From the living area, canned laughter from Happy Days burst out of the speakers like the universe was mocking him.

When he looked up, El was smiling at the screen in bemused wonder, colours flashing across her face.

He cleared his throat, eyes shut as he held down the button again. "Please remember the Eggo's on your way home, we're having pizza. Over and out."

He pressed the antenna down for his own dramatics, before quickly pulling it back out again so he could be reached for emergencies.

It wasn't that big a deal, it's not like he'd ever actually meet whoever had been in the car.

[stevebabey]

part one, part two, part three. this a part four. this is so accidentally long but hickies as promised, w a brief return out touch starved steve <3 mwah!

Eddie is sure his kiss tastes of uncertainty.

He can’t help the way his lips betray his nervousness in their obvious restraint. He knows he had been far more enthusiastic last night, eagerness behind every kiss. This kiss is… softer. Shyer.

He can’t help it. Because even though Steve said yes, had maybe flattened Eddie’s heart by adding a please, Eddie’s still… unsure. Still worried. Still waiting for a punch to come because that’s what happens to boys who kiss boys.

But… Steve’s hands are still holding onto Eddie’s wrists, keeping them in their place where they cup Steve’s face so gently. When Eddie had leaned in, lips grazing Steve’s, he had felt the other’s tightening grip like a silent prayer, saying come close, stay close. Even now, the grip around Eddie’s wrists holds firm.

Though it’s the last thing he wants, Eddie breaks the kiss. He draws back, savouring the moment — the sweetness of Steve’s lips for what might be the final time — with his eyes shut tight. Did I do it right this time? He thinks, he hopes. Can I kiss you and keep you?

“I’m…” Steve starts, his voice a whisper. Eddie’s eyes open. His fingers flex along Steve’s jaw instinctively. “Really confused.” Steve admits quietly.

His face is reserved. Only slight ripples of anxiety peek through. The crinkle between his brows speaks of his abundance of confusion. Eddie’s eyes drink in every expression and he can’t stop help how his eyes catch back on Steve’s lips. He stares when Steve speaks.

“I thought you— I thought you didn’t want…”

“Didn’t want this?” Eddie echoes, with a tone of incredulity, eyes darting back up to look Steve in the eye. He punctuates the last word with another touch, the pad of his thumb touching Steve’s bottom lip bravely.

Steve shivers. His eyes flutter for a moment, in a way Eddie has come to know means his strange aversion to touch is flaring up but — but Steve’s hands keep Eddie from moving away when he tries. Steve nods slowly.

Eddie swallows — tries to push down the ache to kiss him again. They’re still twisted; Steve still doesn’t get it.

Neither does Eddie though. He can’t even imagine what Steve came over to apologise for. What mental gymnastics he had put himself through to somehow be the one who needs to apologise in this situation.

“Where the fuck,” Eddie breathes softly, with an appalled chuckle, letting Steve know he wasn’t mad. Wasn’t in the slightest bit annoyed, only confused. “Did you get that idea?”

Beneath his hands, Eddie can feel Steve’s cheeks grow hotter. The colour soon follows, a glorious crimson that fills the apples of his cheeks. And sure, fine, okay, sue Eddie if he enjoys the sight a little too much. Steve all flushed in the face, ears definitely warmer than they were a second ago.

Steve starts to stammer. “You— You sounded annoyed when I was leaving.” His brows are nearly touching in the middle, drawn together in concern. “I thought you were regretting—“

Eddie interrupts to clarify, suddenly aware of where they’d gotten so muddled. “I sounded annoyed because you were leaving, Steve. Not…”

Not because you asked for a kiss. Eddie’s throat dries up. He can’t say it aloud, not just yet. The words dance on the tip of his tongue. Eddie doesn’t trust himself not to fumble them.

Even though, Steve’s sudden departure had been due to a genuine misunderstanding, Eddie can’t— he’s not… He’s got to be realistic with himself, just in case. Not say too much too soon.

Steve reads into the silent lull in Eddie’s words and in an instant, his eyes are widening in understanding. Somehow, his cheeks glow even warmer.

“Oh,” Steve says, the word doused in relief, in understanding. “Oh my god—“

The rest of his sentence is lost as a car drives by, tires groaning loudly along the tar road. It serves as a quick reminder of where they are. In public, in such close proximity. Eddie steps back instantly, hands ripping away from Steve as a lick of panic runs up his spine. His eyes track the pale blue car down the road.

They were covered by the van but, still.

“C’mon,” Steve says softly, calling to catch his attention.

The panic wavers wildly for a moment before eventually relenting, Eddie dropping his shoulders as he turns back to Steve. He’s delighted to find Steve is no less red in the face.

Steve clears his throat, “We can call a tow back at yours.”

He gestures to his car, an invitation, with a smile. Eddie’s not even sure he’s meant to say something so reassuring; a mixture of the use of we and the implication Steve would come back home with him. Would come inside.

Eddie can’t help how he ogles at Steve. He’s doing another once-over to make sure Steve isn’t a mirage about to fade. Maybe Eddie had actually crashed his van when the engine spluttered on him and all this was a weird and extremely vivid coma dream.

Except, Steve doesn’t look perfect — not like a dream would.

Eddie can tell from the flatness of his hair, he likely didn’t sleep well. He’s got a tired but kind smile on. It’s shyer than Eddie’s ever seen before.

He’s still wearing that bright green Family Video vest for Christ’s sake — if Eddie was in a coma, he had some serious self-reflection to do if his brain picked this as his dream-Steve fit.

“Yeah,” Eddie says, with a nod and a smile of his own. “Lemme, uh, lemme just grab my stuff.”

Eddie turns to hide his face before Steve can see it grow into a wild frenzied smile, too gleeful to contain. He pops the driver’s side door and scurries around, grabbing all the essentials; cigarettes, lighters, and tapes with actual good music on them.

Steve’s waiting for him, still in the same spot when he slides the door shut. Eddie works the rusted lock to lock it up. No, Eddie thinks gleefully, this is not a dream.

-

Steve is surprised it’s not more awkward.

Not that he wants that— honestly, this sweet in-between phase where Eddie keeps glancing over at him, brown eyes longing and like he was checking if Steve was still there, as he talked on the phone, suited Steve just fine. More than fine.

And yeah, okay, maybe Steve swooned a bit when Eddie started twirling the cord of the phone, so much like a lovey-dovey teenage girl that Steve nearly laughed aloud. He wasn’t sure if Eddie even realised he was doing it. Just leant up against the wall, stealing glances at Steve — his fingers fiddling with the cord til they began looping it over and over.

Steve wouldn’t though— laugh at Eddie, that is. It feels pretty much impossible to do anything except sit with all his giddiness, just knowing that… his feelings for Eddie are mutual.

That Eddie hadn’t regretted the kisses in the slightest. That Eddie had wanted Steve for just as long.

It’s achingly sweet to look back on that first hug Steve had asked for — knowing they had both been toeing the line, trying desperately to keep their pining to themselves. Idiots, Steve scoffs to himself affectionately, they were both idiots.

Rerunning the memory of his hasty exit last night is less of a breezy memory. Steve doesn’t want to think too hard about what malicious ideas Eddie’s brain might have spun up to taunt himself.

He must’ve thought that Steve had left for entirely worse reasons. That the reason Steve hadn’t been able to look at him because he thought Eddie was… that he regretted… Steve shakes his head. None of those thoughts are pretty.

And, more importantly, they were untrue. Steve very much liked those kisses. His only regret that night was leaving the way he did. Honest, Steve would have more kisses if he could.

Something scorches across his heart delightfully because he can have more kisses — he just has to ask.

“Okay, thank you so much,” Eddie says appreciatively into the receiver. He dashes another look over at Steve, an apology in the form of his sorry grimace. He focuses back on the phone. “Yeah, I’ll be in tomorrow to see the damage. Thanks, again.”

He sets the phone back in the cradle and for a moment, Steve can’t see his face. Can’t see any of the nervous contemplation. Eddie finally seems to grasp his courage and spins, fixing Steve with a smile.

“Um,” He says, a nervous chuckle leaking through. Eddie moves closer but he moves all skittish, one of his sneakers catching on nothing. He stumbles just a bit, taking a quick seat on the couch arm beside Steve.

“Wh—“ Eddie starts to say. He huffs another nervous chuckle, one hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “This might be a stupid question but what… now?”

Steve thinks for a moment. He’s considering how to go about this when Eddie blurts out in a hopeful tone— “More kissing?”

There’s an unspoken please. Steve revels in the blush that follows the words.

He smirks up at Eddie, eyes tracing the bloom of pink on his cheeks. “What? On the couch, like I’m some common whore?”

“You seemed to have no problem with it last time, my liege.” Eddie points out dramatically, all with a grin.

“And I have no intention of repeating last time.” Steve counters. Then frowns.

“Well, except for the good part.” He corrects himself. “The first part! Just- Christ, can we go to your room instead, please?”

Eddie’s on his feet in an instant. He brings his hand up to his forehead and gives a salute with enough force to rip his arm off. Then marches down the hall and disappears into his room without waiting for Steve.

Steve thinks the nerves might be getting to him.

He walks the steps he’s walked a hundred times before, crossing into Eddie’s room and pressing the door shut behind him.

Eddie’s sat on the bed, criss-cross apple sauce style. He’s kicked his sneakers off — one’s by Steve’s foot, the other on the other side of the room.

Steve swallows and toes off his own shoes. He approaches the bed, climbing on gingerly and folding his limbs to match Eddie. That familiar swoop of nerves sits oh-so present in the pit of his stomach. Steve tries to think of it as a good thing — it’s good to have something so good that he’s nervous in his excitement.

For a moment, they just sit. Staring at one another. One of Eddie’s fingers is digging into the rips of his jeans, toying with the loose strands. It gives away his restless energy.

Steve waits. He asked last time and he knows — he knows Eddie wants to kiss him. But a small part of him…

“Why is this so hard?” Eddie blurts out all of a sudden. Like before, the words seem like they’ve come out without Eddie realising, but he barrels on. “Shit, I’m so fucking nervous. You make me so nervous, Steve.”

Eddie’s eyes won’t settle. They dart around. Move from Steve’s eyes to his lips, down, to the bed sheet beneath them. Like he still isn’t sure if he’s truly allowed to look. His admission makes Steve sorta wanna roll over and scream into the pillow. In a good way.

“I’m— Me too," Steve admits, a smile curling at his lips. “The- fuck, the way I feel about you honestly scares me shitless.”

Eddie seems to be both chuffed and relieved at his words.

“But I… want to kiss you,” Steve says assuredly. The next sentence he poses as a question, words a little more hesitant. More nervous. “And… and you want to kiss me?”

Across the bed, Eddie grabs a piece of his hair, twisting it nervously as he pulls it to cover his face. His usual nervous tell. Steve can’t help how he breaks into a grin when Eddie nods fervently.

“Cool.” Steve breathes. Then mentally smacks himself for saying cool. He tries to recover but Eddie beats him to it, with a question of his own. “Can I kiss you now?”

Steve answers by shuffling closer, til their knees are touching and then — like beside the road earlier — mimics the touch Eddie had given him.

Hands on either side of Eddie’s face, gentle as they curl under his jaw. Steve can feel the curls of his hair tickling at his fingertips. Another inch forward and he’d be burying his hands in Eddie’s hair. Steve bookmarks that urge for later.

Eddie looks nervous. Steve is undoubtedly making it worse, taking his time like this. But he can’t help it.

He wants to look — wants to stare, wants to devour every detail of Eddie’s face. Commit it to memory so he can picture it with his eyelids closed. What Eddie Munson looks like while waiting for a kiss.

The amount of affection that swells in Steve’s chest hits like a sucker-punch, enough he sucks in a tiny breath. He can see the smallest quiver in Eddie’s lip.

“You gonna stare all day, Harrington?” Eddie teases, but it lacks conviction when the words wobble a bit.

“Just enjoying the view,” Steve remarks, and then, finally, he kisses Eddie.

It’s the floodgate. It’s a frenzy, kiss after kiss after kiss, the softness of them slipping away in lieu of making up for missed time. Steve kisses every apology onto Eddie’s lips and he receives forgiveness a dozen times back. It’s bliss.

Eddie’s a very enthusiastic partner, to say the least. He’s a little messier with his kisses, hands gripping the front of Steve’s shirt tightly, pressing forward in a way that pushes Steve back— but Steve certainly doesn’t mind. He removes his hands from Eddie’s face to lower himself back, elbows against the comforter as Eddie follows eagerly.

For a moment, a sprout of doubt pulls them apart. Eddie hovers, not getting too close. “This is… this is okay?”

Steve grabs him by the collar and tugs him down, meeting him in the middle for another kiss. It’s a fat unanimous yes. Something glows hot in his chest when Eddie smiles into the kiss. Grins even. In fact, he has to take a moment to cheese it out, his face tucked into hiding against the crook of Steve’s neck.

Steve doesn’t mind. His hand strokes idly over Eddie’s hair, twisting in with the curls. He lets him take his time, lets Eddie work back up the nerve to kiss him again, except— with a gasp, Steve squirms at the sudden kiss on his neck, hot and soft.

“I think you were the one overdue for a hickie,” Steve breathes, hands threading through Eddie’s hair gently. He doesn’t pull him away though; lets Eddie figure out the best way to scrape his teeth against Steve’s skin as best he likes.

“Uh huh,” Eddie murmurs, barely heard. He’s too distracted.

“Eddie,” Steve tries, but it comes out far too close to a sigh. He tries again, this time with a proper tug to pull Eddie back from him.

It’s a bit of leftover King Steve the way he manoeuvres the both of them, rolling deftly so it’s Eddie upon his back and Steve hovering above him. Eddie manages to look both impressed and disgruntled at once.

Steve doesn’t let him get a word out. The pale stretch of skin down Eddie’s neck has been calling his name for too long and Steve is hungry for it. He grants Eddie one, two, three more kisses on his lips before he’s moving down.

He’s just getting started, lips pressed to hot skin when it happens. Eddie’s hands move up, skirting barely up and under Steve’s shirt, fingers searching. The unpleasant aversion prickles under Steve’s skin.

He locks up. He’s unable to do anything but; it feels helpless even as he tries to shake it off but he knows, he knows Eddie can feel it as he grows rigid under the touch.

It’s worse when Eddie tries to reel his touch back in. Steve wants to cry with frustration because it’s not Eddie— it’s fucking him.

“Don’t,” Steve pleads, his hand diving down to catch Eddie’s wrist and holding it there. He knows Eddie’s watching him closely, even as Steve’s eyes scrunch shut and he fights to fend off the uncomfortable feeling attempting to make home under his skin.

“It’s…” Steve wills himself to look Eddie in the eye, hoping the sincerity bleeds through his words. “It’s not you, Eds. Just— fuck, just… give me a second, okay?”

He releases Eddie’s wrist. Eddie nods, a minuscule motion. His brown eyes are watching Steve closely, darting all over his face wildly and after a moment, they still on his lips. Eddie makes a decision and pushes forward, planting a tender kiss on the corner of Steve’s mouth.

“S’okay,” He assures. Then gives Steve another kiss, this time on the lips, slow and sweet. Steve drinks it in, tries to savour the feeling of being kissed by someone who wants him. Wants him in every way they can have him. It's maddening.

Eddie’s hand moves an inch cautiously, testing the waters as his fingertips trace the skin of Steve’s tummy. He doesn’t flinch when Steve stiffens up again.

Like he can sense the frustration building up in the other boy, he captures Steve’s lips with his gently. Whispers against them again as soothingly as he can. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

It’s like the words run across the raised hackles of Steve’s soul, soothing and seeping out the tension from every muscle. Steve can feel himself relax under the words. Feels something inside him wobble and then tip over, finally soothed, finally settled.

This time when Eddie’s hand grazes along his waist, Steve shivers in a good way— and leans in closer, kissing back. His hands clutch back at Eddie’s hair, raking through to grip it sweetly. He tugs, jerking Eddie’s chin up and exposing his throat.

“Can I…” Steve begins. It’s a tease.

“Shut up,” Eddie grinds out, hands fixed on Steve’s waist. Now he knows he can touch, that Steve isn’t tensing up or flinching away, his hands are rabid. Hungry. They crawl across the skin, leaving hot scorch marks behind that tingle delightfully. “This hickie is so overdue.”

Steve grins wolfishly.

Eddie’s neck is a thorough shade of violet by the time he’s done, chest heaving. He looks devilishly handsome when Steve pulls back to admire his work and he barely gets a moment before Eddie’s back on him, lips hot against Steve’s own.

“My go.”

This time when Steve’s getting ready to leave, he half-heartedly pulls on his shoes. It’s a pitiful attempt to slow down the inevitable. He can’t believe leaving is harder this time; maybe it’s more to do with the hickies adoring his own neck and collarbones.

“Hey, I-“ Steve starts, already feeling flush in the face. Eddie’s watching him pack his stuff up, still pink in the face, but so evidently content with himself. He’s laid back on the bed, arms crossed behind his head. He’s showing off the dark lovebites on his skin, neck craned proudly.

“Mm?” Eddie hums, a cheeky smile on his face.

“When I— Robin.” Steve says, flashing a hand to his neck. “She’s- she’s probably gonna ask.”

Steve swallows. He somehow gets the feeling Eddie already knows what he’s going to ask — that he’s waiting for him to say it. Eddie’s grin says as much.

“And when she does, I—“ Steve continues, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. The kisses on it tingle beneath his own touch. “Can I… call you my boyfriend?”

Eddie glows. It’s the only word for the excited laugh that punches out of him, like a gleeful goblin.

Steve thinks he might just be falling all over again when Eddie rolls over and buries his face in his pillow. He pretends for Eddie’s sake not to hear his muffled shout that’s almost a squeal. His cheeks are ruby red by the time he sticks his face back out, his grin so wide it makes his eyes crinkle in the corner.

“Yes,” Eddie says, voice giddy. “Yes, please.”

And Steve’s so fucking glad he asked for that stupid hug way back when, because got a gremlin-level of affectionate boyfriend now to show for it.

-

and that's likely a wrap on the can i series for now ! i had an inkling of an idea for future but tbh i wasn't supposed to write this i like have 7 other fics callin my name. but alas! thank u so very much for the love on this, whether sending kisses to my touch starved self or talking bout needing a hug too in the tags <3 hopefully this heals all the right places <3 mwah my loves

tags below:

@original-cypher @maya-custodios-dionach @uwujinniee @attic-cat-blog @immortal-iratze @anaibis @orangeandthefairroadkill @etaka @silversnaffles @invisibleflame812 @eddie-hero-munson @jesskier @princess-eddie @impeachy @estrellami-1 @bloomingconflagration @newtstabber @iwouldsail @sundead @darksmistress @sydstroons @leethegay @superchellerific @eddielives1986 @jinxjinn @breealtair @steddieassheg0es @loopholesinmydreams @savory-babby @alittlegreyfish @izzy2210 @em9515 @killjoy-patrixtump @mrspasser @spectrum-spectre

[himbosandhardwear]

Slowly, like the way most things occur to Steve, he realizes that the way he and a lot of guys, probably most guys, talk about women is kinda gross. Kinda impersonal and objectable...no wait....objectifying. He loves that he can talk to Robin about chicks but as soon as he starts to say what he loves about them he realizes, though Robin likes girls, she is also a girl, and probably doesn't want to hear locker room talk. Which is when he starts to wonder if what he considers normal guy banter is actually gross douchebag banter.

"They're so warm," he says, which seems like a nice thing to say, neutral.

"I guess?" She frowns. "Guys are warm too though."

"Huh?"

"Yeah, I mean, women don't have a monopoly on body heat."

"Right," he agrees. Except what he was really thinking was the heat on the inside. Again, gross. That thought then leads to another thought. A weird, why-am-I-thinking-about-this thought. That guys are probably warm on the inside too. Definitely. Definitely warm on the inside. Shit. That's weird.

He doesn't have anyone to talk this over with anymore. Dustin is too young. Jonathan is currently getting warm with Nancy, so that doesn't seem appropriate. Wait! He can talk to Eddie!

"Is it fucked up to talk about sex stuff with Robin?" He asks Eddie the next time they're alone.

"What?" He responds.

"Like, she feels like a bro, but she's not actually a bro, cause she's a girl. Normally I'd talk about hookups with a bro but she probably doesn't want to hear about that kinda stuff."

"I guess," Eddie agrees.

"I almost said some pretty gross shit to her the other day but I stopped myself, thank god."

"How gross?"

"Just that I like how warm girls are, but, you know, on the inside. Which would be totally fine to say to another dude but she probably doesnt want to hear that from me. And then I started freaking out because it's probably just gross in general to talk about girls like that? Do you and the band talk about shit like that or was it just my asshole friends from school and I'm only just now realizing how fucked up it is?"

"Me? No, I've never talked about girls like that."

"Ah fuck, I knew it."

"But I'm pretty sure they're all virgins, so..."

"Oh. Do you ever talk about girls with anyone?"

"......no."

"I guess that means I'm an asshole."

"You're not an asshole, Steve. Talking about girls seems like a normal thing to talk about with your friends. Maybe not Robin, she might beat your ass."

"We could talk about that kinda stuff though, right?"

"Uh...."

"Never mind. It's stupid."

"No, it's just- I mean. You could tell me whatever. I'm cool."

"Oh, okay."

They stare at their feet.

"Is this weird? It feels weird."

"I'm gay, Steve."

Steve blinks. "Oh! Okay, that's cool." His eyes light up. "Wait! You'd know, are guys as warm inside as I thought?"

Eddie has a small stroke. He has to let his face say the words his mouth can't.

"Shit, it's still weird huh? Damn."

"No. Uh. It's just...why were you thinking about that?"

"Robin said girls don't have a monopoly on being warm and I just thought yeah she's right, so it makes sense that guys are just as warm as girls. It probably feels the same I mean. You don't have to tell me, you know, if it's weird to ask."

"Not weird to ask. It's just...I have no idea."

"Oohhh," Steve says. "You're a virgin too?"

"No."

Steve frowns in confusion.

Eddie wants to bury himself under a slab of concrete but makes himself explain. "You see, when guys fuck, one of thems gotta be the...warm one...as it were."

The line between his eyes doesn't lessen.

"I'm a bottom."

Still, somehow, he doesn't get it.

"Oh my god Steve, I'm the girl!"

His mouth makes a little 'O'.

"Yeah. That's not exactly how I like to describe it but you looked like you weren't visualizing. So."

Steve is having some truly deep thoughts. He's never thought about being the girl before. Like, obviously girls like being the girl. He hopes so anyway. But he's wondering what's the draw of being the girl if you're a guy.

"And you like it?" He blurts out.

Eddie, who's been a deep shade of pink already, turns violently red.

"Yup."

"Huh. Guess it makes sense. Never thought about it before though."

"Well, yeah, why would you?"

"Hey, I'm pretty open minded!"

"Sure. But straight guys don't tend to think about taking it up the ass. You know, as a rule." (A/N Eddie doesn't know wtf he's talking about)

Steve takes this in and realizes a few things, faster than he's ever realized anything before. He's thinking about it. And he's curious. And he wants to ask Eddie what it feels like and why he likes it. And he wants to ask if it hurts and if the pain is part of why he likes it. Because he thinks he might like that.

Fuck.

Okay. He can be normal about this. Eddie said Steve could talk to him about sex. It's normal and fine.

"We should fuck."

[silverskye13]

Helsknight showing up bloody at Welsknight’s base please I need suffering 🙏

There was something to be said about the stupid things he was willing to do in the name of self preservation. Damn his fears, and the unfairness of the universe, and the uncertainty of living [and dying] and everything else. The unknown had always been his greatest weakness, his greatest betrayer. Pity it was also one of the few inescapable things about living in general.

To say Helsknight stepped into Hermitcraft would be a terrible injustice of what stepping normally, let alone gracefully, looked like. What he actually did was stagger and drag himself into Hermitcraft on unsteady and shaking limbs. There were holes in him. He hadn't really taken inventory of them yet. Admitting he had a wound [or several] was enough. The minute he admitted the wounds were bad, in certain terms his mind could comprehend, was the minute shock would steal his senses. He was on Hermitcraft for the specific reason of dodging death, and it seemed to him shock, on any level, meant dying. If he wanted to die and roll the dice of respawn, he would have died in hels, in the alley he'd been jumped in, where he could at least take comfort in familiar cobblestones and the knowledge he'd dragged all his attackers down with him. But he didn't want to die, so he was here.

It was dark. He was inside a building. He was bleeding. Wels was nearby. Those were the only things he needed to know for certain. Helsknight looked around, trying to ignore the sluggish tilt his vision offered when he moved too quickly. The double vision of trying to parse memories of a place that weren't his battled with his wounded animal double vision and together they made him feel nauseous, more so than his wounding already did. Helsknight balled a fist against his sternum, like he could hold himself together that way, and concentrated very hard on walking and nothing else.

Helsknight didn't like being this close to Wels. Not while he was this injured. He could feel the awareness of his other half like a spider on his skin. There was a reflex-like urge to shout and try to shake it off, the instinct-like certainty that if it rested on him long enough it would find a reason to bite him. And he knew, in the way only experience could teach, that if he could feel Wels, Wels could feel him. Helsknight had the sensation of walking a tightrope: his body insisted speed was the only thing that could save him, while his mind insisted he must stay unnoticed. He must balance necessity with making his thoughts and emotions small, and it was hard work to do when he was losing blood.

Helsknight blinked slowly, tiredly. He picked a direction and walked, a hand pressed to the wall, keeping himself upright. Wels's potion room was nearby, a borrowed half-memory informed him, he just had to get there. He searched his drifting thoughts for a poem to repeat in his head, to keep fear and uncertainty from rising. His heartbeat was quickening, a symptom of something; panic, or fear, or blood loss, or all three combined. He was fixing one of those things. He needed to carefully manage the other two, before Wels felt them. The only poem he could think of was in Middle English, and mostly gibberish to him, which told him it came from Wels's memories somewhere.

Why have ye no routhe on my child?

Have routhe on me ful of mourning;

Tak doun o rode my derworth child,

Or prik me o rode with my derling!

[Rhyming child with child was a lazy, but this was written back when one could convincingly spell "down" as "doun" so he supposed he shouldn't be overly critical. The real trick was figuring out if "derling" was supposed to mean "darling", or some other archaic word lost to time. He could only figure out so much from context clues. "Mourning" apparently transcended centuries, and that seemed fitting. Everyone knew mourning, in some form or another.]

An ache opened up beneath his clenched fist, or it had always been there, and his body was only just now reinforcing the fact that it was important. It felt like the mother of all cramps in his muscles, and he stubbornly pretended that's what it was. He needed more potassium in his diet or something, and the gods would forgive him the smear he left on the wall when he leaned on it, waiting on the intensity of his pain to ebb. The doorway he was walking towards seemed close, but also very, very far. Closing distance with it was going a lot slower than he thought it would, and it was only one short hallway. He was glad he'd decided to do this, instead of his other half-considered option of attempting to walk across hels to the Colosseum. He wouldn't have made it.

Dread pooled in his stomach. Dread, and other more physical things, like blood, probably, but he pretended the dread bit was more important. He could feel Wels pricking on his skin again, an insistent spider twitching at a breath on his web. Helsknight breathed out the steadiest breath he could manage.

More pine ne may me ben y-don

Than lete me live in sorwe and shame;

As love me bindëth to my sone,

So let us deyen bothe y-same.

[Sorwe. What medieval idiot thought "sorrow" was spelled like "sorwe"? Maybe it had something to do with inflection. Poetry was half words, half rhythm. Maybe "sorwe" was supposed to indicate they wanted the reader to pronounce "sorrow" as a single syllable, so it sounded more like "sore". That's also probably why "bothe y-same" was sitting there like word vomit. They meant "both the same", but wanted it read without a pause between the first two words. It was really the method for the madness that mattered with poetry.]

Helsknight blinked. He was in the potion room. He couldn't fully remember the walk down the hallway, but that didn't matter. What mattered was there should be health potions in here somewhere, his salvation. Relief edged his vision in stars, and he once again felt Wels's attention cant in his direction, confused and curious. Wels didn't associate feelings of relief with Helsknight. It wasn't an emotion they felt in each other's presence, and it was far too strong to be muffled by the distance to hels.

[He knows I'm here.]

Helsknight opened a chest and rifled through it. His vision was protesting. Stars and tilting that would turn to spinning soon made a clutter of his eyes. It got hard to distinguish the colors of the stoppered bottles. He picked up one that felt overly warm to his cold and shaking fingers. He was pretty sure it was a health potion. It felt too hot, but he reminded himself he was cold from losing blood, so it should feel hot. Hesitantly removed his fist from where it was balled in front of his sternum, and let his eyes unfocus when he grasped the bottle's stopper. His hands were so unsteady, it took a couple tries just to grab it, and when he pulled on the cork, his fingers slipped off weakly. He tried again, eyes closed with concentration, pouring every ounce of his strength into the act of pulling a stopper out of a bottle, only for his hand to slip right off again.

Frustrated, nearing desperate, he looked down at himself for a clean place to wipe his hand on his tunic. It was a mistake. He knew it as soon as he did it. His eyes were inexorably drawn from the fabric to the poke-holes in it, to the wine-dark stain that flowed down his front and still dripped tak-tak-tak slow and inexorable onto the floor. It was a woeful amount of blood. He was honestly surprised he wasn't dead yet. Chalk it up to fortitude, and ignorance, and size. He had more blood to lose than some people did.

Helsknight's world suddenly gave an awful twist, vertigo and the crescendoing, cramping agony of his wounds, only staved off by how his now shattered ignorance, kicking him off his feet just as surely as a horse could. He slumped against the wall, and then to the floor, and the awful jarring of it hurt him worse. Half a dozen other wounds on him aired their grievances, and the big one near his sternum pushed blood onto his fist when he clutched it. Helsknight sat pinned, unable to breathe for many long seconds, feeling a bit like he'd been struck by lightning. The pain was blinding and numbing and overwhelming all at once.

Why-- have no-- have ye no-- something something...

[Words. Breathe. Think of words.]

[Gods... But it hurts......]

Why have ye no routhe on my child?

Have routhe on me ful of mourning;

[And what the hels did "routhe" mean, anyway? He knew the word "route". He knew the name "Ruth". Neither of them fit, unless his bloodless brain was missing something. There was a chance "routhe" was supposed to be read like "bothe", as a double word slurred together, but that still left "routhe the" which made less sense in context than "routhe" did.]

Right. He was supposed to be doing something other than bleeding to death on the floor. Helsknight blinked, looked down at his hand and realized the health potion he'd grabbed was gone. He must have dropped it when he slumped over. Looking around, he spotted it just to the side of his left boot, unbroken, thankfully, but it might as well be a lifetime away for all the good it did him. Helsknight knew without a shadow of a doubt he couldn't reach it. The idea of tensing his muscles and dragging himself forward to reach was exhausting, and he hurt so much he knew the movement would feel like tearing himself in half, and there were just some things a mind couldn't power through. Helsknight laughed dismally and let his head fall onto his chest. Both motions were white hot agonies, but all his pains were starting to blur together into a smear of overwhelming sensation that took thought away. It occurred to him he was breathing too fast, like he'd run too far too fast, and his fluttering heartbeat agreed.

[... It hurts...]

[Gods and saints it hurts.]

[I'm dying.]

A feeling he could only describe as doom fell on his shoulders, a cold grasp of fear that wrapped stony hands around his heart and squeezed. He'd heard of this. Never felt it himself. The utter sureness that if he didn't do something now, he would die. All the unconscious bits in his body in charge of keeping him working all unanimously agreeing they needed divine intervention, preferably right now, before they started shutting down. It wasn't something he often had occasion to feel, though he had heard people tell of it after particularly grizzly matches and bloody tournaments. Death was normally too quick in the Colosseum, or else he'd won his match, and even if he was falling to pieces there was a health potion too close to hand to let him dwell on his harms. This was so terribly different. Death stalked toward him unhurried and unbothered, waiting on him to finish drowning in blood. He might panic, if he wasn't already so cold and scared.

"Ah. This makes some sense, anyway."

Helsknight, who had stopped seeing the world in front of himself without really closing his eyes, refocused his vision on the open doorway. Wels stood there, an angel of death in azure and silver, his sword in his hand. His eyes were the ruthless blue of hels freezing over and lifeless corpses, and Helsknight thought there was no one else in the world he would rather not watch him die. But the universe hated him, so here Wels was, just as surely as if he was fated.

"I didn't think all that fear could possibly be for me."

Helsknight tried to reply, but all he managed was a dying-animal noise that strangled itself out when he tried to breathe a little steadier. He tried again, and this time managed a very weak, but vaguely defiant, "Fuck off."

"Rude," Wels said chastisingly. A glow of something like smug satisfaction prickled Helsknight's skin. The feeling came from Wels. "Especially given I'm the only person who can save you."

Helsknight chuckled, and then stopped when his body seized painfully around the motion. "We both know you don't want to save me."

"No," Wels admitted. "But I don't want to do a lot of unpleasant things I agree to do anyway."

"How... charitable."

"It is a virtue."

"Sure."

Wels didn't move. Well, he did move, but only to sheath his sword. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, the image of patience, as though they had all the time in the world.

[Hungry spider. Waiting on a web for something to struggle.]

"If you're waiting on me to beg," Helsknight informed him through staggering breaths, "I won't."

"Too prideful?"

Helsknight searched himself momentarily for pride, and came up short. Pride would've dictated he die in the alley, instead of here where Wels could lord it over him. This was something different than pride.

"No."

"Then why not?" Wels asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's easy. Just say, 'Welsknight, please give me a health potion'. Or if you're feeling monosyllabic, just 'please' will work."

Helsknight managed a smirk. "Why not help me out of the kindness of your heart?"

"I don't have any kindness for people like you."

[People like you. What a loaded phrase.]

Have ye no routhe on my child?

There was an entire philosophical debate that could happen in the phrase 'people like you' that Helsknight had neither the time or the energy to bother with. Besides, it was all words Wels knew. Wels pretended to be a chivalric knight. Chivalric knights helped the weak. Chivalric knights saved the defenseless. Helsknight, for all the grievances of his existence, was both right now. Then again, the chivalric knights were also supposed to make war against their enemies mercilessly, so he supposed Wels would be in his rights, as a chivalric knight, to walk away and let him die slowly and painfully on the ground.

As if sensing his thoughts, and likely because he could actually sense his thoughts a bit, Wels said, "You are always going on about how I need to be a better knight. There's something ironic here. No matter what I decide, I think you'll owe me an apology regardless."

The feeling of doom, of bone-deep, agonizing dying mantled over Helsknight again and Wels stopped existing to him. His sense of urgency, of desperation to live clawed its way up his throat. He tried to move his arm, his leg. He got his fingers to twitch. He tried to lean forward, to drag himself with willpower alone towards that stupid potion just out of reach. The potion he wasn't even strong enough to open. His vision collapsed in quickly, and he only knew he'd cried out because he was breathless. But he hadn't moved, besides managing to lull his head forward onto his chest again. Cold fear crawled around in his empty guts, a relentless, caged animal that refused to stop squirming.

[I'm dying.]

[Breathe.]

[I'm dying.]

A shadow fell over him, a presence freighted with hate, and deserving, and dissonant guilt. Wels had come forward, only to stop short when Helsknight's terror swept over him like a wave, and he stood baffled by it, and guilty for it. The fool knight probably thought Helsknight was scared of him. If only. Helsknight thought he would prefer that. At least then he could manage to die gracefully. Wels's fortitude bricked itself up against him then, a bitter soul trying to will itself to be cold and cruel, and Helsknight was thankful for it. It staved off his fear, if only a little.

"What did you do to bring this on, anyway?" Wels asked breathlessly, trying to recover his resolve. Looking for a reason to hate him.

"I was... walking home."

"That's it?" He sounded so skeptical, it was almost funny.

"I committed the terrible sin..." Helsknight laughed out a breath, "... of being fearless when I should have been cautious."

"Hubris."

"Habit."

"Yeah right."

"If I got stabbed like this every day, I wouldn't have come crawling here."

Wels glowered, parsing this statement for truth. Helsknight might have mustered some hate in him for it, if he wasn't so scared. His vision had taken on a permanent blur, and he was getting cold. He hadn't gone numb yet, which was something he found profoundly cruel. He wanted to be numb. To stop hurting. To stop fearing.

[Breathe.]

Why have ye no routhe on my child?

Have routhe on me ful of mourning;

Tak doun o rode my derworth child,

Or prik me o rode with my derling!

[Derworth... "Dearworth", probably. Beloved. So "derling" was probably "dearling", which turned into "darling". Middle English was strange. Just slightly to the left of normal. He didn't think "tak" was a word anymore, except where it existed as pieces of words. "Tak" to "take", to take hold, maintain, maybe. "Tak" to "tack" like a nail. "Prik" also, like "pricking" flesh, like a point digging.]

"Hold down the road, my dearworth child," Helsknight muttered. "Or pick me a road with my darling."

"What?"

"Stupid poem."

"How much blood have you lost?"

Helsknight laughed, and his whole body flinched, and for a moment he couldn't breathe because his pain was so alive and electric it almost stopped being pain. The concern from Wels was laughable. He wished Wels would make up his mind about whether or not he cared. Then he could get on with dying, and the terror would stop, and the universe would take him or it wouldn't, and if it didn't, he would respawn and sleep for a week. He felt Wels's hand on his wrist, which was its own kind of hilarious.

"Trying to figure out how many heartbeats I have left?" Helsknight asked.

It would be nice to know. If Wels figured it out, he hoped he would share the information. Then Helsknight could keep count.

"Your heart's too fast."

"That happens."

Wels stood up and paced, all nervous energy, back and forth across the room.

"You don't deserve my help," Wels told him scathingly, angry for how conflicted he felt. "You don't. You've been nothing but cruel ever since we met."

More pine ne may me ben y-don

Than lete me live in sorwe and shame;

["Pine", like pining. Or pain. More pain? Punishment maybe. "Don" to done. Something like: More pain to me could not be done than to let me live in sorrow and shame.]

Helsknight decided whoever wrote this poem had never been stabbed. He'd felt both sorrow and shame, and neither of them packed quite this amount of punch, in his opinion.

"It probably goes against my tenets anyway," Wels continued, still pacing. "And yours too. Aren't you the one who follows some crazy death god?"

"... Saint... of Blood and Steel."

"He probably thinks dying in a puddle on my floor is glorious."

"... they."

As love me bindëth to my sone,

So let us deyen bothe y-same.

[Maybe he was just getting better at this, or maybe this part was just easy. "As love I'm bound to my son, so let us die, both the same." It didn't flow very neatly when it was simpler. Maybe Middle English wasn't that stupid.]

"I can't help but think you did this on purpose to... I don't know. Test me somehow. Prove you're better. Weak again, Welsknight! For helping your enemy when you should have let him die, or speed him along. Don't you know knights are supposed to be cruel?"

Helsknight tried to call up his own tenets, or Wels's tenets, or anything to do with knights and their duties. He got a little lost on his way, his thoughts meandering and dying, and gasping back to life again when they remembered they were supposed to be searching for something. Something he was scared of. Dying. A wave of fear crashing over him that made Wels flinch, and bid Helsknight keep breathing, because any agony was worth not confronting that one, great, crippling unknown.

"What would you do in my place?" Wels asked him suddenly. "Answer me that, perfect knight. What would you do if the person you hated most showed up one day bleeding on your floor?"

That... was an excellent question. Helsknight searched briefly for the answer, and found it wasn't very hard to find.

"I would help."

"You're lying," Wels said guardedly.

"I... can't lie."

"Then you're dodging the truth. What would you do?"

"I would heal you if I could. Or I would kill you if I couldn't." With strength he didn't know he even still had, Helsknight leaned his head back against the wall. It was easier to breathe that way. To talk.

"Why?"

"No creature is deserving of dishonor or pain."

"That's not a tenet."

"It's not a chivalric tenet." Helsknight shrugged one shoulder weakly. "Chivalry states you can hang my guts from the ceiling if I'm your enemy."

"It does not."

"It might as well."

Wels didn't seem to have a ready reply for that.

"What is routhe?"

Wels blinked down at him, guarded and confused. "Routhe?"

"Routhe." Helsknight repeated, as though it were helpful. "Middle English."

"As in?"

"Poetry."

"Use it in a sentence."

"Why have ye no routhe on my child?"

"Ruth." Wels said, a bit too quickly, like he'd known what Helsknight was asking and was trying to avoid the answer. "We don't use it as ruth anymore. It shows up in rue, like regret, or sorrow. And... ruthless."

"Merciless."

"Yes."

Why have you no mercy on my child?

"Why are you asking about Middle English while you're bleeding to death on my floor?"

Helsknight let out a breath. It hurt, but everything did. "Stupid poem."

"Can I hear it?"

"I'm busy bleeding to death on your floor."

"Tell me and I'll heal you."

There it was again, asking for an excuse. That was Wels's real cowardice, his failing as a knight. He was scared of making decisions. Scared of dealing with the consequences of his actions. Paralyzed by indecision. He wanted to hate Helsknight because it was justified. He wanted to watch him suffer, because hatred allows suffering. He didn't want to label himself cruel, nor be accused of weakness, or softheartedness, if he showed mercy. And he didn't want to pick up his sword and kill, if it meant killing someone defenseless. He wanted Helsknight to give him a reason to act, so he could blame it on him later if it turned out wrong. Given it would likely be Helsknight rubbing his nose in it later if it was wrong, he couldn't really blame him for that.

Helsknight closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats, and pretended he wasn't scared.

"Do what you will."

An hour long minute ticked by. Helsknight felt the time moving like it was physical, like he was falling through it and he couldn't catch himself, and he was nearing his limits. He thought the only thing stopping him from begging for it all to stop was the crushing weight of his fatigue, the exponential strength it took to take his next breath, and that stupid poem, skipping in a circle in his head. It kept his thoughts away from his fear, from bearing the weight of the unknown that came next. It was still there, a nameless, formless anxiety that formed the undercurrent of his thoughts. But he didn't have to think about it when he was busy being annoyed about a poem stuck in his head.

Wels moved. He stooped to pick up the potion Helsknight had dropped and unstoppered it deftly. He was surprisingly gentle as he helped him drink, aware that every movement could cause pain. Helsknight could feel Wels's caution in the air like wings, like a bird hovering before it lands. The first potion wasn't enough to heal him completely, so he got a second from his chests and helped him with that as well, one hand hovering over Helsknight's wounds, waiting on the skin to knit back together. Helsknight got to his feet, shaky, and feeling like he'd been wrung dry of all vitality. There was no pain to speak of, but he was thirsty, and hungry, and exhausted.

"You should rest before you go anywhere," Wels said, words of pragmatic care that sounded stilted coming from him. "I can get you some water."

"I'll be fine," Helsknight told him, allowing himself some hesitant pride now that the smothering pain was gone. Even exhausted, he could think so much more clearly now -- think at all, really. And he thought the longer he stayed here, the higher the chance Wels would come to regret his decision to heal him. They were not made to like each other. They didn't even respect each other as enemies. And Helsknight knew if they fought now, he would lose, and he might lose very badly, if Wels decided to leave him to bleed out again. It was something Wels had never done before, but if he could convince himself Helsknight deserved it, he would.

"Do what you will, then," Wels said, bitterness creeping into his tone. He probably thought he was being coy and ironic. Helsknight mostly thought it was annoying.

"The poem isn't mine," Helsknight said. "It's one you've read before. Middle English. Why have ye no routhe on my child. I don't know the title. It might just be the first line. I think it's a lament."

"... I see."

"Next time you find yourself bleeding out on someone's floor," Helsknight snorted, "Pick something stupid like that. It makes things... manageable."

"Right... manageable."

Helsknight gave a helpless sort of shrug, as though what he'd just said were perfectly normal.

Wels mustered an enviable facsimile of concern when he said, "I've never felt terror like that before."

Helsknight felt his already parched mouth somehow go drier. The sympathy he felt rolling off of Welsknight was sickening. Literally. He could feel himself becoming nauseous.

"What are you so scared of?"

Shame, red hot and searing, clawed at the inside of Helsknight's ribs. He wished so badly he could hide it. Distract himself from it. At least turn it into anger. But he was tired, and he didn't know how to bring his emotions back to heel, and Welsknight was already giving him an open, piteous look like maybe they'd stumbled onto something significant. He could feel hope there, like maybe there was a reason they hated each other like they did, and if Wels could figure out where that fear came from, they could find common ground -- or at least the leverage Wels needed to make Helsknight relent.

"I don't need your pity, white knight," Helsknight snarled. "Go sate your savior complex somewhere else."

Wels scowled. A cold wall of loathing, resigned and inevitable, closed itself around anything else he could possibly feel.

[As it should be.]

Hours later, home and safe, Helsknight cracked open his journal and wrote:

Why have you no mercy on my child?

Have mercy on me, so full of mourning;

Take down the road my dearworth child,

O give me a road with my darling!

More pain to me could not be done

Than to let me live in sorrow and shame

As with love I am bound to my son,

So let us die then, both the same.

[fazedlight]

Asynchronous (Rift era, pre-Crisis, not nearly as much sc angst as the gif implies)

Where am I?, Kara thought, her body shaking as she pushed herself off the floor she had apparently crashed into, trying to stand. How long was I unconscious?

Her head was killing her. Pain was a rarity under a yellow sun, and in this case the feeling was hard to shake - it was just all too reminiscent of not long ago, when she was trapped in kryptonite, fighting burning lungs and a blinding headache while fighting heartbreak at the same time.

But she needed to not think about Lena right now.

Kara searched her mind for the last thing she remembered, Brainy’s words transmitted to her ears, telling her about the capabilities of the alien creature she was fighting. The creature was generally docile enough - but in a panic, it would thrash and quake, and it had the unique ability to…

Where… When am I?, Kara thought, looking around at the building whose ceiling she had fallen into. The creature could send her anywhere in time and space - forward or back in time, across the planet or galaxy, it didn’t matter. The good news is that the effect would be temporary in nature, lasting a day at most, before she snapped back into place, something about attenuated vibrations. “Time is like a rubber band,” Brainy had said, though Kara was certain she could hear pain in his attempt to simplify the explanation.

Kara heard the buzz of a portal behind her, the quick cock of a gun. “Don’t move,” came the familiar voice. “These aren’t ordinary bullets.”

Kara turned slowly, deflating under the hard eyes of her ex-best-friend. Lena was tense and angry, her finger resting on the trigger, her other hand on a tracking device. My heat signature, Kara thought, Guess she has kryptonite bullets now.

Lena’s eyes narrowed as she reached to her belt, before tossing vibrant green cuffs in Kara’s direction. “Put those on.”

Kara lowered herself to the floor, taking the cuffs, feeling the burn in her hands. She couldn’t really fathom Lena trying to kill her. But after the disruption of Lena’s Myriad plan, and now being held at gunpoint… “Lena, what are - what are you going to do?”

“How do you know my name?” Lena growled.

Kara’s eyes widened. Anywhere in time and space… “Who do you think I am?” Kara asked.

“Is that a joke?” Lena asked, as Kara’s mind revved into overdrive. “You think you can come back, with cartoonish S on your chest, and we’ll forget the Third Reich?”

Fear sank into Kara’s stomach. Earth X. “Lena, I know this looks like-”

“Through the portal. Now.”

-----------

Kara found herself sitting in an interrogation room. 

Her mind was scrambling for what Barry had said had become of Earth X - she remembered that, in the aftermath, the Third Reich had fallen to the Resistance, which was trying to rebuild a non-fascist society. But she knew the balance had to be fragile. The Reich had its proponents.

But Kara didn’t have long to think, before another familiar face walked into the room. “Winn!” Kara said, jumping up.

“Sit down,” Winn growled back.

Kara tensed, shaking off her confusion as she slowly sank to her chair, as Winn gave Lena a skeptical look. Right, he’s not the Winn I know either…

Lena shrugged. “She knew my name, too.”

“You’re both my friends,” Kara said softly, “On my Earth.”

Winn ignored her words, stepping around the table to take a seat at its corner. “We need to know if the Führer is still alive.”

“He’s dead,” Kara said, meeting Winn’s eyes. “As is his wife.”

Winn’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I was sent here by accident,” Kara answered. “At some point in the next day or so, I’ll snap back to my own Earth.” If you don’t kill me first, she thought.

“And how do I know you’re from another Earth?” Winn demanded.

“You met my sister,” Kara whispered, thinking back to Alex’s stories when they were separated on Earth X, years ago. “Alex Danvers. On my Earth, she’s your friend too.”

“You,” Winn said skeptically. “I’m friends with you.”

“I’m not from your Earth,” Kara said. “I’m not asking you to trust me. Just let me live long enough to go back to my own time.”

-----------

Kara fidgeted as she sat alone in the room again - watching, waiting, itching against the bounds of her kryptonite cuffs. 

She was certain that Winn and Lena - possibly others - were debating what to do with her. Hopefully they don't just kill me, Kara thought, searching her mind for how she might prove she’s not from their Earth.

But the door opened again.

Lena stepped in quietly, eyes on Kara. But the anger was subdued from before. She was curious. “Lena,” Kara whispered.

The wariness wasn’t gone from Lena’s stance, but she sat across from Kara. “What’s it like, on your Earth?”

Kara smiled. My Lena would be curious about the other Earths too, she thought. “The Third Reich ended in 1945. We’re… far from a perfect world. But we haven’t had the struggle that you’ve had.”

“And you and I are friends?”

Kara’s expression faltered, as she glanced down at her hands. “We used to be. We used to be best friends.”

“What happened?”

Kara bit at her lip, unable to look Lena in the eye. “I betrayed you. You hate me now.”

Lena’s brows furrowed. “That doesn’t seem to be the sort of thing that would help your cause.”

“I’m not going to lie to you again,” Kara said. “I’ve done too much of that. The other you, I mean.”

Lena frowned, and Kara could see some of the tension in her body rise again. “What happened to my Earth’s Kara? How did she die?”

“Her heart was dying from too much solar exposure,” Kara said. “I took her up into the atmosphere before her body… it started a nuclear reaction.”

“And the Führer?”

“Oliver from another Earth killed him.”

Lena’s eyebrows briefly raised. “Winn met him, apparently.”

“Yeah. My sister was there too.”

-----------

Kara itched at her bonds again, wishing there was a clock she could check. I don’t know how much time would be left anyway, she thought to herself. But at least I’d know…

She was surprised to hear the door open again. Lena walked through with a cup and some bread, placing both in front of Kara on the table. “You must be hungry,” she said.

“Thank you,” Kara murmured, leaning forward and beginning to eat.

“What did you lie to me about?” Lena asked. “On your Earth?”

Kara swallowed harshly. “I- I kept my kryptonian identity from you. Kryptonians and Luthors don’t get along.”

“Luthors?”

Kara’s brow crinkled. “Are you a Walsh, here?”

Lena nodded slowly. 

“Your mother…” Kara asked. “She’s alive?”

Lena’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

Kara smiled. She got to be raised by Elizabeth, she thought. “Are the Luthors alive? On this Earth?”

“No,” Lena said. “Alexander Luthor was the last Führer, before Oliver Queen. There was a power struggle.”

Kara nodded. “You were raised by the Luthors. On my Earth. So when I hid my identity, and became friends with you… you didn’t take it well when you found out.”

Lena looked on curiously. “The secret? Drove me to hate you?”

Kara shook her head. “There were other mistakes I made. In the aftermath. I… hurt you pretty badly.”

“So what did I do next?”

“You tried to brainwash the world.”

Lena’s eyes widened. “Why?”

“To make everyone kind.”

Lena’s brow raised. I guess that resonates, Kara thought. In a world full of fascists… 

“I can see the appeal,” Lena said. 

-----------

Kara was fascinated. And bored.

Her only company was Lena, on and off. She was grateful when Lena came in with food, and over the moon when Lena came in to exchange Kara’s kryptonite cuffs with far less painful power cuffs. 

But her moments with Lena were few and far between given her apparent other responsibilities, leaving Kara staring up at the ceiling for long stretches of time.

She found herself torn, thoughts of “When will I be able to go home?” warring with “I hope my Lena looks at me like that again someday.”

-----------

“Are you happy here?” Kara asked. “Are you- are you with anyone?” Lena smiled. “I met him a year ago,” she said. “We butted heads on technical projects. Trying to rebuild our society’s infrastructure. But something more came of it.”

Kara smiled. “Jack?”

Lena’s eyes widened, and she nodded. “Jack.”

Kara nodded too. “I’m glad you have someone.”

Lena tilted her head curiously. “Were we more than friends?”

“You and Jack? Yeah, on my Earth-”

“No,” Lena clarified. “You and I. What were we to each other?”

Oh. “No,” Kara said, shifting uncomfortably. “We were only ever friends.”

“Is that all you wanted?”

“I just- don’t think it’s relevant to you-”

“I don’t know what I’m like on your Earth,” Lena said, leaning forward on her arms. “But if someone hurt me so badly that I try to brainwash the world about it, I think that person must’ve meant something to me.”

Kara bit her lip.

Lena’s brow quirked. “If your plan is to never lie to me again, that seems like the sort of thing you should tell me. Other me.”

Kara laughed, her heart twinging with joy and pain. “If we ever get along again, I’ll tell you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

-----------

“Why are you trusting me?” Kara asked curiously.

“What do you mean?” Lena asked, in a tone that was more coy than confused.

“You just seem less suspicious of me than before,” Kara shrugged. “In the beginning.”

Lena’s lips quirked, taking a moment to consider Kara. She then raised her hand, twisting it slightly, causing a small yellow glow to appear. Kara noted in shock that there seemed to be a glow passing over her own body, too. “What’s happen- what are you doing?”

“Just making your temporal shift visible,” Lena said. “I scanned you after our first meeting. I can’t prove you’re not from this Earth, but I can prove that you’re not where the universe expects you to be right now.”

“I’m sorry, but-” Kara sputtered. “But are you using magic?”

“Lena doesn’t have magic on your Earth?” Lena said.

“I can’t even get my Lena to believe in magic,” Kara said with a laugh. “Rao, this is amazing.”

Kara glanced up, and found Lena smiling.

-----------

“How long have I been here?” Kara asked.

“About 12 hours,” Lena said. “Honestly, I’d let you go. But Winn said it might cause a panic anyway, if too many people see you walking around.”

Kara sat back for a moment. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

-----------

It was at the 17 hour mark - just after Lena had brought in more food - that Kara’s hands began to glow. “What are you doing now?” Kara asked.

“Nothing,” Lena said, leaning forward to eye the glow. “I think you’re being pulled back.”

“Oh,” Kara said, glancing up at the alternate Lena. What should I say? “Thank you,” Kara murmured. “Thanks for being good company.”

“Give me time,” Lena said gently.

“Time?”

“I’ll come to my senses,” Lena said, thinking to herself, nodding. “I- I know there’s baggage. But at some point, I will come to my senses. I’ll come back to you.”

Kara smiled. “I hope so.”

“Good luck, Kara Zor-El.”

-----------

Kara found herself falling. No longer cuffed, no longer in a dark dusty room - but bathed in sunlight and breathing fresh air. Earth-38, she thought gratefully.

She blinked, shooting upwards in the sky again, hearing shouting in her ear. “Kara?” came Brainy’s panicked voice. “Kara, are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Kara gasped, looking over National City. 

“Must’ve lost you for a minute,” Brainy said. “The creature is by the arboretum. We’ve finished making the power net, J’onn is flying it over.”

Kara glanced to the north, but her ears were fixating somewhere southeast, locating a familiar heartbeat. We’ll figure it out, Kara thought, clinging to Earth X Lena’s words.

We’ll get there, in the end. “I’m on my way.”

[the-broken-pen]

Hello! Heard you were open for writing request? Had this idea in mind about a villain who's Russian and a hero who's falling for villain's accent? Maybe a bit of flirty banter as they fight 👀 your choice tho! Have a fun spring break ☀

The hero was pretty sure the villain was actually trying to kill them this time.

“Hey, don’t aim for the face, okay? It’s the money maker.”

The villain raised one eyebrow–and aimed for the hero’s face.

“Oh come on,” the hero groaned. “That’s just uncalled for.”

“Really? Is it now?”

If the hero had better judgment, they would have said something snarky back, or attempted to get the upper hand. Instead, in a move uncoordinated and wrought with embarrassment, they tripped over their own feet and blushed.

The hero was used to pretty. They were used to gorgeous.

But they had never expected to be attracted to someone’s accent of all things, and it was driving them mad.

“Yep, pretty sure it is,” they managed. They had to dodge halfway up the wall to avoid the villain’s next blow.

“You’re awfully chatty today,” the villain said, and the hero was going to lose their mind–

“Is this affection?” The hero blurted, and contemplated throwing themself off the building to spare both of them. “Because it feels like affection.”

“I don’t know,” the villain shrugged. Their mouth tipped up slightly, gone in a flash between one second and the next. “Do you want it to be?”

The hero froze. “You–I–” and found themself blinking up at the sky, the villain’s hand around their wrist. “Did you just judo flip me?” They wheezed, and the villain grinned.

“You’re blushing.”

“Yeah, because you just knocked the wind out of me. Excuse me for going red with oxygen loss–” the hero cut themself off with a cough, lungs protesting every word, and tugged the villain down to crash into the pavement beside them.

“Let me rephrase; You’ve been blushing this entire time.”

“It’s cold.”

“It’s July.”

“A very cold July.”

“If you’re going to lie,” the villain said, and truly, the hero was lucky they hadn’t had a knife pulled on them yet, “Do it well.”

The hero buckled the villain’s knees. Petty? Yes.

Satisfying? A good reprieve to try and get the blush that flared every time the villain spoke to subside? Also yes.

“Real smooth,” the villain rolled their eyes, pushing themself to their feet. “So, what is it.”

“Was that a question, or–”

“My winning personality?”

The villain was studying them with far too much care.

“Aren’t you supposed to be robbing a bank or something?” They said half-desperately.

“Smile? Laugh?” The villain paused for a moment, catching the hero’s punch as if it was nothing more than a mosquito–which was insulting, to say the least–before their face cleared of any confusion.

“Ah,” the villain said, and oh the hero was so screwed, because they knew that look. That look appeared regularly in their dreams. It was the villain’s signature ‘I figured something out and I’m going to use it to do nefarious things’ look. Their ‘I’m smarter than you and I’m about to prove it in an effortlessly ruthless maneuver’ look.

The hero saw it far too often.

“‘Ah’ what.”

The villain, damn them, grinned, releasing the hero’s hand.

“Accent.”

Any air that the hero had managed to regain after the judo flip escaped from them like they were a sinking ship.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“No,” the hero said, cursing every single moment of their life that had led up to this one. Maybe they really should have become a lawyer– “I’m just flabbergasted by how dumb that sentence was.”

Flabbergasted. Flabbergasted. Who the hell says flabbergasted?!

“This is cute,” the villain remarked as they drew a knife. They gestured with it towards the hero’s undoubtedly fire engine red face. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this flustered.”

“I’m not flustered, I’m–”

“Flabbergasted?” The villain suggested wryly, and truly, the fact that this situation was funny in a hopeless and pathetic way was not helping. The accent absolutely was not helping either.

The hero truly had nothing to say to that, staring at the villain, the two of them impromptu statues.

“You like me,” the villain teased. “And my accent.”

The hero was not proud of what they did next.

Considering their life, it wasn’t the worst thing they had ever done out of embarrassment.

A close second, though.

The villain smirked, and in a move far more elegant than they had ever thought themself possible, the hero slid under the villain’s arm, snagging the knife from the villain’s hand as they went—and planted it into the villain’s side.

The villain blinked, hand going to their side. The hero blushed—

Finally, in the single coherent thought they had managed in seemingly their entire life, they did something not embarrassingly pathetic.

The hero bolted away, into side streets and alleys, to the sound of the villain’s pained and endlessly amused laughter.

“Real smooth,” the villain called after them, voice echoing between the buildings. “You’re handling this quite well.”

The villain was never going to let them live this down.

[varpusvaras]

Fox is dead.

He knows he is. His life hadn't been over instantly when his body had been suddenly and violently grabbed and twisted beyond what he could take. He had lied there, after, for a moment longer, knowing nothing but pain and the sinking feeling that he was dying.

He is here, now, not where his body had been left to die, but somewhere else. Somewhere he does not recognise, but knows, still, almost instinctually.

It looks like a grand hall with golden rivers and silver skies, so large that he cannot see how far the walls actually go. He tries to see, but everything is simply too far away.

There are others around him. Fox can see them and hear them moving around, walking past him, stepping around him like they don't see him but still know he is there.

Fox tries to look at some of them. He can see faces, so, so many of them, and if he focuses long enough on one of them, he can see it more clearly for a second, but no more. It is like they are far away from him as well, too far away for him to actually see them.

He watches as they go. They all follow the rivers, each a different one, disappearing somewhere alongside them after a while. Fox knows, somehow, that he is supposed to also follow one of the rivers to somewhere, wherever it may lead him to.

He hears one of them, faintly, if he listens very carefully. It's like the river wants him to follow, but cannot make him do so. Fox also wants to follow, but cannot make himself do so.

He knows the reason as well. He knows that he has done mistakes. Many of them. So, so many of them. He knows some of those mistakes have been too grave for his brothers to forgive.

Fox knows he is not welcome anymore.

The river sighs, and then flows away from him.

Fox stands there, and watches as faces he cannot see walk past him and disappear.

---

He waits.

It is the only thing he can do, after all. Wait.

It's a strange thing, waiting there. Every time he looks somewhere and watches someone, and then looks away for what feels even barely a second, there is already someone else there in their place. He needs to not forget himself, if he wants to not get lost there. He figures that out pretty quickly.

It's cold, there. The rivers look warm and the skies look clear, but Fox cannot feel them. He cannot feel anyone walking past him. They are there, just like he is, but at the same time, it is like they are existing on parallel realities, and only getting a glimpse of what is going on behind the glass that separates them.

Perhaps it's just Fox who sees them. Perhaps no one else sees him.

He tries not to think about that too much.

---

There are a lot of brothers walking around him.

Fox can see their faces clearly. They do notice him too. Many walk towards him, if they see him, and some of them speak to him, if they get close enough.

Fox wonders if they notice him because the Force recognises them as the same, or at least close enough. If the Force recognises them as kin, even when Fox has been casted aside.

His brothers want him to come with them. They can still hear the river, calling them, guiding them forward to somewhere they are meant to go. His brothers try to take his hands and take him with them. Fox had not expected that, if he is being completely honest. He would understand it, if the others were thinking that he was just any brother.

But no. Some of them do recognise him, and still reach for him, even if they are not wearing the Guard red.

"Of course you can come with", one brother in 212th gold tells him. "The Commander always spoke very fondly of you. You are our brother. Of course you can come with us."

He reaches for Fox, and he makes contact, and even when his hand is warm, Fox's legs are stuck on the ground.

The brother looks at Fox with sad eyes.

"I'm sorry", he says. "You are our brother."

"I know", Fox tells him. "I know. Can you say hi to everyone for me?"

"Of course", his brother tells him, and then follows the river away from Fox.

---

The Guards, once they figure out that Fox cannot follow them, want to stay with him.

"You are our Commander", they all tell him. "We're not going to leave you here alone!"

They stay, all of them, as long as they are able to. They hold onto him, like Fox is their anchor, the only thing keeping them from drifting away with the river.

Fox lets them stay with him, for a while, but eventually he tells all of them to go.

"Don't worry", he tells them. "Others will come along. I'll be fine. Say hello to everyone for me, alright? Go now. I'll be fine."

There is always resisting, but eventually, they do leave. They have to. The river is guiding them forward, and they have to follow it. Fox cannot hear the river, and his brothers cannot guide him themselves to it.

Fox stands there, and watches them leave.

---

Stone is the first one to arrive after Fox.

It's strange, to look at him. He looks both like the Stone Fox remembers, and like Stone Fox doesn't quite recognise, Stone who is slightly older and has a new scar across his face.

It's still Stone, though.

Stone stays with him for a long, long time.

But eventually, he leaves as well.

"I'll be fine", Fox says, for the hundreth time. "Say hi to Thorn for me."

"I will", Stone promises. "I will."

---

After Stone comes Hound. He stays for a long time as well, and promises to say hello to Thorn and Stone.

After Hound comes Bly.

Bly puts his arms around Fox and holds him.

"It's not fair", he says, again and again. "It's not fair, this isn't how any of this is supposed to go! It doesn't matter if someone has called you a Dar'vod, you are my brother! That should matter more!"

"I know", Fox says.

"Why are you so calm about this?" Bly asks him. "You are stuck here! You should be with all of us!"

"Bly, please", Fox says. "I can't. Please don't...please don't remind me too much. Please don't."

Bly goes quiet. He still holds onto Fox for a long time.

Eventually, he has to let go.

"It's okay", Fox promises him. "Say hi to Ponds for me."

---

Thire comes last.

Fox knows more time has passed now. It's strange, to look at Thire, and see his youngest brother there, but also someone who is a lot older than Fox ever got to be now.

He looks a lot like Prime before he died, Fox thinks, but doesn't say it out loud.

He also thinks it's a good thing Thire looks so much older than Fox. Fox knows he wouldn't have been able to endure his little brother dying young like Fox had.

"We have a chance", Thire tells him. "There are a lot of people standing against the Empire. Bail and Breha are with them."

Fox almost starts crying then and there. It's been- he doesn't even know how long it has been since someone has said those names to him.

"They're," Fox swallows, and tries again, "they're alright?"

"Yes", Thire says. "They are. I let them take your body, you know? You're there with them."

It's strange, to think about what happened to him after his death. Fox has been here the whole time, not there.

He guesses whatever was left of him there was what was left of him to everyone else, as well.

Fox thinks about it for a while, and then turns back to Thire.

"What else has been going on?" He asks, because he already knows that Thire is going to be staying for a while.

So Thire stays, and he tells his stories, until he has nothing else to say.

He promises, like all of Fox's brothers before him, to say hi to everyone for him. He hugs Fox for a long while, before he finally lets go.

Fox watches him leave for as long as he can.

---

The Galaxy is big, and there is always someone dying.

Fox has accepted that to be just the inevitable way of life. Everyone and everything dies eventually, even the stars. He thinks he had heard that from someone while he was still alive.

Still, some deaths are more tragic than others. Some deaths are ones that Fox thinks shouldn't have happened, not at least in the way that they did, no matter the inevitable nature of death itself.

He has seen it all pretty much, by now. Many people have been crying when walking past him, but as far as Fox has seen, they have all always dried their tears before they disappear with their rivers. He has seen anger and despair, both in a way that suits normal lives and in a way that he recognises to suit lives that are ended by the brutality of war. They all seem to always get past it, though, before they continue their journey past where he cannot see them anymore.

Fox has learned that it is normal for there to be a lot of people around him, and for them to be in distress.

But still, he knows something is wrong.

Maybe it's the way the people just seem to appear, all of a sudden, all at once, instead of coming in many rivulets. Maybe it's in the way that people are now moving. Many are still walking towards, around and past him, like they usually do, but many, too many, way too many, are running around, shouting and screaming names, searching for faces with desperation and grief written all over their own, whenever Fox gets to look at them for long enough.

It feels less like a river now, flowing towards their ends, but like a wild rapids, like rogue waves being pushed around against shores that are too small and tight for them.

Fox looks at them more closely.

He has seen it all, by now. Adults, elderly, teenagers, even children. People die at all ages all the time.

But this? There are so many of them, searching for each other. All of them are crying. He sees so many small children, healthy looking, yelling for their parents, for their siblings, friends, anyone, and just as many adults doing the same, searching for their children and parents and anyone they know, and they just keep coming.

Fox tries to look at them, tries to listen at them for long enough to figure out what is going on, but it's even more difficult now, when there are so many faces and voices around him. Something terrible, he can tell, because there seems to be no end for them, and whenever he gets to hear more than one word from any of them, they all sound the same, like they all speak the same language in the same way.

Fox doesn't understand how that can be. How can this many people die like this, all seemingly at once, in one place? He has seen war before, but even the largest massacres had been nothing like this.

He listens to them more, and there is now something familiar in the way they all talk, in a way that suddenly makes Fox go cold, like he was dying himself all over again.

He knows it. He knows the way they are all speaking, he has listened to that very same way of speech so many times.

Suddenly Fox understands everyone around him searching and screaming very well, because he is doing the same now.

Not screaming yet, but definitely searching. He tries to look at all the faces, to see if he sees them, and he prays to something, anything, everything, that he doesn't find what he is looking for.

He doesn't need to look into the faces of people around him to see them, eventually, because in the sea of faces and voices on the other side of a misty window, he sees two more than clearly.

Fox understands the grief in everyone's faces now too.

He is definitely screaming, now.

No words at first, no. Just a sound that makes its way out of him without him being able to control it at all. He sees them hear it, because they stop, and they start to look around, their eyes searching the people around them.

Fox hasn't had to breathe in a long, long time, but now he feels like he is out of air anyway. He drags his voice back in, and pushes it back in where it can be formed into words, and he screams again.

"Breha!" His voice is tearing up at its invisible seams. "Bail!"

He looks at them, and that's the moment they look at him and see him, standing there, in the same place where he has been standing his whole time there.

Fox watches as they start running as well, still looking at him, and then they are there, and Bail is just a little bit closer and throws his arms around him.

Fox stumbles, his legs ripping away from the ground. He doesn't get to wonder about it for too long, because Bail is holding him now. He is warm, just the way Fox achingly clearly remembers him to be, and then Breha is there as well, her arms going between Bail's to hold onto Fox just as tight.

They all stand there, for a moment which length Fox cannot measure, in each others arms.

Breha is the first one to speak.

"Fox", she says, in a way she always used to say his name, and Fox is barely able to keep the tears that have sprung into his eyes from falling.

Her hand reaches up and touches his jaw and then his cheek.

"Fox", Bail says then, as well, and Fox cannot hold it in anymore.

He cries.

He is pretty sure they are all crying.

There is another hand on his face, now, both of them wiping away the tears still falling down.

"Fox", Breha calls him again. "Fox, my love, our love. Look at me."

What else can Fox do, than to do as she asks of him?

It is Breha and Bail, standing there, just like he remembers them, but not quite. When Fox blinks, there are definitely grey streaks in Bail's beard and hair, and there is a long, silvery strand framing Breha's face. More lines around their eyes when Fox looks closer, ones he doesn't remember seeing there before.

It doesn't matter to him, not really. He knows them, still.

It's a strange mix of emotions he is feeling. Relief, of finally seeing them again. Happiness, brought by being held by them again.

Sorrow, for seeing them both there, emerging from the chaos of grief, knowing that they are here with him now, because they are both dead.

"Why?" He asks, because he doesn't know what else to ask. It's one word, but they understand it still.

The same grief is on their faces as well.

"The Empire", Bail starts, and pauses for a moment, like speaking pains him, "has figured out how to build weapons of mass destruction beyond anything we could've imagined. We've been fighting against them for a long time now, and...we finally got caught. Alderaan is no more."

"I don't understand", Fox says. "That doesn't make any sense."

Except it does, in a sense that it explains why there were so many of them all of a sudden, all frightened, like they hadn't had any time to prepare for their deaths. But it doesn't, because Fox cannot, will not believe that there is a weapon that can make a whole planet and everyone on it disappear.

"I know", Breha says, soothing, like she isn't the one who has just lost her own life and everything else. "It's not all lost. Our daughter, she's out there. She has the key to stopping them."

"She will do it", Bail says, and he sounds proud, so proud. "She will. We know she will."

Fox believes them when they say it.

"Of course she will", he says. "She is your daughter, after all. If she is anything like you, she can do anything."

They look at him gently, then.

"Our daughter", Breha repeats. "Our daughter. Just because you weren't there doesn't mean she is any less yours. She carries you with her as much as we did."

"She takes after you very much as well", Bail says, and there is a sparkle in his eyes again as he speaks. "Determined and strong, just like you."

Fox cries again. They don't rush him to stop, just stay there with him and hold him until everything has been spent.

"I wish I would've known her", Fox says. "I wish I would've been there."

"We wish so too", Bail says. "There wasn't a day we didn't wish that you were with us still."

"But you are now", Breha says, brushing her fingers softly over the skin under Fox's eye. "You are with us again. We have all the time now to tell you everything."

That is the moment Fox remembers that he can move again.

He has to make sure. He lifts one leg, and takes half a step back, and then makes the other leg follow.

He can move, but he still cannot hear the river.

"I would love that", he says. "But I...I don't know where to go."

"Don't worry", Bail says. He reaches for Fox's hand, and takes it into his, firmly and securely. "We know. We'll show you."

Breha laces her fingers with Fox's as well, tying herself to him like a safety line on the outside of a ship. They turn to face the golden rivers, meandering towards their ends under the silver skies, and they take Fox with them.

[giddyfenix]

Canines

Thing is, Etho had never been a dog person.

Dogs tended to be too loud, too clingy, too excitable—the tinier the worse. He didn't dislike them per se, except he kind of did.

He liked cats better. They were smarter, they knew themselves better, they had a level of spatial awareness even he couldn't comprehend. They were vigilant, but not obnoxious about it.

Where a dog would uselessly bark and go wild, a cat would sit and stare at the offender until it pissed itself. A dog would try hard, too hard, until its energy became useless in its overabundance. A cat would chase down a possible threat for fun, and it'd succeed.

Etho could appreciate cats and their values. The same could not be said for dogs.

Until Joel, that is.

He wasn’t trying to imply that Joel was a dog. Not necessarily. But the descriptors fitted and, for the first time, Etho found it all infuriatingly endearing. 

Maybe he was a bit more like a wolf, with sharper canines and predator instincts. Either that or a poodle. He just couldn’t seem to stay quiet. Or calm. Or content. At all.

“You suck,” Joel yelled at Bdubs.

Maybe closer to a poodle, Etho thought.

Joel turned to him. “Let’s go kill him,” he said.

Wolf. Maybe.

“We’re yellow, we can’t.”

“You’re no fun,” Joel whined.

Poodle. Definitely poodle.

He watched Joel huff and turn to leave and idly wondered if this was what dog owners felt, the thing that drove them to dogs in the first place.

He had never understood them, except he was starting to believe maybe he could, and that was both an interesting and concerning realization.

“Well, don't stay behind,” Joel said impatiently. He had stopped walking the second he realized Etho hadn't fallen into step behind him, almost like having him out of sight was an unfathomable problem rather than a minor inconvenience.

And look, he still wasn't trying to say Joel was a dog, but…

“Come on,” he said, tapping his foot. “Someone will touch you and I won't be around to bite them. Hurry up.” 

It was probably a joke, but his voice sounded just annoyed enough that Etho thought he should maybe believe him.

Etho just stared at Joel for a few seconds longer. He could perfectly picture Joel's bloodied teeth closed around someone's throat, and the sadistic grin that'd follow. So perhaps, and just perhaps, there was merit to the earlier wolf theory.

Joel walked back to Etho, scowling. “Come on,” he repeated, then proceeded to grab his wrist and pull him along.

He was a poodle that believed itself to be a wolf, Etho decided.

He let himself be pulled forward, and it was only when he saw Tango scurry away upon seeing them that it clicked.

No, he realized with dawning horror. Joel was a wolf with poodle tendencies. 

And Etho—proud cat person, proud of himself in general up to that very point in life—found that endearing. 

[urdreamgirls-dreamgirl]

ok I’ve been sucked into The Ultimatum: Queer Love on Netflix and just…

Steve is in a relationship where he clearly wants more than the other person. He and his partner have been together for three years and it’s reached the point where Steve has told him, “marry me or I have to go.” The dude is some kind of wannabe Instagram model, so he jumps at the chance to do reality tv.

Eddie’s on the opposite end of the negotiations. He loves his partner, but he’s not sure he really believes in the institution of marriage.

Both couples decide to try this new reality show.

Steve and Eddie clearly catch each other’s eyes on the first night, the camera catching both of them staring at each other between all the couples introducing themselves. They don’t get much time to speak that first night, but that’s okay. They’ve got plenty of time to say hi during the speed dating round.

Except that once they meet, they don’t want to talk to anyone else. Eddie is practically dragged away by producers so that he’s forced to talk to the others. The camera doesn’t miss the longing looks they send each other, though.

After that second episode, they’re immediately fan favorites. The chemistry between them is palpable even through the screen. Everyone’s just waiting for them to choose each other at the selection dinner.

And of course they do, as both their partners sit next to them rolling their eyes. They go to bed the first night of their trial marriage wrapped around each other, whispering and giggling. The mics can’t exactly pick up what they’re saying, but the cameras catch their smiles and the way their fingers intertwine between them above the comforter.

The audience loves watching the two of them fall in love over the next three weeks of their trial marriage. They’re sweet to each other, clearly thinking about each other’s needs and checking in when things seem hard. They meet each other’s friends. When Eddie meets Steve’s best friend, Robin, it’s like the three of them have known each other for years. When Eddie sneaks off to the bathroom, leaving Steve and Robin alone at the restaurant table, Robin takes the moment alone to give Steve her stamp of approval on Eddie.

After the three weeks are up, they’re supposed to go into a trial marriage with their original partners. The audience doesn’t see this, but Eddie and Steve try to refuse. They know what they want and it’s each other. They’ve made their decisions. But the producers remind them that they’ve signed contracts and they have to see the process through to the end.

They’re both uninterested in their partners. It’s clear that neither original relationship was the right fit now. It’s clear even to their original partners. They’re not even really doing a trial marriage; they’re all just roommates trying to make it through to the end.

When Steve and Eddie are finally reunited at the final selection, to no one’s surprise, they choose each other. There’s no hesitation on either side. They want each other. They’re both sure.

They’re married within the year and their wedding is filmed by Netflix. For the next season of the show, Steve and Eddie host. Ten seasons in, they’re still as in love as ever and, unfortunately for Netflix, the show’s one and only success story.

[bopbobpbobpbobpbobpbobpb]

Sleepover gone wrong on noesss

Writing underneath

It had all started so well. Simple plan. Simple. Plan.

Step one: become unpossesed

Step two: sleepover

Step three: pie

Step four: wait for mom to go to sleep then get out the ouja board and play fun sleepover games!!!!! Thats how it works!!!! Kris would know!! They've had plenty of sleepovers with Azzy, Noelle and

Step five: have fun and go sleep. (Kris would NOT be sharing everyone else has to sleep somewhere else)

That was the plan!!

It had started of so well. Kris had entered the room and Susie and Berdly, well did what They always did. Argue. It was friendly though!! They always do that it was normal. Noelle suggested truth or dare (a classic) and it was going well!! Bonding!! With friends!!! Kris had missed this. They had missed having so many people in their life, shouting amd screaming, having fun until they were too loud and Toriel had come into their room and remind them to be a little quieter. They had missed laughing and being "sneaky", talking about the most random things and playing little games. They had missed the noise and the warmth of the ones close to you just simply being there. Kris had finally resolved everything with Noelle Berdly and Susie. Until they just made that shit go crashing down.

One thing had led to another. Berdly truthed susie to tell something. Susie got defensive. Things got heated. They both lashed out. Noelle tried to diffuse the situation. Berdly said something. Noelle got pissed. Berdly said something. It struck a nerve. Kris saw red.

The whole room had stared at Kris in shock. Kris's eyes widened. No. No. They didn't mean that they didn't mean tha- Berdly rushed out. Eyes suspiciously shiny. There were only three of them left. Kris, Noelle and Susie. All of them could only stare dumbly at eachother. Shit SHIT. Kris CAN'T go back to before they CAN'T they CAN'T. Panic rose. Kris had just made up with Berdly and they immediately ruined it. Kris went after Berdly, determined to make things right again.

Except ...

Kris stood at the doorway, frozen. How do they do this? Their breathing got funny. WWAD What would Asriel do? He was good at this sort of thing wasn't he? But.. Asriel wasn't there. Only an idiot human and a crying bird on the footsteps. Kris thought about what to say. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it .you're my friend. I love you. Kris flushed no they could NOT say that don't be an idiot. No they had to say what they were sorry about right? Like uh: Im sorry i-

"are you just gonna stand there"

Kris flinched. Berdly sighed and continued looking away form Kris.

"I'm sorry" Kris could only say.

Berdly ignored them. Kris sat down on the steps next to Berdly.

"I didn't mean it" Kris looked down, avoiding eye contact.

"It's not true"

There was a silence.

"But what if it is" Berdly's voice cracked. Kris looked up in shock.

"What if I am" Berdly burried his face in his wings

" I AM a forgettable little bluebird and when I die no one will care because I have done nothing in life and I'm not exceptional at all and I was so mean and I -"

"No."

"What do you mean no?"

"Berdly I was being a dumb shit who got mad and took things too far you ARE NOT foegettable you ARE exceptional and if you died I would be really sad and track down your murderer and kill them and you're my friend and i love yo-" shit shit shit shit.

Berdly faced Kris.

"What"

"What"

"What did you just say"

"If you died I would be sad and kill your murderer"

"No after that"

"You're my friend??"

"No the one after that"

"That was it"

"KRIS STOP GASLIGHTING ME"

"I'm not??"

Berdly laughed. Kris could not help but grin a little at the sight. Suddenly they stiffened the birb hugged them tightly.

"I love you too kris"

Suddenly there were two idiots crying that night.

[metalhoops]

Steve starts driving Eddie places after he gets out of the hospital. It just makes sense. He’s so used to chauffeuring Robin and the kids around, that driving with Eddie is natural. Sure, unlike the others Eddie has a driver’s license, but they both know the road is a hell of a lot safer when Eddie isn’t behind the wheel. 

The thing is, Eddie’s always complaining about Steve’s music. Steve’s a simple guy. He turns on the radio and listens to whatever it spoon-feeds him (pop garbage, according to Eddie). Steve likes the music well enough. He’s never really loved music, it’s just background noise. Hell, when pushed Steve couldn’t think of what his Vecna song would be. So to avoid Eddie’s gripes he relents and lets Eddie leave a couple of his cassettes in the BMW. 

At first, Steve only plays the tapes when Eddie’s in the car but as time passes something changes. Steve finds himself driving home alone, dreading returning to the cold and quiet halls he knows await him in Loch Nora. The radio isn’t cutting it when it comes to drowning out the background chatter and dread in his head, so he switches over to one of Eddie’s tapes. It makes him feel less alone. He can imagine Eddie’s ringed fingers tapping their way across the passenger door furiously to the beat of the song, and he doesn’t feel so alone. 

That’s how some of the tapes manage to migrate from his car to the tape deck in his room. When he plays them, he feels like the house comes alive, that he isn’t alone. He doesn’t tell Eddie, of course. He doesn’t tell anyone. One day he slips up while driving Dustin to Hellfire. 

“I didn’t pick you as a metalhead, Steve,” Dustin notes with a shit-eating grin. 

He’s confused at first, until he hears the familiar tune of Metallica’s Welcome Home, through the BMW’s speakers and knows he’s messed up. Dustin definitely brings it up as soon as he gets to Hellfire, spouting nonsense about how Eddie’s corrupted Steve with ‘the devil’s music’- seriously, where does the kid even come up with that shit? 

The ride back from Hellfire is made all the more painful, with Eddie in the passenger seat and Dustin mouthing off from the backseat. Steve’s being berated from all angles about being a ‘closeted metalhead’. It’s been a long day and Steve is so goddamn tired so he can be forgiven for finally snapping. 

“I only listen to that shit because it reminds me of you,” Steve remarked shutting them both up in an instant. 

Dustin is the quickest to recover. He leans forward, nudging Steve’s shoulder. 

“Careful dude, say stuff like that and Robin’ll get jealous. It sounds like you’re in love with Eddie.” 

“Shut the hell up, Henderson,” Steve snaps, too quickly, too defensively. 

That’s when Dustin realises he’s screwed up. Royally screwed up, because Steve being gay never entered the ballpark of his imagination and it made sense didn’t it? Kind of. The way Steve kept insisting he and Robin were platonic. He hadn’t gone on many dates since Eddie’s return from hospital. 

He tried to dredge up all the things he’d been planning to say when Will inevitably came out because that, Dustin saw coming. 

“Actually it’s cool if you are, you know, gay. We wouldn’t think of you any differently if you were. Right, Eddie?” Dustin desperately looks to Eddie, who’s gone full deer-in-the-headlights, wide-eyed. 

“I might think of him a little differently,” Eddie breathes, sounding a million miles away. Dustin looks at him like he’s about ready to kill a man and Steve’s gone pale. 

The rest of the drive is spent in awkward silence. Steve dreads the moment he arrives at the Henderson household, knowing the second Dustin leaves the car, things are going to get infinitely worse. 

“If I’ve screwed things up, just let me know because I don’t know where to go from here,” Steve says once they’re alone. He hears Eddie exhale and braces himself for the worst as he waits for the man to reply. 

“How about we start with one of those trademark, pickup lines I’ve heard so much about,” Eddie prompts. Steve is confused. It might be a common occurrence, but that doesn’t make it any better. 

“What?” Steve asks, not able to come up with something more articulate. 

“Is what Dustin said true?” There was no point in lying, was there? 

“Yes. No. Mostly. I’m not gay-,” To Steve’s surprise, he watches Eddie’s shoulders fall. If he didn’t know better he’d think the guy was disappointed. 

“But I do like guys. Not all guys. Some guys. Sometimes.” Steve’s rambling and he knows it. 

“Then I meant what I said, to Dustin.” And there it is, the thing Steve’s dreading. 

“Right. Yeah, okay. So do you still want me to drop you off at your place or should I just pull over now?” 

Steve tries to hold back the hurt in his tone because he hasn’t admitted it out loud to anyone yet and it sure as hell smarts to be so blatantly rejected. He might actually have preferred getting punched in the face, at least there was something finite about it. 

“Steve,” Eddie breathes and his voice is soft, gentle even. Which makes no damn sense. He sounds like Robin did, on the floor of the cinema bathroom: vulnerable and exasperated, but not mad. 

“Pull over.” So Steve does. 

Eddie sets a hand on Steve’s shoulder, looks him dead in the eyes and licks his lips. 

“Steve, I’m gay and very much in love with you. Up until tonight, I thought you were very straight and totally out of my league, so if you’re telling me I’ve got a shot, that changes shit.” Oh. Steve finally caught up. 

Steve turns down the volume of the music, just to make sure he’d heard Eddie right. Then leaned into the man’s space. 

“Ahoy there, sailor.” 

Much to his dismay, Eddie laughs- scratch that, he snorts, doubling over, trying to muffle the noise with a hand. 

“That was the pickup line?” Eddie clarifies. 

“I’m rusty and I’ve never used it on a guy,” Steve retorts defensively. 

Before he knows it, Eddie’s back in his space, his breath ghosting hot over Steve’s cheek. 

“Hey, I didn’t say it didn’t work.” 

[mysticmonkeybusiness]

Prompt: post s5, Mac goes to find Wukong and find him he does, along with a broken mirror; given by @visionaryscribe

-

He never knew the world could get more obnoxiously loud. The change was slow, but at this point Macaque’s certain it’s a side effect of shattering the five stones of creation. Now he can hardly step foot off Flower Fruit Mountain without reducing his hearing to human levels. Human. At least at demon levels he can still hear magic, but he’s practically crippled like this.

But it’s like the kid can’t go one day without getting into trouble, so Macaque sucks it up, deafens himself, and finds time to check in on him regularly. Wouldn’t want another world ending disaster to go unnoticed until it’s too late to do anything about it.

It becomes routine. A boring, straightforward task with little to no surprises outside of the mundane shenanigans MK and the dragon girl get up to. After a few weeks of this, Macaque makes the mistake of letting his guard down.

He lingers a little longer in the shadows of MK’s room, watching the kid draw. This is the most relaxed he’s seen the kid since the pillar. It relaxes him in turn, something within him unwinding and feeling a little less like the world is actually out to get him. The moment he hears the pig come up though, he makes his exit. The kid is getting better and better at spotting him and without a distraction keeping him from looking up, Macaque doesn’t like his chances of remaining unnoticed.

Returning to Flower Fruit Mountain is simple. Removing the deafening spell takes barely a thought.

Or it should.

It’s still too quiet and he wonders how he could have messed up a spell he could cast with his hands tied behind his back. Recasting the spell does nothing to fix things. Frustrated and assured he’s alone, he rips the glamour on his ears off as well to no change. His breathing hitches as he clutches at his ears and reflexively expands his range.

To his surprise, it works. It only takes a second for the thought to hit him with all the force of a certain red and gold staff.

Wukong’s not on the mountain.

With more panic than he’d ever admit to anyone – only because if Wukong’s missing, he must be getting into trouble – Macaque scrambles to locate peaches-for-brains and has to stop himself from slumping in relief at finding the white noise of Wukong’s magic at the temple on the mainland.

He tells himself it’s a reasonable response at finding out Wukong hasn’t brought some world ending disaster down on their heads.

Macaque finds it a bit strange though. Wukong’s been spending most of his time split between his hut and the noodle shop. If he wasn’t being an overprotective mother hen, he was lazing around in his hut and gorging himself on fruit.

Lingering adrenaline and piqued curiosity is enough to have him shadow portal to the temple. He grimaces as he adjusts to the noise volume, suppressing his hearing as best as he can without magic.

The sharp tang of copper lingers in the air and sends his adrenaline spiking yet again. When he finds Wukong he’s going to punch him in his stupid face for giving him this much stress.

He follows the smell of blood to the bathroom and immediately zeros in on the Great Pain of Heaven. He found Wukong alright, along with a shattered mirror.

Curled in on himself, Wukong’s claws are digging into his skull and his heartbeat so rapid that it’s likely without the immortalities he would have given himself a heart condition.

Glass crunches underneath his boots as he steps closer, but Wukong doesn’t even flinch. Worry breaks through his denial and he crouches barely a handspan away, eyes catching on the pinprick pupils, the glittering glass sprinkled amidst sunset orange fur, and the already healing scratches on Wukong’s face. Almost entirely hidden beneath his curled hands, a long, shallow slice on his temple tells him exactly what set this off.

A slow wave in front of his face doesn’t even make him blink. Wukong’s clearly not registering anything he’s seeing.

“Wukong,” he murmurs softly, trying to snap him out of it without touching him and possibly setting him off further.

Macaque should have expected something like this to happen, but with the damn circlet long gone, he thought they managed to get past it without an incident. Figures Wukong wouldn’t deign to have his breakdown when he is around someone that could help him.

MK would be better for this. Even out of his mind, Wukong would never hurt the kid. His instincts wouldn’t let him.

Macaque doesn’t have that assurance.

Claws twitch and dig further until there’s the distinct crack of hitting bone. Before he even registers the lump in his throat, Macaque is reaching over and ripping Wukong’s hands away from his head. Any damage he could do removing them would be nothing close to what Wukong could do to himself.

Like he has nothing better to do than cause Macaque problems, Wukong immediately begins thrashing, mouth open in a silent scream. He’s thrown off, but picks himself up, hurls himself at Wukong, and sends them both through a shadow portal back to Wukong’s nest.

As he had hoped, the change of location sends Wukong off balance. It’s enough to let Macaque pin Wukong to the nest and reinforce the hold with his shadows. Wukong still struggles, but slowly, that resistance fades away as the differences in his surroundings start trickling in. Familiar scents instead of blood. Comforting fabrics instead of sharp glass.

Capitalizing on the opening, Macaque thinks to himself, Can’t believe I’m doing this, and makes a low, rumbling purr. It almost hurts at first, having been centuries since he’s worked these particular muscles, but it gets easier as he keeps it up.

Beneath him, he can feel the gradual way Wukong relaxes. With his hands occupied he has to use his head to nudge the side of Wukong’s in encouragement, keeping the purr up all the while.

He’s not sure how long they stay like that, but by the time he feels safe enough to let go of the restraints, he feels exhausted. Wukong, the prissy princess, tensed up again every single time he so much as let up on the pacifying gestures. He leans back just enough to see Wukong’s face and has to fight the urge to strangle him when he sees the idiot is asleep.

Faintly, he considers portaling back to his own bed, but frankly, even that’s too much effort right now. Besides, after what Wukong put him through, he can deal with waking up next to Macaque. He lowers himself back down, this time on the side and gets the source of all his problems curling into his chest for his efforts.

He contents himself with the fantasy of kicking Wukong away and wraps an arm around him because Wukong might as well make himself useful as a blanket. His eyes slide shut and he takes a deep breath as a scent that never fails to register as safe despite everything that screams otherwise fills his nose.

Macaque never sees the way eyes peek open a sliver before falling closed once more.

[blushweddinggowns]

Part 2 to this!

Eddie had never considered himself to be a lucky person. Could anyone really blame him? For one thing, he was eaten alive last year. And that wasn’t even counting the fact that he had been a twenty-year old, drug-dealing highschooler before he was sent to literal hell. All after witnessing multiple horrifying homicides. 

But now that he had Steve Harrington on top of him, shoving his tongue down his throat like his life depended on it, he felt like the luckiest man in the world. 

Part of him still couldn’t believe that it was happening at all. He had been fully prepared to just play the part of the pining best friend and suffer through his unrequited crush. He even convinced himself that it would slowly disappear after he got off the high of seeing Steve all bloody and gorgeous in an alternate reality.

But it didn’t. It just got worse and worse. Eddie’s crush just bloomed into a full-blown love. Because Steve Harrington was nothing like he expected. Eddie had never experienced this much whiplash when getting to know someone before. Steve went from highschool bully, to a monster fighting badass, and landed on an adorable, snarky goofball who Eddie basically wanted to spend the rest of his life with. 

It had felt like such a long shot when he asked the question. The question that had been haunting him for months, but Eddie couldn’t help but ask. Not after everything he’d seen. At first he thought it was all in his head, just his overactive imagination trying to convince him he wasn’t alone in his feelings. 

But then he started noticing things. Like how Steve was always available to him, even when he had better options open. It was around the third time he witnessed Steve tell a pretty girl, “Sorry, I have plans tonight,” for him to raise a brow. Because the only plans he ever had was doing stupid shit with him. 

It was when he actually rejected Nancy in favor of getting high and listening to music in Eddie’s room that he got optimistically suspicious. It made him pay more attention, the little voice inside his head was getting louder and louder, that told him, maybe, just maybe, Eddie wasn’t the only one in love here. 

So Eddie let himself get a little bolder, terrified all the while but determined to figure out what was going on here. 

It was small things at first, touches that he would let linger. A hand on Steve’s waist when they puttered around the kitchen together, always giving him a little squeeze before he let go. Brushing his bangs out of his face, his hand curling around his ear before pulling away. Resting his head in Steve’s lap when they were sprawled out on the couch, talking about nothing and everything for hours. 

He didn’t miss the way Steve’s cheeks would redden at every touch, or the sweet little smile put on when he thought Eddie wasn’t looking. It made him feel emboldened, and terribly hopeful. 

So he let himself do more, obvious things that were not normal between two male platonic best friends. He waited until night, because despite what Steve said Eddie was not a brave man. At least then if Steve rejected the hell out of him, he’d never have to see his face. 

In theory it should have been easy. They shared a bed almost every night anyway, Eddie always making easy excuses to explain away why Steve didn’t need to go home. 

It was too late, it was cold outside, the trailer was closer to his work anyway, he could still be high from a hit he took two hours ago, Eddie wasn’t above a single excuse. And Steve never complained, he’d just nod along, agreeing to whatever stupid thing Eddie could think of for the night. 

They slept back to back, trying to hold onto some semblance of normal between them. And Eddie would be lying if he said the thought of breaking it didn’t scare the hell out of him, but that didn’t stop him from draping an arm over Steve’s waist one night. He had pulled him against his chest, heart on the verge of exploding as he waited for Steve’s reaction. 

He hadn’t expected him to turn over in his arms, and Eddie had been almost sure that he was doing it to ask him what the fuck he was doing. But Steve just sighed, all relaxed and happy as he snuggled into his chest, wrapping his own arm around Eddie’s waist.  They woke up tangled together, happy and restful. 

They never talked about it, but every night when Eddie opened up his arms, Steve went right into them. And God did Eddie love it, he loved him. And the idea that there was any chance he could be with him and he wasn’t taking it, was killing him. So he took a shot, and asked the question that had been plaguing him for months. 

And it fucking worked. Here he was, vindicated and rewarded with the most handsome, funny, kind boyfriend to ever live. In all honesty, not that much changed between them, considering how they were basically dating back when they considered themselves “friends”. But now there was the added bonus of being able to kiss the living hell out of him whenever he wanted. And the fact that Steve had apparently been holding out on him, because overnight he became the clingest cuddler Eddie had ever had the pleasure of knowing. 

Whether that be hugs from behind, arms draped around his neck in bed, or Steve clambering up into Eddie’s lap whenever the opprunintuity arose. And it was so fucking cute it made Eddie feel like he could die from happiness. And when he returned the favor, Steve would just melt. A hand on his thigh while they drove, an arm around his waist at friendly get togethers, any small touch was enough to make Steve a blushing, gooey mess. 

The whole thing was amazing and Eddie had never been happier. 

There was just one problem. 

For the life of him, Eddie couldn’t stop making him cry. 

The first time, he understood. It had been a bit of a dick move on his end, to force Steve to admit his feelings because Eddie was too chicken-shit to do it himself. He should have thought about that and he'd apologized more than once for the way he handled the whole thing, even if Steve insisted it was more than fine. He just…never wanted to be the cause of that sad, dejected face ever again. 

But then he did it again, completely accidentally. It had been a lazy Sunday morning, the both of them deciding to sleep in until someone from the outside world forced them out of bed. Eddie woke up first, blinking into the late morning light. Steve was draped across his chest, still sound asleep and only slightly drooling on him.

Eddie ran a hand through his tousled hair, completely lovestruck. The small movement was enough to have Steve shift against him, mumbling about it being too early to wake up. But Eddie was already trailing his hands down his back, more than ready to tickle him awake if need be. And it worked, it always worked, because the next thing he knew Steve was batting his hands away, a tired laugh escaping as he finally opened his eyes. 

He groaned as he blinked into the light, pouting up at Eddie as he rubbed his eyes, “You’re lucky you’re pretty Munson. Or I would have kicked you out of bed by now.”

Eddie grinned, wrapping his arms around him a little tighter, “You’d kick me out of my own bed? That’s cold Stevie.”

“My bed now. A consequence of being with me,” Steve laughed, snuggling closer, “It’s in the contract.”

The snarky comment on his tongue died the second Eddie looked down at him. Steve just looked so…relaxed. Unfairly handsome and happy to be there, tracing patterns along Eddie’s bare chest. He was struck with the realization that he wanted this for the rest of his life. Just Steve, with his bed-head and sleepy smile. Eddie had to look away, staring up at the ceiling as he was suddenly overwhelemed by just how much he loved this guy. 

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, embarrassingly earnest, “I think you’re the love of my life.”

Steve was quiet, but he could feel him nodding along as he traced Eddie’s collarbone. For a second, Eddie thought he just hadn’t heard him, and was doing that thing when he pretended like he did. He was a few seconds away from teasingly calling him out for it when he heard it. A soft sniffle, accompanied by a wet feeling, dripping onto him. 

Eddie glanced down, eyes widening at the sight of Steve wiping his tears away, trying and failing to be quiet about it. 

Eddie sat up, slightly panicked as he dragged Steve up with him, “Steve? Baby, what’s wrong? Was it what I said?”

Steve let out a wet laugh, “Not at all. I-fuck, Eddie I think you’re mine too. I swear this hasn’t happened before.”

Eddie was too worried to show how ecstatic that confession made him feel. He held Steve’s face in his hands, wiping away a few tears with his thumbs, “But you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, I swear.” Steve sighed, leaning into the touch, “I’m just being a fucking weirdo.”

“My weirdo.” Eddie corrected before kissing him, the salty taste of his tears be damned. Eddie reasoned that he was probably just overwhelmed, which was normal, considering how Eddie was speedrunning the pace of their relationship. It was a fluke, and that was fine.

But then it happened again. 

It had been a completely normal day, no fights with anyone, no problems at the video store or with any of Eddie’s clients. They were watching a movie on the couch, Eddie’s head resting in Steve’s lap as Fame rolled on in the background. Steve was braiding his hair, absentminded as they commented on the muscial, both agreeing that Robin had really oversold it. 

Though Eddie was a sucker for the New York based movies. He used to dream about running away there when he was a teenager. Working and playing in dingy bars until he was magically discovered and skyrockerted into stardom. But now, at the ripe old age of twenty one, he was much more interested in going wherever Steve would follow. 

He watched the screen, mind wandering as he asked,  “Where would you want to go when we leave Hawkins?”

The hands in his hair paused for a split second before Steve answered, “W-what do you mean?”

“When the kids graduate,” Eddie continued, missing the stutter in Steve’s voice, “We won’t really have any reason to stay here right? It’s probably about time that Wayne got the bachelor pad back anyway.” 

“You…you want to live with me?”

Eddie let out a small laugh, rolling his eyes, “Babe, I don’t know if you’re aware but we kind of already live together.”

He watched the screen, someone whose name he forgot was starting another monolouge, “New York is a bit much, but Indianapolis could probably work. Somewhere with some options, y’know?”

Steve cleared his throat above him, fingers still working in his hair, “Y-yeah. Sounds good.”

Eddie smiled, pleased as he went back to trying to follow the plot. Then he felt something wet hit his cheek. He scrunched his nose up, confused as he shifted to look up at Steve, heart jumping when he realized what was happening. 

“Holy shit, don’t look at me for a minute.” Steve groaned, covering his face with his hands, failing to hide his sniveling, “Seriously, just ignore me.”

Eddie sat up, ignoring Steve’s protests as he pried his hands from his face, “What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing!” Steve insisted, avoiding Eddie’s eyes, “I swear, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

“Sweetheart, if moving in together is too much to talk about that’s fine-”

“No!” Steve interrupted, voice loud in the small space between them, “I-I mean, that’s not the problem. Of course I want to live with you.”

“I don’t want to pressure you-”

“You’re not,” Steve insisted, grabbing Eddie's hands. He squeezed them, warm and comforting, “Whatever is wrong with me has nothing to do with you, or us. I swear.”

Eddie nodded, even if the worry didn’t fully leave his head. He couldn’t help it, because it just kept happening. Eddie was averaging on making Steve tear up at least once a month and everytime he would insist he was fine. That it wasn’t Eddie’s fault, he was just being a freak. 

It’s not like Eddie minded. In fact he kind of liked comforting him. And it didn’t help that Steve was fucking adorable when he cried. With his scrunched up nose and pretty wet eyes, Eddie was more than happy to be the one to kiss his tears away.  

He just wished he could figure out why it was happening, because despite what Steve said, he knew that he was the cause. It only happened when they were alone together, usually right after Eddie said or did something particularly mushy. He just wanted to know what he was doing wrong. 

It was starting to keep him up at night, and as embarrassing as it was, Eddie was having anxiety nightmares about Steve leaving him for someone who wasn’t making him weep on a semi-regular basis. 

Eddie blinked into the night, waking up from another one of those stupid dreams. He blindly reached over for Steve, his hand hitting the empty mattress with a thud. Eddie groaned, assuming he was in the bathroom, but knowing there was no way he was getting back to sleep without having him next to him. 

Eddie stood, deciding to get some water while he waited for him to come back. He stepped out of his room into the dark hall, cocking his head at the odd scene in front of him. The phone cord was stretched from the kitchen to the bathroom, peeking out through the half cracked door.  

Eddie stopped infront of it, curious as he made out what Steve was whispering through the phone, "Robin, if I cry in front of him one more time I'm going to have to change my name and flee the country."

Eddie snorted behind his hand, quiet enough to not be heard. He leaned in a little closer, fully aware that he should just turn around and not be an eavesdropping dick, but…if he could just find out why Steve kept crying, maybe he could actually do something to stop it. 

"I'm not telling him. I'm lucky I haven't scared him off yet as it is."

Eddie frowned, confused. That didn’t make sense, there was nothing Steve could do to scare him off, not after everything they had been through. Didn’t he know that? 

Steve sighed into the phone, sad and resigned, "I just…I don’t know how much more I can fall in love with him. When he ends it…it's going to fucking kill me."

Eddie could feel his heart stop in his chest. Where the hell did that come from? Sometimes Eddie spent half of his day just day-dreaming about their future, and here Steve was, thinking that he was going to end the best thing that ever happened to him?

"I know, I know. Maybe you're right. I love you too, I'll see you tomorrow."

Eddie backed away from the door, still feeling vaguely ill at what he’d heard. He slipped into bed, pretending to still be asleep when Steve eventually followed. He was back in bed for maybe five seconds before Eddie was reaching for him, tucking him tightly into his arms, like he could cuddle the doubts out of him. 

Eddie could barely sleep that night, mind-racing on what he could do to make Steve realize that he wasn’t going anywhere. It made sense, in the grand scheme of things. Steve’s parents were total shit heads who had no appreciation for the wonderful son they had. The only other person he’d fallen in love with besides Eddie ended up cheating on him, right after drunkenly declaring the fact that she never loved him back. 

And that wasn’t even mentioning his “best friends” who dropped him the second he decided to stop acting like a dick in highschool. Now that he was thinking about it, Eddie was kicking himself for not putting the pieces together sooner. 

Of course Steve would be worried about that. But Eddie wasn’t like them, he’d never be like them. In his head, the only way this relationship was ending was if Steve dumped him, not the other way around. 

If Eddie was extra clingy that morning, Steve didn’t complain. Even if he was making it a bitch for him to get ready for work. Eddie was still draped all over him by the time he was trying to get out the door, laughing at his antics all the while. 

“Someone’s needy today, huh?” Steve chuckled, prying Eddie’s arms away from his neck, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“That’s not soon enough,” Eddie whined, going as far as to follow him to the car. He kissed him goodbye through the window, not giving a single shit who saw them. Not when it made Steve blush and beam at him. He waved at him as he drove away, a plan already forming in his head as he started his day. 

If Steve had fears, Eddie would just love them right out of him. No reason to make a big deal out of anything, not when Steve was already so embarrassed about the whole thing. He would play it cool, and slowly but surely alleviate all of the anxieties. 

That was the plan, but the plan went straight out the window that same night. Basically the second he laid eyes on him after stepping through the front door. Steve wasn’t even doing anything. Just sitting on the couch, lazily watching TV. But then he noticed him, gave him that bright smile, and the floodgates just opened.

“I love you.” Eddie blurted out, making his way towards him, “Like I really fucking love you.”

Steve cocked his head, confused but still happy to see him. He shuffled over for Eddie to sit next to him, “I love you too?”

Eddie shook his head, “I mean I love everything about you Steve. Everything.” 

Steve stared at him, surprise still painted on his face, but Eddie just kept going, aware on some level, that he probably sounded slightly unhinged, but he didn’t care. He needed Steve to understand, “I love how much you care about everyone. I love how you take care of me, and how you let me take care of you. I love how your hair sticks up in every direction in the morning, and how you get pouty whenever you wake up. I love it when you’re bitchy and you make fun of my music. I love it when you get too excited and scream at the TV over basketball. I love the little blush you get whenever I call you pretty. I love all of it, and I want it for the rest of my life. ”

Steve laughed, quiet and nervous as he looked away, ‘What the hell are you even talking about?”

But Eddie wasn’t having that. He grasped his face, tilting his chin up to force them eye to eye. The tears were already starting to form, but Eddie wasn’t worried. He knew what they meant this time, “I’m talking about how you’re the only person I’ll ever want. I’m talking about how I want a life with you Steve. You and no one else.”

The tears were really falling now, and Steve was looking at him like he ripped his heart out, versus perfusing his undying love, “You…you shouldn’t say shit like that Eddie. You don’t know how things will change later on.”

Eddie shook his head, steadfast, “I’ll never not want you. I’m serious Steve. You’re it for me.”

They stared at eachother, Steve searching his face as Eddie kissed his tear-stained cheeks, “I want to believe you.”

“It’s okay that you don’t yet,” Eddie murmured, “I’ll just spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

Steve let out a weak laugh, pulling away from his hands to hide his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck, his self-proclaimed safe space, “You promise?”

Eddie kissed the top of his head, “I swear.”

It didn’t happen overnight, but it did happen. Their days together became months, months became years. Eddie never went a day without reminding him how much he was loved, Steve stopped waiting for the day that Eddie was going to leave, and slowly but surely, the tears stopped with it. 

It was ten years to that day, ten amazing years with the love of his life, when Eddie found him in their kitchen, making coffee and yawning while he absentmindely stared out the window, just as adorable at thirty-one as he was at twenty. 

He wrapped his arms around his waist from behind, kissing at his neck with a pleased hum, “You believe me now?”

Steve sighed, sleepy and happy as he leaned back into him, “Yeah, I think I do.”