#wow i fuckin

[clickety-clacker]

Been seeing so many cool Clickies on my dashboard since getting into GGG, I just had to take the time to draw a few of them- plus, it was a bit of a challenge to try new styles. A lot of these guys were also super influential to how I draw and even think about Click Clack on my own time, so you should definitely check them out! Names below the cut cus it got long heehoo

Top left: @malartsorte

Top middle (holding papers): @scribblelimbo

Top right: @wishgraanted

Leftmost middle: @beastwhimsy

Middle (peace sign!): @sootnuki

Rightmost middle: @molabuddy

Bottom left: @pespillo

Bottom middle: @artuurle

Bottom right: @modmad

I know I said it already, but all of yall are super cool and I had a lot of fun challenging myself to make this! Keep on being awesome 👍

[lisawn]

handsome stranger

[ricky-mortis]

Ok but Agent Curt Mega with long hair though?

[crustyfloor]

IVAN'S A FUCKING FUCKER FOR NOT EVEN CHOKING TILL PROPERLY HE WAS GENTLY HOLDING HIM IN PLACE

(it kills me because Till probably thought ivan was gonna give him one last out or something hence why he closed his eyes in what i feel like is acceptance)

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 338

So the GIW is the Ghost Investigation Ward and not the Ghost Extermination Ward, yes? Hear me out, hm? 

See, it’s really hard to study ecto-entities when they’re going all over in and out of the world. Really hard! And of course they aren’t like, sentient, studies for years before the boom in this one town showed this! But, the overgrown not-birds (they’re still debating that) are really hard to watch doing their natural thing when they naturally mimic people around them! 

So! They got this idea, right? Their operatives can capture some! They’ve even made enclosures based off of what they currently know! It’s like containing crows, down to the mimicry & puzzle solving just er, with opposable thumbs and intangibility. 

And they don’t succeed first tries of course (Wow were said operatives frustrated and maybe cursing a bit that might be a bit violently) but then they get some assistance from the Fentons! Trying to hit an ecto-entities’ wings in a way to not permanently injure them is hard, but the new net canons that a ghost can’t pass through? Perfect! 

They have so many specimens now! They even released a few that were very much uncontainable- they rely on technology a bit and that entity kept unlocking all the doors. So catch and release with that one it is!  

They even managed to catch the white-haired ghost! In double! Which might not seem that important, but! As they realize during intake & initial examination (wow are they bitey) the two appear to be young! Something their ectobiologists only theorized about but oh are they excited! (Now if only the two would stop trying to escape their enclosure that’d be swell! Look, toys! Foo- oh dear God that baby ecto-entity is melting- Oh few, okay note taken to raise ambient ecto levels in that room dear god that was horrifying and stressful. … Maybe get some feelers out for feeding unstable energy entities…) 

[blixabargelds]

snowing already- a superstar christmas

set one year into superstar's main story timeline.

tags: rimming, anal fingering, blowjobs, substance abuse/ addiction, fluff (?!), mild angst.

word count: 4.3k

The first time Gale remembers seeing snow he was seven. 

His mom had taken him on a road trip. She had called it a road trip. She’d told Gale they were going to stay with a friend for a little while. It had struck him as strange- that he’d never met this friend before, and now he was sleeping on her couch, wearing her son’s winter clothes, but he hadn’t asked about it. She was easy to be friends with, his mom. She was Gale’s best friend. 

He’d understood, later, that his mom’s friend was a friend of a friend. That his dad didn’t know about their road trip. But his dad wasn’t around, and Gale’s mom was happy, so he was happy, too. They’d woken up some day near his birthday, both of them on this huge, worn couch, in a part of the city he’d never been to, and snow was stacked thick against the outside of the windows. Nobody knew where they were. They had their own, entirely blank universe. He’d run outside in his socks and soaked them straight through. Had hurdled back into the house with sopping feet, jostling his mom awake, and begged her to come make a snow angel with him. She’d told him to take the socks off, voice hushed and clipped and angry in a way she rarely got, telling Gale they didn’t have any spare clothes, that he was getting the carpet wet and cold, that they needed to make a good impression because they didn’t want to cut their road trip short. His lip bled from biting down against its wobbling. 

She’d smiled at him guiltily that afternoon. Kissing the top of his head, she took off her combat boots and put them on him, and took him to the garden to make a snowman. Her hand steady near his shoulders to keep him from toppling over; her hair dyed blue that month, bare toes the same colour in minutes. 

Gale doesn’t like Christmas. He knows John doesn’t much like it, either. But where John’s kept his thoughts on planning Gale’s ‘surprise’ birthday party, Gale’s been growing steadily frozen. The heater in their apartment is on the fritz again. He’s finding it harder and harder to feel the effects of the coke. He wakes up chilly, pulling the drawstring of his sweats tighter again, and the threat of festivities looms over him. More often than not, these days, he’s on the edge of a comedown. He leans over, squinting at the alarm clock. It’s 10am. He hasn’t been awake this early for weeks, save for nights he hasn’t slept at all, and he almost thinks twice before picking up the little bag on his nightstand. There’s just about enough coke left in it to rack up a few substantial lines. He fumbles for the waiting bill, re-rolls it, snorts one chalky trail in practiced silence. 

The motions of his morning routine wake John all the same. His hand snakes across Gale’s waist and pulls him back under the covers, tugging him on his side to face him. Sleepy, pink-cheeked, curls in disarray, a furrow pulling his brows as he blinks himself aware. He brushes the space between Gale’s nose and lips with his thumb. Puts that thumb between his own teeth and licks it.

“Snowin’ already?” he says, with an uneasy kind of smile. Gale sniffs, hiding his face in the pillows, but John just coaxes him back out, tucking his long hair behind his accessible ear. “’S’it early?”

Gale hesitates. “’Bout ten.”

John looks pensive for a moment, frown deepening. “Think we oughtta keep this shit ’til after midday?”

Gale gnaws on his dry lips. They’re already tingling, his head buzzing and fingers restless, and he doesn’t feel particularly happy. “Think it’s Christmas,” he says. 

John glances at his phone with a grimace. “Shit. Sure is.”

Gale swallows. John watches him, like he’s trying to predict the day on the way Gale’s mouth twitches, twists on a sentence and stalls.

“At Marge’s,” he starts to say, for no real reason at all, “they- we used to do the whole thing. Turkey an’ a tree. Had a fireplace goin’ all day.”

John nods slowly. Gale can see his expression tearing, knit together by patience, and an effort to fight some great uninvited feeling. “You wanna do the- whole thing?” 

Gale knows the answer he’s hoping for. Luckily, it’s the one he’s got. He shakes his head. “No. I didn’t know what to do. Sounds damn ungrateful, but I didn’t want a- a mini DVD player or a pair of boots. Said thank you and smiled, and all, of course. But why would I need new boots if mine ain’t got holes in yet. Were my boots- were they offensive? Or-” he clears his throat. The cocaine’s agitating him more than lifting him, like it has been lately. John’s right. It’s a little too early. “Just wanted the day to be over.”  

John nods again. Gale can tell he’s making him tense. Knows without asking that he is being ungrateful. That no matter how bad his holidays have been, John’s had worse. John’s never been gifted a mini DVD player. 

“Shit, Bucky, ’m sorry. Complaining ’bout nothing like some- think my teeth are too fast.” 

“Hey, Buck, no,” John says. When Gale looks at him, he’s looking back with nothing but understanding, eyes bright and kind, and Gale feels vaguely nauseous at his hasty assumption; that John would be comparing hurts at all. “Was just gonna ask what you would’ve wanted, is all.”

Gale’s cheeks warm with some unpinnable flush of shame. He says quietly, “books, I guess. Never asked for anythin’, though.”

John’s twirling Gale’s hair around his finger, now. Gale’s playing with the hem of his t-shirt, needing to touch something solid before his heart beats out of his palms. “And have some old perv come up your chimney? Better off without, really.”

Gale laughs. It bursts out of him feather-light, a shock to his system. He hadn’t noticed his chest growing so heavy. “Didn’t have a chimney, Bucky. ’N I’m pretty sure he’s meant to come down it.”

“Tomayto, tomahto,” John shrugs. 

Gale smiles, but it’s forced. He’s hollow. Hungry for something he can’t figure out; itching for more sleep, or more blow. He slides further down in the bed, pulling the covers up to his ears, hoping to stay there for the rest of the day. John shuffles down with him. He drags the sheets over their heads entirely, caging them in with a cotton shield, and Gale knows he’s telling him that he can stay there, if he wants. That he’ll stay with him, too. He moves into Gale’s space with a series of rustles, close enough their noses touch. 

“If it helps,” John whispers against his mouth, “I didn’t get you anythin’.” 

Gale huffs out a short laugh. “Didn’t get you anything, either.” 

John closes the minuscule gap between them, kissing Gale soft and deep. His fingers slide under Gale’s shirt, tracing the peaks and divots of his ribs and spine, tickling gently until he’s truly smiling at John’s teeth. 

“Can give you a present, if you want one,” John says, pulling back just enough to press his lips to Gale’s jaw.

“Mm.” John’s touch is falling lower, pushing Gale’s sweatpants down to his knees. Gale kicks them the rest of the way off. “Maybe.”

“Just one thing,” John carries on, his breath warm, tongue flicking out to lick lightly at Gale’s throat. 

Gale hums. Grabs John’s ass, drags him so their hips are flush, sighing at the contact, tugging at John’s boxers. “Yeah, Bucky?”

“You gotta sit on my lap and tell me what a good kid you’ve been.”

Gale can’t stop the snort that happens before he can turn it into a groan. He shoves at John’s chest. “Jesus, Bucky.”

“Don’t say the birthday boy’s name in vain,” John chastises. He crowds back in, sets his lips to Gale’s overworked pulse point, whispers there, “or you’ll be on my naughty list.”

“Christ,” Gale laughs, swatting at John’s chest. 

“There you go again,” John says. “Askin’ for a proper lesson, now.”

“Thought this was a present?” 

Gale’s hair is sticking static to the sheets as John tents them with his body, expanding their private world by leaning up and over him. Hands either side of Gale’s shoulders, he digs his fingers underneath. Rolls him onto his front and rucks up his shirt, exposing his back for kissing down. He sinks his teeth into the soft flesh at Gale’s side. Gale groans.

“S’pose you can decide that.”

John makes his way back up, pressing his lips to the squirming line of Gale’s spine, and for the first time in a while the attention doesn’t make him cringe. He knows he looks a little wan. That he’s getting a little thin. He’s told himself he’ll get back into shape. Back into regular sleep and regular meals; after this bag, after the next. 

John licks at his lower back, and Gale settles face-down. He thinks John’s about to spit on his fingers, open him up and fuck him from behind, but John spits directly onto his tailbone instead. Gale feels it slide down, and John spreads Gale open with both hands, tonguing his own spit inside his hole. Gale’s brain misfires. He jolts in surprise. Gasps, as John licks around the tight seal of muscle. Lapping at him with gentle pressure, not quite slipping inside, breath warm on sensitive skin. John’s hands are kneading his asscheeks absently, gentle thumbs pulling him apart.

“Bucky,” Gale says, head still catching up, the strained plea of John’s name muffled by sheets and wet with drool. “What-”

John just hums against him. Gale keeps expecting him to sit back at any moment, to slick himself up and slide his cock into him like so many mornings, only he doesn’t. John stays there. He licks a long stripe all the way from Gale’s taint to the last notch of his spine. Hovers there, breath a tickle, a tease, a quiet little laugh, before moving back down to tongue messily at Gale’s hole. Gale moans stupidly loud. John’s hands are still prying him open, baring each inch of wetted skin and making him feel exposed in a way he hasn’t since John first tied his wrists behind his back. Gale grinds his hips down into the sheets. His shirt’s sticking to him with sweat. His cock’s sticking to the bed with precum, every part of him hot and dizzy. He’s gasping in unsure little chirrups, each swipe of John’s tongue a new experience, each damp flick at the rim of him sending a chain reaction up his spinal cord. He’s still barely taunting him. Gale’s watched John’s tongue dart out between his lips on stage, spit clinging in clear thread from his teeth to the microphone. Seen the way he presses the flat of it to the grill, throws a wink at Gale, unaware, or perhaps only conceptually aware, of people in the crowd fawning, too. John’s a menace with his tongue. Gale makes a shocked, strangled noise as he proves this- fucking into him fully. 

“God- hell, Bucky,” Gale groans, fingers tight in the sheets beside him.

John doesn’t relent. He lets go of one of Gale’s asscheeks, using his hand instead to curl around his hip bone, pulling him further down onto his mouth. Gale’s cock is so wet at the tip he half thinks he’s come already, until John shifts his other hand, presses a fingertip to Gale’s rim alongside his tongue, and Gale bites down on the pillow so hard he tastes polyester foam. He makes a feral sort of sound into the cotton. Thrusts onto the mattress and back down onto John’s tongue, stuck between the two, rutting like a dog, panting like one. John withdraws just enough to lap at Gale’s relaxed, spasming hole as he slips his finger inside him. The sensation of John eating him out, licking at his insides, was fresh and overwhelming, but Gale’s near convulsing immediately with the length and precision of his movements, now. He gets another finger inside him with ease, lips never moving from the ring of muscle, and Gale thinks he might be sobbing. He can barely breathe. Ragged, wet gasps eaten by the sheets, and he realises, in only vague horror, that the reason he hasn’t hurtled over the edge already is because of his chemical fucking breakfast. John brushes his prostate with the pad of his pointer finger, and Gale laughs in sheer delirium. Sweat’s pooling at the base of his spine. John smiles, Gale feels it against him, and lifts his head just to lick at the perspiration. Gale wishes he could turn around only to see how wet John’s moustache is. He can’t move an inch beyond his trembling. 

“You okay?” John says at the small of his back, soft and somewhat smug. He punctuates his question with a crook of his fingers. Gale’s cock leaks more precum into the bed.

“’M close,” he manages to gasp.

“Uh-huh,” John says, and Gale groans at the toying tone of his voice.

John dips his head again, but doesn’t move any closer. Gale spreads his legs wider without thinking. His breath catches in his throat as John fucks his fingers in and out. Slowly, each drag out and press back in felt down to the nerve, no lube but John’s drying spit making it sting just enough to ground him. John’s still just there. Just far enough away from his own fingers, from where they’re disappearing into Gale, that Gale realises he’s watching intently. Creating a show for himself: Gale’s shaking back, spit slick between his cheeks, John’s fingers dipping, pulling, crooking, being swallowed. The scrutiny makes him whine. Makes his face flush as he presses it hot into the crook of his elbow. John angles his next press just so, and Gale jumps, fucking himself down onto the bed with a pitiful whimper. John does it again, and Gale’s just about to strike up a fuss when he sets his mouth back to him. He doesn’t pull his fingers out, but pulls them apart, spreading Gale’s hole as far as it will comfortably go and then some, spitting then slipping his tongue between them. Gale moans again, choked-off, and his next sound is closer to something begging. His face is wet. John takes one finger out just so he can fully fit his tongue back inside him, and his head is white noise as John finds his prostate. Circles it, rubbing and pressing, tongue aimless and nothing but further wet heat stuffing him full. Gale’s humping the bed desperately, not entirely sure which way is up, the drag of the sheets against his dripping cock no mercy as he pushes himself away from John’s ministrations and back down. John makes a moan of his own against Gale’s body, and Gale comes rocking back onto John and forward onto the bed like he’s wild, hardly a sound scraping from his throat with the last of his desperate lung capacity. John’s fingers and mouth stay at his hole until he’s shedding fresh tears.

Gale goes boneless and brainless when John’s touch leaves. He’s stroking his spine when Gale comes back to himself, fingertips tacky with sweat, catching on each vertebrae. There must be a bruise on the hill of one, because John settles there, pressing down on something tender just slightly, the rise and fall of each breath drawing that aching touch closer, bringing the ringing in Gale’s ears down to a low throb. John bends and brushes his hair out of the way, kissing the nape of his neck. 

“You good?” he says. His lips are at Gale’s ear, wet. 

Gale makes a contented sound into the sheets. Clears his throat and shifts slowly, curling his legs up to his chest and tugging his loose shirt back down around himself. He rolls onto his side and looks up at John. Smiles, half-buzzed and on the cusp of laughing again. John’s face is open and pale in the light. Gale reaches up to touch the glistening spit on his chin, hand shaking a little. 

“Liked my present,” he says.

John’s the one who laughs, then. Grabs Gale’s wrist and kisses his pulse, flips him onto his back and kisses the underside of his jaw, nipping at the lobe of his ear. Says, words shredded by his beaming, “You loved it. You fuckin’ loved it, you noisy fuckin’ treasure.”

“John-” Gale tries to bat him away, futile under the strength of John’s precious joy. 

“I fuckin’ love you,” John says. 

“I love you, Jesus, Bucky, get off I’m disgusting,” Gale’s breathless, wrestling John far enough away to peel himself from the damp sheets. 

He leans down and kisses John’s face. His lips, slips his tongue into the overworked heat of his mouth and smiles into it. With a lingering grin and shaking legs, Gale stumbles into their bathroom to change. He fucks around with the heater some more. It’s still flashing some awful pressure warning, so he groans, strips, towels off the worst of the cum from his stomach, tugs on yesterday’s sweatpants left on the bathroom floor. He grabs a clean enough t-shirt from the edge of the bath and turns back into their bedroom.

An idea occurs to him as he’s looking for a matching sock. Something’s buried in their chest of drawers. Something that shouldn’t have been buried at all. He roots around until he finds it; the small, angular shape tucked inside an old glove. He grabs it, tipping the contents into his hand. 

“Bucky,” he says. John’s tugging on his own shirt and pants, pushing damp hair back from his forehead, glowing. Gale bites the inside of his cheek. “Y’can have this. I mean, I want you to. I want you to have it. For Christmas.”

John frowns at him. He hesitates, stretching out his hand, and into his open palm Gale drops the necklace. It’s a star. Silver, a little smaller than a dime, one of its points shorter than the others. John blinks down at it, turning it over slowly. 

“Chain’s a bit delicate,” Gale says. His chest feels tight, throat dry. “Was Mom’s. But I’m sure you can get another, it’ll- it’ll fit another.”

John looks up at him with wide eyes. “Buck.”

Gale yearns, suddenly, for another line. He’s not sure why. “She wore it nearly every day. Gave it to me to hold onto when she thought- when Dad had sold everythin’ else. Never really knew what to do with it. Felt wrong to just wear it, but it should be worn by someone. Someone who-” he takes a breath in through his nose. Making a meal out it; chewing on his words, he concludes, “it’s special. Y’know?” 

“Buck,” John says again quietly. His eyes are still fixed on the pendant, brows drawn tight. He shakes his head slightly. He looks almost pained, and Gale wonders, for a moment, if he’s stepped on some hidden land-mine he had no prior knowledge of. John takes a breath. “It should be on someone special.”

Gale exhales roughly. Torn somewhere between relief and an aching sadness. He shrugs, like it’s easy, like it’s simple. “It is. Here-”

He crosses the distance from the doorway to their bed, climbing up onto it and situating himself behind John. There’s a faint pull to his shoulders. Maybe the tiniest tremble. Gale takes the necklace gently from his hands, fastening it around John’s neck before pressing a kiss to the clasp. 

“Suits you,” he says lightly, without turning John around to face him. 

Gale stays like that for a minute. He can feel John’s heart beat steadily through his back, Gale’s running a faster rhythm still. He’s waiting for the tension to leave through John’s lungs. For him to sag a little under his touch, let him lean into the line of his body and drape himself over him like a shroud, not like something boneless over glass. He wants to tell John that a gift is not a weight; it isn’t something to be earned or something he has to fulfil, but Gale knows that would only strengthen that wall. Eventually John just rolls his shoulders, letting out a shaky breath. He leans back awkwardly, dislodging Gale in the process of kissing his temple.

“Goin’ for a smoke,” he says. A tight smile.

Gale nods and falls back to the mattress. There’s a flash of white as John twitches their blinds open, just enough to climb out onto the fire escape. Smoke begins to drift in with the cold air. Gale curses under his breath, flopping over to his side of the bed and doing another line. 10:40am isn’t so bad. He feels it buzz beneath his eyelids as he counts the racing beats of his heart. 

“You comin’?” John calls from outside. It startles him. Gale sits, rubbing a hand over his face. He pulls on his boots, the closest hoodie, tugging the hood up and zipping it to his throat. “You’re really gonna want a smoke, Buck.”

“Alright, ’m comin’,” Gale says. He snatches a cigarette from John’s pack and dips out onto the fire escape.

It’s snowing. 

John’s backed up against the railings, grinning around his cigarette, as fat white flakes of snow fall fast into his hair, sticking to his clothes and his lashes in a thick, glittering film. “Merry fuckin’ Christmas, huh?”

“Jesus,” Gale breathes. “There’s so much of it.”

“Most of a blizzard,” John says, shaking his head hard enough to send snowflakes spiralling off his hair, drifting into Gale’s face until he’s blinded. 

Gale splutters, wiping snow from his eyes, tilting his head up to the sky. The whiteness of it is all-encompassing. He can’t see the tops of buildings, the clouds, the middle distance. There’s a sprig of holly hanging loose and dead from the fire escape above. Ice creeping off the end of it in suspended free-fall . He closes his eyes. Feels his cheeks rapidly freeze, moisture sticking to his lashes and landing on his parted lips. Without thinking, childish and impulsive, he sticks his tongue out and catches the snowflakes to taste. When he looks back at John he’s looking at him, thoughtful, the tip of his nose red, smiling a small kind of private smile. His fingers, a gentle shiver to them, are playing absently with the pendant around his neck. 

“It’s beautiful, Gale,” he says seriously. “I mean it. It’s the most beautiful thing.” 

Gale’s heart thuds. He looks out at the snowfall around them. “Yeah. Merry Christmas, Bucky.”

John’s chewing on his lip, the way he does in those rare moments Gale knows he wants to say something, but can’t quite reach the right words. He looks a little unsteady. Gale takes the front of his sweater in his hands, wet cigarettes knocked loose and forgotten, fast buried in fresh snow. He pulls John close and casts his eyes up above them. To that rotting, discarded sprig of holly. 

“Close enough, right?” he says. 

John quirks an eyebrow. Smirking, pulling on that thread of raw softness inside Gale that takes an age, or a kiss, to unspool. “To what, hm, Buck?”

Gale rolls his eyes and presses their lips together. It’s wet and cold, running noses and smoke, and when Gale’s had enough of John’s tongue against his he drops to his knees. His sweats soak straight through. He thinks, with some level of amusement, that numb knees might help here. His lips are losing sensation, too; ice cold and humming with cocaine. He tests that sensation, dragging his mouth against the metal zip of John’s fly, flattening his tongue at the denim already stiffening in the air, against the shape of John’s cock. 

John’s hands are in his hair already, when he says, “Get up, baby, you’ll freeze.” Gale shakes his head, slipping his fingers into John’s waistband, eliciting a small gasp and a breathless giggle. “Buck, I’m not tryin’ to lose my dick out here.” 

Gale looks up at him, and the laughter is shimmering on the breeze as it goes. “You won’t.”

“When d’you get so- Jesus-” John chokes off as Gale gets his chilly fingers around his cock, pulling him out of his pants and directly into his warm mouth. “Out in the fuckin’ open-”

Gale swallows his response. No one is seeing them through the drift, tucked inside their apartments, warm and sensible. Gale’s half-brave streak of bold exhibitionism is blanketed in white. John’s hot on his tongue; hard already, as Gale takes him down deep. He keeps him there, using his hands to work what won’t fit, preventing John from exposure to the frigid air as much as possible. Gale finds his slit and licks at it. Finds the full vein on the underside of John’s cock and runs his tongue along it. Takes him further down his throat, gently aching and relaxed, until his eyes are watering, tears cooling on his cheeks and wind-whipped sleet chapping his stretched lips in record time. John’s fingers dig into the back of Gale’s head. Gale moans around the size of him. 

“Buck,” John says. Gale can hardly hear him. “Jesus, Buck-” John groans loud into the open air. 

Gale keeps his pace, pulling back far enough to taste John’s arousal; falling forward to take him so deep he can’t taste much of anything at all. John’s clenching fingers pull at his dampened hair. He’s begun to move his hips a little, and Gale makes no move to steady him as John bullies further down his throat, taking it and flexing his muscles around him. The sounds John’s making grow louder, bolder, bordering on a dare for the world to hear them. The world won’t. Each gasping hitch of breath, each honeyed deep moan; they’re muffled by the dense, steady fall of snow. 

[sleepy-steve]

🧠🪱 Wiggly Wednesday Thursday 🧠 🪱

thank you for tagging me @stervrucht 🖤

no pressure tags: @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe @stevesbipanic and of course anyone else that would like to ♡

thinking about Steve and Eddie who, after going through rounds of physical therapy after everything, continue to work out together because Steve obviously loves it and loves having a friend to work out with. and Eddie notices the difference in his stamina when he gets back to performing on stage. (and if Eddie likes to watch Steve work out a little bit, and likes Steve coming over to help his form more than a little bit, well that’s his business.) but Steve takes a dance class and shakes up his usual warmup, leaving Eddie with some… thoughts.

***

“Okay, Munson,” Steve says, pulling his arm across his body for a shoulder stretch. “You ready?”

“Ready to be tortured? Always,” Eddie jokes. It was their thing. Eddie acts like he hates being there, but he still shows up every other day to their local gym in Indianapolis. And he won’t ever deny the benefits he’s noticed since starting their exercise regime. He's faster on stage, doesn't get winded near as easily, holding those screaming notes without feeling like his lungs will explode. Little did he know that today his joke would come to be true.

Steve liked most kinds of exercise. He was a sporty guy. He liked the pull and stretch of his muscles, the feeling of accomplishment after achieving a new goal, that delicious soreness the day after a really good workout. But mostly he loved trying new things. He’d give anything half a chance if he thought it might be fun. Which is how he ended up at a dance-aerobics class the week prior, finding himself having a lot of fun, blushing furiously when the women in the class complimented how quickly he picks up the steps.

He went back three more times that week. Part of his enjoyment came from the new warmup he was taught in the class. Steve’s usual warmup consisted of basic stretches and a light jog, covering all bases to ensure he didn’t get injured, but not very exciting.

This, however, was far more enjoyable. Steve found himself sinking deep into stretches he didn't know he had flexibility for, and moving his hips to a beat, ultimately just having way more fun with the warmup. And it was about to become a huge problem for Eddie.

Steve pops his headphones over his ears, the tape deck tucked securely in his shorts pocket. He bends over, inhaling deeply as the song starts, rising up with his hands overhead, exhaling as he rolls his wrists, hips moving side to side with the beat. His already short cropped t-shirt rises, showing off a good amount of his chest. He lets his arms come down, bending over again, feeling the pull in his hamstrings. Gripping his elbows, he lets the top half of his body hang, swinging from side to side, his hamstrings fully stretched out.

Eddie looks up from his own basic stretching, shocked to see Steve fully bent over, because hey, since when was he so flexible? With Metallica blaring through his own headphones, Eddie just stares, completely forgetting where he was at in his warmup.

Steve lets his hands drop, moving to one foot, back to the centre, then the other foot. Ass just up in the air, his shorts way too tight. Eddie swallows. He’d been denying his crush for months at this point, and good god this was not helping.

Rolling his shoulders as he stands up, Steve lets his hands travel down his bare thighs, sinking into a squat with his back arched and head tilted back. Eddie's eyes are wide as he watches those tight little shorts with the little cut-ins on the sides ride up, showing far more of Steve's glorious hairy thighs than Eddie can handle. Steve drops his head forward, hunching his shoulders as he moves back to standing. He repeats the motions, and Eddie wishes he had the strength to pull his stare away from Steve's ass.

Seeing Steve's head tilted back and his back arched is sending Eddie insane. Like, he geninely thinks he might evaporate on the spot if he keeps watching. But he just can't look away.

Turning himself sideways, Steve has one foot stepped out in front of the other, legs perfectly straightened into a triangle shape, bent over his front leg. Just when Eddie thinks he’s about to get up and end his suffering, Steve lowers himself down into a lunge. His little shorts definitely way too small and tight for the movement, Steve lunges back and forth, fingertips resting on the ground on either side of his front foot. Eddie watches as the t-shirt rides up with each lunge, the desire to get his lips and tongue all over Steve's chest overwhelming him.

Shaking himself, Eddie tries to remember which shoulder stretch he was up to. He attempts something close to a stretch, but he can’t be sure he's doing it right, because Steve has lowered himself to the ground, front leg bent and back leg perfectly straight, and is fucking thrusting into the ground. If he were to ask Steve, he’d find out this was a hip flexor stretch. But Eddie’s forgotten how to form words entirely, suddenly imagining nineteen different ways he wants to get dicked down by the man before him.

Eddie suffers in silence, heart racing in his chest, watching as Steve repeats the movements on his other side. He prays that the torture ends soon, that they can just get to the workout, and Eddie can go back to pretending he doesn't want to ride Steve until his thighs give out. But Eddie gets no such luck.

Steve has moved into some kind of triangle position, hands on the ground, legs straight, and of fucking course, his ass in the air. Eddie marvels at how straight the shape is, only for a moment, because then Steve is lifting his heels up and down in turn, and jesus christ those tiny little shorts are just riding up, and Eddie can see a hint of Steve's ass peeking out. His jaw drops. He may actually explode.

Just when Eddie's thinking he can't take much more of this, Steve lowers himself down, knees spread wide, arms stretched out in front of him and head tucked down. A wild and rushed series of thoughts fly across Eddie's mind, all centred around Steve kneeling down in front of him. Eddie needs to get it together quickly.

As Steve brings himself back up to the triangle position, walking his feet to meet his hands and rolling his spine up, shoulders and head rolling back last, he sees Eddie taking off for his warmup jog. Assuming that he probably just took too long with his new warmup, Steve shrugs it off and starts his jog shortly after.

Eddie hits his personal best in several weights that day, desperately trying to expend his excess energy in some way. He barely registers the wins, mind still stuck on Steve and his perfect ass in all those new positions. He almost dissolves on the spot when Steve claps him on the shoulder in congratuations.

At the end of their session, Eddie takes a freezing cold shower and prays for the sweet release of death.

[cloud-based-and-rainpilled]

I’ve been highly confused as to why Michael “deeply openly thirsting on Twitter about David Tennant for half a decade” Sheen is half-in half-out the closet but apparently Wales is absurdly homophobic lmao what the fuck how is a country the size of New Jersey that much of a hater bruh we out number the shit out of you

[russilton]

Roscoe buddy look away I’m about to say uncivilised and degenerate things about your father

[iridiss]

Aaron’s such an underrated character on Aphblr tbh. He’s become one of my favorite characters in the cast as I rewatch more and more of Mystreet. Aaron will tease you, but he’s also one of the best characters in the cast to go to for emotional support. He’ll tell you as it is, smack you upside the head when you’re being crazy and shake you back to rational normalcy, but then he’ll sigh and tell you you’re gonna be just fine and everything’s gonna be okay. He is the number one (and on occasion only) holder of brain cells in the whole neighborhood. He’s the most sensible, and often the word of wisdom/rationale, much more so than Katelyn or Lucinda or Zane or Laurance are. This can often make him come off as a serious character, but he’s still down to clown! He just does it in a different way!

He’s supposed to contrast Aphmau’s louder, more extroverted, playful, ditzy, eccentric personality, by being quieter, more rational, more responsible, more cautious and careful, more reserved, a word of wisdom to contrast her crazier, chaotic energy and pranking and punning and ponies and general whimsical tomfoolery. But that does not, by any means, mean that he is not participating in the antics. Just because he’s the only one who thought to bring a first aid kit and a safety harness doesn’t mean he’s not jumping off that cliff with everyone else in this crazy cast. You tell him to dig, he’ll bring shovels. He may sigh or say “oh god not again” when shit goes awry or the gang decides they are Dead Set on doing something insane for the 10,000th time, but by god he will commit. Aphmau kidnaps a baby and goes on a mad chase for a comedic bit, and he never complains about how “stupid” and “reckless” and “obnoxious” his girlfriend is, he just says in a completely calm tone, “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go save my girlfriend.” And he chases after her immediately lmao.

Aaron enables the antics and participates in them, and if you rile him up or challenge him damn well enough, he will throw himself into the group antics with an unbeatable, fiery fervor. If the boys decide they’re all gonna pretend to be Santa and his elves in order to cause prankster-variety chaos one day, Aaron would join in and go right alongside them. He’s here to make sure it all goes to plan. He’s here to make sure you don’t break any bones when you jump off that roof like a madman. He’s here to help you run away from the cops, help you break into the building. He may chide you for doing it in the first place (“do you even know what you’re doing?!”), and if needed he may drag you back home if you’re barking up the wrong tree and it’s nothing but detrimental to you, but if it’s viable for the bit, he absolutely will show you how to break a window correctly.

And he can be a little shit if he wants to, too!! He can snicker at you and tease you and make quips, and I bet if Aaron himself dedicated his energy to it, he would make the best of pranks. He’s not an asshole that’s full of himself and too serious and stoic and cool for being silly, he’s not a whiny bitch, he’s actually very incredibly supportive. At times, much more so than Garroth, Laurance, Zane, Katelyn, etc. He’s reliable, he trusts Aphmau a lot, he knows how shittily Aphmau cooks and still does his damndest to support her, and he will force himself to eat her biohazardous cooking just to make her happy. He is the chef of the household. He’s good with animals, animals love him. He’s a kind guy!!! He’s just got his own unique energy and vibe to him, that no one else in the cast really has, and I really appreciate that core trait of him. He’s a grounding character. He’s probably got his own ways that he’s weird and eccentric that are a lot more hidden than Aphmau’s. If we didn’t have Aaron, the entire neighborhood would have burned down ages ago, ten times over.

I genuinely do believe he’d make a fantastic dad, being a combination of a soft and gentle and tenderly loving man, and responsible enough to always bring safety helmets and bandaids and snacks, very supportive of his kids development, emotionally available as a great source of genuine advice and wisdom while still getting plenty of encouragement. He would probably want to make an effort to be a very different parent than his father was, and since he was emotionally neglected as a child, he would refuse to do anything similar to his own kids. He’d be a good influence (and Aphmau would be the bad influence LOL)

He’s kind of a teddy bear of a man <3 If he weren’t so heavily wolf-themed, I’d say a bear would be the best animal that’d fit his personality and energy. He’d protect you like a bear, he can be really fucking terrifying if he wants to, but he’d only use that power to make sure Aphmau gets what she wants and needs to make her happy. He’d never use that terrifying intimidation factor of his on his friends and loved ones, never as anything more than a single look that has a derailing Garroth/Laurance/Travis/Dante/Gene/etc. get right the fuck back on track and start backpedaling, like if they started saying or doing something careless or stupid that made Aphmau feel worse. He’s quiet and reserved with that tired, grounded, solid energy of a bear. He’s a big guy. But he can also be really soft and supportive and sweet. He takes more time to come out of his shell and let down his walls, but when he does, he really dedicates his life to the few people he manages to trust. And it’s that thick outer shell that makes Aphmau a good match for him, because she’s kinda the only character in the cast who’s able to bring him out of his shell so easily.

She’s kind and extremely friendly, unstoppably and unendingly so. She’s sweet and naive and selfless in the way that proves to Aaron that she’s not trying to get anything out of him, she’s not lying to him, and she would never neglect him or just…abandon him like a discarded toy once she’s through with him. She’s not scared of him. She sees the best in everybody, and sees that there’s something more underneath that scary, prickly outer shell of defenses that’s managed to push everyone else away and keep the likes of Laurance and Garroth and Katelyn on their toes. She sees what no one else does, she sees the true beauty and the kind heart he has underneath. Even in MCD, when he’s literally held a sword to her throat and threatened her life multiple times, she can still sense that he’s full of shit and there’s a kind heart underneath, and if she does a little cultivating, extends a hand of gentle kindness and genuine affection, a kind of love and affection he’s never really seen before and been starved of all his life… it works wonders, and he steps out to meet her. He changes, drastically, because she sees the best in him, and that makes him want to become the best version of himself that he can be, for her. Where he might hate himself and grapple with feeling unloveable, Aphmau is there to remind him none of its true. And so he tries to keep her nightmares away in return, sticking by her side, taking care of her, cooking for her, encouraging her to keep doing everything she does best, defends her against the bullies that make her feel like she’s not good enough, and takes her by the shoulders to remind her that she is good enough, and all the voices out there and in her head that tell her she’s not are full of shit. Because he knows first-hand, better than most, the good things she brings to those around her and the wonderful presence she is in others lives, and how wonderful she is as a person. He trusts her. He’s here to guide her along in her path to becoming her fullest self, to give her that last big nudge to boost her along the way. Likely on a cosmic level, mainly, with her becoming Irene.

He’s very sweet, he’s sweet to Aphmau, Aphmau’s even sweeter to him, and genuinely I’ve learned to love the big, fluffy guy and I really appreciate him and his impact on the other characters the more and more I see of him. I don’t really know how I would enjoy Mystreet or MCD or the Aphverse without him. If he were real, I would love to give him one big hug, I bet his hugs would be amazing (topped only by Garroth’s rib-crushing bear hugs)

[bisexualcroissant]

realising that in the alt timeline there's no hextech bec vi died, but also because jayce likely went through with jumping off that ledge because viktor never stopped him there. and jayvik's bond never develops because again viktor never stops jayce from jumping and vice versa jayce can never do the same for viktor.

realising that ekko and heimerdinger were sent to the alt timeline because they were both alive there. whereas jayce wasn't because in that world without hextech, he was most likely not alive. instead jayce was flung across time to the far future in a timeline where vi didn't die and he and viktor developed hextech, because only in this timeline is future viktor able to realise the consequence of what he'd done and thus kickstart the chain of events that would get jayce to help him destroy it and show current viktor the price he'd pay by pursuing perfection.

in a weird way it's almost relieving to know that even in this "ideal" alternative timeline where everyone seems so much happier and zaun a much better place to live, all of this good stuff came with its costs. losing vi (a necessity to show the cost of the hextech), a world without jayce (no development of hextech—either he successfully jumped, gave up on his plans, or imprisoned after the accident), and possibly a viktor whose life would be shorter (but then again maybe not, because no jinx, no attack). plus jayce and viktor's bond would never develop in this timeline, and they would never be able to save each other there.

which is why jayce was sent to the post-evolution wasteland future instead. because in that timeline he stayed alive to develop the hextech that would go onto be used for machine herald viktor's evolution et cetera. it's crazy how intertwined jayvik's lives are, across timelines, across dimensions. future viktor giving child-jayce the key to stopping the evolution, jayce who would grow up to meet viktor, viktor who would stop jayce from jumping off the ledge, jayce who would stop viktor from doing the same, both necessities to keep pursuing their work, thus leading into machine herald viktor, with jayce being the only person in any possible world who could stop him.

in some strange way it almost makes it easier to stomach that the main timeline (the timeline in which the events of arcane takes place) is so flawed and fucked up, because even that seemingly much happier, more peaceful world came with a very heavy price.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

who do you think would love booping more charles or erik...

what are acts of terrorism if not some form of booping to get your ex's attention huh. erik's a boop enthusiast.

[mispatchedgreens]

get yourself a man that hates everyone but mostly himself, that's powered by shame and spite, that would do anything for you, that would murder you

[bigfatbreak]

this is a psa: dont call your chronically ill coworker fuckin terminal all its gonna do is make me want to bite you

[dragoncall]

merlin was just so good wasn't it

[faunandfloraas]

Ughgghhhhhhhhhh