#could be platonic so

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith doesn’t miss Earth the way everyone else does.

He does miss it, of course. He had a few months early in their journey that he stubbornly insisted he didn’t, but he’s grown enough now to admit that yeah, wifi was nice. So was non-recycled air. And a yellow sun. (God, it’s so weird to genuinely miss a yellow sun. He never thought that shit mattered.) None of this even covers how much he misses, to his grand shock, the culture of Earth — it’s strange and humbling to have to explain what a car is. Or a country. Or the concept of global warming, which is an embarrassing thing to have to put into words to someone who’s never really heard of it. (Like genuinely very humiliating. Explaining to someone that they very nearly shortened the life span of humanity because of consumerism, essentially, is something he still thinks of and just shudders.)

Mostly, though, he’s happy to be in space. Space is weird as shit and so is he, so he feels like he has an easier time just functioning, really. He likes the untethered-ness of it all, the lack of general structure. He doesn’t spend a lot of time wishing things were different.

Except for right now.

His sword, which he has been boredly slashing and poking at the wall of the Empire ship, gets stuck in the tiny crack where two sheets of metal panelling are pushed together. He huffs grouchily at it, pulling it out, then has to plant his boot on the wall and yank when it refuses to do so. The tip of the blade gets unstuck quicker than he’d expected and the change in force startles him, sending him sprawling on the floor.

He scrambles to his feet, bright red, clearing his throat and trying to roll his shoulders casually, as if he was intentionally on the floor. He looks like a huge massive dork, so thankfully no one was looking his way anyway.

“Are y’all almost done?” he calls, trying really hard to sound like he’s just innocently inquiring and not whining. It is no easy task — he’s bored and he’s hungry and he’s restless and this stupid ship smells like a stale refrigerator and he’s really really bored, in case he forgot to mention.

He scowls when no one answers, sticking out his tongue at the green and yellow paladins, both of whom are hunched over a control pad, wires everywhere, trying to hack in or out of something. Keith’s not sure. They told him and Lance to keep watch at the door and then stopped responding, basically.

This is the part of Earth that Keith has missed. Back home, Keith got to do all the investigative shit, too. Don’t get him wrong, he likes being the stabby one, as Shiro has so patronizingly put it; he likes being the one to run head first into conflict with a smirk on his face and a sword on the ready. It’s fun to be the impulsive one and be rewarded for it. It’s fun to be able to wreck Empire shit and practice witty one-liners to shoot off at annoying generals and sergeants or whatever the Galra equivalent is, just to watch their eyes twitch in rage before Keith cracks them one. All missions are two parts, essentially, fucking around and finding out, and Keith loves having free reign to fuck around.

He just wishes he got to be part of the finding out, too.

He sighs, long and loud and petulant because obviously no one is listening. He knows that his investigative research with Blue was at a very different level than all the stuff Hunk and Pidge do. He understands that on an objective level. If he wants to be part of the find out portion then he has to be prepared, has to put in the effort to learn and keep learning, to know how to recognise red flags and read code and all that nerd shit.

But computer science is just so boring.

Keith is a science person. Duh. He went to pilot school. Physics was eighty percent of that whole spiel, and he’s always had an affinity for chemistry, even if said affinity caused a lot of explosions and also Adam’s blood pressure condition. Science is cool as shit.

But coding is fucking boring. He has tried and tried to sit down and learn it, but every time Pidge tries to explain the basics his eyes glaze right over, and it’s not fair to her to waste her time.

He sighs again. He gets to wait, then.

Deciding that he’d rather not slash a hundred new scratches in the ship’s wall, lest the damn bridge feel more like a prison cell than it already does, he starts to pace, swinging his sword back and forth randomly. He could try to practice a few of the techniques and swordplay choreo he’s been learning, but that’s no fun without a partner. He’s become spoiled with the castle’s training bot. With Shiro hanging back with Coran and Allura, there’s no one around to clash swords with.

He perks up. There is, actually. He forgot that Lance had unlocked a sword when he first got switched to Red.

He spins around, trying to find where Lance ducked off to. He expected to find him leaning on Hunk’s back or pestering Pidge, like he often does — they’ve long since learned to work around him — but he’s nowhere to be found. Keith walks around the area, poking his sword at piles of sentry parts he cut up a few hours ago, peeking behind control panels and various big important chairs. Nothing.

“Lance?” Keith calls softly. Something like worry sours his stomach.

Please, for the love of all things good and holy, don’t let Lance have been hurt or taken this whole time. Keith will never forgive himself.

Thankfully, a hand sticks up by the far end of the bridge, blue armour glinting in the ugly purple lighting. Keith heaves a huge sigh of relief, jogging over. He thought he’d seen Lance before Hunk and Pidge had hunkered down to get info. But in that brief moment of panic, he wasn’t sure.

“Whatcha doing?” he asks as he comes close enough to Lance to speak. The red paladin has wedged himself between some kind of steel storage bin and the wall, in an impossibly narrow sliver of space, which explains why Keith missed him when he was looking.

Lance doesn’t answer right away, instead nudging a roll of wire with his foot. He has something resting in his lap, and wire is looped around his fingers, sliding back and forth as he carefully weaves it into a pattern. Keith watches, intrigued, for several passes of the craft.

“Nicked it from Team Punk when they really started to get wrapped up in their nerd corner,” he explains, finally looking up at Keith to shoot him a wry grin. Keith grins back. “Standing guard is boring as hell, especially when we took out all the sentries and barred the doors. And the castle is parked outside, so hell if I know what we’re guarding for.”

“Fuck, I know,” Keith groans, sitting down in front of him. Honestly, there is no real reason for them to be here. He half suspects Shiro has sent them all out for some peace and quiet, which is rude.

He grabs the spool of wire by Lance’s feet, inspecting it carefully. It’s very thin, and flat instead of a round tube-ish shape that wire usually is. There are two wrapped around the spool, too, one red and one blue. Keith curiously looks back over to Lance’s lap, trying to get a better look at what he’s doing with the wire. He doubts it’s anything mechanical — Lance gets as bored as he does when Hunk and Pidge try to explain stuff — but he’s intrigued on what has kept Lance’s interest for so long.

He’s surprised to find that he recognises what Lance is making, or at least sort of. It’s a long, spiralling chain, like the wire has been woven together to make some kind of mini spiralled staircase. He remembers, although vaguely, seeing other kids at recess in elementary school, sat down all over the place, clambering all over each other with flat plastic string, making boxy keychains or scratching spiral bracelets.

“Oh, hey, I know that stuff,” he says. He scrunches his face, trying to recall the name of the craft and coming up completely empty. It’s not friendship bracelets, the string was too stiff for that. Not that loom elastic thing either. “I don’t know the name, though.”

Lance chuckles lightly, sliding a last piece of string through a loop before tying it all off. He hooks it next a growing collection of them that Keith just notices, with a wide array of colours and patterns, hanging off his utility belt like leaves from a branch.

“I don’t know the name, either.” He tilts his head in consideration. “Well, I do. I googled it once, and I got some strange French name that didn’t fit, so I never used it. No one ever, like, sought it out or anything. Someone just came to school with a pack of the thread and everyone was obsessed with it for a week before forgetting about it.”

Keith tilts his head in acknowledgment. That’s what he remembers, too, but he doesn’t remember ever having any friends who would give him any of the string to try, nor was he ever comfortable enough with whatever foster parents he had to fumble through a request for the string.

“…Can I try?” he mumbles, after watching Lance start and weave a new one. He’s not entirely sure why, but suddenly his cheeks are red, and shyness pricks at the back of his neck. He’s suddenly nervous that Lance is gonna laugh at him, gonna tell him no, gonna give him a weird look for asking at all.

It’s ridiculous. Lance wouldn’t do that, and there’s nothing wrong with Keith asking. But he feels the nerves anyway.

“Sure,” Lance says easily, tugging on the strings and setting his chain aside. He smiles brightly at Keith, brown eyes crinkled and soft, and although the shyness fades away his blush goes nowhere. If anything, Keith feels his face get hotter. “What colours do you want?”

Keith clears his throat, wishing the flush away. He points to the red and blue spool he’d seen first. Lance quickly unravels thread to the length of his arm, matching up both colours before cutting. He sets the spool to the side then carefully lines up both threads, folding them in half and wrapping them over his thumb too quickly for Keith to see what he does exactly.

“I’ll start it for you, ‘cause it’s hard.”

“Hey,” Keith protests immediately. “I can start my own.”

Lance raises an eyebrow. He blinks at him, slowly, for several moments. Keith huffs and looks away.

When he looks back, Lance is grinning, and he holds out the carefully started craft.

“It’s genuinely very difficult to start them,” he promises. “I’m the only one of my siblings who knows, they used to ask me to start theirs all the time. It’s way easier to do rather than start, trust me.”

That mollifies Keith a little. He does trust Lance, and now that he thinks about it he can vaguely recall how one person on the playground would hold court while a million people crowded around them, fielding dozens of requests for starts.

“Okay, watch me first, then I’ll walk you through doing it yourself.” Slower than he was moving before, Lance loops and weaves the thread, taking great care to keep his hands open so Keith can see the entire process. The chain he’s making looks different from the one he made earlier, and Keith says as much.

“Yeah, this one’s a box chain, it’s way easier. The spiral one is hard.” He snorts at Keith’s pout. “Don’t give me that look, doofus. You can work your way up to spiral. Try this one for now, okay?”

He hands the started chain off to Keith, then scoots out from his little nook, settling in beside Keith to help guide his hands.

Right beside Keith. His entire left side is pressed against Keith’s entire right, and he slides one hand under Keith’s arm, accidentally brushing across Keith’s ribs, to help guide his hands. Keith tries everything he can to stay still, breathing shallowly out his mouth, determined not to move even a muscle, either so Lance doesn’t move or does he’s not sure. He’s not sure what’ll make him feel less like he’s going to explode, less like every spot Lance touches isn’t going to burst into flames.

“Okay, start with the loops. See how there’s already kind of a square shape? Flip the red thread in either side of it, yeah, like that. There should be two loops and the extra string should hang opposite of each other. Okay, now take the blue string, and weave it over and under — yeah, just like that! It should create four mini squares in a big square, you nailed it.”

Lance looks up at him to shoot him that big beaming grin again, and Keith tries to muster a weak smile back at him, realising for the first time that he has yet to breathe and he should probably do that before the spots in his vision get any worse and he passes out.

This is fine, this is normal, Lance touches people all the time. He is a touchy person. This is so not worth him going batty about, what is his brain’s deal.

“Alright, now loop the extra thread around your fingers and pull it away from each other. It’s kind of a pain because it’s super smooth so it doesn’t really want to stay together, and it takes a learning curve, but — oh, hey, you got it! Good job. Now do it again.”

Trying to remind himself to breathe every few seconds, Keith repeats what Lance taught him, over and over again until the chain starts to look like an actual chain, to Keith’s pleasure. He’s fascinated by the quick way the squares build, how the layers are so thin but it doesn’t take long at all for them to stack into something longer than his pinky finger.

Keith blinks, startled, when Hunk and Pidge clap their hands, calling out that it’s time to go. He realises that there’s a bit of a crick in his neck from hunching over, the tips of his fingers feel raw, and the chain has become as long as his hand. Although it hasn’t felt like more than a few minutes, he’s clearly been doing this for a while.

This is amazing. A boring mission has never flown by this fast before!

“Looks great,” Lance says, genuine pull of his brows belying the truth to his words — he’s not just saying that at all. “You picked that up fast.”

Keith coughs, standing on wobbly, half-asleep legs. “Uh, yeah. I’m good with my hands.”

Lance makes a strange noise as he bends down and tucks the spools of wire away, a muffled, kind of derisive snicker. “Yeah, I bet you are,” he mumbles to himself, turned away, as if he didn’t mean for Keith to hear it.

Keith stumbles. His jaw drops. Lance is out the door and on his way to his lion before Keith can react.

He twirls his chain in his hands when he finally remembers how to do other things rhan have Lance’s words repeat in his head a bajillion times, walking slowly to his own lion. His right side still tingles ever place Lance touched it. He grins a little to himself, remembering the easy way Lance guided his fingers, smiled at him.

Maybe these boring missions aren’t so bad after all, actually.

[lazylittledragon]

if i had a nickel for every au spawned from twitter that i SWORE i was going to be normal about

[twisted-deal]

They're bound to run out of good board games at soMe point

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Laios's three Boy Best Friends. And yes, they hate him.

[skeletood]

ohhh the things they would have said to each other :(

[mstormcloud]

He deserves a breakdown it would be good for him

[improper-use-of-germx]

Imagine an alien that doesn't speak. Members of their species live largely solitary lives and never evolved the need to communicate past basic physical articulation, and in space they mostly just exist as individual workers that work alongside others, but never with.

So when a human comes aboard they don't really think about it too much. You try to talk with them, they stare at you blankly, then someone from a more social species explains the situation to you. If that's where it ended they wouldn't have given you any more thought, but then you start doing things for them.

It doesn't have to be big, either. Maybe wiping down their work area or bringing an extra snack from the kitchen doesn't seem like a lot to you, but they always notice. You work comfortably in silence with them, never trying to make one-sided conversation like others have. It's...nice. They're not quite sure what to make of it.

Eventually, they start returning the favor. Little treats appear on your desk, things you leave messy will suddenly be tidied up when you return. They like when you notice. Sometimes you smile, sometimes you glance up at them and they act like they weren't just watching you from across the room. Sometimes you mumble a quiet "Thank you." out of habit, and for once they wish they had something to say back.

It's more effort than anyone else has ever made with them. Even if it's just a work relationship for you, they appreciate it, and they want you to be happy when they watch you clock out.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 7

Danny sees a 30 minute video in his recommendations titled: Why Red Robin and Phantom should never meet, and honestly? The more he watches the more he immediately wants to fly to New Jersey and declare Red Robin and Spoiler his new friends

Tim sees the same video and is losing his mind cause this is how he learns about the Anti ecto acts and about a Lazarus hell portal being open in a small city in Illinois for two years without the JL knowing anything!

He needs to save this guy before he gets himself...okay. Maybe its a little late for that but his point still stands!

It has nothing to do to him liking how many unhinged situations him and Phantom could get away with. Nothing!

RR could hardly believe it when Phantom showed up on his patrol a few nights later, offering to give him a tour of the ghost zone (at least what Danny had mapped out already) in return for some assistance against Vlad, the GIW, the Fentons and help him get Danny and Jazz Fenton rights to thiwr parents patents and machines so the government can't steal them...and maybe set up a place for them to live until they're 18

Also he wanted to know how cool RR was with clones.

Tim gets a thermos and immediately sucks Phantom up, apologizes claiming he needed to test it to make sure it was legit, and they go one thier way. Dannys just glad he didn't give him a blaster.

They become best friends, prank the other bats, terrorize all of thier enemies, ect.

The real problems start when Danny "can't recognize ethics unless its actively hurting someone" Fenton and Tim "always one and a half steps from turning into a supervillian" Drake start taking things a bit too far riding off of eachothers excitement

The universe trembles in fear.

Constantine hides and puts his phone on silent.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

you are somebody that i want to keep ; satoru gojo

synopsis; you aren't sure what you have with satoru gojo, but you know that it’s good.

word count; 6.7k

contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, colleagues to friends to something unlabelled, you love each other though!!, fluff, hurt/comfort, very very soft, reader falls first but gojo falls harder, both of u are afraid of intimacy lol, a lil angsty if u squint, satoru gojo cherishing u for ~7k words straight <33

a/n; basically just a collection of moments between you and gojo throughout the years <33 (a significant amount of time has passed between each part!!) hes an emotionally repressed loser but i love him and he is smitten w u.

in the soft luminescence of daybreak, your kitchen looks something like a dream.

tainted with a hazy sunshine, simmering with warm colours and pleasant scents, it almost seems to sparkle in the peripheral of your vision. brimming with that feeling of home, a home you’ve broken your bones building, desperate to shape it into something safe — and you think you’ve done a pretty good job.

it’s soothing, comforting, all of these sensations. bleeding into each other like smudges of paint on a canvas; hyacinths blooming by the windowsill, espresso-flavored steam wafting up to the roof, soft meows stemming from the cats by your feet. absolute bliss.

indulging in a peace yet to be shattered by the strain of the working world, you rub the sleep from beneath your weary eyes. blinking and yawning like a drowsy child.

beyond the translucent glass of your windows, glimmering with the light of a sun soon to rise, the world is painted pink and indigo — save for that one hint of gold, a streak of honey slathered across the surface of the sky. fluffy clouds drift through the chilly air, melting in the wake of a new day, and you think they look a little like tufts of cotton candy. soft enough to sink your teeth into, if only the glass wasn’t in the way. keeping the cold out.

it’s a new day. a pleasant morning, sitting comfortably on the brink of dawn, before the city has a chance to rouse from its slumber.

a kind of solitude you so rarely get to bask in. 

a false solitude, really. because, for once, there’s another human being in your home — one you don’t know nearly as well as you’d like, for him to be fast asleep on your couch, cheek smushed against the leather. snoring softly. 

satoru gojo.

like this, he looks very… human. vulnerable. hair just slightly tousled, from tossing and turning on your not-so-comfortable couch, blindfold only covering one of his eyes and close to slipping off entirely. his expression has melted into one of something vaguely resembling relaxation, as close to unguarded as you assume he can physically get.

even in his sleep, he looks a little stiff. not entirely at peace; like a stray cat sleeping under the hood of a car. 

(you’re curious. fascinated, maybe, by the loneliness that clings to the strongest person in the universe. by the paradoxical innocence of his grin.)

honestly, everything from last night is kind of a blur. you remember accompanying the strongest sorcerer on a mission, one long enough to leave you completely and utterly spent, fatigue nestled deep into your bones. remember gojo getting a sudden migraine, so earth-shattering that you thought he was going to keel over and throw up in the middle of the street.

then you remember bringing him back home with you. very hesitantly, only after he begrudgingly accepted the fact that he didn’t have much of a choice. because you were fucking exhausted, and so was he, and your apartment happened to be conveniently close. you remember him practically passing out on your couch, still somehow managing to crack a bad joke you can’t recall, while you went to collapse into the comfort of your bed.

and now you’re here. dyed in half-transparent sunbeams, caffeine bubbling in your veins, gazing at your sleeping coworker from your spot by the kitchen table. waiting for the world to open its weary eyes.

it’s still early. some part of you expects him to sleep a while longer, but you can’t say you’re particularly surprised when gojo begins to stir.

a splotch of sunshine splatters across your living room window, staining the floorboards, falling over the contours of his pretty face. in the light, he looks positively holy; white lashes, pale skin, plump lips. like a goddess.

when he opens his eyes, it’s even worse. a single iris cracked open, pooling with unbridled brilliance. eyes so blue they seem to cut through the stillness of the air.

(— and the world wakes up.)

a little groan slips from his lips, barely audible. with groggy movements, he brings a hand up to his face, obscuring the grating light of the sun flitting in. you think you can almost see the gears of his mind turn, as he takes notice of his surroundings, remembering what transpired just hours before.

faster than you thought, he regains some semblance of composure. huffing under his breath, as he forces himself into a sitting position. 

it feels a little wrong, to see the closest thing this world has to a god act so human. be so human. morning-fatigued, just like you, wearing droopy eyelids and a soft, sleepy pout. a little disheveled. groggy with lost dreams.

when his gaze meets yours, you can’t control the breath that hitches pitifully in the back of your throat. a meek skip of your heartbeat, like you just saw something you shouldn’t have. oops.

gojo cracks a grin.

“.. watchin’ me sleep?” he calls out, cheeky. paired with a drowsy yawn. composed, unbothered, but there’s something almost performative about it, something you’re sure you’d miss if he wasn’t still in the process of collecting himself. 

“good morning,” is all you offer him. ignoring his teasing remark. he doesn’t push it, to your surprise. “sleep well?”

a hum. absentminded, jovial. one of his large hands goes to adjust his blindfold, the other to fluff up his hair. kicking off the blanket you just barely had the energy to throw over him last night. your fluffiest one, warm enough to protect him from the chill gnawing at the windows. hopefully.

“like a log,” he quips, stretching idly, muscles straining under his baggy uniform. they must be sore, after that mission. or maybe he’s above such things.

choosing not to comment on his obvious lie, you put your lips against the ceramic of your cup. sipping from the bitter brew, a tinge of hazelnut on your tongue. letting him gather his bearings without you scrutinizing him. a little favor, one liar to another.

“thanks for letting me crash,” he grins, lazy. toothy. stumbling to his feet with a low groan, gaze flitting around the room — looking for the exit. “i’ll get outta your hair,” he mutters, and you raise a brow.

“not staying for breakfast?”

gojo stills. your question rings out, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen, into the living room.

his smile twitches, ever so slightly, in what you think must be surprise. then it’s back to normal; like putting on a mask, not allowing a sliver of weakness to slip through the cracks. he exhales a raspy chuckle, a sound that flows through the air and crawls down your spine.

”generous, aren’t you?” he hums, voice rich with amusement. dappling sunlight licks at the white locks of his hair.

you shrug. “i wouldn’t mind the company.”

the words climb up the walls of your throat, a little reckless, eager to catch a glimpse of the miracle before you. satoru gojo, framed by the simplicity of your home — somewhat hard to let go of. sunkissed skin, restless hands. a little out of tune. shifting from foot to foot, eager to get away.

(a little like a frightened fawn, you amuse yourself by thinking. he’s really more like the fox who scared it.)

you think he must be bit uncomfortable. forced to spend the night in a coworker’s apartment, one he doesn't even know that well, one he probably doesn’t have any intention of getting to know. still trying to politely excuse himself. persistent, stubborn.

maybe he didn’t expect this. maybe he was convinced he could sneak away, before you had a chance to wake up. maybe he thought you’d be all too eager to let him leave, and never speak of this again. maybe he’s not used to being wanted. 

“ha… i’m flattered, believe me, but —“

“what do you usually eat?” you ask. cutting him off, gently, tapping your fingertips against the edge of the table. “for breakfast, i mean. i’ll whip something up.”

a chuckle slips from his lips. you can’t put your finger on it, but something about it bothers you. “really, there’s —“

“if you’re worried about inconveniencing me, don’t be.” you pause, unsure of what to say. but the words end up spilling out of your throat, oddly honest. ”it’s been a while since i had the chance to make breakfast for someone else.” 

it’s strange, really, how intent you are on seeing this through. how much effort you’re putting into making him stay. you barely even know him. actually, you don’t know him at all — all you know is that his smile makes you happy and his strength makes you envious. that you aren’t afraid of him, even though you probably should be.

something about him just feels safe.

“i’m pretty good at making pancakes,” you hum, a small smile playing at your lips. polite, jovial. pale light flits in through the window and slips into its curve. ”do you want some? before we go to work.”

(something in his fingers twitch, when you say that tiny word; pancakes. a little tell. you just barely catch it, before it sputters out. before he reels it back in.)

a moment passes. slow, drawn out, a rubber band bound to snap.

gojo stands there, a very subtle contemplation etched into his features. behind him, your cats begin to scratch at the couch, but you don’t scold them. just waiting for something to happen. beyond the glass of your windows, the sun unfurls in the sky, stretching its arms to envelop the world.

he grins, suddenly. soft light reflecting off the white of his teeth. cocky, composed. not quite performative, a little more natural.

“well, if you insist.”

he strolls over to your side, just a tiny bit sluggish, lazy steps and comically long limbs. he must still be tired. but he takes a seat, right across from you, plopping down on the chair with an effortless air of confidence. lighthearted, leaning his elbows on the table, crossing his legs under it. comfortable. settling into his role.

you’re pleasantly surprised.

“how would you like them?” you ask, and you think some of your excitement may have spilled out with the question. if it did, gojo doesn’t comment on it. ”your pancakes.”

“with chocolate chips, please!” he shoots you a sweet smile. “and whipped cream on top.” 

so demanding. for some reason, it makes the corners of your lips quirk up. kinda like a bratty younger brother.

“got it.”

the smell of dark chocolate hangs heavy in the air as you get to work, shuffling around the open space. all while gojo waits, patiently, tapping his foot under the table and staring out the window. leaning his jaw on the heel of his palm. listening to the humming of nightingales on the branches of the apple tree down on the ground, and the buzz of your old radio.

the kitchen fills with motion, sounds, smells. life. splotches of sunlight, crinkled cartons of orange juice. the clinking of plates. two tired adults, seated at the same table, indulging in a fleeting peace and the promise of something new. something almost concrete.

a small, precious moment. enough to make your fascination shift into something you know must be fondness. or close to it. 

gojo grins at you, mouth full of pancakes, eagerly telling you about something the kids did last week. wolfing them down, chocolate smeared over his bottom lip. you laugh, and suddenly the world feels a little safer than it should. a little more intact.

you wonder what it means. where it’s going to lead. this feeling of something wonderful beginning, something you couldn’t stop if you wanted to.

a budding connection.

the city lays blanketed beneath a layer of thick snow. blurry pale dots dancing in the wind, obscuring the sky, frost engulfing every building in a bone chilling hug.

with a slight shiver, you dig your hands into the comfort of your pockets, seeking the fleeting warmth you find. admiring the frozen landscape before you, the hustle and bustle of people going about their day. the saffron light of the lamp posts, the glittering snow by your feet, the skeletal apricot trees and their bare branches. this monochrome city you find yourself in.

gojo exhales. strolling cheerily down the street, in tandem with you, a frosty breath to your left that scatters and melts into the open air. it smells minty.

today, he’s wearing black shades — like he usually is when you meet outside of work. it’s kind of nice. when you angle your face a certain way, you can almost see the blue pooling in his eyes, the white of his eyelashes. 

he’s beautiful. he always has been. but like this, you think his beauty is simply unfair, highlighted by the winter wonderland you find yourselves in. mesmerizing, the red flush of his cheeks, how he hums along to some jolly tune playing from a little corner store further down the street. all bundled up, in a stylish overcoat and a nice scarf, untouched by the snowflakes fluttering about. 

protected by his infinity, always. the silly god you call a friend.

he looks content, despite the cold that keeps nipping at your bare skin, smiling widely. blabbing on about the movie you’re about to watch, how he saw it back in high school but never thought it’d get a remake. how his friend thought it sucked but that friend always had bad taste so his opinion is irrelevant. how he has faith that you’ll like it.

(cute.)

distracted by the pretty man so close by, close enough to touch, you don’t look ahead. maybe just a little bit entranced. which would be fine, if you didn’t happen to be walking on the right side of the street — 

crashing straight into a lamp post.

”owch!”

it’s sudden. and it’s a harsh collision, enough to leave your nose stinging, an ache that makes you whine. cursing under your breath as you take a couple steps back, hands reaching for the part of your face that took the brunt of the hit. 

and gosh, is this embarrassing. you dance on the edge of death for a living, and here you are — whining over walking into a fucking lamp post. because you were too enamored by the beauty of your own coworker to pay attention to your surroundings. 

a coworker who is currently looking at you, silently. having failed to warn you in time, stuck in his own memories, caught up in his in-depth, spoiler-filled review of a movie he’s been waiting to watch all week. 

for a moment, all he does is blink. long eyelashes fluttering, like a dove flapping its wings. 

then he starts laughing.

scratch that — gojo is downright cackling, thoroughly amused by your clumsy mishap, like he just saw the funniest thing in the world. laughter ringing out into the cold air, white breaths to compliment the red of your burning ears.

asshole.

with a harsh furrow of your brows, you attempt to look angry; but before long, your lips are curling up. infected by his joy. a soft punch to his shoulder is all you manage, biting back a little puff of laughter. you’re embarrassed.

(so embarrassed you don’t even notice how he puts his infinity down.)

”don’t laugh, you piece of shit!” you hiss, grinning even still, flushing and trying to ignore the curious glances you get from passersby. ”it really hurt!”

but gojo doesn’t stop. doesn’t even attempt to. you think he just grew even more amused, if anything, practically bending over from how hard he’s laughing — clutching his stomach.

”sorry, sorry — ’m just…” he tries to speak, taking deep breaths in between bursts of giggles. ”how the hell — how’d you —” 

he stops trying. laughing, again.

and it’s a genuine laugh. a little wolfish, spilling out from his pretty parted lips, showing off his sharp teeth. from the very bottom of his gut, clear and bright, deep and infectious. melodic. shades close to slipping off the bridge of his nose, eyes tearing up behind them. trying to collect himself, muffled giggles turning to soft vapour in the cold air. dimples visible on his rosy cheeks.

and suddenly you can't think, can't speak, can only look at him and wonder how a human can be so very beautiful. how it’s metaphysically possible. like a crushed cluster of stars was given human form, a body of celestial light.

he looks so young, like this. a millenia younger, no weight on those broad shoulders, no immovable wall to separate you both. he looks like one of the guys you used to hang out with in middle school, running through corridors and play fighting and holding back shared laughter in the library. before the bite of the world left a mark in your skin.

he looks like himself. like someone pulled the mask off, and all that’s left is the human. none of the godhood he was saddled with at birth.

while you’re busy staring, gojo finally finds his composure again. wiping at his glassy eyes, a chuckle slipping out here and there. distracted by the breathtaking sight, you begin to forget the sting of your collision — until you feel something warm trickle down your chilled skin. 

searching for it with the pads of your fingers, you feel a trail of wetness beneath your nose. and when you bring them down, to get a look, all you see is red. 

”ah.”

gojo moves closer. maybe just a little alarmed, by the blood dripping from your nose, staining the white of the snow beneath your feet. a chilling contrast, one you’re frighteningly used to. it’s almost comforting. blood on your skin, that sting of pain clogging up your nose, enough for you to get lost in. colours melting together, memories rising to the surface —

when suddenly, something touches your cheek. 

one large hand goes to keep your jaw in place, gentle. smooth leather, sneaking under your chin, lifting your face up ever so slightly. warmth trickles from his fingertips through the fabric, and you can smell a hint of his perfume. strawberries and vanilla.

gojo looks at you fondly. wiping the blood from your nose, smudging his expensive gloves. from this angle, you can see his eyes, a blue shimmer in an evening painted white and gray — the sole flicker of colour in this monochrome city. they’re crinkled at the edges.

he looks awfully amused.

(you stay still, not breathing, like any slight motion could have him pulling away.)

”careful,” he croons. so low you barely hear it, almost a purr. the word has a soft underbelly, something you don’t need to dissect to feel.

a sentiment that seems to simmer in the air around you, drifting past the little corner store, a dog tied to a lamp post, your reddened cheeks. past the blue of his eyes, a peripheral that stretches to cover the city before you. words too heavy to speak aloud.

stay safe for me, silly.

then he’s letting go. sudden, the bite of the air replacing his hand. it lingers on your skin, like a memory, like the ghost of a memory. but it’s there. strawberries and vanilla, leather and warmth. something kind. warm.

and it stays there, even as gojo takes a step forward, no longer facing you. walking confidently, the wind bending around his tall stature. long legs and large steps, leaving an imprint in the snow for you to follow. a northern star.

he turns his head, and grins. hair tousled by the breeze, white locks glittering with snowflakes. ”you coming? it’s starting soon.”

a moment passes. 

”or do you need me to call shoko?” 

you puff out a breathy laugh, at that, stumbling forward. reaching up to wipe more of the blood sticking to your skin. sniffling, but smiling, teeth peeking out between your lips.

”yeah, yeah,” a roll of your eyes. ”’m right behind you.”

gojo’s eyes crinkle, disappearing behind his shades when he straightens his back and raises his head. moving forward, while you follow; his back turned to you, snowy hair melting into the white all around you. like something out of a painting. 

with a pep in step, you catch up to him. eager to hear more of his voice, his memories. still basking in the warmth of his hand on your jaw.

a touch from the untouchable.

gojo’s lying on your couch.

he usually is, to be fair, so it shouldn’t be surprising. kicking his legs up, watching tv — or sleeping, snoring loudly, like the couch belongs to him. like your home belongs to him. like he pays rent, and doesn’t just laze around and devour all the sweets in your kitchen cabinets.

(he’s there so often that you’re starting to wonder if you should give him a copy of your keys, or something. but you have a feeling that’d be just a smidge too intimate for him to ever accept.)

this time, however, gojo is doing neither of those things. 

he’s on your couch, but he isn’t manspreading, or draping himself over the leather with a lazy grin. he doesn’t have that air of effortless confidence. and it’s palpable, in the air, the open space, enough that you can feel it. an itch on your skin, a lump in your throat. you could practically feel it as soon as you walked through the door.

he isn’t wearing his blindfold, or his shades. he isn’t even smiling. and gojo is always, always smiling.

you think he might be having a rough day.

even the cats are noticing that something’s off. jumping up in his lap, trying to comfort him, brushing against his legs. purring, when he cradles them close — always so gentle with them. hands petting down their backs, softly, the same hands he uses to rip out the throats of curses and curse users alike.

then they mewl and run away. and for once you wish they wouldn’t, wish they could keep clinging to him like they always do. just to make him feel better. right now, in the state he’s in, you wouldn’t even mind gojo’s usual smug declarations of how does it feel to know they like their papa best? 

you can’t help but feel unsure of yourself. gojo isn’t doing anything, and he isn’t saying anything. he’s just lying there, on his back, eyes closed. letting the darkness of the room engulf him. drowning in his own thoughts.

he must know that you’re there. he must have heard you come in. but he isn’t saying anything, and you wonder if that means he wants you to leave him alone.

you’re reminded of that one morning. when he woke up on your couch, and looked more human than you’d ever seen him. how you wanted to avert your eyes, how wrong it felt to see a god rouse from its slumber. 

(but you know better now.)

hesitantly, you begin to inch closer, step by step. quiet, floorboards barely creaking beneath your weight. tentative, as you settle down on the couch. brushing against the infinity between you.

gojo’s eyes flicker open. like an old tape beginning to play. they still shine with that same brilliance, they always do, but now you think they look just a little dull. a little red.

a moment passes. agonizingly slow.

before you can properly think it through, you’ve done it. almost on instinct, jumping the gun before he has the chance to cover everything up with jokes and laughter. opening your arms; a silent invitation.

gojo only stares. 

his gaze moves down to your outstretched arms, and then up to your face. your pursed lips, nervous eyes, worried crease between your brows. one second passes. two, five. you stop counting.

for a moment, you’re almost certain that he’s about to get up and leave. that he’ll flash you a smile that doesn't reach his eyes, walk out the door and then never return. like you flew too close to the sun, just another icarus too mesmerized by the glow of his grin to notice your melting wings. like you stepped over the fragile line that separates his bones from yours, his heartbeat from your greedy hands.

— but then he sluggishly gets into a sitting position, and doesn't look at you.

when gojo collapses into your embrace, you’re so surprised that you almost forget how to breathe. almost forget your own name, forget whose home you’re in, why your arms are wrapped around a pale man. all you can think of is how warm he feels, how he’s like a weighted blanket against you. how he trusts you enough to come so very close. 

cheek pressed against your chest, arms loose around your waist. no infinity, no barriers. just a single touch shared between two damaged human beings. 

a brief inhale gives you the composure that you need. air flowing into your lungs, your brain, as you settle into a comfortable position. no words leave your lips; you just continue to hold him, one hand on his back, testing the waters. letting him hear the echo of your heartbeat. unsure, the both of you, but something about this feels right. close to right. almost there.

gojo is stiff. when you strain your ears, you hear a sharp intake of breath, and a full body shiver courses through him. a tremble of his spine. like he’s itching to run, like he doesn’t quite know where to put his hands. so painfully unused to a proper embrace. 

(a little like a frightened fawn.)

a tender something unfurls within your chest, and you feel almost devoured by the fondness rooting itself into your beating heart. delicate, as you begin to brush away his tousled bangs, leaning close. pressing a kiss to his forehead, glistening with sweat. letting your lips linger on his skin. 

he’s pale, shining in the bleak moonlight cast from the translucent curtains of your living room windows. pale like a ghost. and there are dark crescents beneath his dull eyes.

nightmares, you surmise. they haunt him too, don’t they? of course they do. 

eyes brimming with emotion, you gaze at him; quiet as a mouse, closing his eyes. leaning into your touch, ever so slightly, breathing out a sigh tinged with pure exhaustion. and a certain realization washes over you, akin to a tidal wave, sudden and inevitable. so obvious it’s funny.

you’re not a god at all, are you? 

a coo slips from your lips. barely a sound, more like a soothing breath. warm against his cold skin.

you’re just like everyone else. just as fragile.

one of your thumbs goes to smooth over the puffy skin beneath his eyes. so, so gentle. like one wrong touch could have him crumbling into little grains of stardust, spilling out over the worn leather of your couch.

there are so many things you wish you could say to him. so many things you’ll never be able to say, because you’re afraid that if you give him too much it’ll scare him off. like love could burn him if it were to leak out too fervently. like it’s burned him before. 

so you don’t say anything. but you think it, you repeat it inside your mind like a prayer, and some part of you thinks that’s enough. i’ve got you — a whisper that you don't dare to voice. 

one gojo still manages to hear, somehow, if the way he tugs you closer and snuggles into your neck is anything to go by. a shaky exhale brushing against your collarbone.

(if you feel something wet touch the skin of your shoulder, you don’t mention it.)

you simply hold him, and don’t even think the thought of letting go. even though it takes him hours just to fall asleep, hours you spend anxiously wondering if he’ll change his mind and pull away. but he doesn't leave, even though his body may want him to, and that's enough, and you don’t let go. not even once. he stays cradled to your chest the same way you’d hold a tiny puppy, something fragile. something you need to handle with care.

and when his heartbeat finally mellows out, when you hear little barely audible snores flow from his lips, you finally begin to relax. melting into the couch beneath you, watching him get the rest he deserves. praying that any nightmares of his will be given to you instead.

sleep comes, eventually, to the both of you. tangled up on the couch, him on top of you, comforted by the flutter of each other’s heartbeat. by the warmth of another human being. safe in each other’s arms.

(the next morning, through hazy sunshine and the clinking of coffee cups, he teasingly tells you that just satoru is fine.)

it’s barely daybreak when satoru wakes you up.

a rude awakening, to say the least. he pulls out all the stops, intent on not letting you sleep even a second longer; poking at your cheek, pinching them when that doesn’t work. tickling you, blowing cold air into your ear, flopping down on top of you like a big dog. anything to rouse you from your deep slumber.

and he just will not give it up. no matter how hard you try to ignore him, no matter how many times you swat him away with your duvet pillow or turn to bury your face into the sheets. that’s how satoru always is, how he’s always been, how he hopefully always will be — an absolute pain. one you wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

so, when he starts whining for you to just wake up already, voice tinged with a sadness that tugs at your heartstrings, you find yourself opening your tired eyes. all while he murmurs on and on about something unintelligible, still trying to bribe you.

”i’ll make you coffee, okay? just get up. c’moooon.”

”… what time is it, satoru?” is all you mutter, voice leaving your lips in a raspy, disgruntled fashion. stirring a little at the promise of coffee. 

he cracks a grin. ”don’t worry about it! just come with me.”

despite your grumpy attitude, and the ungodly hour at which satoru shakes you awake, you find yourself letting him scoop you up and set you down on the kitchen counter. placing a hot cup of coffee in your hands, made just the way you like it, before grinning mischievously in a way that has you feeling ill at ease.

and ten minutes later, you find yourself on top of a hill. overlooking the woods, and a big lake below you, no city lights visible no matter where you turn — god knows where he’s taken you, but it’s pretty.

breathtaking, even. all frost and wildlife and peace, sweet solitude, tiny flowers blooming on the patches of grass around you. a murder of crows takes flight in the distance, scattering into the indigo of the sky.

gojo grins, boyish and bright, excited breaths turning into vapour as he speaks. awfully proud of himself. 

”i can’t take you on vacation, but —”

he drags you with him, arm looped around your own, plopping down on the ground. not before taking off his jacket, to cover the ground beneath you. grass tickles the skin of your palms, as you comfortably spread your legs, making sure to sit as close to him as possible.

and your heart softens a little.

because he’s mentioned it, before; how it’d be nice to go on a road trip, someday, just the two of you. all around the world, wherever the wind takes you. basking in that feeling of freedom. it’s no more than a fever dream, though, with how busy satoru is, the responsibilities you both shoulder.

so this’ll have to do. that’s probably what he’s thinking.

”the sun’ll rise soon. it’ll be pretty, i promise,” he beams, so close that you feel his warm breath on your skin. that you can see the dimples on his cheeks, his barely visible freckles.

”oh, so that’s why you woke me up so early.” 

his smile widens. ”nice, right? i wanted to surprise you. d’you like it?”

a smile blooms on your lips, in tandem with his, honeyed and content. indulgent. gojo looks at it, and immediately knows your answer.

”yeah. it’s really pretty out here,” you face forward, taking a deep breath, fresh morning air entering your lungs. cool and crisp, stirring your sleepy mind. ”kinda nostalgic.”

satoru hums, and follows your lead. looking ahead, admiring the beauty of an empty world.

the big lake looks like a mirror, from here, glittering in the peripheral of your vision. the sun licks at the frozen sky, not quite breaking through, not entirely ready to rise — but it paints everything a rusty gold and you can almost feel spring shining through, taste it on your tongue, that promise of something better, something more concrete. a warmth you don’t have to question. 

a warmth that’ll stay with you for a long time to come.

it takes about ten seconds for the man by your side to start speaking, again, shattering the peaceful silence. but you don’t mind. his voice is nice, a mellow melody to your morning-fatigued brain.

side by side, you wait for the sun to rise. sharing hushed whispers and laughter, like two kids having a sleepover. like nothing exists but the space that cocoons you, wraps you up in a nostalgia so palpable the entire world feels like a fond memory.

(it makes you feel a millenia younger.)

satoru giggles like a child, telling you about something shoko said, or something megumi did, and you don’t miss a single word that spills from his glossy lips. hanging on to every word he’s willing to give to you. 

he looks so unbothered, like this. eyes crinkling, humming some tune you don’t recognize, like a little nightingale ready to take flight into the skies.

you part your lips, admiring his features. every patch of skin you can see. words making themselves manifest, hungry to see inside his brain, to know more about him. a fascination that’s never quite left you — though now you think it may be better described as love. ”hey, satoru?”

at the sound of his name, he turns to you. the weight of his eyes feels so light, like this. those blessed eyes staring into yours. he tilts his head, a smile playing at his lips. ”mm?”

”if you could go anywhere you wanted, where would you be right now?”

satoru blinks.

he looks at you, a mild surprise flitting through the lines of his face, as he takes you in. measures the weight of your words.

then he smiles, again. lopsided, almost a smirk, rich with amusement. a hum buzzes in his throat, like a butterfly itching to break out.

”.. you teasing me?” 

a huff fills the air. ”it’s a genuine question!” you insist, moving your leg to nudge his own. ”c’mon. anywhere in the world. i’m just curious.”

another hum. he narrows his eyes, playfully, biting at the inside of his cheek to hold back a chuckle when that makes you grumble. pouting softly, tilting your head. he’s amused, you can tell. 

but he closes his eyes, lashes fluttering, glimmering with morning dew. and you can tell he’s taking you seriously. tasting the question on his tongue.

something shines in his eyes, when he opens them again; crinkling at the corners, soft lines of crows’ feet. you can almost see that burst of aquamarine, breaking through the black glass of his shades. like the laws of physics can’t contain it. and he smiles, as always, a smile so beautiful you wish you could live on the curve of his lips. flimsy, no teeth peeking out, no dimples to admire. but sweet. slathered with honey, as sincere as can be.

his voice comes out a little raspy, tainted with a tinge of fatigue, a smokey residue that sticks to the walls of his throat. but it's genuine, like he just woke up, like he's too sleepy to be dishonest. like every word he says can be no more or less than the absolute truth.

and when he turns to face you, tilting his head enough for you to see that shade of blue you love so dearly, his eyes shine with an honestly so palpable you feel like you’re being devoured.

satoru parts his lips.

”right next to you.”

a moment passes. silent, endless, no sound to be heard but the beating of your own heart.

at last, the sun breaks through that layer of frost, peeking up from the boundary of the world — and the morning begins to thaw. streaks of sunlight cascade down the contours of his handsome face, painting him a mellow gold, and it’s almost enough to distract you from the warmth of his hand finding yours. 

for a moment, satoru looks unsure. smile shifting in the light, into something slightly stiff, and you know that means he's nervous. silent, as he wets his glossy lips. pink tongue tasting strawberry chapstick. 

then he’s leaning forward. 

it’s chaste, the kiss he plants on your forehead, soft as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. but it lingers, even after he’s pulled back — a warmth on your skin. a silent declaration.

he doesn't have to say anything. when you look up at him you can see the red flush of his ears, and when you strain your ears you can hear all those unspoken whispers. the sentiment neither of you will ever have to say out loud, because you know. it’s there. and it means everything. 

and you know that for as long as you live, you’ll both have this. one single thread of normalcy, in your unorthodox existences, one single glimmer of something almost entirely good. something that heals, something that isn’t a blessing and a curse all in one. something soft to the touch.

there’s no need to find the right words for it. there never was.

”kinda looks like melted ice cream.”

the words pull you out of your stupor. satoru’s looking at the sky, and you follow his gaze, watching the sunrise in tandem with him. 

it’s beautiful. soft clouds melting into pinks and oranges, dappling sunbeams lapping at the trees, a saffron shade washing over the empty world in front of you. a world that may not be so empty, after all, because you hear crows in the distance, and someone’s fishing by the lake, and you think you spot a squirrel in the tree closest to you. 

and you have someone, right next to you, right by your side. someone who won’t ever leave.

sometimes, loving satoru gojo feels a little like strolling on the edge of a cliff. like one wrong step could have you tumbling down, a mess of broken bones and unspoken words. but if you do stumble and fall — you know he’ll be waiting at the bottom of the precipice. arms outstretched, wearing that same innocent grin, ready to hoist you both back up.

so you know it’ll be fine.

swallowing down a bout of fresh laughter, like a flower unfurling in your chest, petals brushing against your ribcage, you give in. opting to bask in the moment, in his presence.

”yeah,” you puff out a chuckle, head slumping against satoru’s shoulder. he makes a little noise of approval, and your grin grows. ”it does.”

he doesn’t say anything. smiling, wordlessly, admiring the way the sun kisses up your collarbone. lighting up your face. and you bask in his warmth, how right it feels to be tucked into his side. how safe he feels, even now. how safe you make him feel.

you look at the man to your left, and he looks back at you, and that wonderful unnamed something unfurls inside your chest again. and, without having to speak it aloud, you know it will continue to do so.

many, many years later, he’ll still be satoru, and you’ll still be you. the distance between you will be what it always was; breachable.

and that will be enough.

[pien-art]

the besties

[eloquent-edits]

🗡️ You give so much to others

It’s time someone gave back to you 🗡️ acts of service and fluff prompts

Character A hates washing the dishes and Character B hates cooking, so they do those things for each other

“You don’t have to do anything to pay me back. Your happiness is more than enough.”

A is going through a major depressive episode and B comes by to help clean their room and give them company

B sets up candles, a warm bath, and dim lighting for A to relax in after a stressful work event

B carpools with A a lot. They notice the gas tank is running low and plant a $20 bill in the console for A to find later (B vehemently denies ever putting it there, but A absolutely knows)

A is sick and B goes out of their way to grab medicine and extra tissues to drop off at A’s doorstep

After A ends up in the hospital, B makes sure A’s place stays clean, their pets are fed and taken care of, and that A will have nothing to worry about when they are well again

B automatically sets aside a larger portion for A’s meals because they know that A will be hungrier than they expect

A is sensitive to light and B buys blackout curtains for their room so they can sleep better

“I’ll handle this! You go have fun, I’ll be there in a second.”

B will always pick A up after they travel internationally for work so A can sleep and recover from jet lag

B covers the corner of sharp tables for A (listen it’s just THE SWEETEST thing I’ve seen done for someone ack)

A is busy putting on makeup, so B gently detangles and does their hair (and it’s not as simple as just putting their hair into a ponytail, I’m talking weaves and braids and intricate designs that show B paid attention to this)

“Let me take care of it.”

A complains about their back or neck pain so B gives them a massage (mainly to stop their complaining LOL)

B will occasionally take A’s bath towel while A showers and run it through the dryer so it’s nice and warm when A gets out

A is anxious about finances (they just got a new job) and B helps them work through it and understand all the confusing things

A’s new apartment is not on the first floor and the elevator is out of order, so B moves the big furniture for A up all those flights of stairs

Chronic pain makes it difficult for A to leave the house sometimes, but B makes sure they never run out of medication by picking up A’s prescriptions

“You really didn’t have to do that for me.” “Well, I wanted to. Now you don’t have to do it!”

[whatthefuxkkk]

AU where everything is the same except Alastor and Lucifer are buddies

[transvampireboyfriend]

part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8

"I'm just saying, if the heat bothers you so much, you could cut your hair" Nancy points out, after declining Eddie's pleas for her spare scrunchie.

Robin sits on Nancy's lap, clutching the back of Steve's seat and she looks at Steve through the side mirror like she's afraid that he's about to go on a mission to defend Eddie's honor or something but Steve rolls his eyes at her. He's not that gone.

Or at least he knows how to hide it well.

Eddie's lost several of Nancy's favorite hair accessories and two weeks ago she bowed to never lend him any ever again.

Which, does not stop Eddie from asking her anyway at least once a day.

But the point is, even if Steve wanted to, Eddie's honor cannot be defended in this situation.

Nancy's leaning behind Argyle's back now to glare at the metalhead. Steve can see them in the rearview mirror.

Eddie gasps "I would never" he says, clutching his chest dramatically.

Steve secretly breathes a sigh of relief.

Johnathan chuckles at the wheel. "But you could" he comments, eyes on the road.

Steve can see Argyle subtly laughing and shaking his head out of the corner of his eye.

Today is a rare occasion, Jonathan is driving them in Steve's car.

The goal of Steve's rant earlier about having to drive them everywhere was to get Eddie to drive them, so Steve could sit shotgun and watch Eddie drive.

Instead, Jonathan had offered first and then Steve couldn't go in the backseat because he's in charge of their map.

But whatever, this is fine too. He trusts Jonathan and it is nice to get a break and to be able to fully turn around when he's talking to someone in the backseat.

"Jon, I would lose all my sex appeal, you don't get it" Eddie answers, getting a box of Twinkies from one of the many bags they packed and placed on the floor of Steve's car.

"I get it" Argyle chimes in, watching Eddie pull out a Twinkie and shaking his head no when Eddie offers him one.

"You'd still be sexy with short hair" Robin comments from her seat on Nancy's lap.

Everyone turns to look at her.

"What?" she shrugs "I can say that"

Nancy chuckles into her shoulder.

Steve opens their map again to stop thinking about Eddie's 'sex appeal', even as the guy is excitedly munching on a Twinkie in the backseat of Steve's car.

He's got cream in the corner of his mouth and he clearly put more in his mouth than he can comfortably chew. He's leaning one elbow on Argyle's shoulder, his hand holding half a Twinkie, his other hand holds his mop of hair up in a high bun, causing his cut off tank to sit barely covering his nipples, his tattoos on display and his armpit hair fully visible.

Steve's fairly certain nobody else in this car would get it, but to him the sight is mouth watering. The guy is practically irresistible.

"I don't think i would've gone on even half the dates I've gone on if i didn't have my hair" Steve muses, for something to say and to add to Eddie's point, even though he agrees with Robin.

Almost everyone answers with agreeable noises, except Eddie and Robin.

Robin snorts and says "You are relentless"

While Eddie says "You don't get dates for your hair" at the same time. In a tone that suggests he thinks this is an obvious thing.

"I mean- it doesn't hurt" provides Nancy, she sends Steve an apologetic look but Steve waves her off. It's a compliment as far as he's concerned, he loves his hair.

Eddie finishes his treat and opens a new one while everyone else gives their opinions.

"For a lot of people, hair is a big part of attraction" Jonathan is saying, trying to seem like he's not speaking from experience.

"Especially hair as luscious as Steve's" Argyle agrees, leaning forward to lightly comb the side of Steve's hair, making him laugh.

"Thanks, man" Steve says overlapping Eddie's response.

"And I agree!" he exclaims "I'm saying he doesn't get dates because of his hair." Eddie goes on, waving his new Twinkie around for emphasis. "People throw themselves at Steve, and always will, but it's not because of his hair" he repeats.

Steve feels his cheeks heat up but still asks "Then why?"

"Well, because you're very pretty!" Eddie answers easily, like everyone should already know this.

Steve keeps his eyes carefully trained on the map, like he needs to study it meticulously, right this moment, while they're in the middle of a highway.

His cheeks are burning up and he can feel it spreading to his ears.

"And that's if they don't know you!" Eddie continues "If they do know you they know you're kind and brave and strong ...and generous and funny. Who wouldn't want all that in a date?" Eddie finshes.

Oh I don't know, you? Maybe? Do you? Steve thinks.

"Even bald, people would still go crazy for you" Eddie adds, his words slightly muffled towards the end as he shoves almost all of the new Twinkie in his mouth but apparently thinks better of it, biting all but a small piece.

"Here. You want the rest of this?" Eddie offers Steve, talking through his mouthful, and presenting the small piece with his ringed fingers, right in front of Steve's face.

Without thinking, Steve leans forward and takes it with his mouth, his lips burning where they touched Eddie's fingers.

As Eddie retrieves his hand Steve realizes what he just did and how quiet the car got.

He sends Robin a panicked look through the side mirror as Jonathan awkwardly clears his throat.

"Argyle's got nice hair" Robin tries.

The car immediately fills up with enthusiastic agreement and Steve slowly breathes out.

He can't bring himself to look at Eddie as he chews on his bite. He practically licked Eddie's fingers. Unprompted! The guy probably meant for Steve to grab the treat and then eat it. If he even accepted it at all!

Steve feels like an idiot and he frowns at the map again, willing himself to ignore the goosebumps in his arms and the tickling on his lips.

He doesn't see Eddie worriedly staring at him for the remaining of their conversation, until Nancy takes pity on him and offers up her spare scrunchie to distract him.

part 2

[kennahjune]

I’m a firm platonic stonathan believer (and romantic but that’s not what this post is about).

And I love Steve and Jonathan being really friendly albeit awkward with each other.

But you know what I absolutely LOVE?

Stonathan who can’t STAND each other.

But would also go to fucking war for each other.

Some asshole is being a prick to Jonathan in school? The dudes suddenly thrown off of every sports team he’s on and the principal is fully aware of every time he cheated on a test. Steve just so happens to be at the high school that day to pick up the kids.

There’s some dickwad giving Steve a hard time at work every day? The guys windshield is busted in and car’s been keyed. Jonathan was totally just stopping by Family Video for a movie at the same time.

It’s just so funny to me. The idea of them both putting on this kind of mask around the whole group where everyone thinks they’re at least friendly with each other— the awkwardness is a given, honestly.

But then when it’s just them— getting high together or smth idk— they trade insults that would have anyone else in a ball crying.

And then them both slowly coming out of their shells around the whole group.

And the first time it happens Steve had called Jonathan a home wrecker and in turn Jonathan called Steve a whore.

Everyone was flipping shit trying to make them both apologize to each other before another fight broke out. But Jonathan and Steve sat and laughed at them.

Nobody ever gets used to their bitter teasing towards each other (nobody’s ever heard Jonathan use such foul language) but they learn to accept that that’s just how they are with each other.

This is kinda like a begrudging sibling-bonded stonathan.

This is also how I imagine madwheeler being btw. But I’ll make them their own post eventually.

[sepezzz]

Sorting the archives and a particularly cheesy dancing song comes on

[bliss-in-the-void]

Thought oh god :(

So a few people have talked about how Satoru’s eyes are a place of vulnerability for him (the windows to the soul and whatnot), and one of the reasons why his eyes are always covered is so that everyone around him (and us, the audience) can’t see him in a vulnerable state.

Even when Kenjaku had him ensnared in the Prison Realm, there’s a frame where his eyes are strategically blocked. Same thing happened before he killed Suguru. His eyes were just out of frame. He was breaking on the inside and when he’s really vulnerable, the only one to see it is Suguru.

1. He only gets that way when Suguru is involved

2. He only feels comfortable enough to get that way when Suguru (or even just an echo of him, his body) is around

And I just realized rewatching that scene in Okinawa (S2, Ep3, 7:17 timestamp) when Suguru is telling Satoru about how he knows he hasn’t slept or rested his technique, and that it isn’t good for him, Suguru is meeting his eyes from the side. Not through the glasses. Genuinely looking straight into his eyes.

And just, the expression Satoru has on. It’s so vulnerable.

There’s something so poetic about the fact that the only person he ever lets see him in a vulnerable state is Suguru.

I don’t know how to word it, but I don’t think this is a conscious decision on his part. His walls just come down around Suguru—no, actually, they don’t apply to Suguru at all. He feels no need to defend his weak points against Suguru, because he knows Suguru can see them anyway.

There’s so much love weaved into the very fibers of this dynamic :(