Eddie takes a break from his live-streamed jam session to get a drink out of the kitchen. He takes his audience with him.
He’s moseying on up from his studio when he pauses. He sees something off-screen that make his eyes go wide and a little panicked. Then he’s ducking down and darting on his tiptoes down the hall, all the while, whisper-shouting, “Steve. Steve! Where the hell are you? Steve!”
He finds Steve in their bedroom, tidying up their nightstands. Eddie barely acknowledge what he’s doing and doesn’t acknowledge his live stream at all like, “Steve! There’s a stranger in the living room!!”
Steve, casual: No, there’s not
Eddie: Yea, there is! There’s a man sitting on our couch!
Steve: Yeah. That’s Tommy
Eddie: That -that’s Tommy? Tommy H?
Eddie: Wow… he had a glow up
Steve: *gives Eddie the bitchiest look known to man*
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An Assassin Child and His Ghost Sword
For whatever reason, Danny has become a magical sword and been thrown through time and space, eventually landing in a completely different world far in the past.
In all honesty, being a magic sword isn't the worst thing ever, to the point he's basically using it as an extended vacation. Whenever he's alone he sleeps, whenever he has a wielder, he gives them advice and extra abilities and the like. If he gets bored in one area, he's able to move himself to another.
However, Danny ended up screwing up somewhere down the line. See, he has the ability to only work for those who are 'worthy' (basically a catch all term for the people Danny likes or can at the very least be civil with). If someone 'unworthy' picks him up, he'll curse them.
Unfortunately, after a long string of unworthy people, everyone now believes Danny is solely a cursed blade, his ability to bless others forgotten when he finally goes down in the history books.
Then when Danny finally come to the modern age, he ends up being found by one Damian Al Ghul.
Damian is all by himself for one reason or another (running from the League, disagreement with the Bats, etc.) when he finds Danny. And frankly, what kid wouldn't want a magical, talking sword that grants incredible powers, especially when you've been trained in how to actually wield them. He doesn't really have a plan, so he decides to just travel around trying to find a place he belongs.
Danny likes the kid and decides to look after him since he's all by himself. He helps the kid travel around the world, teaches him how the world works, helps him with any moral issues that being raised by assassins brings, etc.
Meanwhile, the rest of the world is wondering who this small, wandering child with the sword is.
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Eddie flounders, arms flailing as his feet slip out from under him for the fourth time, and he lands chin first on the scuffed-up ice with a hard thud.
“Oww,” he moans miserably to himself as he sits up. He lifts a numb hand to his mouth to inspect the damage—fingerless gloves doing fuck-all to defend against the stinging cold—and the tips of his frozen fingers come back speckled with warm red from where he bit his tongue on the way down.
Fucking ice skating. Max better appreciate the effort he’s making.
He’s in the middle of a mostly empty rink (arms crossed over his chest, ass wet from the ice, fully pouting in public but who cares his tongue and chin fucking hurt), and he’s thinking about just staying there—sulking in place for the remainder of the open-skate session until a Zamboni comes to sweep him away—when an employee spots him and comes skating over to help.
The guy moves with a graceful, practiced ease, swift enough to send his honey brown hair flowing out behind him as he glides over the ice, and he stops neatly in front of Eddie with a tap of his toepick. “Need a hand?” he asks, offering his, and oh no he’s hot why does he have to be hot jesus christ
“‘M fine,” Eddie mumbles into his knees, face flaming. His eyes are wet, and his cheeks are all splotchy, and he’s being such a petulant, wounded little baby right now, but like.
If Hot Guy could kindly fuck off instead of witnessing this ridiculous behavior, that would be so cool and sexy of him.
“Hey,” Hot Guy says, voice gentle. His downturned puppy eyes go soft with concern when he spots the blood on Eddie’s lip, and he crouches down into a squat and rests a hand on Eddie’s knee.
The fingers of his other hand reach out, hesitant, hovering in the space between them like he wants to cup Eddie’s chin but doesn’t want to hurt his bruised skin. Eddie’s eyes widen at the gesture, kind of humiliatingly turned on by how tender it is, and his lip wobbles and oh God he is not about to cry in front Hot Guy he’s not doing it he’s not—
The guy offers him a reassuring pat. “Bit your tongue?”
Eddie nods. Hot Guy smiles sympathetically. “Yeah, that’ll do it. I bit the shit out of the inside of my cheek last week trying to race my coworker,” he tells Eddie, shaking his head with a little laugh. “Hurt so bad.”
Fuck, his laugh is pretty. Eddie can’t help but smile, too.
The guy claps Eddie’s knee again and shoves himself back up to standing. “Come on,” he says, offering a hand. “Let’s get you patched up.”
Eddie takes it this time.
He lets himself be hoisted to his feet, gripping the lapels of the other man’s jacket for dear life as he gets his balance. Hot Guy, bless him, just brackets Eddie’s waist between his hands, steadying him with warm, broad palms splayed beneath his ribs, and then they’re toe-to-toe, standing so close that their breaths fog into a mingled cloud.
H.G. flashes a brilliant smile. “I’m Steve, by the way.”
“Eddie.”
“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” he says sincerely. He slides his hands from Eddie’s waist to his elbows, trailing down to take both of his hands in a sure grip, and then he swivels his feet and starts slowly skating backwards across the rink, dragging Eddie along with him. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”
Eddie snorts, rolls his eyes at himself. Yes, what, indeed, he thinks, blowing a wild curl out of his face. “It’s a long story.”
Steve grins. “I have a long shift.”
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