#Might drop snippet later

[dykevanny]

I need to work on my fanfiction . Hm

[aceghosts]

As if he senses their uncertainty, Wesker leaves the vials, approaching Hunter. He comes into their personal space, something that no longer bothers Hunter as he takes a shaggy strand of jet-black hair in his fingers. “I think,” He says, feigning innocence, “that you and I make a good team. I can rely on you to be dependable-.” Hunter snorts as Wesker gives them a teasing smirk. “When you are not being outrageously stubborn.”

“Outrageously stubborn? I think I’ll take that as a compliment,” They quip back, enjoying the causal playfulness with Wesker.

He chuckles. “Only you would,” Cocking his head slightly as his sunglasses slide forward to reveal his golden-red eyes, Wesker states, “We made a good team on the last mission.”

-Dead Man Walking

Template by @marivenah

[tlbodine]

Stuck? Try junebugging.

I don't know who needs to hear this, but we're 5 days into nanowrimo so maybe this will be helpful.

Do you want the safety and surety of knowing what happens next in your story but can't stick to an outline? Does knowing in advance what will happen suck the joy out of discovery writing? Do you try to wing it through plots but get tangled in plot holes or have a story that runs out of steam because you can't figure out what went wrong? Are you at your most creative when you have a little bit of guidance? Do you tend to under-write? Do you get ideas in your head for random scenes and snippets that drop from the sky without context?

If any of these apply to you, junebugging a draft might be for you!

What Is Junebugging?

Since you're on Tumblr, you might already be familiar with the concept of junebugging as it relates to cleaning. If not -- I think the idea was first introduced to me by @jumpingjacktrash.

The basic idea is that you tackle cleaning by way of controlled chaos. You pick a specific area you want to focus on, like your kitchen sink, and then wander off to deal with other things as they occur to you, but always returning back to that area. You end up cleaning a little bit at a time in an order that may not make sense to an outsider but which keeps you from getting overwhelmed and discouraged.

How Does Junebugging Work in Writing?

OK, so that's great, but how does this work with writing? Well. In my case, the general idea is to jump between writing linearly, outlining, and writing out of order. It usually looks something like:

Start free-writing a scene, feeling my way through it and enjoying the discovery process.

Thinking, ok, now I have this scene, did anything need to happen to lead up to it? Do I need to go back and add some foreshadowing? Does this scene set anything up that needs to be paid off? And then jump forward/back to make those adjustments.

I'll usually have a bunch of disconnected ideas of ideas that have popped into my head, so I'll write those down in a list somewhere and then try to figure out what goes in between them and what order it goes in.

I'll write what I call "micro-scenes" which is where I'll just sketch out a few essential elements of what's going on without worrying too much about details, description, etc. -- just he did this, she said that, the setting was this, real bare-bones script. Then I can come back through and flesh out each of those microscenes into an actual scene later.

Got a story that has a complex structure? No problem. Write through each storyline one at a time and then chop them up and weave them together afterward. Write all the B plot scenes first then come back through to do A plot and C plot. Move the pieces around like legos. No one ever has to know.

This method works for me because I can't "decide" story elements in advance. I have never been able to just sit down and "figure out" what happens in a story beyond a couple steps ahead -- I have to discovery-write my way forward. But at the same time, that gets really daunting. So I zoom forward with micro-scenes, roughing out the beats in the most bare-bones way possible, then when I run out of clear vision for what happens next I backtrack, flesh out those scenes, build in connective tissue, etc. and by then I will probably find more inspiration to jump forward.

It's basically folding drafting, outlining, and revising all together into a single phase of writing, which is chaotic and goes against everything people teach you, but if it works? then it fuckin works.

Anyway, sorry for the jumbled-up post, I'm dashing this off quickly while I heat up a pizza and I'm about to dive back into my WIP -- but I hope this was a little helpful. If nothing else, take this as my blanket permission that it's 100% OK to jump around, write out of order, write messy, outline sometimes, pants sometimes, and do whatever else it takes just to get through the story. You've got this. Good luck.

[biolumien]

palette

hajime umemiya x graffiti artist!reader only a little snippet, but it might become bigger later, word count: 899

you were at home right here with the collection of paint markers and aerosol cans at your feet. your free hand adjusted the filtration mask on your face as you sprayed a nonsensical pattern onto the wall using a fluorescent green so bright it almost hurt your eyes. as you began to draw on the concrete wall using a black paint marker, you felt the sneaking suspicion that eyes were on you. 

that was odd. 

you did most—hell, all your graffiti work in the dark of night, hidden from sight. you’d been chased off by a few townsfolk when you were tagging signs or walls in broad daylight, which you supposed was fair. you were technically doing something utterly illegal, after all. but you kept at it at night, painting flowers and animals, or just random letters onto whatever surface you could. 

bofurin boys often covered it up—as was their right, too, you supposed, but it always irritated you when you’d come back around and find work you’d slaved on all night be covered up with a fresh layer of white paint. 

but back to the feeling that you were being watched. 

“who’s there?” you call out, pulling off your filtration mask slightly. 

“so you’re the one doin’ all those green tags!” a boisterous voice said, and you felt a sudden presence right behind you. you whirled around, dropping your black paint marker across the floor, wincing as it skittered across the alleyway. “did you know that this taiyaki place has called us every day for a week about the graffiti?” 

fuck. you did know that voice. hajime-fuckin’-umemiya, leader of the bofurin, who had essentially annexed and reformed furin high school by force. not only were they vigilante heroes of justice—they also practically were civil servants that served the community—and now their fucking leader was staring at you with a strange, open look in his eye. 

he wasn’t even dressed in his furin uniform—you think you’ve seen it a few times, the whistling long coat that he wore out on patrols with some of the other furin boys. despite it all, he somehow had that sort of aura of warm authority about him—paired with a brilliant and curious smile on his face.

“so what?” you ask defensively. 

“you do know the graffiti’s illegal, right?” umemiya questioned, raising an eyebrow as he walked over to where your marker had skittered across the floor, picking it up. “you could be put in jail for up to five years, you know!” he flipped the marker around, holding it out to you. 

“like i need someone from furin lecturing me about that,” you say, taking the marker back from him. umemiya seemed to deflate a little, almost like a sad puppy, upon your very subtle furin insult, so you hastily add a, “no offense.” 

“mm. i get it, i get it! i do. all the work i did to rehabilitate bofurin’s image doesn’t mean much when people remember how dangerous it was before,” umemiya says sheepishly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “but! i figured i’d come around the taiyaki shop at night, see if there was some repeat offender doing the graffiti, and here you are!” 

umemiya spreads his hands magnanimously, and you can see how worn and callused his hands are from years spent brawling against other students. there was no way he was going to start fighting you, right—?

“i just wanted to ask you to stop,” umemiya says. “i mean, i respect your artistic visions! i always thought it was a waste to paint over your works—i remember one time you did this bright yellow rabbit on a blue moon, very cool, by the way—and—“

huh?

“i really like your art! i was wondering, if maybe…”

you held your paint marker, watching umemiya seemingly steeling his nerves for a moment–

“do you want to come to furin and paint? there’s a lot of graffiti already, and most of the time when we patrol we never use the classrooms anyway, so if it was anonymity you were worried about, that’s covered—and plus, at night, you’d still get a lot of time to do whatever you want—”

“… you’re offering me a place at your school to just—paint?” you ask confusedly, raising an eyebrow. 

“well, yeah!” umemiya says. “i mean, it’s a waste to paint over your hard work, right? it’s different than the other tags.”

“... is it?” you ask, staring at your half-finished graffiti, joining other fresh tags on the wall. 

“well, i’m not really sure if i fully believe in the idea that art carries intention–but i’d like to think yours does! and it’s kind. and i think there’s people at furin who might appreciate it.” 

“well…”

you sigh, running a hand through your hair.

“well, okay,” you say. “but if anyone tries to start something–”

“please,” umemiya says. “we’re not animals. it’ll be great to have you.” and then he holds out his hand to shake, and you stare down at it.

are you really doing this?

umemiya’s expression is bright, warm. 

you shake his hand. 

his grip is firm, his thumb squeezing the space between your index and thumb–and you laugh with a hint of exasperation in your voice. here you were, pulled right into umemiya’s thrall–lured in by him like a sweet siren song.

“fine. see you tomorrow, then,” you mutter, your cheeks heating up.

[newtonsheffield]

I cannot stop thinking about 5 years later Kanthony. Please can I beseech a snippet of those second chance clowns??

Think about how confused Kate would be feeling. She’s arrived and she was already dreading Anthony, well aware that the feelings she assured him would fade actually never did. She thought maybe he’d have lost the boyish air in his smile or it wouldn’t matter anyway because he’d most certainly have married someone else. But he hasn’t. He’s a confirmed bachelor, instead. And the very first thing he does is ask her to dance.

Her entire body prickled with the awareness of his When he lead her in the waltz and then he insisted on being allowed to call on her the next morning and she still doesn’t know why. The last time they’d danced together she’d wanted to beg him to ask her to stay. But she hadn’t. And he hadn’t asked so what possible reason would he have for wanting to see her again.

“Unusual.”

Kate shrugged at her sister’s mused comment, trying to ignore the pointed stares as Lord Bridgerton strode away from her and straight out the door of the ballroom. “Perhaps he had some sort of… business to attend to.”

“Not that.” Edwina rolled her eyes, “I’ve just not seen him dance at one of these things since… well, I think the last person he danced with was you.”

Kate’s stomach dropped. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“Perhaps, but I think not.” Edwina nudged her, teasing, “He’s still very handsome.”

“He’s still very vexing.”

“We’ll see.”

She hardly knows what to do, sat beside Anthony on the sofa with her mother and sister staring at her.

Anthony had stood as she’d entered the room, not thought to expect him so early. He’d inclined his head in a small bow, holding out an enormous bouquet of tulips.

“Miss Sharma. Good morning, I hope I find you well.”

“You do, my Lord.”

He was still holding out the flowers. “Might I… ask you to… accept my gift?”

“I- yes. I suppose I could do that.”

His eyes shone at her. “I can see that our time apart has rendered you no less forthright.”

“Should I be less forthright?”

“Not with me, surely.”

It’s still so confusing when he leaves after he’s asked her question after question about her life. Asked her about her Favourite things in India, and the things she’ll miss this season and he inclines his head.

“I thought I heard your mother mention, that you were to attend my mother’s party this evening.”

“Yes,” Kate swallowed, “She was kind enough to extend an invitation when we were reintroduced last night.”

Anthony nodded, straightening his jacket. “Forgive me, I realise this is considered impolite but I don’t want to miss my chance. Might I secure you for the first dance? And perhaps if you’re agreeable the next?”

“I… Do you really think you ought to act now or miss out? I don’t think you’ll have much competition.”

He made a small shrugging motion, “Perhaps I’m not willing to take the risk.”

Still she doesn’t allow herself to hope even as she gets ready that night not until she sees Lord Bridgerton waiting by the door, bustling forward past his mother even when she arrived.

[lordsukunas]

tldr: bf!yuuji being needy for kisses. please give him a kiss.

cw: none! a buncha fluff ft. protective yuuji moment. megumi cameo (dont ask why). also black-coded!reader !!

a/n: can yall tell i rly like bf!yuuji... its getting outta hand atp, i have like two or three drabbles for him in my drafts, but this might be the only one making it out of there (i have way too many drafts... :p) anyway, hope yall enjoy this lil snippet

“hey.” poke.

“hey, baby.” poke.

“heyyyyy–”

“yuuji,” you huff, but there’s that familiar smile on your face that just makes his grin grow, revealing pearly whites. “i’m tryna read.”

he looks up at you from where his big head is resting on your thighs, and his fingers play with the fabric of your shirt. his shirt, really. “did you give me a kiss today?”

you flip the page. “i did. i gave you one when we went out to eat for breakfast,” (he remembers that because you tasted like maple syrup and strawberries) “and during lunch after i got beat up by maki.” even after five hours and a melted icepack, the bruise on your ass still hurts.

yuuji’s lips curve downward into a little pout. clearly, he was trying to catch you off guard, which was dumb. you’re never gonna miss his scheduled kisses.

“mmm, okay...” he taps his chin in exaggerated thought. “buuuut did you give me one this evening?”

this evening? that’s new.

you place your bookmark in between the pages and set your book down. finally, you’re looking at him, brow raised with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “oh, so we’re doing dinner kisses now?”

a light red dusts his tan cheeks, but he nods. “well... yeah.” a beat. “c’mon, baby, i jus’ want one!” big caramel eyes peer up at you, lips puckered ever so slightly for a kiss.

the sight is adorable, and the part of you that never wants to deny yuuji anything is practically screaming for you to give him that kiss. on the other hand, the little devil on your shoulder is telling you to keep teasing him a little.

unfortunately for your boyfriend, you’re feeling a bit cheeky right now. and you maybe, just maybe want payback for him letting you get your ass beat by maki.

“okay, but if i give you one now, i can’t give you one before curfew.”

yuuji’s jaw drops like you just told him the world’s ending, and he shoots upright, his body twisting on his bed to properly face you. “what?! no, please! that’s not even fair. y’know i need it, otherwise i can’t sleep good and fushiguro gets all mad at me.”

you shrug, barely fighting back a smirk. “then you gotta pick. you either get a kiss now or later. i only have three kisses per day.”

“only three?! babe, tell me you’re not–”

there’s a loud thump against the wall that yuuji’s bed is pushed against, and both of you freeze, his arm shooting out in front of your body.

“can the both of you shut up?” megumi’s voice is muffled, but the irritation in it is crystal clear.

immediately, yuuji’s arm drops and the tension drains out of your bodies. he sighs. “sorry, fushiguro.”

you might have heard a grunt of approval before it falls quiet again, the faint chirping of crickets and the familiar hum of his fan in the background. your boyfriend is still giving you the puppy-dog eyes, practically batting his dark lashes. “pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?”

ugh. you’re never gonna win — he’s too cute! plus, megumi is a little scary when he acts like an angry mom.

“fine, c’mere.” you cup his face, bringing his soft pink lips closer to yours. your lips touch, and a burst of energy rushes through you as yuuji places his hands on your hips.

after a few long moments (because heaven knows you can’t help but get a little greedy with him), you pull away, a small grin on your face. “there. is that enough to tide you over until curfew?”

“nope,” he says, and leans right back in for another kiss. you move your head to the side, so instead of connecting with your mouth, his lips press to your cheek.

you tsk, theatrically wagging your finger, which earns a snort from yuuji. “now you’re definitely not getting another kiss. needy self.”

“what?! it’s not my fault you taste good!”

“maybe you just needa have more self-restraint.”

he huffs. “how am i supposed to have self-restraint when it comes to you? that’s like telling a bee not to make honey!”

oh.

heat rushes to your cheeks, and you’re glad it doesn’t show when you blush. how is your boyfriend so unknowingly good with words?!

you pinch his cheek and pray he doesn’t notice the slight strain in your voice. “whatever. let me finish reading, and maybe i’ll think about giving you a kiss before bed.”

“if you finish reading early, do i get extra kisses?” yuuji hands you the book, grinning.

“gotta think about it.”

surprise surprise — he ends up getting extra kisses.

[kindlingkeen]

Jason from the perspective of people who only know him as an acquaintance is so good. He is definitely one of those people who you somehow just know has had something really really bad happen to them. Everyone knows there is something there and no one asks because it wont help anything to have specifics. The clerk at the corner store gets offended on Jason’s behalf when another patron whispers about how scary he is because that guy always holds the door for people and empties his pockets of change in the leave a penny tray. One night he crashes through a rooftop garden and comes back later to leave a note saying sorry along with a hidden envelope of cash to make up for it. When he stops back to check two ladies have waited up to give him zucchini bread and they know by his reaction that he isn’t used to little unexpected kindnesses.

Yes, 100x yes.

I love Jason through outsider eyes. Because when you take away the lens of trauma and assumption and bias his family views him through, you see the person he is underneath so much more clearly. And, sure, Jason might be a bit of an asshole, but he is also a fundamentally good person. He has a heart of gold and life has taught him to protect it with angry words and weaponry.

Anon, I love your outsider & Jason snippets so much. In fact, you may see some variation of these end up in Asymmetrical Warfare (if you want your tumblr or ao3 handle credited vs an anon reference, just drop me another ask, I don’t have to publish it on my blog if you don’t want).

Thanks so much for this ask, anon. It really made me smile. 💙

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bad Reveal AU Chapter 2 Part 2

As promised! Here's the compilation of every snippet I've written for the 1000 follower ask game. I added an additional 300 words to the end to round out the scene.

Story Summary: Danny loves the Waynes, loves living with them. After the GIW, after his parents, he never thought he'd be able to have this again. A family, a home.

Then he overhears a conversation.

The Waynes aren't just the Waynes. They're the Bats, part of the Justice League. And the Justice League works with the US Government. The same government that runs the Ghost Investigation Ward.

It was all a lie.

AO3 link

Tumblr Links: Chapter 1, Previous

Word Count: 2.6k

-----

Three days later and they were all ready to tear their hair out. Barbara had found nothing new on the Fenton parents, even after Tim and Bruce joined her in the search. Apparently everything about the Fentons had been hidden behind the best digital security they had ever seen. Everything except the basics. And the firewalls were so good that they were almost invisible which is why no one had noticed them before.

Danny’s room lacked any sort of clue. They opened every drawer and went through everything they could find, only for nothing even slightly unusual to turn up. Definitely nothing like the bizarre energy weapon he’d used.

Jason had asked around as Red Hood to see if he could find any leads on the weapon. But every rumor lead to a dead end.

They could find nothing that might lead them to the people who wanted to hurt Danny. And Danny never came home.

Dick was currently in Danny’s room, again, trying to find anything. He was under the bed searching for hidden compartments in the frame or box spring when sharp footsteps sounded in the hall. A moment later, Alfred cleared his throat from the doorway.

“Master Dick! I believe you were instructed to leave the cave so you could rest.”

Dick pushed himself out from under the bed and sat so he was leaning against the bed frame. He flashed a dazzling smile. “Sorry, Alfred. I just had the idea to check the bed frame for any hidden messages or compartments. Wouldn’t have been able to sleep without doing it.”

Alfred sniffed. “We have already been over every inch of this room. You will not find anything new and you know this.”

Dick sighed, letting the smile drop away, and rubbed his face. He looked down at the carpet as he picked at it. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. I just keep seeing his face. He was certain we were going to hurt him, Alfred. My own brother. How could I have failed him so badly?”

Alfred’s shoes came into view as he walked further into the room and sat next to Dick. “You haven’t failed him, Master Dick. And you know that. His fears were his own; based on experiences from before he ever joined this family. And we did not know there were problems to address. But we do now and I have full faith that you will solve this and bring Master Danny back home.”

“I wish I had your optimism, Alfred.”

“Then I shall just have to have enough for the both of us. Now, if you insist on being useful, Titus could use his afternoon walk. Normally Master Bruce or I take care of it…”

“But with B injured and the house full, you’ve got enough to handle. I’ll take care of it, Alfred.”

“Thank you, my boy. Now, help an old man up.”

Dick laughed; it wasn’t sincere, not truly, but he knew it’d make Alfred feel better. “Don’t even pretend you can’t get up on your own.” But he still did as requested and helped Alfred to his feet.

“When you’re my age, you will know what troubles I face.”

“Sure, Alfred. Now, where is Titus right now?”

Ten minutes later, Dick was outside in the late spring sun throwing a tennis ball for Titus. The dog was delighted with the game.

He rather felt like it should be raining or overcast or something. Not a balmy spring day with birds singing and bees buzzing in the clover. Danny was still missing; it shouldn’t be a nice day.

His next throw went much farther than he planned, and Titus bounded away.

Dick groaned and collapsed to the ground. He threw an arm over his eyes as he bit back his tears. Everyone was relying on him to hold it together. Damian was on a hair trigger and he was the only one who could keep him in line consistently; Tim was sunk deep into his research and barely surfacing for another energy drink every few hours; Jason and Bruce couldn’t be around each other for more than ten minutes without someone starting to yell. Duke was spending more and more time on patrol trying to find any information on the meta angle.

And all of them came to him to complain about the others. His family needed him. He couldn’t fall apart.

When a shadow fell over his face, he cracked open an eye expecting to see a cloud covering the sun. Instead he screamed and jumped to his feet as he came face-to-face with Clark.

“Warn a guy next time!”

Clark, the bastard, just laughed at him. “Hey, Dick. Didn’t expect to find you here.”

Before he could reply, Titus returned, ball clenched proudly in his mouth. “Good boy,” said Dick as he petted him. “Ready to go back inside?” To Clark, he said, “Most of us are staying at the manor right now. What brings you here?”

“We’re worried. Bruce called in saying he had an injury that would prevent field work for a few weeks. At the same time, Tim told Kon he’d be unavailable for Young Justice missions until further notice. And Damian canceled a sleepover with Jon with no explanation. So I made two of Ma’s pies and decided to come over for a visit. What’s going on?”

Dick sighed. “Danny’s gone. He discovered who we were.” He let out a hysterical laugh. “And apparently thinks that because we work with the US government it means we were just pretending to like him to gather information so we could turn him over to someone who would hold him against his will and torture him.”

Clark landed and pulled him into a hug. Dick clung on tightly. “Why does he think that?”

Dick shrugged and, reluctantly, pulled away. “Apparently his parents betrayed him once already. I think…” Dick closed his eyes and whistled sharply. “Come, Titus.” He held onto Titus’s collar and began walking away from Clark towards the manor. “We think he already has experience being held and tortured. And that it was his parents fault.”

Clark’s sharp inhale proved his horror at such a thought.

“Yeah. So now Danny’s gone and we have no idea how to search for him. Did B tell you he’s a meta? We knew he had some powers, but clearly we missed some because now we suspect invisibility, density shifting, and flight. So we’re trying to find the people who want to hurt him. But we keep hitting walls!” Titus whined when his grip tightened too much. Dick winced and let go immediately to pet the dog. “Sorry, Titus. You’re such a good boy.”

Clark draped an arm around his shoulders. “Well, why don’t you take me to the cave and you can go over everything you know. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes will help.”

Dick shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt. And maybe seeing you will remind Bruce he knows how to do more than grunt when people ask him a question.”

Clark winced. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse, if I’m honest. Danny shot him with an energy weapon before density shifting out of the cave. So now his newest kid is missing and he’s too injured to go out and search for him.”

Clark let out a low whistle. “Yep. That’ll do it.”

Dick pulled out his phone and opened the group chat. A quick text ensured everyone who was around would make their way to the cave. “I’ve told everyone to meet us in the cave. We’ll swing by the kitchen to get some plates and cutlery for the pie. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Clark ruffled his hair. “You know me, I’m too midwestern to show up anywhere unannounced without food.”

Dick gave a half smile, unable to muster up anything warmer.

Clark tried to keep up a stream of small talk as they swung by the kitchens to gather the plates. But Dick just couldn’t keep up with it. His mind was just too far away, on a young boy with blue eyes who loved hugs and had fit into the family so smoothly.

When they got to the cave, Tim didn’t even look up at the sound of the elevator doors opening. Dick followed his lead and ignored him, instead going straight to Bruce.

“You’ve got a visitor, B!”

Bruce only grunted and didn’t look up from his laptop.

Clark hid a smile. “I’m sure Alfred raised you better than that, Bruce.”

“Indeed I did,” declared Alfred with a sniff from where he was making notes in Bruce’s medical chart.

Bruce’s head whipped up at the sound of Clark’s voice and Dick bit his lip to keep from laughing. “Clark? What are you doing here?”

“Been worried about you and the kids, so I made some pie and decided to come on over. Kon and Jon are both waiting for updates as well.”

Apparently the appearance of Clark and Kon’s name was enough to finally drag Tim from the batcomputer for the first time in days. “Is Kon okay?”

Clark gave him a fond smile. “He’s fine, lad. It’s you—all of you—we’re worried about.”

Bruce looked away. “It’s Danny.”

Clark nodded and sat on the foot of the bed. “Dick’s told me a little. Let’s wait for the others to join us and you can all tell me everything.”

Dick checked his phone. “Babs said my text woke her up and don’t start discussions without her.”

Clark looked at him sharply. “Barbara is here, too? You really meant it when you said everyone’s been staying here, didn’t you?”

Dick shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s Danny.”

Tim laughed mirthlessly. “Yeah, he’s the only one who all of us like pretty much all the time.”

Clark frowned as he looked around at the people gathered, but didn’t say anything.

Alfred bustled in with a chair. “If some of you would help me set up chairs for everyone? We might as well be comfortable as we talk and eat.”

“Of course, Alfred,” said Clark, seeming relieved. “Be happy to help.”

Honestly, with how many people were there, it only took a minute. Jason and Stephanie arrived just as they were finishing up.

“Duke messaged me,” said Jason. “He’s on his way back from patrol.”

“Damian?” asked Dick.

“I am here, Richard,” said the boy as he walked into the medbay. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was with Alfred the cat and didn’t notice your message immediately.”

Dick went to his side and ruffled his hair. He ignored Damian’s glare with years of practice. “Glad you could make it. Come on, let’s get you a slice of pie.”

“I’ll start slicing,” said Clark.

By the time the pie was sliced and everyone had a piece, Barbara had arrived.

“Where is Duke?” asked Bruce.

Tim pulled up the tracking information on his laptop. “Looks like he’s only twenty minutes out.”

“He’d’ve said something if he’d learned anything new,” said Jason. “I say we just start sharing now. He’ll be back before we get through it all.”

“Agreed,” said Bruce.

Clark nodded and looked around the room. Dick just knew he was cataloging how exhausted they all looked. “What can you tell me about what happened?”

“Daniel lost his mind and attacked Father,” said Damian.

“Listen here, Demon Brat,” argued Jason, “you know damn well that’s not what happened.”

And when Tim backed up Jason, it became a shouting match. Dick buried his face in his hands. A headache was forming and he knew if he tried to intervene, he’d just make it worse right now.

“Enough!” said Alfred when it became clear the others wouldn’t calm down on their own. “We will go over it one at a time. Master Richard, you may start.”

So Dick gave all the information he knew. When one of the others indicated they wanted to add more, he let them. Alfred made sure no one overstepped. Duke arrived partway through and described what he saw when Danny disappeared and used his powers.

When everyone was finally satisfied they’d shared everything they knew, Barbara pulled out a tablet to show Clark the footage of the confrontation in the cave.

“And you don’t know where he got that weapon?” asked Clark after he watched it twice.

“No clue,” said Tim. “We’ve searched his room a dozen times since then, but there’s nothing even remotely like it.”

Jason nodded. “And I’ve been asking around. No one I can find has ever heard of one like it.”

Alfred added, “Even I was unaware he was in possession of such an object.”

Clark hummed as he replayed the last few seconds of the video where Danny density shifted through the stone. “He brought it with him when he left.”

“You’ve thought of something,” said Bruce.

“Could he have hidden the weapon inside something? Like a wall or the floor?”

Bruce hummed as he thought. “Is that even possible?”

Dick shrugged. “We know very little about what he can and can’t do.”

“Want me to take a look at his room with my X-ray vision?” asked Clark.

Bruce nodded. “Please.” No one commented on the begging tone in his voice.

And for the first time in days, Dick felt hope rising in his chest.

“And do we have any idea what he meant by Jason being in trouble, too?”

Jason shrugged. “Probably has something to do with how I died. I’m apparently the only one who can sense Danny’s empathy, too. And I mean supernatural empathy, not the normal person kind.”

Bruce agreed. “I found the most information on Amity Park when I found my way to supernatural message boards. Zatana is looking into some things for me as well. But it always leads back to ghosts. Though why Jason alone is of interest when others in the family have also died is uncertain.”

“I see. Well, I suppose we’ll find out when you get him home. Who wants to show me Danny’s room? We might as well start there.”

Of course, no one was willing to sit this one out. The biggest argument arose when Bruce insisted on pushing himself to his feet. He refused the wheelchair Alfred tried to insist he use, but a raised eyebrow and pursed lips did get him to take the crutches.

Dick and Jason exchanged a smirk at the scene. Alfred always got his way.

So, the entire group made their way out of the cave and through the halls of Wayne Manor until Clark stopped in the doorway to Danny’s room.

He let out a low whistle. “Whatever his powers are, he can definitely hide things in other objects. He’s left a lot behind.”

“Can you tell what they are?” asked Bruce.

Clark shrugged. “Some of them. There’s another item that looks like that blaster he had. Some…rope? I think? A tool box in the floor. A case that’s probably lead-lined. And a lot of stuff that I just can’t identify. I mean, a random cylindrical object. Some rectangles, maybe external hard-drives?”

Damian stepped forward, gripping the handle of his katana. “Then we will smash the walls to see what he is hiding.”

Dick rushed forward to put an arm around Damian’s shoulders and stop him from doing anything.

“Indeed not, Master Damian.” Alfred gave the boy a level look. “We want Master Danny to have a home to return to. And what sort of welcome would he feel if he came back to a destroyed room? Master Bruce, Mr. Kent, I am aware you have other collegues who can density shift. Could one of them be prevailed upon to come and remove the items?”

Damian scowled and kicked at the floor. Dick bit back his smile. The kid really did care about their missing brother, whatever he said.

Clark nodded. “I’ll call J’onn, Alfred.”

-----

Several of you guessed this is where I was going to take it the minute I introduced Clark. Didn't see anyone mention J'onn, though. (But that might be because I was sharing such small segments, so fewer people were speculating.) Let me know what you think!

I've finally gotten around to making a Subscription Post for this fic, so follow that if you want notifications!

@hailsatanacab also started a fill for this prompt that I absolutely adore, so check that out here! (It hurts, it hurts so good.)

[sweeterhoni]

MINORS DNI! have this before i drop the full fic somewhere between friday - sunday, this week!

not proofread. this snippet will be deleted before the full fic is out ! first part's pinned in my blog .

childhood friend!jake x afab!reader . r18 and sensitive topics (religion + dub-con themes)

wednesday came, and the field was packed with students. mostly women, who prepared banners with jake’s name.

it wasn’t enough for his drive, he appreciates all the support as he bowed a thanks to the crowd but his eyes search for you. he was desperate to see you with his last name and number, he wanted to see you brand yourself as his unknowingly.

the players whistled, it indicated your arrival. it was easy to spot you, you were everyone’s favorite and there was a huge number of guys who crushed on you. jake never liked that fact, even if you show no signs of interest in them. it just never sat right with him. he visibly showed his upset when you covered his jersey with a jacket. he strode and stopped completely in front of you, prompting you to get closer to the rails.

“give me your jacket” and it wasn’t a question or suggestion, he demanded. tapping the rail before having his arm stretched out, you complied in fear he might mess up later’s tryouts. without another word, jake retreated to his corner and started his warm up.

this little interaction left you dumbfounded, he watched how your mouth formed an o. he sucked in a breath with his fists clenched, he wanted to hover his thumb over your lips and command you to suck– he wanted to but he can’t.

not when your eyes glossed over the field, concerned if jake was in a sour mood or if her presence would make the tryouts go haywire. jake caught sight of your restless figure, you sat away from a friend and settled by the railings he figured you were nervous, probably overthinking the outcome of the tryouts and he found himself host a coy smile when realisation hits. he was all you can think of.

it became a boost to his drive but he was sure he’d also get hard if he’d envision you being fucked while you wear his jersey, and it wasn’t hard for jake to not have these thoughts. you entice him in ways you weren’t aware of and he wanted to indulge in it, if he gets to fuck you later.

. . . . .

the tryouts went smooth, now you’re seated in jake’s car after being promised that an ice cream date would be the best way to celebrate.

but only that? jake woudn’t settle for that. you knew him, his achievements were always celebrated in a grandoise way. so what exactly does jake have in mind?

would you have to spend thousands for the ice cream?

you arrived at a conclusion that your wallet might cry, you shivered and played with the hem of jake’s jersey. how innocent.

on the other hand, jake wanted to make you cry. he wants to make you beg, to introduce you to a world where he can be the only god you worship. ice cream was a cover up, he’d take you back to his apartment and devour you. his eyes would catiously glance to you, watching how you bite your lip and showed signs of anxiety. your eyes, there were tears threatening to fall and — oh how he loves the way you turn your head to the side to wipe the stray tears.

jake started wondering if you’d turn away from him when he starts fucking you. he wondered if you’d bite your lip or whine and let the neighbors know that their favorite angel was screaming for her new god’s name. he wondered if you’d ever been touched, let alone, fucked?

will he be the first?

he felt his pulse race, his hands were shaking in excitement at the mere thought that he would be the first to break you. in a hurry, jake gripped the steering wheel and accelerated.

“jake!” you whined in shock, you huffed and breathlessly repeated his name.

fuck. jake no longer knows if you were scared or if you were pleading. do you know? could you hear his thoughts?

it was driving him insane. if you knew and played along his act, or if you really don't know... jake just can't think straight when all he wants is to have your body on his. he ached, this time, it was unbearable. he had to act, you were already there. why would he wait any longer? when you look like you're ready to take him in right then and there.

“dove.. princess.. let me touch you.”

he spoke, his breathing was heavy and he flushed a dangerous shade of red. he looked angry.

“you trust me right pretty girl? come on, move.”

[anincompletelist]

wip wednesday :D

HAPPY WEDNESDAY PEOPLE! this *might* be the earliest I have ever been for one of these..... which is fair given how atrociously LATE I've been the last two weeks jshdjksh

I'm trying to catch up on tags so I'll put them beneath the cut, along with the snippet I'm sharing to make up for the last line, six sentence sunday, AND wip wednesday tags. so, if you're tagged, I'm pulling an uno reverse and tagging you BACK again (pls tell me this makes sense it is 2am here ksjhdskjhd) ANYWAY THANK YOU ALL I ADORE YOU AND YOUR LOVELY WORDS AND THANK YOU ALWAYS FOR THINKING OF ME! xx

this snippet is from yet another new wip and is of the omegaverse / a/b/o variety, so if that's not your thing please feel free to skip and come back next week!

enjoy! <3

+

Alex doesn’t look all that much different even a couple of years later, still just as paradoxical as he’s always been— fearlessly confident and yet frenetically, undeniably unsettled. Pez had made a joke once that being around Alex was like touching static electricity, hair standing on end and shocks dancing along fingertips. Henry, for all his distaste, might be inclined to agree. 

He watches as Alex strikes up a conversation with a pretty blonde woman at the bar beside him, can make out the curve of his grin and just barely hear the tones of his laugh from across the room. For a few minutes it seems like things are going well, but then the woman shakes her head with a muted smile and backs away, eventually disappearing into another group on the other side of the floor. 

Henry’s second drink is empty by the time two others have come and gone, a taller man that Alex had approached himself and another person who’d come up to him to chat afterward. Despite Alex actively engaging in the conversations, Henry watches each of them leave after a few minutes like clockwork, glances down at his own wrist and knows the feeling. 

After the third person excuses themselves, the confident line of Alex’s shoulders gradually begins to fade, curling in on himself just a little as he stirs the ice around in his drink with his straw. He’s raising it to his mouth, about to take a sip when he glances up to scan the room again and his eyes finally land on Henry. 

He pauses, his mouth split open and drink still hovering in front of him as his cheeks and the sides of his neck darken lightly. Henry doesn’t look away. Alex does though, and he furrows a brow at the floor as if warring with himself before his eyes flick back up again, questioning. 

Henry doesn’t break the contact as he steps sideways and slides into an unoccupied velvet, half-circled booth, the seat opposite him noticeably vacant. Alex’s chest rises and falls again as he takes yet another steadying breath, squeezes his eyes shut, then spins and marches over, crossing the floor and dropping down across from Henry sans the welcoming smile he'd offered everyone else.

“Alex,” Henry says in greeting. 

He blinks, grumbling. “Henry.” 

Clearing his throat, Henry leans back and spreads his knees just a bit underneath the table, leaving his wrist out openly on the table between them beside his drink. It’s obvious when Alex tries not to look, even more so when he does, the column of his throat shifting in the low light. 

Then, carefully, Alex draws one hand out of his own lap to rest it at the edge of the table, the angle drawing his sleeve up just enough to expose the bands he’s chosen. 

Alpha, which Henry’d been expecting, and Submissive, which he very much had not.

+

OK HERE'S THE RUNDOWN:

@kiwiana-writes @cricketnationrise @eusuntgratie @violetbaudelaire-quagmire @bigassbowlingballhead @wordsofhoneydew @zwiazdziarka @firenati0n @suseagull04 @onthewaytosomewhere @iboatedhere @junebugclaremontdiaz @sunnysideprince @priincebutt @inexplicablymine @heybuddy-drabbles @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @getmehighonmagic @sparklepocalypse @magicandarchery @oxfordslutphase @itsmaybitheway @ninzied @futureseaempress @captainjunglegym @nocoastposts AND I THINK THAT IS EVERYONE? IF I MISSED YOU PLS COME AND YELL AT ME THANKS <3333

(and also open tag as per usual)

I HOPE YOU ARE ALL HAVING A LOVELY WEEK SO FAR! :D xx

[xayneimagines]

Behind closed doors

Fandom: One piece

Pairing: Luffy x Reader(MC. They/them)

Genre: just smut man. Just a smut snippet. I think about him all the time. Save me

TW: it’s smut. You’re giving him head. I don’t know. What do you want from me?! It’s just a dumb horny incomplete thought stop judging me. Your a captain, y’all pretend to be rivals just to fight and then y’all like messing around. I don’t even know how coherent this is. My brain is rotting and his dumb smiles fault.

“Luffy, what is it?” As he pulled them into the room, MC couldn’t help but be a little worried. Their relationship might have been an odd one, but they still cared so deeply about him that him being upset was something they would wanna try and fix right away. They fluctuate between being rivals and lovers, though his crew didn’t know about the later part for now. It was less about being ashamed and more about enjoying the idea of sneaking around after a fight.

So, having their boyfriend pull them away to a small room during a meeting without him saying anything was odd to say the least. But as he locked the door and turned to look at them, heat started to pool within them. His face was flushed, eyes blurry, and a pout that was familiar to them was sitting on his lips.

“Treasure~ Need you~” Luffy tried to whisper, he really did, but the crack and pain in his voice kept it from being as low as it needed to be. He grabbed their hand quickly, placing it so they could feel just how hard he was through his shorts.

It was rare for Luffy to be horny.

And MC refused to let such a treat go to waste.

Quickly they moved to push him against the wall, one hand still stroking his cock lightly through his clothes while the other arm was folded across his chest to push him. They gave him a quick and bruising loss before dropping to their needs, already moving to pull his clothes down.

His cock sprung out and against his stomach with some precum already forming at the tip, some of it getting on his shirt.

“Of course. Captain's orders, right?” They asked as they looked up at him, a small groan coming from his throat. He arched off of the wall, a hand moving to grip the base of his cock and angle it to them.

“Please~ pretty ple-hah.” He gasped as their mouth enclosed of the head of his cock, the warm and wet heat pressing against him in such a delicious way. He loved when they used their mouth. Shit, he loved when they used anything. A lot of the time sex was for them more so than him, but whenever he did her the wild hair for it, they were always so good to him.

His other hand gripped their hair and already was trying to push so that his cock could go further in. He needed to feel their throat. Wanted to fuck into it and cum over and over again all over their pretty face.

Lucky for him, they loved choking on him. They opened their mouths as wide as they could, hands bracing on his hips to keep him from thrusting to roughly. They could either take him yanking on their hair, or the thrust, but both? Both would require a lot more than the time they had right now and right now they needed to just focus on getting him to cum so they could get back to the meeting.

Their eyes peered up at him, their cheeks warmed slightly by the image of a panting luffy begging to choke them on his cock.

And they would never deny the other captain a damn thing.

[werewolves-are-real]

Time Travel Temeraire snippet

At first, Laurence assumes he's dead.

It's a natural conclusion. He remembers dying, after all.

He and Tenzing were at a function hosted by Wellesley. They were mostly there to support the dragons. Temeraire had long abandoned them to quarrel with Perscitia in the courtyard, with half a dozen ferals watching like it were a jousting match. Wellesley had laid out his grounds to allow room for dragons and men to mingle, but a good portion of the guests retreated inside to avoid the raised voices of the dragons.

Laurence wonders how Temeraire felt about that, later. About not seeing.

He was stabbed. He barely remembers it – just a quick pulse of pain in his chest, looking down. Red blooming over his coat.

Then he was on the floor. People screamed. Tenzing appeared, grappling with a tall and finely-dressed man; he used a dinner-knife to punch a hole in the stranger's throat, in a fantastic spray of blood, and dropped the body at once to kneel by Laurence's side.

He remembers Wellesley barking orders – bandages, water, a hot knife. Have to cauterize it, he'd shouted. Keep pressure -

But Tenzing never spoke. Just pressed down on Laurence's chest, over the wound, without particular panic. Laurence still remembers the grim resignation on his face; Tenzing knew what was coming. Laurence was glad to have him there when he died.

Then Laurence woke up.

The world sways in a familiar way, a rhythmic motion that Laurence registers on a soul-deep level. He's on a ship. But why? Where is Tenzing, Temeraire? Why would they put him on a ship?

“I think the fever's breaking,” says a voice. A naval doctor, disheveled and salt-stained, with long scars down his bared arms. “Oh, and awake too!”

“Well thank Christ,” says another man. One Laurence recognizes.

It's Captain Gerry Stuart – but he looks different, younger than the last time Laurence saw him, with smooth skin and dark curly hair.

Gerry died two years ago.

“Well, Lieutenant! You gave us a scare – how are you feeling?” Gerry asks.

“It's Admiral,” Laurence corrects rather than all the other things he does not dare ask. He hates the title foisted upon him; but it's at least more comprehensible than Lieutenant, and he clings to that rather than demand where did you come from.

Stuart throws back his head to cackle, though the concern doesn't leave his face. “Still perhaps a bit feverish, I think!”

“That might be the laudanum,” says the doctor, also amused. “Why don't you sleep a bit more, Lieutenant?”

“But where is Temeraire? Or Tenzing?”

“I can only assume you had some very vivid dreams,” Stuart chuckles. “You were babbling and babbling for Temeraire – isn't that a ship?”

“Perhaps the flagship of his fleet,” suggests the doctor, and Stuart laughs again. “Get some rest, Mr. Laurence. Holler if you need me.”

They both exit the sick-berth. Laurence stares blankly at the door.

What?

Laurence pats his chest. No wound. He looks down, startled by the pale thinness of his fingers, his youth-soft skin.

Well; not soft. Callouses cover his hands. But even these patterns are different – hard skin in places where he would hold a sword, or pulls ropes. His hands should be more wrinkled, yes; but these callouses faded years ago.

“Where am I?” he asks when the doctor returns. “And what is the year?”

“The year? 1793. You don't remember?”

1793. Laurence was 19 in 1793. A lieutenant for two years, on the Shorewise.

The doctor narrows his eyes. “What's my name, lad?”

Laurence swallows. His stomach churns; for the life of him he can't remember.

The doctor rushes off to retrieve the captain.

_____________________________

Laurence is diagnosed with brain fever, and partial amnesia. Gerry is horribly guilty about laughing, earlier; Laurence could not care less. He is given strict orders to stay on bed-rest for another week, in hope his strength will recover – and his mind.

Laurence doesn't think he'll have any issues working – he's forgotten many of the people around him, true, but he may never forget the way to run a ship. He's far more concerned with learning what happened.

From all appearances, it is indeed 1793. France is undergoing riots, and declared war against Britain in February. Temeraire has not hatched. Napoleon is probably a corporal or general himself, at this point. If he exists at all. God knows, perhaps Laurence is only mad.

But he doesn't feel mad. His memories are too vivid to be mere fever-dreams. A man cannot dream up twenty years of life!

But neither can a man go back to his youth, and live it all again.

I have a dragon, he thinks of saying. There is no war, because I captured Napoleon – an unknown man who makes himself emperor.

Mad. It sounds mad even to Laurence himself. But to imagine that Temeraire was a fever-ridden dream... Tenzing and Granby and China, all of it...

Laurence doesn't share his turmoil with anyone – not even with Gerry, who checks on him fretfully. After a week the doctor declares him well enough, physically. He's paired always with another lieutenant for the first few days on duty, and his shipmates watch him carefully for signs of permanent debilitation; but aside from a moment or two of hesitance, Laurence competently resumes his duties. The oversight lessens.

Laurence thinks about writing letters.

He thinks about writing to Tharkay's late father, who ought to still be alive, inquiring after his son. He thinks of writing to Prince Mianning, asking about the health of Lung Tien Qian. He thinks of writing to young Midshipman Granby, his unwed brother, his dead father...

Not all of them would reply. But he could ask questions. Could verify the truth of things. Unless this, instead, is the delusion.

Is he in 1793, imagining the future? Is he in the future, imagining the past? Or maybe he is already dead, and this is the reality of hell. He came here burning with fever, and now he burns with fear. Surely that is it's own form of torture.

Laurence is ironically given the task of tutoring the midshipman and lieutenant-hopefuls more than any other duty as the weeks pass; his crewmates still look askance, and the more eager of the midshipman become protective. Laurence remains perfectly capable of command; it is only that he can't help but be absent-minded, sometimes, staring at all the crewmen that pass him like they are nothing but moving paintings. Images of a world that no longer matters.

One evening the midshipmen drag him away to a meal with the other officers. It's a noisy crowd; Laurence would find the friendly bustle comforting in another life.

One of the senior officers, Lieutenant Moore, waves him down as Laurence enters. Evidently they used to be friends, given his notably concerned behavior of late. Laurence can't remember the man, and has a sneaking suspicion he died too soon to make a lasting impression.Moore jostles him when Laurence sits at the long table. “Will! Did you get any letters with the last batch?”

A patrolling gunboat brought a satchel of letters just this morning. “I did not,” Laurence says. He's grateful for the fact. He'd found a few pieces of correspondence in his quarters that he dutifully sent on; he cannot imagine writing a letter now, in this confused state.

“Then you've had no news! Robespierre has gone mad. Madder than before, I suppose.”

“Robespierre?” asks Laurence blankly.

Lieutenant Moore double-takes, as does everyone else around them. “Good lord, Will, please tell me you remember Robespierre?”

Right... Robespierre's reign was brief, but this is when he led France. Some of the things the papers published...

Well, at least Laurence has a well-worn excuse for his ignorance. He plays up his malady: “Yes. I think I recall he was... French?”

Groans of horror mixed with amusement echo around the table. “...Well you aren't wrong,” says Moore, looking pained. “He has styled himself the 'President' of their Assembly, which is some stupid way of being king; the French are all mad about removing and adding words right now. I don't know how they expect anyone to hold a conversation.”

“We should... probably educate Mr. Laurence about the war at some point,” some midshipman mutters. Laurence doesn't recall his name.

Moore sighs again. “Anyway. Robespierre is a tyrant, of course. But he's elected someone else to rule France! Barely more than a boy, too.”

Laurence frowns; he doesn't remember what Moore's talking about. “Why would he do that? Did they capture one of the Bourbons?” Declaring himself regent of a child-prince would at least make sense.

“Well, at least you remember them. No; it is some nobody, a young soldier. Not even French! I cannot fathom it.”

It feels like Laurence has been dunked in ice.

For a moment he can't respond. “What was his name? The soldier.”

“Napoleon Bonaparte. He has been chosen as head of their new heresy, the 'Cult of the Supreme Being,' they're calling it; and now de facto head of the government, too. Must be a priest? I don't know, nothing the French are doing makes sense. I expect his little group will be as short-lived as everything else about these riots.”

But Laurence doesn't think so. “...Excuse me; I'm feeling a bit poorly,” he says, rising on wavering legs.

“Yes, you look it! Go on, we'll tell you about the war later...”

Laurence flees.

[welcometololaland]

feeling a little down this week so pepping myself back up to write more eurotrip. here's a weekly snippet if you (like me) are surprised to see more words appearing in the google doc.

“I’m not going to make you kiss me if you don’t want to,” Henry points out as he sits up, mirroring Alex’s position. There’s a ridiculous urge to laugh bubbling up in him, but Alex might actually murder him if he gets the giggles.

“But I do want to!”

Henry coughs in an attempt to cover up his poorly disguised snort. “You quite literally just said you didn’t want to anymore.”

“It was hypothetical—”

“Oh,” Henry interrupts. “I understand. You’re stalling.”

“I'm not stalling!”

“Alex, are you…nervous?”

Alex scoffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Have you ever kissed a man before?”

“Yes, but that’s like…not even relevant.”

“Would you like me to show you how I like to be kissed?” Henry asks coyly. He has a lot of questions about why he feels so attracted to Alex acting so petulant, but that’s a future-Henry problem. Perhaps he likes having his sanity tested on some level. He tries to push it to the back of his mind as he reaches out and takes Alex’s hand, coaxing him closer. 

“Now you sound like you’re out to judge my technique,” Alex protests, practically pouting. He doesn’t shrink away though, allowing himself to be pulled into Henry’s orbit.

“I can’t help it if you’re a bad kisser,” Henry teases, watching as Alex’s eyes flash dangerously before dropping to Henry’s lips. Somehow, they’re both gradually leaning closer together.

“You’re the worst,” Alex retorts, which is completely at odds with his actions. “Bet you’re gonna kiss me just so you can make fun of me later.”

“Christ,” Henry breathes, nudging his nose against Alex’s cheek before he feels Alex’s hand cup the back of his neck. “You’re as thick as it gets.”

@rmd-writes @celeritas2997 my two most faithful eurotrip subscribers, thank you, thank you, thank you 💜

[hitlikehammers]

but consider: Steddie, except in the Bridgerton Carriage

for @hbyrde36, @pearynice, and @penny00dreadful—I've been kind of a shitty absent friend lately and I am stupid enough to apparently still think that WRITING SOMETHING FOR PEOPLE is like a gift or something instead of the exact opposite, but you guys seemed to not-hate the snippet of this so...yeah. I'll almost certainly still be an absent friend when this posts, and I do sincerely apologize that, please accept this distraction from that fact and a token of my affection also in advance of S3Pt2 later in the week?

(also: this gets 🔥spicy at the cut bc obviously)

it has a baby epilogue thingy and and a baby sequel thingy (?) if you...wanted that or something I guess also I will assume not unless someone says otherwise okay bye

Eddie throws himself against the seat, may cause the carriage to shift for it, may even startle the horses but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care because he was about to be engaged, he was going to be Lord of a house grander than he can quite fathom and yes all on his own and yes separated from all he knows but that would have included separation from—

Eddie pinches his nose to hold back tears, keep them just to stinging behind his eyes and then growls, throws himself across the cushion because he does that, Eddie learned to pinch his nose against weeping from him and of course the tears are caused now by him, too, by his interference, by his heartlessness, by his cruelty and his scheming to keep Eddie, supposedly his dearest friend, from any form of security or freedom or—

Eddie’s breath hitches: he may be enraged. Perhaps a little heartbroken. But he cannot think such lies about a man he’s held closer than any other in his life, his dearest confidant—his closest, most secret love.

Eddie bites his tongue this time against the tears that are building such pressure and shamefully, foolishly, he traces his lips. That one kiss. That one series of kisses. Just once.

Both wholly inadequate but beyond Eddie’s wildest dreaming.

It’s for tracing the bow of his upper lip, for losing himself in imagination and the single tear he lets slip, it’s for the pounding in his heart for so many more reasons than he has the energy or will to tease out: for all of it.

He misses the shouting until there’s a rapping at the hinges on the door, aimed to rattle. Forceful.

One might even suppose it to be desperate.

Eddie cannot deny curiosity—even in shame and ruin it has always been the root of his nature—and so he takes the fact that the driver stops at all as an omen for the positive, can’t be a threat or a vagabond, and he moves to check but is too slow, the door wrenched open to—

“Eddie.”

Gods be damned.

“I do not wish to speak with you,” Eddie bites out, refuses to make eye contact and focuses on gratitude that he’d already wiped his eyes.

“Please!” and oh.

Oh, but Steve knows Eddie would give him the world. Always has. Cannot deny him when he asks, but:

This isn’t asking. This is pleading.

“Let me in,” and he’s so breathless, chest heaving, eyes too wide and Eddie can feel them fixed upon him even before he turns to meet them and perhaps he’d been wrong before, to have called the shade of those eyes remarkable, especially when kind.

They are indescribable when, when…

Whatever Steve is now.

Eddie swallows hard, fixes his eyes opposite the door as he moves for Steve to clearly have the space across and diagonal from him to occupy. As far as Eddie can place space between them.

“We will stop at Harrington House first,” and damn but Eddie is proud of the strength, the evenness in his tone when he calls out and the horses take up again.

He prays it will hold when he eventually has to break the silence, and address the reality of the situation he’s in.

“What do you want?”

Strength enough, then.

“Did Lord Alexei propose?”

Eddie cannot help but leave his mouth to drop; his eyes to narrow.

“And exactly what business is that of yours?” because truly. The nerve. The pomposity, the presumption—

“I need to know,” and lord help and forgive him, Eddie cannot write off this man who’s been his friend, but who’s also taught his heart to swell for so many years, now; whose taste on his lips still lingers—

Eddie cannot deny him wholly when his eyes gleam, and his hands tremble. When he looks fit to shake from his skin.

“Did he propose?”

Though: even if Eddie can’t deny him, that doesn’t not require him to make any of it simple, or easy. He is not beholden to shy from the bitter sting of the evening, of the lack of a ring on his fourth finger.

“It is odd, isn’t it?” Eddie huffs a mirthless laugh. “When I asked for your help in finding a husband, I did not realize that also meant you claimed the prerogative to deny me one as well.”

Steve looks near-slapped across the face as he reels back the slightest bit and holy hell, but Eddie cannot even take more than half-a-second’s satisfaction in it, in something sharp in the truth of the consequences in Steve’s callous, thoughtless interference—no, Eddie gets his half-second, and then all he wants is to reach and soothe the wound.

Gods be damned for the heart he has, for the heart that this man’s stolen without knowing—he’d never be so cruel if he was sure how wholly Eddie’s affections were lost upon him—and more tragic yet: stolen, and unquestionably unwanted.

But Steve doesn’t require Eddie’s intervention to compose himself and regroup to the task he’s set himself upon, and his shoulders are squaring again in an instant it seems, leaning once more into Eddie’s space so as to flavor the air Eddie breathes in far too fast—so sweet.

“It is my business because I care about you,” and it is sincere, to be certain, and Eddie will not permit himself to look farther than the words themselves for nonexistent hints and pathetic yearning scraps. He must be grateful. His affections may be undesirable but there is a part of his heart that still may be given to this man in a certain, sensible way and Eddie must appreciate this as enough—

“You cannot marry that man.”

Eddie is the one who reels back this time; he blames this entirely for the lapse in his response, the sharp incredulity that rises in him at the persistent audacity, the sheer presumption—

“He will leave you for his voyaging,” Steve begins in earnest, certain in his tone, but Eddie wastes no time to scoff:

“Says the man who spent months frolicking the continent—”

“And he is far too particular with his, his strawberry varietals,” Steve continues as if Eddie’s said nothing, but there’s a subtle flustering at the edges of each word—he’s not been ignored.

“Cherries, actually,” and Eddie can’t help but prod further, it’s in his nature; “it’s truly remarkable to be so agitated that you can’t even be bothered to be correct—”

“And he is…” Steve cuts Eddie off proper, then, the flustered edge turning half toward desperate, perhaps beseeching:

“He is just not right for you, Eds.”

And Steve has always been a man of action, of resolve once he’s set upon a clarity of conviction. It does sound as if he’s found such a point to lean into and hold.

Just Eddie’s luck that when the issue to hand is his own holy matrimony, it’s merely a point, and involves someone else.

“He did not propose,” Eddie surprises himself for how flat his tone is, because Lord Alexei is witty, reserved in an endearing way, strange perhaps in a different vein to Eddie but: like courts like. He would not have been less than pleasant to grow old attached to.

“In fact,” and here Eddie surprises himself with the tone that escapes him, less anger—though still anger—than it is chiding; “he rejected me because of you.”

Steve’s eyes don’t widen, or drop in some emotion tangential to shame. If they do anything, they grow brighter; intensify.

If anything: Eddie burns with it, and tries like hell to shove it away—because he is angry. He could have lived a quiet life of freedom and cordial camaraderie and as many goddamn cherries as he ever wished to eat. He had a chance, his first and only, and this man saw fit to—

“Because the scene you caused led him to believe you have feelings for me,” Eddie’s indignation, his hurt and his pride and his heartbreak and his anger all coalesce to rear their head again as he narrows his eyes to remind Steve once more:

“An idea so preposterous, I do not know what to do besides laugh,” which Eddie cannot even manage, so the joke may be on him in the end, regardless. It’s the last straw of a sort, though, and he deflates, suddenly bone-weary, and heartsore.

“Now,” he breathes in deep, forces himself to straighten his shoulders and lift up his chin, to have some goddamn dignity: “will you please let us ride home in silence and leave me alone.”

It’s not a question.

“I cannot.”

It is not a question, so of course he doesn’t get a real answer.

“Please,” and Eddie tries to pack a lifetime of friendship into a single word, tries to raise the banner to summon some long-crafted pity if nothing else will suffice.

“I cannot,” Steve leans forward, and his eyes are…other, somehow. A certain glow about them in too little light.

“Because,” and he breathes, and stares, and Eddie’s almost afeared for his well-being when he whispers: “Eddie,” his name like a prayer to a god Eddie’s never known to name, before he may well speak in tongues for how much sense he makes:

“What if I did have feelings for you?”

Eddie…can only blink, and think to feel Steve’s forehead for a fever, and ignore wholesale and entirely the rabbit-beat his heart’s leapt to all at once.

“What?”

Steve stares a bit longer, lets Eddie’s heart really build a momentum, threaten the integrity of his ribcage like it’s a trial to be passed but then Steve sucks in a deep breath and the slightest hint of chest hair peeks out on the inhale and good god—

“I have spent so long trying to feel less,” Steve finally speaks, his voice low and breathy, like maybe his heart’s in a marathon too, but why, when what he says makes no sense:

“Trying to be the kind of man society expects me to be, and for a moment, Eds, for scarcely a moment I thought I had succeeded, for one time in all the failures and disappointments I thought maybe, though it clenched sour in my chest,” Steve rushes out, near trembling, and Eddie…cannot comprehend. He just, he can’t.

“But these past weeks, and more if I’m truthful, have been full of,” he licks those gorgeous lips, struggling, while Eddie struggles for…other reasons: “full of these confounding feelings, like a total inability to stop thinking about you,” he pauses and his glowing gaze drops to Eddie’s mouth, drops a kick to Eddie’s pulse as it trips, as Steve speaks again:

“About that kiss,” and how absurd, that Steve should have any thought of it, this man who’s known more lips than Eddie’s known people, that he might so much as think twice about the most perfect moment in Eddie’s life, that could not have been more than a casual obligation to an old friend from Steve’s view, it was—

“Feelings like dreaming of you when I’m asleep and gods, preferring sleep with all that I am because that is where I might find you,” and it’s so frustrating, because Eddie’s known Steve his entire life. Eddie knows his expressions, his tones, his hidden meanings.

He cannot find the latter. The first two, though, he, they…

There’s no sense, and Eddie’s heartbeat only rises.

“A feeling that is like torture,” and Eddie can agree upon the word, for the ache the pounding of his pulse is demanding, but the tone Steve speaks in is…it borders on reverent.

“A torture,” he repeats, words panted out close, high in his chest; “but one which I cannot, will not, do not want to give up. Not ever.”

And he looks…so honest. And Eddie knows what he sounds like in a lie—there is none here. He also knows what Steve looks like when he thinks he is in love.

This is…very close to that, but also: different. A wanting that Eddie’s never borne witness to before. A fire in it still but something violent, magnificent to the scope it could unleash.

“Please,” this time, Eddie does beg. Because the fire he sees in those eyes—nonsense, all nonsense, he reminds himself—but that fire is starting to spread and he’ll burn inside it wholly if he cannot stop it now:

“Do not say things you do not mean.”

“But I do mean it,” Steve is so quick to correct, to look wounded for being doubted and to look truthful to his bones; “this is everything I have wanted to say to you…for weeks. For longer than weeks.”

“But…” Eddie worries his lip, heart caught up now in his throat, a task to speak around at all but he must, he must.

“Steve, we are friends.”

“Yes, but we…” Steve starts, but then it is as if the glow in him dims, fades, withers before Eddie’s very eyes and it takes all that he is not to whimper at the loss of it.

And then Steve passes a visibly-unsteady hand over his face, between his eyes; pinches the bridge of his nose like he does to keep from—

Oh god, and Eddie loves this man. And he’s caused…

“Forgive me, um,” Steve looks down, anywhere but at Eddie and it’s in the loss that Eddie processes how warm it felt to be beneath that gaze; how cold it feels without. “I do not know what I was thinking,” and his tone is drained of color, deadened leaves before the snow and Eddie’s pounding heart cracks wide and for all that Eddie has labored under his feelings so long, alone in the shadows, his bond with Steve was always one of equals, no matter how much of a lie that spelled to the world around them. They stepped together, side by side. And here, Steve leapt without him, and somehow for him; is tumbling to crash.

Eddie cannot bear it. His heart will shatter in an impact more dear than his own could ever be.

He has to try.

“But I’d very much like to be more than friends,” Eddie exhales, desperate, trembling in every part of him. “So much more.”

Eddie can barely hear anything beyond his heartbeat now, the way his heaving breaths strain the lacing on his patently-unusual shirt, his waistcoat tight for the overtaxed burning in his lungs, in his veins, in his skin, like the blood in him’s turned molten and with every pulse he—

He looks to Steve, whose eyes no longer glow but have turned molten, too, and Eddie’s breath catches as Steve stares at him, incredulous, as if he is the unbelievable one and what nonsen—

Eddie can scarcely believe that he can think, that he can feel anything, for the way he knows his heart to burst wholly when Steve surges in and captures Eddie’s lips: not like their first time. Not even like the way that first time crested toward something: no.

No: this is…

Perhaps he lives still, as his blood still races and his lungs still burn and he rises to meet Steve’s lips yet: oh. Oh, but his heart has burst and whether this is to last, whether this is once and never again, Eddie does not need his heart to be anything but blown and spilled inside his ribs, warm and glimmering in a way he’s never known, alive in a way he’s never felt, and the way they move.

Oh, but how they move like a dance known not to men nor angels, known only to something primordial and wholly other, a secret to their souls alone in the dark and Eddie reaches to cup Steve’s face, trace his hairline and ease him closer, deeper, and wonder at the sweetness of his taste; just how Eddie recalls it, would know it on his deathbed but heated, thicker, stronger now as Steve slides his tongue between Eddie’s lips where Eddie opens, arches into him, body to body until his eyes flutter open and Steve almost seems to feel it, for how his own blink open the same and he pauses, pulls back the slightest bit, Eddie’s hand at the side of his throat now where his pulse thunders into Eddie’s palm, the tumult of the elements themselves in Eddie’s ill-suited hands but now he’s touched the heart of this man, this man, held it in this way Eddie dares to think means something more, and—

Their eyes meet. Steve’s still aflame, but the glow lived again below the inferno and it’s like he marvels, it’s like he sees Eddie as something wholly new yet forever dear, as if he cannot fathom the simplest truth Eddie’s ever known:

All of him, is Steve’s.

Steve’s lips are wet, sloppy, mesmerizing as he gapes, looks upon Eddie like a sculpture or a masterwork somehow and Eddie slides his hands into Steve’s hair the way he’s always dreamt: sinuous and sensual and Eddie may be gaping, mesmerized himself as he fights shaking his head in sheer dumbfound shock because: Steve is real. Steve is full of only truth, here.

Eddie knows what Steve looks like when he believes he is in love.

This look now isn’t merely other. This is, dare he even think it—

This is more.

He watches as Steve’s lips quirk, a punchdrunk giddy sort of thing that Eddie feels himself return because perhaps it is Eddie who’s feverish and delusional but he has never felt this, he has never known this: touch and desire and want in his limbs but returned in equal measure somehow, unthinkable.

And yet.

Steve kisses him, and to kiss through the curve of joy on their mouths is a potent thing, slips down Eddie’s throat and catches in his wild-thrumming pulse, puts the whole of him off balance in the most perfect of ways and Eddie has to balance himself upon Steve’s chest, feels the firm muscle beneath layers but then the pounding muscle at the center ripples out, his heart as unsteady, as affected as Eddie’s own and it’s…it is a miraculous sort of gift, to be in such resonance with someone, anyone—but to spell a symphony, beat for beat, with the person you’ve long given your heart to?

It threatens tears to Eddie’s eyes for reasons that fill his chest but know no name; that transcend words.

And for that moment in time: he can believe if it is wanted, if this is real, if this could possibly be real: to lose his heart in Steve’s chest would be no loss at all, merely a homecoming. To songs made to sing in tandem, close enough to touch.

Their mouths don’t break apart when they gasp, when they moan and pant: they just tip the barest angle fit to breathe and then dive back, but when their hips slide together, hardness prominent at either groin they gasp harder, deeper, and come apart to stare at each other, to try to read universes as much as the simplest questions, the most obvious of assent between eyes alone.

Steve makes his way downward by way of Eddie’s neck, lavishing it with the talents of his lips as he makes quick work of the fastenings on Eddie’s breeches, clear that he must know them well enough on another’s body, practiced, and it maybe lights an ember of jealousy to feel proof in the flesh of Steve’s poorly-veiled breadth of experience, but as Eddie is trembling for the spoils, he can’t acknowledge that flicker of envying for long, not for the sake of the proper fire that alights in him now to the tips of his fingers; not least for how Steve cups his palm so perfect, so exquisitely slipped beneath the heavy weight of Eddie’s manhood, lifts it tenderly in a way Eddie’s never bothered to touch himself, leaves his last two fingers to linger gentle attention for the briefest moments, a whisper of touch against Eddie’s straining sac as he eases Eddie’s full length from his drawers and Eddie’s hardly bare to the free air before he’s gasping, panting hard enough that he suspects a weather eye could pick the shape of his torrenting heartbeat through his skin between his ribs for how it pounds, and how his lungs squeeze it unforgiving to the wall of his chest and—

Steve’s hand upon his cock is transcendent, even without any motion, doing nothing but to touch yet Eddie is greedy. Eddie wishes Steve’s hand could also press to his chest, not least because he fears it could crack under the blatant assault; he trusts Steve to hold his wayward heart where it absolutely must stay at least a little longer, to see out this…this.

Wherever it leads.

As if beckoned by sheer desire, Steve lifts, looks Eddie in the eye and balances himself upon his sternum, rips the lacings fully free and slides his hand skin to skin above Eddie’s heartbeat and holds there, holds there while he teases the exposed slit of him to draw a whimper, only to abandon it and trace the sharp-raised vein below, back and forth as if he plays the strings of a stronger song, as if it’s but an idle whimsy, a pleasant pastime on the way to greater indulgences and Eddie’s gifted a moment to feel undiluted bliss at the sensation, the languid romance near saccharine in the connection of Eddie’sheart bounding unbridled against Steve’s strong, steady palm, so broad and so warm and safe, so so safe and Eddie melts for it, for a whole moment at least before Steve’s stroked the same bulging vein one too many times and Eddie feels himself tense—

And then Steve halts, his hands both still save maybe not, for the one at Eddie’s chest, he watches it shake a little out the corner of his eye, for the force of the blood-beat below or something primal and overcoming in Steve’s own veins; Eddie catches Steve’s eyes, blown full to black now, and strains his neck to kiss the tip of Steve’s finger, the closest part to reach and Steve shivers, and then he’s—

Oh.

Oh, but then, but then it may well mean the end of Eddie Munson because Steve moves his hand to kiss Eddie’s chest one time, enough to trip the heart beneath, and those same lips kiss the tip of his full-flushed cock as Steve glances up, wanton through those lashes and it’s not even in askance, it’s…surveying.

And Eddie feels a tingling pleasure spark through him, to know in that instant how Steve knows him, knew his heart before ever he reached to take where it was offered, knew his mind from the very start, and now needs only glance to check without a single word to speak: his hand never leaves Eddie’s chest.

But his mouth takes in the whole of him.

He spares less than a single thought that he hopes Steve knows what he’s doing—beyond the fact that it feels like nothing less, feels like Steve is truly a god among men beyond even Eddie’s lovesick notions—but if Eddie felt ready to loose himself with mere-perfect touch, the sweet silk of Steve’s mouth, the soft suction just so: Eddie won’t last. He can’t: he’s only a man.

He can glimpse heaven as a gift, perhaps; he can fly to the sun only a moment before he falls.

He does not process Steve preparing to move, too lost to notice, but he cries out, muffles it as best he can but he barely can when a wet finger swirls upon the rough pucker of his untouched hole, where he knows pleasure lies but has never…never made the attempt and yet just the hint, the fact of it so delicate and only just slipped between the cleft of him where Steve eases him up enough to slip a hand behind and circle once before withdrawing because it’s all Eddie needs, all Eddie can stand: it is but one touch. Not even inside him—though now there is another thing he will long for, for all of his days, with all of his being.

But the longing is for later; just now Eddie is coming apart, splitting at the seams.

Falling though, he finds, is an ecstasy of its own, as Eddie sees either the backs of his own eyes, blown beyond redeeming in the spindly trace of delicate-webbed light, or else he finds instead the face of god incomprehensible when he spills, faster than he’d ever hoped he’d manage should he find himself unthinkably in such a position, but harder than he imagines Steve can possibly expect, certainly with a force Steve can’t have predicted save that Eddie can feel his throat work tirelessly, dedicated singlemindedly to not merely taking all that Eddie gives and leaving none to waste like he relishes it, like he craves it with the wholeness of himself somehow—but then further still Steve moves to milking Eddie dry, sucking every third breath in as more a rhythmic excuse to take back in Eddie’s softening, emptying member in turn: insistent. Devoted. Greedy in the most awe-inspiring sense because this man, this man—

This is his wholesale devotion; aimed at Eddie Munson, and him alone.

He barely feels as Steve touches lips to the tip of him, a soft adieu to mirror his brazen hello, and tucks him gently, carefully back into his trousers, slides up Eddie’s chest and, careful once again, laces back his shirt to the neck, one hand pressed to the center of his chest where Eddie’s heart has yet to receive the notice to calm, perhaps because there is no calm, there is only…Steve.

Steve Harrington. Atop him. Adoring him. Hard still for him where his legs are spread now to near straddle Eddie as he tends to him, but never once does he sacrifice Eddie’s pleasure for his own. But Eddie so wants to return the favor.

By then, Steve’s composed Eddie back to something only generally debauched—there’s nothing to be done with the way Eddie imagines the haze in his eyes is drawn in the shape of hearts, pulsating mad and riotous and still disbelieving because how, how did—

Before Eddie can collect his mind as well as Steve’s collected his appearance, before he can plan a way to repay Steve, to ease the low-slung strain caught tight between his legs—before any of it, Steve’s lips are wide against Eddie’s, like he aims to devour but like this, Steve’s tongue can immediately lick into Eddie's mouth, where he's welcome, where Eddie has never tasted himself before but he knows instinctively where he ends and Steve’s savour begins already: he’s had two, admittedly thorough, chances to memorize that flavor, and let the almighty strike him down in his mindless, unthinkable bliss if he’d been fool enough to waste either opportunity to remember every hint, each subtle note of Steven Harrington’s taste upon his teeth, delectable across his soft palate.

It is maybe the certainty of that knowledge, his own devotion, that makes him bold, then, that makes Eddie slide his tongue back and deepen the kiss and revel in Steve's moan before he rocks his hips upward and—

“Oh!” Eddie gasps, breaks away as he hears by pure coincidence, his heartbeat still heady in his ear but it knocks differently, in a wholly different register, than a knock at a door.

Of a carriage.

One that he’s been recently, gloriously defiled in, and where he had been just about to stage a reprise in reverse, and oh, oh Steve’s leaning back in, Steve is no fan of Eddie breaking from his mouth and neither is Eddie, not in the least, but—

“Steve,” Eddie tries to keep his wits but they were scrambled already before Steve pulls at his lip with his teeth and Eddie moans and tries to pull back, a little hazy on the why until Steve pants hoarse:

“What?”

And oh. Right. Yes.

“Steve, we are at your house.”

And they both part, spit-slick mouths shiny and bruised as they stare at one another, gasping.

Before Steve huffs, eyes wide , and whines so fucking deliciously:

“Oh, God,” he laments, glancing out the quite-poorly-curtained window. “Could the carriage driver not keep on driving?”

He turns pleading eyes on Eddie who chokes on the bubble of laughter that rises in him—and when Steve loses the battle against his own giggling Eddie’s got no chance, they’re both falling into one another, forehead to forehead and shaking with…joy.

Just such a joy, the sort Eddie’s never felt. Never knew could even be.

“Do you think anyone saw us?” Eddie asks idly, now glancing out toward Steve’s home. “I was not paying much attention to…anything,” Eddie chuckles, tries to process the notion of having paid notice to anything but Steve, and Steve, and Steve, and—

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, cold shooting suddenly through his body because Steve is climbing out, Steve is leaving and Eddie, he, he thought? It had felt so, so real and it’d…Steve hadn’t looked like he looks when he thinks he’s in love, he looked like he really could be—

“Steve?” Eddie fights the way his heart tries to jump anxious to his throat or drop leaden to his shoes, he fights to speak evenly, to ask without fear or audible heartbreak, to trust this man who’s held his heart and still does, and Eddie did the same, was allowed, it can’t have only been him, it—

“Are you coming with me?”

Eddie’s pulse trips. Hard.

“What?” he asks, blinking, lost, but Steve holds out his hand and smiles small but so soft, so fond, so…safe.

Eddie’s heart doesn’t slow but it settles a little. Back toward the space that’s meant for it in his chest.

“Your,” Eddie licks his lips and oh, dear god, he still tastes of Steve, of him-and-Steve; “your family will see me.”

Steve wastes no time rolling his eyes but…but again: so fond.

So far beyond how he looks when he thinks he’s in love, and—

“For God’s sake, Edward Munson,” Steve huffs with a grin as he shakes his arm out at the wrist, beckons Eddie more clearly as he speaks the unthinkable:

“Are you going to marry me or not?”

And Eddie’s jaw drops, and his heart surges again, tries to soar, flutters wild as he doesn’t even think before taking Steve’s hand, and maybe his heart lands there too, and it’s impossible.

Save that Steve’s leading him to his home. Steve’s walking hand in hand in the night. With him.

If it is a dream, Eddie has no desire ever to wake.

yes Lord Alexei is a shoutout to this adorable man and his love of cherry Slurpees🍒

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

divider credits here and here and here

💫 ao3 link here

[missvelvetsstuff]

A snippet from something I'm tossing about in my head. Anyone interested?

No Benefits

Bucky x reader

Y/N opened her eyes to bright light and a bedroom that wasn't hers. The pounding in her head a reminder of how much she drank last night. She looked around and realized it was Bucky's room, where she spent so much of her time. Suddenly, she realized that she was naked and her stomach dropped. She had hazy memories of shots and kisses that turned into more. She smiled even though her head hurt, she had been crushing on Bucky since the day they met and was amazed that he actually wanted her too.

She reached over to find his side of the bed was cool but figured he must have gone on his morning run with Steve and Sam. She sat up and saw a bottle of water next to some pain killers, which she downed, grateful that Bucky was so thoughtful. Drinking the entire bottle of water she realized she really needed to pee. Standing slowly so as not to irritate her headache she grabbed one of Bucky's t-shirts to cover herself and went to relieve herself. When she was done she went back to sit up in bed and check her emails for today's agenda.

When she was responding to a message from Maria Hill the suite door opened and Bucky came in, sweaty and gorgeous. He saw her curled up on his bed and smiling up at him.

"Morning Buck. Good run?"

He nodded and smirked "Yeah, Sam whined at us to wait up but we just lapped him until he shut up"

"Sounds fun. Since it's Sunday and nothing is scheduled, why don't you take a shower and come back to bed?"

Bucky felt his heart stop "Look, Cookie, about last night. You know you're one of my best friends and I love you but I don't feel comfortable getting into a real relationship right now. I still have so much work to do on myself. Last night was great and I was thinking we could have one of those friends with extras, or whatever it's called. You know, to blow off steam."

Her stomach dropped and she felt her eyes filling up "You mean friends with benefits?"

He nodded enthusiastically "Yeah, that's it." he smiled hopefully.

Y/N was quiet for a minute before responding, was it worth the almost guaranteed heartbreak to have more nights like last night? She shook her head, unwilling to take that risk again.

"I'm sorry Buck but I can't do that. I get attached and end up heartbroken. I can't sleep with people that I don't have romantic feelings for."

His eyes grew wide "Wait, that means you have feelings...." He trailed off.

She nodded whispering "Yeah, I do."

Bucky's face dropped "Shit, I'm sorry. I thought we were on the same page last night. I don't know what to say. I mean, I might develop feelings over time but I don't know. I don't want to make any promises, you know?"

She swallowed the sob that tried to escape "You don't have to say anything, we can just pretend this never happened. Ok?"

She got up from the bed, clutching the sheet to her and desperately searching for her dress from last night.

He nodded but wasn't feeling too sure of that, he could hear her heart speed up and see her hands shaking "Yeah, sure, nothing has to change."

She smiled at him sadly, tears escaping "I uh I just remembered some paperwork I needed to finish up. I'll catch you later."

"Wait doll. I-"

"Don't worry it's fine." She cleared her throat "I could use a little space and just have work to do." She kissed him on the cheek before rushing out.

Bucky stood there, not sure how to proceed. He didn't want to lose his friend but really didn't feel like he could handle a relationship now. The stress relief from the great sex they had was something he could handle and he did have feelings for her, since the day he arrived at the compound but he knew she deserved a better man than him.

***********************************************

Should I keep going?

Masterlist

[daffi-990]

✨ Inspiration Saturday ✨

Kicking things off and I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone for your encouragement and support on my last snippet. I was not in a great headspace, but after having a friend read over what I was struggling with (seriously thank you so much @callmenewbie 💙💙💙), I’m feeling a lot better about it and my fic.

Inspiration struck me this morning while out on my run and I was able to get started on chapter 3 of Rival Firefighters 🚒 . So here’s a little taste of what my brain conjured up …

As the water flows down his body, a satisfied groan falls from his mouth.

“I sure hope that groan wasn’t self pleasure related, because I’m not sure we could come back from that.”

Buck turns his face out from under the spray and flashes Chim a shit eating grin as he gets into the stall next to Buck’s. Chim turns his shower on and Buck’s water pressure drops slightly as the pipes make a small groan at the added water demand.

“Oh, I’m saving all my self pleasure for when I get home and I don’t have to keep quiet.”

Chim huffs out a laugh. “Don’t you live with like five roommates?”

“Yeah, but it’s almost 9am,” Buck grabs the soap and begins scrubbing himself, “and by the time I get home they’ll have all gone to work. So I’ll have the place to myself.” He wiggles his eyebrows playfully at Chim.

“Not going to try and hit a breakfast bar or something for someone to take home?”

Buck starts rinsing himself off. “Nah, I’ve got some excellent spank material I want to test drive.” His hand brushes over his cock and he feels anticipation build in his blood. He quickly rinses off and moves his hand away, not wanting to work himself up in a way that would make it obvious to everyone else that Buck is feeling horny.

Without skipping a beat, Chim replies, “Diaz work you up that much?”

Shutting off the water and stepping out of the stall, towel wrapped tightly around his waist, Buck shoots Chim a puzzled look. Had he seen Diaz shove him up against the engine and Buck practically melt into a puddle?

“Kid, every time your paths cross, you two crash together in a very school yard display of flirting. If Diaz had pigtails, you’d be pulling them.” Chim raises an eyebrow at him as if to say well am I wrong? And okay, he definitely isn’t. Buck knows he’s flirting like a little school boy, but it’s just so fun to see Diaz react. “Just figured after he tackled and ended up on top of you, your mind would have some uh … thoughts.”

“Oh, I’ve definitely got some thoughts.” Buck says as he slips his underwear on. And he’s going to let those thoughts play out as soon as he’s home. He doesn’t have plans, so he’s got the whole day to let his imagination run wild. He might go out later and find someone to help him live out some of them if he’s feeling the extra uh, need. But for now, he’s content with his right hand and a suction cup dildo thank you very much.

He’s buttoning up his jeans, shirt in his hand, when Anderson pops his head in.

“Buckley, you’ve got a visitor.”

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