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shadebloopnik · 1 month

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Unrequited/One-sided Radioapple but it isn't treated like an angsty end of the world thing.

Imagine they slowly get closer after all the banters, and eventually becoming close friends. Lucifer ends up catching feelings for him, and after a long while, decides to confess and ask Alastor if he felt the same.

Alastor admittedly does not feel the same.

He's getting uncomfortable, struggling to keep his composure because he's DONE this before. He KNOWS how this ends. He remembers Vox and all his insistent declarations of affection and desperate pleas for Alastor to reciprocate; the possessive entitlement. He remembers how all those sickly sweet words morphed into something venomous when he didn't give the lowlife what he wanted. He remembers the anger, the ridiculous notion that it was Alastor's fault why he was so mad, that Alastor led him on and that he obviously deserved something in payment for it all-

So yes, Alastor knows how this ends.

It doesn't mean he isn't disappointed though, because he actually LIKES Lucifer, far more than he ever did Vox. Perhaps not in the way the king might have wanted, but he did. He treasured their little talks, their drinking sessions, their shared love for their instruments, Lucifers singing, their little duets, the banter, the playful jabs, the sparring.

He'd even slowly grown accustomed to the other's touches, not feeling the same surge of disgust and discomfort whenever the shorter man would grab at his arm in excitement, forgetting his usual thoughtfulness of Alastor's touch aversion for the short moment of whatever distracted him. Alastor even enjoyed it at times, relaxing at the feel of soft feathers beneath his claws, or the sensation of gentle scratches against his ears.

Difficult as it was to admit, Alastor had grown to care for the angel, the same way he had for Rosie orv Mimzy.

But no matter how fond Alastor was of Lucifer, it didn't change the fact that he didn't feel the same way romantically, or even sexually. No way in the 7 rings of Hell was he going to lie to Lucifer about either, not going to even entertain the idea of pretending he reciprocated for Lucifer's sake. He respected his friend too much for that.

So a clear, direct rejection it is. It was a shame, but nothing could be done. He said his piece concisely, and waited, shoulders set, back straight, smile and eyes a careful blank canvas as he prepared for the inevitable.

Lucifer nodded, a normal soft smile still in place, "Thank you for your answer, it means a lot."

Which......what? Alastor expected an outburst, or at the very least sharp words.

What he did NOT expect was....acceptance? And not just that but, a happy one? Contentment?????

"You're....alright with that?", he had to ask, he had to. Lucifer was clearly just very good at masking his upset.

But the damn angel just smiled?? And it didn't even look fake, just as bright and soft as his normal smiles, albeit a little confused?? Lucifer smiled at him, his brows furrowing in a bit of confused disbelief, as though Alastor is being the weird one here.

"Uhh, yeah??? Why wouldn't I be??? Yeah I may have some feelings for you but its not like you're obligated to feel the same. Above anything else, we're friends first and foremost and i'm alright with that..."

Then he seemed to have reached his own little conclusion as his words trailed off, because suddenly Lucifer's eyes widened in realization of something, and his words picking up with a sense of panicked urgency.

Alastor would really like to know what Lucifer's supposed realization was about himself because he had absolutely no clue.

"I mean, we ARE still friends right?? I don't- I- I hope this doesn't like- change your opinion of me. You're not- oh gosh I'm not making you uncomfortable am I? I- I won't mention it! You can even forget this whole confession ever happened! We can just go on as before! I don't feel any different or would act any different! Honest! I mean, I don't regret confessing because you deserve to know and I'm not ashamed of my feelings, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable! It doesn't change the way i'll treat you! Or change any aspect of our relationship! I don't even think I like you more as a lover than as a friend! I really, really do love our friendship, it matters more to me than any thoughts of being in a romantic relationship with you! So please just forget it all-"

Alastor let the word vomit wash over him, every word leaving him more confused by the minute.

Because yes, there's the desperation he expected, but...it was more about, convincing Alastor to remain friends?? Reassuring Alastor that nothing has to change?? That their friendship is the most important thing here??

(If anyone asks, no Alastor's heart didn't swell. Only lesser beings would have had the urge to cry, and Alastor is anything but.)

Lucifer is unknowingly reassuring Alastor of every single one of his insecurities about the situation. Because Alastor DID want to remain friends, he cared too much about the man to let it go so easily. It was rare to find people who treasure friendships above romantic relationships.

"I don't tend to forget easily, nor will I forget this one in particular.", he spoke, finally finding his voice. At Lucifer's defeated, pained expression( is their friendship really that important to him?), he continued. "But....yes. I'd like that.. To remain...friends."

He didn't often say the word out loud, being comfortable enough with each other that it need not be reassured with the label. But with Lucifer brightening up like his namesake, relief and happiness palpable, Alastor felt no qualms at declaring their friendship out loud.

So life went on as usual. True to his word, Lucifer remained basically the same. The following weeks were a bit stilted for Alastor, as he put some rather painful distance between him and the angel; limiting their interactions, their usual touches.

Anytime now, Lucifer would break and show his true colors, Alastor would think, waiting for the boot to drop. Lucifer would end up angry, and dissatisfied, and that was that.

But it never happened. Lucifer never expressed discomfort when Alastor avoided him, seeming to be understanding of the others need for space. He was just as affectionate as before, though initially a bit held back, as though gauging Alastor's comfort.

Months would pass, and the king never faltered. Their friendship remained strong, if not growing ever closer than before. Alastor found himself even growing more comfortable with the man. Affectionate touches were becoming common, hugs and head pats and cuddles being a welcome thing, with the reassurance that the shorter king would never disrespect his boundaries.

Lucifer seemed genuinely happy about it, despite being clearly told that none of Alastor's actions hinted at anything romantic. In fact, he seemed ecstatic that Alastor was getting more affectionate towards him as a friend. The embarrassment the radio demon felt at having Lucifer basically tear up (no really, he was crying so hard, full on drama sobbing) with joy in front of him was intertwined with the sheer incredulous fondness he felt for the man at that moment.

They were sitting at a couch one night, more than a year passing since that confession. Lucifer was leaning back, resting against the cushions, while Alastor had his head on the smaller one's shoulder, nuzzling at the crook of his neck, legs tucked close to his body. Both had a book in hand, two nearly empty cups of tea on the table in front of them. Every so often, Lucifer would flex his fingers that rested on Alastor's head, running a digit against the other's ear, often prompting the demon to lean into the touch. White wings enveloped the two, blanketing them against the chill of the night.

As Alastor turned the page of his own book, relaxing into the touch of his dearest friend, he wondered how he ever got so lucky in hell.

#this may have gotten away from me lmao #this was supposed to be a rlly short prompt of 'Unrequited love but overbrimming friendship' but instead i typed out this word vomit-#i don't know if im labeling things right here??? this may not look platonic tk others but ig im sort of projecting here #bc i want friendships like this soo badd. i mean this is still platonic right??? this is normal friendship behavior like come onnn #I've been teased about being ace bc of this mindset but i always just go RIGHT this is how friendship works y'all blind😭😭😭#bloopnik writing #bloopnik rambles #radioapple #appleradio #platonic radioapple #platonic relationships #aroace alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor hazbin #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin alastor #alastor #duckiedeer #unrequited feelings #BUT NOT UNREQUITED LOVE HELL YEA #one sided radiostatic #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel #THEY LOVE EACH OTHER SO MUCH AND ITS BEAUTIFUL #queerplatonic #i think #fic #fanfic #radiosilence

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flowercrowngods · 6 months

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for prompt tag!

28. i'm just getting comfy (would love if this was established relationship/domestic fluff.. perhaps one of them is sick in this... idk)

but also take your time 🫡🫂

in which steve is sick but that won't stop soft boys hours

When Eddie hears the sound of fuzzy sock-clad feet dragging over the hardwood floor, accompanied by a sniffle or two, he drops the book he's reading onto his chest, exasperated by his restless boyfriend who refuses to stay in bed after Eddie tucked him in — again! Ready to give him A Look and tell him to get back to bed, because whatever it is he needs, Eddie can and will get it for him, Just go back to bed, Stevie.

But whatever words were on the tip of his tongue even just a second ago have disappeared at seeing Steve – the same way that they always used to when they've only been dating for a few months. Instead of giving him anything remotely like A Look, Eddie grins, and instead of exasperated, all he feels is immeasurably fond. Endeared. Fucking enamoured.

Because Steve, in all his pale, sniffly-nosed glory, is standing in the doorway to the living room, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through the windows, painting everything golden and bringing colour back to him, too. But it's not the way the light catches on his skin that makes Eddie fall in love all over again in what Robin would describe the most pathetic way possible, no.

The thing that makes Eddie want to propose on the spot, in sickness and in health, is the fact that Steve is wearing Eddie's woollen hat. The one Joyce knitted for him with thick, soft, dark brown wool a few Christmases ago, with two distinctive bat ears sticking up.

God, where did Steve even unbury that?

And what business does he have looking so absolutely fucking adorable wearing it? His glasses are askew, the hair sticking out from beneath the hat is tousled and greasy, and the bags under his eyes are stark against his sickly pale skin that makes his nose shine red.

Eddie is about to die with how much he loves him. It’s like a scream lodged in his throat that he cannot let out, an urge that grows evermore to let the whole world know, to not rest until the last person knew about his endless, endless, endless love for this angel of a man.

In sickness and in health. It is there, residing in the back of his head, and he almost says it out loud — but Stevie would kill him if Eddie proposed to him because of a stupid woollen hat with bat ears (Sorry, Robbie).

“Baby,” he breathes instead, miraculously keeping a hold of his heart in this wave of affection that overcame him so suddenly. “You good? Everything okay?”

“Mhmm,” Steve hums, though it’s more of a growl with how rough his voice is. He wipes at his face, almost nudging his glasses off his nose, and Eddie can’t keep in the chuckle that bubbles out of him.

He’s about to get up off the couch and wrap the angel with bat ears in his arms, just because he can, but then Steve is already approaching him, the blanket thrown around his shoulders dragging on the floor just as much as his feet. There is something so young about Steve when he’s sick, something so vulnerable and raw that makes Eddie want to latch onto him and never let go. Protect him from the evil germs and the headaches they bring. It’s dumb. Stupid, really.

Eddie doesn’t even try to fight it as he sits up and holds out his arms for Steve to fall into. He brushes kiss after kiss to his overheated skin as Steve cuddles into him, burying his face in Eddie’s neck and his hands underneath his shirt.

They hum in unison, finding a sound for serenity.

“That’s my hat,” Eddie says after a while, breathing in his sick angel and feeling him melt in his arms.

“Our hat,” Steve mumbles into his skin. "My turn to be Batman."

Eddie laughs, wrapping his arms tighter around him, giving in to the urge to hold, the urge to never let go. “You’re ridiculous, d’you know that?”

“I did know that,” Steve says, and he somehow manages so sound proud of that.

“Good, just making sure,” Eddie remarks, hiding his own grin in Steve’s cheek, nosing along his temple and the edge of the hat. After a moment of silence that they spend just holding onto each other, he murmurs, “You need anything?”

Steve shakes his head, winding his arms tighter around Eddie’s shoulders and leans into him; it takes him a moment to catch up with Steve, but eventually he lets himself fall backwards so they’re lying flat on the couch.

“What are you doing, hm?” he asks, reaching for the blanket that has pooled around Steve’s legs and pulls it up again, wrapping it around his shoulders properly again.

“I’m just getting comfy,” Steve rumbles, slowly and sluggishly wiggling and twisting on top of him until he stills with a satisfied hum that sounds a lot like a smile.

“Good?”

Another hum, affirmative this time, as Steve buries his cold fingers underneath Eddie’s body. “You’re warm.”

“And you have a fever.”

“Hmm. Still.”

It makes him grin again, makes him want to burst and scream and cry and laugh endlessly.

“Ridiculous,” he says again, no louder than a whisper, and Steve turns his head to press a kiss to the centre of Eddie’s chest. It’s as much of a No, you as Eddie’s going to get, and he cherishes it with everything he has.

“I like that,” Steve says, half asleep by the sound of it.

Eddie reaches for Steve's glasses and places them on the coffee table, and tucks the hat back over his ears. When no elaboration follows, asks, “You like what, angel?”

“That. Your voice. Feels nice.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

“Want me to read to you? I think you might like this book, actually.”

Another hum, another kiss — to his heart this time. “I like everything about you.”

“That’s what I wanna hear,” Eddie laughs, reaching for the battered copy of Momo that’s been one of his favourites since Wayne brought it home on a rainy night in ’85 and Eddie stayed up all night devouring it.

“At the edge of the city,” he starts reading the blurb, to give Steve an idea what this is about and let him decide if he wants to listen in or just feel the rumbling of Eddie’s voice in his chest, “in the ruins of an old amphitheatre, there lives a little homeless girl called Momo. Momo has a special talent which she uses to help all her friends who come to visit her. Then one day the sinister men in grey arrive and silently take over the city. Only Momo has the power to resist them, and with the help of Professor Hora and his strange tortoise, Cassiopeia, she travels beyond the boundaries of time to uncover their dark secrets.”

Steve doesn’t react, but Eddie can feel that he’s not quite asleep yet, so he opens the book and starts reading from the beginning that he almost knows by heart. Somewhere on page seven, Steve takes to playing with Eddie’s hair, carding slow fingers through the strands in the gentlest way that is almost enough to distract him. Switching the book from one hand to another as his arms get heavy from the position he’s holding the book, he always has one hand drawing idle patterns underneath the blanket, between Steve’s shoulder blades.

It’s a slow afternoon as the sun sets on them, painting them in golden hues of orange and rose. Once he’s sure Steve is asleep and the living room too dark to keep reading, Eddie puts down the book and sneaks his arms under the blanket, wrapping them loosely around Steve’s shoulders to follow him into dreamland.

hope this lives up to what you had in mind! 🫶

#steddie #steddie fic #sickfic #sick steve harrington #soft eddie munson #i feel like it's so rare for a prompt to vibe with me kjshd but this one was wonderful thank you nonnie! 🤍#does this even qualify as sick fic if all they are is smitten and ridiculous?#pls i need steve in a woollen hat with bat ears okay #dio words

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luxaofhesperides · 5 months

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Surprise husbands + "How are you real?" ; requested by @vehan-tikkun-olam-and-stuff!

They may not have planned to get married, or even wanted it all too much at the beginning, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to treat each other right. It was rough going, with both of them coming out of relationships and having secret identities, but time had softened the hurt feelings and allowed them to actually get to know each other.

And Danny, Duke has discovered, is a really good husband.

Neither of them ever saw themselves as married at 20, but sometimes life throws horrible curses at you and the embodiment of balance and life and death swoops in to save your life. Via marriage.

His life is weird, okay? Duke has made his peace with it.

The thing is, if they had met naturally and started off as friends, Duke could see himself falling for Danny and asking him to marry him in a far off future. Instead, they’re doing everything backwards: married, then going on dates to know each other, and finally feeling close enough to be friends.

It helps that Danny does his best to communicate and that helps Duke find the words he needs as well.

He’s sweet, too, so kind and doting and affectionate. Like a really lovable cat, honestly. Duke’s never been cuddled so much in his life and he’s loving every minute of it.

He… might be falling in love with his husband. What a revelation.

“Duke?”

He blinks, looking up from his half-empty plate, pulled out of his thoughts suddenly. Tim and Dick stare at him, concerned, and he realizes he’s missed the entire conversation because he was so preoccupied thinking about Danny. In his defense, it was their one year anniversary the night before and Danny had kissed him for the first time after a date night spent playing video games and talking shit about their respective rogues.

Tim snaps a finger in front of his face, and Duke startles. He got distracted by his Danny Thoughts again.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“You okay? You’ve been out of it all day,” Dick says, clearly concerned.

“Oh, uh, yeah, it’s all good. Just… adjusting.”

“To what? Did something happen?”

Duke shrugs, scooping up another forkful of pasta to shove in his mouth. “Yeah, I… this is going to sound kind of stupid, but I think I’m in love with my husband.”

Tim, taking an ill-timed drink, chokes and spits out his Zesti. Dick springs back, trying to get out of the spray zone but doesn’t move far, shocked still by Duke’s words.

“Oh, yeah,” Duke realizes, “I didn’t tell you guys, did I?”

“You’re married?!” Tim shrieks as Dick clutches at his chest, eyes wide.

“You didn’t tell me?” Dick asks, offended.

“Seriously? That’s what you focus on?”

Duke smiles as they begin to bicker. They do it constantly, but this time it’s halfhearted, as if they’re just going through the motions of something familiar to distract themselves from the bomb he’s dropped on them.

In all fairness, Duke did forget that he didn’t tell them that he’s married to Danny. He’s also only mentioned Danny once or twice and heavily implied that Danny was just a classmate at GCU. And then forgot that he didn’t tell them, assuming that they’d figure it out eventually being Batman trained detectives, after all.

Well.

Oops.

Clearly that is not the case. Duke hurries to finish his pasta before Tim and Dick finish their joint freak out and get their senses back together enough to interrogate him. He can’t escape it, but he refuses to have this discussion with an empty stomach.

He just barely manages to scrape the last mouthful off the plate when his fork is being yanked out of his hands. Tim and Dick close in on him, standing to either side of him, trapping him in place, and look at him with knife-sharp smiles.

Here we go, Duke thinks tiredly, and resigns himself to clearing up this misunderstanding.

Somehow, he manages to explain the situation (I got cursed, he saved my life, we ended up married because magic is bullshit, he treats me so well) and Tim and Dick both agree to not hunt down Danny to show him the wrath of older brothers on one condition: Danny has to join them for a family dinner.

“Don’t worry, we’ll catch everyone up on your… situation,” Dick says, pulling on his jacket to head out. Tim is already on his phone, no doubt telling someone already.

“Great,” Duke says, unenthused. “You’ll also be answering all the questions because I’m not in the mood. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to figure out a day that works for all of us, and then I’m going to kick my husband’s ass in Mario Cart.”

He walks out the door, grinning as he hears them scramble after him, then twists the ring on his finger (not a wedding ring, but a magic portal making gift) and steps into the portal. It closes quietly behind him, leaving him in Danny’s lair, a comfortable, spacious house with high ceilings and little bits of his personality scattered about. There are soft rugs with geometric patterns on them, star maps on the wall, stained glass windows that throw colors across the floor, and a giant couch and pillow pit in the living room.

Danny’s asleep in it, curled up and looking completely at peace. Duke toes off his shoes and carefully makes his way over, footsteps silent so he doesn’t wake him up, all plans of Mario Cart fading away instantly.

Danny doesn’t get much sleep, with the stress of school and an internship and ghost fights to worry about. It’s why his lair is so quiet and comfortable; it’s what he needs, and he doesn’t let anyone else in without invitation, rare as it is.

Duke is allowed to waltz right in thanks to the ring Danny gave him. It never stops making him feel overwhelmed by how much trust Danny puts in him to allow him unlimited access to what is his only true sanctuary, letting his lair be a place of safety and respite for Duke as well.

He crawls into the pillow pit, There’s no way to do this without waking Danny up since he can’t fly, so he isn’t surprised to see Danny blink his eyes open, still looking soft and content. He smiles when he sees Duke, reaching a hand out to him that Duke gladly takes, bringing it up to his mouth to kiss his palm.

Sitting up, Danny tilts his head up in a silent request. Duke happily obliges, still reeling over the fact that he’s allowed to do this! He can kiss his husband whenever he wants!

Yeah, he’s going to be riding that high for a while.

“Hey,” Danny murmurs, sleepy and quietly pleased to see him.

“Hi honey,” Duke returns fondly, “Have a nice nap?”

Danny nods, leaning into Duke and closing his eyes again. “Mhm. How long are you staying? I wanna cuddle.”

“I got nothing going on today. I’m all yours, baby.”

“C’mon,” Danny tries to tug him down. Duke goes slowly, covering Danny’s body with his own, but holds himself with one hand before he blankets his husband completely.

“Wait. There’s something we need to talk about.”

Immediately, the sleepy haze is fading from Danny’s eyes, leaving him alert. “What’s up? Is something wrong?”

“Not really? You know how we agreed to keep our marriage a secret until we weren’t in danger anymore and all those cultists and sorcerers were taken care of?”

“...Yes?”

“Well.” Duke sucks in a breath and offers a bashful smile. “Guess who forgot to tell people we were married after that whole mess was dealt with?”

The nervousness clears from Danny’s gaze as he stares up at Duke with incredulous amusement. “No. No way.”

“Yeah. Kinda dropped a bomb on them and they started freaking out over me being married. Anyways, they want you to come to dinner?”

“When?”

Duke leans back, sitting on his heels. “Let me check.” He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text to the group chat asking for a day they could have a family meal to meet his husband.

His phone is bombarded with texts and calls immediately until Barbara, bless her entire soul, forcibly mutes all of them and puts in a poll with a few dates, setting the poll to close in 24 hours.

“Okay, well, they’re deciding now, but probably soon.”

Danny nods. “Alright. I know these aren’t normal circumstances at all, but I’m so excited to meet the Bats.”

“You do not mean that after hearing all my stories about them.”

“No, I do!” Danny laughs, surging up to wrap his arms around Duke and pull him back down to lay among the giant pillows with him. “They sound nice!”

“The Bats sound nice?!” Duke repeats in horror. “Did you hit your head?”

“They do sound nice! You talk about them so fondly, and yeah they have problems and are dysfunctional, but they’re heroes. Of course they have problems. Even with all their baggage, they’re kind. And you clearly love them, so I do too.”

It’s hard to resist the urge to hug Danny tight enough to make him squeak while peppering his face with kisses, so Duke doesn’t. He just goes and does it, because he’s allowed to shower his husband (!) with affection (!!!) as much as he pleases.

“How are you real?” he says against the corner of Danny’s lips. “How are you so perfect! To me specifically! Honey, if we weren’t already married, I’d be going down on one knee right now.”

“I mean, you still can. We never got a proper wedding either. Think if we offer them a chance to help plan our wedding, they’ll forgive us for secretly being married for so long?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Duke says. He’s already giddy, just imagining what their wedding will look like, what song they’ll play for their first dance, where they’ll have the ceremony… He should create a Pinterest account to start putting ideas together.

Later, though. He wants to woo Danny properly and take him on so many dates.

Dates which include dinner with the Waynes and Wayne-adjacents, apparently.

“You sure you’re okay with meeting them over dinner?” he asks, just to be sure. He knows how intense they can be, even when pretending to be normal civilians. It took him years to get used to them, himself, and he doesn’t want to push Danny into doing something he’s not ready to do.

Danny cups Duke’s face in his hands and gives him a quick, reassuring kiss. “I’m sure. If nothing else, it’ll be fun to see how long it takes for them to realize I’m not fully human.”

“I really am glad it’s you.”

“Yeah, me too. I’d choose you all over again if given the choice.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Duke laughs, wrapping an arm around Danny’s waist.

“Can we nap now? Now that you’re here and holding me, it’s taking everything I’ve got to stay awake.”

“Yeah, we can nap now.” Duke settles into the pillows, Danny cradled in his arms and closes his eyes to bask in the quiet easiness of it all.

He really couldn’t ask for a better husband, unexpected as he was. The others will see that too, once they meet him. It’s impossible to not love Danny once you meet him; Duke knows this all too well.

He loves his husband.

And his husband loves him back.

Duke is fully prepared to keep making that choice for the rest of his life.

#ghostlights #dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp fic #dp x dc fanfic #prompt fill #my writing #it was such a struggle to keep this one short but i WILL do it. it will stay below 3k words. i promised myself this #wasnt too sure what the surprise husbands trope was so i winged it lol. i hope you enjoy reading this anyways!!#its all about choosing love and choosing each other and taking care of each other in a bad situation #turning it into something good and soft and kind bc neither of u want to hurt each other and its nice to have someone always by ur side #its abt choosing each other every day!!#these two are out here speed running love while doing it backwards. icons.#thanks for the prompt!!

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rockingrobin69 · 7 months

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Wildly

“I have this—dream,” Harry started, mouth so dry he had to stop, swallow a little helplessly. Draco’s grey eyes, expectant: “Never mind.”

“What? Come on, spit it out.”

“Nothing. It’s silly.”

A shove to his shoulder. “You’re silly. And it’s your turn, so, you have to tell me anyway.”

With a lopsided grin and his chest all fluttering, “You’ll laugh.”

“I never laugh. It’s one of the core Malfoy Values: no speaking while chewing, always pace instead of run, and under no circumstances, do not laugh.”

Harry rolled his eyes, feeling lightheaded with it. Draco’s feet tucked under his thigh, leaning against the arm of Harry’s sofa like he belongs there, like there’s no place else he could be. Happiness was a warm trickle running in his belly, this soft thing he was scared to move for fear of disturbing.

Still, breathed in, felt his chest go wide. Made himself open his mouth. “It’s—when we’re older. And we’ve been, erm, together, for a while. Your hair’s gone all white,” (“excuse you!”), “all silver, I mean, and we’re, y’know, old. And we have this garden.”

Braved a look up. Draco’s face was alight, something so tender it robbed Harry of words, of air. Taking his hand, overcome.

“A garden,” Draco said, not a whisper but something close. “That sounds lovely.”

“And we—let it grow wild. With trees and weeds and flowers. And every morning, if the weather’s nice, we go outside and have our tea there.”

Draco’s fingers squeezed his. “We could have a porch with a roof. So we’re not entirely weather-dependant.”

Not saying, there are charms to repel the rain, or, we live in Britain, for crying out loud. Serious, so seriously looking into Harry’s eyes, like he could see it too, like he wanted this.

“And—I don’t know. Maybe a bird feeder or a pond. And we sit very quietly in the mornings and wait for the animals, birds or frogs or squirrels or foxes. And we’re old, and, happy? That’s… it’s silly.”

“You’re silly,” Draco said again, shaking his head with his eyebrows arched and fond. “The silliest creature of all. Harry, this isn’t a dream. We’ll have all this.”

“How—” swallowing, swallowing, “how can you say that. We’ve only been… we’re so new at this. And life can, we know it can.”

Draco shook his head, brought Harry’s hand up for a kiss. “I know,” he said, “because I’ll do whatever it fucking takes, Potter, to give you exactly this. The garden and the birds and the foxes. The life you want, all of it, exactly it. Do you have any idea how rotten I’ll spoil you?”

“Stop—” shoulders up, trying to scramble away from his kisses, but the Draco-attack was relentless and dauntless and climbing all over him on the sofa, nibbling his cheek, the edge of his nose, his eyebrow, “Draco, ha, fuck, stop!”

“Never,” with a tone so certain and so deep Harry believed it immediately, started laughing, wiping his face. “Harry, I will never stop. Get that in your gorgeous little head right now: I will never, ever stop, and I’ll make sure that you’re happy, that you’re so happy, that you’re well and bloody delirious till the end of time, do you hear me?”

“Okay!” yelling, helpless, “okay, okay, I hear you. Now get off, you menace, you’re crushing me and it’s far too hot and.” Taking Draco’s face in his hands, steadying it through the blurriness. “You ridiculous creature,” with so much affection it was battering his insides, it was painful.

“I’m the ridiculous one,” Draco huffed. “You’re sitting here thinking I’ll let you go without a single dream you can name. Harry…”

“Okay,” laughing, still helpless. “I got it. You’ll take care of me.”

“Now he bloody gets it.”

His thumb traced Draco’s jawline, rested against his pink bottom lip. “You’ll give me my garden,” he said carefully.

“With the birdfeeder and the pond.”

“And the tea, and the porch.” And forever, Harry didn’t say.

And forever, Draco smiled. “All of it.”

“Fine. You… fine. I guess I’ll just have to take it and be happy.”

“Now, that sounds like a plan,” Draco smirked, leaning into his palm. “Can we kiss already, or are you still hell-bent on being a sap?”

“I’m the—you perfect, ridiculous creature,” crushing their faces together and shaking with it. “If I recall correctly, now it’s your turn, and I won’t let you try and skip it with slyness and trickery.”

“Trickery,” Draco’s eyes rolled, so close it was only the one grey blob.

Harry couldn’t breathe. “Shut up. Shut up and tell me. You think you’re the only one who… if you’ll make me happy I’ll make you bloody—ecstatic.”

“Always a competition with that man,” but he sighed, a soft thing, and leaned his forehead against Harry’s. “You want to know? You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Well.” Blinked, the movement a gentle tap on Harry’s cheeks. “I have this dream. When we’re older. And we have a garden, and we drink a lot of tea, and you’re so, so, so happy.”

“Come—here,” weakly, “with your fucking, ugh, just kiss me, please,” and Draco did, fire-wild, roasting hot and just as bright.

Harry didn’t know how to tell him he was, already. Happy. So he kissed him, and kissed him, and hoped it was enough.

(Flufftober day 7. Find the soft AO3 collection here).

#literally could not wait posting this one #drarry fic #flufftober2023 #prompt: porch swing #no swing but - well - well - well #SO MUCH joy. so much soft. so much delirious happiness #900 words #rockingrobin69

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pizzaqueen · 11 months

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464 words of pre-slash pining fluff for day one of @steddie-week / rated G or T

It’s not as tight a fit in the listening booth as Eddie hoped it would be, but it does get him closer to Steve than he’s been all day. (Well, except for when he draped himself all over Steve at their table in the food court, or when they were pressed close in the photo booth, Eddie goading Steve into making goofy faces, or when their knees were resting together at the movies earlier.)

But they’re in their own bubble here. The rest of the world completely shut out. Just the two of them, one set of headphones, and a song shared between them.

Eddie has the album at home, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Steve knows that, but he didn’t resist when Eddie dragged him in here with one hand curled around Steve’s wrist, the other clutching the album they’re listening to now.

The song is so familiar and it fades to the background as Eddie watches Steve sidelong; the drums keep time with the beat of his heart, the howling guitar could be the singing in his blood. He catches Steve looking at him, once, twice, three times, his pulse skipping whenever their gazes lock.

This is almost everything Eddie wants. Listening to music with Steve, forgetting about the world beyond the song and the space between them. It would be perfect if he was sure that Steve’s heart is beating as hard as his, that his skin tingles at the nearness of Eddie, the way Eddie’s skin is tingling, now, being so close to Steve. The way his stomach swoops, and his chest feels full to bursting, how he’s every single fucking hopelessly in love cliche whenever they’re together, and even more when they’re not.

But he doesn’t know. He has no fucking clue. Sometimes, maybe, he thinks—hopes—but how can he be sure? He’s out of his depths here. It drives him crazy but, fuck, in moments like this he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Steve shifts, their hips bumping together, the brush of his arm against Eddie’s sending electricity through him. It draws Steve closer and he doesn’t move away, so they listen to the rest of the song pressed close, like the booth is half the size.

“So”—Eddie pulls his side of the headphones away from his ear when the song ends—“what did you think?” He bites his lip, kicks Steve’s foot.

“I think I liked it.” Steve’s gaze flicks outside the booth, then fixes back on Eddie. His eyes twinkle, warm and dark, and he turns so he’s facing Eddie fully. He licks his lips and leans in, saying, “But maybe we could listen to it again?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, a smile forming, “maybe we could,” and he starts the song over.

#Steddie #Steve x eddie #Steddie fic #Steddie fanfic #steddieweek2023 #(it’s running on utc so it’s officially started so I’m posting this now 😜)#anyway Cue one of the store employees being like uh… guys… you can’t actually stay in there all day???#guys??? …guys??!!!#But Eddie and Steve are just making mutually pining goo goo eyes at each other while listening to Slayer or something lmao #(also i didn’t specify a song and it might’ve made more sense to be queen but I thought it was funnier if Eddie was swooning listening to…#some thrash and especially funny thinking of Steve swooning right back lmao)#also I wrote this and then remembered the song prompts 🤣#okay a bunch of people liked my post about if I should post this so I’m posting it!#(post no longer looks like a real word lol)#pizzaqueenfic

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denpa-dere · 6 months

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prompt 10 for luci!!!

Prompt: “What part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?” with Lucifer

Warnings: Alcohol/Drinking

___

Okay, so, maybe you two had formed the bad habit of egging each other on. Not that he'd ever admit to letting anyone, let alone some little human, get under his skin and sway his judgment. No. He was Lucifer, first-born of the seven lords of hell and Avatar of Pride. As the prince's right hand, he had an image to uphold, always.

But between you and the prince's foolish encouragement, he was drunk.

The evening had gotten away from the lot of you, having fun and drinking on Lord Diavolo's dime in celebration of another RAD project successfully brought to completion. As the night drew on and the crowd thinned, some of the other demon brothers with weaker constitutions trickled out of the upscale bar, heading for home. You waved off Beel (saddled with an unconscious Belphie) when he offered to walk you back to the House of Lamentation. You could handle yourself, you reassured him.

Besides, it was rare to see Lucifer in such fine form: disheveled, face flushed, laughing raucously. He slouched over the bar, covering his face with one hand, trying to compose himself, and it was so- for lack of a better word- human that it made your heart swell.

You excused yourself for a quick trip to the restroom, wanting to collect yourself before seeing what else the night had in store. Fairly drunk yourself, you started to psych yourself up. Yes, obviously between Diavolo and Barbatos, Lucifer would get home safely no matter what state he was in. But you wanted to be the one to take him home. The thought of speaking alone with a more loose-lipped, candid version of him excited you a little too much.

You caught your reflection in the mirror and paused, dismayed. Maybe it was the harsh bathroom lighting, but you looked tired, older than your years. A cold weight settled in your stomach. You adjusted your hair and tried to shake off your sudden burst of insecurity. You were thinking too hard.

You had been gone for just a moment, but returned to find your seat at the bar taken by a beautiful demon. Even after all this time, the natural beauty of most demons still sometimes stunned you. The demon leaned in close, speaking to a very animated Lucifer and laughing coquettishly as he described something you couldn’t quite hear. You felt the air punched out of your lungs and numbly made your way over to gather your things.

"Hey, it's getting late, I'm going to head back," You said, throat dry but still smiling. Only Barbatos seemed to hear you. You bid him farewell and made your escape.

You felt stupid. How arrogant were you, anyway? You may be friends, you may live under the same roof, but you were still just you.

You heard your name called and turned, squinting in the darkness. It didn't take long for Lucifer to catch up with you.

"Why didn't you say you were leaving? You shouldn't be walking alone this late," He scolded you.

"I did," You replied with a thin-lipped smile, "You were busy."

He racked his brain for a moment and then chuckled, "Ah, that. I swear, I can never find a moment's peace."

“You seemed like you were having a good time,” You mused, continuing your walk home, “You should have stayed.”

You obliged, letting him turn you to face him. Maybe it was the alcohol, but tears were beginning to prick the corners of your eyes. He regarded you with an expression you couldn’t quite place- pity? That was your uncharitable interpretation, anyway.

“What do you mean by that?” He asked, sounding somewhat offended, “Do you have better things to do than stand to be in my company?”

You clicked your tongue. Of course he would go there.

“No, Lucifer,” You sighed, feeling too raw to argue, “That’s not… I didn’t want to intrude if you were, you know, feeling a connection or something.”

Awkward and ineloquent. Nice. You could feel him staring into the side of your head but refused to look up. Your face burned. This wasn’t going how you had hoped. You sped up a bit, wanting to be home and done with it, already. You could sleep it off and pretend this didn’t happen, that he didn’t just see how transparently you were wounded.

Lucifer blatantly bit back a laugh and you bristled at his condescension. Whatever you thought was between the two of you had never been spoken aloud. It now laid vulnerable and dangling in front of your face, and he was laughing at you. Perhaps wishful thinking had caused you to misinterpret things. That cold weight in your stomach grew heavier.

“Is that- are you jealous?” He asked, incredulous. You didn’t reply, keeping your gaze straight ahead. His eyes widened.

“You are,” He said, reaching for your hand but catching the sleeve of your coat, “Stop, stop, stop.”

“You forget yourself,” He said, a bit more sober than before, “And our pact. You are mine, does that mean nothing to you?”

Fuck, now you were crying. This pressure was too much, the dam was about to burst.

“It means everything to me,” You choked out.

He took both of your freezing hands in his, “I have been around for a very long time,” He said, as if soothing a child, “You are the only human I have ever made a pact with. The only one I have ever trusted with that sort of power-”

You huffed, “I’m not talking about pacts.”

“I know that,” Lucifer said, silently pleading you would not have him elaborate. Not here, in some cold, dingy street. Not now, too drunk to give you the confession you deserved, “But what part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?”

#obey me fic #obey me lucifer #lucifer x reader #writing prompts #denpa's transmissions #drabble: writes 900+ words #dis one hit good because im feeling kinda insecure today ty anon :3 hope you like it

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911onabc · 11 months

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The one where Buck has Celiac Disease

general audiences | evan "buck" buckley/eddie diaz | 3.3k

for @butchdiaz

summary: Buck has celiac disease. He’s also in love with his best friend. His best friend who has a girlfriend. Somehow, these things keep colliding.

OR: 3 + 1 times Eddie gets Buck gluten free food.

“Isn’t this nice of her?” Chimney asked, picking up a brownie from the tray that Marisol had brought into the station. It had been a clear attempt to re-introduce herself to the team as Eddie’s girlfriend. The two of them had been dating for a few months now, long enough that the two of them could officially be referred to as a couple.

Marisol was really nice, and fun, and great with Chris and all that. Buck couldn’t find a reason to hate her.

Well, at least he had a reason to hate the brownies.

“No.” Buck frowned, glaring at the tray of perfectly cut brownies.

“Oh, come on,” Chimney rolled his eyes. “Just because you can’t eat them doesn’t mean it wasn’t nice of her.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Buck explained. “I can’t be appreciative of something I can’t even have .”

Read More on ao3

#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie fic #buddie fluff #one word prompts #911 fic #911 #911 fox #911 abc #buddie fanfic #buddie fanfiction #writing tag

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demonzoro · 4 months

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[fic] turnabout (is fair play)

pairing: roronoa zoro/sanji rating: teen and up word count: 2.5k

"No 'fair'; no fouls; no rules," Sanji sing-songs at him. Which (and Sanji should really, really, be at least this self-aware) is an incredibly dangerous thing for someone like the cook to say. Or: the one where Zoro and Sanji hash out the unspoken rules of their little contests. On the floor. Horizontally. (Not an entendre.)

read on ao3.

#zosan #roronoa zoro #sanji #op fics #one piece fics #usersaint #userfics #this is literally nothing.#prime example of 'it was meant to be a little thang #and then it got away from me. so now it's just a thang.'#i used a random word generator and got 'fair' as a prompt #might do more... hmmm

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grahamer · 6 days

Text

#alan wake 2 #thomas zane #casper darling #dr. darling #zanedarling #one of the fic prompts I am writing #drew it first since having trouble writing #hope the words flow soon

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charlewiss-writes · 1 year

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better on you / charles leclerc

masterlist

day 1: hoodie (part of one-word november prompts!)

summary: why seeing you wearing his clothes made his heart race like that? why you couldn't stop smiling after realising it smelled like him?

pairing: charles leclerc x reader

word count: 968 words

warning: poorly proofreaded (? don't know if this classifies as a warning but there's mentions of platonic!mick and pierre too

author's note: so unfortunately i have my main @charlewiss shadowbanned rn:( so I'll be posting everything here until it goes back to normal.

you two were friends. at least that's what you used to say to everybody that asked. your best friend mick, his best friend pierre. even his family. and you weren't lying: you two were friends. if you wanted to be more, well, that was another topic to discuss.

it had happened slowly, and as cliché as it sounded, you didn't realise until it was too late. hell, you had tried to deny it every single chance that you got, thinking that, maybe, if you refused it every time someone asked, it would go away. but it didn't.

at first, you didn't think anything different of it. you knew charles since you two were kids, and knew that he was naturally a very attentive person: always sending good morning and good night texts, asking for your family every chance he got, and talking nonstop to you throughout the day, even when his schedule didn't always match with yours. still, pierre was sure that his friend wouldn't go the extra mile like he did with you. and mick saw how the monegasque looked at you, and specially how he looked at him when you got too close for his liking. the german boy was sure that there was something between you two, even if you two didn't see it yet.

like every weekend off he had during the season, you two would meet at a local café in monaco were you used to spend your evenings when you had some homework to do for school. now, it was just a ritual you liked to keep, to maintain some sense of normalcy. to think that the charles in front of you was the same little boy who you used to know back then. but it wasn't like he had changed. he just grew into the man that he was always meant to be. just a little older, skin thicker after what he had to endure at such a young age: loss, defeat, pain. charles carried himself like he was older, wiser than any guy his age.

still, when you meet its like time hasn't passed for you two. you're sure the laughs you share are pissing the other clients on the shop, but you don't care. you two laughed like old times, telling funny little stories and catching up on what you've been missing, since it wasn't usual for you to go to his races.you two spent the entire day together, but even then, it all fell short. even if you spent a whole week together it would seem short. only a lifetime next to him would suffice. and even then, if you had forever guaranteed, you would still need more of charles. how could you ever get enough?

fuck, you were down bad. and still, you didn't even realize it. or didn't want to face it.

when the owner of the shop had told you sweetly that the shop was about to close, you payed the tab and, without a single question, began walking to your home that was just s couple blocks away. the weather was nice when you two met earlier, but now the wind had picked up, making your arm fill with goosebumps.

"hey, you're cold?" he started taking off his hoodie, wrapping it over your figure. it was still warm thanks to his body heat, and you could smell his perfume on it. why were you suddenly flustered? "didn't realize it would be this cold" you chuckled, and took his hoodie from your back to put it on properly.

you two continued walking and talking about every single thing that crossed your mind. except one.

he wouldn't dare say it to you, but he was absolutely amazed at the way his hoodie looked on you. it was huge, considering he was certainly taller and bigger. charles couldn't hide the smile and sparkle on his eyes, even though he had started avoiding your gaze to try to not get caught. he realized something had changed inside him. it was like something dormant had awakened.

all the sleepless nights talking, even when he should've been asleep. all the times he had talked to pierre about you. all the resentment he has built toward mick, even though he didn't deserve it, just because he was the one making you laugh. all the anger he had towards him, cause he was too coward to do anything about his feelings, being scared that you would reject him. he knew he didn't want to fuck it up. after all, you two were the closest friends, meaning that your family was close too, and he didn't want to mess it up just because he wanted to follow the lead his stupid heart dictated.

too engulfed in his own thoughts, and at the same time, on your conversation, that he hadn't noticed that you had already arrived to your destination. fuck, if he would've noticed he would've walked slowly. just to get a couple more minutes with you. a triple header was coming, meaning that you would see eachother for nearly a month. these were the hardest parts of the season for you both, even if you hadn't mentioned it to one another.

"this is yours" your voice brought him back to reality, grounding him. you extended your arm, intending to give back the piece of clothing you desperately wanted to keep. it had made you feel closer to him, even though he was by your side the whole walk home.

"no, no, keep it on. it looks better on you anyways" said charles, smiling now. he got closer to you, so he could give you a big hug that lingered for a bit too long, and left you feeling more warm and fuzzy that hoodie could ever give you.

#f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 reader #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 fic #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x y/n #one word november prompts #user charlewiss #charlewiss writing challenge

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flowercrowngods · 1 year

Text

In which Eddie likes words that are pretty or funky or weird, and Steve goes on a treasure hunt for Good Words after learning that they make Eddie happy. They are utterly in love.

🤍 also on ao3

Eddie, with his bright eyes and brighter mind, has opened Steve’s eyes to a great many things. Steve just never anticipated that words would one day be included in that.

It starts with his name. They’re hanging out at Eddie’s and Wayne’s new place, and his boyfriend is pouring over something — Steve can’t quite tell if he’s doing school work or working on his DnD campaign — when Steve hears it.

“Stevie.”

He looks up to see what Eddie wants, if he needs anything or if he wants to run something by him, ask for a different word, the time, anything. But Eddie isn’t looking at him.

Steve frowns slightly and takes to watching his boyfriend instead of turning back to the magazine he’s been reading. Eddie is more interesting anyway, even when nothing’s happening. And, well, he’s right there for Steve to look at. How the hell is he supposed not to watch the way the light catches in those pretty curls and makes them shimmer, thanks to the new conditioner Steve bought him last week.

Eddie is beautiful. So Steve watches.

And then he says it again, quietly, as if testing how the word feels on his tongue. “Stevie. Steve. Stevie. Hmm.”

Eddie doesn’t even seem to be aware of it, and it makes Steve smile, leaning back into the armrest of the couch, his head against the backrest, his view of Eddie unobstructed and perfect. He just wishes he could see his face, but there is a curtain of hair that sort of prevents that.

“Stevie.”

It’s quiet, somewhere between contemplative and certain, playful and serious. Steve has absolutely no idea what’s happening, but he likes the way Eddie says his name.

After a while, he can’t hold back on the affectionate amusement anymore and gently calls for Eddie’s attention. “Are you just saying my name?”

And when Eddie looks up, he almost looks like a little kid that has been caught trying to sneak into a candy shop even though his parents said no.

“Uh.” He leans back slightly, his pencil landing on the table and Steve follows it with his eyes, when—

His smile grows, and so does this fondness inside his chest, the affection, the want and need to go over there and wrap Eddie in the tightest, longest, most intimate hug and never let go.

“Babe, are you writing my name, too?”

He knows he sounds terribly besotted — because he is. All of that is extremely endearing.

Eddie, seeing that Steve isn’t mad or annoyed or demanding an explanation, relaxes immediately and shoots Steve one of his shy smiles. The ones that are for Steve’s eyes only.

“Yeah? I mean, it’s a good name, Stevie, what can I say?” And then, with a different smile, his lips form the word again. “Stevie.” The smile grows, like it just makes him really happy to say it like that.

“Hey, if it makes you happy, don’t let me stop you.”

Eddie chews on his lip for a moment, not looking away from Steve, before he shrugs very slowly. “It does.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like it when words end on that ‘ie’ sound, y’know? I’m not even sure why I like it, but. Steve just feels too short, too crass, too… Too King Steve, if you know what I mean. Adding that extra syllable makes it feel more complete, more rounded, more… I don’t know, it’s just better like this. Stevie. You’re not Steve, you’re Stevie, because those feel like very different names to me.”

Eddie shrugs again and then looks at the paper, huffing a laugh and nudging it with his pencil, smile still in place, though it’s a bit sheepish now.

“And then sometimes when I like a word, or when I’ve made it better, I have to write it down. Or, don’t have to. But I want to, and it’s fun. Sometimes it makes me feel very accomplished afterwards.” He chuckles, scratching at the light stubble on his chin. “It’s a bit silly, I know.”

Steve has been listening with rapt attention, soaking up every new detail about this boy that he likes so much, only to like him even more in the end.

But he gets up at that last point Eddie makes and walks over until he’s standing between his legs. His hands find their way into Eddie’s hair where he’s tucking it behind his ear, caressing his cheeks, making Eddie look up at him with those bright, trusting, vulnerable eyes.

“Hey,” he murmurs, hoping that Eddie doesn’t feel ridiculed or exposed just because Steve can’t ever stop being so damn emotional about him. “Eddie. We’ve been through hell and back. Fuck, we’ve been to hell and back. It’s kind of a miracle we’re still alive, okay, so, frankly, if saying my name like that makes you a little happy because it feels right, I am not going to judge you. I’m not asking you to stop. In fact, it’s kinda cute.”

Eddie flushes and tries to hide his face, but Steve keeps him where he is and catches his lips in a tender kiss, then his nose, his forehead, his temple.

“And so what if it’s a bit silly or whatever! You’re right, actually,”

Now it’s Eddie’s turn to look surprised. “How do you mean?”

“It does sound better like that, the way you say it. Nicer. I like it. So don’t stop on my account, yeah?”

The surprise melts away and leaves in its wake something softer, something tender, something more. More than relief and understanding and affection.

“Okay, Stevie,” Eddie says, still looking up at him with those big, brown eyes, illuminated by the desk light, and Steve can’t quite catch his breath.

So he steals Eddie’s instead when he leans in for another kiss. Slow, careful, because something has changed between them. And it’s a good something, that’s for sure.

Over the next few days, Steve realises that Eddie refuses to call him anything but Stevie for a while. No pet names, no exaggerated made-up terms of endearment, nothing. And he loves it. Loves seeing the small, shy smile on Eddie’s lips every time, loves the way his own heart skips, because he’s never been Stevie.

He never got to be Stevie. It was Steven for his parents, Steve for school, King Steve for high school, and Dingus for Robin. This new name, handed to him on a satin pillow of trust and affection, brings something new to him, something softer. It makes him believe, hope, that he could be something softer, too. Soft because that’s what Eddie sees in him, because Eddie believes in him, because Eddie makes him all of that and more.

Because Eddie makes him Stevie.

And he thinks he’s falling in love with that boy.

One night, as they’re holding each other, trying not to fall asleep because the night is fleeting and they barely saw each other today, Eddie refers back to that day a while back.

“Y’know, I think the whole… Ordeal has done quite a number on me.”

Steve freezes. They don’t usually do this before falling asleep, they know better than to challenge the nightmares like that, but he’s sure Eddie has a point with this, so he waits for it.

“The almost dying part, or…?”

“Maybe, but actually just the whole thing. Because during D&D today, I… Or, well, not during DnD, because nothing can break the Dungeon Master, thank God! But before and after, it’s like I’d forgotten how to talk again.”

Steve blinks. Eddie, forgetting how to talk? Eddie who’s always rambling, always muttering something or other, always keeping the conversation going even when there’s none to be had — forgetting how to talk? Again? That’s what trips up Steve the most, so he finds himself asking.

“Again?”

Eddie shifts in his arms, rolls Steve onto his back and crawls on top of him, his head on Steve’s chest, hands still finding his and drawing patterns on his palm.

“When I was a boy, I was… Well, let’s say, I didn’t quite understand how basic communication worked, and no one really bothered to teach me. I’d just repeat words, repeat questions, entire sentences without really getting my point across, y’know? Like, I knew the words a lot of the time, but connecting everything was a bit overwhelming. It got better in time, I had a pretty great teacher, too, and then learned to just. Mask it. I’d be the crazy guy, sure, the one who’s not making sense when you ask him a simple question, the one who will answer in terminology he read in books because characters there can talk, right, and they don’t get made fun of, and they just. Get to live. By the time Wayne took me in, I knew how to say what I wanted to say, how to answer questions, even though I would still evade them if I didn’t know the answer.”

“The Shire is burning, so Mordor it is,” Steve says quietly, and Eddie lifts his head to meet his eyes in the dim light of the room.

“Hm?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to… But when. At Skull Rock. Dustin asked you to come along and I said we can’t just take a walk with you because you were still wanted, and then he asked you. You just said—“

“The Shire is burning,” Eddie fills in, as though realisation only just hits him. “So Mordor it is.” He swallows and puts his head back on Steve’s chest, where Steve’s hand immediately finds its way back into his hair. “Yeah. Like that. You got it.”

“I always thought it was just a quirk. But it’s not?”

Eddie sighs and seems to want to bury further into Steve. “I mean, I don’t even know at this point. But you understand what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, though he’s not sure he really does. Doesn’t think he could, really. “So, what happened with the kids today?”

“Remember how I have this thing with words? Where I’ll just say them over and over again because they feel good or funky or weird, all that jazz? Well, today’s word, apparently, was luminous.”

“Luminous?”

“Luminous. And boy, I think Dustin was mighty annoyed with me. Thought I made fun of him the whole drive home. And I used to have this under control, the funky words and the non-answers and the fucking quirky Munson freak show. Turns out, I don’t. And I blame Vecna.”

Eddie is done, and he’s quiet, and Steve doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t think there’s anything he can say, could say, to help.

And he feels stupid when all he says after a while is, “Luminous is a good word, though.”

But Eddie laughs, and the tension between his shoulders leaves, and he presses a kiss to Steve’s chest. Maybe not so stupid then. “It really is.”

“What’s it mean?”

“It means that something’s shining or glowing. Radiant. Bright. Something to do with light.”

Steve smiles for some reason, forming the word with his lips again. “Good word.”

Eddie just hums, and Steve mulls over everything that Eddie just told him. They lie there in silence for a while longer, before a thought strikes him. He braces himself the way he always does when he’s about to be vulnerable, when he’s about to expose himself and hope that no one is gonna strike where it’ll hurt the most.

“Is that why you’re so patient with me?”

“Come again?”

“Your… Your difficulty with, uhm, with communication sometimes, right? Is that why you, why you don’t mind when I need a moment to get things, or to say things, or when I need you to use different words? You never make me fee stupid about it, not like… Anyway, I always wondered why you didn’t mind. Guess it makes a little sense now, huh?”

Eddie is still for a moment before he raises not just his head but his entire body, coming up to straddle Steve’s hips and look him in the eye.

“You deserve patience, Stevie. First of all. And second of all, it’s not a hardship — and it wouldn’t be a hardship for the buttheads either if they weren’t a bunch of self entitled teenagers. You’re not stupid. You hear me?”

Steve nods, and Eddie cocks his eyebrow. “Not stupid,” Steve concedes, a smile forming on his lips. “Thank you.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Eddie threatens, before cuddling back into his earlier position on Steve’s chest. “But yeah, I think you might have a point that you and I, we just…”

“Match?”

“Yeah, Stevie,” Eddie murmurs, the smile evident even in his voice. “We match.”

They fall asleep like that, holding hands, not willing to let go.

And that is how Steve finds himself looking at words differently. He listens to people differently, still oftentimes not catching their meaning, but he’ll catch their words as though they’re separated from any sort of meaning. He’s collecting them, and remembers that Hop once told him what he and El used to do.

They’d have this word of the day deal going on, where El would learn one new, possibly big word each day.

Maybe it’s silly, maybe it’s even offensive or patronising, but he still ends up telling Eddie about it, and the boy’s eyes are, well, almost luminous.

“You’d want to do that?”

“Sure,” Steve shrugs, tugging Eddie in for a hug because he never wants to stop holding him, dammit. “Maybe I could learn a thing or two, improve my vocabulary just to defy Dustin one of these days.”

And Eddie just laughs into Steve’s throat, sounding happy and bubbly and excited.

Steve realises he would do anything just for Eddie to laugh like this.

They make it a routine. If Steve wants to get a goodnight kiss, he has to tell Eddie at least one Good Word, as they’re calling them now. The rule gets omitted more often than not, because Eddie simply cannot resist kissing him. Ever. Steve still collects the words for him, catches Eddie writing them down sometimes, over and over again, and just hooks his chin over his shoulder, never interrupting him. Never judging.

Sometimes when they don’t know how a word is written or what it means, they’ll have a look at the dictionaries in Steve’s mother’s library, or call Nancy or one of the Wonder Whiz Kids with their endless wisdom; though even Dustin doesn’t know how to properly pronounce iridescence. They don’t care, though, because it looks pretty enough.

The questions rise, people demand to know what’s up, and one day Steve tells them. Not the entire story about Eddie’s struggles with words and communication, but he tells them that, “Sometimes words that look or sound pretty, or funky, or weird, delight Eddie.”

“Is delight one such word?” Lucas asks, and Steve flips him the bird.

“Fuck off, Sinclair, or you can leave if you’re going to make fun of this.”

They all realise pretty quickly that Steve is serious, and thad this is important to him. No one makes another snide remark and they all listen carefully as he tells them about how he and Eddie have been collecting the words.”

“Like me,” El says, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips and Steve melts as he turns to her.

“Yeah, El. Like you. I told Eddie how you did it back then, and he absolutely loved it.”

Eleven looks so proud when he tells her, and Steve just really fucking loves these kids. Most of the time, at least.

After that, nobody questions them anymore when Eddie or Steve call, needing their help with a word or two. Especially when they see how genuinely relieved and happy Eddie is when the remarks, the questions, the teasing stops. Even though he tries to hide it.

One by one, everyone in their chaotic little group contributes to their treasure of words. They try to be sneaky about it, but Eddie finds out, of course.

It’s on a Trauma Family Bonding Night where there’s pizza and ice cream in abundance and they all come together at Steve’s place, even Hop and Joyce joining them for the night. They talk the whole night through, and everyone will have brought their word. Ineffable, from Mike. Philanthropist, from Nancy. Epiphany, from Max. Catharsis, from Will, which quickly sends Eddie into a happy little spiral, rambling like he did that first time about Stevie.

“It’s just, it’s a great word! Starts with a weak syllable, almost unimportant, but it’s crass, a harsh beginning even in its irrelevance. But then you get to the ��tharsis’, and it’s big and bright and you can’t ignore it, can’t not open your mouth and by extension your mind and heart to this change, this realisation, this complete opposite to where you started. And then the end, the last syllable, and you don’t even have the chance to be harsh about it, to be crass, to be curt. Because the ‘sis’ needs you to take your time, making sure you end the word almost on a smile.” Eddie finishes his rambles and looks almost embarrassed about it, but Steve can only stare at him and find the most beautiful, most wonderful, most intelligent looking back at him because Eddie doesn’t quite dare to look at anyone else.

Steve moves to him, right into his personal space, and kisses him. It almost feels like catharsis, the word still hot on Eddie’s lips.

“Told you it was a great word,” Will says and they all laugh, even when Eddie and Steve are breathless from just about everything.

It’s that night that Eddie finds out that they all know, that they’re all in on their little word treasure hunt.

He looks at Steve when everyone is gone, El leaving them with effervescent, and thinks, I want to spend the rest of my days with you, Stevie.

Steve drops the spoon he’s been holding, half-empty tub of ice cream on the counter abandoned as he stares at Eddie.

They’re both staring, because Eddie is realising what he’s just said out loud, and Steve just busy processing.

“Forever,” he says after a moment, sounding dazed, feeling dazed, dizzy, floating, as he walks towards Eddie. “It’s a pretty big word, hm?” His hand finds Eddie’s cheek, caressing, mapping, promising.

“Feels just big enough, honestly,” Eddie says before catching Steve’s lips in a kiss.

They’ll talk about this. Of course they will. But not now. Now, they just create their own little forever. Just the two of them and the love they share.

written for @bethespark who wanted to see Eddie with echolalia, but then this ran away from me. well. you're not surprised.

#steddie #steddie fic #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #eddie x steve #dio words #yall fair warning i wrote this between midnight and 2.30am in one go on the bathroom floor and should not be posting rn probably #but i have no impulse control soooo here you go i bring you neurodivergent steddie right to your dash you’re welcome #thanks for the prompt and the rambles poe ily 🤍#i should really start posting these to ao3 instead huh? or split them like any normal person would. huh #neurodivergent steddie

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jaskiercommabard · 8 months

Note

Hey! It's moonykins from AO3! You asked for a prompt so here's one: Jaskier getting hurt on a hunt he was perhaps not supposed to be on and Geralt feeling guilty because Jaskier could have died. Geralt can take care of Jaskier and bandage him up and Jaskier probably survived because of his own dumb luck. Feelings can come out? I really suck with ideas but I wanted to give you something <3

Thank you ANGEL for this prompt, this was interesting and fun to write. Thank you also for your very thoughtful and encouraging words.

This one got away from me again, probably to no one's surprise. I hope it's alright!

Read on AO3 (4k)

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“No!”

“Yes.”

“No! You’re telling me they aren’t related to mermaids at all?”

Geralt nods sagely and knocks back the last of his ale, then hails the barkeep to refill their cups as Jaskier hides a smile. It’s a balmy spring night, late enough in the season that the hearth in the Drunken Gull remains unlit - a treat, this far north, one that has both their shirts unbuttoned - and he’s caught Geralt in the rare, talkative mood that only strikes him when he’s been paid up front for an easy contract.

“But the songs-”

“Lies.”

“The stories!” Jaskier flaps a hand above his head, gesturing vaguely to stars that - he presumes, despite being in the midst of a revelation - still hang in the sky above the roof of the tavern. “The constellation! The Seven Sirens, Geralt!”

“In Zerrikania, they call those stars the Seven Goats,” he deadpans, amusement sparking in his rolling eyes. "Goats aren't relatives of mermaids either. Write that down."

Geralt taps the songbook laid open on the table, flicks Jaskier's nose when he tries to shut the witcher’s finger in it.

“You're a menace, you know. Terrible. I thought they were just…just..” Jaskier’s hand flutters in the air again. “Ornery, flying mermaids!”

“Mm. Common misconception. Sirens aren’t sentient - not like merpeople or humans, anyway. More like…sharks. Or wasps.”

“But they look like-”

Geralt slaps his broad palm down on the bartop. “But they look like women!”

Jaskier can’t help his startled laugh, and Geralt huffs easily back at him. His mouth is twisted up at the corner, amber eyes expectant, and it’s…something. It’s something.

“Go on then, witcher, tell me. Why do they look like women?”

Jaskier leans in close like he's asking for a secret. Geralt leans in close like he's telling one.

“It’s not a mutation. It’s an adaptation,” he says. His breath smells like honey and hops and the flagon of vodka Jaskier’s goaded him into drinking.

"Brilliant," the bard says.

"Effective," the witcher concedes. "Up close, once you get them riled, they change. It’s…”

His voice drops off, eyes shuttering slightly.

“Ugly?” Jaskier provides.

“Ugly,” he confirms, but he’s still frowning. His fingers tap the bar restlessly, disturbing the beads of condensation gathered below their mugs, and Jaskier's eyes get caught on the motion.

On nights like this - nights when they’ve been laughing - something ancient always comes to settle itself heavily over Geralt. He knows better than to try and lift it.

Jaskier clears his throat, pulling them both from their separate thoughts. When he grins at Geralt, his companion hums agreeably enough in return, and it's as close to a goodnight as they'll get.

Jaskier claps him on the shoulder anyway, squeezing to pull himself up. He's just on the right edge of drunk, perilously close to giving himself a wicked hangover if he doesn't quit - that won't do, now that he has plans for the morning.

“Thank you for indulging me, my friend.”

Geralt shrugs easily, lifting his palms as Jaskier gathers up his untouched quill and empty songbook.

"On my own head be it."

So really, all things considered, it's not even Jaskier's fault that he ends up trailing Geralt to the shore the following morning, not with an invitation like that.

After no small amount of charm laid on the baker’s daughter and the stablehand's father, Jaskier finds himself with a honey-soaked bun in one hand and a crudely drawn trail map in the other. Trail might be overselling it, really - it’s little more than a footpath of tamped-down grass, with dense sagebrush and gently drooping ferns encroaching so heavily from both sides that it disappears altogether in some places. A layer of oppressive fog, so thick it hides most of the formidable Koviri mountain range in its haze, doesn’t ease the way either, but Jaskier is a coastal boy. He follows the call of seabirds and takes his time licking the honey from his fingers as he picks his way toward the ocean.

Eventually, the dense forest starts to give way to the coast and the hard-packed dirt beneath Jaskier’s boots becomes slippery with silt. Younger trees take the place of the massive ones, bending out from the soil at impossible angles where the ocean has washed it away to expose their roots. When the trail finally disappears completely, he finds himself on a high, rocky outcropping above the sea. It occurs to him that the view must be astonishing on a clear day, but as it is, the fog sits so thick above the turbulent sea that he could almost pluck it from the sky like spun sugar.

Spotting Geralt is easier than he thought it might be, even in this weather. He's built - and outfitted - to blend into the night, black armor standing out against the morning sky and greyish bark of the cypress tree he's climbed into, but that won't stop him getting a job done.

Not for the first time, Jaskier is fascinated by the stillness Geralt possesses - even as he settles into his hiding spot behind one of the larger boulders dotting the cliffside, he’s tapping out a rhythm with his fingers, chewing on the inside of his cheek, shaking hair out of his eyes. The witcher doesn’t move any more than a boulder would, doesn’t bend to the wind any more than a tree would. He simply waits, crossbow upraised, until the first siren emerges from the fog.

From where Jaskier crouches, the adaptation is indeed an effective one - to his human eyes, it looks like Geralt has shot an angel from the sky. He’s struck by the grace of it falling, leathery wings cradling her, blowing like great sails as she tumbles down into the horizon. It could almost be a song, but when she splatters on the rocky outcrop below, Jaskier loses the melody.

Several things happen at once, after that. A shriek rises from the fog, just one at first before more join in an eerie, skull-splitting chorus. Jaskier’s ears are roaring with it as Geralt starts picking them out of the sky with impossible precision. He’s thinning them out, but not enough, it can’t possibly be enough. Geralt drops from his perch and lands easily on his feet - Jaskier can almost hear the curse he lets out from where he watches the remaining sirens swarm around the clifftop, banking hard to swoop and dive at the witcher. The crossbow is thrown down in favor of a silver sword - Jaskier sucks a breath in as it slices through the air in a wide, red arc, and then he’s gone.

Geralt has disappeared in the fluttering swarm, invisible until a blast of magic explodes from the center, knocking some of them back into the air and sending a few of the others to their deaths in the churning water below. Jaskier waits. He does wait for Geralt, but the hand that had cast the sign simply crumples to the ground beside the odd angles of his fallen body.

So, objectively, it is not his fault, with Geralt unconscious in a slowly growing pool of blood at his feet, that he finds himself in the thick of a hunt he promised not to join, defending them both.

“Hand-and-a-half, my arse, Geralt.” His shoulders are screaming as he lifts the witcher’s silver sword, which certainly should be called three-or-four-hands-at-least, but he plants his feet on either side of his friend’s body and raises it anyway. He can’t swing it, really, the thing is far too heavy for him to wield with any precision, but it keeps the few remaining sirens at bay long enough for him to dig the heel of his boot into Geralt’s side. It earns him a promising groan and he takes a steadying breath. He can do this, he can keep them back until the professional is on his feet again. Ornery mermaids, he tells himself, they're just ornery mermaids.

The weight of the blade wrenches his wrists as he jabs it toward the two closest creatures, making them hiss and scream. It’s horrific, bone-jarring, hitting his head like twin daggers. The shrieks send him to his knees until he’s crouched over Geralt, the blood dripping from his own ears and nose mingling with the already gory trenches in the witcher's armor. Gritting his teeth, Jaskier lurches forward and buries the blade in the belly of the monster that had carved bloody grooves into Geralt’s chest while Jaskier had watched, horrified, too far away and too weak to stop it.

Geralt was right - they are ugly up close, ugly enough to staunch some of the guilt rolling in Jaskier’s gut, anyway. Gone are the fair faces they use to lure fishermen to their nests - those plush lips stretched thin around dripping, needle-like teeth, flowing hair gone wild and tangled like sea moss. Their talons rip into the earth, close enough that the sharp tips are stained by the widening pool of blood that surrounds them.

When the creature at the end of Geralt’s sword crumples, its sisters fall back, rising into the air with great flaps of their wings that send sand flying into Jaskier’s eyes.

“That’s right,” he shouts triumphantly, jabbing his weapon into the air. “And stay out, you ugly-”

Ah, fuck.

She rises from the fog like a shipwreck, raising herself above the cliffedge with concussive beats of her ancient wings, so impossibly large that the tattered ends of them blur into the edges of Jaskier’s vision. They’re ragged and torn in places, littered with scars so deep Jaskier can see the sunlight shining through them, yet still they keep her aloft. She’s two, maybe three times the size of the other sirens, easily. Ekhidna.

“Geralt, get up,” he shouts as the creature’s reflective, fish-like eyes settle on them. It's worse than any storm Jaskier's ever been in, the wind and water from her wingbeats tearing at them like a hurricane.

"I need you," he shouts frantically, shaking one of Geralt's armored shoulders. Fear grips him for the first time since he rushed out to help the witcher, perhaps for the first time in his very short life - that's what it feels like, anyway, as the ekhidna's tail begins to coil in the sky above them. "Come on. I can't- I can't do this, I need you."

She's flipping in the air like an acrobat, diving at them with deadly grace, and Geralt’s eyes are still closed. Jaskier twists, curls himself over the other man’s body to shelter him as best he can, his own useless fear choking him as the ekhidna's shriek grows louder, closer, until-

Until it doesn't. Until the air goes still and silent around them with a pressurized pop. Jaskier's eyes open - when had they closed? - to find Geralt already struggling to his feet, hand outstretched to hold the golden shield around them.

It bursts like a soap bubble when the beast hits it, scattering in a shower of orange-gold sparks, but it's enough to knock her back. Enough for Geralt to get his feet under him and yank his sword from Jaskier's trembling grasp.

The witcher is unrelenting, brutal, graceful as he beats her back, wielding his weapon with no more strain than it takes Jaskier to wield a quill. She swipes at him with her great claws, bares her gory teeth, and still he lunges. He has her balanced on the edge of the outcropping, ready to take flight, when he buries his sword in her chest. He pulls it back with a grunt of effort, green-black liquid spouting from the wound, and launches a boot into her gut to topple her over the precipice.

He wastes no time rounding on Jaskier, stomping back until he's looming over the bard still kneeling in the bloody dirt.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he demands. Oh, he's furious.

"I was thinking you were bleeding out and covered in monsters, and that you needed my help!"

Geralt scoffs, teeth bared, and it hits Jaskier like a bolt.

"It would have been helpful for you to stay at the inn, like I told you to."

"If I had stayed at the inn, you would be fish food right now, not henpecking me for saving your life."

"Idiot," the witcher hisses.

"Prick," the bard bites back. They both deflate after a tense moment, the frenzy burned out of them, and Jaskier hauls himself up with Geralt's offered hand.

“Ah, very good," he says, taking a few steps back to dust off his trousers. He's shaking like a leaf in a storm and his clothing is covered in witcher blood and siren guts and gods only know what else, likely a total loss.

He must look a sight, which explains why Geralt is looking at him like he's grown a second head.

"Well done, witcher. Well done, bard-”

“Jaskier, get back from the edge.”

“I don’t know about you, but I am swearing off fish forever, in fact-”

“Jaskier.”

“-maybe women, too, for good measure. At least scary ones with needle teeth and-”

“Jaskier, get back-”

He has the length of a single heartbeat to meet Geralt’s eyes, to watch him lunge forward with his hand outstretched, before the sky tips and Jaskier is falling through it. He barely has time to register the hot slice of talons ripping through his leg or the brain-rattling pain of the ekhidna’s final shriek before they plunge into blackness together.

Jaskier knows the sea, but not this one - it’s dark, made darker still by the clouds hanging in the sky he’d fallen out of, and so impossibly cold that it sucks the air from his lungs. Those massive wings must have broken their fall enough to keep him conscious, but now he’s caught in them like a net, already half-full of seawater and sinking far too quickly. They’re not leathery, like he thought, but fishbelly-slick, making it impossible to find purchase in the ever-darkening water.

When he kicks himself free, he’s buffeted and turned by the current, unsure of which way he should be swimming to get back to the surface.

He can’t even see past the tiny bubbles already starting to escape his nose, but he knows he’s losing too much air as his lungs begin to burn. It’s all turning white at the edges by the time his chest starts to tighten, and still he pushes through the water.

Julian Pankratz came into the world with a song to sing. That's what his mother tells him, anyway, when she reminds him that she labored for a full two days just for him to greet her screaming. The servants and townsfolk had gathered behind the manor to throw flowers into the sea while she brought him into the world - buttercup and blowball, daffodil and coneflower, sprays of roses the color of noontime sun - an offering to the Goddess, a plea for her mercy.

Did he look like a flower, tumbling through the air? Was it a song?

Julian is six years old. It’s his birthday, and his father is showing him how to cast a net into the mudflats behind the manor to catch alewife and perch. The sight of the netting makes him sick, all bloated with wriggling silver skin and dotted with eyes that bulge out into nothing. He spends the rest of the afternoon alone, hunting seashells, lining them up on the shore until the sun spreads like fire on the horizon. He dips his ears below the water when his mother calls him in, letting it swallow his name. Julian, Julian -

“Jaskier!”

Someone is shaking him, slapping his face. A great weight meets his chest, socking him like a sledgehammer - it might steal the breath from him, if he had any.

He’s twelve, all knocking knees and long-limbed shyness, showing the porter’s son how to coax little crabs out from the tidepools. Their clay-stained knuckles brush in the silty water and his face grows hot, hotter still when Janus hooks their little fingers together. Julian runs, then - runs until his lungs feel as though they’ll burst. He doesn’t play with the servants’ children again after that.

He’s retching, the salt-bitter water burning his throat as it comes up. There’s no room for air, no time to breathe before more spouts forth from his mouth and nose. He’s twisted onto his side, fingers clawing through the sand like bloody talons.

Eighteen, and he holds Julian beneath the waves until Jaskier emerges. The world is stretched out before him and he’s hungry for it, starving, holding it in his teeth like a first breath. Posada is as far inland as he's ever been, far enough that his clothes have just stopped smelling of brine. He crests and falls like a wave that afternoon, crashing against his own heart, dissolving into foam and rising again. Three words or less.

The first breath hits him like fire, colliding sharply with the water still left in his lungs, but it comes. He takes another, chokes up more foam, and then he must be back in the water because he’s rocking, rocking. There’s a shh-shh in his ear, like the inside of a seashell, a secret thing. It’s warm against his temple, his forehead, his eyelids.

Twenty. Drowning in Rinde. Heat, salt, copper, bubbling up in his throat, stealing all the spaces air should be. Geralt is holding him, until he isn’t - until he’s holding her. Hope washes out like a tide.

Consciousness returns to Jaskier in fits and starts - the crackle of a fire and the distant, scratchy hum of early cicadas comes first, then the cool breeze ruffling the dry hair across his forehead. Everything else is warm, soft enough at the edges to let him float just below the surface of awareness for a while, just beyond the grasp of pain.

When he does manage to drag his eyes open, they settle on a familiar shape - Geralt, outlined by the glow of a fire, folded into a meditative stance beside the bed. His chest is bare, starkly pale against the gashes that are already healing - not quite closed, but already turning a healthy pink at the edges.

His hands are closed around one of Jaskier’s, rough and warm. Something about that is peculiar, but it slips from his mind, silverfish-quick.

He turns instinctively into that warmth but doesn’t have a chance to examine it further before his body ignites in pain. It feels as though he’s been wrenched apart and put back at odd angles, his insides not quite where he left them. He gasps, a mistake that sets him heaving, hacking around shards of ice as the shadow beside him startles and shifts.

“Easy, Jaskier. Small breaths,” Geralt’s voice is rough in his ear as he tilts Jaskier to one side, just in time for him to retch into a waiting basin. The ringing is back in his ears, his mouth full of brine and blood, when he’s hauled back up. The room spins.

“What,” he tries to ask, but it comes out as a wordless croak.

Geralt's hand sparks weakly in the corner of his vision, and then the rough edge of a mug brushes his cracked lower lip. Hot tea, something vaguely medicinal but sticky-sweet with honey, soothes his dry mouth but scratches his throat. It’s taken away too soon when his chest spasms again, forcing what little air he has out in burning gasps until his vision starts to blur.

He's gulping, hiccuping, his body crying out for air, but there seems to be no room for it.

He registers, distantly, the bed dipping under Geralt’s weight as his fingers are gently unwound from where Jaskier is clawing into his arms, and then their hands are tangled together.

One hand pressed flat to Geralt’s chest, the other against his own, their discordant heartbeats keep time beneath his palms as Geralt takes slow, shallow breaths. Jaskier matches them in time, regaining some control.

“What happened?” he rasps.

“What do you remember?” Geralt asks in return. His eyes are shadowed, searching Jaskier’s face in the dim light as he wades through his muddled memory. Images bubble to the surface, disjointed, curling in his stomach like he’s falling again.

“The water, and- oh, ow, fuck- my leg.”

Geralt winces, nods as Jaskier reaches down to clutch at his thigh above the neatly bandaged wound that had, until now, escaped his awareness. The movement tugs at the other set of bandages, snug around his ribs. When he looks at Geralt for an answer, his golden eyes flick away, pupils narrowing as he stares into the fire. It looks like a door closing.

“You weren’t breathing.”

Of course. Jaskier had seen it once at Oxenfurt - a ghastly demonstration on a corpse, no match for the brutal reality of it that had come years later when they spent a season in Skellige. Jaskier had been held back with some difficulty, thinking one of the villagers was beating a man who had washed up along the shore to death. The sick snap of a rib cracks in his memory.

"Broken, then." It's not a question - not a hopeful one, anyway, but Geralt shakes his head.

"No, but badly bruised." His voice cracks like it chokes him, like it's weighing him down, and Jaskier can’t bear it.

"Ah, good news. We'll be back on the Path in no time, then-"

"You will stay here and rest," Geralt interrupts.

"Geralt, enough." Jaskier swats the witcher's hands away where they fuss at the edge of his bandages and attempts to push himself upright with trembling arms. "I am not some fragile-"

"You are fragile, Jaskier," he growls, snatching the bard's wrist in his hand to still him, grip just tight enough to make him wince. Geralt drops it like a hot brand. "You're human."

Jaskier's heart falls into his stomach. It's churning, tempestuous, stealing the breath from him. Just human, always just human. He feels small, insignificant as he drops his hands into his lap.

"Geralt, I don't-" Jaskier swallows thickly, struggling to keep hold of his shallow breath. "I don't feel well, could you-"

"What is it?"

“Could you just…yell at me in the morning?”

“I won’t yell at you in the morning.” Something peculiar dances at the edge of Geralt's voice, and Jaskier knows better than to think this is the end of it.

“What, then?”

“In the morning, we will find the healer, and then I am going to make sure this never happens again.”

A cold spike of fear, of grief, jumps into Jaskier’s throat, a fresh wave of saltwater already stinging behind his eyes as he nods his understanding.

“You’re going to leave me.”

Geralt shifts, his expression tightening in a way Jaskier is sure will hurt to remember later.

“I should.” And then, impossibly, “But I… I would not like to be without you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stares at him, unreadable as always, before he decides to throw himself from another edge.

“I would not like to be without you, either,” he whispers, carefully metering out his precious air with each word as his foolish heart slams in his chest. Surely, Geralt can hear it. “Do you understand?”

Geralt laughs, the wretch. It’s a wet, breathless thing that he throws into the ceiling, like he’s praying to one of those gods he doesn’t believe in. The palm of one broad, warm hand slides up Jaskier’s arm, along his shoulder, against his neck, soothing the chill from his skin. Geralt tips into him slowly, slowly, until their foreheads press together.

“I do,” Geralt breathes, so close that Jaskier feels the words on his own lips. “Now, I do.”

Two fingers hook beneath his chin, tilting his face up. Geralt’s eyes have gone round and soft and fond, the agelessness slipping from them for a moment. He gathers Jaskier’s hand against his chest again and he can feel the witcher’s tempered heartbeat flipping beneath his fingertips.

Surely, Jaskier must be at the bottom of the ocean. Surely, the sweet brush of lips at the corner of his own is merely a pleasant hallucination. It's probably a crab eating his face.

"Wait, no," he squeaks. That wonderful pressure disappears immediately. "I mean, yes, I mean, Geralt!"

The witcher in question only watches him, merciless amusement arching his brow.

"I've just thrown up half of the North Sea," he says seriously. Geralt grins, unseriously, as Jaskier tugs on his wrist to get him closer anyway.

"Don't care," he mutters against Jaskier's cheek.

“You smell like a grave hag.”

"I've smelled worse, and you wanted to kiss me then, too."

"You're disgusting," Jaskier protests, tipping his face into Geralt's anyway. "And a bastard. I hate you."

"You don't," he accuses.

"I don't," Jaskier agrees, and grants Geralt his kiss, dry and chaste and sweet against his salt-chapped smile. Their noses are in the way, the angle is wrong. It’s nothing like he had imagined - and gods, he had imagined this - and nothing, nothing, has ever been more perfect.

The fog has lifted, dawn curling her golden fingers toward them through the mountain peaks in the distance by the time Jaskier wakes again. He's startled from a dream, something about flowers falling from the sky, but it floats away from him like mist when he finds Geralt’s hand settled carefully around his hip. He smells like saltwater and cypress, leather and horse - like an old home, and a new one.

“Geralt?” he asks, softly, just in case his witcher has found sleep. A gravelly hmm slips into his ear anyway. “You'll stay?”

"I won't leave you," he answers. "Go back to sleep."

“Good," Jaskier mumbles, somewhere just on the softer edge of wakefulness. "I won’t leave you either."

In this light, with the morning sun washing them in gold, with Geralt's heart beating free and steady under his open palm, it could almost be true.

#Brought to you by the writer having pneumonia #I hope you like this!! I shook your prompt and 4200 words fell out #Thank you so so much #I'm unhappy with this one but I can't poke it any more than I already have #Geralt x jaskier #geralt x jaskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #geraskier fic #I'm so bad at tagging #the witcher #geralt of Rivia #jaskier

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rockingrobin69 · 6 months

Text

This

It was too warm, a little stuffy, and for some reason wet just under his elbow. Harry wouldn’t so much call it a ‘blanket fort’ as he would a ‘gigantic mess perching for catastrophe’, but the smile was plastered so thick on his face that he couldn’t bring himself to say much of anything. Draco was on his belly, trailing sparkling little paths with his forefinger for Teddy to follow: to cry with delight, to babble and point at, to whine for more, more, more.

Harry got it. The same whine was stuck in his throat, throbbing under his breastbone. It smelled like Draco’s cologne, the sweet one he got in Waitrose, and like tomato ketchup for whatever reason. It felt soft, sticky to the touch, and unbearable.

Bearing it, still smiling. Harry wiggled and turned so he was on his back, tactically avoiding the wet patch with a pinging curve of his hips. Miraculously, Draco followed, resting his head on Harry’s belly. Teddy came too, warm fingers grabbing Harry’s hair, his eyes so big in his face.

“And that, Tedward, is—” Draco’s voice cracked on a yawn. “Leo minor, I believe.”

Harry had to crank his neck to lean forward, to kiss the crown of his head. “You believe?” he asked. Meant to snort, but it came out too fond.

“Might have got a touch—distracted. It’s your face, doing that.” Hiding his own in Harry’s shirt.

“Doing what?”

Draco mumbled something. Huffed, warm even through the fabric. “This… silly little grin. Not little. Not grin. This, Harry, you know. Melting thing.”

“Begging your pardon, you absolute arse,” laughing when Teddy’s babbling kicked up a notch, smiling and excited. Harry sent one arm out for Ted to crawl under, wrapped the other one around Draco, tried breathing. “What melting thing.”

Miserably, “The, thing. Where you… oh, come on, don’t make me say it,” one grey eye opening, finding his. “Just shut up and cuddle, hmm?”

Teddy was squiggling happily. On Harry's belly was an onslaught of deliberate tickling, of nips and fingers trailing under his shirt to pinch. “Oi!” but he couldn’t stop laughing, “Draco, stop, stop,” and Teddy was squealing, and Draco was vicious, was lovely, was warm and a little sticky, and avoiding the wet patch became a true art form, became meaningless. “Come—here,” grabbing Draco’s head with two hands, locking him into place and pasting a thick kiss right on his nose. “You impossible goon.”

“Me,” with incredulity, with his eyelashes. “I’m the impossible one. Are you hearing this, Teddington?”

“Just, hush,” choking on this bright starburst of affection, rolling his eyes, helpless. In his arms, two of the most childish, unbelievable people he knew, one of them a literal baby, and the other possibly the—whole width of his heart. Two people he loved so stickily and so frustratingly tight, that he couldn’t resist and would never want to.

The corners of the world were tittering—this ‘blanket fort’ wasn’t built to last. On the rug, for some reason wet, Harry closed his eyes with his chest fit to burst. Happy, he thought, and over-warm and teary, but not melting, not even close. Just… soft, the whole thing, the pillars of this blankety existence and also the look on Draco’s face.

“Hey,” a crackly whisper, “Harry, are—oh! You cheat,” roaring with laughter when Harry bit and tickled and antagonised in every way known to man with only one arm available. With Teddy egging him on and with, with, with all of this, the middle of their living room and a Thursday and a stupid blanket fort, not a blanket fort, a disaster.

“I—” the lump in his throat made it even harder. “Draco, it’s…”

“Your doom? Quite right,” in his brilliant smile and those eyes. “Come on, Tedfield, just like we practiced,” and together they went on the most uncoordinated attack, something that Harry could easily escape, if he wasn’t laughing so hard he was crying, if he wasn’t on the floor and a little drenched with mystery wetness that might have been ketchup. If he wanted to, when there was nothing he wanted but this.

Not his doom. His… this.

(Flufftober day 19. Find the soft AO3 collection here).

#this might be the softest thing i've written?#drarry fic #baby teddy #uncles drarry for the WIN #flufftober2023 #prompt: Keeping someone safe #the safest place known to man - a blanket fort in one's living room #rockingrobin69 #700 words

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911onabc · 11 months

Text

The one out on the water

teen & up | evan "buck" buckley/eddie diaz | 902 words

summary: On their honeymoon, Buck and Eddie try kayaking. Eddie doesn’t really want to paddle. He finds a way around this problem.

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“Hey honey,” Buck called out from the back of the kayak as he pulled his paddle out of the water. “Are you planning on, I don’t know, paddling? ”

Once Buck stopped paddling, they were mostly just floating in the open ocean in a plastic open-top kayak.

Eddie had stopped paddling a minute or so after they had been pushed off the beach, instead leaning back and letting Buck do all the work from the back seat. After all, Eddie figured, they were on vacation.

Eddie wasn’t exactly sure what had come over him, but the second they boarded the plane the morning after their wedding, all he wanted to do was lounge. And have sex with his husband.

Because, really–wasn’t that the whole point of a honeymoon?

All of this meant that by the time they made it down to the beach the second morning of their trip, it was almost noon.

Buck, of course, still had energy. So when a resort employee approached them with a laminated picture of a kayak and a special low price of ten dollars, Buck agreed for the both of them before Eddie could even open his mouth to protest.

So, if this wasn’t even his idea, why should Eddie have to paddle?

“I don’t need to paddle,” Eddie smirked. “You seem perfectly capable of doing it alone.”

“Eddie, come on, if you don’t paddle my core is gonna get all sore.” Buck complained.

“Your core?” Eddie asked, glancing back at him. “What about your arms? Or shoulders?”

“Really, most of the work should be coming from your core,” Buck explained. “And legs. Kayaking should be a full-body activity.”

“I didn’t even know that,” Eddie hummed, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “So really, I shouldn’t be paddling. I could hurt myself.”

“I think you could handle it,” Buck deadpanned, placing his paddle in the water again, and they started moving. “Eddie, come on! ”

Instead of helping Buck out, Eddie leaned back further in his seat, taking a hand to rub Buck’s calf behind him.

“But you’re doing such a good job, baby.” Eddie said, his voice sickly sweet.

“Eddie–” Buck stopped, pulling his paddle out of the water again and letting the boat slowed to a halt.

“You think you can make it all the way down the beach and the back on your own?” Eddie asked.

“I mean,” Buck scoffed, his voice uneven. “Obviously I could. I would just prefer not to. Isn’t the point of being married that we help each other?”

“I just think you’re so strong,” Eddie smiled back at him, ignoring the marriage comment. “You don’t really need my help, do you?”

“Are you really trying that?” Buck glared at him.

“I don’t know,” Eddie mused. “Is it working?”

Instead of answering, Buck just let out a long sigh and put the paddle back in the water. As they started to move, Eddie got comfortable, rubbing his hand up and down Buck’s leg.

“Look at you go,” Eddie said, basking in the warm sunlight. “Doing all the work. What a good boy.”

Buck sighed, like he was trying to sound annoyed. Only he wasn’t. Annoyed, that is. Buck was something else entirely.

Really, Eddie was doing both of them a service by refusing to pick up his paddle.

“You know,” Eddie kept talking. “I’m so lucky to have such a big, strong, husband who can carry all of my weight. I bet you could go ever faster, too.”

“Hmfph.” Buck let out, not quite an approval but at least an acknowledgment. He started paddling a little harder, and the boat slid through the water faster than before.

“Honestly,” Eddie said, taking the permission to go a little further. “You’re so good for me. So good at taking care of me. I can’t wait to get back to the hotel room and lie back on the fresh sheets so you can put your big strong hands inside of me, and–”

“Eddie!” Buck all but hissed, cutting him off and stopping the boat again. “We’re outside .”

“We’re on the ocean,” Eddie scoffed. “The closest people are like, at least a hundred feet away.”

“But we’re heading towards the shore, where I’m going to have to get up,” Buck stressed. “On a crowded beach. Where people can see me.”

Eddie, of course, shone with pride. He loved how easily Buck could become undone with just his words. He also didn’t mind the idea of everyone on the beach finding that out.

But, Buck obviously did. And Eddie took pity on his husband.

“Hmm,” Eddie hummed. “Well, I guess you better paddle me around for a little longer until you calm down a little. It’s kind of relaxing, actually.”

“Not for me,” Buck whined. “ Come on, you’re not gonna help at all?”

“I was helping,” Eddie argued. “I was giving you very nice encouragement.”

Buck sighed, but put his paddle back in the water and they started moving again.

“I could get used to being carried around like this for the rest of our lives.” Eddie admitted, tossing one of his feet over the edge of the kayak to dip his toes in the cool water.

“Yeah, of course you could,” Buck mumbled. “Passenger princess.”

Really, it only stung a little bit. And Eddie couldn’t even argue. Because, as much as knew Buck inside and out–

Buck knew Eddie just as well.

#buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie fic #buddie fluff #one word prompts #911 fic #911 #911 fox #911 abc #writing tag

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