#and their prompt on hair dye in space

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

“My ear is burning, my ear is burning.”

“Well if you would hold still—,”

“You’re taking forever.”

“It’s a process! Here, wipe off your ear.”

“Gross, is this your sock? I’m starting to think you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t. I told you that. It’s not my fault you didn’t think to download a tutorial before we went to space where there’s no YouTube. Either use the sock or suffer the chemical burns. I don’t care anymore.”

“Ah-ha! So at one point you cared.”

Peter stutters into silence. He’s 90% sure Harley is just bickering to fill the silence, as they do, but that 10% is compelling in its insistence that Harley isn’t going to gloss over Tony’s spilling of the beans for forever. At some point he’s going to want answers. Or rather, to let Peter down easy into the garbage compactor of ‘I’m flattered but I don’t think of you that way.’

HELLO??? Past Sarah where is the rest?????

[seireiteihellbutterfly]

Unconventional Flowers Event - March Bonus

Dahlias for Holi ft. Nanami

A/N: March bonus prompt for my Unconventional Flowers Event. I honestly was hoping for a very unique holiday and this got my attention in all the right ways. Requested by @sitarawrites. For more information on the Festival of Colors, visit Wikipedia.

Rating: E, fluffy

Pairing: Nanami x reader (Desi reader implied)

Word Count: 971

People had been skeptical of your marriage to Nanami, wondering how you would ever blend your rich, individual backgrounds. For the two of you, it just meant more cultural holidays to celebrate together, and spoiling each other with a wider variety of food and sweets accompanying each one. You knew he’d adapt well, he’s proven that when you were dating, even though Indian festivals tended to be crowded and loud. 

And you loved him for the way he kept up the rules that fell on your festival days. Vegetarian food only, and though he didn’t need to, he sat in the back while you offered your prayers, his hair damp because it was customary to always have your hair washed on festival days. The first piece of prasad which you offered to him with love after all the prayers and poojas were done, broken in half as he feeds it to you as well. It was bliss.

But the one festival Nanami refused to participate in was Holi. He had no qualms against the day in general, but rather, the way it was celebrated, by throwing colored water and powder onto others to celebrate the triumph of good over evil. You’d pouted because Holi also celebrated the love between Lord Krishna and his eternal love Radha, the most well-known romantic story in all of Hindu mythology. Not that he hadn’t given it a fair try. You’d told him to wear something old and casual but the man simply didn’t own anything that fell under those categories. He spluttered along gingerly at the fairgrounds while everyone played, his hair weighed down in his eyes by dyed water in shades of shocking pink, electric yellow, and robin’s egg blue. 

He hated the wetness, the noise, and the fact that the dyes used in the water and powder didn’t rub off for days (seriously, what was in that stuff?). After his first one which had occurred back when you were both initially dating, he’d politely told you he would not be participating in the ones to come as he tried to rub off the darkening pink that had stained his face, neck, and ears. The color had only taken in more on his pale skin, making him look like he had a bad sunburn, something that Gojo and Yuji had been quick to point out while teasing him to no end. 

So it became the rule that he would sit with you during the morning for prayers, and you went with your family and friends to the fairgrounds to celebrate the rest of the day by throwing color at each other. The first Holi after you got married though, you felt a small twinge of sadness that your husband would be absent for this affair but you hid it, pressing a kiss to his cheek before leaving.

When you arrive home, Nanami has laid down a towel trail from the door into the bathroom so that the color wouldn’t drip onto the carpet. You can’t help but appreciate his foresight on this; you loved Holi, but you certainly didn’t want to ruin the carpet. Under the hot spray, you let yourself wash off the colors that stuck to your body, watching them swirl into each other as they went down the drain. Honestly, it was only the pink that actually stuck, the rest of the colors washing off easily.  You step out, clean and fresh, and pad into the bedroom, to find Nanami sitting patiently on the bed with a cotton bag in his hands.

“Hey,” you say softly, tired from all the running around at the fairground and now the heat of the shower.

“Hey yourself.” He pats the space next to him. You oblige and sit next to him, the bed feeling soft and comforting after a long, energetic day.

“Did you have fun?” he gently rubs the top of your ear, now pink like a flamingo.

“Yeah. Missed you though.” You lace your fingers with his. 

“I know. Your face said it all when you left.” He kisses your hair, now washed and dried, smelling fragrant. “I’m sorry it disappoints you so much. But I just can’t find a way to enjoy playing Holi.”

You turn to kiss his jaw. “It’s not like you didn’t try. And you were miserable the whole time. It’s ok. It’s just one festival.”

“True. But. Maybe you and I can play Holi in a different way? One that involves colors but none of the mess?”

You look at him curiously, wondering what he had in mind before he hands you the bag he was holding. You peek into it and see that it’s filled to the brim with dahlias, your favorite flower. 

“Lay back.” You do as instructed, scooting up towards the pillows. Nanami dips his hand into the bag, picking up a pink flower. 

“Pink, to symbolize kindness and beauty.” He begins to lay all the pink flowers from the bag across your body shoulder to shoulder, like a devotee worshiping a goddess, and the act causes a rush of love to zoom through you.  

“Yellow, for cheer.” He places these across your chest and you hold still, not daring to move lest they fall off. 

“Orange, for celebrations and goodness.” These go across your stomach which is now jittery like there are a million butterflies in it. 

“Purple for respect and devotion.” The blooms are placed delicately along your legs and you feel giddy from the romance of it all. 

You lay there, colors all over your body, which was the whole point of Holi in the first place. Nanami carefully makes his way back up to your face, giving you a tender kiss on the lips, his eyes full of love.

“Happy Holi y/n. I hope this makes up for it.” 

All animated lines and banners by @/ cafekitsune

@bleach-your-panties @bleachbrainrotbro @kr0wu @grimmjowssoulmate-blog @j-u-u-z-o @brittscafe @keiva1000 @buttercupbitches @vee33ee @cindyneko-strider @dreaming-about-seireitei @quinnyundertow @naoyagasm @sitarawrites @sehunaeri @kentosgirlie @strawberrymuffinlovin @ickkck-09 @connorsui @arabidp0ssum @teasore @un-aesthetic @jadedjane

[harrygoeswest]

Love Aged Like Fine Wine

Harry is drunk and lost not too far from home, and there's only one person he wants to call to rescue him.

A/N: Hello everyone 👋🏼 it has been a loooong time since I posted anything on Tumblr, and I was admittedly reluctant to do so. However, I reblogged the lovely Sarah's (@harry-on-broadway) fic challenge the other day and it inspired me, and I would be doing a disservice to write the whole thing and never look at it again, especially since I quite like it. SO, I give you my first one shot in over a year. Bear with me, I'm a bit rusty... Special mention as always to Miss Liz (@all-things-fic) for reading and validating me.

I'm using prompts 14 & 19.

Trigger Warnings: Absolutely nothing (apart from the odd f word)

Word Count: 6533

~~~

“What do you want, Harry?”

An offended scoff was his initial response. “Not a very nice way t’greet y’best friend.”

He was right, it wasn’t. “You’re not my best friend.”

“Ouch. Though’ we were besties ‘n now y’makin’ me feel sad.”

Harry was slurring more than he usually did. I feared if he tried to say obviously, ‘overshly’ would turn into a soft, deep single syllable alike to the word ‘shush’. It wasn’t particularly late to warrant his level of drunkenness. Especially on a Tuesday evening. Chewsday, if you will.

“Harsh truths are easier to take when you’re drunk.” I said, shrugging as if he could see the action.

“Why’re y’bein’ so ‘orrible?” He whined.

“Why are you calling me pissed as a fart at 8:45 on a Tuesday night and ruining my bath time?”

“‘S there some space lef’ in the bathtub?”

“Don’t make it weird.” I grimaced. “What’s going on?”

He produced an incoherent mumble. I heard the rain get heavier, both on the phone call and outside my house.

“What was that?”

“M’st…”

“Aye?” I asked, my face surely a bewildered picture.

“I’m lost.” He huffed, agitated.

I sat up in the bath, water and suds sloshing around me. “Lost?”

“Yes.”

“W-,” words failed me, and I barked out a sharp laugh. “How are you lost?”

“How does anyone else get lost?” He said, stroppy.

“Wow, you really are drunk.”

He hummed, but it was a defeated noise. “C’ya come ‘n get me?”

“How am I supposed to come and get you if you don’t know where you are?”

“Well I was only at The Holly Bush.”

I laughed twice as hard that time. Put in perspective, The Holly Bush is no more than a ten minute walk from Harry’s house. “How long have you been walking?”

“‘Bout ‘alf an hour.” He muttered.

Now I was really howling, like a hyena on laughing gas. “Jesus Christ, Harry!”

“‘S not funny!”

“On the contrary, years of comedy begs to differ.”

He practically cried my name down the phone. “‘M really tired ‘n cold ‘n… weh,” I think he meant wet, “please come get me.”

I took a deep breath and mourned my premature bath. “Fine. But do not move from wherever you are.”

“Won’t.”

I stood up and watched water and soap suds cascade down my body with a pout. “What can you see?”

“Er…” a pause followed, I assumed for his vacant thoughts. “‘S like a lot of trees.”

I rolled my eyes. “That could literally be any part of the Heath, mate. Say more words.”

“I can’t see shit! It’s dark and it’s pissing it down!”

“Don’t get arsey or you can stay there and drown in rain water.” I warned him. “Find a road sign. Or a street name.”

He grunted. After no more than fifteen seconds he produced, “Platt’s Lane.”

“Alright, I know where that is. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“Thank you.” He said. At least I think that’s what he said.

I murmured a little, “Sure,” and then hung up. 

I dressed quickly in the easiest clothes I could find - a pair of tie-dye jogging bottoms, an old t-shirt and a crewneck over the top. I pulled on the first pair of trainers I could find and ran out to my car whilst fighting the rain. I also took a towel with me. My hair was still in the bun I’d put it up in for my bath.

It was really battering it down now - it was loud inside the car and the windows were steamed up. It was even louder when I turned the air conditioning on to defog the windows.

Once I could see outside the front and back windows I finally made my way to find Harry. I still mourned my bath as I drove - I missed how warm it was and how comfortable I had been. Now I was out in the cold and wet to rescue my drunken idiot friend.

It didn’t take me very long to find said drunken idiotic friend. He was sitting on a yellow grit box under some trees at the junction of Platt’s Lane and West Heath Road. He was soaking, shoulders slumped and looking at the floor. I pulled up as close to him as possible and leaned over to push the door open.

“Get in, you moron!” I called.

Harry looked up at the sound of my voice. He leapt to his feet almost immediately after, and staggered his way over to my little car. He nearly tripped over twice on his way, and he hit his head as he sat down.

“Fucking hell.” I muttered. “Look at the state of you.”

He grumbled, readjusting his sodden jacket, and then looked right at me. His hair was drenched, water dripping from his neck down his arms and chest, and his forehead down his nose and cheeks.

“Here,” I threw the towel at him. “You’re gonna make my car smell.”

“‘S tha’ the wors’ a’ya problems?” He asked, a snide tone laced in his mushy words.

“I wish it was.”

I pulled off again as Harry began to attempt to dry himself off, although I feared a towel would do very little to help him. Fortunately we were only a mere five minute drive from his house anyway. He probably could have walked home faster if he were sober. 

It was a relatively quiet drive since Harry spent most of it rubbing my towel over every available inch of his body. He did however sing along to the one song he heard playing, but he didn’t quite have the same masterful tone as usual. He even seemed quite timid.

I parked as close as possible to his front door and shut the engine off.

“Where are your keys, H?”

He gave me a dopey blink and then looked down at himself, double chin appearing accompanied with a pouty lower lip. “Dunno. On me somewhere.”

I sighed and unclipped my seatbelt, then reached over to him to feel through each of his pockets for his house keys. Of course I found them in the hardest one to reach on the inside of his jacket. He giggled while I did, like a child being tickled. I smacked him on the arm before I got out of the car.

I ran up to the front door and unlocked it, opening it so that my paralytic companion could be jettisoned inside his home as quickly as possible without getting more wet.

“Come on, then,” I said as I opened the passenger door, my shoulders hunched because the rain felt weird on my neck.

Harry practically fell out of the car at my instruction, so I lifted him up and placed his arm around my shoulder so I could manage his weight better. I kicked the car door shut behind us and walked him to the door. I realised on our little walk how unfit I was.

“‘M sorry.” He mumbled.

“It’s fine.” I said, my voice tight. It was only strained because he was heavy and I was weak.

“Didn’t even think I drank tha’ much, was only few whiskeys.”

Only a few could range anything between 3 and 30. I didn’t chide him for that. “It’s alright, Harry. I’m sure you’d do the same for me.” I meant that genuinely and not as a threat I’d be getting that level of drunk in the future just to call him to rescue me.

“Would.” He insisted.

I awkwardly held onto him as we got inside, twisting at an awkward angle to close the door and keep any more rain from getting in. Harry felt like dead weight against me.

“Ready to get upstairs?”

His affirming nod was the surest action I’d seen from him this far.

“Alright,” I took a deep breath, “let’s go.”

I made sure we navigated the stairs one at a time, because I had visions of him tripping up and cracking his head open if he tried to do anything by himself. And now, in the warmth of his massive home and up this close to him, the boy reeked of stale beer and sweat. I didn’t want to ask what he’d been doing in The Holly Bush for him to get that bad. I hadn’t seen him that wasted in a very long time.

“Meant it, y’know.” He slurred.

We were only halfway up the stairs and all I could hear was my own panting. Admittedly I was surprised he hadn’t passed out yet. 

“Meant what?” I heaved, and pushed him up the next step.

“I w’ do the same f’you.”

“I know you would.”

“Don’t even have t’ be drunk.”

“Right.”

We stopped for a minute, not at anyone’s request but Harry didn’t seem to want to move. I looked at him as he did me, and he produced this hazy-eyed, closed-lip smile. 

His woolly but content expression made me laugh. “I think it’s bed time for you, mate.”

He groaned. “Don’t call me ‘mate’.”

I frowned. “Alright. Sorry.”

When we finally reached the top of the stairs, Harry collapsed on me by way of a hug. We were standing in the middle of the hallway, his entire body somehow wrapped around mine. I was suffocating in the smell of a brewery.

“Don’t leave me.” He begged.

“I’m not… Need to get you to bed somehow.”

He pulled his head back to look at me, eyes heavy. “You can take me to bed.”

“That’s what I just said.”

He nodded repeatedly like a bobble-head figure. 

I made a face, perturbed, and nudged him in the direction of his bedroom. He nearly fell over as he turned around, and ended up palming the wall the rest of the way. I kept a hand on his back just in case.

As soon as he saw his bed he was climbing onto it, still fully clothed and in his muddy trainers.

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, reaching after him like he was a toddler, “Harry, take your shoes off.”

He laughed maniacally into his bed sheets, the muffled sound disturbing.

I huffed with a scowl and did it myself. His vans were dripping wet so I took them to the radiator and left them on top to dry. I made sure the radiator was turned on, too. The last thing Harry Styles needed was the flu again.

He was sitting up now, watching me with a warm expression. I ignored it.

“Need to take your clothes off or you’ll get a cold.”

“Yes, Miss.” He was beaming now.

The attempt at taking his t-shirt off was painful, and I ended up having to help him.

“Jeans too.”

I knew that would be more agonising to watch than the t-shirt, and I didn’t want to have to look at his bare chest for too long, so I went for a walk to the closest bathroom to get another towel. His jeans were still around his knees when I got back.

“Jesus Christ.” I said through gritted teeth, and freed his jeans from around his ankles. They were a heavy kind of damp and thudded when I put them on the floor.

“‘S cold.” He commented, staring up at me.

“I’ve just put the radiator on.” I told him, and handed him the towel. “I’ll find you some clean pants.”

I left him to dry his no doubt tacky chest and legs while I searched through his drawers for some clean underwear. I threw them at him once I’d located them.

“Where’s your laundry basket?”

“Wardrobe.” He said, voice getting gruff.

I collected his dirty clothes from off the floor again and wandered into the walk-in wardrobe attached to his bedroom. I stared at it for a while, not just because it was ginormous but also because I couldn’t believe the amount of crap in it. It was bulging with clothes - some I hadn’t seen him wear for years and others I hadn’t seen him wear at all. Ever. 

I dropped the clothes in my hand onto the overflowing basket in one of the cupboards, hating to do so because it was just adding to more chores. And then I realised that this was not my house and I would not be responsible for washing any of his clothes.

“Harry, do you want something to wear in bed if you’re cold?”

He never answered.

I peered into the bedroom to see he’d already tucked himself into bed.

“I guess not.” I muttered.

I stood next to his bed and watched him for a minute. His eyes were closed and he was breathing regularly but I couldn’t work out if he was actually asleep or just pretending to be. His eyelids looked shiny and delicate and his cheeks were dusted pink - a combination of his inebriation and being outside in the cold for so long. I could hear the radiator chugging and it was definitely warmer than it had been when we arrived.

Without thinking, still staring at him while possibly passed out like a lunatic creep, I wrapped my index finger around one of his curls and moved it out of his face.

He giggled suddenly, catching my wrist. “That tickled.”

I smacked his hand away. “I thought you were asleep, you absolute git!”

“Not yet.”

I rolled my eyes and scowled at him. “I’m goin’ home. Seeing you in bed is making me want mine.”

“Can always share mine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I scoffed, and made a move to leave. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

“Aye, wait!” He shouted at me.

“What?”

“I don’t want you t’ leave yet.”

“Well, I’m exhausted, and you’re about to pass out on me anyway.”

He said something that was complete and utter incoherent nonsense.

“I don’t know what you just said but I’m not changing my mind.”

He whined my name again and reached for my hand. “Please stay bit longer? Like havin’ y’here, havin’ y’around.”

“Well, that’s nice of you to say, but I still want my own bed.”

“Please?”

“No.” I stood my ground, but I took a step closer and pinched his cheek. “But I’ll come back tomorrow after work if that makes you feel better.”

“Feel better if y’stayed wi’ me now.”

“Well that’s not going to happen. Just call me if you need anything.”

“Need y’now. Need y’all the time.”

“Stop being daft.”

“‘M not bein’ daft - I mean it.”

“You are being daft. Just go to sleep - I’ll come back tomorrow. I promise.”

He stressed my name and sat up. “Y’not listenin’ to me. ‘M bein’ proper serious - I want ya t’ stay wi’ me. I need y’here.”

“No, what you need is sleep.”

He scowled at me.

“I’m going to go and get you a pint of water and a paracetamol and then I’m going home. And that’s the last we’re gonna say on this, end of.”

I left the room and  found my way to the kitchen, though admittedly I did get lost on my way there since I’d only been here once before and it was a considerable amount of time ago. I did as promised and got him a pint of water and found some paracetamol in a drawer full of miscellaneous items close to the sink.

I couldn’t fathom why Harry was so needy, insobriety aside. We were friends, yes, and had been for some time, but we weren’t that close. Or perhaps we were and I just refused to admit it due to his increasing popularity and the fact that being perceived near him in the public eye terrified me. I was perfectly happy with my mundane job and my mundane life. I appreciated Harry for what he was - a friend -, and didn’t expect anything more or less from that level of our relationship. Nor had I ever, and it surprised me that he suddenly did.

Perhaps I was overthinking it all. That was likely.

I returned to Harry’s room to find him out of bed in just his pants.

“What are you doing?” I asked, putting the water and the tablets on his bedside table, trying to avoid looking at his chest.

“Need the loo.” He said without hesitation, and marched past me.

I sighed, watching after him until he was safely in the bathroom with the door closed, and then I perched on the edge of his bed with my head in my hands.

I was irritated, yes. I knew I shouldn’t be as irritated as I was, but I couldn’t help it. This was not the evening I had planned for myself. I was supposed to have an early night and go to work in the morning with a clear head and no bags under my eyes. Now I was going to look like the walking dead, and feel like it too.

I stood up again when Harry reappeared. I watched him stagger and sway across the corridor and it made me nervous. He tripped once and nearly smacked his face against the doorframe.

“Fucking hell, Harry.” I said, panicked, and reached forward to steady him.

He laughed, more a giggle of that from a small girl. “I’m so drunk.”

“I know you are. That’s why you need to get into bed.”

“I will, jus’ one more thing before I do,”

I thought he was going to start running riot around the house and I was going to have to chase after him, like a dog owner with a tyrannical pooch. But instead, he just wrapped his arms around my middle and shoved his face into the crook of my neck. His body was warm and it felt strange being this close to him when he had so little clothes on.

I let out a long breath, reciprocating it this time. “You’re a twat.”

He hummed when I stroked my hand over his damp hair. “Not very nice.”

“And yet still true.”

He grunted, but never moved a muscle. A moment of silence passed before he said anything else. “Thank you f’ comin’ to rescue me.”

“Sure, anytime.” I didn’t mean that. Or maybe I did, but I’d be bitter about it if it became a recurrence because I couldn’t stand to disappoint people who meant a lot to me.

He let me go, and I thought that was finally going to be the end of it. Instead, he took my face, quite harshly, between both of his hands until my cheeks squished. His gaze was dopey and warm again, but somehow different to last time. I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Harry, that hurts.”

He ignored me. “I love you.” It sounded more like ‘ah luff you’ but that wasn’t relevant in the moment.

“Yeah, I love you too, now let go.” I was trying to pull his hands away but apparently he was still physically stronger than me even that drunk.

“No,” he shook his head at me and then brought what felt like my entire body against his chest. “I mean I really love you.”

I couldn’t see anything. I felt us begin to fall sideways, but with his strength I had absolutely no control over where we were going.

“Harry!” I screamed, still trying to fight him with no luck.

I think we hit the bed because the landing was softer than anticipated and Harry didn’t wince or flinch. That could also be attributed to the levels of alcohol in his body. He was probably majoritively quite numb.

“Y’like, my favourite person.” He said, voice much quieter now, and I could feel his nose in my hair. My face was pushed into his chest. “Want y’around all time. Rubbish a’ showin’ it but I miss y’when ‘m nor’ at home. ‘N I don’t mean everyone, I mean jus’ you.”

I was listening to him with baited breath. I’d never really been on the receiving end of ‘drunk words, sober thoughts’ - I was usually the one talking and making a fool of myself. Once I told my sister’s boyfriend (at the time) what I really thought of him in front of our entire family after keeping my mouth shut for so long. They broke up the next day and she came to live with me for a month. I felt almost paralysed now listening to Harry.

“Mus’ think ‘m nuts ‘cause I’ve never said anythin’ before, bur’m scared. You’re a scary woman.”

I tried not to take offence to that, even though it was likely true. I had tried for the longest time to give off a very ambiguous aura. I didn’t want anyone to know me, least not the real me. I liked the illusion of being dead inside even if I was far from it.

“Loved y’ for so long now I can’ ‘ide it anymore.” He was really slurring now and words were about to fail him. Somehow, he was still holding onto me. “‘M like tha’ 1975 song.” I wanted to ask which one, but I didn’t have to. He proceeded to sing the words, “I’m in love with you.”

Just once he sang them, maybe slightly off pitch but it still sounded good. Not sure it would hold up to any of his previous performances, but I’d take it.

I didn’t know what to say. I was in a state of shock to be honest and the thought of moving terrified me. But then his grip around me loosened, and he let out a singular loud snore.

I pulled back, horrified, to see his sleeping face - mouth wide open. Another snore was released. “You are fucking joking.”

I sat up, his limp body falling away from me. I smacked his arm in the hopes of waking him, but he never flinched. “Harry,” I said, hitting him again.

Still no movement.

“Oi.” Smack.

Nothing.

I didn’t know what to do. Who does that? Who makes an admission like that and then falls asleep? And why did it have to be this boy? I was speechless, and when I finally managed to clamber off the bed I was also useless.

I stared at him with a look of bewilderment, as he lay there passed out on his unmade bed, mouth agape and naked besides his white y-fronts. It was then that the reality of what he’d said hit me, and I started to cry.

I wasn’t angry or upset - I was overwhelmed. Drunkenly, Harry had just told me he loved me. Then immediately passed out. Now I was left with my own feelings and his and no one to talk to about it. What was I supposed to do?

I desperately wanted to leave and get some sleep, but I also couldn’t help but think that would be morally inappropriate. Leaving a friend alone while dangerously intoxicated was how 50% of all murder documentaries started. Not that Harry was likely to get killed by an intruder in his mansion complete with security fortress. But he might accidentally fall down the stairs or choke on his own vomit.

And yet, the idea of staying in this massive and unfamiliar house to process all those thoughts made me even more hysterical. The idea alone provoked a loud sob, and I quickly covered my mouth because it was such a horrendous sound.

I made my decision that instant. I put Harry properly into bed with all of my remaining strength, covered him with his duvet, and then I fled from his house like a bat out of hell. On my way out, I took his spare keys with me.

I barely slept that night. My head was swimming and even though I couldn’t keep my eyes open, my brain was in overdrive. That, and the cat was sleeping on my chest and purring right in my face. His whiskers tickled my nose.

I found myself thinking about the early stages of mine and Harry’s association. 

I couldn’t have called him a friend when we first met because I hated him. I don’t think that feeling was ever reciprocated on his part but I couldn’t ever stand to be in the same room as him. Why? Because I felt the need to constantly contradict societal comments and beliefs. The world - at least people in my world - deemed him a golden boy who never did any wrong. I was convinced it wasn’t the case. My downfall was my lack of determination to prove it.

We met through mutual friends, as these things always seemed to happen. I couldn’t even remember which friend it was - neither me nor Harry talked to them anymore. But one day he was just there, and periodically from then onward he continued to show up. I couldn’t even remember when it was, but it was before he cut all his hair off. One Direction’s last few remaining days, perhaps? Anyway, he was suddenly omnipresent and came with an abundance of attention and it infuriated me.

I remember once, Harry confronted me on my obvious dislike for him. That was our first encounter collectively with ‘drunk words, sober thoughts’. I can’t remember exactly what I said but I wasn’t very nice and I remember the Bambi look in his eyes when I walked away from him. After that he was notably absent for some time. If I asked him about it now I’m not sure how honest he’d be about it. He was lucky enough to be able to claim work absences for long periods of time - I imagined he’d use that excuse. How truthful that would be, I didn’t know.

Our reconciliation came after that. He saw me alone in the nearby shop and asked me to join him for a coffee. I couldn’t really say no - it was a Sunday afternoon and I was only going back home to vegetate for the rest of the day. I think it was spring - I probably would’ve just read a book and gone to bed early. We spent the next 3 hours in Ginger & White, and after we got kicked out of there we went up to The Holly Bush, ironically.

I saw a different side to Harry that night, and I always put it down to having him to myself. There was no one else there with us apart from the locals in the pub who wouldn’t bat an eyelid. It was just us, and he was unapologetically himself, as was I.  We suddenly had an entirely new perception of one another - a higher level of understanding. On that random Sunday evening alone, I came to appreciate Harry for just being Harry. I saw who he really was, and I liked him.

From then on, I enjoyed his company. It became a regular thing - an afternoon doing something random together, just the two of us. And it ranged from simple coffee shop talks to entire day trips out of London. I realised then that what we’d basically been doing was dating for about 5 years with no physical contact.

I laughed out loud, disturbing the cat. He ran off and left me alone. 

We’d had our own intimate relationships with other people outside of our friendship, which I guess is why I’d never thought about it that way before. He also seemed to do that with multiple other people - I wasn’t the only one. Was I?

I never had to apologise for the night I was rude to him. I always wondered why, and I always berated myself for not saying I was sorry. I’d admitted I was wrong about him a long time ago, but only to myself. It seemed a bit too late to do it now, but I assumed he’d forgiven me. I could’ve been wrong.

I think I finally fell asleep around 4am. My alarm for work went off just 3 hours later and I burst into tears as soon as I realised the situation I was in. I called into work sick and went straight back to sleep.

How much more sleep I had was uncertain. It felt like only 2 hours, but it could’ve been more. Since I wasn’t working, I decided to get a McDonald’s after showering. Mostly for Harry rather than me, although I’m sure he’d make a comment about it.

I used the key I’d stolen last night to let myself in and went straight up to his bedroom with the McDonald’s in my right hand. Except I didn’t make it to his bedroom, because I found him on the bathroom floor next to the toilet, on his front with his cheek pressed to the tile floor.

“Harry…?”

He moaned, limply raising his hand and dropping it again immediately.

I moved into the room, leaving the McDonald’s in the hall because the smell would not go well with the pre-existing one in the room. It seemed Harry had vomited since I left. I sat on my knees beside him and stroked a finger through his curls, similar to how I had done last night.

“Are you alright?”

“Not really.” He said, voice whiny.

“No, I’m not surprised. I brought you some breakfast.”

He managed to lift his head and look towards me. I pointed at the hallway and he followed where my finger suggested.

“What is it?”

“McDonald’s.”

He screwed his face up. “You know I don’t eat meat.”

“Yes, that’s why I got you a Fillet-O-Fish. And mozzarella sticks.”

“Not very healthy.”

“Well, boiled eggs and avocado doesn’t make for very exciting hangover food if you ask me.”

He blew a breath out so that his lips wobbled. “True.”

“You gonna sit up and eat it?”

He took a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“Come on, then,”

I took his arm and helped pull him to a sitting position. He sat against the bathtub and rolled his head back, mouth open and breathing heavy. I left his food in his lap and sat opposite him with my back against the wall.

“This is probably one of the worst hangovers I’ve had in a long time.” He said, grimacing into the paper bag. At least he could form complete words this morning.

“How much do you remember?”

He laughed once. “Not much. I remember calling you, and waiting for you to come get me. I remember when you turned up, but that’s about it. I don’t remember getting home.”

I swallowed thickly. That meant he probably didn’t remember telling me he was in love with me. Or rather, singing it.

“Next thing I’ve woke up in my pants about to vomit.”

“I think you were the most drunk I’ve ever seen you.”

He paused before he took a bite out of his fillet burger. “Really?”

“Hands down. You fell over nearly three times. And you wouldn’t let me go home.”

“Oh, I’m not surprised by that. I’m a very clingy drunk.”

“I was aware of that before last night.” I muttered. “Who were you with?”

“Tom and Tyler.”

“Ah, one of those evenings, was it?

“Yeah, didn’t expect it to be quite that bad, though. Was only going for one.”

“That’s how they all start.”

“Mm, I should know better.”

“Yes you should.”

He laughed around his mouthful and then swallowed it. “This was a good call, thank you.”

“No problem. Although I have to say I did not expect to watch you eat it on the bathroom floor.”

“I know. Feel like a uni student.”

“I don’t think uni students have bathrooms this big.”

He smiled, but didn’t say anything while his mouth was full. “Think I’m gonna have a shower, if you don’t mind?”

I shrugged. “Your house.”

“Right.” He rolled his eyes in jest. “Will you hang around a bit while I do?”

“Sure. I’ll put some coffee on.”

“Cool.” He grinned. 

He shoved the empty box into the paper bag and screwed it up. I took the rubbish off him once we were standing again and left him alone to shower.

I did as I said I would and made him a coffee, and then helped myself to a glass of water and an apple out of the fruit bowl on his counter. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen now. He seemed to be behaving normally, so I was certain he’d forgotten his admission, but that worried me because I was now going to have to admit that I knew. And I still wasn’t entirely sure how I felt.

When Harry did reappear he was fully clothed and looked a lot fresher than he had done before. His hair was damp but beginning to curl and his complexion had a bit more life to it.

“Feel better?”

“Loads better, thank you.”

“That’s good.” I said with a pressed smile. I pushed his coffee towards him.

“Cheers. Where’s yours?” He asked with a subtle frown as he took a sip out of his mug. He made an approving sound. “That’s good.”

“You know, I don’t actually like coffee.”

His frown deepened. “You have coffee all the time.”

“No, I have a mocha.”

“That’s still got coffee in it.”

“Yes, but the hot chocolate kind of makes it a fake coffee. A coffee for people who don’t like coffee.”

“Right.” He chuckled. “I had a thought upstairs just now… why aren’t you at work?”

“Because I barely slept.”

He looked concerned. “You better not have stayed really late because of me. Should’ve kicked me in the crotch and told me to get over myself.”

“Oh believe me, I tried to leave you here to go to bed, H. But I actually got back at an acceptable hour, that wasn’t the problem.”

“Just a bad night?”

I hummed. “No, I still blame you.”

“Why?” He asked, leaning his hip against the counter side.

I looked at the kitchen top and pursed my lips. “You… you told me something that gave me a lot to think about.”

“I didn’t give you some rubbish music samples, did I?”

I snorted. “I wish. Might’ve helped me sleep.”

“What then? I can’t remember anything.”

After a charged silence, I let out a long sigh. “You told me you love me. You said you love me, and then gave this little speech about missing me. And not just as friends - you said like The 1975’s song, I’m in love with you. But you sang that part, and then immediately fell asleep.”

When I met Harry’s gaze again he was staring at me, and biting his cheek. Neither of us said anything for a while. I was hoping he’d say something. Or perhaps me repeating what he said last night meant he felt like he didn’t need to say anymore.

I cocked my head. “Did you mean it?”

He stood taller, inhaling as his gaze became glassy. “Yeah. Yeah of course I did. Well, I didn’t mean to fall asleep, obviously. But I meant it, although I didn’t mean to tell you in that way… you know, while utterly shit faced.”

“You were completely shit faced.”

“Yeah… no, that’s not how I planned on telling you.”

“Was there a different plan?”

“Maybe…” He turned his nose up and scratched the back of his head. “If I told you what it was you’d hate it-,”

“You don’t know that.” I retorted.

He raised a judgemental brow at me. “Er, yes I do.”

I laughed and put my head on the table. “Whatever.”

“Anyway,” he huffed, but it had a lightheartedness to it, “of course I fucking meant it. Been living with it for ages - it’s all had time to brew. Aged like a fine wine.”

I started laughing, and then I felt his arms wrap around my chest. I was pulled up by him to stand straighter, and he rested his chin on my shoulder. His back was against my front and it felt quite nice. I don’t think we’d ever stood like that before.

“Your love has aged like a fine wine?”

“Sounds right cheap when you say it like that.” 

“You said it. That is literally what you said.” I was still laughing.

“I know.” He whimpered.

I twisted my head to look at him, but he’d hidden his face. “You’re gonna have to bear with me.”

“In what way?”

“Well, this is a lot for me. I’m still… processing it, and I don’t know how I feel. You’re my friend and I love you, of course I do. Just…”

“Not in love with me yet.” He concluded.

“Yet.” I sniggered.

“I’ll remain optimistic, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

He giggled, and pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Take your time. Preferably not forever though, ‘cause… the biological clock is ticking.”

I snorted again. “Reel it in.”

“Sorry.” He hummed and squeezed my shoulders tightly. “I am going to have a movie day on the sofa. Do you want to stay?”

“For that I do, fuck yeah.”

“Sweet… go and make yourself comfy. I’ll get the snacks.”

He bumped my hip with his when I passed him so I kicked him back. He gave a childish laugh, and I shook my head at him, but I found as I wandered into his overcompensating living room that I had this giddy feeling in my stomach I’d never felt with him before.

What was I, the most stubborn woman on Earth, going to do?

~

“What d’you want, H?”

“Not a very charming greeting.” He groused.

I pouted. “You’re interrupting my bath time.”

“Is there some space left in the bathtub?”

I smirked and sank lower into the water. “For you? Never.”

“Hey!”

“Always,” I laughed around my correction, “I meant always.”

“That’s more like it.” He chuckled. “I was calling because I think it might be my turn to get dinner. So what do you fancy?”

“Well, you, obviously.”

“Obviously.” His matter-of-fact tone matched mine. I could imagine him nodding his head. “How about a chippy?”

“Oh, fuck yeah. My usual please.”

“Curry sauce too?”

“Wouldn’t be my usual without it.”

“Just checking. So, I will be knocking on your door within the next hour. Make the most of that bath ‘cause I’m coming.”

“Cool. See you in a bit.”

“Bye-bye.”

“Love you!” I shouted before he could put the phone down.

He was quiet for a minute. “Blimey. Don’t need to shout it, darlin’.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “Just in case you forgot.”

“I could never. But I love you more. See you shortly.”

“Okay, bye-bye. Love you most.”

“No!” He shouted, but I cut him off before he could refute it more.

I felt smug. I let out a satisfied sigh and laid my head back against the edge of the tub. 

I had taken my time in coming around to Harry’s admission, but he was incredibly patient with me and I was always grateful for that. It had been little over a year since his little bender, and I felt really good about everything. We felt really good about everything.

Our relationship seemed to only be moving up at a pace we were both happy with, and I couldn’t ask for anything more. All we had to do was keep it that way, and I had every confidence we could.

~~~

If you read this far, thank you <3

Come Talk To Me

[inkykeiji]

idk if ur still accepting requests for the june prompts, but if so can u do #10 dark hair w bmb dabi?

prompt: dark hair series: break my bones warnings: just angst! words: 475

“White roots?” 

“Hmm?” he looks over, tipping his head back against the couch as his head lolls towards you, sharp jaw and Adams apple on perfect display. 

“Your hair…I just—I thought you had naturally dark hair.” 

“Oh,” he leans forward, subconsciously raking a hand through the inky strands, fingers curling at the roots and giving a short tug. “Uh, yeah.” 

Why do you dye it? You want to ask him, curiosity gnawing a hole through your tummy as the words crawl up your throat, but he’s staring at you with this look; an expression you haven’t quite seen before, eyes almost pleading with you in desperation not to ask. 

Something sinks in your chest, thick and leaden—he looks so melancholic, gazing at you with sparkling sapphire eyes, forehead wrinkled just a little in concern; or maybe it’s fear, afraid that you’re going to ask the question he’s so clearly dreading, lips twitching downwards into a tiny frown.

“Cool,” you say with a shrug, aiming to keep your tone light and indifferent. 

Tense shoulders relax as he exhales a soft breath, slow and steady, through his nostrils, and you watch as his jaw flexes twice with a heavy swallow.  

But later that night, when the whipping winter winds envelop the condominium and quiver the windows beneath their force, when the veil between night and morning is at its very thinnest, he tells you, sudden and unexpected, confession murmured out into the spacious living room, twining with the mumbling undertones leaking from the flickering television.

“My mother had white hair.” 

And even though it’s said quietly, barely more than a singular breath exhaled from his tongue, the gentle revelation makes you jump, serendipitously yanking you from sleeps hazy embrace.

You nod, nuzzling your cheek into his thigh, a silent confirmation that you heard, a soothing encouragement to continue, the moment pregnant with suspense, as if there’s something else clinging to his teeth, fighting to leave his mouth.

“My eyes are from my father,” he grits out. “I wish I could say that’s the only trait we share, but…” he trails off, and you don’t push, instead tracing soft nonsensical patterns on his leg, allowing him the space to think, to mull, to continue if he wants to, or to cut it short. 

But that’s all he says, just a shard of his life, sharp and gleaming in your palms, pulled deep from where it was lodged between his ribs. 

And you think you’re alright with that. You think, maybe, that you can collect fragments of him—an immaculate jigsaw, gifted and won bit by razored bit—and piece them back together with slow, careful, tender hands, mindful not to shatter them further, not to snap any between your fingers as you return them to their rightful place, gradually revealing the masterpiece that is Dabi.  

[moonshynecybin]

if you wouldn't mind can i have your thoughts on how the first meeting goes between uccio and marc in the same age au?

prompt #1! sorry i didnt actually do their first meeting i just crawled inside of uccio's head and rummaged around in there concerning marc in this scenario... if anyone wants more of this au PLEASEEEE go read this fic an anon wrote in this universe im obsessed with it....

“I don’t like him.”

Vale’s head tries to raise, forever unstill, and Uccio pushes it back into place. “Stay put, you’re going to make me smear it.”

“It’s hair, it’ll grow back. How do I look?”

“Blue.”

He hums, easy, and maybe that’s all Vale will say about it. About Marquez. Because he absolutely knows who Uccio is talking about—He’s been talking about Marquez all fucking week, still heated over a last-lap pass in Barcelona that had smoke coming out of his ears even as he smiled and waved on the podium. Sunflower yellow and nearly as tall as Marquez despite being a step lower. But Vale plays his cards close to his chest, and there’s a good chance he’ll go quiet, change the topic. Do the thing he does when he’s upset, where he just pretends nothing happened.

There’s a silent moment, Vale fiddling with a key ring as Uccio tries not to slop hair dye on his ears. Vale’s foot is bouncing up and down, fast. Music floats in from the speaker in the corner. The CD is scratched— it keeps catching, a fraught line of tension that drags at Uccio, raising his hackles.

Vale speaks.

“Who?” He says, head still bent down. Uccio can’t see his face. It’s a farce, Vale just wants to pretend he hasn’t been thinking about it. About him. Uccio lets him.

“Marquez.” He says. “He’s dirty, always pushing too hard on the inside. Dangerous, I don’t like him.”

It’s true. Marquez is reckless— makes Vale even more so, tearing impulsive streaks through his riding style, pushing him to lean further, brake later. Anything to keep up.

It’s been changing Vale— he’s been changing Vale, merging them together until the lines between them are blurred. Coalescing into something singular as they learn from each other. Vale’s even been hitting the gym lately, no doubt inspired by Marquez. It’s different. Odd. Vale is so himself, it chafes to see him react to others so strongly.

Marquez really is inside his head.

“Hmm.” Is all Vale says, “That’s true.”

Uccio waits. He doesn’t say anything else.

Which is ridiculous. Uccio saw them together, the last time they raced in Italy. Saw the barely restrained tension between them in the pre-race interview. Saw Vale laugh in the way he only does when he’s pissed off.

It should be normal for Vale to jump on the dog pile— easy for him to pick up Uccio’s thread here. To come up with clever insults. To jab at Marquez’s height or his laugh. Find some flaw to pick apart and spin funny stories about. Common practice. They’ve done it before, about Marquez, even.

But Vale’s not doing that. He’s picking at his nails. His foot still jabbering away at the floor.

And Uccio hasn’t just seen the two of them when they're caught in the cruelty of competition. Of comparison. He’s also seen them after the race, on the top step of the podium. Faces split wide in identical smiles. Real ones. Laughing.

He’s seen them duck out of the bathroom together, color high on their cheeks.

And he’s seen Vale looking.

It’s weird, what’s going on with Marquez and Vale. It prickles under Uccio’s skin, unsettles him. It has always been him and Vale. Always. But Marquez is— Marquez is like another Vale. Gets racing in ways Uccio can’t. Spends time with him every weekend, practically, in the paddock. Occupies his space.

And now, this.

He doesn’t need Vale distracted.

He finishes painting the back of Vale’s head, a bright dusky blue, and snaps his gloves into the trash.

It looks like shit.

[blainesebastian]

take care

words: 2,054 ship: austin butler x reader summary: (anon request): having to take care of austin on set when he’s sick but he’s trying everything to push through for the film and for baz notes: masterlist on my sidebar, accepting prompts! i loved filling this one, thank you!  warnings: none tag list: @killerqueenfan, @karamelcoveredolicity, @elizabethrosecresswell, 

The thing about Austin is that he’s a private person, he keeps to himself with a purpose and it’s even highlighted even more when he takes on the role of Elvis. Shutting himself away for two years to prep for the role, your relationship almost didn’t make it. There were moments where the distance was so painful that it felt like you were pulling skin away from bone. You, of course, supported and appreciated his process and knew it was going to be difficult, but you didn’t expect the toll it would take on your relationship and on Austin himself. He holds himself up to such a high standard and it shows in the way he carries himself, the way he acts, participates in interviews and events, the whole nine.

Once filming officially began, he slowly started to let you back in. So many people—family or those who you considered to be your best friends, asked you why you stuck around. Seems like it should be a simple response, you love him, and you’re not just gonna abandon him and all that you’ve built together for your relationship just because he’s dedicated to his craft.

He makes time for you, he creates space, it just takes a little bit for it to show. And it’s worth waiting for.

You visit Austin often on set but also know enough to keep your distance, to give him the creative room to give himself entirely over to Elvis and do what he wants and needs to do. Sometimes though, you think he gives so much to everyone else—Baz, Lisa Marie, Priscilla, his fellow actors, crew and fans—that he forgets to give something back to himself.

Watching him come into his trailer, you can sense the other shoe dropping from a mile away, even though Austin is very good at masking things sometimes. He shows what he wants people to see, it’s what makes him an incredible actor—he has this dichotomy to him where he’s humble, gentle, kind but also knows exactly what he’s doing when he flirts with the camera, with other people, when he runs a hand through his softly curled hair or touches his jawline or lower lip.

It's taken a little bit of time, but he lets his guard down around you, so you can tell something is off when he closes the trailer door. You slowly put the book down you’re reading, pulling your feet from where they’re resting on the couch. He’s in an Elvis look, from what you can tell something out of the fifties, a black lace shirt and white slacks.

“Are you—”

He puts his hand up suddenly, cutting you off, turning his face into his shoulder to sneeze. You frown, running a hand through your hair as you watch him do his best to shake it off with a light groan.

“Bless you.”

Austin clears his throat, “Gimme a minute.”

Watching him disappear into the backroom where the bed is, you can only assume that he’s changing his clothes. Maybe on a dinner break, it’s about that time as you check your watch. Your eyebrows draw together a little as you lean back against the kitchenette counter. He doesn’t look good…or sound it, either. Despite his voice adopting a lower octave to match Elvis’s drawl, he sounds tired. Or better yet, he sounds sick. Honestly, that would not be surprising to you in the slightest—Austin has been consistently working his ass off when he’s on set and even when he’s not. He’s got to be wearin’ himself thin, and you know that movie sets work on a very obvious schedule, but Austin has to pause every so often to look after himself. Otherwise he’s only gonna make things worse.

When he comes out of the backroom, he’s back in his own clothes, pair of black jeans and a cream-colored sweater that somehow makes the jet-black dye of his hair brighter. It’s not styled as it was before, most likely because he keeps running his hands through it—people in the hair and makeup department probably love that. When he turns his head to look at you, you can see that his eyes aren’t as bright, the blue a grayish color that reminds you of the sky right before it storms.

“Take this with love and affection, but you look terrible.”

A scoff mixed with a laugh leaves his throat, “Thanks. I’m not feelin’ my best either.”

You wince, reaching out to touch his cheek. Austin petulantly tips his head to the side and out of your grasp, mumbling out a word that sounds a lot like don’t.

“Don’t ‘don’t’ me,” You throw back, taking a step forward into his space again and clasp his chin. “C’mon.” Austin sighs a bit dramatically, head falling back just a little, but despite the height difference you’re able to reach up and touch his forehead with the back of your hand. You wait a few moments and once you’re satisfied, you let him go.

“Least you don’t have a fever.”

Austin hums, moving to sit down on the couch. He leans his elbows onto his knees and runs his hands over his face, his fingers moving through his hair as his eyes automatically close for a few moments. You walk over to him quietly, perching yourself onto the sturdy coffee table to sit in front of him, hands falling to his knees and gently rubbing with your thumbs.

“You need to take care of yourself.” You tell him, not scolding but definitely worried. Yeah, it’s probably just a run-of-the-mil cold triggered from not enough sleep and too much stress but there’s always the opportunity that it can spiral into something worse.

“Doin’ the best I can.”

You shake your head—you both know that’s not true. “Babe, you looked like a zombie walkin’ into this trailer. I love you, but I dunno if this is really your best.”  

And that seems to frustrate him a little because his shoulders go rigid, the muscle in his jaw working as he clamps his mouth shut. Pulling his hands away from his face, he looks at you as he says, “What do you want me to do? I can’t put a pause in filmin’, I—” He clears his throat, “I can’t let Baz down.”

Your eyebrows draw together in confusion because, “You think that’s what you’d be doing? Letting Baz down? Letting anyone down?” You sigh, moving to gently cup his cheek. Running your thumb along his cheekbone, you lean forward to press a kiss to his forehead, “That’s never gonna happen, okay? You’re one of the most hard-working people I know, everyone can see that.”

Austin swallows, his eyes trailing over your face as you pull back. You hope your words are registering, you can at least tell he’s listening. There’s a lot of pressure, you get that in a sense, probably can’t imagine the exact situation Austin has put himself in—but at the end of the day he’s not going to be able to put his best foot forward if he doesn’t take care of himself.

“Want me to use an analogy?” You smile a little, teasing, “You know— ‘you can’t pour from an empty glass’ or ‘put your own oxygen mask on first when riding an airplane’.”

A soft laugh leaves Austin’s chest and it’s a bit more genuine, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, yeah—I get it.” He sniffles, running a hand through his hair again. His blue eyes find yours, leaning forward until your foreheads touch, “Thank you.”

You can’t help but smile, letting your hand rest along the back of his neck for a few moments. Your fingers rub along the ends of his hair and both of you enjoy the intimate company of the other before Austin is pulling back again. He’s quick to turn his body away from you before he sneezes and you stand, running a few fingers through the front part of his hair,

“I’m gonna grab you some food from the tent, some tea too.”

He doesn’t protest and at least that’s good because you’re ready to jump into a rant about eating whether or not he’s hungry if need be. You swiftly move to leave the trailer, making a beeline for where everyone grabs food from on set. A lot of people around know you by now, so they’re quick to offer you a hello or a wave as they pass. You’re polite but also on a mission, knowing that Austin only has a designated set of time before he has to get moving.

Pursing your lips, you pull your phone out of your pocket. Ever since Austin landed the role, you met Baz at his place in Australia to have dinner with the rest of the cast as a nice little meet-n-greet before things took off. And while you’d never tell Austin you were doing this? you feel like Baz would understand. You send a text asking for an extra thirty minutes, it shouldn’t make or break anything too much to throw off the entire schedule.

Baz is quick to reply and luckily he doesn’t mind—he must know Austin isn’t feeling his best either, otherwise you’re almost certain he wouldn’t have granted it. Taking advantage of the time given, you bring back some tea filled with honey and a warm turkey club back to your boyfriend’s trailer—no soup but it’ll make do for tonight. Tomorrow you can come prepared with something to heat up for him.

Wandering back into the trailer, you don’t tell Austin he has extra time, instead making sure he eats and drinks the entire cup of tea. Honey is sometimes a miracle worker, that paired with a bit more sleep? You think he can pull through without anything terrible lingering. You plop yourself into the corner of the couch, drawing your legs up. Your feet brush along the outside of Austin’s thigh, and he pushes away the container on the coffee table once he’s done eating.

“You didn’t grab anythin’ for yourself?”

Smiling a little, you draw the sleeves of your sweater over your hands. Despite feeling awful himself, it’s typical Austin to make sure you’re taken care of too. “I’ll eat later, wanted to make sure I got somethin’ to you first.”

He smiles softly, running a hand over his face. He pinches the bridge of his nose and you wonder if he has a headache. There’s some aspirin in your purse you can give him, but first? “Why don’t you lay down for a little, you’ve got time.”

Austin looks like he’d love nothing more than to do that, close his eyes for a little. “Not enough I don’t think.”

“I’ll wake you,” You promise, “Won’t hurt to take a cat nap.”

He licks his lips, debating for just a moment and he must be tired because he actually listens instead of checking the time. You think he might move to the bedroom but he doesn’t, instead stretching out on the couch. You shift your legs a little, his body mapping its way across yours. Austin settles between your legs, his upper body resting along your torso, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling as his head pillows against your chest.

“Oh the turntables.” You tease because this is the exact position you love to take with Austin, fitting directly under his chin. He’s incredibly comfortable, always, and you’re slightly addicted to the sandalwood cologne he wears. He huffs out a soft sound, pressing his nose and lips into the fabric of your shirt.

“Bout time I started using you as a pillow given how many times you’ve done it to me.”

You hum, running your fingers through his hair. And you know exactly what you’re doing, scrubbing at his scalp every so often and moving down to his neck and shoulders. It doesn’t take long for Austin to fall asleep, his breathing deepening as he lays on you. One of your hands rests on his back and you trace lazy circles there.

Sometimes the smallest gestures definitely mean the most. You might not be able to make everything better with a snap of your fingers but that doesn’t mean you can’t try.

--

Thank you for reading!

[insomniamamma]

Gravity: Ezra x f!reader

A/n: Written for my year of kisses. @yearofcreation2023 The prompt is a kiss on the eyelids, and I originally intended to write it for Boba Fett (which I may still do) but then I rewatched Prospect and gave myself the yearns. Title inspired by this song. This jumps around in time.

Warnings: Much flirting and fluff. Reader has unspecified medical condition that keeps her from going to space. Ezra needs his own warning. Medical treatment. References to sickness and medical procedures. References to sex but nothing explicit.

Ezra hums contentedly beneath your hands. Shirtless and tilted backwards over the deep sink, towel draped around his sun-freckled shoulders. He positively purrs as you smooth the conditioner through his curls, scratching lightly over his scalp, tugging, but just a little. Real shampoo and conditioner are an imported nicety, expensive and not often used. Seems a shame to so thoroughly clean his hair only to shear so much of it off.

Long hair is a pain in the ass when you’re doing suit work, a pain in the ass in microgravity. You can tie it back but if it comes lose, you have random threads sweat-plastered to your face or tickling your nose or nape or eyebrow without being able to fix it. You don’t know this from your own experience. Born sickly, you could not follow your brothers off world, never as strong as them, failed the g-tests and the orientation tests and the flight instructor took you aside, look, you get the right combo of meds and cautery and you might be able to work a tug or a yard-switcher up to the Bench, but you’re not gonna get out of this well.

So you stayed. Da long gone, died way out towards the end of the Great Arm. And your brothers faded out of your life one by one by one. Once in a while you’d get packet drops, grainy vids squirted between can-haulers and freighters, a game of telephone that stretched the length of the Great Arm, but those became less and less. Even after contact waned, the points would still accrue in the family account, remittance from Kevva knows where. Until they didn’t. Faded out of your lives like comets flaring bright before slinging out into the black. You stayed behind and made due.

Learned the herbalist’s trade from your Ma who learned it from her Ma as far back as your first kin who colonized here, who built the house you live in now, who planted the gardens that provide food and medicines. Leaves and flowers and roots all diagrammed out, with their varied dangers and uses recipes for salves and tinctures and dyes, soaps, meticulously drawn and copied out from Ma’s book into one that you stitched and bound yourself. A right of passage of sorts, preserve what’s come before and add your own knowledge. The last few entries of your Ma’s book near illegible, from when the Wandering Sickness took her ability to write, a hash of Central glyph-speak and her own short-hand.

Ma had been gone for about a year when you met Ezra, or rather, when someone in town took pity on Ezra and sent him to your door. He was naked from the waist up skin blotched in swollen, crimson wheals. You shake your head. Off-worlders never learn. “I must apologize for my state of disarray,” he says, “The rubbing of my shirt seams became unbearable on my walk from town. I seem to have an allergy to the local flora.” He speaks a lilting off-world accent. One eye is red and puffed into a narrow slit, looks like he’s winking at you. “Humbleweed,” you say, “Looks like you rolled in the stuff. Come on in, spacer, lets get you fixed up.” “It’s called humbleweed because it puts people fool enough to touch it in their place?” “That’s right,” you say, leading him inside, “Wanna tell me how you got coated in it?” “Me and my crewmates are camped out along yonder lake. We were passing around a bottle of firewater and got to tussling. Not unfriendly like, but I took a bad step into some bushes. Didn’t think much of it at the time—“ “Please tell me none of you were stupid enough to throw any of that mess in a campfire.” “No, Ma’am, there was bone dry drift wood a-plenty.” “Good because the smoke would make your lungs do the same thing that’s happening with your skin, and we’d be calling for a dropper.” “That sounds most unpleasant,” he says, and you gesture towards the large, hammered metal tub. “Strip,” you say, “And hop in.” You say, fetching a rusty metal canister and a scrub brush from the shelf. You pull on some disposable gloves. An imported nicety, but you don’t want humbleweed resin getting under your own nails. “Ezra.” “What?” “My name is Ezra, and I’d like to know yours before you see my nether regions.” You laugh. This big, swaggering spacer with his odd, archaic way of speaking is shy. Damned if you don’t see his ears and cheeks going red. You tell him your name and rest a gloved hand on his upper arm. “You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen, okay? Unless they build men different further down the Arm. Give me your clothes. We’ll need to treat and wash them too.” Ezra reluctantly peels down. The worst of the rash is on his upper half, but there’s a particularly nasty line of welts around his waist, snaking down along the soft swell of his belly, telltale lines where he scratched at it in his sleep, got the sap under his nails and dragged it around, unthinking. He stands stone still while you run your gloved hands over him, checking places he wouldn’t think to check himself, armpits and the soles of his feet and juncture of hip and thigh, squirms under your touch. “I’m sorry—“ he says, red faced— “No need,” you say, “I once treated a man who was fool enough to wipe his ass with the leaves. He waited until it all blistered up to get help—“ You push the metal canister and scrub brush into his hands. “You sluice this over the red patches and scrub, clear? It’ll sting some—“ “This smells like engine degreaser.” “It is engine degreaser,” you say, “But it’ll do the job. Let me get your face though. Don’t want you getting this in your eyes. Get what you can reach and I’ll take care of your clothes, yeah?” His clothing goes in the deep sink, warm water and a generous pour of degreaser. You can’t help but look at him, his back to you, all broad freckled shoulders and red, puckered scars, tells of a spacer’s life, trying to reach over the curve of his own spine with the scrub brush. “Miss? Ma’am? I can’t quite—“ You find yourself smiling, take the scrub brush and canister from him, pour a cold rill down his spine and scrub, and he shudders. “Stings.” “I know.”

He flinches when you bring the degreaser soaked cloth to his face, draws back, his eye a puffed red slit leaking tears, his hands circle your wrists, stilling you. “Ezra. You need to let me do this.” “Perhaps this can wait for the Bench, this may be beyond what you can do here, not saying that I mistrust your skills or judgement but—“ “Look up. You see that bundle of Kind Sister? The star shaped flowers?” “Yes, but I don’t- “Look up and hold still. You keep your eyes right there.” You wipe the degreaser over the puffed skin below his eye, and you can feel the tension in him, thrumming beneath his skin. “Breathe, handsome, I’ve done this many times.” “It’s not that I don’t trust—“ “Just keep looking up.” “Burns a little.” “It will.” You dab the cloth over his skin, right up to the fringe of his lashes. “Close.” “I don’t think—“ “Don’t need you to think. Close your eyes.” He feels the chill on his eyelids and flinches away. “Sssshhhhh. Hold still. Not gonna hurt you.” He stills and lets you wipe his eyes with the degreaser, and you can’t help but admire the way his dark lashes fall against his cheeks.

“You’re unsettled.” “Maybe I don’t want to shear off these pretty curls.” You thread your fingers through his hair and raise the scissors to start cutting, but his hand curves around your wrist. “You’ve not been this unsettled before,” says Ezra, “Talk to me Gentle, tell me what’s bothering you.” And you can’t help but smile, his nickname for you always manages to make your chest tighten, someplace between swelling love and crippling fear, presses his lips to the soft skin of your wrist where the veins rest so close. “You’re going so far this time, and you know I can’t go after you if things go wrong—“ “The risk is greater, but the reward is….” he trails off, fingers tracing the landscape of your knuckles. Ezra has words for everything, three words when one will do, and to hear him go silent, to see him search for words feels wrong, like you’re witnessing something you shouldn’t. He draws inward for a beat and then those dark eyes find yours. “The reward is such that I could stop my rambling ways. If we find what we suspect is there.” “You’re saying you’ll stay.” “I am.” The shiny scissors in your hand tremble, sending little arcs of light across the rough hewn walls. “You’ll come down the well. For keeps.” “For keeps, Gentle Hands. My heart already resides here. I finish this job? You’ll have all of me. For as long as you can put up with my nonsense.” Your hands still. Dread replaced by spreading warmth. You smile. “You’d be surprised at how much of your nonsense I can tolerate.”

“Oh, Kevva,” Ezra sighs and sags against you, “You are surely one of Her kind sisters. She has given you the touch, the blessing—“ You lightly slap his cheek with a gloved hand. “Don’t you go boneless on me, handsome.” You’ve been liberally coating the red wheals and rising blisters with a salve of kind sister, sersath and bird-eye berry. This salve counters the miserable itch of humbleweed, and triggers a kind of euphoric sedation in maybe one in five people you’ve treated. “You’re having a strong reaction. It’s not dangerous. Kevva’s just smiling on you. That’s all. You’ll feel right as rain in about a sixteenth. Hey! You go limp and I will not heave your ass off this floor.” “I will gladly spend the rest of my days gazing up in admiration.” “Hmmmm. Might hold you to that, pretty spacer.” “Would give my life into your gentle hands,” “Okay. Okay, let’s get you settled,” You steer Ezra naked and greasy towards a fresh-sheeted cot you keep against one wall, just in case. He’s not the first stray to rest there a spell and surely won’t be the last. He stretches himself out like a cat lounging in a sunbeam, yawning hugely, even covered in angry red wheals and pinkish goo he’s quite the sight. Pretty man, you think, too bad I’ll probably never see him again. “y’can look all you want, Gentle Hands,” he mumbles, and you feel your face go hot, “I don’t- I don’t mind.” “Here,” you say, pulling the top sheet up to his chest, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean--“ His hand finds yours, warm and enfolding. “Gentle Hands,” he says, but his eyes are already closed, his holding hand already letting go, dropping away from yours, arm dangling stiffly off the edge of the cot, “Kind heart.” And you know it’s the salve, maybe you’ve got the proportions wrong, the strength of the bird-eye berry varies depending on where it’s picked. Have to pay more attention next time, or maybe this pretty spacer just reacts stronger than most for a whole slew of reasons that have nothing to do with you. Ezra snores. You smile and lay his hand over his chest so his arm doesn’t fall asleep. And then go to fetch his clothes from the deep sink so you can rinse them out.

You thread your fingers through his hair and cut like you’ve done many times before. Always makes you a little sad, seeing the curls he’s grown in his time with you piled on the floor in front of the deep sink. Ezra luxuriates under your touch, relishes the feel of your hands carding through his curls, tugging, measuring with the width of your fingers, ruffling his hair this way and that, making sure things are even. You’ve done this for your brothers and now you do it for your lover. Brush the stray bits of hair from his shoulders, letting your hands wander the breadth of him, tuck yourself into the join of his shoulder and neck and his arms come up around you, cradling you against him, the two of you swaying together. I’ll be back before you know it.

Ezra finds you in the front garden says your name and snaps you out of your reverie, the muscle-memory motions of removing errant weeds and dead leaves. You stand and wipe the dirt on your pants and turn to look at him, feel yourself grin. He’s wrapped the top sheet around himself like a toga, shuffles along the walk like a newborn calf, a bit unsteady and blinking in the bright sunlight. The swelling around his eye has already gone down significantly. “Ezra. How you feeling?” “A little tingly,” he says, “A little foggy headed, truth be told, I don’t recall dozing off. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you-“ “You haven’t,” you walk the narrow path through the herb beds to where his clothes hang on the line. You frown. “Still damp. Come on. I think I’ve got something that might fit you. Don’t want to send you back into town with a wet ass.” You move to herd him back into the house, but he stops you, his hand curled gently around your wrist. “I, uh, I worry that I may have said something untoward,” says Ezra, “My mouth has a tendency to run along on it’s own and Kevva knows I have not experienced such gentle care in a whole heap of stand-months--“ “You flirted with me a little,” you say and feel yourself smile, he drops your wrist but you catch his hand in yours before he can pull away, “But I flirted right back.” “Did you now?” “Mmm-hmm.”

Ezra kisses you in that slow way of his, soft press of his lips to yours, his way of lingering, lips hovering over yours sharing breath between kisses, soft pecks and nuzzles, coaxing your lips apart so he can dip his tongue between them, his hands sliding warm beneath the hem of your shirt and when he breaks away so he can dip his face into the curve of your neck to nip at that tender place below your ear, you push him back, a firm hand on his chest. “No.” His brow knits, but his eyes are smiling. “No?” “Go shower off, Ezra. I don’t want all those little stray hairs in my nice clean sheets.” “Those sheets won’t be clean for long, Gentle Hands,” “Doesn’t mean I want to be all scratchy while we’re making a mess of them. Go on now.”

“This isn’t right,” you say, poking at the screen of your much repaired data-pad, “This is far more than what we agreed on.” “You’ve taken very good care of me,” says Ezra. He’s dressed in clothes your middle brother left behind, his own folded into a bundle and tucked under his arm. You reject the transaction. “I take very good care of everyone, Ezra, it’s my job.” “Still I spent a quarter cycle snoring away in your great room,” he says, “I expect most others would have roused me and sent me down the road. I wish to repay you for your kindness.” “I don’t need payment for that. Not with points anyway.” Ezra smirks, and cocks an eyebrow. “You got some other currency in mind?” “Maybe. You’re not boosting tonight are you?” “No,” he says, “We’re hopping the Magra-Tripoint line. Don’t need to hit the bench for three cycles and a little. You got something in mind, Gentle Hands?” You feel blood rise in your cheeks, something about his newly minted name for the you and the way he says it, lilt and rumble of his voice holding something that could be want, something that pulls on you, maybe a cycle or so of fun with a pretty man, but maybe something more. “There’s live music in the square tonight,” you say, “They usually start up around dusk--“ and you feel suddenly shy. Ezra’s a spacer, he’s been places you probably can’t imagine. “It’s not that weird twitchy shit coming out of Central these days is it?” You laugh. “No, nothing like that. What do you say? Take a girl dancing?” “I would be honored,” says Ezra, “But I’ll have you know that I am a terrible dancer.” “The steps are easy. I’ll show you.” “I look forward to it,” he says, “I’ll meet you in the square at sun-down.”

You have to go into town anyway. You sell your wares at the general store. Balms and salves and tinctures and teas, bird-eye berry gel for teething babies, kind sister and chamomile for sleepless nights. Callie takes her cut, but that’s the price of not having to man your own shop. Everyone in town knows to send the severe cases your way, and otherwise leave you be. There are always a few special orders, things not entirely above board, a powder made of bloodspot spores that will end a pregnancy, opium and bird eye berry dried and made into a tea that can ease someone’s passing with few questions. Giggle-weed infused syrup to help a man get hard, everything passed out in folded envelopes, dark glass jars,blank and innocuous. You do your rounds and make your way to the square, watch the first band set up. A cello imported from Kevva knows where, goatskin drums, a flute carved from a reaper-bird’s hind strut. Rough made guitars. You scan around the square and see the usual faces. There’s a couple of nightclubs closer to the docks, places where the spacers go and you imagine him there. Little prickling like a thorn inside your chest. Never going to see him again anyway so what does it matter?

“Well, there you are!” You turn from the pint of cider you’ve been nursing and smile. “Ezra! Wasn’t sure I’d see you!!” You stand and he pulls you into a strong embrace, and then holds you at arms length. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you either,” he says, “Pretty lady who soothed my hurts and listened to my yap and saw my pale and unimpressive ass? I’m surprised you didn’t run for the hills.” “I knew you’d be pretty once the swelling went down.” “You clean up nice, too.” You wonder for a second if he’s making fun, traded your usual workday clothes for your favorite dress, not fancy by off-world standards, river-linen dyed summer sky blue, but there’s no judgement in his eyes and widening smile, just warmth, slides his palms down your arms and squeezes your hands in his. The band plays and the caller names the steps, and people swing their partners and turn and Ezra’s face tightens. “This looks unduly complicated,” “Let’s get some cider in you. It won’t seem so complicated then.” “If you say so, Gentle Hands.” “I do say so. Just watch for a bit and then let me lead.”

Despite your best efforts, Ezra is truly a terrible dancer, the reels and jigs and square dances see him dazed, unable to tell his right from his left and after one particularly disastrous dance the two of you collapse into each other, laughing, clinging to each other and then the band starts a slow one, which means that the caller picks at his guitar and sings a song of lost love while the rest of the band hit the bar and give everyone else a chance to catch their breath. A handful of couples make their way to the floor, and Ezra holds his hand out to you. “This is a dance I know, if you’d do me the honor.”

You expect you’ll never see him again. You’ve come to regard the spacers you meet as spring-sprites, all sun glittered wings, pulling themselves out of the mud only to live a hand of cycles and then vanish. He’ll persist in your thoughts for a bit, this pretty man with his odd way of speaking and his lovely dark eyes, but once he leaves the well he’ll fade like they all do, become a tender memory and nothing more, but for now you ache pleasantly from his attentions. The dock is swarmed with clotted crews of spacers, stacks of luggage, piles of gear waiting to be loaded, low hiss of regulator-valves triggering along the snake-work of cable leading from the tanks to the transfer ship, a squat soot-stained wedge, plated in dingy heat-tiles like a fish’s scales. You suspect this craft is older than you. “This isn’t goodbye, you know,” says Ezra, and your heart squeezes. You’ve heard this before. A delirious hand of cycles, but they always go and they never come back and most times you are able to guard your heart, but not this time, not with him, and your usual glib response doesn’t come. “Ezra, I—we—it’s not?“ He reaches for you and cradles your face in his warm, rough hands, and you expect to feel his lips on yours, his mouth hungry and fever hot, but instead he stretches up and kisses your forehead, and something inside you tugs, pulls, cries out at this unexpected tenderness, tears sting your eyes so you close them, as his breath fans warm over your skin. Ezra kisses your closed eyes, right then left and then rests his forehead against yours. “I’ll see you again, Gentle Hands,” he says and pulls you into a crushing hug, and then the deck hand calls out a string of numbers over an intercom, balky speakers strung up on wooden poles all around the port and he’s gone into the surging crowd.

Ezra sings in the shower. He always does and Kevva have mercy that man can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Sweep his damp, shorn curls into a little pile to be scooped up and sprinkled into the garden beds, human scent revolting to the local fauna, but then it screams up at you, a little curl of starlight among the tangled dark, little twist of white hair cut from his temple that you so like to twine your fingers through, now discarded. You bend and pick the damp curl of hair from the floor and roll it between your fingers. You move almost without thinking, tuck that little curl into an envelope you usually use for dry herb blends, fold it closed and hold it in your hands a beat, press it to your chest, and then laugh at yourself. Ezra will come back.

He always comes back.

[moonlit-positivity]

🌸 Activities for healing your inner child 🥹

Emotional activities

Scream (into a pillow if you're concerned about noise)

Cry

Rage

Throw a tantrum

Acknowledge the pain

Acknowledge there is a baby version of you inside that needs to be comforted

Make an effort to connect- notice what gets in the way. Is it hard to think of yourself as a child again? Talk about it.

Allow yourself to talk freely

Make an effort to leave the judgements behind

Tell them it wasn't their fault

Hold them when they cry

Shake your body

Allow yourself to vent

Get it out

Validate your emotions

Allow the anger

Try real hard to create a safe space in your mind

Give the comforts

Put your arms up to defend yourself

Scrunch up your face to show anger/pain/discomfort

Say "No!" out loud

Say "Don't hurt me!" out loud

Allow yourself to be vulnerable without shredding your own sanity

Punch the air like you're punching your abusers

Hold your heart

Hold your head

Hold your cheeks

Rub your shoulders

Tell them they can leave that place/situation now

Show them they are safe

Draw vent art of how you feel (can be vulgar and graphic, it's vent art)

Watch gentle parenting videos on YouTube & Instagram

Creative activities

Make a collage about your life

Allow yourself the artistic expressions

Art therapy prompts

Get into Dungeons and Dragons

Make a playlist of all your favorite video game soundtracks

Look up random videos that you like to watch

Indulge in the hobby

Give them a coloring book and their choice of crayons and markers and colored pencils

Buy the hobbies you wanted as a kid

Watch cartoons (tubi has a good selection for free)

Dance to a good song (u can dance sitting down btw)

Make a funny face

Get a teddy bear

Dye your hair

Draw fake tattoos on ur skin with markers like we all did in middle school

Finger painting

Face painting

Go outside and collect some rocks

Go outside and take a picture of the sky

Play in the snow

Play in the rain

Visit a playground & swing

Jigsaw puzzles

Video games

Creative writing

Buy some toys you've always wanted as a kid

Get some fidgets and dunk on your friends

Get in touch with your sense of humor

Daydream

Get yourself the books/manga/video game

Sing

Frolic in the flowers & dig in the dirt

Put your hand out the window of the car and do that wave thingy on the wind

Teach yourself a new hobby (might I suggest hemp bracelets, perler beads, crochet, these are pretty cheap and easy to start)

Decorate ur house

Go thrift shopping for nicknacks

Decorate return envelopes with cute funny pictures for the people youve gotta mail stuff to

Make a card for yourself/friend/loved one etc

What are some other fun things you'd like to do? I invite you to make your own list.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

Hope this helps

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

[kalevalakryze]

Firebird

Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Ahsoka (TV) Pairings: Shin Hati/ Sabine Wren Characters: Sabine Wren, Shin Hati, Ahsoka Tano, Ezra Bridger, Hera Syndulla, Ghost Crew 2.0,  Warnings: Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Explosions Notes: For Whumptober Day  16 and @sabineweek Day 2 Prompts: “Would you lie with me and just forget the world?” | Gurney | Flatline | “Don’t go where I can’t follow.” + Icarus Word Count: 3,571 AO3 Link: Here!

“Sabine, they’ve got TIE’s taking off.” Ezra’s voice rushed over comms, voice strained from exertion from whatever fight he’d gotten himself into.

“Copy that, do we have eyes on which shuttle is carrying the Lieutenant?” The Mandalorian dropped her rangefinder and rose her eyes to the sky, boot pressed firmly against an incapacitated trooper’s throat where she’d engaged on the rooftops. 

“It will be the one with a burn across the third quadrant of its left wing.” Shin followed, and while her voice was much calmer than Ezra’s, Sabine could feel the strain of her altercation across their bond in the force, feel the ebb and flow of the force where Shin used its power to keep plastoid covered troopers off of their closing position, flowing so freely beside Ezra’s that despite the odds being against them, they moved like a finely oiled machine. 

“On it,” Sabine cast her fuel gauge a wary look, there was just enough in her tanks that she might be fine, and from the screaming of a TIE fighter arcing through the air, she knew there was no time to top off at the Ghost. A TIE swirled overhead, left wing sparking and burning from a lightsaber having cut through it on takeoff. 

“Kark it,” Sabine grumbled, tapping at her gauge with a shake of her head. “We ball.” The woman took to the sky smoothly, jet fuel sparking into a high flame as she dumped more to keep up with the fighter.

The Ghost soared through the sky, streaking past Sabine and offering her a chance to grab on to Chopper’s head to save some fuel as fire was concentrated against the shields and engines to slow down the surviving Imperial’s ascent. 

Before the Ghost could pull away, Sabine was throwing herself from the ship’s hull, fingers brushing out as her jetpack sputtered, wrapping around one of the handles poking out past the hull to yank her weight against it, boots scrambling to push against the durasteel, hooking into the space in between ports to keep herself steady.

“Sabine, you need to hurry!” Hera called, exasperated as she pitched the ghost to the side, rolling out of the way just a hair away from the path of plasma as the TIE opened fire. 

“Work in progress, Hera!” Sabine shouted into her comms, hooking her fingers into the latch of the tie to stabilize before she could dig through a pouch on her belt, revealing her stack of the newest mixture of thermal detonators and the dye packs attached to the explosives. “Hello, beautifuls.” She breathed, fingers ghosting over the neatly stacked explosives. 

Piling them into a fistful, Sabine started planting them each, using the force to sail them across to the inside supports of the fighter’s wings, lining the hatch with enough to blow the top and settling the last couple against the engines, just in case somehow, the hull would survive. 

They rose closer to the upper atmosphere, Sabine’s helmet automatically clicking itself shut and releasing pressure to adjust. “Hey guy, I don’t have freefloating in space on my bucket list for the year,” She grumbled, making quick work of getting her charges set. 

“Sabine!” Several panicked voices hollered her names, staticy over comms the further she got out of range. The Mandalorian’s head shot to the side in time to watch an X-Wing swing in for a strafing run, she didn’t know the pilot, and wasn’t linked into their comms, but she could hear Hera on their open channel, ripping in to the pilot to get them to stop. 

It was too late, however, plasma scorched through the air, singing the air with a heavy smell of ozone. Sabine watched the blue lasers arc towards her before the Ghost could sweep in to incapacitate the fighter. Her legs moved too slow when she pushed off the hull, body turning as she fired up her jetpack, propelling herself away from the fighter half a second before the lasers struck the TIE and ignited her charges. 

Sabine’s head turned in time to watch the colorful, fiery explosion behind her; at least it looked as cool as she figured it would, she’d have to make sure she saved the clip in her helmet to watch later. 

Her jetpack sputtered mid flight, dropping her right into the path of the first shockwave. She didn’t have much chance to see the TIE go down, when paint speckled across her visor and then she was sent into a freefall, the resounding shockwaves hitting her like brick walls with a personal agenda against her existence. 

She was floating in a limbo of dizzy and peaceful, limbs too heavy to move, and her eyelids felt glued shut with weight pressing into her eye sockets to keep her from opening them.

There was a bustle of activity floating into her ears, fading like her grip on the world around her. She wanted to snap at all the people moving around her. Couldn’t they tell she was trying to sleep? A loud, persistent beeping ground away at her nerves, but she was useless in willing her body to shut off whatever alarm was going off.

The beeping grew higher in pitch, there were no breaks in the thudding tone it had carried before. At least the movement in the room seemed to cease, a pin could drop in the silence and bated breath of every body in the room.

Finally, some peace and quiet. Now she could get some sleep.

“Sabine.” There was a distortion in the voice that called out to her, warbling through the very core of her being, through the will of the force. Shin’s voice rang in the notes of their bond, scratchy and deep, but the other voice, the notes she could pick out, a tone she’d only heard in her dreams, a voice and a face she was terrified of forgetting, that had been harder and harder to pick out every day.

She wanted to snap her eyes open, to fly out of bed and run into her buir’s arms, to do something but the stones inside of her skin wouldn’t give her a chance to budge. 

“Don’t go where I can’t follow, me’suum’ika.” Shin’s voice sounded strained, and too far away, like their bond was growing stagnant in Sabine’s indecision. Fingers wrapped around her hand, warm where they sparked against the unbeaten pulse point against her wrist. “You promised,” Their voice wavered with emotion that they fought to keep concealed, Sabine hadn’t heard that tone since they’d gotten her back from the Bandits. 

Promises meant more to Shin than even their connection to the force, Sabine knew that better than anyone, and well… She intended to keep her word. Clan Wren would still be waiting for her, at the end; The Manda would not go anywhere, the cosmic force would still connect all beings, but if she walked out on Shin now… What kind of Mandalorian would she be? Surely not one who deserved to join her people in the afterlife they’d all strived for.

Sabine stopped struggling to see Ursa, there was no where she could go where her mother would not be able to reach, and if the unthinkable happened and she did somehow forget the timber of her voice or the sharpness of her face, she knew there were hundreds of others walking across the galaxy who would be more than happy to help her remember.

Shin’s hand started to slip from Sabine’s palm; She couldn’t move to reach out for them like she wanted, she didn’t want them to leave her either, didn’t want to see someone else give up on her. Someone was crying, voices were murmuring, she could hear the charge of shock paddles-

The first beep of the heart monitor was hard won, an exhaustive struggle that had the same reaction in the room as the flatline. Oxygen forced back into her lungs painfully, and warm fingers brushed against her pulse point once more, squeezing at her wrist to feel the next thud of her heart in her veins themselves. The tension in the room was cut with each thud and each successful breath, pain reigniting in her body in the feeling of broken bones and half sealed abrasions.

“Better,” She could hear the relief in Shin’s voice as their fingers interlocked with the limpness of her own, squeezing her hand even as the activity picked back up around them.

Ahsoka’s presence washed over her in their own bond, another string that she’d familiarized herself with, the calm soaring feeling that came with each interaction the Master and Apprentice shared through their woven destinies. 

“Prep her for the bacta tank,” A medic called out, unfamiliar voice ringing in her ears as cold gloved hands started touching her, though from the warmth seeping into her hand, she was able to rest easy knowing no one had moved Shin, at least until after the calm and quiet suggestion of sleep that had been passed through their bond, and the promise that she would wake up on the other side… eventually.

There was no way to gauge how much time had passed, but every now and then, Sabine would gain an awareness of the real world happening around her. Of Shin’s back pressed into the cool glass of her bacta tank, steadfast in their post as her protector. 

“Shin, she won’t wake up anytime soon,” Ahsoka’s voice floated through the void, in her mind’s eye, Sabine could make out the vision of Ahsoka stepping into the medbay, arms crossed over her chest and a carefully impassive look on her face; Ahsoka learned just as fast as Sabine had that Shin didn’t like sympathies, but she also knew that if Ahsoka’s distaste of Shin’s actions showed, the Gray Apprentice would close themselves off further and often turn to violence to defend their actions or beliefs. 

“You need to go take care of yourself,” Sabine could hear the lightness of the Togruta’s footsteps as she came to a stop in front of the tank, could feel piercing blue eyes on her suspended form, as if Ahsoka knew that Sabine had some awareness of the world around her. 

“I will not leave,” Shin was closed off to them visually, she could not find a way to bring some vision of the other woman to her eye, though she assumed, from the unease rolling off of Ahsoka and the concern in her tone, that her wolf wasn’t doing the best with her incapacitation. This must have been an argument the two force-sensitives found themselves in often, as Shin’s voice curbed on dangerous, the air Sabine could not feel filling with the tension of a hand curling around a saber hilt. 

“There is no reason to fight, Shin,” Ahsoka called, calling for calm across their own unstable bond; Her second apprentice varied greatly to the Mandalorian, and Ahsoka had never been able to determine if it had been Baylan’s teachings, or the influence of her time with the bandits that had them so willing to fight in a situation it did not call for. “She isn’t going to like waking up and seeing you like this.”

“Then it will not be the worst thing I have done to her.” They replied, and while there wasn’t a hint of regret, their tone took on something somber that Sabine wasn’t a fan of. The Mandalorian could feel the brush of their muddled presence, reaching out to the anchor point of their bond, to the scar that entwined them together forever. 

Drifting off to the comfortable thrum of their force bond being brushed against, Sabine was only half aware of the Togruta sweeping defeatedly from the medbay. 

Consciousness did not find Sabine when they emptied the bacta tank and pulled her from it, nor did it find her as she was cleaned up and reassessed, as what wounds were left had been set to heal on their own, with minimal medical interference, now that her body would need to fight on its own once again, enjoying her quiet limbo over the thought of returning her active mind to the real world.

The first time her eyes opened in weeks she was met with dim lights and near silence. 

Bandages wrapped firmly around her abdomen, criss crossing against her back where the jetpack had burned and shrapnel had made homes in her skin, now almost entirely healed after her extended nap. Sabine gave her muscles an experimental flex to ensure she could still move, fingertips touching and toes wriggling under the warm blankets; someone must have just recently changed the thin hospital sheets for ones straight from the warmer. Her movement brought the reminder of pain, aggravating sore muscle under the haze of protection offered by the medicine pumping through her IV.

Tired golden eyes scanned the rest of the room next. There was a raw set of armor, seemingly fresh from a forge, stacked in a corner next to weapons crates, where she could see Westar power cells placed carefully on top of the locked containers, and a newer model of a jetpack she couldn’t recall the name of leaning up against it all. 

Shin was settled into a hard-backed chair shoved right up against her cot, knees pulled up to their chest and a datapad sitting against them, fingers idly swiping along a document that Sabine couldn’t focus her gaze on. Her wolf looked exhausted, Sabine couldn’t tell how much of the darkness around her eyes was eye makeup, or bags from lack of sleep. Their hair was in disarray, even the braid carefully tied and sitting at their collarbone seemed frayed and rushed, as if  tying it had been a mere afterthought to something more important. 

The armor strapped to their arms and legs was filthy, burns scorched across unpainted metal and deep groves went unfilled, a state Shin hadn’t even let become of themselves when they’d all been stranded on Peridea. 

The only indication Sabine had that they’d showered or changed clothes even once since they’d gone after Thrawn’s contact had been the dark blue of Ahsoka’s tunic bunched up around their torso, leaving their bare arms on display (which, Sabine would never complain about, if only Shin wasn’t wearing gauntlets and pauldrons strapped tight to her bicep), and the way pants so clearly borrowed from Ezra were tied tight around her waist, bunched up and stuffed into her boots with their greaves strapped awkwardly around the extra fabric. 

“You look like Bantha shit,” The Mandalorian croaked tersely, wincing at the feeling of glass in her dried out throat. Silver eyes flashed to meet her open eyes immediately, the datapad clattering to the floor in the scramble of their legs to push outwards to turn themselves to face her.

“You look dead,” Their voice sounded as equally rough as Sabine’s own, bringing a teasing smile to tug at the purple haired woman’s lips. 

“What, didn’t-” A dry cough rattled her chest, she only managed to turn her head to the side to cough into the pillow, her arms still felt like they were full of beskar. “Didn’t have anything nice to say to anyone? Didn’t say anything at all?” It was meant to be tasing, but the pull of their lips into what little resemblance of a pout they would allow answered enough. 

“I’ll go get the medic.” They stood sourly to pick up the datapad, tossing it into the seat they’d been occupying for gotal’ad knows how long. 

Sabine finally reached out, atrophied muscles protesting even as her fingers latched around the cold metal of their wrist. “Wait…” 

They did, turning to glower at them with a rage that had too much vulnerability under the surface, weakness they did not want the Mandalorian to be privy too, even if she could feel it in the knot of burnt out nerves in her abdomen. “Would you lay with me, and just… forget the world a minute? Ten out of ten recommend.” 

Shin’s weight shifted between their feet uncomfortably, even as Sabine forced herself to move, to make room in the hospital bed that felt both too big and too small. “You need the medic,” They insisted, but it wasn’t a denial of the offer; Shin looked exhausted, and the prospect of laying down seemed enough that they’d be willing to let Sabine get away with just a few more minutes without being poked and prodded by medics. 

“I need you more right now, I’m not going anywhere,” She let go of their wrist, hoping the invitation was  enough to keep them around. IVs and wires were moved too carefully when they’d finally relented, though Sabine could feel the tightness in their muscles ease as their head dropped back against her pillow.

Shin was laying ramrod straight next to her, as if moving would break her, afraid to do anything that could hurt her what a softie, stabbing people one day, then playing statue to avoid inconveniencing them almost two years down the line.. 

“C’mere, Kurs’kaded.” Another grunt of exertion as she forced her arms to move, though they were quick in how they turned to cave into the touch the minute Sabine offered, tucking themselves up into her side as their face found their spot in the crook of her neck, fisting the fabric of the uncomfortable shirt in their fists as their nose crinkled. 

“You don’t smell right,” They complained in a quiet whisper, bringing a tired giggle from the older woman.

“Plenty of time to fix that later, doubt anyone’s been able to nail my skin care routine during my nap,” Sabine’s fingers brushed through their hair, relaxing more and more with how their shoulders eased and the way the force around them felt like it started to clear. “Speaking of naps…”

“You need a medic,” But their voice was already thick with sleep, breath soft where it began to even out against Sabine’s neck, the offer of safety in the arms they’d been missing for so long too enticing; they couldn’t remember the last time they’d slept. 

“You spent so long watching after me, let me return the favor, just for a bit.. Someone will come along eventually.” It didn’t take Shin long at all to nod off with the promise, and the press of her fingers against Sabine’s scar to ground themselves to her life probably wasn’t detrimental to assuring her of the Mandalorian’s survival either. 

“You’re awake,” Sabine’s attention was pulled from the sleeping blonde for the first time in hours, stopping her thousandth trace of the constellations craved across their skin in beauty marks and freckles. 

“Or you’re just tripping really hard right now,” Sabine teased in a quiet whisper, watching Ahsoka as the woman moved to lower herself quietly into the seat closest to her. 

Ahsoka’s lips pursed, clearly fighting a smile as her hand came to rest on the open space of the mattress between them, itching towards touching Sabine to verify for herself just how alive her Apprentice was. Sabine gave a quiet, fake dramatic sigh as she brought her hand down to rest overtop of Ahsoka’s, much smaller than the Togruta’s as she curled her fingers around the older woman’s. “What did you guys even do while I’ve been out?”

“Well… Some of us-” Her eyes flickered to Shin before coming back to Sabine with a knowing look. “Waited for you to come back.” 

Sabine offered a nod of her head in understanding as she bought her other hand from Shin’s hair to rub circles into their back. “What about everyone else?”

“Mmm. Ezra and I handled the Imperial cell; There were whispers of a New First Order, but it doesn’t seem as if they’re organized enough, not after our last round of strikes.” Ahsoka shifted, hand slipping from Sabine’s to fill the empty canteen that had been sitting, just out of reach, toppled over when Sabine had reached for it in the force, too weak to grab it with her abilities, and too disappointed when she’d found it empty.

Water was filled and passed over gratefully, as quietly as possible to avoid disturbing the slow, heavy breathing from the slumbering wolf; the only reaction they had to Sabine gulping down water was to press their face closer to the movement of her throat and to slip under her shirt, chasing the warmth that had been steadily rising in the older woman’s skin. 

“How are you feeling?” Ahsoka asked at last as she returned to her chair, taking the canteen when Sabine had finally finished with it. 

“I’m not going anywhere for a hot minute, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sabine promised, knowing that she had zero intention of almost dying any time soon, and that she doubted she’d find a return to the battlefield for at least a month while she figured out the limits her wrecked body could handle.

“Next time, don’t push yourself so hard. It was a close one,” 

“You’re one to talk.”

“Sometimes, the student teaches the Master, you know.” Ahsoka’s facial marking rose with the knowing smirk she offered, before she shook her head and rose. “You should get more rest while you can, I’m sure the medics will come to check on you once they believe Shin is asleep and won’t attack them again.”

“.... again?...” 

“Go back to sleep, Sabine,” 

[zealfruity]

The twink and twunk duo. They're close acquaintances/casual friends at best.

Mini bios and fun notes below the cut:

Tenai is a Jedi Shadow who likes to be left to their own devices and who generally doesn't like people. People generally oblige, since they're not al that likeable anyway. Tenai's good at playing a character though, and so when they have to, they can be sweet a honey and twice as smooth. Maybe it's why they're so unpleasant when they're allowed to be authentic. If one were to make the effort to get to know Tenai and be let into their own little world, one would find an unexpected soft side to them. Tenai is full of pondering phylosophies and odd little quirks that they themself have a hard time explaining. When they were brought out of their Shadow work for the war, they were very displeased, but recognized the importance of all hands on deck- the other Shadows could live without them just fine. Taking command of the 407th Recon Corp was a difficult affair, both for Tenai due to their lack of experience, and for the clones who were met with this rude little gremlin who keeps appearing ominously from dark corners instead of a regal jedi. They made it work though, and the late Marshal Commander Kibo had been too much of a tenacious sweetheart not to befriend. Tenai Tasiko is now one of the Jedi Shadows still helping out with GAR matters. They've grown restless from sitting around during peacetime, which is really quite un-Jedi like. Yes, this bothers them greatly. They've had a number of crisises from it.

Ishan Ri got the job in the GAR intelligence division not really of his own accord. His father was friends of an officer there and a firm believer that working as a librarian was NOT the right career path. Ishan's brief stint as a research/data analyst for his country government looked fine on a resume, and during wartime, you take any hand that you can get, especially if that hand is recommended by someone already working for you. Ishan stayed at the job partly for the pay, but also because he found himself finding a real sense of purpose in it, feeling like they were really helping people by providing intel. It was during his second year as an employee that the war ended. He kept the job to help with the post-war cleanup of slave empires and crime syndicates still operating in Republic space. It's during one of these cleanup missions that he meets Fives, an ARC Lieutenant of the recently founded 501st SOF Unit.

You'd think Tenai would be one of those gatekeeping emo indie music enjoyers, but if asked about what they listen to, they will go on a long explanation about how their chosen favourites are the best and how everyone should listen to them. They're a huge techno fan and a connaisseur of weirdly ethereal rap music. No one who asks Tenai about the type of music that they listen to expects this. If they were in a modern AU they would just wear a hoodie and a cozy sweater everyday no matter the weather. 8 times out of 10 there's a sleeveless turtleneck underneath because those rock. They're not particularly attached to their hair since they have to dye and cut it when doing undercover work that requires it, but they do take care of it as best as they can.

Ishan listens to pretty much any genre. It's just as likely to hear him rock out to agressive punk as it is to see him stare into the distance while Sufjan Stevens plays. Would know a lot of Just Dance choreographies only because Just Dance is fun and was Something To Do at house parties. The type to hyperfixate on singers/bands, do NOT ask him about these unless you're ready to listen for two hours (this is usually how asking Ishan questions goes honestly. The guy can talk if prompted). Very cozy modern librarian type of vibe. Think less messy version of Jon Archivist.

[grey-sides]

hear me out.. i see fics of billy and steve in california and steve feeling inadequate compared to billy’s friends there, but i feel like steve would just totally be a hot commodity because he has that whole, boy next door, pretty brown eyes, small town charm that they eat up.. could you write about steve just constantly getting hit on and billy’s like i’m right here!

Anon, you are...a genius. I've been thinking about this prompt all day and I've been deeply annoyed that I had to do work and couldn't just write it immediately. I may expand on this topic in the future because I want to explore a "Steve is confident again" story since I feel like we see so few of those. But here it is, an ooey-gooey fluffy Cali story.

Feel free to drop another prompt! Though fair warning, it may take me a bit to get through them just because of the new season coming out!

California looks good on Steve. It turns out that while Indiana summer doesn’t do anything for him, the California sun turns his skin a nice golden shade and he gets freckles across his nose and shoulders. His hair lightens, he smiles easier. Yeah, California looks real good on Steve Harrington.

Billy thinks it’s funny that he’s working at an ice cream stand all the way out in California too. But this isn’t a Scoops Ahoy so he doesn’t have a dumb little sailor uniform to wear. Instead, he’s given a bunch of tie-dye t-shirts in smedium that hug his chest and shoulders in all the right ways. 

And it’s clear to Billy his inability to get dates when working at Scoops had little to do with his ice scooping or flirting skills because he doesn’t strike out in California. Not once. Steve is like catnip to all these people, whether they’re fake fucks from Hollywood or local hippies. They all love Steve. 

Billy loves him too, but that’s not really a secret. Not between them at least. 

Most days, Billy takes up a table at the ice cream shop, an open air space right on the beach with tons of tables, ceiling fans, and music. Steve always works the front so he’s the first person people see when they approach the counter with its long ice cream freezers. He wears his sunglasses in the shade because he’s impossibly cool and Billy tries to focus on his coursework. 

They moved out here together, a year after the Starcourt disaster because Billy wanted to go home and Steve wanted to get away. And they weren’t friends when they moved, but they weren’t really enemies anymore either. The first two days of their roadtrip in Steve’s BMW had been awkward and their conversation had been stilted. But somewhere between Oklahoma and New Mexico (probably the tip of Texas) Steve had broken the tension by trying out California slang and their friendship (and later their relationship) really blossomed.

Billy had gotten his GED as soon as he could when they arrived and Steve had found the scoop shop. They turned their little apartment into a terrible collage of their personal styles, and Steve had settled into California and Billy’s heart all at once. 

Billy goes to the community college just outside their beach town to study computer engineering. While he would never admit it to Dustin or any of the other kids, he knows computers are the future and he figures he might as well get in as close to the ground floor as possible. 

Billy gets off the bus just down the block from the ice scream shop, Scoops Up!, and heads down, deciding to walk in the sand instead of along the wooden boardwalk. When he gets to the shop, he cuts inside and grabs his usual table all the way in the back, nearest to the counter. One of Steve’s coworkers has jokingly put a reserved sign on it for Billy so it stays empty.

He drops his bag on the chair across from where he normally sits, with his back to the wall so he can watch the open entrance and heads back out. He has a couple options once he starts wandering down the strip, but Steve’s favorite place is the sandwich shop. He’s just kind of obsessed with the bread, so Billy ducks into it. 

When their sandwiches are made, Billy heads back into Scoops, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. And Steve is being flirted with. Because of course he is. Billy rolls his eyes and walks over to his table, setting Steve’s sandwich down in front of one of the empty chairs. 

“There’s gonna be a bonfire down at the other end of the pier tomorrow night- would be really cool to see you there,” the girl says and she bites her lip on a smile as she looks at Steve.

He laughs a little and leans on the counter, resting on one forearm. “Yeah, I know about the party, but I already have a date. Sorry.” 

The girl’s eyes widen in surprise and then disappointment. Billy is at least sympathetic to it, he knows Steve is a catch. And she looks around the ice cream shop for a moment, like she’s trying to figure out who. “Oh. Well, I’m sure they’re super cool.”

Steve chuckles and ducks his head, his cheeks turning red. “Yeah he is.” Because they live in a fairly gay area and it’s not safe everywhere but it is safe here, in this part of town. 

“Oh!” The girl takes a small step back, but she fits her smile back on her face quickly. “I didn’t realize.” 

Steve shrugs and stands back up, putting one hand on his hip. “No worries. Maybe we’ll see you there.”

She nods a couple times and hurries out of the shop with her cup of ice cream, flushing furiously. Billy just watches, resting his chin on his hand. It feels like every time he comes in here, Steve is being flirted with or someone is shoving their number into the tip jar. Some particularly bold people have asked him to write his number on the disposable paper cups they give out. 

Steve shakes his head with a little smile and calls to the back that he’s taking his lunch break, untying his apron as he goes. His smile widens as he spots Billy, opening the counter to walk through so he can sit down. 

“What was her name?” Billy drawls, unwrapping his sandwich as Steve sits down.

Steve runs his fingers through his hair and shrugs. “Honestly can’t remember,” he admits and gets to opening his sandwich too. “Someone today asked if they could just write their number directly on me- like what happened to personal space?”

Billy takes a bite of his sub and chews for a moment before responding with his mouth still full, just to watch Steve make a face. “You know, like three years ago you would have loved that.”

“Well, three years ago I thought I was straight and also that I was going to die alone, so,” Steve retorts and he flaps a napkin in Billy’s face. “Swallow before you talk to me.”

Billy grins and swallows, sticking his tongue out at Steve. “Baby, I always swallow before I talk to you.”

Steve rolls his eyes, sitting back in his chair with a sigh. “You’re disgusting.”

“I guess I must be because I go out in public and no one tries to give me their number!” Billy cries, spreading his arms out and dropping lettuce on the floor. 

Steve bends to pick it up, laughing at Billy’s dramatics. “I’ll give you mine if you give me yours.”

Billy takes a vicious bite of his sub and glares at Steve as he chews. “And you know what’s worse?” he says when he’s swallowed.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t even have cherry juice on my shirt.”

Steve frowns and looks down at himself, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t- oh shit.” It’s a little hard to tell because his shirt is tie-dyed, but Billy’s seen this one before so the little red stain is more noticeable. Steve grabs a napkin and starts to wipe at it, but it’s clearly already dried in. He grumbles a little and scoots closer to the table so his stain is hidden below it. 

Billy laughs at him, reaching over to pluck a tomato slice from Steve’s sandwich. He shoves it in his mouth and leans back in his seat. “I guess I can say that all these people have good taste, at least.”

Steve lightly kicks him under the table but his eyes soften just a little. “I think everyone takes one look at you and realizes you’re way out of their league.”

Billy shakes his head, a small wry smile on his face. Being in California has given Steve his mojo back and Billy’s fairly certain this version of Steve is as close to King Steve as he’s ever gonna see. He likes it, this confident, sexy, content experience of Steve. Away from the monsters and the standoffish world of Hawkins. 

“I can practically see the steam of your brain chugging away over there,” Steve tells him when he’s been quiet for too long.

Billy shrugs and he drops the gross, fuckboy act, letting a fond smile stretch across his face. He does that a lot more in California, smiling, especially when Steve is around. “Nothing, just thinking about how wonderful you are,” he teases. “Since everyone else already sees it.”

Steve wrinkles his nose and sticks his tongue out at Billy. “Gross!!” he cries, but his cheeks are turning pink again and he can’t stop smiling. 

Billy knows he’s being domestic as shit right now, but he can’t help the little flutter he gets every time Steve says He is and smiles over him at their table. All the numbers in the world don’t matter when he shares a three-digit apartment number with Steve already. 

[sarah-sandwich-writes]

I did it 💪🥳😩💀

I'm so sleepy but I finished Put in the Work at 51.2k!! It's only one chapter (all 51.2k words are in chapter one yeah) but that is revision sarah's problem. all my homies hate revision sarah she deserves what she gets. drafting sarah is flawless though.

the best part is now I get to ignore it for a month 😌

[disfrutalakia]

prompt: decoration

Heartbeat and pressure rising steadily as papers crossed his *tableless* office floor, 4ever gripped his suit to not tear off some floorboard, all furniture in most active bases simply *gone*. Culprit was clear as day, and Cellbit was really clamoring for something to be done, but 4ever sighed away his communicator, pressing his hands in his temples to alleviate to rapidly coming headache, he should try wrangling something out of the shadow entity.

and *yet*, something made him hesitate to follow the plan his vice laid out in private messages and Richarlyson cross communication. It wasn't the prospect of jailing some resident surely, but... 4ever skin itched, maybe he could settle this in some other form, that didn't also want to make him tear his hair off.

Pulling his warpstone, it is easy to get near Bad's base, but 4ever does loudly swear as the papers accidentally come with him in the teleportation, spreading in a mess against the terrain.

Kneeling down, the sound of someone coming near made his hands shake, but 4ever didn't stop. Some papers waive on his vision, making him stop and look.

"Hello president, what brings you here?"

Bad smiles down at him, and the part of his mind that howls at the moon wants to grind his teeth, but 4ever only cracks a teasing smile at the demon before taking the papers and gets up to face him.

"Can't i visit a friend to detress, Bad?"

"Uhum."

Bad crossed his arms, squinting the light dots of eyes up to 4ever. His skin itched under the layers.

"So? can we go inside or we just gonna stand in this field..."

"Aren't there more important things for you to worry about?"

"Hum?"

"You know, with the whole... disapearance of things."

"So you want to talk about that?" 4ever felt his smile widen, teasing ready jab at his friend.

Bad turned. "C'mon, do you want to see the aquarium?"

4ever smile dropped, something strange in the air between them, but yet. "Of course!"

They trudged along, silence both comfortable and making 4ever mind think over the strange air, maybe Bad was already onto him and his intentions? the demon couldn't possibly overlook that he was the most likely suspect after all.

Entering the halls full of chaos of mobs and backpacks is somehow both a delight and despairing feeling, the chaos was a delight, and 4ever heart ached for the mess and how to clean it up, o how they need a sorting system, maybe he can have a world with-

"4ever... what you think about a black sofa?"

He blinks and looks up at the demon.

"... Some specific place or just, their general look??"

"Like, here, exactly, Let me just..." And then there it was, a two seat sofa laid out from one of the demon's backpacks.

It almost made a vein pop in 4ever head.

"The... the wood work is intricate!"

"Right? tho i thought the dark color could be swapped for something more fun."

4ever watched Bad smile, and god he **cannot** not be fucking with him, holding his breath for a moment and let go, and decided that yeah, let's turn this game a bit.

"How? skinning out another sofa?"

Bad tilted his head at him. "Hum... i don't know, maybe i have some dye-."

"But that would be boring wouldn't it?"

4ever took a step forward, leaning into Bad's space as he squinted more at him, fangs peaking between lips.

Perhaps 4ever shouldn’t focus so much on his mouth.

"As boring as leaving furniture not rescued would it?"

"Are you accusing me of something, president?"

4ever's face opened in a toothy grin.

"Did you leave the server furniture-less, Badboy?"

He watched as the demon expression twitched, his tail whipped two times, his hands pressing and smoothing the fabric he could reach naturally.

Intrusive thoughts would say to 4ever make sure to crumple that part extra more.

"What are you talking about?"

The blond pounced quickly, holding his arms and taking both of them down easily, slamming the demon onto the sofa is an exhilarating feeling that also makes him bear his fangs

"I'm not up to that game, so what about this, if you don't give me an answer, I'll paint this sofa with *your* blood, huh?"

4ever almost wanted to laugh, seeing a blush spread bellow the light eyes, of course he would like this, because he always got along best with the more fucked ones.

"That’s an... interesting offer~"

With a more tight grip, 4ever had to breath out, ok then, they were going to play this game then.

That's totally not what I was expecting you to with the theme but I loved it!!! Forgive me for the lack of words it's 2am over here. But. Know that I loved it!!!!

[starrypawz]

"Never seen you look at me like that before."

Prompt List AO3

Nemo’s been looking at him far too long. 

An all familiar tension prickles at the back of his neck and he swallows

“It’s…” Gerry sighs as he feels excuses bubble up in the back of his throat as he tenses his hands,, “Forget I said anything-” 

Nemo blinks, “Lipstick?” Gerry rubs the back of his neck with a sigh, “It’s stupid-”

“No?” Nemo raises an eyebrow, “Like… you paint your nails sometimes,”

“Yeah,” Gerry swallows and runs his fingers over the chipped polish on his thumb he’s still not got around to taking off. “And… I’ve seen you wear eyeliner,”

Gerry gives a bitten off chuckle, "Sure it's not just the circles under my eyes?"

Nemo shakes their head with affection and the remaining tension disappears. 

"So you've never tried lipstick before?"

Gerry shakes his head, "I guess nail polish and eyeliner are easier to…" Gerry huffs, "Play off? Hide? Something?" He tenses his hands for a moment, "Lipstick is…"

"Visible?"

"Yeah" he swallows down the lump in his throat “But it’s just lipstick, right?” 

“Yeah, just lipstick,” Nemo echos. 

There’s a pause just long enough Gerry thinks he can chalk this up to just one more awkward conversation and move on with life and add it to the ever growing list of ‘weird things that haunt me at three in the morning when I can’t sleep’ but instead 

“Do you want to try?” 

Gerry blinks, “Uh… yeah I guess?” 

Nemo stands up and crosses their room until they’re at their dresser and Gerry glances over as Nemo lets out a “Found it,” before they cross back until they stand in front of him, lipstick in hand. 

“Do you want to put this on or?”

“You can,” Gerry realises that came out far too quickly (Aalthough all Nemo does is give him a nod of acknowledgement), and he clears his throat “I mean I don’t really know what I’m doing” 

And then Nemo sits down.

In his lap.

This isn’t new, In the time they’ve known each other the concept of ‘personal space’ has all but disappeared. But he’s found himself increasingly aware of just how close Nemo gets to him. 

Like right now as they sit in his lap with one hand gently on his jaw to keep him in place and where their fingers touch is making his face stupidly almost Desolation levels of warm. And then there’s that… aching pull where this is both too much and not enough and maybe he’s greedy but it would be nothing but also everything to just get closer. 

His gaze drops for a moment to where Nemo lightly bites their lip and then that sends a thought about exactly where that lipstick has been. 

Well no shit it’s been on their lips it’s lipstick

But… It’s been on their lips which are really close to yours right now and they’re in your lap and-

“There we go,”

He’s snapped out of his thoughts and Nemo tilts their head. 

Nemo’s been looking at him far too long. 

An all familiar tension prickles at the back of his neck and he swallows

“Wow…” Nemo breathes 

“Wow,”

“Wow?”

“That looks go- great on you?”

“Really?” Gerry blinks 

“Yeah,” Nemo grins and then opens up a compact mirror, “See?”

He does. 

It’s just him with black lipstick. 

It’s just him with black lipstick and some smudgy, forgotten eyeliner from a couple of days ago. (That’s if he’s being generous makes a good smokey eye)

It’s just him with black lipstick and some smudgy, forgotten eyeliner from a couple of days ago. (That’s if he’s being generous makes a good smokey eye) and hair that’s long enough to pull into a decent ponytail. 

It’s-

Gerry blinks.

“Wow,” He manages after a few long moments. “See You look great,” Nemo offers up as they smile just as bright. 

“I… yeah… I do,” Gerry doesn’t bite down on the laugh as he grins, “I look… Like me? More like me?” 

There’s a giddy rush building. It’s not unknown to him, just rare. It takes him right back to when he got the first set of piercings in his ears, the first time somewhat successfully managed to dye his hair black, his first (probably bootleg) band shirt. But this one feels… slightly different like a piece in an ongoing puzzle where other pieces included ‘Trying to work out exactly how I feel about Siouxsie Sioux’ and ‘That time it took someone a little longer to work out what gender I was’.

And-

“Oof!” Nemo giggles as he pulls them into a hug that’s probably harder than it needs to be, hard enough he feels his back hit the floor as they both descend into giggles before they pull back giddy and flushed. 

“Uh…thanks?” Gerry offers up and tries not to think too hard about the way Nemo is looking at him right now.

[razputin-vodello-au-archive]

Prompt" the interns being largely unsupervised teenagers with access to a shared space wind up playing truth or dare hilarity and embarrassment ensues

Maybe not precisely what you asked, but hey, I managed to finally write this story.

With the Summer Vacation in sight, there wasn’t much to do for the Interns these days, besides relaxing and having fun before. Wich means, going to see movies with everyone, just hanging out anywhere doing whatever, or for those with romantic partners: going on dates.

Today, Raz and Lili were out with the former’s parents – both adoptive and biological, which meant that the older teenagers had the kingdom for themselves, which meant they could do things they usually couldn’t do when the younger kids were around.

Like Truth or Dare, the way it’s meant to be played: with embarrassing questions and humiliating dares. Which is what they did. The evidence of previous dares was quite obvious. Morris was wearing one of Lizzie’s dresses. Adam had his mouth duct taped, until it was his turn again. Sam …was invisible.

Right now, it was Dion’s turn, and he was regretting picking Dare while Lizzie was the one choosing what to do. He scowled at the bottle Lizzie had in her outstretched hand. “I am not doing it. Not in a million years.”

“Then you have to take the punishment, and buddy…” Lizzie grinned slyly. “You don’t want that.”

“Believe me, you don’t.” Norma commented, her arm resting securely around her girlfriend’s waist.

“It’ll be much more pleasant than dyeing my hair …that!”

Frazie let out a groan. “Dion, you’re acting like she asked you to do something terrible.”

“It is!”

“It’s hair dye!”

Dion’s dare was to dye his hair in an outrageous color, and he was not happy with it.”

“C’mon Dion, do it for me.” Gisu cooed, winking at her boyfriend. “I think you’ll look amazing.”

Dion glared at the bottle for a few moments more, before he let out a sigh and snatched the bottle out of the Punk’s hand. “I’m gonna make you pay for this.” He stood up with a growl and made his way towards the Interns’ Bathroom, grumbling all the way.

“Instructions are on the bottle, you big baby!” Lizzie called out with a smile that would’ve made the Cheshire Cat jealous.

Dion stopped in the doorway to look over his shoulder, throwing Lizzie a look like he wanted nothing more for her to just drop dead then and there. With a final grumble, he entered the bathroom. The moment the door slammed behind him; the rest of the Interns started snickering.

“You’re a cruel woman, Lizzie.” Gisu commented.

“He’s gonna look awful.” Invisible Sam’s voice said.

“It’s party dye, it’ll wash out.” Lizzie noted with a shrug.

“But Sparkly Neon Lime Green?” Morris questioned. “Why do you even have that?”

“Reasons.” Lizzie answered curtly, before turning to Adam. “Your turn, which means you can ungag yourself.”

Adam let out a groan in relief, and tore the tape from his mouth. “Finally, freedom.” He cried out, running his hand over his mouth. “Okay, let’s see who my victim is.” He snapped his fingers, making the bottle in the middle of their circle spin around. A few moments later, the tip landed towards …Norma.

“Oh, great…” Norma cheered in a deadpan voice. “Okay, Tr- “

“You already took two truths in a row.” Lizzie interrupted her, grinning from ear to ear. “You need to pick a dare, or you’ll get a Special Punishment.”

Norma shuddered. She had seen Gisu’s punishment, and she was in no hurry to get one of her own. “Okay, you win. Dare.” She sighed. “Lay it on me.”

Adam rubbed his chin in thought, humming as he tried to come up with a dare. His eyes lit up with mischief. “I dare you to …” He grinned slyly. “…kiss Gisu.”

Norma raised an eyebrow, a slight blush appearing on her cheeks, ignoring the exasperated gasp of mock shock. “That …that doesn’t seem too bad.”

Adam raised a finger. “For 30 seconds, full lip contact and like you would kiss Frazie.”

Now Norma’s face turned instantly bright red. “What? Seriously?”

Gisu wiggled her eyebrows, a seductive grin on her lips. “Oh, now it’s a party.”

“I have a girlfriend!” Norma stated, her voice breaking slightly at the last word.

“Aw, I don’t mind.” Frazie reassured. “It’s just for a game, after all.”

“But …”

“And it’s not like this is uncharted territory.” Morris commented.

“Yeah, wasn’t it a 7-minutes-in-heaven game with Gisu that made you realize you were lesbian?” Sam asked, her voice suddenly sounding from the other side of the room.

“And even a few times after that.” Gisu stated, making Norma shrink into herself.

“That …was different.” Norma argued, crossing her arms.

Frazie let out a sigh. “Oh, for Pete’s sake…Here.” She leaned over to Gisu and planted a kiss on her lips. She returned to her seat and smirked at her girlfriend’s shocked expression. “There, now we’re gonna be even.”

Norma’s mouth opened and closed a few times, as if she was struggling to come up with another argument. She eventually let out a defeated sigh. “Okay, I agree. On one condition …make it 15 seconds.”

“Okay, fair. You got a deal.”

Norma watched nervously as Gisu shuffled closer. She turned to Frazie again. “You sure you don’t mind?”

Frazie rolled her eyes with a giggle. “Just pretend she’s me and you’ll be smooching in no time.”

“I’m loving how comfortable Frazie is with this.” Lizzie chuckled.

“Hey, I trust Norma, and a girl’s got fantasies of her own, you know.” Frazie stated confidently. “And I defy anyone denying they haven’t had one of their own.” She grinned victoriously when no-one – including her girlfriend – voiced any denials. “That’s what I thought.”

Norma turned back to Gisu, who just smiled warmly at her. She took a final deep breath and nodded. Gisu closed the distance between them and planted her lips gently on Norma’s.

15.

14.

13.

Norma had forgotten what it felt like to kiss Gisu, and how soft her lips actually were. She had to admit …Dion was a lucky guy.

12.

11.

10.

9.

Norma’s hand slowly rose to Gisu’s waist, pulling her closer against her. She relaxed a bit more and leaned a bit into the kiss. Not too much, just enough to make it less awkward. She wasn’t sure if it helped.

8.

7.

6.

5.

A soft moan was heard. Norma had no idea if it was from her or from Gisu. She could hear Frazie and the others snicker, though.

4.

3.

2.

1.

0.

Norma pushed herself off Gisu, her cheeks flushed and quickly shuffled backwards until she was next to Frazie, who was just grinning mischievously at her, her own cheeks flushing a bit. “You certainly enjoyed that.”

“Shut up.” Norma countered quietly, as she pulled her knees up to her chest.

“I certainly did.” Gisu commented with a wide grin. “You’re a great kisser, Norma.”

Norma just groaned and buried her face in her knees, trying to hide away her blush. Frazie threw her arm around her girlfriend and rubbed her shoulder.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” Frazie comforted. “I kinda enjoyed seeing that.” She tightened her grip on Norma’s shoulder and leaned in closer to her ear. “But try not to make it a habit, okay darling?”

Norma looked up, a grin on her face. “Oh, and what if it did?”

Mischief flashed in Frazie’s eyes, and a wide grin spread on her lips. “I’m gonna do …this!”

The next moment, Norma found herself pinned to the floor, and Frazie’s lips planted firmly against hers. She pulled away after a few seconds, panting softly. “These lips are mine, and mine alone to kiss.”

“Well, no doubt about – HMMHP.” Whatever sarcastic remark Norma wanted to make was silenced by Frazie’s lips again, this time really leaning into the kiss, letting her hands run through Norma’s curls. Norma’s arms wrapped around Frazie, pulling her tightly against her.

Lizzie sighed and stood up, dusting off her skirt. “Well, those two aren’t gonna play anymore.” She grinned. “Only with each other, it seems.” She cackled as Norma managed to wrestle an arm free and flip her sister off. “So, what are we gonna do now?”

“I’m gonna keep wearing the dress, for starters.” Morris joked, prompting a chuckle from the group.

The bathroom door open, and Dion – now sporting a sparkling bright neon lime green hairstyle, walked out. He looked at the scene before him, with Frazie and Norma making out in the middle of the room, and the rest of the Interns either watching or going off to do other things.

Dion scratched his head. “Uuh, …did I miss anything?”

[tigorrrr]

𝗗𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗯𝗹𝗲 || prompt::cuddling on the couch together

Ship(?): Alexa & Diya

Rated: fluff

Warnings: gals being pals :)

Alexa belongs to @infinitnei

           Alexa rushed her next exhale though her nostrils, annoyed.

           Her roommate has been wiggling like a worm on the two-seat sofa both currently occupy and it wasn't that much space considering what they are up to, ground would have been preferable but they are so far in the task at hand that neither bothered to voice the suggestion.

           "Can you try the heart later? Pretty please?" Diya chirped at her friend, looking over her shoulder at her before returning her eyes back on the script on the armrest.

           "Only if you'll stay still..." Alexa folded the loose end of a purple rope underneath the line which went over her belly and formed a knot that completed another diamond shape at Diya's navel.

           "イエ―イ~! 本当に ありがとう ございます, Schatz."

           Honestly, how Diya managed to soften her up like a marshmallow, is still an enigma to her like believers on a Sunday mass — no offence to the religious, of course.

           "But first, you have to behave." Alexa tutted and gave a light tug to the harness that goes around her ribs. Diya tittered over her startled gasp. "Or I'm not doing shit."

           "Alright, alright." Diya gave in without an ounce of rebellion. "... Are you even looking at the instructions once?"

           Clearing her throat, Alexa glanced at the catalog by her foot that rested on the carpet, her other leg was crossed underneath the left leg's knee. "Don't worry, I'm being careful."

           Her roommate let out a curious hum but didn't press the matter further.

           Examining the words on the paper in front of her and having nothing else to do than sit and play nice, Diya decided to pick out quite a subject to talk about. "These new advertisements that you're applying to..."

           "Mhm? What about them?"

           Diya felt her friend press up to her shoulder-blades when looping the rope around her hip and dropped it in between her thighs, she raised on her knees as much as Alexa needed to continue 'decorating' the meaty, ivory thigh. Since she prefers to go around in her underwear and croptops a lot of her space of her body was bare for Alexa to tie up with her pretty rope.

           "Not that I'm an expert but going for a hair dye commercial right off the beat... isn't it required to do modeling first?"

           Alexa's brows furrowed an inch. "Well... not like I'm crazy about it but I guess modeling is unavoidable, every advertisement job requires it."

           "And why not get some inside help? You want to be a movie and/or a series star so befriend someone who has been in the biz."

           Alexa sighed and her breath tickled her friend's ear. "It's not that easy, Diya..."

           Diya leaned back, bumping her temple against Alexa's chin as she tried to give her a sporting smile. "Hey, you'll pull through. Besides, you have me if anything~"

           She offered a seldom smile of her own and examined Diya's tied arms behind her back, double checking that although it digs into the snow-white skin it does not cut off blood flow. The closeness gave Diya a time to nuzzle Alexa's cheek with her flat nose, her tough friend was so wrapped around her finger now that she just accepted the affectionate gestures.

           "Now you're being all cute so I would do the heart pattern."

           "Mmmmaybe?" Diya returned Alexa's knowing smirk with a pout. Her friend knew her too well. "You're doing it so well!! It can't be your first time!"

           "It is!"