#thank you for the prompt!!! 💕💕💕

[therentyoupay]

HI!!!

For the one word drabble prompt: no for Jelsa, please!

You're amazing! ❤️

Elsa, with her fingers absently twisting the delicate satin of her gloves in her lap and with her gaze lost in the pastoral scene beyond the window, found that she could no longer keep her insistent, fluttering thoughts from drifting toward—no, she could not, would not, entertain the notion that Mr. Overland, with his infuriating charm and careless disregard for propriety, had, against every societal expectation, captured any piece of her heart in any way whatsoever—utterly absurd, she told herself... though, perhaps, with diminishing conviction.

♡ image ♡ ♡ askbox meme - thank you, my love!!

[wolvietxt]

hiiiiiii jay!! ive been having an unhealthy sleeping schedule lately, so i just wanted to know what you think frank would do if he catches you up pulling an all-nighter cause of some uni work when he came home from one of his missions. most especially, when you tell him you’ve done it for three straight nights while he was gone…

FRANK knew something was off the second he stepped into the apartment. it was quiet, too quiet, but not in the way that usually meant safety. the tv wasn’t on, no music played softly from your phone, and you didn’t come running up to him the second he locked the door behind him.  

his gut clenched.  

he slipped off his boots, careful not to track any dirt or blood onto the floor, and listened. he heard it then - the faint sound of typing. quick, rhythmic, desperate.  

with a sigh, he followed it, walking toward the kitchen, where the glow of your laptop screen cast shadows across your face. papers were scattered everywhere, some crumpled, some covered in highlighter. empty redbull cans were scattered around the tabletop. a half-eaten granola bar sat next to an empty coffee cup, and another coffee was in your hand, fingers curled tight around it like a lifeline.  

you didn’t even notice him.  

“sweetheart.” his voice was low, firm.  

you startled, eyes snapping up. he saw the exhaustion in them instantly - red-rimmed, glassy, dark circles bruising your skin.  

“frank,” you breathed, blinking fast like you were trying to clear your vision.  

he didn’t move toward you just yet, but he looked you over, taking in the way your hands trembled around the coffee cup, the way your shoulders sagged under the weight of whatever you were doing.  

“what’re you doin’ up?” he asked, though he already had an idea.  

“just… finishing some stuff,” you mumbled, eyes darting back to your laptop. “it’s nothing, really.”  

he glanced at the time on the microwave. 4:12 a.m.  

his jaw ticked.  

“when’s the last time you slept?”  

you hesitated, biting your lip, and he knew right then you were about to say something he wouldn’t like.  

“um … a little bit, here and there,” you finally said, voice too soft, too small.  

frank sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “baby.”  

“it’s fine,” you tried to reassure him, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “i just needed to catch up on work. it’s been kinda crazy, and i thought, you know, since you were gone, i’d just - ”  

“how long?”  

your mouth opened, closed.  

he took a step forward. “how long you been doin’ this?”  

“…three nights.”  

his nostrils flared.  

“three damn nights?” his voice was sharper now, and you flinched. not out of fear, but because you knew how much he hated this - hated seeing you worn down, pushing yourself past your limits. you’d hate to see him disappointed in you but in your defence, you thought he’d be home a whole lot later.

“i just - i had to, frank,” you whispered. “i got so behind, and i didn’t want you to come back to me all stressed and falling apart, so i just - ”  

his hands were on you before you could finish, tugging you up and out of the chair, wrapping you up tight against him. you didn’t even realize you were crying until he sighed against your hair, feeling the dampness on his shirt.  

“sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough with something heavy, something that made your chest ache. “you think i care ‘bout any of that? you think i want you doin’ this to yourself?”  

“i just wanted to keep up,” you sniffled, fingers fisting in his jacket. “i didn’t wanna be a mess when you got back.”  

he pulled back just enough to cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. his eyes, dark and tired but so damn full of love, locked onto yours.  

“you could be the biggest damn mess in the world, and i wouldn’t care. you hear me?” he said, low and firm. “don’t wanna come home to you runnin’ yourself into the ground. don’t wanna see you like this.”  

you nodded, lower lip trembling, and he groaned, pressing a kiss there, then another, then another, like he was trying to fix it, to erase the exhaustion, the stress, the weight you’d been carrying alone.  

“c’mon,” he muttered, tugging you toward the bedroom. “you’re done. no more of this.”  

“but - ”  

he shot you a look. “no buts. you’re gonna sleep.”  

you wanted to protest, but the second you hit the bed, exhaustion slammed into you like a tidal wave. you barely registered the weight of him next to you, pulling you against his chest, hand rubbing slow, soothing circles against your back.  

“gonna take care of you, sweetheart,” he whispered against your hair, voice soft, warm. “always.”  

and for the first time in three nights, you believed it.

ᰔ frank castle : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc, @erospecies

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[emry-stars-art]

Can I be cheeky and ask for some more tiny jellyfish Neil? I love him so much. In my pocket.

In your pocket!

[hyruling]

hello 👀♥️ for prompts, free choice out of the following (can be combined too): 3, 67, 68, 70

3. “Could you be happy, here, with me?” & 67. “Don’t look at me like that.”

—

The sun hangs low in the sky, rays throwing shadows across the trees and vegetation in the field beyond the house. Buck’s beer sweats in the heat, condensation running from palm to elbow and staining the wood under his arm.

He doesn’t mind. It’s nice in the thick Texas heat, sweltering even this late in the day. Even better, Eddie is next to him, the two of them swaying on an actual porch swing that Buck helped him install only a few hours ago. He’d spent all day teasing him for being a cliche, but he can’t find it in himself to poke fun at him now. It’s nice, sitting on the porch after a hard days work, watching the sun set in shades of soft orange and brilliant pink — taking in the sounds of humming cicadas, the whoosh of cars passing by. The occasional horn blaring from the train a few miles from Eddie’s house.

And then there’s Eddie himself, lit up golden and beautiful in the sun, a contented smile curled on his face. If this were a movie, and if Buck wasn’t already painfully aware of his feelings for him, this would certainly seal his fate. The sight of Eddie at dusk is devastating, otherworldly.

Or maybe he’s just in love.

“Gotta say,” Buck says, breaking the comfortable silence at last. “I see the appeal now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, smiling over his shoulder at Buck. He lifts his bottle to his lips, and Buck holds his breath watching him take a long pull.

“Yeah,” Buck agrees. “The splinters and bashed thumbnail were all worth it for this. Good old southern porch-sittin’.”

Eddie hums and glances down at Buck’s left hand. Buck watches him reach over and brush his own thumb over Buck’s bruised finger, and Buck has to remind himself to exhale.

“Still hurt?” Eddie asks, eyes fixed on his thumb pressing gently against Buck’s.

“Nah,” Buck says. He wonders if Eddie would keep touching him if he said yes. “Not so much anymore, the ice did the trick.”

“Don’t know why I assumed you’d be able to handle a hammer. Should’ve known after the bathroom sink incident,” Eddie teases, taking his hand away at last.

“That was a wrench, and it got the job done, didn’t it?” Buck says.

Eddie barks out a laugh. “If you say so. We’ll see how well it works when Chris brushes his teeth later.”

Buck snorts, and they share a look — of mingled relief and joy — that Chris is where he belongs, back in a familiar routine that they both helped establish.

Buck had booked a ticket almost the minute that Eddie told him he was back home — when it no longer felt like overstepping, when Chris had not-so-subtly hinted at missing him and Eddie had not-so-subtly mentioned that Southwest was having a sale. And Chris throwing himself into Buck’s arms at the airport after nearly a year apart definitely ranks among the top ten moments of his life.

“Sucks that tomorrow is my last day,” Buck says with a heavy sigh and a sip of beer. “Should’ve put this up day one. I’ll be missing out on some major porch time back home.”

“You could stay longer,” Eddie suggests with a half-smile aimed at his lap. He twirls his bottle around, presses it into the knee of his jeans until a ring of water appears in the fabric. “You’re welcome for as long as you want.”

“Yeah,” Buck says noncommittally.

He feels Eddie’s eyes on him, burning into his temple like a brand, and keeps his own trained on the horizon. He’s spent three perfect days here, full of home repairs and dinners and exploration of Eddie’s hometown; of movies and video games and a trip to the planetarium. He hasn’t wasted a moment, soaking up every second he has with Eddie and Chris while he can. The idea of having to board a plane roughly forty hours from now and leave them again makes him nauseous. Makes him want to fuse himself into the very foundations of the house so he can’t leave.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Buck says, eyes still fixed on the sky.

“Like what?” Eddie asks. Buck can feel him still looking.

Buck squints against the light of the dying sun, against the tears pricking at his eyes. “The way you’ve been looking all weekend. Like — like you want me to…”

“Want you to what?” Eddie asks, so soft he almost can’t hear him over the cicadas.

Buck drinks, to buy himself time. It isn’t enough.

“To stay.”

It stretches, the silence — taut like a rubber band ready to snap. Eddie watches him, and Buck watches the sun. He blinks and the imprint of light is still there, burning and blotting out Eddie from his peripheral, but he can still feel him.

It’s the way he’s looked at him since he arrived — he can feel it in the way his skin prickles with it. He’s felt Eddie’s eyes on him the entire weekend, and while Buck usually craves Eddie’s undivided attention, there’s something different about the way he does it now. A longing Buck recognizes from the mirror, from photos — the way he looks at Eddie reflected back at him. A curve to his smile that Buck rarely sees directed at anyone else; a warmth in his eyes that sets his blood on fire.

“I always want you to stay,” Eddie admits, hushed in the thick silence.

Buck swallows hard and doesn’t reply. He takes another sip of beer, lukewarm now and bitter on his tongue.

“Buck. Look at me?”

Buck sighs. He closes his eyes briefly, and the light sticks behind his eyelids. It’s still there when he looks at Eddie, distorting his features into something unreadable.

“Hi,” Eddie says when their eyes meet, and Buck smiles despite himself.

“Hi,” he echoes.

Eddie’s mouth twists, then relaxes. He asks, “What are you thinking?”

Buck’s eyes clear, and he can see the same smile that he has privately come to think of as his. A piece of Eddie that belonged only to him. The one that sparks a dangerous flicker of hope in his chest.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I asked, didn’t I?” Eddie says, knocking his bare shoulder against Buck’s. He keeps it there, presses their over-warm skin together. It sticks slightly in the humidity, and he has the insane urge to superglue himself to Eddie’s side.

“I’m thinking it’s hot as shit out here,” Buck says, and Eddie huffs out a laugh.

“It’s only April, this is nothing. You’ve been in Cali too long.”

“Maybe.”

“What else?”

Eddie nudges him again as he speaks and takes a swig of his beer. Buck watches his throat as he swallows, watches the droplets drip down his fingers and feels too warm. A drop of sweat trickles down his temple and Eddie’s eyes catch it, follow it down until it disappears in the neck of Buck’s tank.

“I’m thinking I don’t want to leave,” Buck admits, and Eddie’s eyes snap back up to his. “I’m thinking none of this is fucking fair, and that I must have pissed someone important off.”

Eddie smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Yeah. They’re not too happy with me either, I think.”

Eddie looks down at their laps, hand reaching out to touch Buck’s injured finger. He wraps his fingers around the digit, pushes gently at the bruise, barely enough to hurt. The throb of it ricochets up his arm and into his ribs anyway, makes him reckless.

“And I’m thinking — I’m thinking about how badly I want to kiss you.”

Eddie pauses, goes completely still. He glances up, eyes falling to Buck’s mouth for a split second before meeting his eye, and Buck knows he isn’t misreading this. His heart sits like a stone in his throat anyway.

“But I’m also thinking that I can’t lose you. Not again.”

“You won’t lose me,” Eddie is quick to say. His fingers twine with Buck’s, squeeze hard. “You haven’t lost me. I’m right here.”

“For now.”

Eddie exhales shakily, the warmth of it hitting Buck’s cheek, and he just looks at Buck — the same way he has all weekend, the same way he has for years. The same way that Buck knows he looks at him, has always looked at him. The way that they were both too scared or too deep in denial to face until separation forced their hand.

“Buck are you,” Eddie starts, stops. He lifts his chin and looks Buck square in the eye. “Could you be happy, here? With me?”

“That’s — Eddie, I can’t,” Buck says. It feels like gravel in an open wound, like razors in his throat. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why? You don’t have a monopoly on big sweeping confessions, you know.”

“Is that what this is?” Buck asks. He’s dizzy, even sitting down — lightheaded from the heat and the alcohol and Eddie, always Eddie.

In response, Eddie tilts forward and brushes his lips over Buck’s. A ghost of a kiss, the briefest taste of tangy sweat and beer and skin before Eddie pulls away, too soon for Buck’s heart to even finish skipping in his chest.

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says softly, still close enough Buck can almost feel the vibration of it against his mouth.

Buck drops his chin, presses forehead against Eddie’s. He tucks the empty beer bottle between his legs and cradles Eddie’s face in his hands, thumbs skating along his jaw. Eddie shivers at the shock of his cold fingertips, slants his chin up, and then Buck is kissing him properly.

He takes his time, savoring each drag of Eddie’s lips, the way he twists closer and brushes their noses together. Eddie lifts his own chilled hand to Buck’s neck, sends a cold shock into his heated skin, then trails it down to fist in Buck’s shirt. Buck nips at his lower lip, soothes over it with his tongue, and Eddie makes a soft sound that Buck knows he’ll hear in his dreams.

Buck pulls away to breathe before they end up flipping the swing over — he’s not sure he trusts his handiwork well enough to support climbing into Eddie’s lap. Eddie has a faint flush on his cheeks, eyes tracking over Buck’s face before meeting his eyes.

“Yes,” Buck answers him. Eddie furrows his brows, question long forgotten, and Buck can’t help but chuckle. “Yes, Eddie. I could be happy with you anywhere.”

Eddie smiles and tucks his hand back in Buck’s. “But.”

“But,” Buck echoes, and says nothing else. Eddie already knows.

Eddie nods and rests his head on Buck’s shoulder, a comforting weight that settles his racing heart. They watch the sun sink lower, Eddie’s thumb tracing patterns on the inside of Buck’s wrist. His hair sticks to Buck’s sweaty neck, and they listen to the music of the fading day.

“I can’t promise anything,” Eddie says when the sun has almost disappeared. “It’s — it’s delicate, right now. With Chris. I think he’s ready to come home, but until he says something…”

El Paso is beautiful in twilight; the heat starts to give way to the evening chill at last. Buck shivers and presses a kiss to Eddie’s hair. “I know. I can’t either.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Eddie looks up, and Buck swears his heart stops at the way Eddie smiles at him — arresting even from the weird angle.

“Buck, I—”

“Don’t say it back,” Buck says. Eddie frowns and straightens up to face him properly, and then Buck is laughing at the look on his face.

“Don’t say it back yet,” Buck corrects, smoothing over a frown line with his thumb. “Not until — until this can be real.”

“But I do,” Eddie says, a bit petulant, and Buck gets honest to god butterflies about it. “And this is real. To me, anyway. You’re not just — some fling.”

“I know. It is to me too, baby, trust me,” Buck says, and Eddie visibly softens. “But I’ve wanted you for so long, I just — I can’t have you halfway. You’re forever for me, and I want — I have to do this right. And if you can’t come to me, if this place is your new forever, then — then wait for me. Please.”

Eddie stares for a long time, expression unreadable. Buck’s heart beats wildly, irregular enough that he might need Eddie’s defibrillator to shock it back into rhythm.

And then Eddie sighs and drops his forehead to Buck’s shoulder. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie squeezes his hand. “Of course. As long as it takes, I — yes.”

“Okay,” Buck says, and drops a kiss to Eddie’s brow.

“I do, though.”

Buck huffs, smiling against Eddie’s skin. “I know.”

“Don’t make me wait forever, Buckley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Eddie lifts his head, presses a soft kiss to Buck’s mouth, and says, “We still have tomorrow.”

Eddie settles back into the crook of his neck, and Buck wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugs him close.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

—

prompts ❣️

[grimalkinscribbles]

Mhin with a feather chest (like falin from delicious in dungeon)

Pov: Mhin is very reluctantly showing you the birb floof 🐦‍⬛

[tiny-sugar-dove]

IHweek2025 (D7: Family Outing~)

[utopiastri]

2,G, 𓆣 with carcar pretty please 🫶🤞🙏

2 - “what they said back there. is it true?”; G - drunkenness; 𓆣 - an alleyway behind a dive bar (hi anon! thank you for the wonderful prompt, i had so much fun playing around with this dialogue and carcar hehe 💕)

(prompt list here!)

Oscar stumbles out of the back door of the bar and finds himself in an alleyway. He groans as he hears the door swing open again behind him.

“Fuck off, Carlos.”

Carlos huffs. “You should come back inside, Oscar.”

Oscar ignores him and slides down against the wall opposite the bar to sit on the ground. The wall’s cold and he moves his head to the side so he can rest his temple against it, his face still hot from a combination of drink and embarrassment.

Carlos huffs again. “You cannot expect me to sit down out here.”

“No, I don’t, it’s almost like I don’t want you to.” Oscar’s aware he sounds a little childish, but he’s mostly too drunk to care.

Carlos scrubs a hand over his face. He crouches down next to Oscar, gently takes his chin and guides him to look him in the eye.

“Are you going to tell me why you are so annoyed at me?”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “‘m always annoyed at you. You’re an annoying person. S’like your middle name or something.”

Carlos sighs. He moves his hand from Oscar’s chin up to his hair and starts running his hand through it. Oscar both wants to lean into the touch and pull away. In the end, he settles for not moving at all.

A few minutes pass and Oscar can feel his eyelids beginning to flutter close, even with how uncomfortable sitting in this alley is rapidly becoming. He’s pretty sure he’s on the verge of nodding off when Carlos speaks again.

“Oscar,” he says quietly, “What they said back there. Is it true?”

Oscar looks up at him. He knows, if he were sober, that he’d deny it, but the alcohol seems to have loosened his tongue and he finds himself whispering, “Maybe.”

Carlos hums. Oscar stifles a whine as Carlos removes his hand from his hair and is immediately mortified. He resists as Carlos starts trying to tug him to his feet.

“Come on, Oscar,” he encourages, “Up.”

Oscar grumbles quietly, but eventually lets himself be pulled to a standing position. Carlos places both hands on either side of his face and Oscar inhales sharply.

“It is maybe true, hm?” Carlos asks.

Oscar nods dumbly.

“Well, Oscar. Perhaps I am maybe in love with you too.”

Carlos leans in closer, eyes fixed on Oscar’s mouth and Oscar finds his eyes sliding shut…

Only for Carlos to drop a light kiss on his cheek.

“I think we should have this conversation in the morning though.”

Oscar glares at him, but the smirk on Carlos’ face fills Oscar's body with heat.

[avonne-writes]

Put that guy in a situation... Buck/Bucky Body swap mayhaps?

There's a sweet familiarity to the throbbing ache of a hangover, Bucky thinks as he turns to lie on his back in his cot. He can just sink into the misery of it, then chase it with the hair of the dog, let the poison make it better. That’s what he needs. Something to make getting up only three or four hours after he went to sleep worth it. And Gale. Yeah, Gale would already be there in the mess hall, waiting for him with one of his muted smiles.

Now, that's something that would get Bucky out of bed even if he was dying.

He rolls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed but a sharp, piercing pain slices through his thigh.

"Ugh, Jesus Christ." He hisses through gritted teeth, his hand tearing the thin army-issued blanket away to see what hurt him. "Fuck! What the fuck!"

There's a splotch of red spreading on his boxers. Cursing under his breath, he rucks up the material and finds a sizeable gash with the skin held together by stitches. His careless movements pulled at the edge of it wrong and made it bleed a little.

He can’t remember getting wounded there.

"What..." He blinks, confusion and panic settling in.

Those are not his legs. His muscular thighs have been replaced by ones much slimmer, the thick, dark coils seem to have vanished to give way to sparse blond hair, and where he's usually white as a sheet his skin now sports a pinkish hue. Small moles dot the limbs where there should be none.

Bucky's breathing so fast that he feels lightheaded. He racks his brain for an explanation, but the only plausible one is that the special brew he won off the goddamn Brits last night was spiked with something freaky. Of course, those pricks would pull something like this. He runs a hand through his hair to try calm himself down, but instead of the familiar pattern of his curls, he combs through straighter, silkier strands. He jerks his hand away to look at it and that's when he realizes -

These are Gale's hands. His hair, his skin, his slim legs. Even his voice, the low rumble of it, isn’t because Bucky sang himself hoarse last night. It’s Gale’s voice.

"Jesus Christ." Bucky repeats, whispering from the shock. He looks up and Marge's framed photo stares back at him from Gale’s bedside. And just across from him - "Shit!"

It's surreal to see his own body from the outside. For a moment, he fears that he’s dead, but his body stirs and curls up tighter on his side, his hands tucked under his pillow.

Like Gale's usually are when he's asleep.

Swallowing against the alarm making his head throb, Bucky pushes himself up to pad over to his body - to Gale, his heart knows - despite the pain lancing through his thigh and a stiffness in his back that shouldn't be there. Even through his racing thoughts, one stands out loud and clear. Gale has been hiding his wounds from him.

That hurts more than the physical pain.

With a shaking hand, he touches Gale's - his own - shoulder. Eyes Bucky only ever sees in the mirror snap open, widen, and without any further preamble, a fist swings out and clocks him in the face. The world goes dark again.

When Bucky wakes up again, he’s in the softest, warmest bed known to man, and someone's arm lies limp across his face, right where his nose throbs with a slowly fading pain. He gasps as his mind reconnects to the present and realizes that the war has long been over and he’s lying on the mattress he shares with Gale.

Relieved, he grabs for his own thigh and finds it unmarred under the duvet. It’s just as meaty as it should be, the hair on it familiar as he draws his palm over it. On his upper lip, his mustache covers the skin. He sighs as his heartbeat slows. Only his face hurts, and that's apparently because Gale swung his arm out in his sleep.

Carefully, he folds that arm back over Gale’s torso, then reaches under the covers. Gale moves with him, turning to his side in a way that suggests he thinks Bucky wants to spoon, but he grunts when Bucky’s hand smooths over his thigh to trace the old scar there.

"I had a weird dream." Bucky whispers, molding himself to the curve of Gale's body for comfort. "We were back in Thorpe and I was in your body."

Gale breathes in and out slowly. "'m not in the mood." He mumbles.

"No, I mean, I were you and you were me, Buck. We switched bodies. It was damn scary, let me tell ya. Then you punched me." When he gets no response, Bucky continues. "Imagine seeing yourself from the outside. Can't lie, it left me terrified."

Gale's hum rumbles in his chest where he presses Bucky's hand to his heart. "Sleep, hon."

Taking a deep breath, Bucky closes his eyes and tries to obey. He doubts that Gale will remember any of this conversation in the morning. He’ll tell him again during breakfast. It will earn him a smile, he’s sure.

[bekkachaos]

Prompt: Buck gives Eddie baking lessons. Flour fight leads to laughter and kissing in Eddie’s kitchen. .. and idk whatever else you want to write. Love your fics!!

"You said just stir this until it melts?" Eddie said with a nervous lilt to his voice.

Buck chuckled as he stepped out of the kitchen.

"You know that's what I said," he turned and started walking backwards as he spoke. "And I'll be gone all of five seconds just let it melt and get it to simmer."

He kept his eyes on Eddie as he turned the corner to the bathroom. He nodded to himself and kept an overly close eye on the pot.

"Okay, I can do that," he said quietly before calling out to Buck again. "What was a simmer again? Buck?"

It was a max of thirty seconds before Buck was walking back out with a fond smile.

"Remind me why you wanted to do this again?" he said, leaning against the counter a few feet from Eddie and folding his arms. "I feel like you're closer to a panic attack than you are to making churros."

"You're not funny Buck," Eddie said through gritted teeth. "When am I adding the flour?"

Buck looked down into the pot with an exaggerated thoughtful expression while Eddie contemplated ways to make him pay for this later.

"Soon," he shrugged.

"You know when I asked you to help me with a recipe, I didn't think you were going to be this insufferable about it," he turned to scowl at him and Buck's mouth dropped open in feigned offence.

"Excuse you?" he walked around to Eddie's other side. "Who spent an hour researching the best recipe so he could help you with it? Who volunteered his time and patience—"

"Oh this is patience?" Eddie said with a slight curl in his lip.

"Well," Buck said with a shrug as he reached up into the mix of ingredients on the counter. "It was."

And then Eddie was flinching away from the tuft of flour that was being flicked in his direction.

"Buck!" he protested.

Buck was grinning back at him as he looked back to the pot and then over at the bowl of flour, deciding that a few moments where he wasn't stirring wouldn't be the worst thing. He reached over and past Buck, grabbing a handful that was admittedly larger than he had intended, and releasing it up into Buck's face.

Buck closed his eyes and pursed his lips as his face was coated in the white powder and he coughed out through his nose in two powdery clouds. Eddie couldn't help the smile that spread to his lips as the laugh slipped out with his words.

"Okay, that wasn't—"

"Oh you've done it now," Buck said.

Eddie began to tell him to stop and wait, one hand still on the whisk in the pot and the other holding a cautionary finger up towards Buck, but it didn't do him any good. In a matter of seconds he had a handful of flour being tossed in his face.

He let go of the whisk and stepped back as he spluttered and shook his head, cursing at Buck again who had already stepped out of reach.

The flour was almost in his nose, one stray breath and he would be inhaling it. He could feel it sitting heavy in his hair and he blew outward through pursed lips to stop it from getting into his mouth. As he opened his tightly closed eyes he felt it shift from his eyelashes and sent a furious gaze in Buck's direction.

"That, was unnecessary," he said, taking the smallest of steps toward the flour but Buck was still backing away.

"No, it was payback," he said, holding out a warning finger of his own.

"You did it first!" Eddie argued.

"Hardly," Buck said as Eddie's fingers found the bowl and he turned to face him. "Don't."

"Oh, you don't want to wear anymore flour?" he said sarcastically. "You don't think this looks good?"

He gestured to himself with his other hand and as Buck smiled and looked him over, he quickly threw the remaining flour towards him. Buck yelled out his name and sucked away, managing to miss only half of the flour and get himself covered in the rest.

"Alright that was just rude," he said as he lunged back towards Eddie who sidestepped out of his grip.

"Buck, stop!" he warned, but he was somehow not quick enough to escape as Buck's hands grabbed him and pulled him in.

He shook the flour from his hair over Eddie, the cloud of white dust going everywhere as Eddie shoved at him to try and push him away.

"What? You don't like it? Huh?" he said, rubbing his face against Eddie's shoulder as he laughed and pushed at his cheek. "You don't like this?"

"You know how much of a mess you're making?" Eddie grinned, swinging his arm over the back of Buck's neck until he had him in a headlock.

"You're making a mess!" Buck grumbled as he tried to get himself out, but Eddie had the perfect technique, and he was stuck.

"Admit it, you started it!" Eddie said, and Buck protested and grumbled until finally he was letting out the admission.

"Okay fine, fine!" he said as Eddie let him go and stepped back with his arms folded and a smug look on his floury face.

Buck just gave him a warm look as the two stood two feet apart looking back at one another. They were both covered, as was the kitchen, the concoction on the stove was starting to burn at the bottom, but all Eddie could think about was how thankful he was to have Buck. Even if that meant an hour scrubbing and vacuuming and washing the flour out of his pores.

He took a step forward to close the distance between the two of them, and after an initial flinch from Buck (there was no more flour, he was safe) he let his lips meet Buck's and his fingers find the dip at the base of his neck.

His heart thudded in his chest, and as Buck's lips moved to kiss him back he felt his body relax into him as though this was their thousandth kiss, not their first.

He pulled back just enough to be able to look Buck in the eye, his floury eyelashes fluttering open as his mouth parted into a breathless smile.

"Well that was..." he said, the words getting lost as they left his mouth.

It was Eddie's turn to give him a smile.

"Floury?" he offered, and Buck just chuckled as he looked down.

"A little."

He turned to look at the stove with a guilty little chuckle.

"I think you're going to have to start over," he said, turned back to Eddie, whose eyes lingered on his lips for a moment too long.

"I think maybe we are," he said, finally meeting Buck's gaze before he was leaning in again, Buck's hands at his waist.

They had time to clean up in a minute or two.

[srasdoesthings]

*＊✿❀Day 7: Girl's Night Out❀✿＊*

*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　

And that's a wrap! Working on this week was fun^^ Ending this with a cute HiiAiKoha ft. Rinne piece cause they're very near and dear to my heart 💕💕 a small silly extra thing under cut!!

✿✼:*ﾟ:.｡..｡.:*･ﾟﾟ･*

*･ﾟﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　

[therentyoupay]

1 or 23 (your choice!) for Jelsa <3

As her Majesty, Queen Elsa of Arendelle, gazed at last upon the cinder-smudged face of her masked and mysterious stranger from the ball—heart leaping in her throat, recognition screaming silently in her chest at the shock of a wide blue gaze tentatively lifting to meet hers—she realized she should have remembered what she'd taught Anna all those years ago, should have held close to her chest the truth that, in the heart of every fairytale, there is a lesson, and hope, and wonder—maybe then, she would not have been so unprepared for the way someone else had accidentally woven their way into hers.

♡ image taken from this utterly gorgeous aesthetic moodboard ♡ ♡ askbox meme

[anawrites3]

Jason and Tim, they're comparing their scars

"This one," Jason said in a low voice, turning a bit to show the long scar on his side better. It started at his sternum and disappeared under his armpit. "Is from Black Mask. Fucker got me when my suit ripped and tried his damnest to put me down."

"Woah." Tim breathed out before shuffling closer. He reached out to trace the mark with his fingers, slowly and carefully, and watched goosebumps rise where he touched. "It looks… well, it looks pretty bad."

Jason snorted. He didn't move away from Tim's touch, even with how cold Tim's hand had to feel on his bare skin.

"It was." He agreed easily. "Not the worst I got but still hurt like bitch. Dick got crazy while trying to get me back to the Manor."

"Yeah, I can imagine that." Tim laughed. He sat back to gesture towards his own scar, this one also on the side but more towards his hip. It wasn't as long as Jason's but more ragged and ugly. "This one from Two Face."

"Damn." Jason whistled. He leaned closer to take a better look and didn't trace it with his fingers like Tim did, just put his hand on Tim's hip. "He got you good."

Tim winced.

"It was a stupid mistake." He admitted with a huff. He rested his hands on the couch behind him and looked up at the dark ceiling, subtly pressing himself into Jason's touch. "I was still new at the whole gig, made the wrong decision and ended up hurt. Bruce wasn't very happy with me."

Jason hummed. His thumb circled the skin of Tim's hip, dipping just barely into the waist of Tim's jeans and making the boy shiver.

"Can't blame him." He shrugged. "I'd get pissed at you for being stupid on patrol too."

A sigh left Tim's lips. Jason watched the way they parted to let the breath out.

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Tim mumbled, grumpy. "Learned my lesson now."

"I'd hope so."

"Oh, stop acting as if you never got hurt from doing something stupid." Tim grumbled. "We all make mistakes. Even you. Even Dick."

"Damn, that really had to hurt your pride if you're bringing up Dick's shit." Jason teased. He crossed his arms over his chest and Tim suddenly felt even colder without his warm touch on his skin.

"Well, it's kind of hard to forget Dick letting Deathstroke actually shoot him that one time in Russia."

"Oh yeah, that one was great." Jason threw his head back with a laugh. Tim punched him on the arm - that really wasn't funny, poor Dick - but a little smile danced on his lips as well (no, it wasn't funny, but it was so freaking stupid it was hard to talk about it with a straight face). "The look on his face was fucking precious."

"Good thing Bruce wasn't there. He'd go crazy."

"Hey, at least it would be fun to watch."

"It really wouldn't be. But don't you dare change the subject!" Tim playfully wagged his finger into Jason's face. "I want to see a scar you got because of being stupid. That's what you get for making fun of me."

"I wasn't exactly making fun of you-"

"C'mon, just show me!"

For a moment Jason watched him without a word. Tim waited for him to make another joke or show him something stupid like a papercut he got a few days ago and kept complaining about, but Jason just uncrossed his arms.

And then he gestured towards his chest, where his autopsy scars were.

"Jason-" Tim started quietly because this wasn't what he meant-

"This. This is what happened because I was being stupid." Jason ignored him, continued. His voice was carefully blank. "Because I trusted someone who didn't give two shits about me and let her lead me straight to that sick fuck."

"Jason-" Tim tried again. "I didn't-"

"I know that's not what you meant." He tried to grin but Tim saw it didn't reach his eyes the way it normally did. "But that's what happened. I was stupid and I got killed."

"No. No, Jason, you weren't stupid." Tim insisted, moving so close that their breaths mixed. He cupped Jason's cheek with those awfully cold hands and stopped him from looking away from him. "You were everything but stupid. You were being strong. You were being a hero. You did everything you could to help that woman and it's not your fault that she betrayed you. Those scars aren't proof of you being stupid, they show that you survived."

Jason breathed out, wet and shaky. And then he did something even more stupid than dying, even more stupid than Dick getting shot by Slade.

He closed the last centimeters between them and kissed Tim.

I have no idea how it turned into this, they were meant to feel each other up and make out a bit lmao and now they're pining messes instead. ANYWAY hope you liked it!!

(You can take part in the game by sending me 2 characters and what they're doing!)

[emry-stars-art]

So who remembers this doodle and the post it went with

Because these tags and the resulting chats gave me ideas (thanks @jtl-fics 😌)

So now as I frantically sort through my Evernote notebook, trying to find something I might be able to post; I remember I did write this, actually. So have another snippet, because I miss you guys

Find the royal au masterpost here 💕

[alpineshift]

How about 5 or 13 for your NicoJack ask?🫶🫶

absolutely!! 💕💕

[5] the darkest depths of a dragon's lair, gold glittering at your feet

There's something eerily haunting about the way the gold slithers and slides beneath his feet.

It's almost as if the treasure in the dragon's lair is alive.

Which really makes Jack wish the rest of the adventuring party would shut the hell up. They have zero common sense, this lot, and his nerves have already been frayed by the dozens of close calls they'd experienced on their journey here.

Not that he should expect much from a group whose sole purpose is to get rich quick.

While the others jeer and make a ruckus through the trove, Jack sneaks off towards the back of the lair. The tiny shard of ceramic, hidden away in its case on a string and tucked away beneath his tunic, rattles tangibly, almost tugging Jack through the mess towards its lost parent. He's so damn close.

This deep into the mountainside, the air feels heavier, colder. The light of his torch is a meagre flicker against the towering walls, all laden with treasure. Jack shudders to think how long it would've taken him to dig through the mess.

The shard suddenly jostles in the case, and Jack whips around, scanning the layers before him. Gold, gold, more gold, but he's not looking for that, he's looking for--

White. Jack immediately tosses his torch aside and digs through the treasure until his hands close around the coveted piece: a mirror, enclosed by a beautiful moon-white ceramic frame that's missing one tiny chip. Jack exhales, giddy, and picks it up.

"What are you doing?"

Jack yelps, almost dropping his prize. Standing a few paces away, watching him dig, is Nico the Swordsman, a member of the party. Jack hadn't heard him sneak up at all.

Nico's gaze flickers down to the mirror in Jack's hands. His brows furrow. "What on earth do you want a mirror for?"

"I don't have time to explain it," Jack says shortly, tucking the piece quickly into his rucksack. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nico's whole body jolt, like he'd been about to reach forward, but caught himself in time. Unnerved, Jack side-steps him.

"Alright, I'm going. I've got what I came for, I'm not waiting around to get eaten by a--"

Nico's hand comes down and grabs hold of Jack's elbow, and pulls him, hard, until Jack is tumbling into the gold with a shout. Nico follows him down, knees hitting the piles of precious metal with a jarring rattle. Jack gapes up at him, stunned silent, like the rest of the cave.

Wait. It's silent. Why can't he hear the rest of the party?

Instinctive dread curdles in his stomach, and Jack clutches his rucksack to his chest. Was it just his imagination, or are Nico's eyes darker, pupils longer, almost more reptilian than he'd first noticed?

"Nico," Jack whispers. "Where's everyone else?"

Nico tilts his head. The movement is almost too fluid for him to possibly be human. Suddenly, Jack has a flashback to Nico introducing himself at the beginning of their journey. He'd brought with him a dragon-slaying sword, and had been accepted almost immediately by the party with instructions to protect everyone with it should the dragon appear during their raid.

But Nico had never once said that the sword belonged to him.

"I'm curious," Nico says softly. His finger traces over Jack's cheek; the nail long and curved, like a talon. "All those men hungered for the gold, the shiny pieces, the lustrous metals. But you--all you wanted was a mirror. A magical mirror, yes, but just a mirror nonetheless."

Jack gulps, but he can't take his eyes away. Nico may look terrifying right now, but the way his eyes glitter, brighter than any of the gold in the (no, his) lair right now, is stunning.

"So tell me, Jack," Nico prompts. He smiles, too knowing, too dangerous. "Out of all the priceless pieces here, why would someone as beautiful as you choose this simple piece?"

it’s almost hockey season again! send me a jacknico prompt?

[alasarys]

norrussell + blanket? 🧡

💙🧡 A snippet of sappiness ...

It's not what George was looking for in the cupboard, behind plastic containers of Posca pens and sketchbooks, neatly packed CDJs and a frankly astonishing number of shoeboxes, at least half of which, it turns out, are filled with beaded bracelets from fans. It shouldn't have been possible to find it, because George had got the distinct impression that Lando chucked it years ago – “What would I do with that, mate? Got the real thing now. Much better.”

Nonetheless, several house moves and one possibly-a-bit-of-a-fib later, there it is, carefully folded so it fits into a Nike Air Force 1 dust bag, in the deepest recesses of their cupboard. George tucks the blanket with his face on it back into the space it came from. “Sentimental git,” he murmurs as he continues his search. 

(send me a ship/character and a prompt, and I'll give you five sentences)

[utopiastri]

Can I ask for 8, N, and 𓃓, with choscar, pretty please?

Lots of love 💖🕊️

8 - “i’m taking you home, and that’s that.”; N - fondness; 𓃓 - at work, far later than you should be (hi anon!!! thank you for such a delightful prompt! 💕 please enjoy a little bit of musician charles!!!)

(prompt list here!)

Charles bangs the keys in frustration as he messes up another recording.

“Going well, huh?”

Charles winces. “Hi baby,” he says, resolutely focusing on the piano in front of him and not his boyfriend behind.

“Do you know what time it is?”

Charles hasn’t got the faintest idea what time it is. He knows he started working on this piece around 8pm and he can’t have been here that long, but clearly it’s late enough for Oscar to be pissed at him.

“Midnight?” he guesses.

Oscar sighs. “It’s 3am, Charles. I’ve been waiting for you to come home for four hours.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. Oh.”

Charles finally spins around in the stool to face Oscar, who’s leaning in the doorway to the studio. “I am sorry,” he says, “I got caught up in writing my new song and then I wanted to record it straight away so that I could release it sooner but then I kept hitting the wrong notes and-”

“Do you not think maybe the reason you were struggling to play the song right was because it’s, again, 3am?”

“…perhaps.”

Oscar pushes up from the wall and crosses the room to Charles. He rests his elbow on Charles’ shoulder and puts a hand in his hair, guiding Charles to rest his forehead against his stomach. Charles sighs as he lets his weight rest against Oscar, trusting him to hold him steady.

Oscar starts carding his hand through Charles’ hair and quietly asks, “Is this because of that review?”

“No,” Charles lies. Oscar stops petting him and Charles huffs. “Alright, perhaps it is about the review.”

“It’s bullshit,” Oscar says firmly.

“But what if it is not?”

“It is. You are one of the most talented piano composers in the world.”

“Oscar,” Charles whines.

“It’s true! You are so talented, Charles, and that critic who said otherwise is talking out of his ass.”

Charles stares up at Oscar. “Really?” he asks softly.

Oscar smiles at him gently. “Really. But for now, you need to go to bed.”

“But-”

“Nope. I’m taking you home and that’s that.”

“Ok,” Charles says. Giving in to Oscar is worth the tender kiss he presses to the top of his head.