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hitlikehammers · 2 months

Text

safe under you

rating: t ♥️ cw: criminal-levels of softness ♥️ tags: established relationship, rockstar husbands, writing vows, soul-deep love, slice of life, softness

for @steddielovemonth day nineteen: Love is the comfort of quiet moments (@tboygareth)

the rockstar husbands are back on their soft-sleepy-romantic bullshit idk ♥️ maybe I'll get around to writing the ACTUAL VOWS next time

“You’re so quiet.”

Which meant Eddie should have heard his husband approaching but: as it stands he really, really didn’t, and he jumps hard when Steve whispers from behind his shoulder over the back of the couch.

Steve laughs at the glare Eddie shoots him—a half-hearted one at best but there—as he reaches to start rubbing at the crook of his neck, up and down on either side and the glaring goes away instantly because: Steve Harrington?

Has magical hands.

“Whatcha doing?” he murmurs close to Eddie’s ear and Eddie hums a little as he gathers himself from going immediately-boneless under Steve’s touch, the kneading of his palm against Eddie’s strained muscles because he’s been down here…not too long, he doesn’t think. They’d gone to bed together at normal time, and he’d fallen asleep, too; he’d just been restless when he woke up, and knew it was the kind of thing he wouldn’t get more rest out of unless he did something about it, so he’d kissed Steve’s head and rolled out of bed, regretful for it but hopeful, too, that if he gave in to the nagging at the back of his head, he’d quiet it enough to be able to slip back in next to his beloved, and lean against the mattress just so, so that Steve’s arms could curl around him as they always did: soft and sweet and waiting to hold him.

Eddie just hasn’t…managed to get there, yet.

“Writing,” Eddie sighs, and then whines a little as Steve’s hands leave their place on his shoulders, and he turns to look because where’s Steve going, Steve shouldn’t go anywhere, Steve should stay right—

Here.

And look at that: Steve’s plopping himself down on the sofa next to Eddie, a little too far but then he’s scooting further, and Eddie opens his mouth to protest but then Steve’s dropping down, draping his body over Eddie’s lap and laying against him, looking up at him with still-half-sleepy eyes and just…

He’s just so fucking beautiful, y’know?

“You’re never quiet when you’re writing,” Steve says, head tilted up, eyes closed as he leans back against the armrest where Eddie’s got his notebook, his face so soft. His mouth so soft—

“Campaign, you mumble to yourself,” Steve continues on, his voice syrupy, still only half-committed to waking; “lyrics, you hum if you don’t have a guitar,” and then he reaches down toward Eddie’s knee and taps rhythmic there:

“And you drum your fingers,” and Steve smiles as his fingers dance for a few languid moments before he eases his lashes open and meets Eddie’s gaze, because Eddie’s gaze has been on his since he settled in his lap.

Because: duh.

“Looks like it’s hard, too,” Steve sucks his lower lip between his teeth, face still soft but mouth quirked just a little downward, still a little dream-soaked and Eddie love that part, but: never the downturn of that mouth.

“Hmm?” Eddie rumbles low so Steve’ll maybe feel it a little where he’s pressed; the little hazy giggle Steve lets out as he nuzzles into Eddie’s middle just that tiny bit: he felt.

Eddie likes to think he’s never been so in love, but he doesn’t…he doesn’t believe he’s ever not loved Steve with all of his everything.

He’s just wholly convinced that his everything grows with ever moment beside this man, every heartbeat lived together: it stretches him wider, broader every day for the singular purpose of holding the all of his love ever-bigger.

“Whatever you’re working on,” Steve murmurs, just short of sleep-slurred; “you’ve got this,” and he reaches, bats a little around Eddie’s face before he lands between his eyebrows and smooths the skin there which, okay, fine, had been all wrinkled-up.

“Means you’re concentrating too hard,” Steve comments sagely, patting Eddie’s cheek a little blind as he settles wholly back in Eddie’s lap.

“This happens to be very important,” Eddie counters with a tiny flick to Steve’s ear, which is met with a little squeak that warms his insides so delicate, so thorough and full.

“Doubtful,” Steve manages to scoff, like he’s tipping closer to wakefulness but not there yet; “not important enough to make you,” and Steve’s the one flicking now, light at Eddie’s forearm in emphasis:

“Quiet and frowny.”

He’s so…he’s fucking edible he’s so adorable, that’s what he is—Jesus.

“Not frowny,” Eddie lets a little at Steve’s hair, all tousled from the bed; “invested.”

Steve purses his lips and tries—fails, but tries—to peek at the notebook on level with his temple.

“What’s got you so invested, then?” he finally gives up trying to turn and read where Eddie’s hasn’t even bothered trying to hide, not least because there is nothing there, and just asks. And Eddie could dodge it. Steve would respect it if he did.

But he…he doesn’t. Generally speaking he doesn’t hide anything from Steve. Big or small. Their life is a shared thing from top to bottom and Eddie loves that about them so fucking fierce, so. He just sighs and admit it.

“My vows.”

Because that’s what’s been keeping him up, that’s what drove him out of the soft joy of their bed, that’s what amounted to scribbles and cross-outs alone on the page in front of him and it should be this hard, Eddie’s a decent enough lyricist, not to mention most of his songs all this time are for, or inspired by, or just about, generally, all-encompassingly: Steve. It’s always Steve.

Which makes it that much more unbearable that he can’t seem to fucking write his goddamn vows.

Then, though, just then; the most unexpected thing happens. Or starts.

Steve starts shaking against him and there a half-second he’s worried—does it hurt his sweetheart, that he can’t get the words down, does it make him sad, is he cryi—

No.

No: it only takes half-a-second for the anxiety to fade and the sound to register alongside the trembling: Beautiful. Radiant. Still wholly unexpected.

Steve’s laughing.

“That’s silly,” Steve finally tells him, looking up at him with genuine north in his eyes and yes, he’s still a little sleepy-drunk, but the feeling is wholly present and…

Eddie isn’t sure what to do with it—wants to just wrap himself inside it and savor but: his vows…laughable?

Silly?

“What?”

“You’ve already made your vows,” Steve grins up at him, all brightness; “like, three times,” and, okay.

Okay, that’s not exactly wrong, though he could probably try to argue that it was more three proposals’ worth of vows, and are those actually vows, if it’s just a proposal—

“Proposals fucking count,” Steve waves his wrist definitively and…Eddie isn’t sure if he said any of that out loud?

Then: probably wouldn’t make a difference either way. They know each other.

“The first one was legitimately with the twisty-tie from a loaf of Home Pride,” Eddie points out because: because that…that’s probably not as important—

“Mmhmm,” Steve hums, and lifts his left hand: there’s a simple ring on his left hand, pricey for their budget when they’d gathered their family and committed to always in front of them under a temperate Indiana summer’s sky, bonfire and barbecue lively in the background: but that ring wasn’t smooth; it had a long-worn-bare stick of metal wrapped around it and soldered, one that used to be covered in bright paper to stick out against a plastic bread bag:

“I remember well,” and Steve sounds so soft, so blissfully taken in by the memory of that first time Eddie had proposed and, fuck.

Fuck, the butterflies never go away, do they? That effervescent joy stays fresh and vivacious forever.

Thank fuck; he wants no less of this; for them. The love they have deserves no less.

“Still want to melt down the Ring Pop,” Steve says as he plays with his ring; “make it match,” and that’d been the second time: Steve had bought Eddie a ring at a ren faire, and Eddie’d been beside himself to reciprocate, immediately, because Steve deserved no less, and that was how the bum-end of a long-licked Ring Pop came to live eternally on Steve’s keys.

To be eyed for melting into a full-hoop shape for years, now, but Eddie kinda thinks it’s loved and treasured plenty, just as it already is.

“I love you so fucking much,” Steve tells him, apropos of nothing, and that’s…that’s kind of exactly how they work, yeah. They just love.

So fucking much.

Eddie’s pulse kinda skips with it, bounces like pigtails hopscotching along, all unbridled glee. He draws Steve hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles.

“Aren’t you,” Eddie swallows as he lifts his blank notebook and shakes it around a little: “aren’t you stressing over them?”

Because it doesn’t sound like he is, and that’s…sure, they’ve done this before, if not with a license in hand like they will this time. But Steve’s always been more prone to worry over stuff like this. So while Eddie doesn’t want the man he loves to be anxious, he is…kinda wondering, is all.

“Not writing any,” Steve shrugs and lets the motion turn him a little against Eddie’s lap, to look up more straight-on.

“You know I’m not great with words,” Steve tells him simply; “like, planning them out, I’ll fuck it up in the moment and then I’ll just be more flustered.”

And, yeah: okay. That’s a fair point.

Then there’s a hand slipping up his jaw, and crawling his cheek, and turning him down to look at Steve closer:

“Figured I can just look at you, and I’ll,” Steve’s pupils get bigger as he exhales, as he takes in Eddie’s face and beams at him, strokes his cheekbone with his thumb.

“The most important things are always right there,” Steve breathes warm: “so I’ll just say what’s already waiting.”

And shit. The man says he’s bad at words.

“You’re the light of life, Steve Harrington,” Eddie whispers, contorting himself to lean and Steve sees, arches up to press their lips as Eddie mouths against him: “the song in my soul,” and fuck: he means it so many times over he could never count it, could never pin a number to it. It’s too vast.

“See, look at you,” Steve taps his cheek playfully, but so soaked up with love; “you’ve already got all your words, so,” and then he lets his hand slide off Eddie’ face, and he sits up just to grab at Eddie’s legs, swing them up onto the couch and settles himself between them, tugging Eddie from the calves further down until he’s propping himself up by his palms.

“C’mon,” Steve coaxes, and uses his back to ease Eddie down and: oh. Oh, he wants them laid out on the cushions.

And well: Eddie could, would, will only ever oblige, if the question is do you want to lay down with your husband thrice-almost-four-times-over?

Because again: duh. If they were really in the market for silly ideas.

Steve sighs so happily, so airy and bright even as Eddie reaches to flick the light off, and wraps his arms to rest around Steve, sure and close where he holds him to his chest, folds him in where he already nuzzles deeper and:

It’s how safe my heart feels under the weight of your head.

Well, fuck him.

Maybe he does know his vows already.

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

♥️

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autisticlancemcclain · 9 months

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Lance knows he talks way too fucking much.

He started talking at seven months old. He never stopped. It was his older brother Marco, he thinks, who first called him Motormouth, but honestly he doesn’t remember. He’s been called that and Lancito Lorito longer than he can remember.

He loved the nickname, when he was little. His brothers or sisters or cousins or parents would groan, playfully, when they saw the look in his eyes, but always indulged his constant lectures and ideas and rambling. Motormouth meant you talk a lot but I like to listen. Motormouth meant I know you enough to have a trait I associate with you. Motormouth meant fondness and teasing and care. He loved that name.

When he was seven years old, one of his friends tugged her older sister over to where Lance was colouring with sidewalk chalk on the pavement.

“Look,” she’d said, gesturing to Lance but not talking to him. Lance had looked up from his chalk and smiled at her, opening his mouth to say hello but was interrupted by the subtle elbow she’s jammed into her sister’s side, and her muttered, “Watch this.”

“Hey, Motormouth,” she’d said, and Lance grinned, feeling something warm bloom in his stomach at her use of the nickname, oblivious to the choked-back laughter of the sister. “What was that thing you were talking about earlier? About the comet?”

If at all possible, Lance had brightened further, dropping the chalk and dusting off his hands as he’d launched into an explanation about the comet he’d been tracking with his dad. It was supposed to be visible for the first time in thousands of years that month, and he’d been buzzing with excitement about it. He talked about it to everyone who even appeared like they were maybe going to ask him about it. He’s rambled about it to the cashier at the grocery store the evening before.

“Just look at him,” his friend’s sister had said, something almost like awe in her voice, but not quite. Lance faltered, trailing off mid-sentence. “You were right. He’s like a wind-up toy.”

“Mo-tor-mouth,” his friend had said, in a distinct, sing-songy voice. “I told you I could make him do it on command.”

The girls burst into giggles. Lance had looked around, hesitantly, and found a number of his classmates giggling to themselves, at him or not he didn’t know, but he did know that he felt, distinctly, like he was in a zoo, and his friend was not his friend but a keeper who’d brought spectators to observe him and his freakish oddness.

Motormouth had felt, for the first time, like the insult he didn’t know it had always been. He felt trapped.

He’s grown since then. He’s no longer seven years old and oblivious to the fact that some people are quietly cruel. He knows the warning signs, now, of when someone is mocking him, of when he’s being treated like a pet, like an amusing little weirdo to cart around and show off. He knows the difference now between amusement and endearment.

But that feeling, that realization. The brick-to-the-face understanding that he was wrong about how other people cared about him the whole time he loved them.

He has never been able to un-know that.

———

He and Keith have a system. Lance starts work earlier, and is home earlier too, so he makes dinner for them. Keith cleans up after, crawling into bed next to a half-asleep Lance if they eat late enough. Sometimes, though, Keith gets home early, finished a repair faster than he’d anticipated, and decides he wants to make them supper for a change. Today Lance sits on the counter, kicking his legs and eating half the vegetables Keith has cut, grinning every time Keith lets him get away with it.

“…And there was this one woman who came on the trails today, babe, I swear to God, she’s the same nightmare lady you had to deal with a couple months ago. You remember that?”

Keith hums, hiking up one shoulder.

“The cooking oil lady. Who threw her baby’s rattle at your head because you told her you couldn’t put canola oil in her engine to make things cheaper.”

Keith snorts. “Oh, that nightmare.”

“Yeah!” Lance says, muffled by the four slices of bell pepper he’s shoved in his mouth at once. Keith stares flatly at him and smacks his hand, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and he walks over to the fridge to grab a new pepper without a word of admonishment. Loser.

Lance doesn’t say anything for a moment, following a new, bell-pepper related thought, and startled slightly when Keith clears his throat slightly and prompts, “You met cooking oil lady?”

“Oh yeah! On the trails today. We had to shut down one of them because Selena — remember the red wolf I told you about? The one who sings the loudest in her pack and has the reddest fur? I named her Selena after the singer, yeah, you remember — had her cubs the other day! So she’s super duper extra protective of the whole area, basically, and so is the rest of the pack, so humans going near their area is going to freak them out and that’s not fair to anybody. Hey, did you know red wolves are monogamous? Most wolf species are but red wolves especially show a really strong family unit. It’s really cute, actually, Selena her mate always go on wolf dates and stuff and terrorize the park-goers —”

“Trail,” Keith redirects gently, turning off the burner and scooping their food into two plates. He grabs them both, flicking Lance’s hand away, and sets them at the kitchen island, arranging the plates so they’re sat next to each other instead of across.

“Right, trail,” Lance says. As soon as he sits down and starts to eat, one of Keith’s hands comes to rest on his thigh, palm curving around the inner flesh and fingertips resting gently on the ankle tucked under it. He moves his thumb back and forth slowly, not to instigate, just to touch. Lance leans against him without even thinking about it.

“So. Trial closed. Not even that busy of a trail, honestly. One of the least popular ones. But this lady shows up, stroller in camo and packed to the nines like a fuckin, tactical mom, or something, and starts just hauling ass down the trail, breezing past the closed sign. And I’m like.” He points his fork in Keith’s direction, so he can Get The Vibe. His boyfriend smiles into his stir fry. “I mean, I didn’t want to be the one to handle her. But no one else did, either, and let me tell you she was hauling fucking ass down that trail, and I didn’t want her to actually disturb Selena or anything, so I had be like ma’am. Please. The sign very clearly says closed. And she ignored me, so I just stopped in front of her, and then she started screaming at me! All about how she has been to this trail all the time and she’s a loyal park-goer and it’s a public park, as if that means anything. I seriously thought she was never going to stop.”

He hears the irony as soon as he says it. I thought she was never going to stop. He’s like a wind-up toy. He manages to stop himself from tensing, barely, diverting into something like a twitch. He’s aware suddenly that he has been talking nonstop from essentially the second he walked in the front door and was delighted to find Keith’s boots already at the door, hear the quiet clanking of him in the kitchen. He can’t even remember if he’d bothered saying hello, or if he’d just launched right into whatever word salad was on his mind. God, did he even start with a full sentence? He does that sometimes, he just starts from the middle of his own thoughts like anyone would have any idea what he’s talking about, he’s honestly just kind of obsessed with the sound of his own voice, he thinks, he must be, because he just never stops, does he —

“I hope I die first.”

Lance blinks. He looks over at his boyfriend, wondering if he spaced out long enough that his brain just made something the fuck up to get him back on track (wouldn’t be the first time).

“…Pardon?”

Keith continues to eat, unbothered, casual. He’s not even feigning casualness, either — he tends to half-lid his eyes when he’s pretending something doesn’t bother him. He’s completely at ease, right now, hand still warm and heavy on Lance’s thigh.

“Sometimes I just think about how there’s a possibility that you’ll die before me, I guess.” He turns to Lance, finally, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry. That was emo. I just…you go silent, sometimes, and I’m worried I’ll have to miss every time you spoke.”

Lance doesn’t know what to say. For once, his revving engines are completely silent. He sits there, frozen, staring almost blankly at his plate. Keith is humming quietly to himself, something ridiculous and made-up. They’re still in each other’s spaces, the two of them, and so Lance knows Keith feels it when he shudders, slightly, as a lump grows in his throat, as he desperately blinks away the tears in his eyes.

Keith turns his head slightly to press a kiss to Lance’s hair. He holds his face there, lips pressed to Lance’s skin, soft exhales blowing strands of Lance’s curls.

“What’s wrong, Motormouth?” Keith murmurs. The concern is evident in his voice, and maybe some panic, too, like he’s worried he’s the reason Lance is upset.

Lance smiles. A tear escapes from the corner of his eye an burns a trail down his cheek. He wipes it, quickly, swiping a hand across his face before resting it on the hand that Keith still holds on his leg. Keith flips his hand palm-side up so he can interlock their fingers together. If he feels the wetness of the wiped tears, he doesn’t say anything, only their squeezes their hands together three times in quick succession.

There is no mistaking the fondness bleeding from Keith’s voice. There is no mistaking amusement for endearment, here.

Lance can be annoying. He knows he can. And he no doubt has moments where he annoys Keith, even. But he’s not seven, anymore. He knows to watch for the signs. And for whatever he can’t catch — he’ll just have to trust.

“Nothing,” he whispers, turning his head to catch Keith’s mouth against his. “It’s just nice to…know, I guess, that you love me.”

Keith hums, kissing back, reaching his free hand up to curl around Lance’s cheek, holding him gently. “Good. Don’t forget.”

———

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caramelarchive · 4 months

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okay but rubbing noses with L. hhh.

just him walking up to you, slipping his arms around your waist and leaning forward to brush his somewhat pointy nose against your softer one.

you can smell his breath, the scent of cake and coffee and strawberries. he can smell yours, too, and he wouldn't care at all if it smelt like tuna or if it smelt like rainbows because when your lips part you're so beautiful. he just wants to kiss you.

but kissing doesn't feel as intimate as this.

so his nose stays there, against yours, and the greatest detective in the world is standing here with you as the sun sets outside the windows, breathing on you and soaking in your light and warmth as he stares into your wonderful eyes.

and then as quickly as he came,

he's gone,

the scent of vanilla frosting lingering where he stood.

　★━━─・‥…━━━☆

I have moved to my main @lawlietscaramels please follow there for new content!

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 6 months

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gojo always seems to be off in a world of his own.

a little detached, you think. awkwardly long limbs constantly on the move, eyes stuck in a direction no one else can follow, a trajectory you don’t think even he knows. one blink and he's gone, just like that. too far ahead, too far above, even on the occasions he slows down and lets you catch up.

flimsy, maybe. like he’ll get carried away by the breeze when spring rolls around. like he’d turn into seafoam if you reached out and touched him.

satoru gojo is an anomaly, a blurry cluster of stars. or maybe more like a planet, big and blue, spinning around its own orbit, out of reach for every single star in the sky.

high and mighty, cocky and cool. silly and bright. but there's a softness to him when he's alone, you’ve come to learn; something that almost seems fragile, under the light of the moon, when the dark sky casts a shadow to obscure the contours of his face and no one’s around to notice if his smile isn't as big as it should be.

no one except for you, anyhow.

(you wonder if your presence is really that inconsequential to him.)

the beach is entirely empty, save for you and gojo. and summer’s ending, burning into little cinders, sputtering out before your very eyes.

tokyo is just beginning to dip its toes into autumn, the frost and chill, the hiss of the biting wind. the rusting of leaves, contaminated by a muddy hue, turned orange and brown and red beneath your heavy feet; littering the murky, empty streets of the rainy towns you cross. smelling of rotten apples and cinnamon, old books and burning wood.

it’s dark out. painted a thick gray, the sky is blanketed by heavy clouds, the entire world hidden behind that coating of wool. not a single sliver of starlight slips through, but there's a comfort to it, that feeling of being cocooned — safe and warm. a feeling cruelly stripped away by the nipping of the wind at your bare skin, but you digress.

everything smells of saltwater. a little like rotten fish. every breath you exhale turns into a flurry of vapour, mingling with the breezy seasalt of the open air; scattering away into the thin layer of mist all around you, until you can’t tell which is which.

and a sense of foreboding sinks into your veins.

(you look out at the jagged rocks piercing the surface of the sea, and dully wonder how they’d feel piercing your skin.)

something shivers, to your right. a flicker of movement, a barely audible chatter of teeth. and then, a white puff of vapour.

”man, it’s cold.”

gojo looks displeased.

only vaguely, a little crease between his eyebrows as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his puffy baseball jacket. moving his feet a little, to warm up, snowy tufts of white hair tousled by the ocean breeze. his shoes are muddied by the wet sand, but he doesn't seem to mind.

a soft scoff leaves your lips, mostly harmless. maybe just a little smug. ”told you,” you click your tongue.

gojo whines. his sunglasses are starting to fog up, you notice. ”it’s still summer!” he pouts. ”i thought the sea would be nice and breezy!”

an unimpressed look smooths over your features. gracing him with a raise of your brow, you don’t fully manage to bite back the soft smile that follows. don’t even really attempt to.

it’s been a long day. evidently not long enough for gojo, seeing as he dragged you down here — even though he knew it meant missing the train you were supposed to board after successfully finishing your mission. he just had to get a closer look at the sea. just for a moment or two.

and he was insistent, persuasive. awfully whiny. assuring you that he’d be quick, that you wouldn’t miss the next one.

(what made you agree was simply the thought of spending some more time with him. not like you could ever tell him that, though.)

so there you stand. two juveniles, shivering and shifting from foot to foot, on the brink of nightfall, the edge of summertime. watching the sea stretch out into infinity, across the gap between this world and the next. a murky blue. easy on the eyes.

the noise of the sea fills your ears; waves crashing into sand, the whistling of the wind, seagulls crying out in the distance. and faraway, the chatter of a rattling train. a cacophony of sounds, buzzing and crackling, melting together. scattered across the beach are countless tiny white seashells, and the occasional green glimmer of drift glass — mermaids’ tears, shed for lost sailors, or so you’ve heard.

you wonder if the mermaids ever shed tears for lost sorcerers. probably not.

a shiver runs through your body, down to your cold hands, the tips of your fingers. reddish and itching for warmth. you tuck them into your pockets with a breathless exhale, still shaking a little.

in truth, you and gojo aren’t very close. you’d like to call him a friend, but it's kind of hard; when he's so enamored with suguru, so animated around shoko. with you, he always seems kind of —

stiff?

or maybe more like bored.

he doesn't laugh as loudly, doesn’t act as cocky. doesn't flaunt his knowledge on sorcery, and isn't as clingy as he is with the other two.

(you've never liked people touching you. it's not hard for others to discern, with how you flinch away when they get close.

still, you can't help but feel a little jealous when you see him tugging suguru and shoko around.)

deep within your chest, like a stunted seaweed, sprouts a tiny pang of disappointment. it’d be nice if you could grow closer, you think. just a little would be fine.

”i like the sea.”

you turn your head.

gojo looks a little lost in thought. gaze trained on that expanding ocean before you, those splotches of blue and gray, the waves that bruise the edge of the sand. forlorn, maybe.

a hum buzzes in your dry throat. ”do you?”

”mm.” little white breaths slip from his lips. you wonder if they’d taste as salty as the air. ”’ts nice.”

a silence stretches out before you. delicate, like a sheet of glass. gojo picks at a piece of lint on his sleeve, and you shift from foot to foot. then he closes his eyes — a flutter of his dewy eyelashes.

”kinda makes you feel like everything’s about to end, huh?”

you look at him, but don’t see anything. a single glimpse of his closed eyes is all you gain from the glance you cast his way, but it’s not enough. not enough blue to fall into, no expression to savour. he looks the same as always.

but you’ve never heard his voice sound like this before.

”… end?”

and with that, they flicker open. there it is, you think. that vibrant blue. only to be obscured once more, when he turns to you fully, a smile playing at his glossy lips. ”don’t think so?”

a second passes. you look forward.

what you see is as follows: waves upon waves upon waves. the same blue and gray, as far as the eye can see. a sea big enough to drown each and every one of your worries.

something comes over you. a sensation of loneliness, something close to longing. a feeling of being rather lost. searching for something. your heart feels heavy, an anchor sunk to the bottom of your gut. little fish nipping at your ribcage.

your eyes trail over those jagged rocks, again. the mermaids’ tears, that all-consuming sea, right in front of you. like it could open its maw and devour the world.

you think of the lost sailors.

(one jump and it’s all over.)

a breath. salty on your tongue. ”… i guess i get it,” you whisper. a soft murmur, mingling with the mist.

silence.

out of the corner of your eye, you see gojo shift. one moment he’s looking at you, the next he’s staring at the sea. in tandem, the two of you, stuck within that shade of blue. and you think he looks a little mesmerized, like he’s seeing something not even he can fully comprehend.

(maybe he just hasn’t had many chances to go to the beach before. something to do with being a clan kid, maybe?)

but then he clears his throat, hands moving to brush some sand off his puffy jacket and jeans. turning on his heel, hair ruffled by the breeze. he tries to sound chipper, but there’s something else there. you don’t know what it is, but…

”anyway,” he chirps. ”let’s go. we can still make it to the next train if we hurry.”

you look at him. his retreating figure, a head of white hair, surrounded by mist. a little like an apparition. then you turn towards the sea.

”… nah, that’s fine.”

a pause.

gojo stills, just about to take the first step forward. but you stay rooted in place; unmoving, staring at the blue before you, a deep longing reflected in your eyes.

”let’s stay a little longer,” you hum, unsure of where the words came from. but you know you aren’t ready for the moment to end, just yet. that you aren’t quite ready for summer to pass.

…

all he does is stare, for a second or two. attempting to find some humour in your voice, you assume, any signs that you might just be joking. but he doesn’t find it. uncharacterstically silent, gojo stays frozen in place.

then he puffs out a breath — amused.

”you wanna freeze to death?” he grins, and you can hear it in his voice. you turn to face him, almost smiling. a little cheeky.

”you’ll warm me up, no?”

the words fall from your lips before you can think to reel them in. meant to sound a little snarky, you think, something akin to a chuckle — but instead come out sounding a little too much like an honest request.

the tips of your ears feel a little warm, suddenly.

a sense of surprise smooths over the contours of gojo’s face, and his grin falters. you can’t see his eyes, can’t tell if they widen or not, but his lips part, and you note that they look soft.

and it’s back. that grin. toothy, boyish. his cheeks are rosy, from the chill of the air, or so you assume. then he’s taking a couple strides forward, broaching the distance between you.

he throws an arm over your shoulder. a heavy weight against you, grounding, causing you to stumble. friendly, tugging you close. into his orbit.

(no infinity, you note. you can feel his body heat seeping through the fabric.)

it's nice. he's tall, and he's warm. cozy, protecting you from the bitter cold, like your own personal furnace. no wonder suguru never catches any colds, with someone like this draped over him all the time.

gojo speaks. there’s a sweetness to his voice, a mellow kind of contentment; bubbling up like seafoam, spilling from his glossy lips. you can feel his warm breath on your skin.

”well, duh.”

when your gaze falls on him, he's already looking at you. leaning closer, sunglasses slipping a little further down the bridge of his nose — enough to expose the blue of his eyes, the tiny splotches of white scattered across his aquamarine iris. like a cracked marble. or a summer sea.

he’s speaking again, and you almost don't hear it. distracted by those cracked marbles, the strawberry red of his cheeks, the warmth shared between you. the pitter patter of your heartbeat, like waves crashing against the sand. mesmerized. not daring to look away.

almost like you’d cease to exist, were he to close his eyes. like your existence hinges entirely on the blue of those irises.

(and maybe it does.)

he nods towards the sea, and grins. a mischievous glint in his eyes. ”wanna take a dip?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s joking or not. it makes you laugh, either way.

”do you want to freeze to death?” you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. subtly angling your body closer to his, hoping he won’t notice.

gojo honest to god giggles, at that, and you fear your knees might give out beneath your weight. fuck, has he always had dimples? why are you only noticing them now?

”hehe. i just think it'd be fun!” he chirps, still draped over you like an overgrown cat, and you almost find yourself saying yes. just to keep the summer from ending, keep him from being swept away by the breeze.

but summer is ending. slipping away, second by second, like two juveniles drowned by an ocean wave. never to be found. and in comes autumn, the smell of rotting apples, the crunch of sand beneath your feet; an arm over your shoulder, an intake of breath. the taste of nice, crispy air on your tongue.

a chuckle flows from your lips. all you see before you is blue, a murky shade, a vibrant hue. you think you could drown in it. you’re not sure you’d mind.

”maybe next time,” you whisper.

gojo’s eyes widen. ever so slightly, barely enough to even notice, until they bloom — with a kind of bubbly excitement. unconcealed giddiness. there’s something awfully precious about it, like a child buying cotton candy at their first fair. it makes you want to tuck him into your pocket. keep him safe.

you like him, unfortunately. inevitably. you think you may even like him a lot, a little more than you should. a little more than he could reciprocate.

satoru gojo. high and mighty, cocky and cool. silly and bright. a seaborne boy with his very own orbit, born to carry the weight of the world, spinning so close that you can almost delude yourself into thinking he feels the same.

almost.

(gojo glances at your lips. he wonders if they’d taste as salty as the air.)

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daily-hanamura · 8 months

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#persona 4 golden #p4g #hanamura yosuke #yosuke hanamura #narukami yu #souyo #no deep thoughts today just an appreciation for this quiet peaceful moment #i wonder how often they spend time like this together just lying down on the riverbank in pleasant comfortable silence #where there are no expectations on either of them to be anything for anyone #just enjoying the moment and each others companionship and presence and watching the clouds while the world passed by #soft..........#he's good with his queue

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boba-beom · 8 months

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shy beomgyu soft thoughts

shy!beomgyu who’s in your friend group and hangs out with you every time there’s a gathering but you’re there talking to someone else while he’s adoring you from afar.

shy!beomgyu who smiles with a tight lip when he accidentally makes eye contact with you when your eyes meet, and you give him the warmest smile making his heart melt.

shy!beomgyu who wants to tell you that he’s interested in you and wants to get to know you more but watches the way you and yeonjun engage in a fun conversation; thinking that could never be him.

shy!beomgyu who sits outside on the back porch to watch the sun set as he thinks about whether he wants to continue crushing on you and when to tell you about his feelings.

shy!beomgyu who sees you on your phone by yourself inside when the boys left to grab drinks and snacks.

shy!beomgyu who asks you why you didn’t go with them and you reply saying that you didn’t want to leave him by himself.

shy!beomgyu whose tips of his ears turn pink from your reply and you notice 100%. you find him adorable that he behaves this way because of you.

shy!beomgyu who’s surprised when you grab ahold of his hand and look into his warm, brown eyes telling him, “I’m sorry that I don’t seem to show it, but I really like you and I think you’re really cute.”

shy!beomgyu who doesn’t believe what you’re saying and stutters but asks why your attention was always drawn towards yeonjun.

shy!beomgyu who now knows that you were also shy towards him and was asking yeonjun about him to see if he was always like that.

shy!beomgyu who isn’t so shy anymore when you coyly ask, “could I perhaps get to know you better? like hang out with just you?”

crush!beomgyu who has the prettiest smile, pulling you closer to him to give you his warmest hug and whispering an, “I would like that.”

#something quick #I saw this compilation of beomgyu’s soft and quiet moments #and that side of him is hardly seen #I love beomgyu’s soft side #soft beomgyu hours #soft beomgyu thoughts #beomgyu fluff #beomgyu imagines #beomgyu scenarios #[ 🎐 ] — miss gyu q.

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ninemelodies · 6 months

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i think about that ten & donna deleted scene from doctor’s daughter a lot. like i KNOW why scenes get cut and i could even feasibly see why this one got cut but i think it’s so so important for donna’s character & her relationship with the doctor.

like you’ve got the doctor, who knows more about pain and loss than anyone - he’s the last of his people, his whole world has been destroyed and just when he finally, FINALLY thinks he won’t be alone again, he loses jenny. the icing on the cake is not only does he lose jenny, he loses jenny for the same reason he lost everyone else - a pointless war, pointless fighting and violence

and then you’ve got donna - loud and brash and headstrong donna, who has been viewed in the past as vain and shallow, who comes up to him after and forces the doctor to look at her, to face his grief and stop running from it (she physically turns him from where he’s fiddling with the tardis) and she tells him that the pain is a sign that he was right to let jenny in, that he was right to have loved her and cared for her even for just a minute

and the doctor, who has spent who knows how many years running from or ignoring the grief he felt over his people and his home, asks “what do we do now?” to a human, to someone who doesn’t even live a fraction of the amount of time he does and who hasn’t experienced even a portion of the heartache he has.

donna tells him, “we go on. we live. we remember. what else can we do?” and she’s right - the loss cannot be undone, but we can always honor those lost by living and remembering them.

i think it says a lot about the doctor, that he’s so so smart but still struggles with this but he knows that humans are so good at it. he isn’t ever lying when he says that he thinks humans are amazing or giant or impressive - enough so that in a time of hurt he turns to a human for advice on how to cope

#doctor who #donna noble #tenth doctor #10th doctor #i wish with all my heart that scene hadn’t been cut #i didn’t put this in the post but i love how soft-spoken donna is about it #we’ve seen her be loud and brash and headstrong this entire time and now we get to see her soft and quiet and comforting #because at that moment ten needs someone like that #he doesn’t need someone to yell at him to get him moving he just needs someone who understands

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kylejsugarman · 2 years

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el camino is just so quietly devastating in so many ways. its quiet and reflective and subtle, and it contains some of the most heartbreaking and heartwarming writing in the entire gilliganverse. like on end of the spectrum you have the absolutely crushing scene where jesse pulls the gun on todd in the desert, so close to escape, and all todd has to do to get him to back down is ask him one humanizing question (”what’s your favorite pizza topping?”) and jesse, who has always been so desperate for love and now is just so desperate for humanity and basic decency, turns the gun back over. there’s no overwrought scene detailing the extent of the psychological and physical abuse he endured at the compound, just these little moments that provide a glimpse into it that are so much more horrifying and affecting. and on the other end of the spectrum you have skinny pete and badger putting themselves in danger and coming together to help jesse escape the police, these guys who are his friends but who aren’t indebted to him in any way sacrificing themselves For Him, which in my opinion is what gives jesse the strength to find ed and get a new life for himself. badger and skinny pete remind him that the world is not only full of bad people, of people who want to hurt and exploit him, and the no strings attached kindness they show him after so many months of dehumanizing torture, the sheer appreciation and genuine love (”you’re like my hero, man”) is inspiring as much as it is life-saving

#syd squeaks #I love el camino so much I could talk about it for hours all these soft quiet nuances and moments that make it perfect #breaking bad #el camino #jesse pinkman #badger #skinny pete #survivors of abuse and torture be like omg.....have y'all heard of el camino??

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kittlesandbugs · 22 days

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FHR: Pulse points Pairing: Sidestep/Lady Argent Warnings: Canon-typical hints at self-harm/suicidal thoughts, nothing explicitly depicting Word Count: 694 Prompt: Prompt from @mihqorio for Riley/Argent and hands on/at wrists

Curiosity bubbles to the surface of Argent's mind as you take the silver hand draped across your chest in yours and examine it in the golden light cast down from the ceiling lamp. Pillowed in her lap, your eyes dart up to hers, and she doesn't seem to mind. Wants to know what you're doing, what you think, as you examine the flawless mirrored skin. As you wiggle her fingers, playing with the joints that all seem to function normally. As your fingertips explore hers, her nails soft and safe right now.

"Having fun…?" she asks, her voice tinged with a slight edge, but she doesn't pull away.

"Mhmm," you hum, tracing back to her wrist again, your original thought unsatisfied. You can't tell where she ends and the nanovores begin. Not at all. But you don't want to tell her that. Or ask and pry. You aren't sure how she'd take that kind of scrutiny. You know you’d hate it if it was directed at you and your tattoos. So you keep your nosy intrusions to yourself. Instead you press your lips to her where her pulse should flutter and come away unscathed this time. "Beautiful," you offer instead, earnestly, truthfully.

You think she'd blush if she could. You feel a little ripple of heat and embarrassment dance across the surface of her thoughts, but you dive no deeper.

She scoffs and takes your hand in hers, just as gently, and mimics your examination under the light. The skin is dry and a little cracked. A little worn with age. Not as much as Ortega’s. You feel her tracing every little scar. Some are from tinkering, because you hate wearing gloves and knick yourself. Some are from going through a window and landing on the glass. You'd prefer not to think about those, but it's difficult under her curious scrutiny. She traces the chipped nails and fine lines, and you aren't sure how much texture she actually feels.

Eventually the exploration makes it down to your wrist. To the lines that can't be attributed to accident or the incidence of living. You feel something roiling under the surface of her thoughts as her lips purse and her thumb traces the very old and very ugly scar running parallel to your pulse.

"That was where the tracking chip was," you offer, because you know what the scar looks like. You may have hurt yourself in the past, when you were trapped in the lab, but you've never went so far as that. "I had to cut it out the first time I escaped. It was… not planned. Things got a little messy." Armed with only a razor blade, adrenaline, and a vague notion of where it was, it was definitely not your cleanest work. But it still is one of your proudest.

"Just a little," she says with a huff of an amused laugh, and you feel her anxiety released with your admission. Your easy answer makes want to her push a little further, to see what other secrets she can sneak a peek at. "Where's the second one?" she asks, eyes darting to your left wrist that’s bare of the same scar.

"... There isn't one," you admit quietly after a moment's hesitation. "I wasn't supposed to ever leave the lab again. No need for it."

You feel a brief stab of regret for the question. She brings your wrist to her soft cool lips and kisses the scar. A quiet apology.

As your pulse quivers against her mouth, you feel an edged shiver running through both of you, and you aren’t sure where it started. You both know it wouldn't take much at all to knick the skin. To indulge the little ants swarming her thoughts at the scent of blood so close to the surface. But if it wasn't for your telepathy, you'd never realize the intrusive thoughts teeming inside her skull. Her placid expression gives none of it away as she places your hand back on your chest.

"What do you want to watch today?" she asks instead, swallowing down the instinct that isn't hers with a bite of chocolate doughnut.

#kitbug writes things #fhr #argentstep #lady argent #sidestep #riley owens #i guess reve got the floodgates open lol mired in sidestep brain #anyway have some soft girls #enjoying a quiet moment #dancing around each other lol

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