#ficlet anon

[corysmiles]

Nice to see you back! Hope you had a good time away!

-ficlet anon

Ahhhh thank you!! Itfelt nice to take a little break and now I feel much more motivated to write >:)

[blindmagdalena]

I’m so sorry Amy this is NASTY but from the moment I saw the chest fuzz on HL my first thought was how sensitive it would make the nips when fucking cause of the texture

18+ homelander x reader. boob stuff, body hair appreciation, overstimulation, flying sex, cream pie. never apologize to me i will always make it nastier. 🖤

At first the brush of it is divine. It wrings a gasp from low in the back of your throat, has you kneading the taut muscles of his back while he pounds into you. Homelander's body hair isn't overly coarse, but it hardly matters when his chest is pressed flush to yours, his lips on your throat.

You feel his every huff and whimper more than you hear them. They pair perfectly with the desperate grip he has on your hips, holding you in place with his whole body as he fucks you against the ceiling.

Now the grind of his chest against yours is beginning to take a toll. You shiver with his every move, growing more and more tender with the friction. Your cunt quivers tight around his cock and he stifles a hot moan into the crook of your neck.

His cock, more thick than long and nicely curved, strokes that sweet spot inside you that strikes stars behind your eyelids with every snap of his hips. You fist your hand in his hair and pull until his lips meet yours.

"Fuck," he gasps against your lips, threads of saliva snapping between your hungry mouths. "You drive me fucking crazy."

"Don't blame me for that," you respond breathlessly, licking right back into his mouth. "You were there when I got here."

He grins, giving a ravenous little growl and a sharp thrust. "Fine. Crazier."

The two of you climax like that, entwined and floating high off the ground, your ascension halted only by the height of the ceiling. Only once the aftershocks fade out does Homelander begin to sink back down to the bed. You feel as if you're in the clouds, floating on euphoria and his warm, soft body.

Still trembling, you lift yourself up. This is how you had started; astride him, riding him until the wild bucks of his hips had lifted you both up, up, up.

You smooth your hands down your own chest, goosebumps erupting everywhere. You give his pec a slap, the thwap of it dulled by the padding of hair. "You rug burned my whole chest," you chastise, though your tone is colored by your smile.

He sucks in a breath, contemplating the condition of your skin as he blows out a raspberry. He cups your breasts in gentle hands and pushes them together and up, meeting the pearl-soft flesh of them with his lips. He kisses apologies all over each one, flicking his tongue over your nipples for the way you gasp and tug his hair when he does.

His spent cock, still buried deep inside you, throbs valiantly as he sucks one breast into his mouth, tonguing your nipple in slow circles. You shudder and grind down in retaliation, the both of you hyper-sensitive, moving leisurely against one another as your satiation passes and the need for more grows.

You ride him slow and deep until he comes again. You rub your clit to the feel of his mouth on your chest and his come dripping out of you until you, too, orgasm, the tight spasm of your cunt reducing the most powerful man in the world to a simpering mess between your thighs.

The two of you untangle your limbs only to jigsaw right back together, his back to your sensitive chest, your arms around him, fingers scratching through the very hair you complained about.

"I could start waxing again," he says, words lazily slurring together.

"Don't you dare," you murmur, nuzzling the spot just behind his ear, kissing the shell of it. He interlaces his fingers with yours, squeezing your hand to his chest. "You're perfect as is."

You don't need to see him to know he's smiling. You feel it in the slant of his lips when he presses the back of your hand to them.

[macfrog]

If you ever feel up to it - a little short story from the scom universe about reader and Joel deciding to have a second baby or finding out they're pregnant for the second time would warm my cold dead heart <3

i am. so. sorry. for the word count on this i truly do not know what happened. but i had a lot of fun with it, so. hopefully y'all do, too. happy fathers day! x

jellybean ~4k words | series masterlist warnings: pregnancy symptoms (feeling and being sick, horniness + sleepiness. aka me even when not pregnant), 99% just duckie vs her mom

Duckie spills the secret on a Friday.

The morning is lazy, slow. The breathing of the sea across a plain of beach. Your fingers sift through her hair like the breeze through sun-bleached pages. The way she and the sun tint the room peach.

Sarah sprawls out across the spot still warm on her dad’s side of the bed. She’s in a habit of waking up early to sneak through to your room, lift the bottom of the covers, and army crawl between your bodies.

Joel’s in a habit of stirring to the heat of her at his back, her tiny toes at his spine, and turning to scoop her in one arm. They sleep curled into one another, mouths catching flies.

This morning, though, she’s up to something. She brought a secret.

She’s flat-out on her stomach, pens scratching at the paper. There’s the scent of cherry and lemon and green apple tangling in the air. Taut frown on her face, tongue poked with concentration. She looks just like her dad.

She pauses and looks up at you. “What color is this part?” she asks, dabbing at the blank hubcap.

“Silver,” you reply, fixing the cap back onto the grape pen before it stains your sheets.

She huffs. “I don’t have silver, Mama.”

You tap on the page. “Daddy’s wing mirrors are black, but you did ‘em green. The colors don’t matter, do they?”

But it’s seven a.m., and you’re sharing only the red jellybeans for something of a pre-breakfast snack (the four-year-old’s idea), and you’re exhausted despite having slept the full night, and she keeps halting any time Joel’s humming quietens – just in case he spoils his birthday surprise.

She hunkers down with the lemon pen to nail the emblem of his truck, and you figure – color is just the least of it. Truthfully, to your kid – and so, to you, too – nothing has ever mattered more.

You cup her cheek and lift her gaze back to meet yours. “How about I grab you a glitter pen today, just for the wheels?”

She grins. Little milk teeth, gappy and gummy. Peach fuzz cheeks, sweet as the rest of her, a perfect fit in the palm of your hand.

I love you I love you you’re my whole world I love you, you want to say.

Instead: “Only if we tidy your room later. Deal?”

“Deal, Mama,” Sarah giggles, and her little ink-stained hands splay out across the page again.

She scribbles only a few more splotches of color before you both notice it.

The sudden silence.

The water’s stopped running. The shower screen rattles as he pulls it back. Dripdripdrip from the showerhead straight down to the empty basin.

Sarah twists to watch Joel’s disembodied arm blindly grab for a towel folded on the sink. It whips off out of sight, and he calls through from the bathroom.

“Duckie? You still there?”

“Gogogo,” you whisper, helping your daughter cover her dad’s drawing with blank sheets. “Leave the jellybeans, Duck, save yourself!”

She finds the entire thing hysterical. Swinging her masterpiece under one arm, two fistfuls of rainbow pens, springing from the mattress like it suddenly caught flame. She throws herself from the foot of the bed and dashes across the hall to her own room, candy scattering in her wake.

Joel’s head cranes around the doorframe. “Where’d she go?”

You smile, shrugging. Chewing innocently on a jellybean. “That’s funny. She was here a second ago.”

He pads over to the bed, towel slung loose around his hips. Smirks, when your hungry eyes descend his figure – the bearlike shape of him, all muscle and fur, toned where he needs it but soft where you want it.

He cages over you, dark hair dripping with the smell of citrus, skin sticky.

His lips are like velvet against yours. Tongue still singed with coffee. A low growl from his throat when you lean forward to lick into his mouth.

“Smell so goddamn good,” you murmur, dipping your head to bury into the crook of his neck.

His beard is fuzzier when it’s damp, natural masculine musk melded with the fresh soap and rich aftershave he uses. All honey and oatmeal, mixed with a woodsy scent – and fuck, it’s intoxicating. Moreso than usual – stronger and sexier.

You take his hands and lower them to your hips, letting his fingers knot around the baggy material of your – his T-shirt. Tugging on it, exposing the slip of delicate lace on your hips.

“Darlin’,” Joel warns, “we’re late. We still gotta drop Duckie off – If she walks in –”

You groan, huffing back into the mattress. The weight between your legs ripples over the horizon, pulses into weak nothing.

Joel fixes the shirt back down to your thighs just as the thunder of his daughter’s footsteps rumbles back into the room.

Tonight, he breathes, slicking some of the hair from his face.

You grin, taking his hand to pull yourself back up.

Sarah materializes in the doorway, a lingering half-girl. Smiling from behind the frame, twisting the ball of her foot into the floor.

“Hi, Duck,” Joel says, still playing with your fingers.

“Hi.”

“You look guilty.”

Her grin widens. She totters into the room, launches herself onto the bed, and nuzzles into your side. She squirms when Joel digs his fingers into her waist.

The beats of her laughter drum against your ribs, the same way her fists used to when she lived inside you.

“Alright.” You cradle her, her little head tipping back to wake the rest of Austin up with her squeals of glee. “Are we ready for some actual food, now?”

Joel chuckles, reaching for his mug.

Sarah nods from your lap. Her eyes drift down to the print on your tee. “Mama?”

“Mhm?”

“Do they like jellybeans?”

You frown. “Does who like jellybeans?”

Her finger prods lightly into your tummy. “The baby.”

Joel chokes, splattering coffee into his fist. He slams the mug down, pounds his chest clear of liquid.

“There’s no – Jesus, Joel,” you swipe mocha flecks from the sheets, “Told Sarah to be careful with her pens and then you spray coffee all over the…”

Sarah rolls off, cackling. “Silly Daddy,” she hoots, leaping on the bedroom floor.

“Hey,” you usher her over to the door, “Why don’t you go pick out what you wanna wear today? I’ll be right behind you. Quit tryna give your dad a heart attack, okay?”

“The baby, Mama,” she’s repeating, walking like a little convict. She turns over the threshold to her room like it’s a cell, her pink pajama uniform and guilty expression to go with it. Still laughing, swallowing the ticklish bursts when she notices you’re shaking your head.

“There is no baby.” You kneel before her, repeating, “No baby. Just you. How about your T-shirt with the butterflies?”

It seems to distract her enough. Thank Christ. She gasps, inspired, and twirls off to find the tee.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, pushing back to your feet.

Joel’s flapping the sheets when you slip back into your room, still clearing his throat. Half-dressed: a white T-shirt over his broad chest and a pair of black boxers. Soaked hair clinging to the back of his neck and drying in flicks across his forehead.

Jesus, you want to pull him back over you and let him have his way.

You close the door over and spin, hands on your hips. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Me?” he croaks. “Did you hear what she just said?”

“You’ve known this kid for four years, Joel, you really can’t tell when she’s fucking with you? She’s my kid, keep up.”

“Just seemed an awfully –” he thumps his chest again, “– awfully specific thing to say.”

“She’s in a phase I think,” you reply, catching the pillow he tosses across. “She’s telling stories. Last week, her pre-K teacher congratulated me our supposed wedding. Asked to see pictures of the Mickey Mouse officiant.”

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “She really bought that?”

You mimic the breezy voice: “Sarah was very convincing.”

Joel scoffs. “I don’t know if I can take a lying phase and a copying phase at the same time. Every goddamn word I say, she’s gotta repeat it.”

“She idolizes you,” you straighten the sheets, “I think it’s endearing.”

“Hm. Just wait until it’s you.”

He wanders around the bed, pulls your back against his chest. His arms cross over your tummy, lips pressing into your shoulder where his shirt has slipped.

“How much harder would two be?” he mumbles into the bare skin.

“Two Sarahs?” You scoff.

Joel laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. I forget she runs on chaos and jellybeans.”

“Yup,” you turn in his arms, linking yours behind his neck, “And there ain’t no point in talking about it anyways, because I am not fucking pregnant.”

He rolls his forehead against yours, stealing bristly kisses. “Okay.”

“I’m not, Joel.”

“I believe you, baby.”

Sarah’s bedtime is a liberal eight, eight thirty on weekends. She likes to sit up, lodged between you and Joel on the couch, and help pick the movie you two will watch once she’s in bed.

Once – and only once – Joel tried to fool her by pretending to play her choice, then switching as soon as she went down.

The kid quizzed him on the movie the next morning. He failed. She’s never forgotten.

Tonight, though, Joel’s out. Some game that you know and care too little about sports to learn the name or importance of. He’s with some buddies at the local bar, probably nursing his second beer in as many hours, and counting down the minutes until he can come home to his girls.

Sarah snores soundly, slumped at your side as though butter wouldn’t melt. The flicker from the TV across her face, the gentle mumbling of the voices onscreen. Her hands limp in her lap, fingers idling in a pink snack bowl.

You admire her, stealing a piece of her popcorn. Teeth grinding down when you remember dishing it for her earlier, hearing her curious voice ask whether or not the baby likes popcorn more than jellybeans.

Nope, you sang, tossing a handful in your mouth as you passed her the bowl. Imaginary babies don’t eat popcorn.

She snorted (which unnerved you, because what the fuck is this kid finding so funny?), and followed you to the living room so close that you could feel her toes at your heels.

Some of the kids in her class have siblings. Some older, but mostly younger. It’s the only fucking explanation, the only thing that explains this sudden interest in the real estate of your uterus.

She’s going through a phase, you tell yourself, suckling on popcorn. But then – how many fucking phases do kids go through? Which phases did you go through?

Barney & Friends. That was a fucking phase. Refusing to leave the house without the hoodie your mom bought you from the Museum of Natural History, even in the height of summer. Ketchup and broccoli, your boyfriend at seventeen, frisbeeing your neighbor’s newspaper and aiming for his flowerpots.

Phase, phase, fucking phase.

Does she know something you don’t?

…No. You took a test just last week. Shut up. Stop letting the kid into your fucking head.

Joel’s keys jangle on the other side of the door, shunting into the lock with a sound which stills your brain.

You tilt your head over the back of the couch, your man’s beard tickling your nose as he kisses you. “Evening.”

“Missed you,” he whispers against your lips. He straightens and tugs the jacket from his shoulders. “She not in bed yet?”

“She fell asleep down here,” you reply. “I got too tired to carry her up.”

He caresses your forehead, big pillowy palm. “You feelin’ okay?”

“It’s been a long day,” you grumble.

Joel smiles. He flops down onto the couch beside you, reaching over to stroke Sarah’s head.

You roll, solid as a rock, curling into his side. “She keeps saying it, Joel. She keeps fucking saying it.”

His chest jumps, tectonic plates moving with a laugh. “You’ve met your match, honey. Produced a professional little shit.”

“One of the other moms from her class is pregnant,” you mumble. “That’s gotta be it, right? That’s where she’s getting it from?”

“Maybe,” Joel muses. His fingers link with yours. “Why don’t you take a test anyways? Settle it in your mind?”

It startles you awake, even if only enough to prove the fucking point.

“No, Joel!” you hiss, body jerking. “If I take a test, and it turns out negative �� which it will – she wins! My four-year-old fooled me. No,” you pluck spilled popcorn from your lap, pinging it back into the bowl, “I know this kid. I gave birth to this kid. She is not fucking winning.”

“Alright, baby,” he coos, “it’s okay. I won’t let the four-year-old fool you.”

You glower. “Thanks, asshole.”

He chuckles. “She’d make the best big sister, though. She would,” he insists, when you huff back against his chest. “She’d love being the oldest. Get to be bossy, get to call the shots. Get to protect them, no matter what.”

Your voice feels so small, as inquisitive as your daughter’s when you blink up at him. “Were you protective over Tommy?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, he was annoying as all hell – and I told him so – but anyone else had anythin’ to say about him, and – well, they had me to deal with.”

“Big scary Joel Miller,” you whisper, yawning into his shirt. “I knew him once.”

“Mhm,” he rumbles, “You sure did.”

You look up again, blinking all doe-eyed and dreamy. Already half-asleep.

“He never scared me,” you whisper.

Joel smiles.

“Well, you scared the hell outta him.”

Saturday morning, you wake to an empty bed. No snoring man, no scribbling girl. Just you – a starfish on the mattress. Bathing in waves of late-morning sun, sheets for coral, body as heavy as though you really are at the bottom of the ocean.

Her giggles carry all the way upstairs. Sarah. They surf into the room on a sunbeam, sounds like bubbles which shatter and sprinkle over your aching body.

You smile into Joel’s pillow, breathing in the smell of him, and peel your eyes open.

It’s ten thirty. Definitely – you blink three times and rub at your eyes, just to make sure. Ten thirty, and something’s swirling behind your navel. Something that sharpens, sours, when you push yourself upright.

“Oh, shit,” you rasp, and throw yourself across the room.

You barely make it, collapsing in a heap at the toilet. Your stomach empties in seconds; three heavy, painful gags and your head is in the bowl, choking on last night’s dinner.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, gasping, “Oh, Jesus.”

You’re sick. You’re just sick. Sarah probably caught something from pre-K, passed it on without even knowing. And, hey – you feel better, now that that happened.

You’re just sick. Nothing else.

“Mornin’,” Joel calls, watching as you stagger into the kitchen.

Sarah mimics his drawl. “Mornin’, Mama.”

“Hi, Duckie.” You crumple into the chair beside her, shoulders hunched. The smell of burnt toast and grape juice twists up your nose, and you suck in a slow breath.

Joel sweeps a hand over your forehead. He tips your jaw up to face him. “You alright? Thought we heard running.”

Sarah rips a slice of toast in two. She stares at the fluffy insides, the jam dripping from the tear. The sight of it lifts the hairs on your skin, the gloopy mess splattering onto her plate.

“Just feel kinda…funny,” you slur, turning away.

“Funny? Funny how?”

“Funny how?” your daughter parrots.

You shrug. Every word, every inhale makes you feel even more nauseous. “Probably just ate something.”

“Heard that one before,” Joel drones, and you throw him a flat look.

Sarah licks the jam from her fingers. She holds her tiny hands up to her dad, snorts when he pretends to bite at them.

“Eat your breakfast, Duckie,” he says then – in his Dad voice. And in something softer, kinder: “Can I make you somethin’?”

You swat the idea away, but it’s already churning in your stomach again. “Just gotta – get over whatever it – is.”

The table falls silent. Joel and Sarah stare blankly at one another. When you turn to look at your daughter, she’s staring straight back. Smirking.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you clip, wincing again at the dribbling jam.

“Alright,” Joel utters, “I think you oughta take a test now.”

“That is not what this is,” you groan, petulantly pushing up from your chair.

He takes your hand, steadying you. “No? I was thinking about it, baby, and I don’t think we’ve been safe enough to be so sure.”

You dump your golden toast in the trash and turn, crossing your arms. Your shoulders lift. “We’re not being any less safe than we have been the last four years.”

“Safe,” Sarah says, and Joel holds a finger up.

“No,” he tells her. “No. Not that word. Go back to funny.”

She beams at him. “You’re funny, Daddy.”

He sighs, pacing over. “Look,” he lowers his plate into the sink, “I’ll take Duckie to the park. Let you rest up, give you a quiet house for the morning. But darlin’, if you’re not better by tonight, you’re takin’ a test.”

You grimace. “But she –”

“I know –” he grits his teeth, “– I know you don’t want her to be right. But I want you to be okay, more ‘n I want to prove my child wrong. Like it or not, you’re taking a damn test.”

Your eyes flit across to the kid swinging her legs in her chair, the splotch of jam down her Peppa Pig T-shirt. Your greatest accomplishment and your biggest challenge, wrapped up into a hundred-centimeter, jellybean-fueled monster.

Her cheeks lift, jam-covered and smug.

“Funny,” Sarah says, nodding.

The afternoon strings the sun high in the sky.

You’ve been home alone for the better part of an hour, busying yourself by cleaning to take your mind off the nausea tugging at your esophagus. Making and remaking beds, folding laundry until your fingers cramp.

Sarah’s room has never been tidier. Joel’s workshop has never seen so little dust. And you have never been more determined to prove your four-year-old wrong.

You’re lingering in the bathroom, the window gaping. Sucking in breath after breath of fresh air – which only serves to tickle the acid burning its way up your throat, entice it further.

You’re emptying the cabinets, reorganizing them into some senseless order. Playing Tetris with boxes of Band-Aids, slotting in tubes of toothpaste. You blindly reach behind your hip for the next box – a nearly empty thing which rattles when you lift it, jitters as though nervous.

You glance down.

“Fuck off,” you hiss, throwing it on the shelf beside some tampons.

It stares back at you, as blinding as the sun. The two display window examples, pregnant and not pregnant, like a wink peering out from the dull cabinet.

Your gums taste of bitter bile, rancid. Teeth furry and aching. Your entire body aches – though nothing quite so bad as the space below your ribs, still tender from all your retching.

Slowly, your hands slip down your front to cup your lower tummy. Rounder than before, suppler – bloated, even.

“’s from all the throwing up,” you tell nobody in particular. Maybe yourself. There’s a desperate edge to your voice, almost a plea.

But then – a plea to who? For what? There was nothing you loved more than carrying Sarah for nine months. Duck. Start saying duck. Baby Duck.

You were never on your own. She was right there. Someone to talk to, someone to complain to. Someone to weep to, in the quietest lulls of night.

Her language came to you as easily as your own. All her kicks and punches, her fucking acrobatics while you tried to sleep. It was love, in its most chaotic form.

And you loved her, the very moment you saw those two lines. The very moment you realized she’d been in there the whole time.

You realize now, squatted on your bathroom floor, that it feels the exact same. A warmth, radiating from your very core, if only you’d pay it enough attention to feel it.

Like there’s someone there. Right there.

“If you’re fucking with me,” you warn your stomach, reaching for the single test, “I will lose my shit.”

Love, in its most chaotic form bursts through your bedroom door no less than half an hour later.

“Hi, Mama!” Sarah sings, tearing through the room with her hands behind her back. Her knees bump against the side of your bed, the air about her summer-warm and pollen-sweet.

“Hi, little Duck,” you mumble, voice swollen. You wipe sleep from your eyes, asking, “How was the park?”

She answers with a wide grin on her face, whipping out a small, shabby bunch of flowers. Dandelions and daisies tangled around one another, loose petals scattering over your bedsheets.

“Oh, baby,” you push yourself up, ignoring the sickly weight in your stomach, “Are these for me?”

She nods. She dusts her hands free of grass when you take the bouquet. And then, as you smell them and hum with delight, she turns.

First, over to the dresser. She stares at her reflection, pokes at some of the makeup on the table. Then over to the window – where her breath fogs the glass. You hear the whack of Joel’s tailgate closing, and she tracks him into the house, before examining the windowsill.

You watch nervously as she drifts back over to the bed, a curious hop to her movements. Inspecting, like she knows there’s something waiting to be found. Someone.

“Did you have fun with Daddy?” you ask.

“Yep,” her small voice says, distant and distracted. She disappears into the dim bathroom.

You slump back down on the mattress, dropping the flowers in a clump on your bedside table. “I don’t even know when I fell asleep, baby girl,” you say through a yawn.

Sarah doesn’t reply.

“Duckie?”

“What’s this?”

You lift your head. “What’s wh…Oh, n-no, Duckie, wait –”

She flees past you, one fist raised and wielding the pregnancy test.

“Sarah! Jesus, fuck –”

You’re chasing after her before you have a chance to consider it – nausea be damned. She’s squealing something, roaring with laughter, blitzing out into the hallway. She swivels, ladders down the stairs backwards, leaps straight into the arms of –

“Christ, Sarah –”

Joel stumbles backwards with the force she throws at him. She’s safe in his arms by the time you reach the top of the stairs, waving the stupid stick around his head like it’s a magic wand.

“Daddy!” Sarah cries.

He glances up to you: hunched over the top step, panting, clutching your stomach. He pinches the test from her grasp. “What do we got here, baby duck?”

She kicks her feet. She has no fucking idea what they have, but she knows you didn’t want her near it – and if you know your kid, you know that’s all the catalyst she needed to fucking take it.

You slowly make your way down towards them, smirk growing the nearer you draw.

Joel glances down to the test. The creases by his eyes deepen. He hugs Sarah closer.

“Two...two means...pregnant, right?” he asks.

You sigh, nodding. “Mhm.”

His head lifts.

He breaks, the second he sees your expression. Eyes glassy, tears spilling onto your cheeks. The same smile you wore that June morning: sleep-deprived and shellshocked, a love pumping through your veins so strong that you thought you might burst with it.

Joel reaches for your hand, reels you in against his body.

“Shit,” he laughs, holding the test up.

Your shaking hands take it from him – though you already knew what it says. You were dreaming of it all when Sarah broke into your room.

Dreaming of linked hands and echoed giggles; of bunkbeds and matching surnames, of all four seats in the truck filled and all four chambers of your heart spoken for.

Dreaming of one on each hip, one in each hand. Dreaming of them tag teaming Joel, of the word kids slung with his southern twang. My kids, the kids, our kids. All ours.

Dreaming of two Sarahs, goddamn it. Because nothing ever completed your life as effortlessly as one Sarah, and – hell, she was born to follow in her dad’s footsteps and become the elder Miller sibling.

“Shit,” you agree, turning to sob into Joel’s chest.

“Duckie,” Joel says, voice hoarse and choked by tears, “You’re gonna be a big sister.”

She giggles, tracing the damp lines down your cheeks. As she reaches your jaw, the elation on her face slowly dwindles into something of a frown.

Your lips part to repeat it – a big sister, Duck – when her tiny voice steals the air from your lungs.

“Shit!”

[lexirosewrites]

What about omega prison guard Steve and alpha prisoner Eddie Munson.

Steve should sue that prison for workplace endangerment and I’m so sorry for how late this is. I have others still in my inbox too that I will get to eventually!

That being said... alpha prisoner Eddie flirting with nervous prison guard Steve!!! Steve who's been told to be wary of inmates trying to intimidate him with threats, but he was never warned that he'd fall in love with the charming weirdo in Block D who's always telling him how pretty he is.

At first, Steve assumes that inmate Munson is trying to get extra time in the yard or a better work assignment, but he never does. He greets Steve like a friend, asks how his dog is, and even makes sure that other prisoners don't mess with him despite being an omega working in an alpha prison.

It feels too good to be true, but five days a week, Steve clocks in and instantly finds himself drawn to Block D. Even if it's not his assignment for the day, he makes a point to say good morning to Eddie. Sometimes he does sneak him an extra granola bar from commissary if he's feeling generous, even though Eddie would never ask.

"Morning, officer beautiful."

Steve laughs at that, sticking his hand in his pocket to quickly find the pack of gum security had allowed him to bring inside. Not necessarily following protocol, but he figures that it's innocent enough.

"Good morning, Munson," he greets.

Eddie gets off his cot and comes over to the bars of his cell, his smile widening when he catches sight of the bright pink package of gum in Steve's outstretched hand.

He has to be subtle about the special treatment, but Eddie’s good about that, accepting the present and pocketing it quickly.

"Surely you can come up with a better petname than that, baby? You've had damn near a whole year to pick one for me,” Eddie teases in a whisper.

Steve brushes it off with a laugh, putting a little more space between them.

Having a soft spot for a handsome prisoner wouldn’t look good to the other inmates or his fellow correctional officers. Everyone already thinks he’s not fit for this job and he can’t afford to lose it. It’s the best paying job he’s ever had and the benefits are great.

“Alright, Munson. Mind your manners.. What’s on the agenda for Block D? Are you running your little club this morning?”

The alpha typically leads some weird club for the prisoners on good behavior. Steve has never understood their funny game, but he always volunteers to oversee it.

Eddie smirks, throwing him a wink as he returns to his bunk and picks up a full box to show Steve.

“Big plans for today, actually.”

He chuckles at that.

There are no big plans in prison. Every day is more or less the same. Eddie either has a work assignment or his club. Sometimes he attends a special workshop or class for some college credit, but it’s not exactly the Ritz-Carlton.

“Sure, Munson. Whatever you say,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

Eddie pouts.

“Don’t you want to know why all my stuff is packed up? You aren’t the least bit curious?”

Huh?

He looks around the cell, suddenly noticing how bare the walls are— devoid of Eddie’s monstrous drawings and plans for his game. In fact, his bed has been completely stripped and none of his books are lying around the place anymore.

“Eddie? What— what’s happening here?” Steve questions frantically, his heart racing now at the idea of his favorite prisoner being transferred elsewhere.

He’s had good behavior lately, but maybe he got caught in a fight on Steve’s weekend off?

Eddie can’t leave. He’s unintentionally become Steve’s best friend here and honestly, he’ll really miss the guy. Even the extra attention and flirting too!

The alpha drops his box and comes all the way to the bars, close enough that he can reach a hand through and take Steve’s. He squeezes it gently, settling Steve’s panic a little with his calming scent now.

“Hey now, baby. I thought you’d be happy for me? Are you really that upset that I’m getting out finally?”

Getting… out? Holy shit. Eddie is leaving prison. For good.

“You— your time is up?”

Eddie leans down, glancing around to make sure nobody sees him press a kiss to the omega’s knuckles.

“Yeah, sweetheart. I told you I was gonna be on my best behavior for the parole board. How else was I gonna take you on that date I promised?”

Everything he says always sounds confident and a little cocky, but for once, Eddie seems vulnerable and sincere.

He actually wants to take Steve on a date.

Steve shakes his head, but doesn’t pull his hand away from Eddie.

“You didn’t really mean that,” he protests. “I know you were just messing around or whatever, Eddie.”

“Oh, so now you know my name?” the alpha teases.

Steve rolls his eyes, wanting a real answer.

“Munson…”

Eddie grins.

“Alright, alright. No need for all of that, honey. I just thought I’d give you a heads-up in case you wanted me to leave you alone when I get out. I didn’t really expect you to let an ex-con take you out, but it gave me something to aim for and I wanted to thank you nonetheless for being such a good friend, even if you don’t want to see me outside of here.”

Steve hesitates for a moment.

Of course he didn’t realize that Eddie was getting free any time soon when the alpha joked about taking him out and “showing him a good time.”

But does that really change anything?

If Eddie wasn’t an inmate, would Steve be interested in him? The answer seems clear, but he’d never had to think it through before now.

He clears his throat, giving Eddie a smile as he comes to a conclusion.

“I think… I think you could thank me with dinner, Munson. I’m assuming you have a place to stay already? Do you have a number I can call too?”

Eddie grins like a kid in a candy store and runs to grab a piece of paper out of the box, writing on it frantically before shoving it into Steve’s open hand.

“I’m staying with my Uncle Wayne. He got me a position at his garage since I got all my certs here. My first paycheck is all yours, Steve. You find the fanciest restaurant in town and I’ll book the table, sweetheart,” Eddie promises. “You won’t regret this.”

He blushes at the intense stare from the alpha, feeling surprisingly eager for him to follow through with this.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Eddie. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

Steve loses his favorite inmate that day, but ends up with a different kind of mate a few months later.

[unclewaynemunson]

I definitely think it takes Eddie a while to accept that Steve changed. He remembers what he was like in high school.

When Steve asks him out, for whatever reason, Eddie says yes. But he’s determined not to fall in love, because deep down Harrington’s still a dick. But he’s cute, and Eddie can smile and play pretend.

But then! Steve goes full happy relationship mode, he tells Robin (obv), introduces Eddie to the other adults as his bf, and is just generally being sweet.

MY SWEET ANON I HOPE YOU'LL STILL SEE THIS!!!

I'm so sorry it took me ages to answer this one! But I really loved the idea of this (the good ol' steddie + misunderstanding about what they mean to each other with a dash of terrible communication skills my beloved) so i wanted to give it my proper attention, which i didn't have enough time for over the past few months. Buuut the words have finally found their way to my keyboard so here is the first part of what probably will turn into a 3-part ficlet, I hope it's something like what you had in mind when you sent this ask to me <3

---

Eddie has been acting weird all day. Maybe Steve is too much of a romantic, but he can't help it: he wanted to celebrate this day. Exactly a month ago, he asked Eddie out. And it's been good. They've spent a lot of time together. They've been on lots of dates, spent plenty of nights together... But today, things are different, somehow. Eddie is different. He turned Steve down for a dinner date, he didn't stop by Family Video during lunchtime, and when Steve shows up at the trailer to surprise him with flowers, he merely frowns and pulls back from their kiss before it can even properly get started.

'Everything alright?' Steve asks, trying to catch his boyfriend's gaze – which isn't exactly easy with how Eddie is turning away from him to not-so-gently put the flowers down in a corner of the trailer's living room.

'Yeah, sure,' Eddie mumbles, not really looking at him. 'It's just – I didn't really expect to see you today. We didn't have plans.'

Steve chuckles, trying to get the tension out of his chest. 'Didn't know I was expected to schedule an appointment before coming here.' He tries to play it off as a joke, but the tone of his voice doesn't really want to cooperate.

Eddie finally turns back towards him and Steve catches the end of an eye-roll.

'I'm just not feeling too great today, alright?' It sounds a bit stiff and Steve pauses. He wonders if he did something wrong, if he somehow invaded Eddie's space – even though he has showed up at the trailer on countless evenings in the past month.

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' Eddie answers, a little bit too fast. 'I told you, I'm not feeling so well.'

And now that he can see his face properly, Steve notices that Eddie is indeed looking paler than usual.

'Hey, don't worry about it,' he says. 'I can stay to take care of you, if you want to. We don't have to do anything. You can go to bed early and I'll keep you company. I can make you some soup, read to you... You could've just told me you're not feeling good, you know. I would've picked up some fruit on my way over here and stopped by the library for you.'

'You don't have to do any of that, Steve.'

Steve tries to ignore the fact that it's been ages since Eddie has last called him by his official first name. He doesn't like the sound of it.

'But I want to,' he says instead. He takes a step towards Eddie, lifts his arms to wrap them around him – but Eddie swats his arms away before he can properly embrace him.

'Don't.' He sounds cold and detached, so different from how he usually sounds. 'Don't act like this is something it isn't.'

'Like this is something –' Steve echoes, completely caught off-guard by this turn of events. 'Like what?'

'Jesus Christ, you really don't know when to stop, do you?'

'What?' He takes a stumbling step backwards, driven away by the force in Eddie's words.

'We're not – like that,' Eddie stutters out. 'We're just fucking around, aren't we? So you don't need to pretend. You don't need to bring me flowers. You don't need to take care of me when I'm sick. You don't owe me anything, alright? You can go home.'

Steve takes another step backwards, until his back collides with the door of the trailer. He blindly grabs the door handle behind him.

'Alright,' he says, trying desperately not to let his voice tremble audibly. 'I hear you, loud and clear. I'll – I'll leave you alone, then.'

Read pt2 here (Edit: it's actually 5 parts now. You can read the whole thing on ao3 here)

[varpusvaras]

It had been a busy day.

Part of it was Bail's own doing. He had needed something to distract himself from the ongoing investigation, so he had picked up all the work he had been putting aside during the past couple of weeks, and finally started to go through them. He was in the middle of going through the budget draft of ship manufacturing for Frigate-class ships, when the office's door's alarm lighted up.

Someone was trying to get in.

Emphasis on trying to get in. They weren't trying to break in, as Bail could see that they were trying to use their clearance on the door, but the reading kept being interrupted for some reason.

Bail frowned. He stood up and started to make his way towards the door, when the alarm shut down and the door slid open.

Fox all but stumbled in, his whole upper body pitching forwards as he moved, and he swayed still when he stopped and just stood there.

Bail was very thankful for having long legs, because he got to Fox with only a few quick strides, just in time when his swaying got worse and he started to list to the side, with his knees buckling. Bail managed to step to his side, so Fox would just easily fall towards him. He all but collapsed against Bail, his helmet diggin hard into Bail's chest as he let his head drop as well.

"Careful", Bail said, trying to take a batter hold of Fox, but as soon as Bail laid his hands on his back, Fox flinched and dug himself deeper against Bail. That was the last sign Bail needed to know that Fox was hurt.

When had this happened? Bail had not heard about any other operations where Fox would've been needed for the day, as they were busy with the attack on the Temple. Had something happened there? Bail had been under the impression that the situation was under control, and that there hadn't been any further attacks-

He could think about all of that a bit later.

"Fox?" He called. "Where does it hurt the most?"

Bail had learned to not simply ask if Fox was hurt, because almost every single time, if Fox just still had all of his limbs and his head attached to him, he would start to deny that he was injured in the first place, or insist that it was not, actually, even that bad. Fox did answer when asked what was exactly bothering him, even if he would try to downplay it anyway right after. At least it gave some sort of general direction for things.

Fox made an odd noise under his helmet, that almost didn't come out through the vocoders. It sounded almost like a whine.

"Head. Back. Arms. Hands. Legs", Fox muttered against Bail's chest. "Everywhere."

Alright, then. A little help, but a lot to be worried about.

"Alright", Bail breathed out. "Let's get you to sit down."

The few meters from the door to the office's couch took a lot longer than they usually did. Bail tried to keep most of Fox's weight on him, but it was still a struggle.

Bail couldn't understand how this had happened, and how any of the other Guards had not taken Fox back to the base immediately to be treated. They were all very protective of their Commander, and if they had been present, Bail knew that they would've taken action immediately, unless...they had not been there at all.

There was only one situation that Bail knew where Fox would be alone, that would end up like this.

The burning of anger lit up inside of him. Bail had never previously thought of himself using blackmail or any other unsavory methods like that, but even he had his limits. It was high time he started to weed out all the unsuitable people, who thought it was appropriate to treat the Guard how they liked.

But first, he needed to tend to Fox.

They got to the couch. Fox looked like he was ready to just fall onto it, which would most likely just aggravate everything more, so Bail had to very slowly and carefully put him down and arrange his body so it didn't look like it hurt too much.

"I'm going to take the helmet off", Bail informed him, before he reached for it and gently lifted it up.

Fox had mentioned head pain just before, and Bail could see why straight away. He had seen enough concussions to know what they looked like, and the way Fox's eyes were dark and could barely keep track of Bail, even though he was right in front of him, told enough.

Bail took in a deep breath and then took a better look of Fox as a whole.

Another immediately noticeable thing was his left arm. Fox was holding it close to his abdomen, and the commlink on his vambrace had an error-light on, as that entire piece of armor seemed to be slightly dented inwards. That explained why he had difficulties getting the door to read the clearance. It was either that the device didn't work properly, or Fox had difficulties keeping his arm still, or both, as Bail was already sure that the arm itself was also broken.

Bail glanced down, and held back a grimace and then a snarl. If the arm was probably broken, Fox's left leg definitely was, as the foot had rotated inside in a way that was clearly forced. No wonder he had been stumbling, with both the concussion and this.

Head, arms, hands, legs. Back.

The armor was not fastened properly, so Bail had an easier time getting it all of, even with Fox sitting up. He still ended up jostling him a little as he took off the backpiece, and every sharp breath Fox took in only served to fuel the anger more.

Bail carefully rolled the blacks up. He didn't need more than a peek to see the deeply darkened skin as bruises were already starting to form.

Bail never stopped to be both impressed and horrified of the way the clones were able to just push the pain aside. He almost hoped that some of it was because the concussion was making Fox confused enough to ignore some of it.

Bail tried to breathe in deep. He hoped it would've get the anger at bay for a moment longer.

It did, in a way. It pushed it down, but at the same time, gave it enough air to grow.

Fox looked at him then, his eyes wide, and even though Bail was almost scared to touch him, he had to. He needed to.

So he took Fox's face into his hands.

"What happened?" He asked, stroking his thumb over Fox's cheek.

Fox let out a wavering breath.

"I- we got a suspect brought in", Fox started, his voice stammering bit at the start. "She requested a visitor, a Jedi. It was- in her rights, so, we brought the Jedi in, and she- we saw though the monitor her strangling the suspect, so we took her in. We had to."

He sounded almost pleading at the end, for a reason Bail didn't yet understand.

"I know", Bail said. "I know, you were just doing your job."

Fox swallowed, and grimaced, pressing his eyes shut tight for a moment. Bail ran his thumb over Fox's cheek again, and Fox tilted his head more into the touch.

"I-" Fox started. "Admiral Tarkin told us that this was not a Jedi matter anymore, and we couldn't let anyone else in. He ordered us not to let anyone in. But then Skywalker came and wanted to go see her, and-"

He grimaced again, and Bail wondered if speaking was aggravating him. He started to lean forward, and Bail let him fall to him again, tucking him against him as gently as he could.

"What was Skywalker doing there?" Bail asked. He hadn't thought that the Jedi would put him out of all people to investigate a crime like this. Skywalker was a capable Jedi and a General, but what Bail knew about him, he was not the most experienced in situations like these.

"She's his Padawan", Fox said against Bail's shoulder.

"Tano?" Bail asked, perplexed. "You arrested Ahsoka Tano?"

Fox stiffened.

"We had her on camera", he said. "There was no one else in the room. We didn't hurt her, we just-"

"Of course you didn't hurt her", Bail hurried to say. There had been a desperate edge sneaking into Fox's voice just now. "I know that."

Bail had to admit that he didn't know Ahsoka Tano too well, but from the impression he had gotten, he wouldn't have suspected her first, at least not without any evidence.

Well, it seemed like there was evidence, wasn't there?

Fox's right hand closed around the front of Bail's shirt. Bail held him as tight as he could.

"I told Skywalker", Fox said. "I told him my orders. I told him. He didn't listen. He got in. Tarkin found out I failed. One of his guards kicked me down. I think I- I think I broke my foot more."

Bail frowned, something like dread starting to trickle in into the anger.

"More?" He asked.

Fox didn't answer. He just curled up against Bail, and Bail heard his breath hitch.

"Fox?" Bail pressed on. He had to know. "What do you mean by that?"

Fox pushed his forehead hard against Bail's shoulder.

"Skywalker didn't listen", he said. "He demanded to be let in. I told him no. He didn't listen, he forced himself in, I couldn't- Tarkin didn't listen when I told him-"

He stopped, and breathed, almost heaving.

"It hurts", he whispered. "Nobody listened to me. It hurts."

Bail held him as tight as he could, stared at the wall of his office, and saw red.

---

Bail got the recording of what had happened in less than an hour.

The Guard was very willing to give him anything he asked for. They had all seemed just as angry as Bail was, and has kept apologising over and over again, for letting this happen. For leaving Fox alone. It had been in between rotations, and Fox had taken it upon himself to watch the security point for that one moment. During that one moment, Skywalker had come in, and started to demand to be let in.

It wasn't their fault, and Bail said so every single time. Skywalker was a Jedi. The Guard should've been able to trust a Jedi not to hurt them.

Bail watched Skywalker and Fox talk. He watched how Skywalker got more and more upset with every single second. He watched how Skywalker lifted his hand and pointed it towards Fox on the other side of the security glass. He watched Fox tell Skywalker no.

He watched Skywalker threw his arm towards Fox. He watched as the whole panel around the glass bent and broke away, the glass shattering. He watched Fox being flung across the room and crashing hard against the far wall, shards of the glass raining all around him. He watched Skywalker not giving any of it a second look as he made his way inside.

He watched Fox lay there, dazed, before he rolled on his side and just managed to push himself up when two officer guards strolled in, with Tarkin soon following them.

He watched the guards kick Fox down and beat down on his already battered back one, two times, before the recording cut.

He couldn't stomach watching it for a second time.

There was a request to enter coming from he door. Bail pressed the door open.

Padmé stepped in, with a tight smile on her face.

"I'm sorry it took me a while to get here", she said, as she sat down on the chair on the other side of the desk. "Things have been...hectic."

"I can only imagine", Bail said.

The anger had stopped burning a long time ago, now. Now, Bail felt like ice.

He leveled Padmé a look.

"Anakin has had a hectic day as well", he said.

Padmé was an intelligent woman. Bail knew that she would be able to connect all the implications and come to a conclusion on her own.

She did, as the smile dropped away from her face.

"What happened?" She asked. "Did...did something happen at the prison?"

Bail almost had a feeling that she knew already, on some level.

"Yes", Bail said. "He attacked Fox when Fox didn't let him in."

Colour drained from Padmé's face. She opened her mouth, closed it, and hesitated for a moment before she opened it again.

"Is he alright?" She asked. The correct question for the situation.

"No", Bail answered bluntly. "No, he isn't. He got seriously injured by Anakin, and then injured further by Tarkin because somehow, an armed Jedi attacking him means that he failed to follow orders."

Padmé shook her head.

"I can't believe it", she said. "Are you sure-"

"It's on record", Bail said. "And before you mention it, yes, I am aware that Tano was innocent and framed. That didn't happen here."

Padmé didn't say anything to that, even though she looked like she very much wanted to.

Bail stood up.

"I asked you to come here as a courtesy", he said. Padmé blinked at him.

"Courtesy?" She asked. "For what?"

"I'm warning you in advance, because you are still my friend", Bail said. "I am reporting Skywalker to the Jedi council and asking them to demote him. He is not suitable to be a Jedi."

"Bail", Padmé said. "Can we talk about this-"

"We cannot", Bail interrupted her. "I am not going to let this happen again."

"It's not going to happen again!" Padmé stood up as well. "Anakin was just worried about Ahsoka. Bail, please."

"That doesn't give him the right!" Bail almost felt bad as Padmé flinched at his voice, but not quite. "I have kept your secrets, Padmé! I did that because you are my friend and I care about you, not because I wished to shield Skywalker!"

He went around the table and stood in front of her.

"He is going to face consequences for this", Bail said. "And you will not interfere with it. If you try to, my loyalty for you is over as well."

Padmé drew in a sharp breath.

"You wouldn't", she said.

"I would." Bail looked her straight into the eyes. "And I advice you to look hard at your choices. This meeting is now over. Leave my office."

He could see from her eyes that she understood him to be serious. Padmé walked out of the office without saying another word.

Bail stood there for a moment, before he took his commlink and his cape.

First, the Temple. Then, he was going to the Guard base to see Fox.

[diazsdimples]

Buddie + "I love you, but I've never been this angry with anyone than I am with you right now" or smth like that

"I love you, but I've never been this angry with anyone like I am with you right now," Eddie fumes as he checks over Buck's injuries.

They're fairly minor - a split lip and a cut above his left eyebrow that slopes into his birthmark, and there's a few scrapes on his forearm, but that doesn't stop the anger, the fear that's bubbling in Eddie's stomach right now.

"C'mon Eds, I'm fine," Buck mumbles as he tries to dodge Eddie's fussing hands. His head throbs at the sharp movement and he winces. " 'S just a scratch."

"It's seven scratches," Eddie counters as he finishes the catalogue of Buck's injuries. "And you've probably got a concussion."

Eddie pinches between his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. It's not like this is a surprise; Buck's never been one to think through his actions to the logical conclusion, being more of the "act first, think later" type, but Eddie wishes that for once, the man would engage his brain before throwing himself headfirst into a burning building, chasing after a drunk driver on a tiny bicycle, or climbing a tree to fish out the frisbee Christopher had lost moments earlier.

Buck pushes himself up onto his elbows, surveying the broken twigs and leaves that litter the ground around him. The branch that had snapped beneath his weight lies about a foot to his left, and Eddie can see the porous insides, the wood rotten and crumbling. It's any wonder Buck tumbled out of the tree like a kitten learning to climb - that branch would have given way the second he put his weight on it.

"Probably should have checked the branches as I was coming down," Buck says with a strained chucked, his attempt at lightening the mood with humour falling flat when Eddie doesn't respond, his jaw ticking cause yeah, Buck really fucking should have been more careful.

Buck's face falls as he sees Eddie's tight expression.

"A-are you really that mad at me?"

Eddie softens. He's not mad, exactly. His fear and panic often manifests itself as anger, and when Buck had come barrelling out of that tree, crashing to the ground with enough force it could have registered on the Richter Scale, his heart had leapt to his throat.

"I'm not mad," he says gently, and the tension in Buck's shoulders disappears. He reaches out to touch Buck's face, thumb stroking over a thankfully unscathed cheekbone. "I just...you scared me, that's all."

Eddie can feel the weight of Buck's stare, can hear his heartbeat loud in his ears, and then Buck is smiling softly, the look on his face so gentle that it takes Eddie's breath away.

"You don't have to worry about me," he reassures Eddie, turning his face into his boyfriend's hand and kissing his palm.

Eddie can't help the disbelieving snort that leaves his mouth.

"Buck, you choked on bread so hard you nearly died, you've been crushed under a ladder truck, you had a pulmonary embolism and then got washed up by a tsunami, and you've been struck by lightening. You get into trouble more often than not."

Buck laughs, the sound warm and sweet, and Eddie wants to kiss him. He wants to kiss him better, to seal up his wounds with his lips, to kiss away the pain and promise to always be there with him when he hurts.

"Well, when you put it like that..."

Buck's eyes sparkle and his lips are so soft, and Eddie doesn't have it in him to stop himself anymore.

The kiss is light and barely there, but Buck's lips are so warm and pliant against his own, and his heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest. He can feel the stubble on Buck's chin against his skin, can smell the sharp scent of the lemon bodywash Buck loves to use, and when Buck sighs against him, Eddie feels it down to his toes. There's a slight wince as Eddie presses over the cut on Buck's lip and he pulls away, resting their foreheads together.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks again, licking his lips. He tastes the slightest tang of metal - blood, from Buck's lip - and it sets his teeth on edge.

"Baby, I'm fine. Promise."

Buck leans forward and presses another, far gentler kiss to Eddie's lips.

"Now, can you help me up, please? It's cold down here."

Eddie rolls his eyes but complies nonetheless. He takes Buck's wrist and hauls him to his feet, and is about to drag him inside when Buck sways against him, the blood draining from his face so fast Eddie's surprised he doesn't pass out immediately.

"Sweetheart? Are you okay?" he asks, grasping Buck under the arm as he swallows thickly, his knuckles turning white as he clings onto Eddie's forearm.

"You know what?" Buck says as he suppresses a gag, "M-maybe I should go get checked out."

"You think? C'mon, let's get you in the car."

Eddie at least has the common sense to grab an ice cream container before he ushers Buck out the front door, making fast tracks towards the ER.

[kinardsevan]

I can't stop thinking about an alternative timeline where Buck and Tommy have an amazing first date (drinks, meal, movie etc), but it only goes so perfectly because Buck hasn't realised he'd asked Tommy out on a date!

As there's no pressure Buck's happily flirting and being himself, so excited as he's hanging out with this super cool guy, that he's had all of his attention so evening, right up until Tommy walks him to his front door and smooches him.

Then when he's alone, all dazed and giddy, he kind of traces back over the whole night and realises his much sense it all makes, and He Has A Boyfriend!

oh anon. I don't now if this was intended to be a prompt, but it became one 😂

It felt like the world had just dropped at his feet. The way Tommy’s lips brushed over his, tongue sliding along his bottom lip and then suddenly inside, with one hand curled under Evan’s chin and the other on his hip, pulling him in. And like… he hadn’t expected any of it. But the way everything inside his chest felt when Tommy’s lips were on his, so gentle and unexpecting, was as though all the water had been sucked out of the earth, leaving him standing on the ground floor of the ocean, entirely unaware of where he was, and yet so utterly fascinated by all that surrounded him. A world he’d never seen, let alone touched. 

But then Tommy pulls away and it almost feels like he’s lost something, which doesn’t really make sense because how can you lose something that doesn’t exist? Tommy steps back, his gaze moving from Evan’s to his lips and then back up, a small, warm smile on his own lips. 

“Goodnight, Evan,” he murmurs, and then he’s turning to walk away, and the blonde is just standing there, watching the other man retreat towards the elevator, enamored and a little breathless. 

He feels he’s trying to solve a crossword puzzle backward. Like someone gave him all the answers, but didn’t tell him any of the questions. He’d offered to buy Tommy a beer, and that had turned into dinner and a movie, both of which Tommy had paid for, and that…that was a date, he realizes. Which is kind of wild, because sure, he enjoys checking out a hot guy’s ass from time to time—he’s definitely noticed Tommy’s—but he’s never pieced two and two together, thought he could have something like this…

He whips his head over then, hears the familiar sound of the around the corner at the end of the hall, and takes off running, making it around the corner just as Tommy starts to step towards the open doors. 

“Wait,” he states, more breathless now. Tommy raises his eyebrows at him, curious. 

Evan stands there for a moment, questioning himself, the right next move. Is there a right next move? He’s not sure. 

Tommy lets out a knowing smile in his direction, and that flips the switch for him. He crosses the six feet between them and slides his hand across Tommy’s neck, pulling him back in, this time his tongue seeking the invitation. Tommy’s hand is on his back then, pressing their torsos together, leaning into the kiss. Evan moans softly into his mouth, feeling like someone just plugged him in like a Christmas tree because he’s suddenly lit up from head to toe. 

“Hmm,” Tommy hums softly, finally pulling away a beat later. He has that same smile on his face, and while one part of Evan just wants to inhale him whole in one fell swoop, he’s also not ready. 

“That was nice,” Tommy rasps, brushing a thumb over Evan’s bottom lip. Evan smiles back at him, lean back in and kisses him one more time, light and chaste. When he pulls away, he takes a moment before opening his eyes, relishing in it. 

“I really have to go now,” Tommy murmurs to him, taking a step towards the elevator. Evan’s hand slides off his neck, down his arm to his hand, squeezing gently before he lets it go. 

“Goodnight,” he says softly, just the slightest dusting of pink in his cheeks. 

Tommy smiles back at him. “Good night. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

[blackwolfstabs]

heh, how would Samantha react when reader is rubbing her arms, feeling her biceps? Saying “babe, you really need to wear tank tops more often”

hmmm... i think this answer would sound better written, so i hope you take this:

WHAT A GIRL LIKE ME WOULD DO FOR SOMEONE LIKE YOU

sam carpenter x g!n reader ficlet

Sam bowed against the countertop, her elbows holding herself steady while her folded hands pressed against the back of her head. Her upper body burned with the amount of exertion she gave during her workout. A complete 45-minute upper body workout didn't just leave her muscles burning... it left them burnt out.

Luckily, you took it upon yourself to help her cool-down. Your way, of course, in which you let your hands slide up and down the upper half of her arm to give her a post-workout massage. You applied the perfect amount of pressure to her biceps, feeling the muscles slide beneath her skin in sync with your pattern. It was your pleasure to do this, because the sight of her in a tank top always made you unable to keep from staring. It was a win-win, the smile on your face growing as Sam gave a gratified groan.

You chuckled as she dropped her hands from her head and went limp against the countertop. "Babe, you really need to wear tank tops more often," you suggested as you travelled down her arm again, generous with the gentle squeezes you gave.

A delighted hum answered your actions, before actual words did your comment. "So, you can do this more often?"

"Hey, don't act like you're not enjoying it," you laughed. "But, yes, I'd be more than happy to do this a lot more, and not just after a workout." You slid your hands all the way down to hold hers and bowed to place a kiss on her bare shoulder. "It's a win-win."

She gave an amused scoff, lifting herself from the counter to turn around and face you. "And then, a few weeks later, you'll be suggesting I go shirtless more often, right?"

A tempting grin pulled at your lips and you raised an eyebrow, "So, now you can see the future?"

She shrugged. "Or I'm a mind-reader," was her counter with the same amount of playfulness.

"What am I thinking right now, then?"

She didn't hesitate. "I love you."

And she was right.

───────────────────────────

i hope you enjoyed this, anon!

thank you for asking! 🩶

[mmmichyyy]

40? for the prompt

#40. "am i your husband or your taxi service?"

the first time it happens, mickey doesn't think much of it.

can you pick me up after my shift? too tired to take the L

when mickey is near the station, he parks the van a block away. force of habit from when he and his brothers used to sneak up and collect from people who owed terry money. plus, he doesn't particularly want ian's coworkers to see their stolen ambulance, even though it's completely unrecognizable after debbie helped them revamp the entire thing and paint over it with the logo sandy designed.

here

i don't see you

i'm parked a block away

pick me up at the station

your legs don't work?

i'm tired :(

i drove the van

it's fine no one will be able to tell lol

mickey rolls his eyes and drops his phone in the cupholder. as he pulls up across the street from the station, he sees ian standing on the curb, chatting with someone wearing a matching EMT uniform, a shorter man with tan skin and curly hair.

mickey honks once, a bit impatient since he's hungry as fuck and there's a large pizza he ordered earlier waiting for them at their apartment. ian lifts his head and smiles. as he waves goodbye to his coworker and jogs over to the van, mickey doesn't miss the way the dude is gaping at mickey with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.

the hell is this guy's problem?

"everything okay?" mickey asks, once ian buckles his seatbelt and reclines his seat.

"just tired." ian yawns. "had a long shift today."

"well," mickey puts the van in drive, reaching over the center console to ruffle ian's hair, promptly forgetting ian's weird coworker, "i already ordered a pizza so we can eat then turn in early."

ian smiles sleepily and interlaces his fingers with mickey's. "you're the best husband ever."

mickey shakes his head, biting back a smile. "sappy fucker."

*

after almost two weeks of ian asking to be picked up, mickey suspects something is up. not that he minds or anything, since he makes his own schedule nowadays. after the security business started turning a profit and ian went back to being an emt, he hired a couple of guys to drive the routes so he could work from home and catch up on admin work, freeing up a lot of time in his day to day.

but ian never used to mind the commute. he's the kind of long-legged freak who liked to take the scenic route and go on long runs in the morning, just for fun. absolutely deranged behaviour, in mickey's opinion. but lately, ian has been flashing his kicked-puppy eyes and asking to be chauffeured like a pampered prince and, well. mickey could never resist spending more time with his husband, so he hasn't said anything. not yet, anyway. god he's so whipped.

the excuses ian came up with, however, were more unbelievable as it went on, ranging from the train broke down (mickey knew for a fact it didn't), to spraining his elbow (though he had no problem throwing mickey on the bed later that night with his supposedly injured arm), to how it was going to rain later (it was sunny all day without a cloud in sight).

when mickey tried to call him out on his bullshit, ian either got down on his knees or flipped mickey over and fucked him senseless into the bed, promptly making mickey forget what the hell he was trying to say.

it's gotten to the point where ian stopped making excuses and simply asked mickey to come get him. which truthfully, mickey doesn't mind at all. but he just finds it odd how his beefy athletic husband had gotten so lazy.

"what's with you?" mickey finally asks one day, as ian climbs into the passenger seat.

ian blinks innocently. "what do you mean, dear husband of mine?"

mickey rolls his eyes. "am i your husband or your fuckin' taxi driver? 'cause i've been picking your ass up every day for the past two weeks when you have two perfectly functioning legs."

ian huffs, crossing his arms. "maybe i just want to spend more time with you."

"we live together," mickey points out flatly, "how much more time do you need?"

"i–"

a tap on the glass interrupts them, and mickey turns to see a woman with brown hair tied back in a ponytail, enthusiastically gesturing at him to roll down the window.

"the fuck?" mickey turns to ian, whose face has turned slightly pink. "did you forget something at the station?"

"ah, no." ian scratches his head sheepishly. "sue is just being... sue."

sue waves her hand again and mickey reluctantly lowers the window.

"mickey, this is sue, my supervisor, and sue, this is–"

"the elusive husband." sue grins. "i've heard a lot about you, mickey."

mickey raises his brow. "have you now."

"oh sure," she says, ignoring ian's frantic head shaking, "ian won't shut up about you, yapping on and on about mickey this and mickey that. we're all jealous at the station actually, everyone just complains about their partners while ian keeps gushing about how perfect and amazing his husband is. his words."

"huh." that explains a lot, actually, why there was always someone different waiting with ian every time he came to pick him up, and why they all stared at him like a circus freak. "well, i bet ian didn't tell you the time we stole an ambu–"

"okay," ian cuts in loudly, reaching over to turn the key in the ignition, "we're leaving. i'll see you tomorrow, sue."

"come to the company picnic next month," sue calls out. "it's a potluck and everyone is bringing their family. it'll be fun!"

"uh sure," mickey says, even though a social gathering with ian's nosy coworkers sounds like the least fun thing he's ever heard of. he looks over at ian, slumped in his seat, avoiding mickey's eyes. "I'll check my schedule."

once mickey drives around the corner, he playfully flicks his finger at ian's temple and ian rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

"you yap about me to your coworkers," mickey teases. "you're so fuckin' whipped."

"whatever," ian grumbles. "stupid sue calling me out."

"is that why you keep asking me to pick you up?" mickey asks, amused. "to parade me around like a little show dog?"

"well, eduardo blabbed to everyone he saw you, then everyone kept asking about you and wanted to see you in person, so..."

"hm." mickey reaches over and brushes his thumb over ian's palm. "what do you say about me?"

ian links their fingers together and sighs. "that you're attentive. funny. caring. protective. loyal. the ideal man."

mickey laughs. "you're really overselling me here, gallagher. did you forget i'm an ex-convict, pimp and drug dealer?"

ian waves him off and continues. "kind. loving. perfect in every single way, except when you leave your socks on the floor. oh and that you're hot as hell with an ass that won't quit."

"you talked about my ass?"

"okay, i didn't say the last part," ian amends, "your ass belongs to just me. but i meant everything else i said."

"you really are a sappy fucker."

"you love it."

"i'd love it even more if i didn't have to be your chauffeur every day, at least they get paid to drive back and forth."

"you come with me to the picnic, i'll pay you with favours in bed. i'll even throw in a big tip."

"a big tip, huh..."

[silverskye13]

thinking about tanguish giving helsknight some sort of favor before the colosseum fight.... not sure what he has that would be a good token of his care but yknow. the concept :]

-leechwife anon

Helsknight turns the little copper coin over in his gauntleted hands, trying to be gentle. Trying not to drop it. Tanguish has done him the favor of putting it on a chain, but still. He doesn't want to tarnish it by letting it touch the ground. His heart does funny things when he looks at it, feels its weight in his hand, and he thinks [Gods and Saints, he'd be so pissed if he dropped it.] Not Tanguish of course. Tanguish probably wouldn't know. Helsknight would get angry. At himself. At what it meant.

[The stupid little pest probably doesn't even know what he's given.]

Knights. Favors. Tokens. It was all very chivalrous. Very steeped in Courtly Love and honor and intrigue. It was the kind of thing Welsknight idolized. The kind of thing romantic people thought knights actually did -- the kind of thing only the very showy did in real life. Helsknight didn't do Courtly tournaments. He didn't joust. Well -- not often. And if he's being completely honest, not well either. Chivalry has a lot to do with horses, and there aren't a lot of those in hels. They're not wasted on jousts often.

Still. Helsknight palms this little coin on its little chain, and his heart dances. To win someone's favor, to be given a token of their affection, is to be reminded he isn't fighting for his own glory. His own honor. He is fighting for someone else's. And the crowd is chanting and roaring past the gate. And he is surrounded by a dozen fighters all going through their rituals before the fighting starts. And Helsknight is staring at a coin, the thing Tanguish uses to escape, the most precious thing his little pest owns, the thing they fought the Demon for. The thing the Demon rigged this event for. And he thinks [not for his own honor, but for Tanguish.] And his heart flips again.

What is this? Nerves? Returned affection? Something deeper maybe. A dog being offered something long deprived in exchange for loyalty already inexorably given. A sword that rusts in its sheath feeling a hand rest on its pommel in trust and promise.

A knight given something to fight for, when previously all there was, was himself.

----------

"I uh... For you," Tanguish had stammered when Helsknight was armed and armored, bashfully holding out the trinket like he was ashamed to give it. "I was talking to Red and-- well-- it's-- it's for luck."

He'd dropped it into Helsknight's palm, face stern in that strained way of someone trying desperately to give importance to something they found silly. "Uhm... G-give it back to me when this is over, okay?" He hesitated and amended. "You give it back. No one... No one picking it up for you after-- because--"

Tanguish winced in that way he did when he was avoiding unpleasant thoughts, like they might come alive and bite him. It was a motion that always struck Helsknight as uniquely superstitious. Forbidden words that, once uttered, became prophetic.

"Just get it back to me, okay?"

Helsknight smiled. It was hard not to. Not when someone was being so earnest. He was much better at being earnest about things. It might as well have come with the knighthood. The first tenet of wearing armor and swearing tenets to a god somewhere: take everything far too seriously.

So Helsknight had calmly handed it back and said with as much gravity and gentleness as the situation would allow him. "Would you bestow your favor on me, Fair Sir, that I might fight for your honor?"

Tanguish blinked at him, baffled. "I-I just--"

Then Helsknight knelt and bowed his head, and Tanguish whispered "Oh." in that quiet, startled way he did when he spotted some new and precious stained glass window in a grand church facade. With nimble fingers he slipped the necklace chain around Helsknight's head, and pulled his hair free. The little coin, seated over Helsknight's chest, chimed a delicate bell against his breastplate. Before Tanguish could whisk his hands away, Helsknight reached forward and gently clasped one. He kissed the back of Tanguish's hand, swallowing a chuckle when Tanguish let out a squeak of embarrassed bafflement.

"I accept your favor, and fight for your honor as if it were my own," Helsknight told the back of Tanguish's hand. He stood, Tanguish's hand clasped in both of his now, and leaned in close. "And my heart is glad for the chance to bring your name glory."

Tanguish looked up at him, breathing just a little too quickly, the half-panic of someone who had stumbled on gravity and ceremony, and a depth of emotion, when they had expected none. His eyes were wide with the pale yellow of quiet sunrises in far away places, and the sculk-lights of his freckles glittered in a blush of starlight. Helsknight could have stared like that forever, pinning Tanguish there in a moment of depth and promise that only two people inexorably linked could share. The panic of realizing your fear for someone's safety came from a place so close to your heart, it might even be your own soul.

But Helsknight, by tenet and intention, wasn't allowed to be cruel. So he didn't hold Tanguish in suspense over silly courtly rituals that didn't matter. Instead, he and ruffled Tanguish's hair, and laughed, "And now you know what to do the next time some stupid romance knight strikes your fancy."

Tanguish sputtered his own surprised laugh and shoved Helsknight's hand away, "Oh whatever. Nobody else around here does the knight thing but you."

"Nobody does it as well as me, you mean," Helsknight preened, turning to the mirror to check the drape of his cloak.

"I meant it, Helsknight." Tanguish said, his voice suddenly sober. Helsknight could see Tanguish watching him in the mirror, the hand Helsknight had kissed clasped in the other, like he could trap the sensation there. "Don't die."

"I won't die," Helsknight said, trying to sound serious, but finding the request a little ridiculous in spite of himself. "I haven't lost yet. I don't intend to lose anytime soon."

"I don't think intentions mean much, in the Colosseum."

"Intentions mean everything in the Colosseum," Helsknight corrected, tying his hair back in a quick ponytail. "And I intend to win. Saint willing."

----------

Helsknight sits on a bench just outside the gate, and turns Tanguish's coin in his hand one more time. In the stands, in one of the boxes for honored guests, Tanguish is sitting alone, waiting for the world to turn around Helsknight's next fight. The knight smirks, and drops the chain behind his breastplate where the coin will stay safe. He feels the weight of expectation, of one person among thousands who desperately wants him to win. It is heavy as a cross, and light as angels' wings. Somewhere else the Demon sits, prideful in his perfect trap, expecting Helsknight to lose -- to humiliate him, to prove he's powerful, to prove Tanguish's little resistance means nothing. It doesn't bother Helsknight to know he is a piece in someone else's game. That has always been what the knight is for.

Helsknight wonders again if Tanguish knew what he was doing. If he knew what tokens meant, what favor truly was. If he knew about giving a Champion his honor to fight for, if he knew what that would mean in a fight against the Demon, who hates him so much. Who rigged this match just to spite him, to prove Helsknight can't protect him.

"Saint willing or not," Helsknight vows quietly, "I'll win."

And he stands and draws his sword.

[forlorn-crows]

WaterDew and Aether quickie between chores. maybe its a first time too

not a first time this time, but definitely a quickie. how long do you think it takes for aether to lose his cool when he smells dew's heat? is it longer than it takes for him to blow?

1.3k of raunchy aether and his little droplet cucoming right up~

Aether shoves him into the vestments storage closet in the hall behind the chapel, bullying him up against the only bare wall in the narrow space. 

“Aether, what the—”

He scents him, snuffling behind his ear. “Heat. Can smell it on you. Driving me crazy.” Dew gasps, and his scent flares stronger. “Fuck, I need you.”

The water ghoul whines when Aether curls his hips towards his own, the state of his arousal evident as it presses against Dew’s belly. “But the candles—”

“Let me. Say you’ll let me.” His hands are everywhere: grabbing at his chest, his waist, slipping under his shirt and past his waistband. “Not gonna take long.”

Dew groans at that, sinking against the wall. He arches into Aether’s hand when he grabs at his ass, cock quickly filling out in his pants. He’s dizzy. Need he didn’t feel before punches him in the gut. He wasn’t even thinking about it when he felt the little stirrings in his stomach this morning, but fuck, does he need it now. The quintessence ghoul presses a finger against his hole and circles his rim, growling at the slick starting to form. 

“Shit, do it, fuck me,” he hisses. Pawing at Aether’s belt as the bigger ghoul smashes their lips together. It’s sloppy, dirtier than he’s used to. But it’s good—Aether takes the lead, stripping him bare from the waist down, pants and underwear pooled at the ankles, and freeing his own cock from his pants. He groans loudly against Dew’s neck as he strokes himself, only indulging in a few rubs against the water ghoul’s own cock before he spins Dew around and kicks his legs apart as far as they’ll go while still trapped in his clothing.

“Just like this,” he rumbles, caging him in against the wall. “Lucifer, you’re so wet already.”

And he is: slick coating his rim, the inside of his cheeks. He’ll probably start dripping soon, defiling the dingy carpet and the front of Aether’s pants with the stench of his heat. 

The bigger ghoul slots his cock in between his cheeks, rutting into Dew hard. He can’t help but arch into it—elbows pressed against the plaster, tail up high over his hip. Exposing. Baring his submission. The quintessence ghoul has yet to be so rough, so careless as he is now, humping him like an animal, but Dew would be lying if he said he didn’t go immediately weak in the knees for it. It’s easy to let him inside, thick finger pumping and twisting until it fills him up. 

Sweat beads up along the sides of his spine. Cold to hot in an instant, that insatiable arousal barging to the surface and demanding more in its feverish way. 

It’s what Dew slurs into the wall once Aether starts wiggling the one finger, stretching him out: “More, Aethe, need more.”

“Yeah, gonna be so full of me,” he purrs, already probing with a second finger. It slides in just as easy as the first, pulling from Dew a bitten-lipped moan. “Fuck, just like that, huh? Need me so bad you’re sucking me in.”

“Uh huh,” the water ghoul whines helplessly. He grinds down on those thick fingers, doing half the effort of working himself open. He can’t help but reach down and paw at himself loosely. He’s wet there too, precum drooling from the slit and little head shiny with it. Dew rests his head against his own forearm and keens. 

Aether shushes him, leaning in close to hiss into his ear. “Wouldn’t want anyone to come knocking, would you?” he says gruffly, nipping at the lobe. Dew’s cock kicks traitorously. Aether laughs, crooks his fingers some. “Oh, you’d like that, droplet? Want the others to see you like this, all stretched out for me, dripping on the carpet?” 

“Aether—” He is absolutely filthy today. Out of his mind horny, just off of Dew and the flare of his heat. 

“Shh, just let me—”

The third finger comes soon enough, just as easy a slide as the others. Dew’s breath is shallow now, panting with the effort of keeping relatively quiet as Aether stretches him. He can’t stop touching himself, adding to the mess on his hand, the carpet. As he’s about to do the fourth finger, the water ghoul whines and spreads his legs further.

“Put it in,” he begs. Shakes his head, those silver flyaways somehow glinting in the dark. “Can’t wait any more.”

Aether all but rips his fingers out of his little body, wetting his cock with slick and pre before shoving the wide head of it against Dew’s hole. The water ghoul keens, tail twitching against his shoulder. Presenting the best he can given their position. It’s enough for Aether, who pushes in all the way to the base in one nasty slide and bottoms out with a groan right against Dew’s temple. 

“Fuck, how do you feel so good?” he growls, wrapping his arms around his waist. Pinning him against his body as he starts to move. “Oh gods, just like that.”

“Fu-cking hell, Aethe,” Dew moans. He begs him to go faster, harder, his little hand immediately flying over his cock, because it feels too good to slow down. The need burns hot and fast in his belly, and he knows Aether can feel it. 

“Squeeze it, that’s it,” he rasps. “Just like that, baby boy, just like that.”

Aether’s cock slides hot and fast against his walls, pelvis tipping up with each thrust to get that much deeper. Dew swears he can feel every time the wide head slips out of the foreskin inside of him, smooth and delicate right against the spot that lights up his entire body. He can certainly feel the squish of his balls against his taint every time he bottoms out: full, round, and warm. Slapping against skin wet with sweat and slick. 

“Hu-uh-oh fuck—” Dew’s pleasure is a runaway train barreling down a short track: destined to bust at any moment. 

“Yeah?” Aether goads. Fingers digging bruises into the front of his hipbones. Dew’s legs are shaking already, a sure sign of his oncoming demise. He can hardly catch his breath with how fast he’s reached the edge with Aether as a catalyst. If he were of sounder mind, he might accuse him of plotting it—weaving magick into his touch to ignite that infant flame and engulf him in hazy lust. Take him for his own and mark him for this cycle before anyone else could. 

He knows Aether wouldn’t. But the thought of him doing it purposefully makes his stomach flip. His hand is still going too fast over his achingly hard cock, and a well-aimed thrust makes him paint the wall with his spend before he has a chance to cry out. 

Aether groans, dropping his face down to Dew’s shoulder. “Fuck, that’s it; cum for me, cum on my cock.” Dew lets out a stream of shitshitshit’s as the quintessence ghoul replaces the hand on his dick with his own, tugging hard for every last drop. “Gonna let me give it to you now?”

Dew nods his head with a whine, twitching as the overstim sets in. “You can have me,” he starts babbling, “all yours—make me yours.”

“Gonna,” Aether strains. “Oh, Dew—”

“Uh huh—”

His cock grows impossibly thicker, ramrod straight in Dew’s little body. He can feel the difference in the weight of his balls as Aether thrusts, once, twice, three times—he buries himself on the fourth, spilling deep inside as he surrounds the water ghoul with an iron grip. 

“Takeittakeittakeit,” he groans, jerking against him. “Fuck.” Dew lets out a shaky moan at the feeling of his load filling him up, claiming him. Tipping him past the point of greedy into insatiable. Hungry.

He won’t be able to stay soft for long, not with the way Aether scents him further and nips at his shoulder. Humping into their shared mess so it really stays deep. He is Aether’s now, at least for the duration of his heat, and the quintessence ghoul won’t let him forget it.

[talktonytome]

"playful stabs with your fingers onto the side of their waist" from the prompts for bucktommy?

“You’re like, totally not fair,” Buck whines as he not so subtly leers at his boyfriend from his place, propped on the bed. Tommy had just finished his shower and was standing in front of the dresser in nothing but a towel, stray water drops cascading down a deliciously toned and muscled body.

Tommy chuckles and smirks at him in the mirror, puffing out his chest ever so slightly. “Have you seen yourself, baby? I could say the same thing about you, legs that go on for miles, arms I want to gnaw on, you drive me crazy, Evan.”

Buck’s eyes darken at the same time Tommy’s do, but they’re supposed to be getting ready for brunch with Chim and Maddie, so they don’t exactly have time to fool around. “We should have showered together,” he laments, but too late for that.

Tommy, still looking at him through the mirror, gives him his “don’t be sad, Evan” face. “Speaking of showers, you should hop in. We’re already running a little late, as it is. Someone kept us up late,” he raises an amused eyebrow.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you complaining, Mr. One-more-time-Evan-please,” Buck sasses, finally standing up from the bed. “Besides, Chim and Maddie have a kid, they’re always running late!”

He walks up behind Tommy and plasters himself to Tommy’s back, wrapping both arms around his waist and dropping his chin on a broad shoulder. Tommy turns enough to kiss the side of his face. “Hey, definitely no complaints from me.”

Buck’s mouth ticks up in a pleased smile. They stand like that for a minute, Buck breathes in the clean scent of soap from Tommy’s body. He’d stay in this moment, if he could. He starts tracing small lines down Tommy’s forearms, then moves to his chest, playfully teasing a nipple.

Tommy groans and brings up one hand to still him. “Evan, be good.”

“I don’t know, I think I’m being pretty good,” Buck retorts smugly.

“Ok, well if YOU want to explain to your sister why we’re late-”

“Ok, ok, fine,” Buck pouts, removing his hands from Tommy’s chest. “But this is cruel and unusual punishment and I think I deserve compensation later.”

Tommy laughs, shaking his head at his antics, and as always, there’s a shade of endearment in his eyes. “Oh yes, how you suffer so,” he says rolling his eyes then taps Buck’s arm, attempting to steer him toward the bathroom.

And just because he’s a bit of a menace, Buck digs his fingers into the sides of Tommy’s waist, poking and wriggling them for good measure. He’s not expecting him to jump about a foot in the air, dislodging himself from Buck’s hold.

“Tommy Kinard, are you- are you ticklish?” Buck grins in delight. Oh, this is wonderful information.

“Uh, um, no?” Tommy gulps weakly. He walks backward, until he hits the edge of the bed. Buck stalks toward him, until he’s standing right in front of him.

Tommy grips the sheets nervously, then resigns himself to his fate. Buck straddles him, grabbing both of Tommy’s wrists with one hand and pins them back. With his free hand, he lightly grazes Tommy’s ribs, down to his hip, where he pokes again, and watches him squirm.

He decides to be a little merciful and bends down to give Tommy a thorough kiss. Tommy moans into his mouth. And well, Buck’s gonna finish what he started.

Chim and Maddie will understand.

- from these prompts

[macfrog]

I miss our beloved scom family. How are they doing this fine day?

god, i miss them too. here's what they probably got up to today.

something blue 3.6k words | series masterlist warnings: y'all know the drill: being a mom.

Sarah leads Ellie, the way she always does, into the kitchen at seven a.m. sharp.

She stops by Joel first, squeezes into his size at the counter, and pushes onto her tiptoes. When he sidesteps to let her see (even though he point-blank refused to let you), she wraps two arms tight around her sister and hoists her up.

“Pancakes!” the three-year-old squeals, and loses her grip on her plastic dinosaur. He falls headfirst into the counter.

“Shh!” Sarah hisses, slinging Joel a disgruntled look. She sighs and swipes the T-Rex from his hand.

“The heck you lookin’ at me for?” he grumbles.

The girls eye you the entire walk over to the table. One as suspicious as the other. Sarah moves smooth, floats over to her spot with her chin skyward.

Ellie thumps at her heels, staring you down and almost stumbling into a chair.

“Careful, Nel,” you whisper, and her poker face cracks. You turn to Sarah. “I know it’s pancakes. It’s the only thing your dad ever figured out how not to burn.”

Joel’s shoulders jump. He swallows the laugh in his chest and says nothing.

Ellie sucks the chocolate clean from her dinosaur’s head. Last week, she decided his name was Bill. You, Joel, and Sarah are still trying to figure out where the hell she came up with it. Whoever he’s named after, she doesn’t like him much – not with the rate she lobs him around.

Kid’s an enigma. She suits it just fine.

She stares at you, still, as Sarah helps her up into her chair. Judders forward with each shove under the table. Comical, the two of them; like Pinky and the fucking Brain, you once told Joel – though you’re still not sure who’s who.

Your eyes drop to a stain on the toddler’s outfit. “You want me to wash that yet, Gagarin?”

She looks down. An arm swishes up to dab at the tangerine splotch. She grins, amused with herself, and shoves the dino back between her gums.

Sarah shakes her head. She turns back to you and flashes a trademark Joel frown. Eight years old and somehow, she manages to encapsulate the same fifty-six-year-old, unimpressed glower.

“Nel,” she turns, uttering between teeth, “You can’t wear dirty clothes today, remember?”

“I don’t think spacesuits are allowed at preschool,” you sigh as you push yourself up. “Much too sophisticated – huh, baby girl?”

Ellie giggles and flings her arms to the ceiling, sending Bill in a somersault across the table. She’s in nothing but pull-ups underneath the onesie – although it’s rare for her to ever be in much more than her pull-ups and, usually, one loose sock.

The suit means she’s feeling fancy. But what the fuck for?

All of Sarah’s leftover chaos, the magic she left in your veins after she was born, seems to have poured into her little sister. Smaller, mightier – more reckless, but not half as savvy.

Rarely seen without one of her prehistoric pals in her fist; evidence of what she had for lunch smeared around her lips. Chasing after Sarah, after Shimmer, after a butterfly that found itself trapped in her bedroom last month.

She scaled a chest of drawers trying to reach it. Joel caught her just in time. Some nights in bed, you can still feel his heart pounding from the scare she gave him.

Chalk and cheese. Sarah and Ellie. The former calm, composed. Candid and levelheaded, book smart and (alarmingly) wise beyond her years.

The latter – well.

It’s her first time on the planet, too, you try to remember.

You wander over to the washer, tossing the suit into the drum. You dig an elbow into Joel’s side and he flinches.

“Can I see yet?”

He turns, shielding whatever’s in front of him with a wide shoulder. “Not yet, baby. Not done.”

“You’re taking fuckin’ forever,” you mumble, pressing the words into his shoulder blade. From the corner of your eye, you watch the girls babbling to each other, scratching Shimmer between her floppy ears.

Joel twists, still hiding with his hands, and dots a tiny kiss on the tip of your nose. He smells like coffee and toothpaste. It still dizzies you every time he’s near enough for you to breathe it in.

“I’m almost done. Promise.”

You steal a kiss from his lips and smirk, stepping away. “Okay,” your eyes drift down to the counter, “If you say s…Alphabet sprinkles?”

His jaw slackens, moves like a bubbling fish. “Uh – they’re for – they’re for somethin’…Duck?” he clears his throat, “Tell your mom what they’re for, would ya?”

Sarah freezes. She stammers just like her dad. She does a lot just like him.

“A…a…a school project,” she says, and stares down at the dog.

“A – a – a school project?”

Your daughter nods. Still fixed on the smudges of sable around Shimmer’s eyes. “Bake sale.”

“You never told me about any bake sale,” you cross your arms, “What’d you make?”

She’s quick as lightning. “Cupcakes. But we haven’t made ‘em yet. Tonight, right, Dad?”

Joel’s voice is hoarse with panic. “Tonight,” he rasps.

You lean back against the counter, eyes shifting to the right. A different tactic. A rogue tactic, that’s for sure, but she has her moments. “…Nel?”

Your youngest looks up from her belly button.

“Not Nel,” Joel pleads, catching your eye for half a second.

“Why not Nel?”

His voice drops. “That kid would spill a state secret if you dangled a marshmallow in front of her.”

You tsk. “That’s mean. And wrong, anyways. The reason they have state secrets is ‘cause of kids like her. We should be proud, Miller.”

Ellie’s clutching the dinosaur when you look back over, chewing on his tail. She blinks back, and you wonder if there’s anything other than mastermind plans of mischief behind her eyes.

Joel says she has the same look in her eye that you do. Like you’re in on something the rest of the world has yet to catch up on. Twins, from the moment she stumbled ass over foot out of your body.

She talks just like you, and acts just like you, and – some nights, chatting sleepy gibberish under the slow turn of her rocket ship nightlight – you figure she must think just like you, too.

The perfect little riot.

Joel nudges you away, whispering, “Go on,” and you snicker, pushing off.

The sun combs through the room, glinting off cutlery and radiating from your daughters’ smiles. They chat and giggle and kick their feet; Sarah blows raspberries and Ellie sprays saliva all over the table when she tries to copy.

This is life, now.

You used to wake up to a silent house, sip your coffee and watch the oven clock count down the minutes until you had to leave for work.

You used to keep the radio on, even when you were out back – just to feel like someone was home with you. You used to sing to yourself as you flicked every light off at the end of the night.

Now, the laughter lives in the walls. It echoes even when you’re home alone. The oven clock counts down until there’s another pair of smaller hands in yours; until your man’s arms are back around your waist where they belong.

Come nightfall, you pluck odd socks and toy cars from under the couch. You tuck your children into bed, nuzzle your nose into their cheeks. You curl up beside Joel and trace shapes into his palm.

I love you, you write, some nights.

Dickhead, on others.

It takes a village, they all say. And sure, sometimes it does.

Sometimes, though, all it takes is two neighbors, a handshake deal, and a little bump named Duck.

“Woah, Nellie,” Joel chuckles, setting the first plate down. He clicks his teeth and taps a light knuckle on the girls’ hands, locked in a death grip. “Play nice. I got yours here, too, kiddo.”

Ellie straightens immediately. She watches, eyes fixed and glasslike, as her own breakfast is presented to her. And then she breaks into a wide grin, cheeks swelling. Her heels thud thud thud on the legs of her chair.

You lean over, cocking your head to see.

Two stacks of fluffy pancakes – a healthy dollop of chocolate spread on Sarah’s, and Ellie’s drizzled in golden syrup. Shards of strawberry and slices of banana scattered over the towers; blobs of whipped cream like clouds.

And on top of each, in clumsy sprinkle letters: Duckie and Nellie.

Sarah grins, two front teeth brand new and beautiful. She picks up her cutlery and raps them against the table, a nervous jitter about her.

You realize, just as her eyes flicker across yours, that she’s not beaming at her pancakes.

You realize, as he sways over to your side, that she’s beaming at him.

He’s holding two more plates. He sets his own down, a messy crater carved into the chocolate.

Your brows pull. “What happened –?”

“Bill happened,” he scoffs, shooting Ellie daggers.

She’s too busy tearing her stack apart, mixing a paste from syrup and cooked batter. There are few things the kid loves more than food and mess – and nothing she loves more than both at the same time.

She looks out of her mind happy, smothering the glossy mixture all over her cheeks, chewing in contentment.

“Like ‘em?” Joel asks, and you glance up.

“Yeah,” you laugh, eyes welling, “I love them. What’s the occasion, Miller?”

“Just…” his head wobbles as he considers it, “…we wanted to ask you somethin’.”

You turn to Sarah.

She’s still smiling, wider than you’ve ever seen. So bright that you worry she might shatter the glassware on the table.

“We?” you ask, smiling much the same.

She gives nothing away, and yet, at the same time – everything. Her knee bounces with excitement. Her breathing quickens.

“You wanna read yours?” Joel asks, tilting the plate in his hand.

You laugh, shaking your head. “No,” you sniff, “I’m scared.”

He lowers the plate.

The letters blur in and out of focus as you blink.

Red, green, yellow, pink. The second M is an upside-down W. The Rs lean into each other, chocolate pushing from the middle of the letters. A question mark crafted from a C and half of another letter.

Your lungs jump, though you knew it was coming. Though you’ve talked about it for months, now.

Let’s just get it outta the way, make it easier for the girls when we’re older. Few forms to fill out then it’s done. We don’t gotta make a big deal of it.

Can’t afford to make a big deal of it, anyway.

Wouldn’t want to make a big deal of it.

You’ve never been one for big deals.

This is a big deal. This is a big fucking deal, Joel.

All multicolored, flecks of whipped cream on them. Silly little alphabet letters.

Marry me?

Joel kneels as you swivel around to him. He kisses your cheek, takes your hands, rubs his thumbs across your knuckles.

“Look,” he says, voice trembling, “I know we said we wouldn’t make a big deal of it. But…you gotta let me make a big deal of it, honey. You gotta let me make a big deal of you.”

You laugh, tears spilling down the front of your shirt. Your heart is pounding, body alight with nerves or excitement or both, in one lightning bolt of feeling.

It’s everything you ever wanted, and nothing you ever expected.

“Everything I have –” Joel says, “– the kids, the house, the dog – I found it all with you. Because of you. I love you so much, and I can’t – I can’t take another minute that we’re not…”

His hands squeeze yours, and you swear you feel your pulses align. Beating together, two hearts on the same bassline.

He swipes the tears from your cheek, catches them in his palm. “…It don’t have to mean anything, I know that – but you, darlin’…you mean everything. What do you say we go do it?”

It’s the easiest thing in the world. And not just because you knew it was coming, knew to expect it soon enough.

Joel could’ve asked you the minute you found out you were pregnant with Sarah, and you reckon you would’ve said yes.

It’s easy. Loving him is so easy. Being with him is so fucking easy.

Coffee at sunrise, low volume TV in the bedroom. Skin and sheets, marks on your neck and chest and thighs. Laughter for breakfast, homework for dinner. Two bodies squeezing into one tiny shower cubicle, Joel’s hand over your mouth to muffle your giggles.

“Today,” you whisper, cupping his jaw. “I want to do it today.”

“Today?” his eyes flash over your shoulder to his daughters, “We gotta take the girls to –”

“No, we don’t,” your head shakes, “Do we have a marriage license?”

“Got it last week.”

“Then they come with. We get all dressed up, all four of us, and head down to the courthouse. We’re married by the end of the day.”

He laughs, loose and disbelieving. Shakes himself back into the room. “Today,” he repeats. “As in, right now?”

“Right now, baby.”

“Okay. Yeah, alright. Today.”

“Ask me.”

Joel’s cheeks lift. Tears disappear into his beard.

You lean forward, lining your forehead against his. “Ask me, Miller,” you whisper.

It’s no big deal. It’s a regular Wednesday. Packed lunches and dinosaurs with Nutella in their teeth.

It’s no big deal, but when he asks you, time stops.

“Will you marry me?”

“Fuck yeah, I will.”

Sarah takes forty-five minutes to apply your mascara, some powder, and a pink lip. She promises she’s being neat, and you tell her you don’t care – you’ll love it either way.

She says she knows, but she promises she is anyway.

Ellie curls up in your lap and twists your necklace around her fingers. She asks four times if her spacesuit is dry yet.

“Ellie,” Sarah warns – and you know it’s serious when she uses her sister’s real name – “You can’t wear a costume to a wedding.”

“Mama is!”

“No she ain’t! Brides are s’posed to wear white. Mama’s dress ain’t white. What you got on is fine,” she decides.

Ellie knows better than to keep arguing. She catches her heel in her hands, huffing. “Wanted to be an ass-traut.”

You catch Sarah’s eye. Don’t.

She bites her giggle.

“You are an astronaut,” you squeeze your toddler, “Our astronaut. Whether you’re in your spacesuit, or you got your big bare butt out for us all to see.”

She giggles into herself, a sound sweet enough to convince the sun to rise at dawn. Her baby teeth are small and wonky. She snorts, settles in your arms again, and watches Sarah lean in with the lipstick.

You lift your chin, holding steady. “Is Dad ready?”

She pauses, letting go of her breath. “He says he’s been ready the last half hour,” she mutters, and dabs more color on.

“Is he nervous?”

Her eyes lift. Eyelashes long and thick – black mascara that you made her pinkie swear she’d wipe clean the moment she gets home.

She smirks. It’s like looking in a mirror. “Are you?”

You press your lips together, blending the pink. “Little bit. You think that’s a good sign?”

“Mhm.”

Sarah straightens, capping the lipstick. She smiles at her masterpiece. “You look beautiful, Mama.”

“Well,” your chest fills, “I’m only beautiful ‘cause you made me that way, Duck.”

Joel’s voice sails upstairs and into the little pink room.

“Courthouse is closin’, sun’s almost down, they’re diggin’ my damn grave already. Are we good to go, or what?”

Sarah grins and leaps over an upturned toybox in the middle of her room. She pirouettes out to the landing, pursing and then smacking her lips together.

You fix Ellie’s skirt and lead her out after her sister. “’s go, Nellie.”

“Mama,” she tugs at the fabric, “I gotta…Need…need…”

“Shit,” you whisper, watching the ballerina twirl downstairs to her dad. “Uh…Duckie?”

“Hi, pretty Duck,” Joel calls, catching her in his arms. He spins her around and the skirt of her dress billows.

Her little heels click when he lets her down. She keeps on spinning, watching herself in the mirror.

“Baby?” Joel calls. “Y’all ready?”

“Nel’s gotta go!” you reply.

He scoffs. “She nervous or som’?”

“Or som’,” you sigh, walking the kid into the bathroom.

Ellie takes about as long as a three-year-old should, to be fair to her. It requires an amount of determination that right now, neither of you have the focus to lend it. Potty training doesn’t wait up, even for weddings.

Eventually, she announces with a triumphant shout that she’s done, Mama! – and claps her hands as the toilet flushes.

You carry her downstairs, heels clunking on the solid wood. At the bottom you set her free – and she sprints out to join her sister on the lawn.

The pair run circles around one another. They cartwheel on the grass; they race Shimmer and use the flowerbeds as hurdles. They dirty their dresses – ivory stained with bursts of green – though they look better that way, anyway.

They take turns playing Swingball with the only remaining racket (a mysterious disappearance that neither will own up to, and both are most certainly involved in). Sarah tells Ellie that she won – and the smaller girl throws her fists in the air and roars in victory.

Joel stands on the porch, hands in his pockets, watching. Even from behind, you can see the shape of his cheeks: he’s smiling. He crosses one foot over the other and taps his heel against the wood.

You emerge from the house slowly, quietly. “We didn’t get matching corsages this time,” you say, and he turns.

He starts, as though he glitches for a second. As though his world tilts on its axis, just from looking at you. His expression softens, his lips curve into a smile.

Then he breathes a laugh – a shaky thing, like he’s seventeen again, watching his homecoming date saunter over.

“That’s alright,” he replies, and slips a hand into his suit pocket. He fishes out two white tulips. “Remembered Alice dropped these off the other day. Here.”

Delicately, lighter than the breeze, he tucks the flower behind your ear. He steps back to admire his work, just like his daughter did.

All the best parts of you, you reckon, are the parts that are loved by them.

“How do I look?” you ask.

Joel sucks in a shattered breath. “Beautiful,” he chokes, like it’s all his voice will allow. He sniffs, drags his knuckles across the bottom of his nose, and says, “You ain’t never looked more beautiful.”

“Your turn.”

You take the second tulip from his fingers and drop it into his breast pocket, turning it until it looks perfect. “There,” you pat his chest, “Now we both look beautiful.”

He steps forward, dipping his head to kiss you. Arms around your waist, hands splayed on your back. He laughs against your lips. “Don’t think I don’t know what this is,” he mumbles, tugging at the pale material.

“It still fits!” you say, running a palm down the smooth silk. Flashes of light, a squealing guitar, heated kisses and a thudding bassline. It spins past your eyes as he leans in again.

He tastes the same. Less alcohol, sure – but that same, sweet-as-honey, instantly intoxicating taste. Like you were a goner before you even hit the mattress.

You look back up, and Joel’s eyes are on yours.

“After two kids, it still fits,” you whisper.

“Hm,” he muses, glancing down. His hands slip around your ass. “Looks even better than it did then, Mama.”

You laugh against his lips. “It’s my something blue.”

“Oh, yeah?” He lifts an eyebrow. “What else you got?”

“Well, something borrowed –” you hold your left hand up, a plastic ring glinting in the sunlight, “– Duck gave me some of her finest jewelry. Something new –” you wiggle your earlobe, “– Mother’s Day earrings, and…something old…”

Joel tilts his head. His expression tightens, tightens, tightens – until he understands. He clicks his teeth and steps back. “Funny. You’re so funny, I ever tell you that?”

You giggle, letting him drag you across the porch. “I’m just bein’ realistic, man. What else do I got that’s as old as you?”

He ignores you. It makes you laugh even harder.

It always did.

The wind surfs through silk, lifting your skirt as you stride over the driveway. Your hands stay interlocked – and you know that, secretly, Joel’s as nervous as you.

He whistles and his daughters look up.

“Serena, Venus,” he calls, nodding to the truck. “Get in.”

They skip over. Sarah takes her dad’s hand – the picture of royalty as he aids her up into the backseat – and Ellie swings into your arms.

You strap them in, point fingers to warn them not to bicker, and climb in the front.

The doors slam closed and you exhale slowly. Two kids aren’t any more complicated than one – especially in yours and Joel’s case – but holy shit, they’re tiring.

They compare dresses in the backseat. What color is yours, Duck? Pink, Nel. Is mine’s pink, Duck? Yours is yellow, Nel.

Joel’s hand slips around your knee. He smiles. Gives your leg a little squeeze. He flicks the radio on, and an Eagles track sways through the cabin. He fixes the tulip in your hair, peppers kisses along your wrist.

His voice is as soft as Henley’s, when he asks –

“Wanna go to a wedding?”

[lexirosewrites]

Something something omegaverse singing competition au where Steve (omega) is a contestant on a singing competition show similar to The Voice where each singer gets chosen by an all-star judge to be on their team. He's kinda shy and doesn't have much stage presence. Enter Eddie, rockstar extraordinaire (alpha) who spins his little chair around for Steve at the sound of his voice (sun soaked gravel perhaps?) and is hit like a truck by how pretty he is. They start working together, Steve gets more confident on stage and crowd working, while also finding his own unique sound that leans a little heavier/grungier than his appearance suggests. Maybe he wears pastel colored mini skirts or short dresses while performing? Eddie is ofc barely holding back this entire time bc he's chomping at the bit to claim him before anyone else can. Billy or Timmy are good candidates for competition as live interests (not seriously to Steve, they just think they're the good shit and maybe there's an interaction where Eddie gets all protective😌) They're slowly falling more and more in love with each other as time goes on and they build trust. Steve makes it to the finale, wins, and then they fuck nasty about it afterwards bc they deserve it. A top star couple that dominates the industry producing record breaking albums together and separately, while also having a family. They tour together and everything. Kiss kiss, fall in love, the end.

I love all of it! You guys can pry famous Eddie AUs from my cold dead hands. And cute omega Steve who gains confidence and learns to be himself on stage and falls in love too? Immaculate!

OHSHC reference at the end there hehe

[blushweddinggowns]

Prompt number 2 bc I’m praying for more jealous Steve content. Bc Eddie can be so oblivious and Steve can be such a bitch and those things are so important to me

Eddie was a glutton for self-punishment, that was the only reasonable explanation he could come up with on what the fuck he was doing here. Sitting at some random gay bar as he watched the man he loved dance the night away with his bestfriend.

He just had to volunteer to be their designated driver. Maybe it was stupid, but Eddie thought that y'know, a gay bar meant that no he would not have to watch Steve flirt with some randos. But he forgot the small detail that bisexual people existed. And he had seen at least three damn girls slip Steve their number.

Which was just...so fucking cruel. Why did life always have to do him so dirty? Eddie had thought that maybe...if they went to this type of place together Steve's mind would open up a bit. A stupid fucking thought honestly. Based off of nearly nothing. Like, okay sure, Steve was all touchy feely with him sometimes. When he was high or drunk suddenly Eddie became his personal chair. And he would say just...the sweetest shit. Going on and on about how happy he was to have met him, how he's so glad he's alive and well, how funny Eddie was, how nice and sweet and pretty and...and all of it had sent his traitorous brain into a tailspin that had him thinking he actually had a chance with a straight guy.

And the fucked up part was that Eddie had really tried to start doing the right thing. He put a little distance between them when he figured out that he was past a silly crush. No he was head over heels for the guy and he needed to get over it. Fast. And if he could just start saying no when Steve called to get high or have a few beers together he probably would have made some progress by now.

But no, he was still to eager for contact with him to say no. Which made him feel like a creep, always waiting around for Steve to be a little out of his mind just so he could get a hug.

When did he become so pathetic?

The only slight comfort he had tonight was the fact that he wasn't alone. It really wasn't fair to bring a straight guy to a place like this, but at least every guy who had eyes on Steve was going to have to suffer in silence with him.

And some of them were kind of cute. Cute enough for Eddie to try and use one as a distraction. He was sitting next to a preppy looking guy, talking to him a little bit. Maybe he shouldn't have set his eyes on someone that kind of looked like Steve, but fuck it. His name was Andrew, and he was nice, a good flirt. The perfect diversion for when Eddie could tear his eyes away from Steve.

And things were actually getting a little interesting with him. He had his hand on Eddie's arm, leaning in to loudly whisper everything he said in Eddie's ear. He was smiling at him, close enough for Eddie to see the pretty gold flakes in his eyes.

They weren't as pretty as Steve's but they'd do.

Andrew tucked a bit of Eddie's hair back behind his ear, leaning in again. But he didn't go for his ear this time, no, he was zeroing in right to Eddie's lips. Not that he was complaining, he let it happen, a sweet, light kiss that had zero time to escalate to more.

Because suddenly, someone was tugging at his arm, hard enough to force Eddie's whole body back, nearly out of his chair. He blinked, more than a little startled to see Steve coming out of nowhere, clinging onto him with that stupid, gorgeous smile.

"Eddieeee," Steve whined, completely ignoring Andrew's presence, "Robin ditched me to make out with someone in the bathroom."

Eddie couldn't help but smile a little bit, despite the fact that he was definitely interrupting what was probably the first good thing about this night. He glanced over at Andrew, who was staring at them, wide-eyed before saying, "Uh, I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

"I don't-"

"I can't hear you in here," Steve loudly interrupted, looking adorably confused, "Come outside with me?"

If Eddie was smart, he would have gently pried Steve's hands off him before sending him off to find Robin. But...a drunk Steve was also a very cute and cuddly one. So fuck it, Eddie could find a rebound for his non-existent relationship next weekend.

He shrugged at Andrew, mouthing a quick apology at him before Steve started to drag him outside through the back door. Eddie half expected Steve to do his usual routine when he was toasted. Sweetly asking for a piggy back ride that Eddie literally could never refuse before falling asleep on his back. Then he'd get him in the car, wrangle Robin from wherever the hell she was, and they'd be off.

But the second they were stepping outside Steve was straightening up and stepping back, to Eddie's immediate confusion. He leaned against the wall, glaring at Eddie in a way he had never seen. Or at least directed at him.

"So," Steve started, his tone way too close to how he sounded when one of the kids pissed him off, "Who was that guy? You looked pretty cozy in there."

Eddie's brain was still struggling to catch up to the change in atmosphere here. But he tried to answer anyway, "I mean we were but-wait. Why are you not drunk? You were literally just-"

"It's called acting dipshit," Steve mumbled, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Which ow, rude. But his next words hurt even more, "Not like I have a choice, since you only seem to like me when I'm fucked up."

Eddie could feel his heart stop in his chest. He didn't-oh no. Oh god. Steve figured out he was a creep. A creep who was probably moments away from getting his ass handed to him.

Eddie swallowed, at a loss for what to say. But he still tried, "I-look dude it's um, it's not like that. I didn't- I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable-"

"Then why the fuck would you kiss another guy right in front of me?"

Okay. That was enough of that. Yes, Steve could be mad about him being creepy, but no he couldn't be mad over having to bear witness for a gay kiss at a gay bar, "Well if I had known that you were apparently only okay with seeing girls kiss each other I wouldn't have come out tonight at all! Honestly Steve, how can you even say that? Like that is some real dumbass levels of homophobia, even for you. I thought the King Steve thing had died-"

"Shut the fuck up oh my god," Steve hissed out, "Are you really that damn dense? That's what you think I'm upset about? Are you fucking kidding me? And I'm the dumbass?"

"Then why are you mad?" Eddie half asked, half yelled.

“I’m not mad," Steve seethed, like he didn't look about five seconds away from choking Eddie out, "I...I just think you can choose better people to kiss.”

Maybe he really was drunk after all. Because now he wasn't making any damn sense.

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose, beyond frustrated, "Who Steve? Like, I'm sorry to break this to you but not all of us can fucking look like you do alright? We're not all charming, golden Adonis basketball players okay? And sometimes you need to take what you can get. And there was nothing wrong with Andrew-"

"You think I look like a golden Adonis?" Steve interrupted, a weird expression on his face. He looked almost...hopeful? But that didn't make any sense.

"That's what you got out of that?" Eddie asked, exasperated, "I-come one dude. You know you're hot. But that's not my point."

"Well it's mine!" Steve groaned. He was biting his lips, a very distracting nervous habit that Eddie had picked up on, "Because what the fuck are we even doing? You think I'm so hot, so charming, so great, and you decide to kiss someone else in front of me? What the fuck is that? Do you like seeing me jealous? Do you get off on me pining? Please explain."

You see, that was the funny thing about Eddie's brain. One second he was lost, staring at Steve's red, bitten lips, and the next he was desperately trying to catch up with what just came out of his mouth. All of it the perfect blend to effectively shut his brain off completely.

Eddie stared at him, his words as dumb as how his face probably looked, "I-what? Huh?"

Steve narrowed his eyes at him, "Are we really doing this? Are you going to pretend like it's all in my head?"

"I-no. I just-please explain," Eddie is pretty damn sure he had never stuttered through a sentence that hard in his life.

"I've been coming on to you for months and you just keep giving me all of these mixed signals and..." Steve sighed, looking away, "I'm so sick of it Eddie. If you don't like me just say that! Stop whatever this is. Because it's mean and you know it. If you want a better option then just take it already and leave me alone."

He-what-that didn't even- Steve was straight, wasn't he? And now the stuttering had invaded his thoughts. Because if he actually understood all of that then...

He was the biggest idiot on the planet.

And his stunned silence was not helping anything.

Steve sighed, pushing himself away from the wall. He turned away, "I'm going to find Robin. We can just...act like this didn't happen I guess. I'm done."

Eddie had to give himself on thing, at least his body was working a lot faster than his brain. Steve barely had time to take a single step away before he was shooting his hand out to grab his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

"I didn't know you were an option!" Eddie blurted out, his heart hammering in his chest, "I-Stevie I thought all of it was in my head. I-I thought that you were straight and we were just hanging out-"

"You think I sit in the laps of my other guy friends?" Steve asked, completely unimpressed, "While playing with their hair and calling them beautiful? Really, dude?"

Eddie nodded, sure and fast, "Steve, I had to do my senior year three damn times. I'm not always the smartest okay? And in my defense you never mentioned like dudes-"

"Yes I have," Steve interrupted, "When you came out to me, I told you to your face that I understand. That I could relate about hiding things and not talking about it. I literally said we were in the same boat. What else could that mean?"

Eddie remembered that, crystal clear. But..."I thought you were talking about PTSD, not secretly being into dudes."

"One dude," Steve corrected, but he was relaxing a little, thank fuck. Maybe Eddie could still fix this.

He took a deep breath, using his hold on Steve's wrist to pull him closer. His hands were fucking shaking, bad enough for Steve to almost certainly notice when he rested them on his hips.

This was it, he might as well be as clear as humanly possible, "I am so into you. Like a scary amount. Like I'm...borderline in love with you."

He was completely in love with him, but he didn't have the balls to say that bit out loud. He kept going, "And I didn't know you felt the same way. At all. Like I am dangerously close to having a stroke from hearing all of that. You kind of flipped my world upside down there."

Steve huffed out a laugh. Eddie may have fucked up everything leading up to this point, but Steve was eating his little speech right up. He shuffled a little closer, wrapping his arms around Eddie's neck with a small smile, "Keep going."

"I thought that I had no chance. I mean even tonight, people couldn't stop looking at you. And you got those numbers-"

"I threw them away," Steve interrupted, "You missed that part."

He had definitely missed that part, too caught up in his own head. But that didn't stop a smile from breaking out on Eddie's face, "Good. Because if you want me, you have me. I'm all yours, in any way you want me. Understand? Fuck, Stevie if I had known any of this we'd be the ones making out in the bathroom right now. And I'm sorry about..."

For the life of him Eddie couldn't remember his name, not when he had Steve smiling at him in his arms, "The other guy. But it literally means nothing to me. Not if I get to have you. Do...do I get to have you?"

Steve hummed, pretending to think about it while he played with a lock of Eddie's hair, "I guess that depends. Is making out in the bathroom still on the table?"

"Fuck yes it is."

Steve grinned, leaning up to press the sweetest little kiss to the side of Eddie's mouth, "Then I guess you have me then."