#it will just be pining and fluff

[hairmetal666]

Steve who goes on a Bake Off type show after Robin, Dustin, and Max set him up as a contestant. He doesn't want to, doesn't think baking or cooking should be stressful, but he's been wallowing since his knee surgery took him out of work and basketball, since his divorce.

His first day on set, he's totally gobsmacked by the sexy host with all the tattoos and long, curly hair. Just, cannot take his eyes off the guy, blushing and stammering whenever he comes around to do interviews, obviously can't stop starring.

After the first day, where he manages to stay comfortably in the middle of the pack, he calls Robin to complain about what a mess he becomes around this gorgeous dude.

Her response is to cackle and say, "Steve! How do you not know who Eddie Munson is? Oh my god, you're a disaster."

Turns out, Eddie Munson is the lead singer of Dustin's favorite band, Corroded Coffin, and also pretty well-known for his dnd YouTube channel. He's been a host on the show for years, only Steve doesn't really pay attention when the others watch it and didn't know.

Eddie, for his part, is losing his mind. He'd known about the beautiful contestant for this season, former college basketball superstar turned coach, having a hell of a shitty year after dislocating his kneecap in a charity game. Eddie--foolishly, it turns out--thought he wouldn't be as attractive in person. He also expected Steve to be terrible and egotistical, a jock through and through.

So, when Steve Harrington walks into the tent in a short-sleeved polo and obviously ironed jeans and is still drop-dead gorgeous, he's fucking flabbergasted. And then Steve has the audacity to be nice? Kind and thoughtful and running to help other bakers when he still has work to do himself? He also blushes so pretty, high across his nose and cheeks, and god does hewant to be the reason Steve blushes like that.

Eddie is beside himself.

Leading up to the second week, Steve schools himself into being calm around Eddie. He can't afford to lose his cool like that every time the host is around. Except, this week Eddie flirts with him shamelessly. Winks at him, leans into space, calls him "m'lord" with this deeply resonant voice that makes Steve want to drop to his knees. Steve doesn't mean to, not really, but he flirts right back, feeding Eddie tidbits of his bakes and looking for any excuse to touch him.

Steve does well for the first half of episodes. He never wins the technical or star baker, but he's regularly within the top contestants. On episode five, though, something is off. He's distracted, forgetful, doesn't leave enough time for his custard to set in the signature. Eddie asks if he's okay, but Steve shrugs and smiles, says "off my game today."

But then, in the technical, he curdles his buttercream more than once, and his genoise sponge burns. Eddie watches as Steve folds his arms above his head and disappears from view. He doesn't hesitate, he sprints from his interview, falling to his knees in front of the contestant.

"Stevie, sweetheart, what's going on?"

"I get migraines," Steve whispers. Trails of wet streak down his cheeks. "I've felt one coming all morning, been trying to stave it off but--"

"Okay, okay," Eddie shakes out his hands. "You can sit out this challenge, yeah? Or take this weekend off. It happens. You'll come back next week--"

"I don't want to stop." More tears fall from his eyes.

"What do you need?"

Steve shakes his head, wry little smile pulling at his lips. "Time to breathe."

Eddie glances up, eyes catching on the camera crew hovering in front of them. He throws both middle fingers up and says, in the most reasonable and even tone, "fuck!" Everyone in the tent looks at him, but he doesn't stop. "Shit!" "Bitch!" Motherfucker!" He goes on and on, saying the filthiest series of things he can think of. The camera crew steps away, another contestant brings Steve a glass of water, and Eddie sits with him.

The other host announces that there are thirty minutes remaining in the challenge.

"Well. That's that, then," Steve says. He stands, patting the naked skin of Eddie's knee where it shows through the rip in his jeans as he goes.

"Wait, what do you mean?"

"Out of time, no cake, no buttercream."

Eddie hops to his feet. "You're going to let that stop you?"

"Well." Steve laughs. "Can't serve this." He gestures to his discarded bowls of frosting, his burnt cake.

"You have time to make another buttercream."

Steve raises an eyebrow. "Sure, but not the cake."

"Cut the burnt off. Cover it in the buttercream. Easy peasy."

"Okay..." Steve stares at his station. "Okay, that could work. It won't be pretty, but--"

Eddie, knowing he's no longer needed, steps away, and Steve gets to work.

Steve tells Robin all about it and, as soon as he gets home from the taping and she's immediately like, "Eddie Munson, huh?"

He shoots her a look. "It's nothing."

"Yeah, him leaping over a table to check on you is surely nothing."

"Robin," he warns.

"What?"

"Eddie would never want a guy like me."

She laughs but quickly grows sober. "Steve. Of course he would. He likes you."

"It's nothing, really." He walks towards the kitchen. "What do you want for dinner?"

Eddie experiences the same harassment from his band members and their manager.

"You're gonna ask Harrington out, right?" Gareth asks.

"That would be a little bit of a professional conflict of interest," he deadpans. He doesn't look up from his guitar.

A puffed Cheeto smacks him square in the forehead. "Hey!" He shrieks.

"He means once the season is done, Edward," Chrissy says.

He wipes the cheese dust from his forehead. "Not a good enough reason to call me Edward. Anyway, I'm pretty sure he's straight."

Jeff guffaws. "C'mon, dude. No way. He's so into you he might as well have a neon sign."

"He divorced a woman."

"That doesn't mean anything, and you know it," Chrissy says.

Eddie rolls his eyes. "I may be considering asking him out. Maybe."

Everyone cheers. More Cheetos hit him in the face.

---

To Steve's great surprise, he makes it to the finals. Not just makes it, he gets a star baker, gets first in the semi-final technical. He's baking in the final and might have a fucking chance.

It's with great surprise, once it's all said and done, that he hears his name announced as the winner. He doesn't have much time to process it, because Eddie is striding towards him. He's not carrying the cake stand trophy or flowers, it's just Eddie.

Eddie who stops in front of him, eyes shining. Eddie who leans in and whispers, "I knew you could do it, baby, I'm so proud of you." Eddie who twines his fingers through Steve's hair, pulling him into a soft, sweet kiss.

The internet explodes as the season airs. Everyone is obsessed with Steve and Eddie. They have fics on ao3, a dedicated tumblr community, edits, playlists, gif sets, a ship name all dedicated to them. The fandom grows after episode 5 airs. Not all the footage makes it, thanks to Eddie, but they still witness him tenderly taking care of Steve and directing the cameras away. Fans start scouring their social medias, looking for any hint of their relationship status; even beg them in comments and DMs to reveal if it was just a showmance.

Eddie and Steve, however, are happy in the quiet little world the carved out for themselves after filming. They aren't ready to reveal anything, even hints, whether or not the show would let them.

Then, the final airs and the kiss is revealed to the world. The ending title cards show a picture of Steve with the rest of the season's bakers and the caption, "Steve threw a party for the other bakers..."

The picture then changes to one of he and Eddie, arms wrapped around each other. This caption says: "...at the home he shares with his boyfriend Eddie."

That night, in bed, Steve says, "I'm really glad Robin and the kids made me go on the show. But do you think it's bad that the thing I'm happiest about, way more than winning, is that I met you?"

Eddie places a slow circle of kisses in the dip of Steve's lower back. "Sweetheart, I'd be disappointed if you said anything else. Now, hush, I have a baking champion to congratulate."

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #fluff #mutual pining #bake off au #tv host eddie munson #bake off contestant steve harrington #i just finished the latest season and had to make it steddie #mel and sue used to do the thing where they cussed and flipped off the cameras so upset bakers couldn't be filmed

[elitadream]

Lately I've been thinking about Peach's healing power again; only this time, I wanted to draw it in a pleasant context rather than a dramatic or bittersweet one! The idea that her soothing magic can not only alleviate others' pain but also make them relaxed to the point of inducing sleep is one that I really like, and I couldn't resist using this element for a bit of fluff. 🤭💖

(Based on the original concept by @drones-of-innocence and inspired from @peaches2217's lovely headcanons 🙏)

#Another idea I'm very fond of is that Peach would secretly LOVE pampering Mario #Always looking for any valid excuse to give the man special care #Namely by standing unnecessarily close and / or touching him in some way 😂 #Brushing an unruly brown lock back in place - Arranging the straps of his overalls - making a tiny adjustment only to undo it right after - #She would always want to he near him 💕 #And by some curse or miracle Mario would systematically miss every single hint sent his way 😭🙇‍♀️ #Oh he'd be over the moon alright #But would think she's just being her sweet and generous self like always #Being painfully courteous and charming about her lovely attentions in turn without even trying #Thus continuing the endless pining cycle! x3 #These two I stg #mario #princess peach #mario x peach #mareach #romance #fluff #love and affection #lovers in denial #Super Mario Bros #Fanart

[stvrchaser]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬

( pairing ) : clarisse la rue x fem!reader

( words ) : 2000

( note ) : noticed that clarisse has her nails painted in the show and… well this came out of that. reader is heavily aphrodite coded but i don’t think it’s explicitly mentioned anywhere what cabin she’s actually from? only that she’s not from apollo’s and she’s on clarisse’s side for capture the flag

also don’t we just love that every fic i’ve ever published is literally 80% pining? honestly can’t tell you the last time one of my fics didn’t have a scene that goes on for like three paragraphs about how much admiration reader has for their love interest

oh and happy new year!!

Summer days can last for a lifetime and a fulfilling one at that. There’s so much to be done when the world wakes, engulfed in light and warmth, nurturing possibility. There’s so much to look forward to. But today, that anticipation has chosen to work against you.

The sun is setting now, approaching dinnertime, and Clarisse is nowhere to be found. For all of her spontaneity and occasional recklessness, it’s unlike her to abandon routines. That is, routines she shares with you. And walking to dinner together happens to be one of your longest-running practices.

You tried to ask around, careful not to sound too concerned so as not to spark rumors. See, Clarisse La Rue has never been publicly caught in a state that warrants concern. Clarisse La Rue is untouched by the fears that plague the rest of them. But you know better.

It isn’t until you come across a few Ares kids, very obviously overworked and looking nearly faint with exhaustion, that you come to your senses. It isn’t infrequent that Cabin 5 becomes victim to one of Clarisse’s drills, training until fatigue overpowers their fear of her authority. As predicted, you find her in a clear patch of the forest overlooking the strawberry fields. Some days she likes to train here, away from watchful eyes.

The setting sun casts her in golden light, bronze armor glistening alongside golden skin. Clarisse liked to train in full gear — a fruitful habit to get herself accustomed to the added weight of leather and metal. It allows her to move with ease, swinging her spear with grace despite the strength of her whole body being evident in every step. With her head held high, spear raised, and the incredible speed at which she moves, she doesn’t look even the slightest bit mortal, but rather a god amongst men. A warrior and hunter. She is the perfect picture of divinity if you’ve ever seen it.

You let your feet drag against the dirt, a fallen branch snapping beneath your weight. It informs Clarisse of your presence from a safe distance, although the remnants of her focused state aren’t any less intimidating. Her eyes burn bright like the electricity that charges the tip of her spear.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Clarisse realizes her error with a glance at the horizon where the sun is setting and you smile warmly, dismissing any indication of displeasure. You watch her demeanor change, the rigidity in her posture fading with an apologetic tip of her head. 

“I’ve been training. Those idiots would know that if they’d stuck around to join me.” Something tells you that that isn’t entirely true. Anyone could assume that she’d been training, but the matter of where was an entirely different question. As far as you know, this particular spot is something only the two of you are familiar with — a small refuge away from everyone else.  

“Well, we don’t all have your… passion for these things.”

“You think I’m ridiculous,” she says with a sigh. 

“Babe, you’re training for capture the flag. Not war.” Clarisse only shakes her head, knowing there’s no point in arguing. She thinks this is something the two of you might never see eye-to-eye on. While you like your fair bit of competition, Clarisse takes every victory with great significance. As she does with every loss.

“Here, I’ll help you,” you say, approaching to tuck a stray curl behind her ears. Your touch lingers at her cheeks, flushed from physical exertion and maybe something more by the way her gaze settles on your lips. Every intake of breath is louder now that you stand toe to toe and the adrenaline has started to wear off. She’s too worked up to have done this all for a game of capture the flag. “I hope you’re not doing all this to get back at Percy.” Her eyes still linger on your mouth and you think she might’ve not heard you until her brows furrow in confusion.

“Since when are you on a first-name basis?”

“Oh, come on,” you say with a disapproving shake of your head. “He’s just a kid.” You reach for the leather chord at the edge of her breastplate, undoing the knot with ease.

“He’s full of it.” She refuses to look at you now, her head turned upward as if she’d developed a sudden interest in trees. You can’t tell if she’s trying to maintain her composure to keep herself from saying something she’ll regret or if your gaze and proximity was distracting her from the discussion. Maybe a bit of both.

“He’s a baby. You could body-slam him into next Friday. It’s hardly a fair fight.” You untie the last knot keeping her breastplate in place, tugging upward to slip it over her head. Clarisse doesn’t even seem to realize that you’d freed her of her armor until the weight vanished from her body.

She looks at you then with an expression you can’t quite read. Something warm, like gratitude, but reluctant. When she speaks, it’s unexpectedly solemn.

“Do you really believe he killed The Minotaur? Him? Gods, everyone here trains themselves to death for that kind of stuff and he gets all the glory? He doesn’t even know how to shoot.” Now that you’ve been made aware of the gravity of the situation, it’s suddenly harder to find your words. This isn’t the petty rivalry you’d assumed it was, and you had to handle it as such.

“Well, I’m sure a few things have been exaggerated here and there, but that’s not his fault. People love to talk about him, but nobody’s really talking to him. I don’t think he’s had a say in anything that’s been said about him. You know how rumors spread around here.”

“But he’s—”

“Look,” you start, taking her hands into yours. “I’m not asking you to make him friendship bracelets. Just… try not to drown him in the lake, okay?”

You know the exact moment an idea hits her by the mischievous glimmer in her eye. It takes a lot of strength not to bury your face in your hands, afraid that you’ve now planted an idea that would get the poor boy killed. Or worse.

“Clarisse, please.” She surrenders, albeit reluctantly. 

“Fine,” she says. Still, you’re not entirely convinced.

“Good. Now say it.”

“What?”

“Say you won’t drown him in the lake.” Clarisse laughs, but it dies down when she realizes you don’t plan to join her.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m really not.”

“I swear not to drown Percy Jackson in the lake,” she agrees through gritted teeth. You don’t say anything about the way her hands tighten around yours as if it physically pained her to say the words.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” you tell her, ignoring that it did, in fact, seem hard. “Now, what are we gonna do with those nails?” Clarisse stares blankly at your joined hands. Chipped black nail polish alongside your perfectly pristine, perfectly preserved set of nails.

“Why do we need to do anything about my nails?”

“Honey, I painted these like two days ago. What do you even do to get them chipped like this? I mean, are you fighting with the back of your hand? I don’t understand.”

“I have to train, you know?” she says, like it’s meant to explain anything. You know better than to ask her to elaborate.

“Shame. You have very pretty nail beds. You should spend less time fighting puppy dog-eyed middle schoolers so you can actually keep them pretty.”

“You think I have pretty nail beds?” You shrug.

“Among other things.”

“Well, tell me about these other things.”

“Hm, and people think I’m vain.”

“Come on. What other things?”

You take a moment to look at her — to really look at her. To dissect every inch of her face and the features that create the picture of beauty you know and love. There are far too many pretty things to point out, but you find yourself drawn to one in particular.

“You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Well, thank you.”

“Shut up. I’m not finished.”

“Of course. Don’t let me stop you.”

“And you have the most gorgeous smile.” Clarisse beams with pride. “Yeah, that one. And it doesn’t even matter if it looks like you’re just about ready to tear someone’s throat out with your teeth. I just like to see you happy. I like hearing you laugh even better.”

And laugh she does. Low but sweet, like honey. She looks like the teenage girl she is, deeply infatuated and with a capacity for love she has only ever shared with you. 

You indulge in the temporary amusement it brings you to think of how horrified Clarisse might be if anyone else were around to hear her giggle. Clarisse La Rue, Daughter of Ares, infamous for waging war on whichever unfortunate soul so much as breathes in her direction — producing a laugh so gentle and beautiful it could give Orpheus and his songs a run for his money. And you might be the happiest girl alive to have been the cause of it.

“You’re sure you’re not Apollo’s kid?”

“Are you calling me a talented poet?”

“I’m calling you a sap,” Clarisse insists with a sour expression, but her voice is saturated with mirth, eyes too bright, and you know she isn’t entirely opposed to your antics. 

“I think the term you’re looking for is romantic.”

“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes.

“I know I’m right, but thank you for the confirmation.”

“I know the nail polish fumes are getting to your head,” she mocks. You feign defeat, retreating with an exaggerated sigh.

“Maybe.” Two steps to your left and you’re concealed by a tree, its trunk twice as wide as either of you. You peak your head, locking eyes with Clarisse. “Or all that training is slowing you down. Honestly! If you’re gonna try to insult me, at least try to come up with something original.”

“Oh, you think I’m slow?” Clarisse asks, every word a thinly veiled threat — a challenge, and one you’re willing to accept.

“Unless you want to prove me wrong.” Clarisse lunges at you without warning, almost too fast, but you’re able to gather your senses. The tree had bought you just enough time to keep her whole body from slamming into yours, the force of it undoubtedly capable of launching you both to the ground. 

You dash through the woods as fast as your legs can carry you, your only advantage being that Clarisse must have tired herself out from training. But you know she’s hot on your trail.

From here, you can see the bonfire, flames burning high. You turn, prepared to declare that your victory is just seconds away. You’re tackled to the floor before a word can leave your mouth. 

“Oh, come on! That’s not fair, I was distracted!”

“Distracted by what?” Clarisse laughs hysterically although taking a much more graceful tumble to the floor than you had. She’s covered in fallen leaves and her jeans are brown at the knees where the denim fades.

“The pretty girl chasing me.” Clarisse is beside herself with joy, clutching at her stomach and close to tears, and it takes her a minute to calm herself. When the two of you have settled, she speaks again. Or tries to, that is.

“Oh, you are so—“ You place a kiss on her lips, short and sweet, but enough to leave her speechless. Clarisse turns a violent shade of red and you think she might need another minute to calm herself. You take that time to revel in your victory.

You stand, offering your hand to help her up. 

“Come on, let’s get dinner and you can rest for the game tomorrow. If you’re gonna lead us to victory, you’re gonna need your strength, captain.” She smiles, intertwining her hand with yours.

“You’re gonna be there? Right beside me?”

“La Rue, you’re crazy if you think there’s even a chance I’d ever leave your side.”

•°. *࿐

reader: pls don’t drown percy in the lake

clarisse: ok fine

clarisse: *tries to drown percy*

reader: what did i say about drowning people??

clarisse: …

clarisse: you never said the toilets were off-limits 

also i'm like brand new to the pjo fandom but i’ve been kindly informed of clarisse x silena (and their tragic ending but i turn a blind eye to that so i can preserve my sanity) but when i get there you WILL need to physically restrain me from writing fics about them

#clarisse la rue #clarisse la rue x reader #pjotv x reader #pjo tv adaptation #pjo tv series #clarisse la rue fluff #pining #but they’re already dating #they’re just horrendously down bad for each other and it’s kind of embarrassing #x reader #healthy bit of banter #and trying to convince clarisse to let percy live to see another day #breaking news: summer camp gets awkward when ur gf has beef w the middle schooler #you can’t say she didn’t try to help him ok

[itneverendshere]

alrighty imagine rafe feeling jealous for the first time in his life and absolutely not knowing how to navigate through it, so he just takes it out on you 🤗 he's down bad so it's funny

just a lil something for y'all:

rafe cameron does not get jealous.

why would he? he has the world at his feet—wealth, status, popularity, and seemingly limitless opportunities. got everything he wants and needs in his perfect kook-life, right? there’s absolutely nothing that could make him envious of others. he’s been moving through life with a sense of entitlement, accustomed to getting what he wants when he wants it.

that earth-shattering confidence translates into his sexual life. if there was such a thing as mastering the subtle art of not giving a fuck, god, he’d get a nobel prize for that shit. 

rafe likes to indulge in the pleasures of his fantastic mortal life without the burden of attachment of commitment, just thinking about tying himself up to someone else makes him want to drive his jeep into the nearest wall. 

that’s not the life he wants. that kind of bullshit gets people depressed or killed; he’s seen enough of that kind of misery in his lifetime. 

he knows he’s got a reputation by now. it precedes him, and he revels in it. and people say he’s a bad guy? please, he’s doing the entire female community a favor. there’s no point in restricting his independence for one person. 

no feelings involved, no clinging, and no, he’s not fucking cuddling someone after he just blew his load into their back. The women he involves himself with know what they’re getting themselves into when they open their pretty legs for him.

 it’s great. 

no stupid headaches, no fights, no “why didn’t you text me back?”, complete radio silence unless they want something from him or vice versa. sure, there have been a few girls who needed a collective reminder of his rules, which he does by always cutting them off.

no one’s ever made him want to throw his philosophy out the window. can you imagine that happening? rafe cameron…feeling…something other than complete horniness for someone else? enough to make him want to commit capital murder when someone else thinks they’re entitled to touch what’s his?

no, of course not.

that’d be insane. completely impossible. rafe cameron would never get his perfect hands dirty with filth. not in this universe or lifetime. 

or so he thought. 

“you have a real problem, you know that?”

if looks could kill he’d be seven feet under. you’re shooting daggers at him through your pretty eyes, hands settling on your hips. if he wasn’t raging with misplaced anger issues, he’d tell you how fucking beautiful you look tonight.

“me?” rafe grits out as he sticks his fingers into his chest, “you want to talk about problems, sweetheart?” his words drip with venom, a thinly veiled attempt to deflect the intensity of his own emotions.

you don’t back down, though, gaze steady and unwavering as you meet his challenge, “i’m not the one who just punched the living shit out of someone else!”

rafe's lip curl into a mocking smirk. "whose fault is that?” he quips, the barb aimed squarely at your intellect.

a violent urge to strangle him takes hold of you, anger nipping at your skin, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

he doesn’t know why he did it. all he remembers was that in that moment, while watching you entertain someone else, he wanted to snap someone’s neck in half. and he’d be damned if he didn't get what he wanted. 

rafe’s head tilts, oh so slowly, to the side, pretty blue eyes burning your skin, “i’m not the one letting some sleazy bastard get their hands under my slutty dress.”

that didn’t come out right. 

it made much more sense in his head. he doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to acknowledge the gnawing jealousy that threatens to consume him whole.

“slutty dress?! this is vintage versace you possessive lunatic!”

“so fucking what?” he saunters closer, seemingly calm, except that’s the one thing that he never is, “did they run out of fabric in Italy?”

you watch him, a little mesmerized by the way the moonlight accentuates his features, heart pounding. he stops in front of you.

you must’ve taken a good hit to the head if you believe rafe cameron feels anything for you besides some sort of allure to your cunt. you know better than that. you open your mouth to speak, but rafe’s quick to lift one of his hands, tapping your lip with his finger.

“this is supposed to be like— a casual thing, right?” he exhales a breath, voice barely louder than a murmur.

you tip your chin up, “what are you getting at?’”

 “no strings. so, i really shouldn't be this fucking pissed about seeing you post a picture with that asshat face, smiling, his arm around you. that stupid fucking caption.”

straightening your posture, you don’t let his sugar-coated confession get to you, remaining silent for the time being. what’s his deal? is the devil spawn...confessing?

“speaking of photos…i just looked at a really cute one of you before, can you guess which one?”

and watch that picture be the one where you're on all fours in his truck's backseat lmao😃👀

#rafe cameron #blurb #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #i snorted #mutual pining #rafe imagine #rafe cameron au #rafe cameron fluff #just a thought #i would go insane #absolutely insane #rafe cameron x you #rafe fic

[mediumgayitalian]

“Isn’t he dreamy.”

Nico di Angelo stands in the centre of the amphitheater arena, sword drawn, shadows leeching from his frame. Winds swirl dangerously around him, ground trembling with every step. Concentrated terror curls its smokey tendrils into the nostrils of every onlooker.

Lou Ellen levels her best friend with a look. Will is too busy with his chin in his hands, moon-eyed, to notice. He doesn’t so much as flinch when she waves her hand and changed his freckles to glow bright purple, so she leaves them like that out of spite. Sucker.

“…I mean, he did just unseam that automaton nave to chaps, MacBeth-style, and cackled maniacally into the air. So.”

Will sighs. “I know.” The dust of the amphitheatre floor is covered in finger-drawn hearts. Lou Ellen is embarrassed for him. “He’s just so — gods. Look at his smile.”

Lou Ellen does. It’s frightening. He’d taken the flat of a blade straight to the face a few minutes back, making blood stain his teeth and drip out the corner of his mouth.

“And his eyes sparkle. Do you think they’re more…moonstone, or agate?”

Crazed. Lou Ellen thinks his eyes look crazed. The sparkle in question may simply be the reflection of the tip of the dagger that has appeared in his non-sword hand, which appears to be made of sharpened human bone. Lou Ellen wonders, morbidly, what bone it is for about point three seconds before Will sways — genuinely sways! — and says, “And the way he handles that femur! Oh!”

“Dude,” she says, aghast. “Will, man, get ahold of yourself.”

There’s a thunk as her best friend throws himself dramatically upon the ground. His wrist is poised delicately on his forehead, face twisted pitifully. She rolls her eyes hard enough that she actually goes blind for a brief second and falls off the bench in panic. Will seems pleased that she’s joined him on the floor.

“I can’t. He’s too beautiful.”

Lou Ellen cranes up her neck.

“A nine year old just looked at him and cried.”

His sigh is more wistful than dreamy, this time. “He’s gonna be a great dad someday.”

“…Good gods, Solace.”

Will’s voice softens. “I’m gonna marry him, Ellie.” When she looks over, the smile on his face is just plain loving. She follows his eyes and sees Nico panting, training on pause, gesturing wildly with one hand and loosely holding a water bottle in the other. She’s never seen him so animated. The class he’s teaching watches him in a predictable mix of awe and horror, erring on the side of terrified.

Lou Ellen will admit, in the very recesses of her mind (let Will get a bigger head than he already has), that it is a little charming.

A little.

“I know, you goober,” she murmurs, cuffing him on the shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch. “I call dibs on flower girl.”

#i love nico looking busted and insane and will just being down bad #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #solangelo #will/nico #nico/will #pining will solace #whipped will solace #lou ellen blackstone #will solace & lou ellen black stone #fluff #dialogue prompts #fic #my writing

[inamagicalhallucination]

oh wait one more thing

au where atsushi feels very strange around akutagawa so naturally he confides to dazai and dazai reassures him that it's just normal things to feel w/ ur work partner - after all dazai felt this way w/ chuuya in the pm and w/ kunikida in the ada - he even advises atsushi to not change jobs and get a second partner becuz if the two partners meet - the feeling will increase and be very hard to handle

cue atsushi realizing he's in love w/ akutagawa

and then having a breakdown realizing he might be the dazai in his relationship

(dazai in the relationship (derogatory) btw)

#dazai thinks being in love is just partner feelings and not like love #dazai is very smart but also the dumbest character to ever character #atsushi is a little smarter #not barely - like only becuz he's seen dazai pine from an outsider's pov #like if dazai hadn't said he felt it too towards kuni and chuu atsushi would not have noticed #bsd atsushi #atsushi nakajima #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs atsushi #bungou stray dogs #shin soukoku #sskk #dazai and atsushi #kunikida fluff #kunikidazai #kunizai #kunichuuzai #kunichuu #bsd skk #skk #dazai #bungou stray dogs dazai #bsd dazai #pm dazai

[hitlikehammers]

straw poll: How Many Times Can You Sleep In The Same Bed With A Guy Before It Starts To ✨Mean Something✨?

Because Steve's just there to be a good friend hold Eddie close through the night so Eddie knows what his breathing sounds like as he falls asleep help Eddie through the nightmares, right?(!??!)

or: just how many manners of sin does 'trauma' cover, exactly?

I Could Be Your Nurse (or something)

Or: Five Times Eddie Has To Ask For Help, Plus One Time He Doesn’t Need It Anymore (but asks anyway) ✨ for @penny00dreadful 💜

<<< two: wash🚿

💤🪦 three: sleep 🌗 🛌

Eddie shoots up in his bed, less afraid of choking on his own heart for its pounding than he is for gnashing it apart with his teeth, it’s surged so high and he can’t breathe, he doesn’t know if he wants to because it’s dark and he can’t see and last thing he did see was, was—

“Ed,” and it’s murmured so close, and the bed dips quick as warmth envelops Eddie’s frame, as a hand grabs one wrist, both wrists and crushes them between two bodies to feel, feel—

“Eddie, breathe, breathe, shhh,” and oh: that’s what he’d seen, what he always sees now: the images he remembers, and the things he’s been told of his own near-demise, but it’s not his body; it’s never his body and more, and worse, they’re always too late and he’s being told to breathe but he can’t, he can’t breathe because they failed, he failed and Steve’s not breathing, he’ll never breathe again—

“Right here, Eds, I’m right here,” and one hand lets go of him and starts carefully wiping at Eddie’s face, drying his eyes so they can focus and recognize not just the touch and the scent and the heat but the sight of the body wrapped around him.

“I’m with you, you’re okay,” Steve breathes, he breathes and Eddie can feel it, he can feel it and it makes no sense but it’s clear and it’s deep and deliberate and, and—

“Breathe with me, come on, just breathe,” Steve coxes a little like soothing a wounded animal and…that’s apt, Eddie feels small and skittish and he needs the warmth and the dawning truth of Steve’s weight against his bones; “it’s okay, everyone’s okay,” and yes, yes, that’s important, that’s so important but it’s not enough, there’s still blood pumping like it wants to leap from his mouth as he gasps because he cannot fucking breathe until—

“I’m okay.”

Steve says it as just part of an ongoing litany of reassurance, hopes to calm Eddie into, y’know, the basic needs of human survival, heart and lungs remembering how to move right but—

Steve’s okay.

It’s like Eddie heart and lungs had an agenda; like maybe they didn’t want to move right if the dream—a dream, a dream, just a dream, Steve’s chest lifts against him, falls, lifts again, and again, and again, real—but maybe neither was really invested in survival, if it all hadn’t just been a dream.

“We’re okay, Eds,” and Eddie doesn’t mean to gasp, to half moan and half whimper in something wreathed in pure relief, doesn’t plan to burrow into Steve like he does as Steve presses closer, closer, so it’s only logical, only the reasonable thing when Steve’s lips move against Eddie’s skin at the hairline, at the temple when he speaks, he’s just that close, y’know—

“Swear,” Steve murmurs, and he crushes their hands a little closer between both their chests, and his face is still so close because of it—no other reason, it can’t be any other reason—that his lips drag when he breathes, when he fucking vows:

“I swear we’re okay.”

Eddie nods, just nods; Steve keeps him tucked under his chin, safe: he lifts with his breathing, his heartbeat’s right there, taunt but true, realand maybe Eddie nuzzles there a little, so fucking sue him.

It’s been like this, though. Lately. More than just lately; it’s been like this for a while. Steve had always been around for the nightmares, and he always came to ease Eddie through them but he ended up back on the couch if Wayne wasn’t there, or in the chair in the corner, or the sleeping bag they’d found and he’d set up on the floor before Eddie could protest—and he never wanted to push too hard because, because…

At least on the floor, Eddie could hear him breathe.

But then, then the nightmares stopped being highlight reels of reality; then they turned, and they’re focused on…variations on a theme.

A theme of losing one Steve Harrington.

And then Eddie grew clingy, without even meaning to, or planning to, and Steve never fought him. It took a couple weeks before Steve didn’t only come to him as soon as Eddie started gasping, screaming and then stayed with him through the night, no: then Steve just started coming with him to bed and opening his arms to roll into, to wake up shaking against.

It didn’t make the nightmares go away but it made them…bearable. Because proof of the lies in them was there waiting to wrap around him, if he wasn’t already buried in that warm, fuzzy, living chest.

Where Eddie’s pressed tight, now. And he…he couldn’t say what tips the scales. What changes things when nothing is different. Steve’s heartbeat’s a little faster, maybe Eddie’s gasping heavier, more of Steve in his lungs than usual. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Whatever the reason, Eddie lets his open lips drag along Steve’s collarbone. For proximity’s sake.

“Steve?”

And Eddie’s back to feel like his heart’s less a threat like the bat tails choking than it is for the biting in half where it’s caught on his tongue, like an offering, or else damnation.

Maybe both.

“Hmm?” Steve’s hum’s a little sleepy but he’s quick to maneuver them, to face Eddie and rove eyes over Eddie’s face with fully-wakeful care; concern.

Offering. His heart’s a manic wild thing thrashing on his tongue when he makes to speak but it’s…

It’s Steve’s. His heart is Steve’s and Eddie’s lost but in maybe the best most terrifying way imaginable; Eddie is beholden to Steve with all of him, and if the ungainly pulp shaking out of his ribs and up past his throat’s going to fall out with the words he has to whisper, well.

It’s Steve’s, and whether he feels anything at all in return, he’s been more than the word kind knows how to hold; maybe he’ll be gentle with it even in rejecting how it shakes, for him.

Kinda, just for him. Like this: just for him.

“What is this?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t gesture or look anywhere but in Steve’s eyes but: their hands are still linked, and his fingers twitch without him meaning to move them at all but Steve.

Steve grips tighter. Steadies him with question; immediate.

“Trauma,” Steve huffs a little, humorless, but his breath’s so near, so warm: “or so they tell me.”

“No, I mean,” and Eddie’s shaking his head then because; “yeah, yes, definitely that, but,” and Eddie can be brave, he has to be brave because if he’s not brave this will maybe break him: the middle space without an answer, he needs some kind of answer—

“I mean this,” and now Eddie forces himself to tighten his fingers, and presses into Steve closer: Steve’s heart isn’t wild, but it’s not calm either. It’s not sleep-slow. It’s…untamed.

Eddie doesn’t know what it means.

But Steve looks at their hands, pulls Eddie’s fingertips through the curls on his chest, starts tracing Eddie’s nails from cuticle to tip.

“I’ve never been good with subtle,” Steve barely breathes, and his heart’s faster for it, where Eddie can feel; “or moving slow,” and then he laughs; it’s not humorous now either, more self deprecating, and Eddie…Eddie doesn’t like that.

Eddie loves this man too much.

“Kinda notorious for wearing my heart on my sleeve and all,” and Steve shrugs, only pauses the motions of their hands for half a breath, less than a heartbeat at the going pace. It feels too small for something so…significant.

Something precious like that.

“Easy to get stomped on,” Eddie finds the words tumbling out, almost aggrieved; he heard the rumors, even among their friends, their family but faced with it so stark like this, naked chest to chest, it’s…unthinkable.

It hurts, just to think of.

“Yeah,” Steve exhales; fucking…Eddie thinks that sounds resigned: “I know.”

Eddie doesn’t expect the whine that escapes him, a little jagged on the frantic pulse he can feel all in his teeth; he doesn’t expect it, but it’s not big enough. It’s not deep enough for the ache in him at that…acceptance, that expectation of hurt.

“I didn’t,” Eddie starts, desperate for him to know; however this plays out, Steve cannot ever, ever believe his heart isn’t…isn’t the most invaluable gift in, in—

In any universe. Any dimension. Across any existence at all worth knowing.

He doesn’t think the words he knows could do the sentiment justice, though. And words, shit: he should be good with those but, even if he knew the right ones. Hell just fought up his still-pounding heart with a flail and that’s…

He grabs Steve's hand tighter, fit to break bones: the need unquestionable.

He hopes the want, the devotion in him translates just as clear.

And then, oh holy fuck—then.

Steve holds back just as hard.

“I wanted to try to keep the ball in your court,” Steve exhales, shaky; and Eddie knows, he knows they’re on the same page. Steve’s heart’s so fast. Eddie’s is faster.

“I told you,” Eddie starts, more like he’s trying to figure it all out for himself more than arguing anything but, how could Steve had thought Eddie didn’t, how could—

Why would anyone trust Eddie with any kind of sports-oriented ball—

“With the shower, and—“

“I’m not that guy anymore,” Steve barely whispers; “you might’ve had a crush on me then but now I’m,” Eddie feels Steve swallow; hears his heartbeat maybe skip; “I think, I mean, I hope I’m a different person.”

Eddie has to breathe at the notch in Steve’s throat for a couple seconds, maybe minutes; this…this sounds like…like maybe…

“And just because the ball’s in your court,” Steve’s pulse kicks up, and up, and—

“Didn’t mean my heart wasn’t still held out for the stomping,” and he’s twirling Eddie’s hair, he’s twirling his fingers through Eddie’s hair while he talks about the impossible possibility of, of what: Eddie…not wanting, of Eddie doing the stomping—

Eddie can barely swallow.

“You saying you wouldn’t help bathe all your friends in similar circumstances?” he mostly kinda squeaks; he can barely hear over the rush of his own blood.

“I’m saying not all of them,” there’s a little smile in Steve’s voice, but his pulse is still knocking against where Eddie pressed into his neck; “but I wouldn’t be risking my heart for it either way.”

And Eddie…Eddie thinks he’s maybe dying, for real this time. He thinks maybe he’s never felt alive before this moment, ever.

He blames the confusion, for not thinking through his next words.

“Would it be too not-slow,” Eddie mouths against the pulsepoint jumping at him, fit perfect to his lips; “or unsubtle, if I said I thought I was in love with you?”

He might not think the words through, but hell if he regrets them for a goddamn second.

Not when Steve doesn’t move to pull away, doesn’t let go at all, holds on tight—but the pulse against Eddie’s lips redefines what it means to hammer, to race.

Eddie starts thinking about turning, looking Steve in the eye and hoping to find what he…what he thinks he’ll find but there’s still a part of him that’s scared, that’s not brave, that’s…

But then Steve’s moving, raising up to meet Eddie’s gaze: so bright in the middle of the night, in the pitch dark. Lips open, breathing heavy, their chests still flush but now Steve’s reaching, framing Eddie’s face and just…looking.

Nah, no: staring.

“Steve?” Eddie thinks it’s more a matter of his lips moving than of sound coming out, especially as he tries to follow the pad of Steve’s thumb as it traces the corner of Eddie’s lips, careful, so careful, like Eddie’s glass and wonder all at once and—

“I think I’m in love with you, too.”

And then Steve’s leaning in, then Eddie’s learning that Steve tastes like leftover toothpaste and some kind of spice they hadn’t eaten, that Eddie doesn’t know: thinks, believes is what dawn tastes like, the breaking of day itself in Steve’s mouth, his veins.

They move slow, slick, tongues less exploring and more kinda worshipping; Eddie’s been kissed harder and faster and deeper for the technical definitions of any of the terms but he’s never felt so dizzy, so spun from the axis of his world, the line that splits his heart in halves; never like someone was tongue his soul out gentle to weigh and bathe in, like, adoration.

Eddie doesn’t have a word for how it steals his breath.

“Hey,” he tried to gasp anyway when they break apart for air; “hey, Stevie?”

“Hmm?” Steve hums, running the line of his nose up Eddie’s jaw, and Eddie throws his head back, shivers when Steve licks at the fading scars as he goes. When he makes it to kiss Eddie’s temple—because now he means to, or maybe he always did and, oh, oh shit, what if he always did—then he leans back and looks at Eddie, and there’s…

There’s so much in those eyes. It makes Eddie feel…almost-brave.

“What if I took the ‘think’ out?”

Steve tips his head, fucking adorable.

“Whatcha mean?”

Eddie swallows, and soaks up that gaze some more: almost-brave.

“I said I think I’m in love with you,” Eddie exhales; “what if I said that, but I took out the part where I say ‘think’?”

And oh wow: he’d thought, he’d known Steve was some inexplicable light before.

He’s putting their whole galaxy’s suns, every one of them Eddie doesn’t even know—the way his eyes shine and his smile beams puts every goddamn one of them to shame.

And Eddie doesn’t expect it, exactly, when Steve gathers his hands again and crushes them to his chest just to murmur low:

“Then I’d say this is yours to do with whatever you’d like,” and he moves Eddie’s palms to cup around the beat that’s still so fast and hard but not pulled taut anymore, closer to sugar high, or a rubber ball ricocheting around the ceiling just for the joy in it; “stomping included,” and he smiles for it like a joke but…but Eddie would never so—

He leans in and this time he captures the lips, and he presses hard, dares to nip at Steve’s lower lip and bite out:

“Never,” and he meets Steve’s eyes, watching them dilate impossibly in too little light and he just, he just…

He falls into Steve, presses his cheek close and, and feels him. Somehow all of it’s new.

“You okay?” Steve eventually asks, but doesn’t pull away, just slides a hand up the line of Eddie’s spine to steady, to keep him like there’s a question of Eddie going anywhere but here every again; and then just leans into Eddie’s cheek, magnetic-like.

And okay is such a foolish, insignificant word. Eddie could hold the weight of the earth ten times over, he feels strong enough; Eddie could swallow the stars and it wouldn’t matter because he has his own sun right in front of him.

Eddie doesn’t know if he understood the word happy before this moment, and every synonym for it that means the exact same thing’s a lot like okay: just too fucking small.

“Yeah,” Eddie answers, and breathes Steve in so deep his lungs kinda shake for it before he breathes back out; “yeah, sweetheart,” and fuck, fuck—Eddie Munson’s not just in love.

Eddie Munson is loved in return. Eddie Munson loves, and is loved back. That’s…that’s just…

“I’ve never been better.”

>>> four: play 🎶🎧🎹

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson

divider credits here & here

👾 title credit here

💫 ao3 link here

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #hurt/comfort #whump #fluff #happy ending #angst with a happy ending #soft #pining #slow burn #(ish) #steddie fic #deep devoted caretaker steve #smitten recovering post S4 eddie #sharing a bed #sleeping together #not like THAT #HE'S RECOVERING OKAY #nightmares #though maybe it IS time to address the...crush-confession-dick-grazing-shower-thing #like: just MAYBE #love confessions #domestic fluff #5+1 things #stranger things #gift fic #penny00dreadful

[autisticlancemcclain]

“I know, buddy, I know.” Keith scratches behind his big dumb dog’s ears, pressing a million kisses to his forehead because he’s got Black to himself for the next day and there’s no one (Shiro) to clown him for it. Kosmo barks excitedly, wagging his floofy tail so fast it beats against the dashboard and system controls. Keith laughs, moving his scratching fingers down the wolf’s head and neck and to his back, where he likes to be scratched best.

“I know you’re hyper, huh?” he coos, blowing a raspberry. “But that’s what you get. You know you always get too excited when you hang out with Lance. You should have stayed with me.”

At the mention of the Red Paladin’s name, Kosmo starts howling, bounding out from Keith’s lap and tumbling to the floor, nails clacking against the metal as he flips around Black’s cockpit.

Keith huffs. “You raise a wolf from a pup, showering him in treats and affection, and you still fall second best to the first guy he meets who teaches him to fetch. Figures.”

It’s ridiculous, is what it is. Two straight years together on the space whale, but Kosmo lays eyes on Lance for one measly second and falls in love. He’s genuinely obsessed with the guy, and it doesn’t help that Lance is unbelievably smug about it, indulging Kosmo’s every whim and burst of affection just to grate on Keith. He has on twelve seperate occasions radioed the Black Lion to talk to Kosmo only, completely ignoring Keith.

“I can’t blame ya,” Keith says quietly. His voice is still a little teasing, still a little exasperated, but even he can hear the gooey fondness in it. “Lance is just that good, huh?”

Kosmo barks again, loud and fast, then flashes as he blips out of existence then back into existence right on Keith’s lap. Keith chokes as 200 pounds of floof is suddenly deposited on his person, but recovers quickly. (Kosmo will never remember that he is no longer a little puppy. Keith is just going to have to get used to having his lungs crushed.)

He starts to stroke Kosmo’s fur again, gently this time, calming him down.

“I should say something,” he says, more to himself than to his dog. “Ugh. I mean, it’s Lance, right? He’s my best friend. He’ll most definitely tease me, but he won’t, like, mock me or anything. He’s good like that. He knows exactly when to be serious, like during that last gala thing we had when we landed on a planet a while back. He just knew I was feeling off, just like that.”

Keith buried his face in Kosmo’s fur, hiding his smile. “He’s just…everything, you know? I’m always thinking about him. I have been for years. Hell, I talked about him so much on that stupid whale that you recognised him before you even met him, buddy. That’s objectively bonkers. But I can’t…” He sighs, leaning back in the pilot seat and staring unseeingly through the windshield. A red dot flashes gently at the bottom corner, but he pays it no mind.

“He’s sweet when no one’s looking. And even when people are looking, sometimes. And I’ll die before I even imply it in his direction, but he’s funny, too. And his fucking brain, dear God, that man could outwit anyone if he was under enough pressure. He saved our asses more than once when we were stumbling our way through this co-leading thing in the beginning. And anyone with eyes can tell that he’s hot.” Keith’s ears burn a little, thinking of the Coalition videos. “Seriously hot. And…leggy.”

He cracks up, embarrassed giggles bubbling up his throat. His next words are muffled by the hand he has pressed to his face. “God, I want him to fuck me up.”

Kosmo raises his head from where it was resting on Keith’s knee, staring at him in what Keith can only assume is judgment.

“Shut up,” Keith says hotly. “You once farted so loud you scared yourself and cried for ten minutes. You don’t get to judge me about being embarrassing.”

Keith is losing it. He is defending his character to a dog. He groans loudly, dragging his hand down his face.

“I should tell him, shouldn’t I,” he mutters. “Just — come out with it. ‘Leandro Esposita-McClain, I am in love with you.’ Straight to the point. Rip off the band-aid.”

Kosmo yips quietly. Keith snorts.

“Yeah, you’re right. That’s crazy. He’s my friend, I don’t want to ruin things. I’ll just suffer in silence the next time he looks at me and the fuckin’ sun bleeds into his eyes and makes them look like golden honey or whatever. Jesus.” He reaches for his book and props it open, muttering to himself. “It’s always the fuckin’ pretty ones that get me, huh?”

Kosmo barks loudly in what can only be agreement, and Keith scoffs, flicking him on the shout. “Yeah, yeah, you lug. Bug off with the teasing and let me read in peace, alright? I’ll tell him someday. He doesn’t need to know now.”

.

.

.

(A beep echoes through the Red Lion’s cockpit as her paladin slams on the ‘call end’ button, eyes wide and chest heaving, having listened curiously when he’d been radioed out of nowhere mid-conversation between the Bladk Paladin and his dog. And then listened in shock as the Black Paladin had brought up him. Brought up being in love with him, with his heart and his eyes and his legs, apparently.

Red blooms on his cheeks.)

———

based on this post by @petricorah

#i just think that keith accidentally confessing to lance via butt dial is hilarious #vld #voltron #keith #keith kogane #kosmo #keith & kosmo #lance #lance mcclain #klance #pre klance #confession #fluff #whipped keith #pining keith #down bad keith #like actually #brown-eyed lance #brown eyed lance #my writing #fic #longpost

[formulawonu]

mingyu & shopping

summary: best friend!mingyu is arguably the best thing that has ever happened to you but everyone else is in love with him so you have the lucky privilege of humbling him all the time 

a/n: i wanted to post this on mingyu day but i clearly didn’t make it ://  just a small blurb for our birthday boy. belated happy birthday, gyu. i hope you’re smiling everyday <3 also this isnt proofread sorry! also thank u for 500 followerssssss <3 <3 <3

wc: 605 😸

“not everything looks good on you, kim mingyu. reel it in a little.” 

—and that makes lie number three you’ve told your best friend today. the first was telling him how tiring it was seeing his face every morning when he picked you up (it was actually the best part of your otherwise dreary day) and the second was you telling him you didn’t care if he asked this one girl out (it bothered you more than it should have).

mingyu makes eye contact with you in the mirror and scoffs at the look on your face. “i don’t know why i always bring you along with me. you never say anything looks good on me.” he starts angling himself and squinting at the mirror, probably trying to figure out if he really didn’t look good in the outfit. 

it was funny to you that mingyu took everything you told him to heart. whether it be teasing him on how clumsy he could be to how much of a closet dork he was, his reactions to it all always made you laugh. you befriended mingyu in the fifth grade because you were the lone person who had the guts to tell him being tall wasn’t as big of an advantage as he thought it was; you thought it just made him more susceptible to being bossed around to do favors for everyone else shorter than him. he bickered back, saying you were just jealous because you were shorter than him. you replied saying you didn’t want to have his height if it meant not being able to handle the truth of the matter. 

that was the first time someone wasn’t praising mingyu for the things he was simply born with. he thought you were being real and you thought he was cute. it was the perfect dynamic to becoming best friends.

“that’s what best friends are for,” you say. you flash him a smile and he rolls his eyes. “you know i’m hopelessly in love with you regardless of how ugly you look in that sweater anyway.” 

your best friend groans then turns away from the mirror to face you. he starts striking the silliest poses at you (still managing to look good, you add in the back of your head.) he sends you a genuine smile. “i know. and i love you too.” 

your heart flutters even when you know he doesn’t mean it in the way you wished he would. you continue to watch him try on clothes, happily content with wasting away your saturday afternoon like this. 

“are you excited for our date tonight?” he asks you as he pays for his clothes at the register. 

“i’m always excited when you’re paying.” you reply.

mingyu jokingly frowns. “sometimes i feel like you’re just using me for my money.”

“okay, but who else will put up with you?” 

he reaches over and pinches your cheek, knowing you hate it when he does that. you attempt to swat his hand away but he catches it and interlocks your fingers. the cashier looks at the both of you and smiles as she hands over his bag of clothes and receipt. mingyu takes it with his free hand. “you two are so cute. enjoy the rest of your day!” you’re about to protest but mingyu simply says thank you and pulls you out of the store. 

as you walk down the street with your best friend, still hand in hand, you let yourself revel in the simplicity of the moment. this would do for now – maybe forever – as long as it meant always having kim mingyu by your side.

#kim mingyu #mingyu #mingyu x reader #seventeen #svt #mingyu fanfic #mingyu x you #mingyu imagines #svt imagines #seventeen fanfic #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #mingyu fluff #kpop #writing #kpop imagines #MINGYU JUST ONE CHANCE #the pining here i almost died #svt fanfic #happy birthday

[hairmetal666]

Eddie who crashes at Steve's after movie night, despite knowing it's a bad idea considering his increasingly out-of-control and hopeless crush. He's supposed to be working on boundaries and expectations, not falling asleep on the couch with his head on the man's shoulder, and waking up being fucking carried upstairs to bed.

The next morning, he plans on making a sneaky exit, but then he hears a stereo playing from somewhere downstairs. He makes his way to the kitchen to find Steve dancing and belting along with I Wanna Dance with Somebody, passionately singing into a spatula.

And so much for Eddie keeping his crush under control, because this? It's the cutest goddamn thing he's seen in his life and he's head over heels.

He can't help walking up to Steve, taking him in his arms, and judging by the way Steve's face lights up, his crush might not be so unrequited after all.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #fluff #mutual pining #unrequited crushes #not so unrequited #getting together #steve is a whitney stan for sure #steve is wearing his tiny basketball shorts and no shirt #just imagine steve singing i wanna feel the HEAT with somebody in his little bitty shorts #eddie didn't stand a chance

[elitadream]

I- I can explain. 😂

So you see, I had this idea that Mario would be offered to start residing part time at the castle at some point. It would only make sense (with him and Peach rapidly becoming very close friends and all), and he would even be given his very own quarters to sleep in. But the man wouldn't feel all that comfortable in this highly fancy environment, and unbeknownst to the Princess, he would sometimes set up a cozy spot for himself in the workshop instead. 

It would be on one such occasion that Peach would go look for him, and be strongly reminded of the importance to knock. 🤣

I know she's usually grace and elegance personified, but I just HAD to give her one derpy expression to demonstrate the absolutely huge crush she actually has on Mario. ;D 💘

#Mario #Princess Peach #Mareach #this is literally so dumb and silly LOL #sorry for this lil bit of nonsense x3 #I couldn't help it lmao #I've drawn this stupid thing - now I can fully go back to the fluff ;) #I just really love the idea of Peach being helplessly head over heels for him too #the mutual pining is real xD #Super Mario Bros #fanart

[luckykittysshowerthoughts]

An Unfortunate Predicament [Michael x Reader]

[ GN reader, slowburn, fluff, mildly tsundere, SFW, hurt+comfort, 2.6k ]

"y/n."

"y/n. Can you hear me?"

You can just barely make out his voice past the ringing in your ears. You open your eyes, and... nothing. There's nothing around you, just blank space. It's like you're suspended in a pitch-black void.

You quickly sit up- making note of the clearly solid surface beneath you- and look down. More pitch blackness.

It isn't like it's dark. In fact, it's quite bright- you can see yourself just fine. There's just nothing else there. Nothing but a surprisingly bright light shining down from above. You look up, only to immediately glance away. It's like staring directly into the sun...

"What happened...?" You ask.

"Ugh, really, what did you get yourself into this time..." The voice speaks again. You quickly discern it's coming from directly above you, from the light. "I'd think you'd have learned by now not to eat anything Solomon cooks, but it seems you're just as stubborn as he is."

The memory comes flooding back, of Solomon bringing yet another one of his culinary abominations over to you. It's blurry, but you're pretty sure he even spoon-fed you...

Maybe it's time to start working on my boundaries.

"Ah. So that's how I got here," you say. "But still, what happened? What did it do? Where am I?"

"Whatever Solomon put in that 'chicken soup' of his has transported you into some kind of pocket dimension."

"Great..." You groan, patting the ground beside you. Yep, it’s solid alright.

"Honestly, it's always something new with that sorcerer. He's generally a reasonable person with a good head on his shoulders, but then he'll go and cook something up that poisons even demons, or transports someone through time, or... oh, I probably shouldn't have said that."

"Should I just forget you said that?"

"Please do. Though, I'm not sure you'll even remember any of this once you're out of here anyway."

You let out a sigh. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Don't worry. I'm here to get you out," the voice responds. "Now, this should only take a second..."

You're about to point out how he completely dodged the question, but figure now isn't the time. You're relying on whoever this is to return you to the real world, after all.

The sound of someone snapping their fingers reverberates through whatever kind of space you're in, before you flinch at the piercing sound of glass shattering.

"I- what the...” The voice exclaims in disbelief.

Up to this point, the voice had this undertone of superiority- the kind that screams 'I know things you don't', that considers itself above you and any situation that could present itself. It reminded you of Lucifer, in a way, just more on the patronizing end. However, all of that is gone now- this just seems genuinely taken aback, even startled.

That same shattered-glass sound rings through the space again, then a frustrated growl before trying again.

A pit forms in your stomach. This isn't good...

"That damn sorcerer," the voice mutters, mostly to himself. "Oh. Excuse my language."

"You can't get out, can you?"

He sighs. "It seems I can't."

"Great."

"Fortunately, unlike you, I should still be able to contact the outside world from here," the voice assured. "With outside support, we should be able to be extracted from here with little issue. I just need to give Raphael the instructions."

Raphael, huh?

"Who are you, anyway? You never answered my question earlier."

"You sure ask a lot of questions, don't you?" the voice responds, tone dripping with annoyance.

"Well, for as long as we're stuck here together, we might as well get to know each other."

Your remark is followed by a long moment of deafening silence.

"...hello?"

Another thirty seconds of silence pass by, and a nervous feeling starts building up in your stomach. Is he still here? Had you crossed him in some way, and if you had, is he still going to help you out of here, or just himself?

"He-"

"Ugh. Three hours... it's going to be around three hours."

You groan, taking another look at your surroundings. There's absolutely nothing to keep yourself entertained for the next three hours. There's nothing to even look at. And you're stuck here with some strange being that won't even tell you his name. Though, you're fairly certain you know who it is anyway.

"I can't believe Solomon pulled this off, and without even trying. His capacity to mess things up is almost impressive, isn't it? Though, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised anymore. Inventing an immortality potion, fighting a one-man war against the entire Devildom, shrinking Lucifer and suppressing his power, and now somehow trapping me... sometimes I worry what would happen if he decided to use his power to nefarious ends. And the whole cooking thing... why did he even have to get into cooking, of all things? I never thought I'd have to say the sentence, 'you were sent to a pocket dimension by chicken soup', but here we are. It's times like this that I understand why the Sorcerer's Society sent a dragon after him; this is ridiculous. He really causes me no end of..."

The voice trails off.

"Sorry. I'm rambling."

"No, no, ramble away," you respond quickly. "It's not like there's anything else for us to do here, anyway. Maybe your voice will keep me from going insane."

He scoffs softly. "I'm not here to entertain you."

"Would you honestly rather just sit here in silence? You're stuck here with me just as much as I'm stuck here with you."

That familiar radio silence fills the air again. God, this guy is petty.

Maybe I should see how big this place really is. There's not much to see, but maybe walking around will at least keep me from dying of boredom.

You get up from the floor (or, what you think counts as a floor?), pick a random direction and start walking.

"You know, not many humans would just walk into complete darkness with no directions. But then again, you've never been one to take the safe path, have you?"

You pause and frown. "You say that as though you know me."

"I've been watching," he admits. "The way you've forged such bonds with those brothers, influenced them so tremendously... I'd say you're flying too close to the sun, but everything seems to be going well. I'm happy you're making them happy."

"Well, thanks..?" You respond awkwardly. "I'm glad I'm making them happy, too."

"May I ask why?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, they are demons."

"And? They're still dear to me."

"Dear to you, huh?" The voice asks pensively.

"Why are you so invested, anyway?"

There's a second of hesitation before the voice speaks again. Not a long spell of intentional silence like earlier, but a simple pause. As though he's contemplating what to say, or whether to speak at all.

"Because long ago, they were my brothers." The voice answers. "It's been a long time since then. But I do still have a smidgen of care for them. And seeing you get so close with them, it... it fascinates me."

There's an undeniable tone of loneliness to his tone, one that he's clearly trying to restrain but is leaking through nonetheless.

"Fascinates you?" You ask. You pause. "...well, you fascinate me, too, Michael. That's who you are, isn't it?"

"Excuse me?" He blurts in shock.

"You aren't exactly hiding it well."

Several seconds of silence ensue, and then a weak chuckle.

"You really are full of surprises, aren't you?"

"My life is full of surprises. I try to match the energy."

"I think I see why Lucifer likes you so much," he remarks. "And, yes, I am Michael. In case you needed the confirmation."

"Confirmation is always appreciated," you respond. "It's nice to finally meet you, Michael."

"I'm sorry? Nice to meet me?"

You quirk an eyebrow. "Why are you so surprised?"

"I apologize. It's just... I would have imagined Lucifer and those brothers of his would only have negative things to say of me. I had figured you wouldn't have the best impression of me, much less want to meet me."

"Meh, it's been a mixed bag," you shrug.

"Come on. You can't just say that; now I'm curious."

You chuckle. "Well, Mammon told me how you taught him about the constellations."

"He still remembers that...?"

"Apparently," you shrug again. "He tried to teach me too, but according to Luke he misremembered a lot. Still haven't had anyone teach me properly."

"Well, hold on."

"Huh?"

Another snap echoes through the void, and suddenly you're in an endless sea of stars.

"Woah..." you let out a gleeful giggle, eyes sparkling with wonder. "This is amazing!"

"I'm glad you like it."

You're startled to hear the voice coming from behind you rather than above you. Now that you think about it, the bright light beaming down from above is gone too...

You slowly turn around, and there he is, in the flesh. Your heart skips a beat as you see him, and you remember what you were told not too long ago.

He's everything humans expect an angel to be and more.

He’s just… magnificent. He’s beautiful in the most ethereal way, with a certain grandeur to him on par with Lucifer. You can't help but stare, taking in his features, basking in them like warm sunlight.

The playful smile fades from his face for a moment. "Come on, don't look at me like that. There's really not much to look at.”

“I respectfully disagree,” you utter under your breath.

“Whatever. Let's go look at the stars instead."

He gets that starry-eyed look of childlike excitement again as he brushes past you and points at a cluster of stars.

"That over there is Orion, humans also call it 'The Hunter'. What a lot of people don't know is that each of the stars have their own names, too. Look at those three stars across the middle, the belt. Left to right are Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka. Now look up from there at the shoulders, now look just east of that... there's Canis Minor. Canis Minor is... oh, I never actually told you the names of the other stars in Orion, did I? I apologize. Anyway..."

You listen to him ramble on, pointing excitedly at various stars, constellations, and asterisms. Oh, and he explains to you what an asterism was. It's so easy to get lost in his words, even if it straddles the line between coherent thought and word vomit at times.

"What was that earlier about you not being here to entertain me?" You tease with a smirk.

He gives you a deadpan look. "This isn't for you. It's for me."

"Right," you chuckle and roll your eyes. "My apologies."

"Don't roll your eyes at me."

"Sorry~"

“You’re not sorry at all,” he sighs softly and shakes his head.

You give him a shrug.

“I don't get it," he utters, shaking his head once more with a soft smile upon his face. "You're just a human, but you talk to me like a friend. It's like you don't care who I am, what I am. It's absurd."

"Well, I've spent quite a while sassing Lucifer and his brothers. You aren't special."

"There you go again..." he sighs. "This is how you treat them, too?"

"Pretty much."

"You really don't care who anyone is, do you?"

"Nope."

"I don't understand how Lucifer hasn't killed you yet."

"Trust me, he's tried."

The two of you share a chuckle.

"You know, one time..." You delve into a story about you and Lucifer, one of the many times you drove him crazy.

Throughout the story, Michael leans in further and further towards you, completely captivated. He looks so utterly enthralled that you just can't bring yourself to bring it to a close. One chaotic story segues into another, and another. You feel like one of one of those camp counselors sitting around a campfire, telling stories to a circle of starry-eyed children.

"With the way you talk about him, I'd almost think he hasn't changed," Michael remarks with a distant look in his eyes, a sad smile tilting the corners of his lips.

"Really, he hasn't," you tell him. "From what I've heard, anyway. He's still Lucifer."

He lets out a sad sigh, eyes cast downward. "All this time, I've thought the Lucifer I knew died when I... when he became a demon."

He meets your gaze with a melancholic look.

"He's changed a little," you agree, "but he's still the same Lucifer inside. I've seen enough to know that. I'm sure if you give him a chance..."

Michael sighs. "How am I supposed to face him as a demon? How am I supposed to look at him, not recoil at what he's become, what I turned him into?"

You put a hand on his shoulder. "Michael."

His eyes widen in surprise, as he’s momentarily snapped out of his episode of self-pity.

"Touching me too, are you? You really do know no bounds."

You swear you can see the faintest blush upon his face. Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light. Either way, that could be explored later.

"It's how I've gotten this far," you tell him with a smile. "I've gotten where I am because I, consistently, decided to take the plunge. And I think it's time for you to take the plunge, too."

For a long moment, he just looks down at the ground, his expression unreadable.

After what feels like forever, he meets your gaze again. "Let's get back to the constellations," he suggests with a weary smile.

"Okay."

And so, Michael returns to his rambles about the constellations, wildly pointing and gesturing into his projection of the night sky. A surprised blush heats up your face as you feel a feathered wing drape around you like a soft blanket. You look to Michael in disbelief, as he continues gesturing to the stars.

You shuffle closer to him, and without looking away from the distant stars, he pulls his wing over you tighter, almost squeezing like a feathery hug. His feathers brush against you, softer than anything you’ve ever felt.

You gently grasp some of his gleaming white feathers between your fingers and stroke them. His eyes widen in surprise.

“Hey, I didn’t say you could touch,” he weakly chides.

“You’re the one who touched first!”

“Ugh…” he rolls his eyes. “Anyway, that over there is Lacerta…”

You settle back down underneath his wing, taking everything in. He’s warm, unbelievably warm. It’s as though you’re snuggled up in a heated blanket as the two of you gaze up at the stars. You feel like you could stay there forever.

I can't believe this is happening.

However, all good things must come to an end. Eventually, you start to notice the starry sky... breaking apart. Into little tiny pieces, floating away into the abyss.

"Wh-"

"That must mean Raphael succeeded," Michael says, stepping away and retracting his wing. "When this little pocket of reality is fully dissolved, we'll be sent right back to where we were before this whole ordeal."

A pang of disappointment hits you as you realize your little moment is coming to a close.

"Oh, don't give me that face." Michael says. "We'll see each other again; I promise it. So try to remember me this time, okay?"

You give him a weird look. Try to remember him this time...? What on Earth does he mean by that...?

Before you can ask, he takes your hands in his and squeezes them gently. Just as he does, a blinding light pours in and... now, you're in your bed.

You blink and sit up.

"Oh, thank goodness! What was that about; ya really had us scared there! Don't ya ever do that again!" Mammon's practically yelling into your ear.

"Mammon, there's no need to be right in their face. Not after they just woke up." Lucifer shakes his head. "Are you alright, [y/n]?"

"I'm feeling quite alright," you smile.

"Oh?" Lucifer gives you a weird look.

"You can go ahead and tell everyone I'm fine," you say, standing up and walking towards the door. "I'm headed to the library."

Meanwhile, in the Celestial Realm, Raphael breathes a sigh of relief as Michael reappears.

"Ugh, honestly, Michael," he shakes his head. "How did you even find yourself in such a predicament, anyway? I mean, you?"

"As I said. I had to help [y/n]."

"Were you even actually stuck in there, or were you just using it as an excuse to mess around when you have work to do?"

"...I'll leave that up to your interpretation."

"Michael...! Hey, don't just run off...!"

#FINALLY Michael pines for someone other than Lucifer #no idea why i decided to write in present tense that's unlike me #7 minutes in heaven except there’s no sex just infodumping #Is he just embarrassed to admit he was really stuck or was he really fucking around? Who knows! #obey me michael #obey me x reader #om michael #obey me michael x reader #fluff #hurt+comfort

[cerise-on-top]

It's me! Again 😁

Farah x GN reader

just a lazy day with her!!

○Morning cuddles

○Making breakfasts together

○Cuddles and reading

○Take out food, movies, AND MORE CUDDLES

No pressure, take your time, and take care 🫶

THANK YOU!! Lovely request, absolutely lovely idea again! I love Farah, pining for her is one of my favorite pastime activities! You can do absolutely no wrong with cod girls! Thank you for entrusting me with this request, I truly appreciate it!! It ended up being a bit long, like fic length, even if I wanted to write more headcanon things! But that's okay! It happens, it happened before and it will happen again!

Lazy Day with Farah

It wouldn’t be too uncommon for the two of you to be sleeping together at night. It’s warm, it’s calming, it's grounding. For just one night you won’t be worrying about gunshots and people dying, for just one night it’s the two of you and absolutely no one else. But even so, as morning comes, no matter how safely tucked away you’re under Farah’s chin, responsibilities await. A growling stomach and the ever growing urge to use the bathroom being your biggest enemies as you revel in her presence. Your eyes are still closed, but discomfort washes over you either way, not only because of the two aforementioned conditions, but because they won’t go away on their own. It’s disdainful, really, having to get up because the human body can’t control itself, but you had to lest something worth being scolded for happens.

Slowly, as to not rouse her from her sleep, you try to untangle yourself from Farah, but to no avail. Small in stature, she’s much stronger than anyone would think, her grip simply tightening on you. Even so, her lips curve upwards and a chuckle escapes her. In order to get a good look at you, she moves her head a bit backwards, beautiful brown eyes boring into your own. Her gaze was soft but not hazy, she must have been awake for a while, it seemed. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, she hummed a little tune before finally wishing you a good morning. You had finally awoken and she admitted to having been awake for a while. Her warmth makes you feel right at home as you nuzzle into her once again, a sigh leaving your lips. After wishing her a good morning, you complain, not wanting to get up to use the bathroom, thinking that staying in bed is a much more favorable choice just so you can take her in for a few more minutes. Your wishes were unheard as your stomach, filled with nothing but air, growled once again. Despite agreeing with you, Farah chuckled, pressing another kiss to the top of your head before getting up. After all, if she was no longer in bed with you, then you had another incentive to take care of your needs.

Her plan bore fruit. As she got herself a glass of water in the kitchen, she could hear the toilet being flushed before you, half asleep and not yet ready to tackle the day, trudged into view, your posture slouched. Taking a seat on the chair, you whined yet again, your eyes small, just barely open. It was a surprise you could see anything at all. In hopes of getting back into the warm bed, you made grabby hands at her, not bearing to even think about the room temperature kitchen, seeming so cold on your warm skin. A pat on the back and some teasing encouragement was all you got as she walked past you towards the cabinet, pulling out a pan. Even as you barely registered what she was doing, you asked her whether or not you could help her out a bit. It was much appreciated as, after setting the pan down onto the stove and while tying her hair, she said yes, calling you to her even if she wouldn’t trust you with the stove just yet. She explained to you that she was in the mood for something you both liked, something simple that wasn’t too hard to make: Kikliko. You had made those before, so it didn’t seem like too much of a task.

Two eggs, some white bread, milk, salt and oil. Eggs, milk and salt were mixed together, last one was poured into the pan. Whisking them together, you zoned out a few times as you did so. As you watched the bread soak a bit in the mixture, you were torn from your empty thoughts, interrupted with a kiss to the cheek as Farah took the bread and put it in the pan, frying it for a moment. The process was repeated a few times. By the time you were done you had some delicious food you could easily digest and stomach. And that you did, eating together while you hummed a few responses to her questions, slowly waking up to give her proper ones. It was an adorable sight to Farah. You munching on some kikliko, sighing contently as she told you about her and Alex’ endeavors, how well everything was going. Soon enough you and her could live in peace without having to worry about freedom. She had her cause, and ever since meeting you, you were a big part of it.

Although you were more sappy than she was, you expressed your gratitude, thanking her for fighting the way she does, as valiantly as she can for the freedom of her people. You may not be a soldier, but if you can make her life just the tiniest bit easier, give her something to look forward to at home and help her relax with the consequences of fighting being far from her mind for just a moment, then you know you did everything right. The sentiment got to her, a gentle smile on her face as she listened to your words intently. You did so much more than that, you made a house a home, somewhere she could settle down, enjoy her life and not be subjected to enough stress to kill most people. But you’d never know how strongly she actually felt about you. There are thousands of languages in this world, each with their own unique words, to have a chance at conveying something, anything at all. And even in those thousands of languages, not a single one could ever put into words just how much she loved you.

You put the dishes in the sink, got ready for the day, only to settle for lazing on the couch for another few minutes. A few minutes turned into an hour, an hour into several. The only time you both left each other’s arms was to grab a book each, deciding on reading to each other. It was pleasant, listening to Farah read stories out loud you couldn’t understand. One Thousand and One Nights, a book renowned throughout the world, of origins that can only be speculated these days. You couldn’t speak or understand Arabic past counting to ten, but she made those words flow from her tongue so easily, so beautifully. Indeed, she could have told you about anything, from cruel kings to malevolent spirits, and you’d be none the wiser, but it was so pleasant to listen to. Lying on her chest, feeling it rise and fall with every breath, feeling the vibrations of her voice. Your eyes were closed throughout most of the story, merely open to sometimes get a look at the foreign letters. It was astounding, how a completely different language had different letters that seemed as easy to read as the latin alphabet to some people.

But when it was finally your turn to read, allowing Farah’s vocal chords some well deserved rest, so she can bless your ears and your heart with her voice once more at a later time, you let your love settle on you instead, allowing her to rest on your chest. It was a book you had liked for quite some time, having read its contents more than once already. A collection of poems and love songs from long ago. Fragments were missing, never found, lost to time forever. But what has been passed down for you and your people to see, was as beautiful as it could be. And thus, you started reading:

        It’s very easy to make this clear

        to everyone, for Helen,

        by far surpassing mortals in beauty,

        left the best of all husbands

         and sailed to Troy,

        mindful of neither her child

        nor her dear parents, but

        with one glimpse she was seduced by

        Aphrodite. For easily bent...

        and nimbly...

        has reminded me now

        of Anactoria who is not here;

        I would much prefer to see the lovely

        way she walks and the radiant glance of her face

        than the war-chariots of the Lydians or

        their footsoldiers in arms.

Another sappy and lovestruck thing you said that day, it seemed to never end. But how could it? When you had your very own Venus lying so warmly on top of you, listening to every word you said. But a small comment was all you got from Farah. You were sappy, you were lovestruck and nauseous with adoration for the woman you held oh so gently. The words you read made your heart sing with glee, Farah was the audience for an ode to love and joy. Holding your own goddess in your arms, you continued to read, hoping your voice was as soothing to her as hers was to you. As time went on, your voice getting raspier and drier, you were distracted by your beloved staring at you from her comfortable position. A bashful smile made its way onto your lips, your voice, otherwise resolute, becoming more quiet and shaky as you tried to be serious, as you tried to hide your smile.

Hours had passed ever since you started reading and cuddling, it was only a matter of time until a human body, needy as it could be, would start to make itself known once again. Otherwise so content with floating in space, forgetting about your earthly needs, it was this void in your stomach that asked to be filled yet again. A sisyphean task, if one really thought about it. It wasn’t a plea, not a question either, but more of a demand than anything else: Farah was hungry, but she couldn’t be bothered to cook that time, too comfortable to get up. You leaving her wasn’t an option either, the only solution to the conundrum you were facing being to ask someone else to cook for you. You had money and no motivation to perform this specific task. Therefore, you took out your phone after putting the book on the table, typing in the website that would allow you to order food.

The decision was unanimous, something simple but filling it was going to be. One could do absolutely no wrong with a burger. Both of you chose one the other wasn’t going to take, the reasoning being that you could try each other’s food in that case. This was a lie on your behalf. You had had a burger from that place before, the exact one Farah chose, so all that was left for you to do was steal her food.

But until then, time needed to be killed. It was simple enough: Turning on the TV, watching some documentary about marine life. The moment the crab was in danger of being eaten by a shark, your adrenaline spiked, having gotten attached to the critter already. Invested in its life, you silently cursed the fish for scaring the little crustacean. It was an unfair fight from the start, the crab could have never won against the bite force of a shark, leaving it vulnerable and defenseless.

The documentary was fine to Farah. Crabs weren’t something she was invested in, but watching your facial expression change just a bit was amusing. The way you’d frown at sharks, the way you’d light up a bit upon watching new crabs hatch, the way you’d look relieved when they reached land and finally matured. How you could possibly love some animal in a documentary was beyond her, but it was adorable. You had such a big heart, always taking care of others, it was only natural someone had to protect you as well. Such was Farah’s job. And when the person delivering your food rang on the door, you jumped, not expecting them to have been this quick.

Whereas Farah did not negotiate, you did, wanting to see more baby crabs on the beach, thus asking Farah to come get the food. She agreed, but only if you got the cutlery for them. It was a fair deal, but you hurried to the kitchen regardless, the clanging of metal being rather loud.

Just for another second, your eyes were glued to the screen before tearing themselves away from baby animals to welcome a big, hearty burger with open arms.

The food was pretty good, but you couldn’t look away from Farah’s burger. Vile as always, you got to work as she was chewing on a piece, cutting a piece of her burger off and eating it instead. You kicked her while she was down, leading to her getting some revenge and taking away your curly fries privileges. You were certain by the time you were both done you had eaten more of each other’s food than your own. But it didn’t matter, you were both full and content. Taking the cutlery and takeout boxes into the kitchen, you refilled your glasses of water, adding a lemon slice into both of them. The glasses, however, had to have been at a safe distance before Farah would unleash her final, deadliest attack.

You were safe then, unassuming and a bit sluggish from just having eaten burgers and fries, it was the perfect time to strike. Arms wrapped around your waist, Farah pulled you down onto the couch. No matter how much you struggled, how much resisted, there was no way you could have won. Just like the crab with its puny shell within the shark’s maw, you were caught in Farah’s arms. Indeed, you were done for when she pulled you into her lap. In order to steady yourself, show yourself as more dominant than you really were, you wrapped your arms around her shoulder. A kiss from her turned into a kiss from you, both of you trying to outdo each other, show the other they were more loved.

In the end, neither of you would stay serious, giggling with each other after the tenth or so kiss. A battle of wits, of dominance and fun: Who could out-cuddle the other? You had half a day left to find out!

#cod #cod x reader #farah karim #farah karim x reader #I am PINING and I am ACHING and I am YEARNING for her #fluff like this is actually just the best because I am down bad for cuddling #nothing bad is happening and I don't have to worry about my favourite characters dying for once #I have this specific image of Farah in my mind right now and it makes me tear up because I love woman #when I saw you could play as Farah in mw3 I was ecstatic #finally you could play the women in some missions #I wholeheartedly believe the cod women deserved even more screentime and more dialogue #what I wouldn't give to hear more banter and stuff #but I'll take what I can get

[rubydracogirl]

WOW SO

I did not expect that drawing of Stanley to get notes. Thank you all so much for that, I keep rolling around in the likes and reblogs like a husky in fresh fallen snow.

Since I wrote a one-shot with Reader kissing Ford, I thought about it, and Stan needs a hug.

Why don't we give him one? ^_^

Stanley PinesXReader

Rated T for depictions of tobacco and adult conversations.

"Just A Hug"

It had been such a long day at work. You couldn’t wait to lock up and leave, though you dreaded walking in the snow. The bitter cold was waiting for you with wide arms, and as you clocked out and zipped up your coat, you regretted taking this shift.

Fuck it, I need the money….

To your surprise, when you stepped out, you noticed someone out in the parking lot. A lone car, with someone leaning against it, smoking. You squinted, recognizing the silhouette. It was that weird science guy from the woods. Stan something. He’d just come in for a pack of cigarettes, a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs an hour before the store closed. But that was over an hour ago…

What was he still doing here?

You weren’t normally nosy, but it was late, and you had some… neighborly concerns. You didn't know him well, he'd always been a bit of a hermit. He had been coming into town more often this past month, so you'd seen him a lot more. You liked him alright, he seemed harmless.

You shivered in your jacket.

Why was he sitting out here in the freezing cold?

Screw it.

“Hey there, buddy, y’doing alright?”

He seemed slightly startled by your voice as you began to walk over and he waved at you sheepishly.

“Fine, fine, just, uh, enjoyin’ the uh, night life.” His gravelly voice called back to you.

“Yeah, real wild hangout this is. You should see it in the summer, we get all sorts around here.” You chuckled. “Can I bum one off ya?”

He looked at you with surprise before reaching back into his pocket.

“Didn’t take ya for a smoker, toots.”

“On occasion. Much appreciated.” You replied, reaching into your own pocket for a lighter.

You lit up before taking a deep drag, ignoring the cold and focusing on the calming rush of nicotine. As you blew out a thin wisp of smoke into the air, you looked at him from the corner of your eye.

“So, you wanna tell me why you’re hanging out so late at night?”

He gave a hoarse chuckle.

“Didn’t think anyone would care. It's not illegal, right?”

“No. Not illegal… but weird.” You replied. The pale smoke drifted into the air, and you leaned against his car with him. 

“C’mon, buddy. You can talk to me.”

He looked at you with narrowed eyes.

“Sweetheart, I don’t even know your name. M'not gonna bare my soul to a stranger, even if you are cute.”

“I wear a name tag, y’know. You probably would’ve seen it if you weren’t so busy looking at my tits all the time.” you replied boldly.

He snorted sheepishly at that. “Sorry. I uh, thought I was being discreet about it.”

“You’re not exactly the type of person I would label 'discreet'.” You chuckled. “You’re also not the first guy to ogle…. It’s (y/n), by the way. You’re Stan, right?”

“Yeah…Stanford Pines.”

You hummed thoughtfully.

“There, we’re acquainted now, for better or worse.”

He chuckled.

“You’re awfully pushy, Miss (y/n). I don't know if I like that.”

“Hey now, I'm not pushy, just worried… no one just hangs out in an empty parking lot during awful weather, not even in this backwoods town.”

He grunted.

“I don’t really want to talk about it, no offense, toots.”

You nodded.

“That’s fair… can you at least promise that you’re not up to mischief here, Mr. Mysterious guy?”

He looked down at you, and you saw the barest hint of a smirk appear on his rugged face.

“Not the kind of mischief that you need to worry about, honey.”

You squinted, trying to read his emotions. It was impossible, though you could clearly see lines of care and some deep worry behind his tired, dark eyes. In that moment, with the cold night pressing in and his presence the only warmth around for miles, you felt your heart clench into a single desire. He didn't want to talk to you, that was fine… but you weren't going to leave him like this.

“Ok, Stan. I won’t bug you anymore… can I ask for a favor though?”

“Depends on the favor, but shoot."

“Can I hug you?”

He actually choked, coughing out smoke and turning from you as he tried to regain control.

You winced in sympathy, but as he turned back to you, his already reddened cheeks were even redder.

“You're serious? A hug?” He repeated incredulously, his voice raw from the coughing. 

You nodded, adding sternly, “Don’t get any bright ideas, wise guy. It’s only a hug.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t- that wasn’t…. Sure. Yeah. I could hug you.”

It was obvious you had caught him off guard, but as you put out your cigarette and opened your arms, you didn't expect how strong he was. He pulled you in against his body effortlessly. The heat from his body stole your breath and suddenly, you didn't feel so cold.

His bulky frame shielded you from the winter air, his arms enveloping you perfectly. Your heart skipped as you felt him sigh.

You squeezed him tightly, resting your head against his shoulder. He smelled like cigarettes, cheap cologne and some strange, musky smell, like burnt metal. It was a strangely comforting scent, and you thought you felt him turn his head towards you. 

"You're so small…" he murmured softly, his breath puffing against your hair.

"Naw, you're just big." You shot back, but didn't lean away or let go. In truth, you didn't want this moment to end...

Inevitably, he let go after a moment, awkwardly patting your back, his cheeks still rosy, though it could have been from the cold. You gave him a smile. 

"Hey, if nothing else works out for you, you can at least know that you're a good hugger, Stan Pines."

"... Thanks." He replied quietly. You suspected he wasn't just thanking you for the compliment.

It was getting close to midnight, and you decided you had been nosy long enough. You patted his shoulder, giving him a soft grin.

"I suppose I'll leave you to it. See ya around, Stanford."

He piped up, looking somewhat embarrassed.

"Wait, (y/n)… look, do you, uh, need a ride?"

You considered it.

"Hmm. You're not gonna kidnap me, right?"

"No! No... Not tonight, no." He chuckled.

You giggled.

"Not tonight huh? Too bad. But, well, sure, I could go for a ride. Thank you."

He grinned back, a spark of sincerity lighting up his dark eyes.

"Don't mention it. Let's get out of this crummy weather."

#Gravity Falls #fanfiction #my writing #stanley pines x reader #Stan Pines #Mullet Stan #he just needs a hug #we give him one #after smoking with him #i initially wrote this with my name so #apologies if I didn't catch all the Rubys #also female pronouns are used #angst and fluff #strangers to lovers vibes

[autism-corner]

Levi loves sitting on your lap. It creates a certain closeness which is hard to replicate. When you casually place your hand on his waist, your possessiveness makes his head dizzy. When he's in public he has to refrain from entirely curling up in your arms. Your warmth and love suddenly feels so much closer and real, and he thrives on it. Every time there's even as much of a chance for him to end up in your lap, he will take it. He takes every joke and tease that's made about it because being this close to you makes it all worth it. You stroke his hair, hold him close, place lingering kisses wherever you can reach, and Levi feels at home.

#im so lovestrucken by him wth #levilevilevilevi #hey ever notied how levi is a just 1 misplaced letter away from evil?? i just think thats cute <3 #anyway im trying to sleep but i cant without imagining levi in my arms and the pining got to far so now im here. #:p #obey me leviathan #obey me fluff #obey me #obey me x reader #hehehehe #my work #idk this is a more serious writing post that is more than just a ramble. #yippee #sillyposting #obey me leviathan x reader

[hitlikehammers]

time for that age old question: is love enough to beat back the apocalypse?

Because Steve's right there to protect everybody like the self-sacrificing asshole he is help Eddie make the music he's not strong enough for yet help them all put Vecna in the ground for good this time, right?(!??!)

or: what's the song for your walkman, baby? does it even matter?

I Could Be Your Nurse (or something)

Or: Five Times Eddie Has To Ask For Help, Plus One Time He Doesn’t Need It Anymore (but asks anyway) ✨ for @penny00dreadful 💜

<<< three: sleep 🌗

🎧 🎹 four: play 🎶 🛡️

To tell the whole truth of it: it comes too quickly—Vecna’s last stand. Of course it does.

But probably, if he’s being fair: they’d never have been really ready. Not for this, and so maybe it’s best that they’re not fully healed, not at full strength when it all comes to a head, not least because that means Vecna and his petal-toothed brigade aren’t at full strength either. And that choice, for their side, is sloppy; the Party stands on the right-side-up against the attack because they have to. Vecna makes his move because—or else, Eddie’s fairly sure—because the sadistic ballsac is losing his fucking mind.

Which is terrifying, sure, but fuck if it doesn’t help their cause.

It’s actually over pretty quick, even compared to Spring Break which, while it felt like a lifetime for how much it changed Eddie’s own, it’s only been those handful of days—but it’s kinda like the grand finale at a fireworks show: everything all at once then, done. In the everything’s though: he might not like it, but Eddie’s not so foolish as to believe he’s not still too tender, still too deep in healing the finer points of being gnawed alive to be anything but a burden in the thick of it. He refuses to be sidelined, though, and he thinks it says a lot for the long-term health of this glorious impossible thing he’s…building? Yeah, he, umm, he, Eddie Munson, is building a real goddamn thing where he doesn’t even just let someone into his heart and treasures them there, no, he’s building a thing where he gives his heart and gets on new and soft and trembling in kind and they both get to work at the treasuring of something more precious than just their own vulnerable insides, but yeah, yeah:

Eddie thinks it bodes really fucking well for the hopes he has that lean hard toward forever, already, in Eddie’s chest at least when Steve looks his way as they’re planning the teams and he locks eyes with Eddie and Eddie doesn’t even get his mouth open to breathe, to plead don’t cut me out, don’t send me to Wayne to be ‘safe’ or ‘out of harm’s way’ or whatever, don’t leave me so fucking far from you my heart hurts just because it’s beating in the middle space unmoored and shaking around all bruised up with it for not knowing and I know I can’t do what everyone else can but it’ll be bad enough not being next to you please don’t push me far enough that I won’t know the moment you’re safe, just—

Steve meets his eyes, and Eddie’s breath catches before his heart trips, and then Steve speaks up—and he doesn’t, not all that often when the nerdiest among them are shoring up the battle plans—but he watches Eddie without blinking when he pipes up:

“Eddie’s on medical and audio, with Erica and Jon.”

And maybe it’s his tone—this almost wholly novel thing in Steve that’s steely and unquestionable but no one pushes, they nod and get back to work, totally seamless and, and…yeah. That’s all Eddie wanted. Best he could hope for. Just outside the gate they go through. Close enough to hold a hand on the way down, and reach for purchase on the journey back.

Steve swallows hard, and nods at Eddie before he looks away and starts gearing up, twirls his fucking nailbat so it catches the sunlight even thought the metal’s mostly rusted, now and just…Eddie hadn’t needed to say a word. And Steve wanted to send him to safety, the way his throat had bobbed made it real clear there was something heavy he’s held back but: he’d said what he said. He’d laid the line in Eddie’s favor. Eddie wants to hold him, wants to pull him close and feel him breathe, and—

Yeah. Eddie kinda feels like the way it goes is a really good sign for their future as a couple. A couple. Them. Together.

With an always on the other side of all of this that could be kinda fucking magnificent, maybe. Given the chance.

Point being: Eddie gets himself set up with at least a full ambulance’s supplies for first aid, definitely not acquired legally, and a stereo set up he really wishes someone had been kind enough to outfit him with in not-the-apocalypse, holy shit is it gorgeous, but since the strength in his hands is still a work-in-progress, he’s gotta be ready to crank up the noise as a distraction from arm’s-length. It’s actually driving him fucking crazy—or, was; it was, pre-active return to the regularly scheduled world ending—the whole not being able to make music, to translate the noise in his head into sounds on the strings but even that, even that’s been tolerable, survivable because of Steve—who he loves, he gets to love Steve Harrington holy fuck—but Steve’s not just there to be everything and more than the air Eddie goddamn breathes, to become the music just by existing, nope, he one ups that shit: he asked Eddie if it’d be enough to learn the chords he needs. So Eddie could match the words with the notes right, so Steve could be a—

“—kinda piss-poor substitute but,” Steve had shrugged for it with a crooked grin; “but even a bad translator gets a message across, and you’d know when it’s wrong so we can figure out how to fix it and—“

And Eddie’d grabbed Steve’s chin and yanked his mouth close to fucking consume that man like a soul goddamn starved.

“I’d be a shit teacher,” Eddie had mouthed against Steve’s lips after they were sucked well-swollen; “if I still can’t lift the fucking neck for more than a minute,” but Steve had heard none of it, just shot right back:

“You don’t think we’ve beat steeper odds than that?”

And in the face of that raised brow, those red lips parted, that pulse in that neck still a little bit visible like a tease: the fuck was Eddie supposed to do but dive back in and love on the man who’d somehow agreed to be his, and to claim Eddie of all people in turn?

Which is a whole other reason why everything’s gonna be fine: Steve’s gonna make music with him. Steve’s gonna be Eddie’s muse and the vessel for what he inspires. It’s gonna be like Greek fucking poetry, except it’s gonna be them.

So Eddie’s all stocked up, s’got everyone’s floaty-bone-breaky songs queued up on blast for immediate deployment as necessary, and Steve’s the last to go through—he always is, in Eddie’s experience, waits for everyone to be safely accounted for before he spares a thought for himself and it might kill Eddie one day but not fucking today, because it’s gonna be fine—

“Eddie.”

It feels a little like history repeating itself, the way Steve huddles him in a little. Henderson’s through, with Lucas and Hopper and the weird stray Russian, but it’s not like history repeating, because Eddie’s got different words to see him off with; so fucking different.

“Last time I didn’t have,” and Steve reaches, cups Eddie’s cheek, drags down to press on his chest as his voice strains hard: “and it almost killed me,” and Steve usually pinches between his eyes to keep his feelings in check but instead of using his free hand to hold back the tears he reaches for Eddie’s and laces their fingers as his voice cracks and he chokes out:

“Please,” and it’s for everything. For all the almosts from last time; for all the possibilities rife this time. For all the hopes Eddie thinks they share beyond how this shakes out.

“Exceptionally underqualified field med,” Eddie breathes, and squeezes Steve’s hand so, so hard like a promise, because it is; “exceptionally overqualified DJ,” and Steve chuckles, wet but real and it’s enough, because:

“I got it, Stevie,” Eddie bends his forehead to Steve’s to say better than with words that he’s not in this to be a hero, he’ll be right here the whole time, but that doesn’t mean he…that doesn’t mean he can help but to ask this time:

“Just,” and the breath in him punches out unexpectedly as he damn-near begs:

“Only bring me back the little things, yeah? That I know how to fix?”

And they both hear what’s said underneath it:

Don’t turn around and die down there, and kill me in kind..

And—if anyone’s keeping track—they turn out not to need it but: the way the kiss is a wholeass wartime farewell, man.

And then: Eddie waits, and fucks with the speakers for less than an hour before the earth shakes, and his heart drops, but then he hears it.

The fucking whooping of those shitheads echoing through the cracks.

And then he sees it, runs, grabs the first hand that’s clinging to the rope this time and pulls with strength he doesn’t have, is probably more a hindrance than a help but he steadies them each back on the ground and hugs them so tight, kisses more than one of them on the head or the cheek as he doesn’t pretend not to be sobbing through the laughter because they did it, they fucking did it, somehow it’s over and he loves these people and he’s so fucking happy they’re alive and safe and here and—

And the person he loves more, loves most, brings up the rear, a little bloodied, a little scratched up, dingy with the fucking air down there but smiling and Eddie…

Eddie falls into him so fucking hard they both hit the ground and just, just grab onto one another. Just hold and breathe and catch lips every few seconds like an afterthought because they feel each other’s heartbeat where their chests are pressed tight and it’s, they’re…

Steve’s got four broken fingers across both hands. None in a row. He’s basically giving a Vulcan salute by default for how they’re taped.

Eddie loves him so goddamn much it hurts.

And Eddie’d obviously known—once things start to settle in the days that’ve followed—that teaching Steve guitar with those Spock-y hands was on the back burner, but he does ask Steve to sit, and to rest, and to help hum back the tunes in Eddie’s head while Eddie jots lyrics with a hand that’s still shaky but steadying out more every day, and it’s kind of perfect, and Steve adds some things into the melodies either on purpose or by accident but they’re better for it every time and—

Muse and vessel, man. The light of Eddie’s whole goddamn life.

With fucking Vulcan hands still, though, so: excuse Eddie for being…bewildered when his boyfriend—boyfriend, that’s his boyfriend—but his taped-up-healing-Vulcan-handed boyfriend is propping the front door open and lugging in a long, not-recovery-friendly thing that looks close to dropping on his toes and—

“The fuck are you doing?” Eddie asks with a little more panic in his voice than he’d hoped for as he rushes as best he can to where Steve’s kicking the door shut behind him, fluttering his hands around uselessly as Steve maneuvers past him, leans across for a peck at the corner of Eddie’s mouth and calls—“It’s fine, it weighs, like, nothing”—over his shoulder as he settles the, the thing down on the coffee table in the living room they’ve started actually using for, y’know.

Living.

Eddie follows him in, though, because of course, he’s half-a-dog on that man’s heels, whole-caught-in-the-gravity-of-his-everything: but Eddie follows as Steve tosses himself backward with something in his hand, rolls and rucks up his fucking absurd Hawking Middle tee across the sweet curve of his hips, the way the soft give of skin tempts Eddie to run his tongue over the trail of almost-curls, like baby-curls where they lead under the waist of his jeans: Eddie would happily volunteer to survive on the taste of that musky-delicate space until the end of goddamn time—

But then Steve’s huffing a breathless ha from behind a chair where he’d been stretched to reach and a light catches Eddie’s eye from his periphery where he’d been staring unblinking just at Steve: the big long black thing on the coffee table. It takes a genuine concerted effort not to keep at the Steve-staring—not an uncommon state of Eddie’s existence, in all fairness—and check what’s glowing on the table: something turned on. Was plugged in, right, that’s what had Steve rolling on the floor without Eddie on top of or being deliciously pinned down by him.

The something being the big long black thing that Eddie takes in for the whole of it, now: a keyboard.

“Jon picked it up for me second-hand from the place next to Fox Photo when he drove down for his camera, and Rob vouched that it’s a good brand and like, really good condition,” Steve’s raised up on his knees, now with his hands braces on his thighs as Eddie studies the keys, fingers the ends of a every few of the naturals.

“Rob helped with those, too, so I’d know the right, like, chords,” and yeah: they’re stupa of masking tape stuck to the keys with letters in blue, black, and red pen, alternating so they don’t get mixed up, some with and arrow, Eddie assumes, to indicate a sharp.

“I only remember like half of one song from when my parents thought it would look good to have me take piano lessons,” Steve huffs in whole-ass judgment; “my mom wanted the endorsement of the guy who was stepping down from city council, and his wife taught private lessons, so, y’know,” Steve rolls his eyes; “super convenient leading up to the election.”

“What song?”

Steve blinks, tips his head in askance for what Eddie recognizes very clearly as something closer to a croak than a question, his throat all tight. He tries to cough, to clear it.

“What song do you remember?”

Steve snorts at that, leans back on his palms, and fuck is he beautiful.

“Clair de Lune,” Steve grins crooked; “the one song I was allowed to pick, instead of just being assigned.”

“Why’d you pick it?” Not that Eddie doesn’t like it or anything. It’s more that…he knew Steve could more than just drum fingers on keys, if only just, and that a baby grand used to sit in the corner where there’s a stereo cabinet now, but.

But: see, there’s like a whole half of his heart that’s dedicated to collecting new knowledge about everything Steve: his favorite food when he was 12 versus the now. How his favorite color became his favorite color. The story behind all the polos. The nitty-gritties about why he’s in a big-ass house alone for approximately 360 days a year, and how long it’s been that way. Eddie’s whole heart is basically Steve’s but every day that half overflows a little, and Eddie’s only keeping it relegated to parts filled with Steve-lore so he can feel the collection break containment every other day, this grand and joyous bursting under his ribs as everything spills over again, and again, and again until it’s all just Steve, and his heart has to burst or stretch, or both.

Eddie thinks both will be amazing.

And right now, in the interest of building toward that amazing-both: he wants to know why Debussy.

Steve chuckles to himself—better music than any dead French guy by a country mile—and eyes Eddie almost slyly.

“Do you remember Claire Reynolds?”

Vaguely. Like, very vaguely. He remembers…uneven pigtails. Very actual-cult-like vibes about her family as a vague impression and now that he’s bringing it to mind he feels a new wave of indignation: those Children-of-the-Corn motherfuckers were just fine but Eddie liked a board game and he was probably a murderer.

“When we were in like, first grade,” Steve’s continuing on; “she asked me every, single, day, to come over and see her sheep.” Steve looks up at Eddie and bites his lower lip, lets his gaze dance and lets Eddie fall into it for a few dazed seconds before he spells it out.

“She had these crazy eyes about it, it was kinda unsettling,” Steve nudges, but Eddie’s doesn’t get it until:

“And it’s not like I do now, because obviously I don’t, but I definitely didn’t speak a lick of French when I was eight.”

It takes Eddie a hot second before he snorts hard enough to hurt:

Claire, da Loon.

“I was eight,” Steve protests Eddie’s laughter halfheartedly even as he joins in, reaches to slap at Eddie’s upper arm which honestly: just makes him laugh harder.

“Anyway,” Steve fights through the last of the chuckling as it peters out between them, drags himself to sitting next to the coffee table and taps his hand to the top of the keyboard.

“I know it’s not the same as learning guitar to help, and I can probably only get the top and bottom notes with these,” he lifts his Vulcan-fingers his a shrug; “but I was hoping that’d be better than nothing?”

And, like, how Eddie was talking about his heart having to swell, for all the things he gets to tuck inside of it that come with loving Steve Harrington?

He might crack a rib, just now, because—

“This is for me?”

Steve purses his lips, lifts a brow:

“Well, technically it’s for me,” steve singles his fingers, which looks absurd with the splints; “but yeah. To help you get the songs out. I mean, once these are free again, you can help me with the guitar like we talked about, until you’re—“

And Eddie cannot be blamed, see: he cannot be fucking blamed for tackling Steve to the floor and kissing him hard enough to bruise because…

“You got hurt,” Eddie half-breathes between kisses; “you got hurt and I was so afraid I was gonna lose you,” and Eddie reaches for those taped fingers and kisses them, too: so gentle and Steve’s expression softens so quick:

“I was scared, too,” he whispers between them, cups Eddie’s face with his unloaded hand; “you were as safe as I could make you within the fucking city limits but I was still so goddamn scared.”

Cue more rib-cracking for the heart-swelling, because Jesus fucking Christ.

“And you,” Eddie exhales, slow and shaky; “you’re hurt, but you went and got,” he nods to the keyboard;

“I know it’s not ideal,” Steve’s quick to, to what, apologize? For being insane and perfect and—

“Shut up,” Eddie says, voice low and watery and he’s still kissing at Steve’s fingers, holding his wrist delicate but also like a lifeline.

“You’re hurt,” Eddie maybe kinda moans it because he hates it, as much as he’s so fucking grateful that’s it’s just this, no worse than this; “and you still—”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

And that…that’s one thing Eddie’s learned beyond reproach; that even to his detriment, Steve keeps his goddamn promises.

And he’d promised to help Eddie get his words out, to place the lyrics to the notes and help unclutter his brain so he didn’t lose his mind.

Holy fucking hell.

“Steve,” Eddie starts, shakes his head, needs to find the right words. “You’re alive,” the most important thing. “You are healing,” another most important thing, for Eddie to oversee and make sure of, even as Steve keeps an eye on the last lingering threads of the long haul on Eddie’s road to recovery in kind, his beloved mother hen.

“This is,” and he runs his fingers too light to draw sounds across the keys, hopes he sounds as awed and grateful as he feels; “but you, you’ve gotta test, you have to,” and Eddie shakes his head and lifts his eyes to just fucking ask it:

“Why?”

And Steve: Steve just studies his face for a few seconds, reads what he needs before he smiles kinda exasperated, mostly fond and answers so simply, while also breaking a few more of Eddie’s ribs when he just says:

“Because I love you.”

And Eddie’s heart’s not so overfull yet of all of Steve, it’s not fair that it just bursts right then and there, Eddie propelled into Steve’s arms to kiss him deep this time, like he’s searching out Steve’s soul to taste and maybe he is, save that he needs his heart to not have exploded for feeling if he’s going to keep the memory of it safe in his chest for always, he needs to patch his heart back up first but he’s too distracted, too drowned in the way love actually fucking feels, fucking shifts his cells around and makes a new version of him, lets his heart grow bigger except it went and blasted apart with the unprecedented immensity of loving and—

And then Eddie’s got Steve’s taped up hands on both his cheeks, and he remembers that night, in the shower, where Steve ripped the seams from his shirt so taking it off wouldn’t hurt him; notices how Steve is wearing that same fucking shirt in this very moment, all in one piece, like it never split apart in the first place.

Master seamstress, tried and tested and true; truer than anything.

So Eddie just dives back in and kisses with everything in him, thinks maybe when Steve tastes the pieces of Eddie’s blowout heart under his tongue while Eddie goes diving for the sweet lick of Steve’s soul:

Eddie thinks Steve’s mouth might know how to stitch up torn things, too. Especially the kinds that are ripped at their seams wholly for the sake of loving that fucking hard.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson

divider credits here & here

👾 title credit here

💫 ao3 link here

#steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #hurt/comfort #whump #fluff #happy ending #angst with a happy ending #soft #pining #slow burn #(ish) #steddie fic #deep devoted caretaker steve #smitten recovering post S4 eddie #sharing a bed #sleeping together #not like THAT #HE'S RECOVERING OKAY #nightmares #though maybe it IS time to address the...crush-confession-dick-grazing-shower-thing #like: just MAYBE #love confessions #domestic fluff #5+1 things #stranger things #gift fic #penny00dreadful