#but I managed to write something!

[yzafre]

Knowing the Shredder will attack soon, Karai rushes to teach the turtles about their Ninpo – to little effect.

Seeing their frustration, April tries to help them out.

Or: an attempt at a theoretical episode extending the beginning of “Shreddy or Not”

[r-aindr0p]

made crumbs for myself but I'm throwing the blame on Vampirook's imagination Still mad at myself because I'm not satisfied enough yet with how I draw Rollo hhghqfhgrhsfds time to stare at the source material for hours to examine, maybe light a candle and pour a glass of wine idk

Also throwing in a Rook edit I did of that pingu edit because I had it laying around in the image gallery :))) a crumb for you there reading rn (it will follow you around affectionately)

[calware]

happy 413 everyone, here's the fic i wrote about hal and what it's like having a body

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64551466

[jesuistrestriste]

art donaldson mercilessly fucking you while he whimpers “imagoodboyimagoodboyimagoodboy—!” into your neck

his voice breaking and his hands clawing at your flesh, his entire body trembling as he’s able to focus on nothing but chasing the high of being inside of your convulsing warmth

[corsairspade]

there are many reasons I like the "Erestor son of Caranthir" headcanon but secretly the main one is that I'm imagining all of the remaining noldo auditors sighing of relief when Caranthir dies and they don't have to try play 4d chess with multiverse time travel trying to catch this guy doing tax evasion. life is good for exilic auditors now.

and then suddenly Elrond and Elros turn up again! even better! oh who's this, Elrond? your good friend Erestor? he's helping you with your taxes? oh how swe- what is this Elrond. What is this. your paperwork for your taxes you say. not a declaration of war? because it looks like a declaration of war on the exilic auditors, Elrond.

and then all the auditors are so busy doing "extreme tax auditing™" for the first time since the second Kinslaying that they don't tell anyone they're pretty sure there's another scion of the house of Fëanor running around.

[spacedace]

Still thinking about the Social Worker Jazz concept that @gilbirda posted about and it's slowly turning into a full Anger Management fic send help

-

Jason at length - much longer than it really should have taken really - set the resume down.

The new Social Worker’s resume. Because she was there, in his office, trying to convince him to hire her as a member of his criminal organization.

Crime Alley’s new social worker. A bright eyed Midwestern transplant from some tiny speck of a place that only qualified as a city because there was nothing bigger in a hundred miles in any direction to claim otherwise. The new social worker who had a Psy D. and three masters degrees and who had graduated Valedictorian. The one that had high paying private gigs lined up all over the country with the offering companies fighting over her.

The one who had, apparently, decided to take a shit job in Gotham’s shoddy social services department instead. The one that got kicked to Crime Alley - which was its own division despite technically being a small neighborhood in the grand scheme of things - within her first month. Supposedly for the sole purpose of scaring her off or getting her killed for all the questions she was asking and secret dealings she was sticking her nose into.

That social worker.

“I’m gonna need you to run this by me again.” Jason said, never so grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet as he was in that moment. It stripped out the bewilderment that had bled through into his words and made him sound stoic instead.

“I’d like to work for you.” The social worker - one Dr. Jasmine Nightingale - repeated primly. Back straight, clothes neat - if skewing more on the librarian side of professional - expression confident and hopeful. Completely and utterly oblivious of how fucking insane she sounded. “I was told that you’re the person in charge of Crime Alley.”

He resisted the urge to scrub at his face. It’d just look weird with his helmet on and not do anything to actually settle him in that moment anyway. “I understood that part.”

“Look, Doc,” She earned a doctorate and she was crazy enough to waltz into the office of one of Gotham’s most powerful Crime Lords, he’d be respectful about using her proper title at least, even if he suspected she was ten pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. “You’re going to have to tell me why. I was under the impression the only reason you ended up dumped on our end of the city ws because you wouldn’t play ball. But now you want to sign up for my crew?”

Nightingale frowned a little at that.

“Is that what people are saying?”

“What else are they gonna say?” Jason answered, leaning back in his seat, “Head of the department only dumps Crime Alley on folks he don’t like. And everyone knows he doesn’t like anyone that can’t or won’t play his game by his rules.”

“Alright, well. I’ll give you that.” Nightingale conceded, “Payne doesn’t like me. The feeling’s mutual. But for the record,” She added giving him a wry smile, as if sharing wry smiles with Red Hood was just something people did, “I asked to be assigned to the Park Row and Bowery neighborhoods.”

“You wanted to work here.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

Nightingale laughed. It was a bright sound. Not especially clear or pretty, but warm and welcoming in a way that carefully calculated giggles or overdone guffaws couldn’t be. Something with real and honest amusement in it, that encouraged those nearby to laugh along. Not the kind of involuntary, nervous chuckling people tended to slip into when they thought they had pissed someone that scared them off.

She just wasn’t intimidated by him at all, was she?

Behind his helmet, Jason found himself smiling. Just a bit.

“I’m serious.” She assured, blue-green eyes meeting the dark stare of his helmet without a moment of hesitation. He watched as she brushed a lock of her bright red hair behind her ear and out of the way. She’d woven it all into a practical, neat braid but a few sly pieces had snuck out to bounce around her. Gilding her quiet professionalism with a playful charm that worked well with her academia but make it cottagecore kindergarten teacher aesthetic.

“I’ll admit, Gotham wasn’t part of my plan when I first graduated. Time and choices take you funny places sometimes.” She plucked an invisible bit of lint off her soft blue cardigan, not nervous but absent as her gaze went distant for a moment. Thinking back on the events that had led her to his fine city. In a blink, those sharp eyes were back to focusing entirely on him. “But Gotham is where I am now, and I want to help.”

She looked at him, a serious, determined expression settling easily on her face. “The city as a whole has so much chaos and crime breaking out all the time.” No censure or horror in her voice, just a neutral fact to be observed. “But where the rest of the city has millions of dollars poured into it by various foundations or charities run by the Waynes, Park Row is largely ignored.”

Jason watched as steeliness sharpened her gaze, the blue-green shifting from the shine of a bird’s wing to the warning hue of something poisonous and deadly. “No one deserves that. No one.” Her chin tilted up, proud but not imperious. “So yes, I want to work here. There are people in Park Row and the Bowery who need help and I refuse to let any of them feel like they are going to be ignored.”

Jason considered her.

Really looked at her. Pealing back his initial off handed impression of her as some clueless transplant in over her head with no idea of what she was doing or what she was poking her nose into to find the real woman beneath. Her confident poise, her clear unshakable belief, her unflinching willingness to look danger in the eye and not blink. The tense curve of her frown, the lines of pain at the corners of her eyes, the simmering anger beneath it all. There was an edge to her, too. Something sharp and dangerously well hidden by the cardigan and folksy charm of her accent.

It was personal for the woman before him, Jason realized. Maybe not Crime Alley specifically, but something about the whole situation. The treatment the neighborhood and its residents received from the city at large, from those even beyond it.

Crime Alley wasn’t a place that received much in the way of charitable thought. The average joe with their house in Somerset and job at some corporate shithole hating every second of their life but thinking at least I don’t live in Crime Alley. Those asshole hoity-toites in city hall throwing money around equally between shit that’d get them re-elected and their off-shore slush funds in the Caymens doing their damn level best to pretend the black mark on the other end of the city just didn’t exist. Bruce, flooding the entire city with charitable programs and carefully constructed infrastructures shying away from the manifested grief and trauma that was the place he watched his parents get murdered.

For the most part no one from outside of the Alley gave a shit about the Alley other than as a place to avoid at all costs. And most of the time those natives that manages to claw their way out into better and brighter lives didn’t ever turn to glance back. Orpheus could have learned a thing or to from an ex-Alley Kid who managed to eek out a steady 9-to-5 and move to Burnley.

And something about that seemed to piss Dr. Jasmine Nightingale Psy. D right the fuck off.

He could see why Bill said he liked her enough to let her in.

“Alright.” He said, tilting his head, watching the woman seated across from him carefully, “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. Why you’re trying to get on my payroll.”

“I’m not trying to get on your payroll.” She said, some of the glinting edge softening, but the steel remaining. Strong and unyielding. “I’m trying to get into your community outreach program.”

Jason thanked god and all the saints once again for the gift of his helmet. That baby had saved his ass more times than he could count both by keeping his head in one piece and keeping his stupefied expressions wrapped up and hidden from view. Dr. Nightingale was one hell of a woman to make him have to rely on that fact twice in one conversation.

“Wasn’t aware that was something I had.”

Nightingale, not fortunate enough to have a full face covering helmet of her own, had nothing to hide her stupefied expression behind. Jason had a feeling she might have removed it to make sure he saw even if she did though. She looked like she had caught him eating glue like it was a cheese stick.

“Yes you do.” She said, sounding deeply confused but unshakable confident in what she was saying. “I’ve seen it. The soup kitchens, the shelters, the collection boxes for donating old clothes, the after school day care.” Nightingale ticked off on her fingers, “I’ve lived here for less than two weeks and I’ve lost count of all the things I’ve seen setup to help people struggling in the area that I’ve been very reliably informed you and your organization are behind.”

Oh.

Those.

“Those aren’t part of some community outreach program.” He said, “We are simply locals offering services for our neighbors.”

He watched as her caught-him-eating-glue expression shifted into one that said she’d stumbled upon him licking electrical sockets for a mid-day pick-me-up instead. He had to give it to her, the woman was not afraid to let one of the most dangerous men in the city know she thought he was a fucking idiot.

“Let me see if I understand this right.” She said, and he appreciated that there wasn’t any kind of condescension in her voice, even though she very clearly thought he’d been dropped on his head as a baby. Possibly from the top of a three story building. “You have a large group of people working together to plan, organize and execute multiple services in your area - your community, if you will - that provide aid and support to those that otherwise would not receive it. Reaching out with your available time and resources to offer these services, that you provide. For free.”

Alright, Jason got it. He had stumbled ass backwards into creating a community outreach program. But he wasn’t just going to let her think she won this one. He was Red Hood, he had a reputation to uphold here.

“What makes you think any of that is free?” He tilted his head at just the right angle, the one that cast shadows across the planes of his helmet and made him look hell-touched and terrifying. “Just because we don’t charge money, doesn’t mean there isn’t a price to pay.”

Dr. Nightingale, dressed like a damn kindergarten teacher, laughed at him.

[cloudbends]

[ID: a digital drawing in two parts, depicting characters from pokemon horizons, facing with their back to the viewer: the first drawing depicts the three original explorers heading away towards the light, as lucius hugs rystal and gibeon's shoulders. the second drawing depicts liko and amethio, their descendants, standing still and facing the light. end ID.]

"our adventure isn't over yet, isn't that right?"

[offonaherosjourney]

If Alethkar wasn't always at war with someone, Adolin Kholin would have already discovered and gotten into drag. Sure, his wife would have to write most of his jokes and quips for him, but his fashion and dance routines would be unmatched. Her drag name would be Dolly Khocklin

[cubbyhole-for-flea-bee]

Once the theatre monkey discovers angsty broadway musicals its all over y'all

or: I got a new personal project I'm workin' on! I'm at the first pass on the animatic rn! I forgot that 'generate matte' is a thing you can do in SB Pro for a whole hour!! I'm suffering!!!

[shouyuus]

unfading memories/price of perfection

vi is married with cait, living in a grand kiramann household, with a secure job. There’s nothing to really complain about, however one day she reunites with the reader by chance and realizes the perfect life she’s living in isn’t what she wanted.

She decides to wash out the dirt beneath cait’s nails.

send me one + a character and i'll write you a drabble

─── Ⅵ LIKE MY WHISKEY NEAT (or, the price of perfection)

violet; sfw, fluff and angst; vaguely implied infidelity

it was a good life, vi thinks, smiling at caitlyn from across the market, the bright progress day sun beating down on her shoulders, making her skin go tacky beneath the thick fabric of her enforcer's uniform.

it was a stable kind of life, vi reflects, letting cait lace their fingers, lean down to murmur something about a trinket or other. there's a badge heavy around her waist and the dull buzz of the crowd humming somewhere behind her ears.

"— this year… vi?"

vi blinks, shaking her head, "huh? oh — sorry cupcake, got distracted." vi flashes cait a half-strung grin. cait smiles, the uncertainty that had once sat behind her ocean eyes having flashed off the with the passing months, years…

vi swallows, following behind cait as they work their way through the vendors on the bridge of progress, ostensibly on "patrol" but vi knows (and so does everyone else who sees them) that its just a glorified shopping trip.

this is what you've always wanted, vi thinks, staring up at the moon-slatted ceiling, cait lying by her side. her breathing is steady, her honeyed scent familiar and slightly cloying. its a scent that vi's grown to love, she tells herself — to love.

"do i really have to wear this?" vi asks, plucking at the dark red organza monstrosity currently strapped around her torso. cait tuts, glancing at her in the mirror.

"its not for long — you know how big this council gala is —"

vi sighs, her hands dropping to her sides as she watches cait fuss with a pair of sapphire drop earrings the precise color of her eyes. something inside her flops — its a soft, sagging kind of feeling — and vi wonders why it feels so suspiciously close to where her heart used to be. she takes a breath and puts on a smile, the kind of smile she remembers offering to powder when she wanted to placate her, the kind of smile that's tight-lipped. the kind that doesn't quite touch her eyes.

this shit itches — it's the only thought vi has as she waddles her way through the piltover glitterati, cait laughing softly behind her hand at something someone's said, the sound prickling at vi's skin till she can't help but to scratch at the material of her top. thankfully, cait had spared her the horror of wearing a dress and had only insisted on a pair of tight black slacks.

someone somewhere tries to press a glass of something into her hands but cait only smiles and waves it off.

"sorry. gin, vodka, or champagne only, please."

vi purses her lips into what she hopes is a convincing grin before turning away.

the music starts, and a stream of feathered burlesque dancers flow onto the small stage situated at the center of the room, surrounded by a mote of champagne glasses. guests gasp with delight as the dancers start to sway in tandem with the music, a few clapping as a few dancers fall into graceful flips, each layer of brightly colored bodies falling away like the petals of a blooming flower, and at the center, rising above all the rest —

vi's breath catches; her heart thumps like a fist against her sternum, heavy and insistent.

you.

you'd always been beautiful, the kind of beauty that is in and of itself a defiance, especially in a place like zaun. vi can't believe how much she's forgotten, but it also startles her how much she can remember the moment she sets eyes on you — the sound of your laughter, the coco butter smoothness of your skin, the twinkle of lost stars caught behind the twin mischief of your eyes.

you'd been friends, once — or perhaps even more. but neither of you had been old enough to know the name for the unspoken thing that had strung between your bodies, glimmering and gossamer thin, caught with the pendulous dewdrops of adolescent longing.

the world falls away as you start to dance, twisting your body around a long metal pole striking up to the ceiling. men and women alike share appreciative, covetous glances at you, and you bask in the attention, glowing beneath the attention and concentrated stage lights — glowing. vi hears nothing of the music, but she feels the breath and swell of it in the way you move; she doesn't know the words but she knows that it's a love song without ever having to stop and listen.

for a second, your eyes flicker down to meet hers, and the recognition she sees there paralyses her.

a breath, and the dance has finished. the song tapers out even as the room rumbles around her with thunderous applause. you sweep into a deep bow, and vi fights for a breath you've long since stolen. she grapples at her own chest with a hand, gasping. by the time she looks up at the stage again, you've gone, but she's pushing her way through the crowd before she can stop herself.

a pair of hands catch her arm and she twists around to see cait's wide, questioning eyes.

"vi? where're you —"

vi swallows, licking her lips, "i'll — i'll be right back," she says, and her stomach clenches at the taste of the lie — she's long since forgotten how sweet they could taste. she sees the worry flicker out of cait's eyes as she lets vi go, nodding.

vi turns and tries not to gag around the bitterness already welling up the back of her throat.

she finds the dressing rooms without much difficulty, following the soft laughter and click-clatter of dancers heels and the tantalizing smell of perfume oils. when she peers around a slightly opened door, she catches sight of one of the other dances, who glances at her as the door creaks, a knowing grin slung around her hips.

"ah — she's here," the dancer says, shooting vi a playful wink, jerking her head towards the back of the room. vi doesn't even have time to question how this dancer knew just who she'd been looking for before her gaze falls on you again and the words slip from her, as does all coherent thought except —

"oh."

you turn, your eyes limned with kohl, your cheeks dusted with rouge. there's a sparkle to your skin that vi suspects isn't entirely natural, but the way you smile is everything she remembers and more. a thrill tingles down her spine, and suddenly, the dressing room feels too small and too big all at once, space pressing in and pushing out till she's stumbling forward.

"if it isn't zaun's very own piltover enforcer," you say, drawing out your vowels as you twist around to grin at her. the oxymoron of your words don't escape her, and vi feels heat flush into her cheeks as she presses her lips.

"i — it's —" she clears her throat, curses inwardly, and tries again, "it's been a long time."

you bite at your bottom lip in a gesture so familiar vi's entire stomach flips.

"yeah, i mean —" you wave a vague hand at the shape of her, standing awkwardly in your dressing room, her itchy, tulle-pleated top making her skin prickle worse than ever. an amused grin spread across your lips even as vi resists the urge to yank the entire thing off, "i never thought i'd see you in something so…"

you trail off, searching for a suitable word. finally, you settle on —

"festive."

vi frowns, shoving her hands into the blessedly deep pockets of her slacks.

"it was just for the party," she says, feeling more defensive than perhaps absolutely necessary. you shrug, light and uncaring, turning back to your mirror, picking up a small white pouf to dab at the bridge of your nose.

"even so, i hear you've been living the good life," you say, glancing at her from the reflection in the mirror. vi crinkles her nose and takes a few steps forward, something very much like a scream building in her chest, though she doesn't quite know why.

"it's —" her breath cuts off as she realizes the knee-jerk denial that had bubbled up out of her before she could even think to stop it, acerbic and mind-numbingly honest. you pause mid-pouf to pin her with a look, and for a single, solitary second, vi can almost pretend you're both kids again, her watching you primp in the reflection of a shard of mirror (broken, of course — probably stolen), leaning against the edge of her and powder's bunk bed.

"it's… not all bad," she finally manages, to which your answer is a single derisive ha of laughter as you continue to dust a fine shimmer of light powder over your already flawless skin.

"sure," you say, your voice going saccharine in a way she's always hated. vi sighs, dropping her eyes. she realizes then that she'd been fiddling with her fingers, an old nervous habit she thought she'd kicked years ago.

"it's not —" she says, though her voice wavers, and when you make a noncommital noise, vi huffs out a breath. "this — this is what i've always wanted — what we've always wanted — i — i'm — happy —"

you set the pouf down and lean forward to straighten a few strands of artfully loose hair framing your face before twisting and pushing yourself up from your chair. like this, you're almost nose to nose, and vi has to suck in a breath to keep from the tantalizing thought of tipping forward, if to find out if your lips were still as sweet as she remembers them to be.

you cock you heard, watching her with dark, light-stricken eyes.

"vi… i never said i thought you were unhappy…" you say, your words low and steady.

vi's heart skids; her stomach clenches. a dull, pulsing ache is settling behind her eyes that she does not have the name for but perhaps, once, it'd been a familiar thing — want. that sparrow-wing thing, desperate as it beats up against her chest, threatening to crest like a tide of feathers into her throat — back when she could still remember what revolution tasted like on her tongue.

"r-right…" she breathes, falling a half step back, even though you haven't made a single move towards her. she runs her fingers through her hair, tugging on the ends just to ground herself in the sting against her scalp.

"but…" you say, and vi's eyes snap up again to find you watching her with a grin curling at the edge of your lips, a molten, midnight light caught behind the flicker of your lashes. you take half a step forward and vi feels the air rush from her lungs at your advance, "if you want… we could sneak out for a drink," you offer.

vi nearly gasps as the sudden rush of certainty that floods through her, thick and hot as adrenaline, at your words.

"y-yeah — i think — i think i can swing that."

you laugh, softly, lightly. then, you peer at her from beneath your thick band of lashes, a wicked grin twisting at your mouth as you cross the gaping cavern of space between you.

"tell me, violet…" you whisper, brushing your lips by her cheek if only to feel her shiver beneath you, "do you still take your whiskey neat?"

a whine almost works its way out of vi's throat as she hisses out a breath, nodding.

"yeah — fuck — yes. i — i do."

[waiting-drives-you-crazy]

dean sucks sam's dick the same way he'd eat pussy; lover's legs on his shoulders and with an extra tight grip on their hips.

[yeonjune]

Yeonjun about the strain he felt while preparing for his debut solo project ✙ "GGUM" MAKING FILM

[lovealwayssay]

It would have been so beautifully poetic if Dean had rescued Cas from the empty paralleling Cas rescuing Dean from hell.

[steveseddie]

rain check

steddie | rating: t | cw: none | wc: 3k | tags: steve has a crush on eddie, but he thinks eddie hates him, (spoiler alert: he doesn’t), miscommunication, confessions, flirting

click here to read on ao3

The sky starts falling just as Steve leaves Family Video. 

He doesn’t mean it literally- although he wouldn’t be surprised if that was the next weird thing to happen in Hawkins. After the Spring Break from Hell they just had, anything feels possible. 

For now it only means that it starts raining. Hard. So hard, in fact, that running across the parking lot to get to his car is enough to soak Steve’s Nikes and the bottom of his jeans, as well as flatten his hair against his forehead- his umbrella doing very little against the wind pushing the water in all directions.

“It couldn’t start raining five fucking minutes later?” Steve mutters, tossing the umbrella in the back and settling in the driver’s seat. 

His jeans stick uncomfortably to his legs and his shoe makes a squelching noise when he presses it against the pedal. Steve grimaces. He can’t wait to get home and change into dry clothes. 

Unfortunately, he can’t rush home to do that, not under these conditions. He has to drive slowly, squinting his eyes at the windshield to try and make out the road through the pouring rain. 

Steve considers pulling over and waiting for the rain to go down, hating that he feels like he’s driving blind, but he knows there’s a chance he’ll be waiting for a long time. 

So he keeps driving- slowly, carefully. It seems he’s the only person in Hawkins who got caught in the rain so crashing into another car right now because he can’t see past his windshield seems unlikely, and there’s no way someone would choose to walk under these conditions.

Or at least that’s what he thinks. 

Steve doesn’t see him at first- the only other person who’s out in the storm. 

He’s walking on the side of the road, hunched shoulders, no umbrella- not that it would do any good with the wind blowing every which way. 

It takes a moment for Steve to recognize him, but as his car gets closer and he squints at the guy through the window, Steve notices the familiar clothes, from the drenched leather jacket to the muddy Reeboks, as well as the familiar wet curls plastered to his face from the rain.

Steve’s heart swoops in his chest the way it always does these days when he sees Eddie. Almost immediately his stomach churns- also the way it does lately when he sees him. 

Because for some reason that Steve can’t comprehend, Eddie Munson hates his guts. 

Before the Spring Break from Hell, Steve wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that Eddie hated him. In highschool, Steve was everything Eddie would stand on a table and loudly proclaim his hatred for- a rich popular jock. But after everything they went through, after fighting side by side to prevent the end of Hawkins, after Eddie jumped into Lover’s Lake to save Steve and Steve dragged an injured Eddie back from the Upside Down, Steve expected Eddie’s opinion on him to have changed. Hell, Eddie had even called Steve cool and badass and maybe even flirted with him a little.

Now, Steve is tempted to believe it was all a hallucination brought on by the demobat bites because as soon as it was over, and as soon as Eddie recovered from his own bites, it was like none of that happened. 

Eddie went back to hating Steve, shutting down his every attempt to get to know him and to become friends. 

It probably wouldn’t bother him so much if he wasn’t the only one Eddie seems to be avoiding, the only one he refuses to spend time with, but he is. In the last few months, Eddie has effectively wormed his way into their little group, becoming friends with everyone except him. He has study dates with Nancy, he hangs out with Robin, he has his nerdy campaigns with the kids and he has become Max’s go-to person for rides to the arcade and the skate park and the diner. All while shutting down every single one of Steve’s invitations to hang out and his attempts to start any conversations. 

It fucking sucks- especially because the constant rejection hasn’t done anything to squash Steve’s crush on the guy. 

Because even if Eddie ices him out and is sometimes a dick to Steve, he’s nothing like that with everyone Steve cares about. He’s good with the kids- constantly driving them to and from the arcade and Family Video, planning campaigns for them even during the summer. He’s nice to Robin- bringing her lunch to work, taking her thrift shopping in Indy. He’s sweet to Max- keeping her company when her mom is working, letting her paint his nails or braid his hair. 

And Steve can’t ignore any of that, or how cute Eddie is when he rambles about some nerdy book, or how hot he looks when he puts his hair up in a bun to fight off the heat or how talented he is when he plays his guitar.

Steve is helpless in the face of all of that, and within months, he finds himself falling for a guy who won’t give him the time of the day.

He knows it’s pathetic and yet, Steve keeps trying, hoping that Eddie will give him a chance, even if it’s just to be friends.

That might be why, instead of driving past him, Steve pulls the car over next to him, leaning across the console to roll down the passenger’s side window.

“Eddie! Hey!” He yells to be heard over the rain. 

Eddie whips his head around, brushing his wet bangs away from his eyes to peek through the window. When he recognizes Steve, his jaw clenches. Steve pretends it doesn’t hurt that the sight of him is enough to make Eddie tense up. 

“What do you want, Harrington?” He shoots back. He only ever calls him Harrington- not Steve or any outrageous nicknames. 

It shouldn’t bother him, but Eddie has nicknames for all of their friends- Birdie, Red, Wheels. So it’s just another reminder to Steve that he’s on the outside when it comes to Eddie. 

When Steve doesn’t reply, Eddie gives him a mean look. “Did you just stop to brag about having a fancy car to get you home while some of us have to walk in the rain?” 

Steve’s eyebrows knit in a frown, the corners of his mouth turning down. “Dude, no, of course not.” 

“Then what do you want?”

He does his best to ignore his hostility. “Where are you headed?” 

“Home,” Eddie says, his reply clipped. 

And because Steve is a pathetic man with a crush, he unlocks the passenger door and says: “Get in.”

“What?”

“I’m giving you a ride, man, get in,” Steve says, gesturing at the passenger seat. Eddie glares at it like it’s going to bite his ass. 

“I don’t need a ride,” he says with a huff.

“Dude, you still have like, five miles left in this downpour,” Steve says in a bitchy tone. Yes, he has a crush on the guy, but that doesn’t mean he can’t get on Steve’s nerves. 

Especially when he’s being a stubborn ass. “It looks like it’s stopping,” he says with a shrug. 

Steve groans, throwing his head back against the headrest in exasperation. “Jesus Christ, Munson! Get in the car!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was that an order, King Steve?” He quips, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s tempted to drive away and leave Eddie to walk five miles in the rain, but he can’t bring himself to do it. It’s not even about his crush anymore, it’s just that Steve is a decent guy- no matter what Eddie seems to think. 

“Look, man. Whatever reason you have to hate me can’t be worth drowning out here or- or catching like, pneumonia or something. Just because you can’t stand me doesn’t mean I don’t care if you die, okay? So suck it up and stop being a dick for five minutes and get in the fucking car!” Steve snaps. He didn’t mean to yell, but maybe he underestimated just how frustrated he feels about Eddie hating him for no reason. 

For a few seconds, Eddie just stands there, stunned, the rain still falling down on him. He blinks at Steve a few times, tiny droplets falling from his long lashes. 

He looks pretty, Steve thinks. Even if, realistically, he looks like a drowned rat- or at least that’s what Robin would say.

He knows she’s going to laugh when he tells her that Eddie picked a storm over getting in the car with Steve. Then she’ll hold Steve’s hand and listen to him whine about his unrequited crush. 

When a few more seconds pass and Eddie doesn’t move, Steve thinks he’s going to have to give up and drive away. But before he can, Eddie opens the door and slides into the passenger seat, quickly rolling up the window to keep water from getting in. 

Then he sits as far from Steve as he possibly can- his arms crossed over his chest, his knees angled towards the door, his head turned towards the window. Once again, Steve tries not to let it sting, focusing on cranking up the heat and switching the car into gear. 

The rain picks up as Steve starts driving them to Forest Hills. If he didn’t think Eddie would jump out of the moving car for doing it, Steve would give him a smug look because the rain isn’t stopping like he said it would, it’s actually getting worse. 

He’s been driving for a few minutes when Eddie breaks the silence, surprising him and making him jump. Steve thought Eddie would just stay silent and ignore him the whole time. 

“I don’t hate you,” Eddie mutters, wrapping his arms tighter around himself. Even with the heat on, his clothes are soaked through and he’s probably still cold after spending so long in the rain. Steve wishes he had a hoodie or a blanket in the back that he could let Eddie burrow. 

“You have a funny way of showing it, man,” he says, not even angry at him, just confused. 

Eddie groans. One of his hands tugs a strand of wet hair in front of his face. “I know, fuck. Sorry.” He sinks down on the seat. “I just don’t know how to act around you, not without an apocalypse happening, I guess.” 

Steve thinks back to the couple of days leading up to their fight with Vecna. Even if they had a rocky start when Eddie almost killed Steve with a broken bottle, he thought they were getting along well, considering the circumstances. Near the end, Eddie was even cracking jokes and calling Steve names! 

And maybe it was just because the world was ending, but then, why did he keep acting normal with everyone except Steve?

“You don’t seem to have that problem with anyone else,” he says, failing not to sound too bitter about it, but it really stings being the only one Eddie doesn’t want anything to do with. 

“I guess not but- I don’t know, man, they’re a lot like me. Under that badass exterior, Wheeler really is just a nerd. And Buckley and I are both, you know, queer and well, the kids- I have a lot in common with them. But you- I don’t-” He tugs on his hair with a frustrated groan. 

“Wait, you- you’re queer?” Steve can’t help but ask. He knows he shouldn’t fixate on that. It doesn’t help his unrequited crush to know that Eddie likes guys anyway since he obviously doesn’t like Steve.

He realizes that Eddie probably didn’t mean to admit that at all when he drops his head in his hands. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that. Now I made you hate me. How’s that for irony?”

“Woah, Eddie, hey,” Steve says, his eyes darting back and forth between Eddie and the road. It’s getting harder to see from the rain picking up which means Steve’s attention should be solely on getting them home without driving off the road, but Eddie is a ball of anxiety and nerves and fear next to him and Steve can’t ignore that. So he pulls the car over on the side of the road and turns sideways on his seat so he can look at Eddie. 

“I don’t hate you, okay? I’ve been trying to be your friend for months, for fuck’s sake. This doesn’t change that.”

Eddie lowers his hands, looking at Steve with his big doe eyes that still look a little scared. “No?”

Steve shakes his head. He hesitates a little before tacking on his own admission. “Actually, it gives us something in common. I’m, uh, I’m bisexual. I like girls and boys.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in his face. “Oh.” He visibly relaxes except for his fingers that keep playing with his rings in his lap. “Um, it’s only boys for me.” 

“Okay,” Steve says, giving him a little smile. “Cool.” 

Eddie’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly into a smile of his own. He looks like he wants to say something else, but he ends up opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally getting any words out. “Steve?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I don’t hate you-”

Steve frowns. “You said that already.”

Eddie holds his hand up. The tips of his fingers are paper white and pruney- Steve should probably start the car again soon and get him home before he dies from hypothermia. Whatever he has to say he can say it while Steve drives-

“I actually kind of like you,” Eddie finishes and Steve is glad he hadn’t started driving again or he might’ve crashed the car into a tree because-

Eddie likes him? Holy shit!

He’s still trying to wrap his head around that when Eddie starts talking again, nervously toying with his rings as he explains. “It wasn’t just that we didn’t have anything in common or that I didn’t know how to act around you- I was worried that you’d hate me if I got too close or if I flirted too much. It- it was easier when I thought we were going to die and I knew I wouldn’t have to deal with you turning me down easily or- or telling me to fuck off, so when we weren’t fighting for our lives anymore I just-”

“Decided to be a dick?” Steve asks, eyebrows raised in amusement. 

“Yeah, pretty much.” Eddie bites his lip around a smile. It’s not even a full smile, but it’s still directed at Steve and so far he’s only gotten scowls and glares from Eddie, so this right here is enough to make his heart stutter in his chest. 

“Well,” Steve says sheepishly, hanging a hand from his neck. “You didn’t have anything to worry about. I, um, I actually liked it when you did that- getting close to me and flirting. I liked it a lot.” 

Eddie’s jaw drops, his round eyes blinking at Steve. “Really?” 

Steve hums. “After everything was over and you weren’t dying anymore, I couldn’t stop thinking about- about you doing it again,” he admits and hears the way Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. “So you can imagine my disappointment when you shut me out instead.”

“I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me.”

“I did. I do.” Steve says. Then he gets an idea. “Actually what do you say if I drive us to my house instead? We can hang out. And my place is closer so we can get you out of those wet clothes sooner.” 

Eddie’s lips tug up into a smirk. It reminds Steve of the one he gave him time in the Winnebago. This is Eddie’s face when he’s about to flirt and he knows he has nothing to lose. Steve braces himself. “Already trying to get me naked, big boy? At least buy me dinner first.”

Blood rushes to Steve’s cheeks, the pet name running through him and settling somewhere at the bottom of his stomach. 

But for all that he’s thought about Eddie flirting with him, he’s thought about flirting back just as much. So he leans closer to Eddie, reaching over the console to twirl one of his wet curls around his finger, giving him his most charming smile. “I can make you dinner. Does that count?”

Eddie’s smirk falters a little. “You want to cook me dinner today? Like- like a date?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Even after I was a dick to you?”

Steve bites his lip, hesitating. “If you don’t want to-” he backtracks, leaning away from Eddie, only for him to grab him by the lapel of his vest, keeping him in place. 

“Like fuck if I don’t. I just thought you’d want to know me better before asking me out, s’all.”

“That’s what dates are for, Eds,” Steve says, enjoying the way Eddie’s eyes widen a little when Steve calls him that. “Have you never been on one?”

Eddie snorts. “I’m a gay nerd in Hawkins Indiana, man. I’m lucky to get mediocre handjobs in dark alleys.”

Steve makes sure to move his eyes slowly and noticeably from Eddie’s face to his lap, giving him an easy grin. “I can give you more than just a mediocre handjob.”

A startled laugh tumbles from Eddie’s lips before his lips stretch into a shit-eating grin. “Oh, I’m sure you can, sweetheart.” 

The pet name sends a shiver down Steve’s spine and he finds himself licking his lips, wanting to kiss Eddie, but he doesn’t want to move too fast when he just accepted to go on a date with him- 

Except, he hasn’t accepted yet. Steve kinda made the decision for him.

“Hey, if you’d rather have our date some other day I can just take you back to the trailer-”

“Nah,” Eddie says, shaking his head. “Why waste any more time? Drive us home, Stevie, show me what I’ve been missing.”

So Steve does just that, pushing away thoughts of kissing Eddie and getting him out of his wet clothes to focus on the road.

At least until he gets them home- where that’s all both of them can think about for some time. 

[rillils]

🌸 post-catws stucky + hug

The first tendril of want shocks him like a splash of ice-cold water poured down his spine.

Bucky doesn’t know at first – doesn’t know what, doesn’t know how. But the want is there, curled up in his chest: small, and starving, like some trembling newborn thing whose first taste of life is hunger, crying to be fed and soothed.

There’s a half-remembered feeling in the back of his mind, something he reaches for when the want aches sharp and spark-bright inside him. The word for it is short and sweet in Bucky’s mouth, so gentle it barely touches his tongue at all, all throat and soft palate: ‘hug’.

It’s a simple concept. Two arms go around one body – that’s all it takes. One step, and there it is: a hug. And Bucky imagines it vividly: his own mismatched arms around Steve, and Steve’s arms folding around him, like a circle – the shape of the infinite, of timeless things like the two of them. A line that should end, but constantly finds one more beginning instead.

He tries to see it, Steve’s broad chest brushing against his as their bodies meet, the swell of Steve’s arms enveloping him, Steve’s big palms splayed wide against his back, touching him. Gentle. Like Steve’s eyes on him are gentle; like the clasp of his hand on Bucky’s shoulder is gentle, always. So gentle, perhaps, that Bucky would hardly even feel the hug around him.

But he would take it, gentle or no. Because the truth, where it lies in the empty pit of his stomach, is that he starves for it, day after day, the want pulsing inside him with every beat of his heart. He just doesn’t know how to ask for it.

So Steve does the asking for him.

His hair is ruffled, limned with copper and wisps of gold in the late afternoon light, and his hands are unsure, nervous. But his eyes. His eyes take Bucky in, searching, urgent – and for a moment, Bucky is sure that Steve, too, must have been starving for this.

“Can I hug you?” he says, and the word sounds especially sweet when it’s Steve pronouncing it. When there’s a ‘you’ attached to it, and that one syllable becomes two, joined seamlessly together, and the new word rolls smooth and honeyed down the curl of Steve’s tongue, hug you, hug you, hug you. “Would that be okay?”

Bucky wets his lips. ‘Yes,’ he means to say, but the word that slips out of his mouth in a rasp instead says, “Please.”

So Steve gathers him close, two arms and one body and his nose buried in Bucky’s dark mop of hair, and he carves a snug space out of himself to make room for Bucky right there, his hands fisted in the back of Bucky’s shirt, their chests pressed so tight together that his heartbeat pounds behind Bucky’s ribs.

It’s not a passing touch, the fluttering echo of a hug Bucky feared he might barely feel. It’s persistent. It’s desperate. It’s a hungry little thing, a creature to be fed tenderly, steadily, so it’ll grow and live, and live.

He wraps his own arms around Steve, and grasps at him just as fiercely as his want commands, a wet exhale shuddering out of his lips to land in the crook of Steve’s neck.

He was wrong, he realizes now, framed in Steve’s embrace like a timeless work of art. He was missing a step.

A hug is a simple concept: two arms go around one body, and they hold on.

[seiwas]

sellllllll it's meeeeee. hehehehehehehehehhehe

so for ur writing exercises.... deku + light? please? pretty please?

:3c

heheh heheh hehe niku. this will be the death of me. me writing izuku for the first time 🥲 i will only do this for you </3

contains: established relationship, spoilers for the end of the manga, aged up deku but sometime in between the final outcome (he doesn't get the h*** s*** from bakugo yet), mentions of sex and scars

deku + light

izuku only sleeps with the lights off.

it isn't uncommon; many people you know can't sleep with even just a sliver of light turned on somewhere in the room. but the difference with izuku, you learn, is not that he's unable to stand the light―it's that he refuses to.

you quickly pick up on it the first few times he sleeps over.

he fidgets in bed, pretty badly, actually. the nightlight you sleep with glows a warm yellow, illuminating the side of your face and coating him in its afterglow. you chalk it up to nerves, how he pulls at his sleeves and adjusts his position constantly; he is, after all, one of the most anxious people you know.

and this relationship―it's new. heck, even you feel a little jittery with his arm wrapped around you.

the rhythmic tapping on your hip only increases pace. you don't think he realizes it, so your hand gently reaches for his, intertwining your fingers as you turn around in his arms.

he's close, nearly touching you nose-to-nose; the proximity leaves you fuzzy, a little ticklish, so you giggle, a soft "oops," as the freckles dusting his face almost glisten under the warm light.

"hi," you whisper, meeting his eyes; they stare back at you wide in surprise, "can't sleep?"

he looks almost guilty at your question, as if you’ve caught him with the one thing he's been trying to keep from you.

"just—" his voice comes out louder than intended, prompting him to chuckle nervously as he readjusts his volume, "just winding down, sorry."

you inch closer, nuzzling his nose lightly, "it's okay."

"did i wake you?" he asks, cheeks flushing pink as his eyebrows furrow in immediate concern. his expression is something caught between stifling a grin and feeling sorry.

you shake your head against the pillow you share, strands of your hair tangling with his. "just winding down," you tease, watching as his gaze turns softer, eyelids drooping heavier.

sometimes, you think, izuku holds the world in his eyes―a deep, dark green, the color of life. most times, they look at you with wonderment, bright and alive; photos from inko tell you they're the eyes of his inner child.

on nights like this one, however, they hide a depth in them weighted by what you can only assume is time, and all that has happened to him in such a short span of it.

you try your best to understand what lies beneath them, knowing full well he'll never tell you outright what truly bothers him.

"is it the light?" you bring up, some time after laying in silence.

"hm?" he clarifies.

"do you have a hard time sleeping with the nightlight?"

his eyes widen briefly once more, as if shocked that you've caught him again. these split second reactions are ones you've learned to be attentive to when it comes to izuku.

"no," he tries to lie, but you know better as you turn to your nightstand and reach for its switch, "you don't–"

"it was hurting my eyes," you quickly make up an excuse, tucking yourself closer under his chin as you cut off his attempt to deny it again.

finding out that the light was the problem was the easy part—

you'd begun to notice much earlier on that izuku was barely rested on the nights he'd spend at your place. it was only when your old nightlight broke that you began to notice him waking up much later than you did, groggily rousing from a deep sleep.

—what was hard, was figuring out why.

at first, you suspected it was his scars.

"s-sorry, it's not—" he'd warned you, right as your hands gripped the hem of his shirt the first time you were about to have sex, "—it's not nice."

you didn't care though; you still don't care, and you've made that abundantly clear to him since. you love izuku and all his parts―all the nicks and jaggedy pieces of skin that make up who he is.

when you eventually ask him about it, with a request that he be honest with you for once, he tells you that it is and it isn't―the reason why he exclusively sleeps with the lights off, that is.

it's an odd, comforting relationship he has with his body—that he is simultaneously grateful and sorry for how its become a canvas, both painted and marred to symbolize japan’s historic last stand.

you find out the real reason when you catch him staring at his hands.

he does it often, when he thinks you aren't looking—his fists bunched up in the same way he used to watch the power of one for all course through his fingertips; the same way he used to prepare them in battle.

there’s a faraway look in his eyes that lingers, you notice—a little wistful if anything.

“do you miss it?” you finally ask. he gives you the same shocked look he does every time, as if he’s been caught with a secret he’s been trying to hide.

he’s learned a fair bit about you now, too, though—lying to you is futile when you’ve perfected reading his truth. he stares at his fists again as you take a seat beside him, moving to give you space. you rest your head on his shoulder gently, waiting.

“sometimes,” he admits, but you know it’s an understatement.

“i think about the vestiges a lot. i miss them the most, i think,” he continues, clenching his fists tightly, “i always try to reach out to them, but i guess it doesn’t work that way.”

“i… i try to replicate the right conditions every night, but…” then he lets go, stretching his fingers out wide. the scars on the surface ripple through his skin, telling its own story.

you hum, acknowledging what he means. silence sits with the two of you as you take his hand in yours, slowly unfurling his fingers until his palm reveals itself to you. it’s rough to the touch, seasoned with hard work and all that he’s been through.

“is that why you prefer the dark?” you ask softly, after some time.

it's not often that you stay up later than izuku does. when you do though, you catch him shifting in bed, moving from side-to-side. you pretend you aren't awake, but you hear him mumble their names, dwindling in volume as he dozes off to sleep.

he stares at his palm for a moment before he admits quietly, "yeah." his brows furrow as if contemplating whether to say more, but he shakes his head, dark green strands swaying to the beat of his embarrassed chuckle, "nevermind, it's silly."

"it's not."

you intertwine your fingers, sandwiching his hand between yours. a slight sheen glosses over his eyes as he tilts his head up to look at you. he draws in a breath, before it spills over.

"it's..." he finds the words, and you squeeze his hand in comfort, "it's easier to believe it was all real when the lights are out, and that maybe it can happen again."