#not like that

[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

[spielzeugkaiser]

[Backstory] - [First] - [Second] - [Third] - [Four] - [Five] - [Six]

I do believe that Yennefer was a constant in Babys life once she knew; even though I think she wasn't there often, because there was stuff happening (with Ciri too; on a bigger scale and sometimes more... urgent) - but she was there when it counted. Yen really went out there and said: I'M YOUR DADDY NOW.

#jaskier #yennefer of vengerberg #the witcher #geraskier #the witcher fanart #omegaverse #geraskier lovechild #I do think there is some miscommunication going on because I think Jaskier suspects with all his witcher senses Geralt must have known #that he was pregnant on the mountain #(not that he could have known it was his but. Jaskier wouldn't have slept with anyone else without telling him) #(and he didn't!! not while he was with Geralt! it was Geralt who went to Yennefer-) #also I think Yen didn't even think for a minute about taking Jaskiers baby #like that could have been a tempting offer maybe #but NOT from Jaskier #NOT like that #and since this follows Netflix at least roughly she doesn't have her powers and is on the run - and will meet Ciri soon #A LOT happening in a short amount of time #and accidentally kinda acquiring two kids in the span of three weeks #but DAMN #she will be SO MUCH colder once she meets Geralt #and it will be hard for her not to say something #I think she does needle Geralt to see Jaskier #but he doesn't #messy all around

[umblrspectrum]

AbsoluteSolverHeart is such a funny little gal

#i can fix her #you sure can buddy #wait no #not like that #anyways i've discovered i actually like shading so #congration you get higher quality art #art #artwork #murder drones #murder drones j #serial designation j #murder drones heartbeat #potential gore warning #idk if you count oil as gore but #actually wait no #thats a flesh demon yea #absolute solver

[rosstrytobe]

"NOT LIKE THAT...YET"

Okay okay...

#buddie #not like that #yet #buddie is going to be canon #buddie endgame #buck x eddie #911 s7 #911 abc #article

[spiralingemptyness]

I was just loooking at wiki pages (specifically blood of zeus for this instant) to do some character designes, and I was looking to see if Dionysus had a page for it (he don’t.) and while I was looking I just found smth ironic idk…

Yknow, descriptions of the different Zeus’ affair children, born out of wedlock and that shit. They’re pretty chill…

except for Hermes

They just straight up calling him a bastard, most definitely bc Hera called him a bastard (which corresponds with wedlock being in Apollo’s bc he mentioned to Electra to be born out of wedlock)

#greek mythology #greek gods #bastard children #blood of zeus #artemis #apollo #hermes #hera #…I’m not tagging zeus #fuck him #Not like that

[danandphil-lies]

another horrific lie! truly despicable that fathers could lie to their children so easily.

dan and phil claimed, on dec 24, that they would return to the gaming channel after 15 days. this would have been jan 8. and yet, have they returned?

NO!

they are sitting in their phouse (phan (phil+dan) house) in their pajamas (pyjamas for you british readers)!! they are content to lie! they spare no thought to how we would be emotionally affected by this. why give us false hope only to tear us down? my friends, it's because they are addicts. addicted to feeding their dedicated fanbase untruths and falsehoods.

#daniel howell #dan and phil #dan howell #amazingphil #phil lester #dan and phil games #danandphilgames #dan and phil LIES #dnp exposed #not like that #if you want to see that go watch the halloween baking #dnpgames

[aabcin]

i plan on more of this

#yosano #yosano akiko #yumeno kyusaku #yumeno #kyusaku #q #q bsd #bsd #bsd fandom #comic #bungou stray dogs #ada #atsushi nakajima #ranpo edogawa #fukuzawa yukichi #kyouka izumi #ii now say its canon the ada is an orphanage #NOT LIKE THAT #imagine dazai just seeing q in the halls

[tekitothemagpie]

Majima, texting Kiryu : Kiryu-chan! I see ya!

Kiryu : where are you, Majima-san?

Majima : turn around

Majima : no the other way

Majima : wrong way again

Kiryu : where exactly are you, nii-san?

Majima : in my office, the thought of ya spinning around is hilarious, Kiryu-chan!

#majima would fuck with kiryu over text #not like that #like hed make fun of his boomer bf #kiryu kazuma #goro majima #yakuza #ryo ga gotoku #kazumaji #majima x kiryu

[jazartz]

WHAT DO I DO

Is this war?

If it wasn't it is now.

#im coming for you teo #not like that

[bi-enby-nochoicesever]

Me after finishing gidion the ninth:

#tamsyn muir #the locked tomb #harrowhawk nonagesimus #gideon the ninth #gideon nav #just fucking admit it #you love eachother #wait wait hold on #not like that #the most lesbian-y way to say i love you

[rin-hanarin]

Saw this post three times on my dash and just want to say that it made the gears in my head go apeshit again, but my thoughts are so unrelated that I'll write them down separately lmao

Dirk is bound by his many selves while John is free to the point of being unbound and detached from everything, so John can give Dirk freedom while Dirk can give John a sense of self.

John is overexposed to the society and Dirk has no idea what it's like to be a part of it, so in a way John can give Dirk the mundane parts of life every human experiences, and Dirk can help John free himself from preconceptions about things that have no definitive answers, but have been defined by the society that doesn't exist in their universe anymore. You're not supposed to survive on your own eating 400 years old food and make a weapon storage out of your fridge, there's nothing wrong with questioning things that have been hammered into your head since you were a child, that kinda stuff.

They have what the other lacks while also being very similar and could balance each other so well, they have severe self-destructive tendencies coming from being too involved and too detached respectively and could prevent each other from acting upon them just because of their personalities: John can help Dirk loosen up while Dirk can help John keep himself together.

It's all fucking unintentional and unrealised to the point of being infuriating, but hey, freedom of thought and creativity is good I suppose, it's free real estate here.

#dirkjohn #johndirk #john egbert #dirk strider #homestuck #girl help i'm overanalysing dirkjohn again #the agonies #they can release and restrain each other in all the right ways #this sentence looks sus af now that i wrote it #BUT Y'KNOW #not like that #but also like that if they want

[knifedancer]

Dancing In The Rain

Prompt: Rain In which Felix learns that Paris at night is much more beautiful when he dances in the rain…with Marinette.

~~~~~~~

It was a rainy Saturday in Paris, the city of love and magic, of superheroes and villains… One would expect to be charmed by a gentle sprinkle on such a lazy day! However, standing under the sopping café umbrella that threatened to snap shut under the weight of the current downpour, we find a boy who feels the polar opposite. Felix Fathom was unimpressed and just plain irritated with Paris – he didn’t even want to be here! It was not the city itself but his week that had put him in such a foul mood. He took stock of his life up to this point and was convinced he was on a bad luck streak – one that built with each passing day until this very moment.

Why, you may ask?

Monday he was shipped off to Paris by his mother to visit his oblivious cousin for two days. Two days of pretending he didn’t know Gabriel was Monarch. Sure, what could go wrong?

Well, he must have jinxed it or angered a random omnipotent god because this week must be divine punishment…

On Tuesday, he discovered his favorite fountain pen had exploded all over his new book and the contents of his book bag.

Wednesday his mother joyously announced he would be staying for the whole week due to work obligations on her part. Phenomenal.

Thursday he was targeted by an akuma – which, in all honesty, he had instigated the akumatization… but only because that damn waitress had dumped his iced coffee into his lap!

If the akuma seemed a little too hostile, well, Uncle was likely gunning for him��

On Friday, he discovered Gabriel had someone ransack his room – likely looking for the peacock miraculous. Felix suspected it was Uncle Gabe himself because half his clothes were ripped asunder by someone expressing a lot of frustration! And he was not sure what that awful odor rubbed all over his boxers was!

Although he was unsure what his uncle would have burnt to leave a random trail of ashes on the floor…

But this morning?

Oh ho ho, this fucking morning was the pièce de résistance!

Saturday brought forth quite a surprise! He awoke in Adrien’s bed, in his cousin’s pajamas, and a note on his forehead from said conniving cousin telling Felix to ‘fill in’ for him on a photoshoot while he spent the day with his friends. Felix had no idea how the model had gotten out of the house, although he assumed that he would find some of his own clothes missing from his closet if he checked. How did Adrien even get him from his room down the hall without waking him?!

That wasn’t even the worst part.

Halfway through the boring photoshoot on the outskirts of Paris, there was an akuma attack. Stormy Weather appeared after being slighted by the meteorologist at the news station – something about Stormy’s predictions being wrong? He didn’t fully know, he only caught part of her monologue before running for cover. They had been hit by hurricane level winds, sleet, and snow so suddenly that half the equipment had to be left behind. Le Gorille had rushed him to the car to make a quick getaway however, just eight blocks away, they had hit some black ice and popped two tires on the curb. Gorille sent him to go find a place to shelter while he called the auto club, but nothing was open due to the attack. So, Felix made the executive decision to walk back. He was about halfway across Paris when the wave of ladybugs purified the area. Finally, his day was looking up!

Felix pulled out his phone to call Le Gorille…only to find the battery dead. Great.

He was stranded, in the middle of Paris, with a dead phone and no money to even hail a taxi with. ‘This day could NOT get any worse!’ Felix thought in a huff.

That was when the rain started.

You see, Stormy Weather – Aurore, whatever – had predicted an unseasonable rain coming that day and the chief meteorologist had scoffed at the teen. Felix was suddenly very supportive of the akuma’s desire to correct the idiot! The blond ran down the street to a café, only to find it was closed due to a shortage of staff. Luckily there was a left-out patio umbrella that he could take shelter under until the rain lightened up.

Except that it didn’t. It grew heavier by the passing minute and Felix found himself huddled under a flimsy, soddy, dripping umbrella in seemingly the worst rainstorm to hit Paris since the Great Flood of 1910. The wet blond mused over the fact that somehow, someway, this was not caused by an akuma. If that were the case, then could all these linked bad events just be coincidence? Or was he simply that unlucky? Once he returned back to London, he would definitely need to ask Duusu if kwamis could curse people…

Just as Felix was about to settle for getting drenched in the rain, a flash of pink caught his eye. There, across the street, moved a lone hazy figure with a polka-dotted umbrella and pink galoshes. As he turned to look at them fully, he realized this figure was not walking down the street but dancing; kicking up puddles on the sidewalk while humming a little ditty as they crossed the intersection nearby. As the figure got closer, he could make out dark hair pulled back into pigtails… pigtails that reminded him of…

“…Marinette?” He hadn’t seen her since that disastrous night at the Diamond Dance!

The girl jolted with surprise when she heard her name, her bluebell eyes taking in the damp blond boy huddled beneath the dripping canopy. He looked exhausted and just as shocked as she was.

“Ad-Adrien? W-what are you doing out h-here?” she squeaked, a light blush dusting her cheeks.

‘Ah, she thinks I’m Adrien again…perhaps I could trick her into letting me borrow her umbrella,’ Felix thought strategically.

He plastered on his imitation model smile and approached her as far as his sparse covering would allow. “I uh… I had a photoshoot today, but then there was that akuma attack? Then my phone died! And, well, it’s a long story...” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“Wow, talk about bad luck. But are you lost? Your house is this way,” the young designer pointed in the opposite direction that Felix had been headed.

The blond blinked and muttered a curse under his breath. “I guess I got lost with everything going on… Would you mind if I walked back with you?”

“Oh…um…s-sure,” Marinette lifted her umbrella to accommodate his taller frame. He ducked under but quickly discovered that she would shrink slightly from their proximity and cause the umbrella’s armatures to smack him in the head. With a gentle smile disguising his irritation, he offered to hold it for her, and she quickly acquiesced. They fell into a companionable silence as they walked. He knew he needed to say something, Adrien would obviously be chatting with her…

“So…what were you doing out in this storm, Marinette?”

“Oh…uh, I was out running a delivery for my parents.”

“Really? In this dreary weather?” Felix asked with obvious surprise.

“Dreary? No, I love the rain! There’s something magical about it…like having a million sparkles falling from the sky!” He watched as her eyes twinkled and he could almost imagine the raindrops glistening just from the brightness of her smile. “It’s special to me,” she finished with a blush.

“Is that why you were dancing in it when I saw you?” He chuckled remembering her hops and twirls on the sidewalk.

Her cheeks flushed dark red, her eyes dropped to her fidgeting hands, and her smile faded with her embarrassment. “Ooh…you saw that? I just…,” Marinette paused, unsure of how to proceed. “I’m not any good at dancing but…it’s fun,” she finished with a whisper.

Felix frowned at the change in her behavior, he clearly recalled their short dance together and her natural grace on the dancefloor. Perhaps she was just self-deprecating because she was intimidated by his cousin? Adrien would surely attempt to cheer up his friend – perhaps girlfriend – wouldn’t he? With not a second longer in hesitation, he stopped and held out his hand to the bluenette. She stared at it for a moment before turning her impossibly blue eyes toward him. “Could I have this dance?” Her eyes widened and she blushed, taking his hand bashfully. He handed her back the umbrella to hold over his shoulder as he wrapped her in his embrace. With a soft hum he began to lead her in a gentle waltz down the sidewalk.

Slowly but surely the warm smile returned and brightened before his eyes as he guided her into bigger and faster spins, keeping them both in tempo to the steps long ingrained in his limbs by dance instructors his mother had insisted he learn from – much to his dismay at the time. ‘I guess I’ll have to thank her now that those silly lessons were finally of some use,’ he thought while a grin spread unwittingly across his face. He lost himself to the movements of their dance, a comfortable warmth growing in his chest. In a rather large puddle he spun Marinette, her foot fanning out in a way that caused the standing water to splash in a great wave over the curb before she settled back into his arms for another set of steps with a giggle. The warmth grew as Felix dipped her, watching as her radiant smile turned up towards the heavens as raindrops danced across her face.

They progressed down the street, both of them smiling and laughing as their hair and shoulders were moistened by wayward drops that missed the umbrella. Eventually they slowed to a stop as they waited for the crosswalk light to change; he gazed down at her – noting the flushed pink cheeks, sparkling eyes, and wide smile. Felix wasn’t sure what came over him. He glanced down at her lips, parted and panting from their energetic dance, and suddenly wanted to know how they felt. With hooded eyes he leaned forward, his arm tightening around her waist as he felt her rise up slowly on her tip toes as if to meet him halfway…the umbrella dropped from her fingers as they slid to the short hairs on the back of his neck, but neither could find it in their minds to care about the rain falling on their heads…

Just as their lips were about to touch, a car came careening around the corner and hit the large puddle forming at the blocked drain. Felix quickly rotated them so that he would shield her with his body. Within seconds a massive, brackish tidal wave splashed over them both and left them drenched. Feeling the cold, dirty water sliding down his spine, the blond let out a string of English curses that even his mother would be ashamed of. Marinette seemed to jolt at the noise and stared at him while he pushed the very wet hair from his face – unconsciously putting it back into his normal style – as the heavy rain continued to pour on their heads. He missed the calculating look she gave him before that gave way to a small smile, then to a chuckle, then a full belly laugh. Felix looked at her dumbfounded before he, too, began to crack up at their situation.

“You look ridiculous,” she giggled out.

“You look like a drowned mouse!” Felix laughed back, unable to contain himself.

“At least I don’t look like an overgrown komondor!” They laughed harder, tears springing to their eyes as the rain plastered their hair to their heads.

‘When was the last time I laughed like this?’ both thought to themselves wryly.

They both eventually calmed down, wiping tears and hair from their eyes. He fished the umbrella from the sidewalk and shook some of the water free before offering it to Marinette. She shook her head and motioned for him to keep it. “My house is just a couple doors down from here. You need it more than I do. The mansion is just up this street,” the blue-eyed girl pointed down the adjacent road.

He furrowed his brow slightly, realizing that their stolen time was coming to an end; he found the warmth in his chest had turned to an ache – he would miss her presence. “You’re sure? At least let me walk you home.”

Marinette quickly shook her head, her wet pigtails flinging droplets of water with the motion. “I’ll be fine, besides you need to get back, so you don’t catch a cold.  We’re both soaked to the bone!” He watched as she hesitated for a moment before sliding in close, pulling him down by his shirt collar, and kissing his cheek. “Th-thank you for the dance, Felix.”

With a distant clap of thunder, a red flush crept up his neck and onto his face as her soft lips pressed against his cheek. In the seconds that it took for him to register her words, she had taken off at a full sprint and disappeared into the heavy rain – returning to the pink blur he first saw by that café. Felix stood there in the rain, speechless and flustered as he touched his cheek. He couldn’t say how long he stood there, staring off, but it was long enough that the downpour had finally become a light drizzle. He looked down at the umbrella in his hand as if looking for proof that this had not been a dream… He gripped the handle a little tighter. It was solid, tangible, real.

A small smile spread across his face. Perhaps his luck wasn’t so bad after all.

~~~ BONUS SCENE ~~~

On Friday after school, while Adrien took care of his extra Chinese lessons and the others were out of the house, Plagg decided to do a little reconnaissance. He carefully zipped across his holder’s room and phased through the wall, floating down the empty hallway until he got to the end. Once there he passed through the door and ducked behind a garbage can while he surveyed the room. A wicked gleam and mischievous grin lit up the kwami’s face; the room was empty!

It had been about two months since Tikki told him about the Adrien knockoff showing up with Duusu and making a mess of things. The London blond had been very combative with Ladybug but oddly protective of Marinette. Tikki was hopeful that Felix might be reformed and join their side – his other half was so optimistic like that. The cheese wheel was always half full with her!

Plagg though? He was a ‘it’s a half a damn wheel of cheese’ type of cat – he jokingly liked to say he was an ‘optipissed’: pissed off optimist. Could things go right? Sure, but things could also just be what they appear.

Plagg didn’t know if Adrien’s cousin was redeemable and didn’t care to figure it out; planning was Tikki’s thing. He preferred results. That’s why he decided to curse that fluffed-up popinjay with a little bad luck! Well, that was mostly because the tiny cat god wanted revenge. Tomato, potato. Right now, the cat kwami intended to get results by taking the peacock miraculous and get it to Pigtails ASAP. Plagg hoped that Felix had left it behind in a hidden compartment or spot in the room while not in use. If it was on his person, the black cat wasn’t sure what to do!

“Duusu!” the black cat called, “Hey Duusu! You in here?” There was no answer.

“Tsk. If I was a feather-brained, pompous, jerk face, where would I hide a broach?” Plagg asked himself as he looked around the room. He decided to check the desk first – rifling through the neat stacks of paper and pens – before dive bombing into the bed to phase through the mattress and pillows. No dice. He proceeded around the room, passing through lamps, tables, and books with increasing irritation. He didn’t even sense the miraculous nearby! He swatted a pillow with his tail in agitation.

Well, if he wasn’t going to get what he came for, he might as well enjoy himself…

Just then the door opened and Plagg hid himself inside a lampshade, watching with great suspicion as Gabriel entered the room to do his own snooping. The cat kwami stayed silent as his holder’s father dug through the closet and dresser, ripping apart jacket and suitcase linings in search of something. After about five minutes, Gabriel let out a soft growl and stalked back across the room to the door. With one last glance around the room, he slammed the door behind him.

‘Seems he didn’t find what he was looking for either!’ Plagg thought suspiciously, he wondered what the kid had stolen this time.

The black cat kwami slowly exited his hiding place, making sure no one would be near to hear his next actions. Then he phased into the closet and began to toss the remaining collection of trousers, vests, and pristinely pressed shirts all over the floor while he cackled with glee. When it was in proper upheaval, he gathered up one each of Felix’s socks from the dresser, called upon his cataclysm, leaving only a small pile of dust on the floor as evidence of their existence. Plagg then burrowed into the underwear drawer, intent to claw some holes in the materials there when the door opened again…

“Plagg?” came Adrien’s hesitant whisper.

Popping his head out the leg of a pair of boxer briefs with a cheesy belch, the kwami called back, “hey kid, I’m over here!”

Adrien quietly closed the door and stalked across the room, tripping on a shirt and unconsciously kicking up the small pile of ashes as he recovered his balance. Plagg watched with satisfaction as the ashes settled to litter a bigger portion of the floor. “What the hell are you doing in here? Felix will be home any minute!”

“Just lookin’ for the miraculous, kid. Figured we know sourpuss has got the peacock, perhaps he’d leave it unattended, then we could get it back to the guardian.”

“Did you have to make such a mess?” the blond pressed his hand to his forehead as he looked over the random piles and ripped items on the floor. “I’m already stuck doing that photoshoot tomorrow instead of hanging out with Nino; if Father thinks I destroyed Felix’s room, I’ll probably be grounded for life!”

Plagg landed on Adrien’s shoulder, “About that kid… I got an idea. Why don’t we…,” as he whispered quietly in his ear.

Adrien’s eyes lit up and he chuckled, gathering up a few pieces of clothes from the floor to use as his disguise in the morning. “That’s sure to put him in a fowl mood!”

~~~Author's Notes: yes I referenced a historical event (Great Flood of 1910), a specific breed of dog, and made a peacock pun.

AO3 Link

#miraculous ladybug #felinette #felix x marinette #marivanily #marinette dupain cheng #felix fathom #felix graham de vanily #cross posted on ao3 #rainyday #dancing in the rain #felix dressed like adrien #not like that #Felix has terrible luck #He is definitely talking to Duusu later #fluff and humor #mild language #Plagg is a little shit #pov felix #POV Plagg #open ending

[sixrealmsbeneaththesea]

I’m so mad at myself. I didn’t want to like Ganon! Now I’m over here trying to figure out all the Ganons.😠

I found that on Pinterest lmao.

Pork gives me gas…but I like it so much. Must’ve been fate. Especially glazed…gassy fate.

#sketch #sketches #ganondorf #loz #I just want to get know his nose #not like that

[the-californicationist]

As a celebration for surviving the hell-week(s) I've been through, and to hold you over until the Chapter 07 Christmas special of Guile & Guilt, have some character mood boards that literally NO ONE asked for. ♥️

Our first character is Lachlan Black, Hamish's best man and the rich kid everyone loves to hate. Wanna ride in the Rari? Sure, which one, babes?

#thanks for putting up with me #guile and guilt #moodboard #lachlan black #eat the rich #not like that #daddy's money #best man

[mythicalsmore]

I need everyone to feel bad for my dog, he just had a lovely day at the dog park and now I am subjecting him to a bath… A BATH

Oh when will the atrocities cease

#literally just a dog theater kid #not like that #puppy bath #cute puppy #dog #doggo #dog park

[luna13e-blog]

Closer than you might believe

TW: Drugs, cigarettes, alcohol. 90's and early 2000's music. Weird (unrequited?) love and loveless sex.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You're gorgeous and smart and kind and I like you but..."

"But you won't fall in love with me."

"I wish I could."

"Guess that isn't something you can't decide on, Rosier, and also something I'm not asking you to do."

"I wish I could", he repeats.

"Loving me or stop loving them?"

He doesn't answer. The music coming from the speaker on the coffee table fills the room. I still hear you cry on my shoulder when it's not nice on what I give you tonight.

"Is that bad, uh?"

The other man lights a cigarette while waiting for an answer that never comes. "So it is bad."

"She's my friend, that's love enough for me. And she's... she is married and happy", he ignores the frequent look of surprise when he says she's married. Everyone wants to picture him in love with someone older. She isn't. She just decided too soon. "And expecting a child", he says quietly while reaching for the pack of cigarettes, "I came late into the picture. Years late."

"That's another fucked up level of ba-"

"It's not", he interrupts defensively. "She's happy."

"And you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters!"

He shrugs. "I'm fine with it."

"Fine isn't happy."

"It's good enough for me."

"Does she know?"

He presses his lips together, thinking. "Probably", he finally says almost in a whisper.

"Have you tell her?"

"No. But she knows. She knows I'm there in any capacity and that's enough for me."

"Not sure", he can't help but squeeze Evan's knee. "You wouldn't sound so sad if it were enough."

He laughs. Wet and painful, a cry that found its way in a laugh. "It's fine".

"Tell me about her."

Evan looks at him surprised but half a smile creeps into his face. "She's amazing. She's soft but the strongest person I know, she can make anyone feel at home but will tear you a new one without blinking if you make her cross. She dances with her eyes closed", he sighs wistfully, "and when she looks at me she makes me feel..." he shuts up.

"Loved", the other man supplies.

"Yeah, loved."

"And when she isn't looking? When she's looking at the man she married?"

"She's happy", he repeats. It's a mantra.

"But...?", the man pushes the glass of vodka tonic closer to Evan's hand.

He takes it and gives a long gulp. His head spins already. It's probably the drugs and not the vodka what's making him weightless, what has allowed this man to fish the words he keeps hidden and locked. The sofa's leather feels sticky and uncomfortable on his naked back. Well if you break it all down, take a good look around you'll see that is closer than you might believe.

"But...?", he insists.

"But I wish I could kiss her. Wake her up on my bed", he bites the piercing on the corner of his mouth, "make her scream my name".

The man snorts, his hand on Evan's knee slowly making his way up his thigh. "You're really good at that, haven't you tried?"

Evan closes his eyes and let his head rest on the back of the sofa. He almost tried. Once. They were drunk enough, dancing close enough. Her boyfriend away God knows where. He could smell her jojoba shampoo and her hands kept touching the bare skin of his arms. But he didn't. He just couldn't do that to her. Do that to them.

I fell in love with a girl, I fell in love once and almost comple- Evan moves from his place on the sofa and shuffles the radio station. The chorus of Dreams by The Cranberries playing instead.

"I guess that's a no." The man shifts closer, their shoulders pressed together, their thighs touching. His hand is warm over Evan's jogggers.

"No."

"Well, you can try with me. Again." The man smacks the cigarette's bud on a forgotten can and moves his free hand to the rose tattoo on Evan's chest. "You already made me scream once, can always try twice".

Evan ends his vodka and lets his lit cigarette fall into the bottom, where it starts to die slowly. His muscles tense under the touch, his body reacting, his legs opening a bit further to allow the hand's travel up his thigh. "Do you want me to fuck you again after all I said?", he looks into the dark eyes, full blown pupils hazed and looking cockily at the tent in his joggers.

"Yes. I am not asking for a date and roses, Rosier", he leans closer, Evan can smell the cigarette and the alcohol in his breath, "you were the one that started apologizing, I told you I wasn't asking that from you. I'll do with another line and a couple orgasms."

Evan raises his eyebrow but doesn't pull away. He even leans closer. "Would you, really? 'Cause that I can do" The only thing he knows how to do and at the same time, the only thing he can't do with her.

The man licks up Evan's throat, making him groan, "then do".

The world I love, the trains I hop to be part of the wave, can't stop. Evan takes him clumsily by his jaw and forces his head up to be able to kiss him deeply, tongue burying down his throat. Smoke rings, I know you're gonna blow one, keeps blasting on the stereo. Evan pulls away and replaces his tongue with his thumb, pressing down into the warm wetness of his mouth. He lets him, his hand grasping tightly way up his thigh.

Evan bites the corner of his own mouth, playing with the piercing there and takes his finger out his mouth. He reaches towards the coffee table and grabs a tiny bag with white powder. "Lean back", he orders, he dips his thumb in the coke and rub his gums, licking it after while the dark eyes stay on his lips, his tongue. "Stay still", Evan says then leans down, letting a tiny mountain of powder fall on a valley between the man's abdominal muscles. "Don't move", he orders with his deep voice and bends down to snort it from there, to then lick the residue. The muscles contract under his tongue, moans spill around the room.

He straightens, smirking, pupils so dilated that only a rim of blue is there to be seen. He extends his hands and pours another tiny mountain in the valley between his thumb and index and offers it. The man snorts it and closes his eyes, letting his head fall against the leather.

"Get rid of your pants and into my lap", Evan's orders get through the haze of the drugs and the bass that's playing. He slides down his joggers down his hips onto his knees, not bothering to take it all the way off and just letting it slide. His erection settles on his stomach, he didn't put his boxers on the first time he dressed after. They should be somewhere on the floor.

The man complies and puts a knee on either side of Evan's thighs. They go into a frenetic kiss, hands all over each other.

"Are you going to think about her?", the man whispers hotly in Evan's ear.

He freezes for a second. "No", he grunts, he can't. That's not the way Lily comes to his head. That's not the spot he wants her in. For fantasies he has plenty.

"Fine", the man is nibbling his lobe, "best that way. Let's not think."

Please, Evan thinks.

Is the last thing he actually think in words. The rest is smells, and sounds, a hot mouth over him and the music making the floor vibrate. Oh baby, don't feel so down, oh it turned me off when I feel left out.

Soon Evan has manhandled him into lay on his chest, his arms on the armchair, the sofa creaking under the weight. He is kneeling between his legs, he leans down and bites between the man's shoulder blades, a whine bleeping in his ears. He spreads him open, big hands on his ass cheeks and enters him. It isn't slow, it isn't careful. The condom was a lucky thought because they were in hands reach. The man takes him easily, still dilated from the last round, but with the first thrust he is biting his forearm to muffle the loud moans. Evan shuts his eyes close, sweat pulling on his top lip and his clavicle. The smell of sex, cigarettes and alcohol surrounds him. He pounds harder, the sofa cracks more. He throws a hand under the man's waist and lifts him, the other hand finding his cock and stroking him. It's messy, it's feverish. The man comes first and a "Evan" is all that gets into Evan's brain for a moment before he moves his big hands to the man's hips, to keep him there, limp already but there until he comes with a last deep thrust.

"Fuck", the man pants, turning into his abdomen and resting his legs on Evan's lap. He is sprawled against the sofa, eyes looking at the ceiling. "With eyes so dilated, I've become your pupil", he sings slightly out of key for him before sighing. "Is there more vodka?" He asks. His hangover tomorrow is going to be legendary. But he can deal with it, as he deals with everything else.

From my mouth to yours

Tomorrow he has a lunch with her.

I like you

She's going to be pissed about him being hungover.

You, you, you.

He'll make her laugh. That's enough. He has always known how to make her laugh.

You, you, you.

Evan drifts away thinking that that's enough. This is enough.

#Don't ask what is this because I don't know #Evan made me write it #And yes there's an universe in which Evan Rosier is head over heels for Lily Evans but she isn't #Not like that #Evan Rosier #Lily Evans #Evans squared #maybe im remembering how to write #marauders brain rot #Evan(s) #marauders fanfiction