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#this fucking hurt to write
inkskinned · 6 months
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the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.
three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.
two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.
their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.
one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.
i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.
i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.
and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?
you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.
a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.
someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.
#writeblr#warm up#this is longer than i wanted i really considered removing that part about myself and what i went thru#but i think it really fucking bothers me that EVERY time i talk about being an artist#ppl assume i just like. had the skill and ability to drop everything and pay for grad school.#like sir i grew up poor. my house wasn't a safe space. i gave up a FREE RIDE TO LAW SCHOOL. for THIS. bc i chose it.#was it fucking hard? was i choosing the hard thing?? yes.#but we need to stop seeing artists as lazy layabouts that can ''afford'' to just ''sit around and create''#when MANY - if not MOST - of us are NOT like that. we have to work our fucking ASSES off. hard work. long and hard work#part of valuing artists is recognizing the amount we sacrifice to make our art. bc it doesn't just#like HAPPEN to us. also btw it rarely has anything to do with true talent.#speaking as someone with a chronic condition i hate when ppl are like u have it easy. like actively as i'm writing this my hands r#ACTIVELY hurting me. i haven't been posting bc my left hand was curled in a claw for the last week#this isn't fucking luck. after a certain point it's not even TALENT. it's dedication & sacrifice.#''u get to flounce around and do nothing with ur life'' is a narrative that is a direct result of capitalism#imagine if we said that about literally any other profession.#''oh so u give up 10 yrs of ur life to be a doctor? u sacrifice having a social life and u get SUPER in debt?#u need to work countless hours and it will often be thankless? well i wish i was that lucky''#we should be applying that logic to landlords ONLY#''oh ur mom and dad gave u the money to buy a house? and all u did was paint it white and rent it? huh.''
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stevesbipanic · 10 months
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"It's just a weekend trip." Steve tries to remind himself as he watches Eddie's van drive away.
Eddie's band got a gig in Indy for two nights and Eddie looked so excited and Steve would've gone too but he had an really shift Sunday morning and after all, "It's just a weekend trip."
Eddie calls of course the moment they get settled at Jeff's cousin's apartment. Steve can hear his smile through the phone and picture it clearly in his mind. He can hear the others teasing Eddie in the background, classic fake kissing sounds from the other boys.
"I'll be home before you know it, sweetheart."
"Yeah, it's just a weekend trip."
Eddie is back in his trailer happy and smiling ready to tell Steve everything that happened by the time he's back from his shift two days later. Just a weekend trip.
Except it wasn't.
"You're going again?"
"Yeah just for the weekend, no biggy."
"Right, just a weekend trip." I was the fourth in six weeks.
Eddie wasn't in Steve's bed by Sunday night and there was a voicemail left on the machine.
"Sorry sweetheart,"
"Sorry Steven,"
"They want us to play a couple more shows this week."
"Your father has a few more meetings to go to."
"This could be really great for the band though!"
"It's going to be great for the business."
"I'll be back soon."
"We'll be back soon."
"Love you!"
"Goodnight Steven."
He's back by Wednesday night. He looks so excited, Steve wants to be too.
"Are you going next weekend?"
"Of course not, that's your birthday baby, can't miss that."
"Course not." See it's fine Eddie isn't them, he's different, he loves Steve.
"I've just gotta go for a meeting in the morning sweetheart I'll be back by the end of your shift you won't even notice, then we'll have cake and I'll make you dinner which will be burnt but burnt with love Stevie!"
It's easy to get swept up in it, to take the kiss on the cheek and the wave goodbye and the promise of later.
There's a leftover slice of cake in the fridge when he gets the call.
"Hey, sweetheart I'm so sorry I missed your birthday, the fucking van carked it a mile outta Indy, I'll be there when you wake up ok? I love you."
"Love you too Eds."
It's easy to accept the excuses because they're easy, the van breaks all the time, Eddie's band is getting more shows, just one more weekend, just one more night.
There's boxes scattered around the trailer.
"Going on a trip?"
"Three months."
The Harringtons last three month trip was four years ago, Steve wonders if they even remember the house phone number.
"It's just three months."
Steve can feel the end is standing in front of him. He wants to freeze this moment, he wants to hug Eddie and he wants to tell him he'll see him Sunday night and he wants to get excited hearing about Jeff tripping in a wire and he wants Eddie to stay and he wants Eddie to go and he wants this moment to just freeze and never end.
He wants his parents to choose to stay in Hawkins and not miss his birthday or graduation or hospital trips and he wants his mom to have kissed his cheek goodbye or his dad to at least wave, he wants one more phone call of we'll be home soon.
"I won't go if you don't want me to and if you want me to go I've gotta have you there, Stevie."
Steve feels his heartbeat stop.
"What?"
"I don't want to miss your birthday ever again, sweetheart, I don't want to come home and you're already asleep, I want you there or me here no more it's just one trip. I don't want to be your parents, Stevie."
Slowly, Steve's heart starts beating again, and the moment doesn't have to end.
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flowercrowngods · 9 days
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It's unreal. The light is streaming in through the windows, the curtains still drawn to block out the midday heat, tinging their living room in golden hues that match so well with the light grey fabric of their new sofa.
Eddie should probably snap out of it and head over to the windows, open the curtains and let the light in, and with it the warmth and fresh air of a surprisingly wonderful day.
It's March, he hears the echoes of Steve's giddy voice a week or two ago. Everything's better in March.
Eddie didn't agree then, and he's not sure he agrees now, but he must admit there is something magical about this moment.
Still he remains rooted to the spot, leather jacket heavy on his shoulders, his hands hidden in the sleeves of it, just in case this really is a dream. Just in case someone will come in and snap him out of it, take away their couch and leave an eviction notice.
It's dumb. But Eddie doesn't deal well with things that are unreal. Things that he knows aren't meant for him. Things that he knows he only gets in this one play-through of his life, while millions of other Eddie Munsons are out there in parallel universes who never get to even lay eyes upon a couch this nice. Let alone buy it. From their own real adult money.
It's a corner sofa, the fabric light grey, and he remembers it being harder than it looks. Solid. Just perfect for both their fucked up backs, scar tissue pulling if they sit wrong for too long, phantom pain and muscle aches coming in hot when all they want is to just relax and enjoy a lazy evening.
Eddie bites his lip, trailing his eyes along the pristine fabric, the pillows lining the back of it, the flawless stitches keeping everything in shape.
They have a couch now. A sofa.
It's so fucking unreal.
He drops to the floor right then and there, sitting with his back against the wall, and never once taking his eyes off their sofa. It feels important to look at it for a while. It feels important to wait for Steve. It feels... It feels like maybe he'll ruin everything if he goes and sits on it now.
And it feels really fucking big.
At some point he hears the front door opening, their lock going so smoothly now that Steve fixed it with some graphite, and the sound makes Eddie smile. That's another thing that's unreal. The key barely making any noise, the lock not rattling, the door not creaking and cracking. Eddie pulls a strand of hair between his lips, the smile feeling too silly for this room, for this home, for everything he gets to have now.
For all the tiny things that matter now. All the tiny things he gets to have, turning the key's smooth slide into an allegory of everything he ever wanted but never dared to hope for.
The slide of curtains, the click-click-click of the window handle being turned to let the air in. The breeze of fresh spring air dancing around his nose.
It's all a little much. It's so fucking addicting.
And then Steve. Socked feet coming to a stop beside him, a hand landing in his hair, a voice that's so endlessly warm and fond and maybe a little worried sounding from above him, "Hi, angel."
"Hi," Eddie says, tearing his eyes away from their couch to meet Steve's. The sunlight from the windows hugs him, making him glow. Eddie smiles. He smiles and smiles and never wants to stop.
Steve hums as he leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, and Eddie weaves his arm through Steve's legs, holding onto his knee.
Everything feels a little less silly now. Like every time Steve doesn't question his little moments of sitting on the floor and just staring at things.
"We have a couch now," Eddie says, because it feels important to point out. Because Steve isn't looking at it.
"We do," he hums. "I got the call earlier. Thanks for helping with that, baby."
Eddie nods again, leaning his cheek against Steve's knee and trailing the couch again with his eyes. It looks brighter now that the curtains don't turn the room into something out of a sepia-type movie anymore.
Steve's hands comb through his hair, massaging his scalp a little with his nails. It's nice. It's warm. It's pretty.
And it's so unreal.
"I'm twenty-four," Eddie says then, and some part of him wants to carve that into the fabric. He won't. But maybe he should carve it somewhere else. "And I own a couch. It's a little crazy."
Steve comes to sit down beside him, their shoulders pressed together and he links their hands, resting them in his lap after a brushes a kiss to Eddie's knuckles.
"Why's it crazy, angel?"
He shrugs, resting his head on Steve's shoulders and curling into his warmth some more.
"Most of my life I never thought either of those would happen, y'know."
Another hum, followed by another kiss to the crown of his head. Another smile.
"But you did it," Steve whispers. "You made it. And we've got a couch now."
"We've got a couch now."
Saying it out loud doesn't make it feel any realer. It only makes his heart race and his eyes prick.
"I love you," he says, finally looking away from pretty grey fabric to meet prettier hazel eyes. "I love you so much."
Steve leans in, kissing the tip of his nose. "I love you. Thank you for buying a couch with me."
And it occurs to Eddie then that Steve understands him. Sitting there on the floor with him, hearing his words and listening to those unsaid, understanding Eddie on such a fundamental level that it should be scary. And it is, sometimes.
But he's not scared now. Because they have a couch. And they have pretty curtains that keep the light outside and still turn the room into something magical. And they have a lock that only needed a bit of graphite to let the keys glide smoothly.
And they have each other.
They stay on the floor until Steve's stomach growls, and they eat dinner with their backs against the couch and Eddie's feet in Steve's lap. They hold each other close after dinner, just breathing each other in as the breeze blows around them.
In the end, Eddie is the first to sit on the couch, with Steve standing between his legs and giving him a scalp massage in silence. In the end, Eddie buries his face in Steve's stomach to hide the tears, and Steve lets him.
Because this is real. And he gets to have this. They both do.
🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid@hotluncheddie @gutterflower77@auroraplume@steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important@stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround@pukner@i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic@bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @awkwardgravity1 (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)
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sewermageboy · 6 months
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"Anyone who makes Astarion do the foursome/fivesome is a monster -" shut the fuck up.
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He is the one who initiates it. At no point in the conversation did my Tav say that they wanted to do this, until Astarion was the one to suggest going for it.
Now, I as the player know that Astarion isn't going to have a great time here, that he will dissociate, and it'll probably end up as a shit experience in the end. But my character doesn't know that. All they know is that their partner is enthusiastically suggesting that he wants to do this, to reclaim a part of himself, that he wants to try and figure out his own desires after having them be cast aside for so long.
He assures you that he is up for this, that he'll leave if he grows truly uncomfortable. I (as the player) know that he won't, that he'll still go along with it even if he starts to grow uncomfortable, but my character? They're choosing to trust their partner in asserting his own boundaries and telling them if he's uncomfortable, if he needs to leave. To my character, telling him not to do this when he so clearly wants to try feels almost a little condescending.
You can even check in with him during the scene, asking him if he's alright.
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To me, this isn't a scene in which one partner pressured the other to do this at all. It's a scene in which Astarion tried something, eager to experience all the pleasures that come with freedom and healing, and it didn't work out because 200 years of trauma and baggage don't just miraculously go away.
But he tried, and he chose to try, and supporting him in those choices matters, too.
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phonydiaries · 6 months
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In the Heat of Battle - P x Reader
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Requested by @amethyst-huntress
Notes: The premise of this fic was requested by Amethyst-Huntress and I started absolutely foaming at the mouth at the idea, so huge thank-you’s are in order for that nugget of inspiration. Unfortunately, same as last time, I have still barely progressed through the game thanks to my lack of patience and skill, so please forgive that both of my fics take place extremely early in playthrough. Other than that, thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy!
— 
Where is that damn puppet? You think to yourself, teeth gritted at the deadly inconvenience standing in front of you. 
In the dark and the rain and the constant buzzing noise of Krat, you admit it's easy to get turned around. Even traveling with a companion -in your case, with Gepetto’s puppet- it’s easy to lose track of which gloomy alleys you’d already traversed. Even standing back to back, nudging each other with your elbows, even checking in every so often,“You still with me?” It was easy to get lost. But now, standing face to face with a candelabra wielding automaton and a rabid mechanical dog, you’re  not feeling very generous towards your puppet companion. He’s probably searching for you in a frenzy at this very moment. 
Ha.
Fat load of good it does you. 
The automaton winds up and its eyes flash red across your face. Target locked. The candelabra comes crashing towards your head, but it's met instantly with the clanging cold steel of your sword. The automaton stumbles backwards. Its head cocks unnaturally to the side and you hear something whir, as if in frustration, beneath its face. It winds up again to strike you, but you’re quick and clever; you land a blow in the dead center of the loathsome thing's torso. A sick crunch of metal echoes as you draw the sword out of the brand new gaping cavity in its chest. The automaton sinks to its knees. You look down your nose at it, satisfied at your own skill. The enemy looks to be shutting down, but in a quick, almost desperate motion, its hand shoots towards your foot, grasping wildly. It's cold fingers close around your ankle, but you quickly stamp it out with your free foot. The automaton lets out a weak mechanical wheeze as its hand is crushed beneath your boot. For good measure, you take the hilt of your sword in both hands and slam the base through the miserable things forehead. It crackles, then collapses finally on the ground. You smile darkly at its now lifeless shell. Perhaps a little early. 
A sharp bark cuts through the air and your head snaps to attention. Shit. You forgot about the damn dog. Before you have the chance to raise your sword again, the dog lunges at you. Razor sharp teeth clang dissonantly together and the sound ripples against the glistening walls of the alley. In an instant, you’re knocked to the wet, muddy ground; the iron paws of the mutt are already upon your chest. The mongrel snarls mere centimeters from your face, black oily fluid spilling from its mouth as if salivating. You groan and struggle beneath its weight but regain your grip on your sword just in time to catch its rabid jaw. The dog bites down on your blade, thrashing its head to either side. You strain against its unnatural strength, attempting to pull your weapon free. In one fell swoop you’ll rip it free and decapitate this fucking thing. Your fingers curl tighter around your hilt, you ready a strike, suck in one sharp breath and then-
You freeze.
A second blade appears, glinting in the gaslight, right between your eyes. Thick black fluid goes splattering across your face. The mutt goes limp, its full weight crushing your lower torso. A gasp is pushed from your lungs and you roll to the side, quickly shoving the robotic corpse away from your body. You kneel, palms pushing into the slick ground. Your heart is thundering beneath your shirt as you swallow frigid air hard and fast. When you finally catch a breath, you turn your head towards the owner of the blade; Pinocchio, your companion. He wipes the rapier against his trousers, cleaning the sludge from its razor sharp surface. You huff, blowing matted wet bangs out of your face. 
“I had that under control.” You say sharply. P cocks an eyebrow at you, unconvinced. You feel your face burn in annoyance. “I did!” You insist, “Had you given me just one more minute I would’ve been fine. And probably less covered in this.” You jab your weapon in his direction, flecking dark oil across his shirt. He shoots you a slightly apologetic smile. 
He knows you can handle yourself, he does. He just worries. You can’t blame him; you do the same thing. You’ve gotten quite close on these arduous journeys, saving each other's skins more times than either of you can count. As you wipe the sludge from your face, P extends his hand to you and begrudgingly you take it. Swiftly, he helps you to your feet. His eyes flicker up and down your face, narrowing on your cheek. He licks the thumb of his legion hand and streaks it across your cheek, lifting the remnants of black. You scrunch your nose up at him.
“Eugh- enough-” You whine, swatting the hand away. “Where did you run off to anyways?” 
Pinocchio’s legion arm gestures behind his head. You squint through the darkness at the distant yellow lights of Hotel Krat up ahead. You grimace. It’s further still than you thought. “I don’t suppose you found some kind of underground shortcut?” P shakes his head apologetically. You both sigh, knowing you’ve got plenty of dangers yet to face before you’re given any time to rest. These days spent traveling have taken their toll on your bodies, but you’re at least grateful to have a friend in the gloom of Cerasani Alley. Your sword slides neatly into your belt as you walk ahead of Pinocchio. “Back to it then.” 
As the two of you push forward, you notice a concerted effort on your companions' part to stick close to your side. At any strange noise or eerie shadow, P reaches for your hand. You squeeze back in reassurance that all is well. A bit unnecessary? Sure. But you don’t fight it. It’s much preferred to losing the poor boy again. 
Drawing closer to your destination with only a few minor scuffles to slow you down, you reach a dilapidated fairgrounds. Sickly yellow light bulbs buzz overhead and cast an ominous glow across the entire scene. A ghostly music box melody plinks and permeates the air. You look to P quizzically. 
“You’re sure this is the right way?”
P takes in his surroundings and gives you a curt nod. You grimace in reply. This decrepit place gives you the creeps.
Together you silently weave through wooden cutouts of circus performers, checking carefully for hidden enemies. It's suspiciously quiet, save for the phantasmal carnival music that grows louder as you approach an iron gate. Another barrier. Excellent. 
“P?” You step aside and gesture to the locked gate. Pinocchio smiles slyly at you, boyishly pleased that there’s still a few things you can’t do without him. You want to roll your eyes, but you watch reluctantly impressed, as deep violet energy crackles around his fist. In one swift swing, he punches through the gate and leaves a smoking crater where the lock once sat. He shoots you a sharp smile, satisfied with himself. 
And then you feel something. A great mechanical thud rippling beneath your feet. Your heads snap in unison towards the source and your eyes go wide at the sight of the staggering monster in front of you. At least 3 times your size looms the Parade Master, constructed of decaying parts and craquelured paint. Its massive fist alone is as wide as your body, and sways heavily at its side. 
You unsheathe your blade, and its weight sinks your shoulders. It's not ideal for speed you admit, but the vindication after landing those obliterating killing blows to your enemies is unbeatable. Keeping your eyes locked on target, you whistle to catch Pinocchio’s attention. You started doing this early on. Whistles were a good line of nonverbal communication when you couldn’t afford a glance in each other's direction. 
“Flank him?” You suggest. Pinocchio whistles quick and sharp in agreement. Your fingers tighten around the great sword and your chest thrums with anticipation. You jut your chin in the direction of your common enemy. “After you.” 
Without looking, you know his brows are furrowed together in deep focus. You can perfectly visualize the way he lures the puppet away, his steps meticulously timed and graceful. As you wind your way behind the thing, you hear the clang of P’s rapier against tarnished metal. Your enemy rears its arm back, and you follow suit striking its vulnerable back with a satisfying SHUK! You yank the blade out of its now damaged shell and catch the briefest glance at your companion and oh. Oh. The way he looks at you. 
With fascination?
Admiration?
It’s something greater, deeper than that. Your heart skips. But you shake yourself out of distraction, startled at the sound of your own voice calling out. Your lips move before your mind has time to catch up. 
“MOVE!” 
Exactly as you shout it, P dodges a strike from the Parade Master. The brute’s fist lands in the brick pavement, blowing a hole through it instantaneously. You gulp at the thought of your companion lying there instead, crushed. Your skin goes cold. 
No. Never.
Knowing neither of you can afford another lapse in attention, you suck in one long loud whistle between your teeth. The Parade Master whips itself around to face you. Two huge lamp-like eyes glow sickly in your direction. This was intentional. You can distract for now and give your ally a moment to catch his breath. You ready both hands on your weapon and take a step back. The monster lurches forward, its steps accompanied by a horrid clanking sound. 
“Get over here you fucking rust bucket…” You mutter grimly under your breath as the space between you and the looming threat of death shrinks. You breathe deeply and steel yourself, heels digging into stone. You watch carefully as the puppet rushes towards you, arms swinging wildly. Just when the behemoth is about to crush you beneath its huge frame, you duck between its legs and emerge from behind. There’s just enough time to land a solid blow. P’s rapier crosses with your greatsword, both your weapons plunging into the deteriorated creatures back. 
“This one’s mine, P.” You snap, pulling your blade from its fresh wound. 
“Mine.” P parrots with a smirk, retrieving his rapier as well. Being a man of so few words, you can't help feeling amused even given the circumstances. This is good. The beast is growing weaker. If you can both keep level heads this will all be over soon, you think to yourself. 
At least until your enemy decapitates itself. 
Your jaw drops as the Parade Master rips its own head from its massive shoulders. It wields its shiny new weapon like an enormous mace and swings it your way. It makes contact with the ground, and the impact alone is enough to shake your balance. You dive to the side, narrowly avoiding collision with the wall. You struggle to recalibrate, to size up the situation while keeping yourself out of the range of attack. You hear P whistle pointedly across the arena, waiting on your instruction. Your mind races for a plan and comes up blank. 
“Hold on!” You shout, “Just- Just hold on, I’ll think of something.” You’ll have to if you want to leave this place in one piece. There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. All you can think to do is attack. And you do; your blade leaves white hot gash marks on the enemy, but it hardly seems to be enough against such a terrible and towering foe. You’ve angered it now, and it’s in a total frenzy. The Parade Master swings its massive head in your direction again and you raise your sword to block it. Half a second too late. 
As your weapons collide, the impact sends you to the ground. You gasp at the sharp pain that shoots through your skull. There’s a ringing in your ears and a soft dark edge to your vision. You struggle against unconsciousness and fight to keep yourself upright. Things are moving slow; trails of light obscure the events unfolding in front of you. 
You comprehend something catching the Parade Masters' attention, you watch the goliath wind up, you hear something cry out, and then hear nothing at all. A sick feeling churns in the pit of your stomach and bile rises in your throat. Something’s wrong. You search the scene frantically for your ally. Your line of sight flickers from the Parade Masters head to the ground slick with rain. Your throat tightens. With his face turned to the ground, his eyes fighting to stay open, lies Pinocchio. His rapier skitters across the stone, coming to a sudden halt beneath the foot of the Parade Master. 
Something flashes through you, anger, grief, adrenaline; whatever it is, it propels you forward. Your weapon is suddenly weightless as you skid between the monstrous puppet and your companion. The head of the Parade Master collides with your sword and the sound echoes through the arena with an arresting ring. You breathe hard in disbelief of your own courage. Your teeth are bared and your furrowed brow is sticky with sweat. 
“Don’t. Touch him.” You command, and you swear even your mindless enemy hears it. A deep guttural sound is forced from the very bottom of your lungs as you thrust your weapon through the center of the automaton's body. It doesn’t die, but you hear something inside it break, and the creature slows significantly as if becoming too heavy for its own armature. 
You risk a glance over your shoulder. P looks like absolute hell, covered in grime, barely staggering to his feet. Your chest tightens at his condition, but he’s alive. 
Alive. It’s enough. 
The enemy screams in frustration, rippling orange flames and black smoke billow from the place its head once sat. You stare at the hilt of your great sword, still lodged in its heart. 
“P, your sword-” You start, but your ally is already on it, your strategic minds miraculously attuned. He sends the rapier sailing -now free of the parade masters foot- towards your open hand. It whips past your head and slides perfectly into your grasp. With what's left of the enemy in your sights, you take a running start. 
Time seems to slow; the taste of victory teases you. Your head is about to collide with the hulking hunk of metal just as you raise your boot and dig its heel into the hilt of your great sword. Its placement serves as a stepping stone, and you scale the furious beast. You clamber up its torso towards its shoulders and feel heat radiating from the inside. It burns your hands, which grip the edge of the cavernous socket of its missing head. The monster thrashes beneath you like a wild bull, desperate to throw you off. You tighten your grip, the white hot metal searing your palm. You force yourself to ignore the pain as you raise the rapier and plunge one final devastating blow into the blazing cavity. You feel the rapier obliterate whatever mechanism kept the Parade Master alive, and it crumbles finally beneath you. 
Atop the shoulders of your freshly slaughtered enemy, you fall forward with a deafening CRASH. Your body tumbles to the ground. Your grip on the rapier goes slack. Exhaustion ripples through you, and you surrender to its sweet embrace. 
You hadn’t even realized you’d lost consciousness until your eyes flutter open, met by the stunning blue gaze of your companion mere inches from your face. For a moment you forget yourself, the urge to sink into his arms is so tempting. But your pride wins out and you scramble into an upright position, barely awake. Pinocchio lets out a sigh of relief and you see his shoulders relax. Had he been just as terrified as you were at the prospect of losing him? Did that same dread sit in the pit of his stomach? 
Your head swims with what-ifs, but you have no energy to find their answers. With strength that you’re shocked to still possess, you throw your arms around the puppet. Your fingers clutch the wet fabric of his shirt as if he might disappear the moment you let go. His body tenses at first, then melts under your touch. You feel his head settle between your neck and shoulder, solid and secure. Silently breathing in the smell of him feels like waves of relief crashing over your head. 
You wish the journey could end here in the peace and quiet of this embrace, but you feel him begin to pull away and your heart sinks. Face to face with you, his eyes search for signs of damage, for something to mend. His hands find yours and you hiss involuntarily. His eyebrows knit together in concern. You try not to grimace. 
“It’s nothing.” you promise, “Burned my hand, that's all.”
P looks down at your hand and cradles it gently in his own. With painstaking care, he lifts it to his mouth and places a feather-light kiss in your palm, then on each of your scraped and bleeding knuckles. He looks up at you through those thick raven-wing lashes and you notice a trace of your blood left on his lips. The sight makes your head swim and it takes the entirety of your willpower not to catch his mouth with yours. Your posture stiffens as you try to regain your composure. 
“Well it’s not far now, is it?” You ask, deflecting back to the mission at hand. “There will be plenty of time to patch each other up at the hotel. Right?” You offer, already stupidly aching for the return of Pinocchio’s delicate touch. He blinks a few times, as if he were struggling to focus himself. But he nods enthusiastically. You feel a smile creep across your lips. 
As you leave the destroyed fairgrounds behind, you let your good hand slip into that of your companion. The two of you venture forth, certain to never lose track of the other again. 
— 
If you read this and enjoy it please let me know! Seeing your positive comments and tags absolutely warms my heart and motivates me to keep writing. Thank you so much to those of you who took the time to leave me some kind words on my last fic <3
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updownlately · 7 months
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i like it when you hug me (‘cause i kind of feel you love me)
| leah williamson x reader | trigger warning for mentions of depression and self-loathing. please read at your own discretion!
~~~
“Hey…”
The voice echoing through the room had you burrowing yourself impossibly deeper into your comforter, nearly hiding your face beneath the blanket- the light peeking in from the hallway very much unwelcome in the dark room. 
Shaking your head, you let out a shaky breath, quickly running your sleeve over your botched face, wiping it in case the quilt was moved away from you.
Stilling your movements, you listened carefully, on alert as Leah’s hesitant footsteps headed closer to the bed- closer to you.
With each subsequent step, you found yourself wishing she hadn’t entered the room at all and the self-aware part of you felt a pang of guilt bloom from your chest, mentally chastising yourself for being so selfish. 
Please don’t care about me. Please just turn and leave.
You swallowed hard as the voices in your head spoke, eyes widening as you felt the bed dip. Curling in on yourself and shuffling backwards, you buried yourself further into the sheets. 
Right now, all you wanted to be was alone. The kind of alone where your phone doesn’t make a sound, even though your ringer’s on blast. The alone where your door doesn’t move, not by a single millimetre, because no one’s coming in but you. The alone where it’s heartbreakingly lonely, achingly so, but you can’t think of a single person to call. You just wanted to be alone. 
Holding your breath as the blonde neared your lumpy form, you waited cautiously for her next move- body on alert, ready to move further back at the slightest of touch.
You weren’t you right now and she most definitely didn’t need to witness that first hand- it was already embarrassing enough that you were hiding out in your shared bedroom all day, avoiding your girlfriend like the bubonic plague.
Lips moving but no sound coming out, you mouthed a silent plea to the universe, begging that she didn’t come closer. You didn’t know how badly you’d break if she did- and you didn’t want to find out.
Unluckily Luckily for you, almost as if your silent prayers were heard, Leah didn’t reach out for you, hand staying firmly put in the space between.
Smiling sadly to yourself, you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at her lack of touch, hand itching to pull her close, devil on your shoulder telling you to push her so far she forgot she was your home.
Taking a silent shuddering breath, pleading for the assault of thoughts in your head to go away, you did your best to be quiet. You tried your hardest not to acknowledge her presence, instead hoping she’d go soon enough. She didn’t need to be around you when you were like this. No one did. No one deserved that. 
Quietly praying she’d leave you be, that she’d make this easy on you, you slowly moved your hand to wipe it on the bottom of your hoodie, hands sweating nervously. 
I’m asleep. You can go. I’m perfectly fine.
The words you wanted to say but couldn’t- the lump in your throat holding you back.
Rather, you waited patiently for her to make a move, one that hopefully got you out of this situation without too many cruel words said, in your mind or elsewhere. 
Unfortunately for you, regardless of the absolute pitch-black darkness in your room, Leah caught the movement, softly speaking when she realised you were most definitely awake. 
“How we feeling about dinner?”
You stayed quiet at her words, hoping she’d convince herself you were asleep and leave.
You let the uncomfortable silence rest in your bones, its familiar presence a comfort.
You didn’t deserve to be taken care of. Especially not after how you’d hidden yourself away in your shared bedroom all day- ignoring Leah, the skipper being nothing if not understanding, letting you be as you pulled away. You didn’t deserve it and your brain did a hell of a job reminding you so. 
Pity’s what brought her here- a clear look at you and she’ll run.
The long silence that accompanied the voice in your head was uncomfortable but you were used to it.
Taking small breaths to not make a sound, you felt your chest tighten with each passing second that she stayed.
I don’t want you here. I don’t want you here. Not for me but because you deserve better.
The words repeated in your head as your heart constricted, tired of you and wanting to be wrapped around your lover’s arms as much as you wanted her to go away. 
It seemed like Leah knew as much, her shuffling closer to you and you could soon tell she was lying on the bed beside you.
“I know you’re awake…”
Her whispered words had your body tensing, any hope that you had of her leaving washing away as your leg vibrated restlessly.
You felt her gently tug on the edge of your quilt and you contemplated resisting, wanting to tuck yourself away in a cocoon but not being able to bring yourself to do so, guilt resting heavy on your shoulders.
Instead you slowly gave in to the skipper’s prodding, wincing as the cool air of the room hit you, reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks making themselves known in the dim light.
Shutting your eyes closed as her face came into view, you tried to shake the image of her pitiful gaze from your mind. 
You deserve better. You deserve better. You deserve better than me. 
The words continued to repeat, an echo in your otherwise silent mind.
You shouldn’t love me. You shouldn’t love me. You shouldn’t love me. You should leave.
Clenching your jaw, you missed the way Leah’s face softened at your clear distress. 
She knew your mental health wasn’t the best, but she never got to witness just how poor it really got- not until now at least.
The way you had sluggishly left your bed nearly two hours after your alarm this morning- how you had hid from her all day, not bothering to have anything more than a few spoonfuls of yogurt for breakfast, completely foregoing lunch, and now, quite possibly dinner. The signs were clear, you weren’t fine.
You weren’t okay, not one bit, but if Leah had anything to say on it, she ached to tell you it was okay. 
It was okay to not be you today, not when she was here, you didn’t have to run and hide. 
But she couldn’t tell you right now, not with the way you barely met her gaze, head tucked in the crook of your elbow, tear-stricken cheeks just barely hidden, body tense.
So instead she placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, moving the arm on your face to the side as her hands travelled to your torso. 
Tugging gently, the blonde pulled you into her embrace, hands coming to wrap around your midsection as you complied, tucking yourself into her side, too tired to protest. 
If words weren’t what you wanted to hear, then she’d speak to you with her touch. 
Continuing her efforts, you let out a small sigh as her hand came to smooth your messy hair, scratching your scalp gently, just how she would when she’d comfort you after a tough loss. 
The ministrations coupled with the faint touch of her rubbing circles on your back, and you could feel your body relax, gears in your mind beginning to slow as your hands shyly made their way to grab fistfuls of her hoodie, not wanting the comfort to leave- not wanting her to leave.
Surprised at the Englishwoman’s actions, you burrowed your face into the crook of her neck as you felt the knot around your heart loosen just a tad bit, a grateful breath escaping you.
You sunk into her grasp as you ignored the dying voices yelling in your head, your weight rest wholly on top of the midfielder's body, back muscles going slack as you let her warmth break through the iciness plaguing you.
Thank you for staying, for being patient, for caring.
The words went unspoken whilst you waited as the rock in your throat to slowly shrink.
And as a minute passed and then two, her grasp on you only getting stronger, more assuring, you couldn't help be grateful.
All your unsaid words from earlier finally had the chance to be spoken now, chest light, speech coming easy. 
Letting yourself snuggle into Leah’s hold, feeling her place a soft kiss on your crown, you finally had a breath of comfort, nearly crying in relief.
Though the voices in your head didn’t quite disappear, she made living a bit easier, the simple act of breathing no longer a chore.
It’s why your murmured words finally came easy, heart floating, your grip tightening in adoration.
“I love you.”
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botanical-feedress · 7 months
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I want to fatten you up until you get too damn wide for me to straddle you the way I used to.
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resident-gay-bitch · 2 months
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Single teen dad steve who’s kid comes out as trans kinda young and fuck it’s the late 80’s early 90’s - post upside down - and he’s freaking out because he just wants the best for his little kid. She- he has always been Steve’s biggest priority and he loves his kid no matter what and he’s gonna embrace the hell out of it, but he has worries about it all because he’s in small town Hawkins and people here get beat up for being rumoured to be gay, what the hell is gonna happen to his kid??
But mainly, he has no idea how to help. He doesn’t know anything about it. Robin assists where she can but she’s just as in the dark about it as Steve.
Then comes one night, Axl (they’re trying out new names each month and this month Axl is obsessed with Gunners so it’s only appropriate) is having a panic attack over his dysphoria and Steve is trying his best to help. He can’t bind, doesn’t know how to do it on his own without it hurting really bad, and Steve is trying to help but Axl won’t let anyone see any part of him without a shirt and so it’s hard. They tried to figure out how to do it on Steve’s bare chest but it’s not really the same. Eventually Axl cries himself to sleep about it with Steve sitting on the end of his bed because Axl didn’t want to even be touched after a while.
And Steve doesn’t sleep that night, he stays up half the night trying to bind his own chest correctly, then he tapes balloons and stuffed toys to the front of this big bear they have and tries to bind on that. But nothings working, and he can’t help but feel like he’s failed his kid. He debated calling Robin up to see if she’d come over and he could try binding her chest to figure it out, he knows she’ll say yes because she cares about Axl so much and also won’t care if Steve sees her bare chest as he has before, but she’s out of state for work for a whole other week. He just cries until it’s time to get up for work and school.
Axl is wearing a baggy shirt under an even baggier hoodie, even though it’s the middle of summer. Steve wants to tell him to take it off, to make sure he doesn’t faint today, but he knows that’s only gonna make things worse - everyone at school still thinks he’s a girl. He makes sure to pack ice packs in Axl’s lunch bag and extra ice in his water bottle.
He goes to work and thinks about it all day, then he gets home to find a note on the counter from Axl, saying he’s popped across the street to study with Melody for a while. They’ve been friends since they were little, and she’s the only one from school who knows so far. Steve’s glad Axl’s doing something to distract himself rather than rotting away in bed and making himself feel more sick about it.
Halfway through cooking himself dinner (and by cooking he means microwaving whatever the fuck he can find in the fridge) he gets a knock on the door. It’s Eddie. Of course it’s Eddie. They had plans to catch up for a beer down the pub tonight, since they hadn’t seen eachother in a while now. Steve had been so distracted today he completely forgot.
Steve apologises to Eddie and tells him he’s just been so stressed today and he couldn’t talk to Robin about it and everything is just so complicated, he just breaks down and cries right then and there in his doorway.
And Eddie, being the kind soul that he always has been, pulls Steve into a hug and lets him cry about it.
They sit down at the table together and crack open a couple of beers and eat the microwaved leftovers. And they chat and Steve forgets about everything for a little while. Eddie does that to him; makes Steve forget everything else in the world doesn’t exist besides Eddie.
He’s tried to snuff his stupid feelings for Eddie out for years, since 1986. It hasn’t worked. But Eddie’s been between relationships, and Steve’s had Axl to worry about so trying to have anything serious has been so hard and pointless. No one wants an instant pre-teen, and especially not Eddie who has expressed he doesn’t want kids several times. It’s pointless.
So very pointless.
But Steve wants him anyway.
Eddie asks about Axl, as he always does. He cares about Steve’s kid the way he cares about Dustin, sort of. They get along, but Eddie kinda gets awkward around him for some reason and Axl gets very flustered around Eddie. Steve found it adorable when he was little, Eddie with his long hair and tattoos, he always through it was cool. And as Axl got older, the more he’d avoid Eddie in hopes of not fanboying over Eddie’s band, or tattoos, or his guitar.
But they don’t really see eachother much these days, so now that Axl’s fourteen and too cool to ask questions when Steve brings Eddie up, who knows what they’d be like around eachother?
Eddie’s asking questions, completely oblivious as he asks how “she’s going” and if “she’s surviving her first year of highschool” and blah blah blah, and Steve knows it’s because he doesn’t know. But it messes with his head anyway, because that’s his boy their talking about, not his girl, and it’s been bothering him all day and Steve just-
He crumbles. He opens up to Eddie and tells him everything on his mind right now. How Axl is really a boy, and how they’re trying out new names, and how Steve feels like he’s failing his kid because he doesn’t know how to help him bind, or feel safe, or come out at school, or what to do to get him on testosterone or if that’s even an option and-
Eddie places his hand on Steve’s and smiles so softly, “You’re struggling to bind?” Eddie asks.
“Yeah, it’s like- his chest… he- he’s doesn’t-“
“Yeah, I- I know, Steve.” Eddie nods, “Would Axl be okay with me knowing this? Or, like, not?”
“I don’t know.” Steve so sobs, “I shouldn’t have said anything without his permission, but I just trusted you and I needed to talk to- to someone. And I’m…”
“Okay.” Eddie cleared his throat, “okay, will Axl be home tonight?”
“Yeah.” Steve sniffled and checked his watch, “It’s almost curfew.”
“Okay. Have you got any bandages? Or what have you been using?”
“Yeah, bandages… cloth.” Steve rubbed his nose.
“That’s okay, uhm, how about you go get those for me?”
Steve, confused but too mentally tired to think much of it, goes and does just that. He brings back the rolls of bandages and cloth they were using and dumps them on the table in front of Eddie. Eddie smiles and moves the cloth aside, looking at the strip of bandages.
“The wider ones are better. These are a little thin, but… does he use a sports bra most days?”
Steve nods.
“Okay, I suggest getting some wider bandages. But I can make these work.” Eddie grins.
“What?” Steve grumbles.
“Come here.” Eddie shuffles his chair over to Steve, “Arms up, not up in the air but like, out so I can get around.”
Steve follows his command yet again, and watches with confused eyes as Eddie begins to wrap the bandage around Steve’s chest, talking him through the process; where to place his hands for best compression, and insisting it can’t be too tight or it will hurt.
“It probably won’t be perfectly flat, they never are, but it will be better.” Eddie smiled, “Surgery is always an option, but they won’t let him get that until he’s like, eighteen.”
“How do you-“
“Hey, dad, sorry I’m late, I have a math test tomorrow and we-“ Axl chattered, walking through and shutting the door, “… uhm, hi Eddie.”
“Hi!” Eddie grinned and waved at Axl before looking back at Steve’s chest and fastening the bandage together with the clip at Steve’s side.
“What are you doing?”
Steve felt his heart drop, “I’m- I’m sorry, kid, I shouldn’t have told him but- I was just, I needed someone to talk to, and- It’s not and excuse-“
“No, it’s not.” Axl dumped his bag down on the kitchen counter and walked over, “You should ask before assuming.”
“I know.” Steve furrowed his brow, “I don’t usually-“
“But it’s okay because it’s just Eddie.” Axl shrugged and leant down to look at the bandges wrapped tight around Steve’s chest, “I figured you’d already told all of your friends.”
“Nope.” Eddie shook his head and smiled, “He certainly did not. Cool name, by the way- Guns and Roses?”
“Yeah.” Axl nodded.
“Sick.” Eddie grinned.
“Did you do this?” Axl pointed to the bandages.
“Wait, you’re not upset with me?” Steve asked.
“No, I know you’re not just gonna out me to some cunt who’s gonna beat me up-“
“Language.” Steve pressed.
“Besides, Eddie’s gay and a self proclaimed Freak, out of most of your friends he’s the least likely to judge.”
“Right you are, little gremlin.” Eddie smiled up at him.
“I’m still sorry.” Steve murmured.
“Don’t be.” Axl playfully punched his arm.
“Also, to answer your question,” Eddie continued, “Yes, this is how you bind. I can show you how to do it, if you like? I suggest bigger bandages but this can work for now.”
“Yes please.” Axl nodded, and Eddie immediately started to unwound the bindings on Steve’s chest.
He re-tied it, talking step by step to Axl, and then he got Axl to bind Steve’s chest himself, Eddie talking him through the process.
Then, Eddie got Axl to do it on himself, over his baggy jumpers, because it’s a little different doing it on someone else. Steve sat at the table and watched in awe as Eddie animatedly talked Axl through the process, and Axl couldn’t wipe his smile off his face.
The moment it was done he raced off to his room to do it properly. Eddie went and got them another beer.
“Thank you.” Steve smiled at him, “So much.”
“No problem, Steve-o.” Eddie grinned, “I have not done that in a while, it was kinda fun.”
“What do you mean?” Steve furrowed his brow, and Eddie shrugged and pulled up his shirt.
The first thing Steve noticed was the added ink Eddie had gotten since ‘86. The second thing he noticed was the bat bites scattered over his skin. And the third… two scars stretching along his chest.
Steve remembered being back there, crying and trying to add compression on all of Eddie’s scars. He remembered finding bandages already wrapped around Eddie’s chest, under his clothes, but he thought nothing of it, figured Eddie had cut his chest open or something. Not… this.
Eddie blushed and lowered his shirt, shrugging up at Steve.
“Oh my god.” Steve muttered, and Eddie just stared at him, “Holy shit, you’re like Axl?!”
“Yeah.” Eddie nodded, and then a couple of seconds later Axl was body slamming into the back of Eddie and wrapping himself around him.
“I didn’t think anyone was like me here.” Axl mumbled, obviously trying to not cry, “I always thought you’d be the coolest out of dad’s friends.”
Eddie snickered and gave Axl a hug back, “How’d you go, did you get it?”
“I think so.” He said, stepping back and showing off to them. It’s the first time Steve had seen him wear anything less than a baggy shirt. He was dressed in a cropped muscle tee, and he looked so confident.
Steve started to cry.
“Hey! Look at you, it looks so good, kid.” Eddie grinned, “If you want I can show you how to draw facial hair on to look realistic.”
“Fuck yeah.” Axl grinned, “I want a moustache.”
Eddie snickered and looked back at Steve, his face dropped when he saw him crying, “Hey, Stevie-“
“Thank you.” Steve sobbed and buried his head in his hands, “Holy fuck, thank you so much.”
Eddie smiled softly, “It’s no issues, of course. Anything to help a fellow freak like me, huh?” He smiled up at Axl, “I should be thanking you, it feels nice to have another person like me around again.”
“Do you know more people like us?”
Eddie nodded, “You know my friend Gareth? Yeah, he’s like us, and a two more people but they’re not in town.”
“Oh my god, really?!” Axl grinned, “This is so awesome, can I please come to one of your gigs or something?”
“I thought you were too cool for that stuff?” Steve snickered.
Axl flipped him off, “I just wanna meet him… as a guy.”
Eddie leant out and ruffled Axl’s hair, “Yeah, kid, whenever you like- though, a band practice would be more ideal for a fourteen year old.”
Axl frowned dramatically and went to get himself a drink.
“Seriously, Eddie, thank you.” Steve murmured, “I haven’t seen him that happy in… not in years. He’s just a kid, he’s meant to be that happy every day.”
Eddie nodded, “I know how he feels. I knew I was different really young too, and when I was about twelve I told my mum and she told me to never tell anyone. And then she died, when I was sixteen, and I ended up telling dad for some- I don’t even know why, he beat the shit out of me and I ran away. Like, away away, up to Indi. Wayne found me then, when my dad told him what happened, and bought me home and let me be Eddie.” He shrugged, “I remember the first time I tried binding with duct tape, Wayne found me crying in front of the mirror about it and he came in with bandages and helped me figure it out. I went on testosterone when I turned eighteen, so.”
Steve smiled, “I’m sorry you went through that, Eddie.”
“I’m sorry you’ve been going through this clueless. Wayne had no idea either, he’s got a book on how to look after trans kids now, but he didn’t back then, I can tell you that.” Eddie laughed, “Thanks for being his dad, and like, being a good one.”
“He’s my kid, I can’t just… of course, I love him.”
Eddie smiled, “You don’t know how rare that is for people like Axl and I.”
“I don’t understand why.”
“Me either.” Eddie hummed, “You’re a really good dad, Steve. A really good guy.”
“I’m just doing what I’m supposed to do.”
“Yeah, but you care. More than most people do. You care so much.” Eddie gently took Steve’s hand into his own, “I’m sure you already know but being Axl’s dad isn’t gonna be easy, especially not in fucking Hawkins, but so long as you just stick around and… care, then things are gonna be a whole lot easier for him. It means so much to him, and me, even.”
Steve smiled at him and squeezed Eddie’s hands as a thank you, “Can you stick around too?” He asked, “Help Axl in the places I cant?”
Eddie grinned, “Yeah, of course I can, Stevie.”
“Thank you.” Steve sighed, rubbing his temples, “You have no idea how grateful I am that you’re in my life.”
There was a moment of silence before Eddie whispered, “You have no idea how grateful I am that you’re in mine.”
They looked at eachother, and Steve felt his heart in his throat.
“Okay…” Axl murmured, rolling back over to the table, “You guys are clearly having a moment so I’m gonna stop eavesdropping.”
“Hey!” Steve scoffed, “You little shit.”
Axl chuckled and scruffed Steve’s hair, “Thanks dad, I love you too. You’re my best friend.”
Steve absolutely blossomed at that, he’d never been so happy to hear those words. He used to hear them all the time, when Axl was really little. But then he became a preteen and being friends with your dad suddenly stopped being cool. He’s ecstatic right now.
“Thanks Eddie.” Axl smiled at him, giving Eddie a fist bump as he passed, “Can we like… talk sometime? I just wanna-“
“Know if someone’s gone through all the crazy shit as you?” Eddie offered and Eddie nodded, “How about we get some lunch this weekend, huh? Then hang out at the music store?”
“Sounds good.” Axl grinned and continued to walk past, “I’ll let you guys get back to your moment.”
“Moment?” Steve asked, red in the face, watching Axl walk down the hallway to his room, “There’s no moment, what moment?!”
“Don’t worry about it.” Axl shouted back and walked into his room.
“Axl!” Steve shouted out.
“Axl!” Eddie shouted too, “What fucking moment do you mean?”
Axl poked his head back out the door, “You were having a nice moment about friendship and being a good dad and blah blah blah!” Axl shouted and Steve and Eddie both relaxed, “I just shouldn’t be evesdropping of course.”
“Okay.” Steve nodded and looked back to Eddie, watched the sparkle in his eyes dance as he shifted to look back at Steve. And he melted at the sight.
“Also, this would be a great time to do something about that crush you’ve had on Eddie for years, dad!”
And with that, Axl’s door was slammed shut.
Steve and Eddie were staring at eachother. Eddie was slowly turning more and more red.
“You have a crush on me?”
Steve’s lack of an answer probably was a dead giveaway, but he hoped Eddie was oblivious.
“Oh.” Eddie muttered, and clearly he’s not oblivious, “You have a crush on me- god, I sound fifteen. Wow, you are into me- Steve- you- okay.” Eddie cleared his throat and fixed his posture, “Do- wow, huh, uh… do- do you wanna- do you wanna go out with me? Okay, there, I did it.”
“You’re asking me out?” Steve asked, a little gobsmacked.
“Yeah.” Eddie bit at his nails as he looked at Steve nervously.
“Yes.” Steve swallowed, “Yeah, I- yeah… can- does tomorrow work? Seven?”
“Seven.” Eddie smiled, his shoulders relaxing, “Yeah, a date at seven.”
“Okay.” Steve smiled too, “Wait, is this just… I just need to know if this is a date or like, with the intention of something more serious.”
“Uh…” Eddie swallowed, “Considering I’ve been into you for years now, I’d prefer something a little more permanent. But-“
“You don’t care I’ve got a kid?”
“No, I-“ Eddie ducked his head, blushing, “To be honest I’ve kinda always been jealous he wasn’t our kid.”
“Holy shit.” Steve muttered, “I thought you didn’t want kids?!”
“Yeah.” Eddie shrugged, “I don’t know, you make all my wires cross, Steve. I’ve pictured a whole ass future with you.”
And Steve can’t wait to make that future come true.
And Axl grows up with a second dad who helps him through his transition too, has a little more intel. And Steve loves watching them as they chat about their shared experiences being trans, and cries when Axl comes out and shows off his excessive leg hair one afternoon, and when Eddie starts compulsively making fun of his voice cracks at age seventeen, and when Eddie’s sitting there and talking him through the procedure he’ll endure for his first surgery and- Steve’s just overwhelmed with love for them both.
And then he and Eddie adopt a little girl and Steve’s just so in awe of how Eddie is with the baby, and how Axl instantly takes to the protective big brother role. And just picture it, okay!? Just picture Steve and Eddie having a family together, okay?!
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carnivalcarrion · 9 months
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PLEASE MORE BUTTERFLY HOWDY CONTENT HES SO FUCKING SILLY
OKAY HERE'S A COMIC SHENANIGANS THING
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crybaby-bkg · 6 months
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Gojo gets so drunk off of you whenever you ride him. You think it’s because he’s spoiled, he says he just loves you a lot.
It’s something about being able to lay back, watch how your hips roll against his, how your clit rubs against the white pubes at his base, how your chest heaves with every moan. The way your hands never know what to do with themselves, gripping his shoulders and chest before gripping your own, touching yourself between your legs, holding his cock at the base whenever it slips out.
He feels intoxicated every time you get on top. The only downside about it is—is he can’t really control himself, either. If he doesn’t hold your hips down and take over, then he’s trying to ward off a too early orgasm. Gojo can’t help it, really, everything about you is just so addicting.
Like now—your mouth is pressed against his, your hands are tangled in his hair, your hips slowly grind against his own. It hasn’t even been long enough for that familiar feeling to twist in his lower stomach, for his balls to twitch so soon. His warm hands try to pull you off of him, but you pull them away from your skin, instead pinning them on the headboard beside his head.
“Oh, cmon,” Gojo whines, albeit playfully despite the concerning way his cock begins to throb inside of you. You shake your head at him, lids lowering as you focus on grinding against him, his cock nudging something soft inside of you to make you moan.
“Lemme take over, so you don’t have to do all the hard work.” Gojo pleads, bottom lip pouting at you. But you ignore it, leaning forward to instead nip at his lip, squeezing his wrists in your hands. He could break away from you easily, but it’s something about the control you’re exerting over him that makes his tip leaky.
“Shut up,” you huff softly, hips starting to pick up pace. Gojo twists a little underneath you, biting at his bottom lip as he tries to stave off his oncoming orgasm.
“Baby—“
“I’m not fucking finished with you, so just sit back and take it.” You bite at him, eyebrow screwing up as you try to angle your hips to get some friction against your clit, hands squeezing his wrists tightly. You glare up at him from under your lashes, and Gojo, the slut, has a moment of awakening when you lock eyes.
He cums almost instantly, with a punched out sound emitting from his throat, head thrown back as he gasps out your name. His cock kicks and spurts inside of you, filling you up to the brim and you can only moan at the warming feeling of it. Gojo is loud with every rope inside of you, bright eyes falling closed behind his lids as he leans forward to rest his head on your shoulder.
He catches his breath after a few seconds, and speaks against your sweaty skin.
“Think I might’ve discovered something about myself.” He whispers, circling your waist when you release him to pull you in closer to him, making you both hiss.
“That was nothing new for you, Satoru.” You sigh softly into his hair. He laughs at that, and doesn’t deny it. He thinks he might be more transparent than he realized.
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starrystevie · 8 months
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as if they belong there, because they do, steve's hands will always cradle eddie's face when they kiss. it feels all too natural how he guides his hands up and lets his fingers brush over eddie's cheeks before finding a home on his jaw line. his hands might not be the biggest, but they can hold him, hold his universe between his palms. they're big enough to have his pinkie brush over the veins in his neck to feel eddie's heartbeat picking up, big enough to scratch his nails over his scalp and feel the way he shudders against him.
keeping his hands on the sides of eddie's face lets steve pull back and look at eddie whenever he pleases, like when he can feel the heat flooding the cheeks under his palms or when eddie smiles into the kiss and he feels the joy of it against his fingers. he can watch eddie's eyes flutter open, watch as they come back into focus only to get a little crossed trying to look at steve's lips. with his thumbs stroking his cheekbones and his fingers tangling in curls, steve can pull eddie back down to him when he can't take it anymore and push their lovesick smiles together.
it's not about control, never has been, not when he's holding a wildfire in his hands. it's about connection, it's about what he thought he could never have the chance to grasp onto real and there and solid under his fingertips. it's about feeling what eddie feels and following where eddie wants to go and knowing that he can drop his hands to curl over his shoulders to bring him in closer and closer until their breaths and heartbeats and worlds feel like one.
as if they belong there, because they do, eddie's hands will always curl around steve's waist when they kiss. he lets steve guide him where he wants him but eddie is the one to ground them, holding tight to the soft sides. his fingers need to stay busy and drum over steve's waist like he's an instrument of his own that eddie's learning how to master. he lets his hands pull their bodies close, close, closer until there isn't space between them, pressed one against the other like one entity.
eddie particularly likes steve's left side, where his scarring was worse after the bites, and how the bumps under his fingertips make steve shudder as he runs his hands over it. it's their common thread, their red string of fate, their missing pieces from an unsolvable puzzle, the scars that they share. feeling them against his palms, under his fingers reminds him that they're alive, they made it and they have each other. keeping his hands on steve's waist, he can feel him breathing his very much alive and there breaths. every stuttering gasp and sharp inhale and whimpering exhale are music of a different kind under his hands.
it's not about owning him, like he's just another piece of eddie's ever growing orchestra for him to use as he pleases. it's about knowing what makes steve tick, it's about knowing what he likes and doesn't like and having the the way he moves underneath him in approval as his evidence. it's about holding steve where he's vulnerable, about holding him where his own hands replaced bandages and cleaned off antiseptic and placed featherlight touches so as not to hurt the only person he could ever let himself fall for.
it's about having the most precious thing in your grasp and knowing how to keep it safe, keep it warm. it's about feeling like your hands can do good when they've caused pain and damage in the name of fear. it's about steve and eddie, being the only thing to hold each other together when they're afraid of everything else falling apart.
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r0-boat · 4 months
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May I request Zhongli X fem-reader ?
Because last one you did with Zhongli was fricking amazing!
Hi! Thank you so much I liked doing that one as well I did a lot of experimenting with that one so I thought I would do it again for this post as well
Morax's Wife
'the Dreaded Dragon of Geo and his mate'
Cw: hurt/comfort
Dragon Sovereign!Zhongli x Reader
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You gazed down upon the village of Liyue, a small town, a far cry from what it will be in the future. And a place you once called your home, looking out from the mountain where you reside now—a temple-like castle carved from the very rock of the mountains. Eyes red and stinging, lost in your thoughts, your mind repeating the words of the same people you had known just days before, their friendly smiles warming your day as they would greet you with enthusiasm now those same faces twisted with hate, disgust, slinging hurtful words; those people were your friends, people you had known all your life looking at you with such disdain as if i had forgotten how you were.
And all because you had fallen in love with The Sovereign of Geo, a known rival of Celestia.
Having been out there for so long you had momentarily forgotten that time had passed.
"Mate, are you ok?" A deep, rumbling voice Like an earthquake trembled behind you as your husband concerned for how how long you had sat there watching the carts going in and out of the city walls. The Dragon came to join you by your side, changing its form to its human appearance, the wind tosling his hair and white robes as he sat beside you.
" You have been out here for quite a while beloved."
When Morax followed your gaze, his eyes narrowed as he looked down at the tiny Kingdom, his brows furrowing with worry, for he had known how its people betrayed you. Watching them draw their swords that the woman he loves still remembers, your pleads and cries for your loved ones to see reason; all the while, he attempts to protect his mate; his wife grabs your arm to pull you behind him.
The crowd grew as onlookers heard what was happening from a distance. Grabbing on to the robes of your mate, your eyes dart frantically, feeling your chest become tighter and tighter as it becomes harder to breathe. Looking among the crowd your heart practically stops in the very back was the familiar faces of your own family looking at you with worry but they didn't do anything they just stayed there silently refusing when they saw that you've noticed they just turned away their eyes shifting to the floor looking anywhere else but you...
Why?
And that moment your family had to sound you and you knew that, and it hurt clenching your teeth trying to stop the tears not now... not in front of Morax...
But he had already sensed your sadness. Your husband having live with you for a while and being attentive and taking pride in knowing every little piece of you including the little hair on your head noticed those tells immediately to the slight quiver of your lip to the way you would refuse to look at him refuse to look at your husband with those big beautiful eyes of yours. His eyes growing soft and see gently caress your cheek tilting your head to look up at him.
Those amber eyes gaze into your red puffy ones. "Oh, my sweet mate, are you thinking of that day again?"
Your eyes had widened feeling your paper thin facade already tearing in two. Your voice breaks when only his name Falls from your lips. His heart breaks along with it, scooping you up into his arms before getting up onto his feet with you tucked protectively gently against his chest. Morax was as gentle as he was feared, but that gentleness was only reserved for you, his mate. Morax kissed you on the forehead before whispering, "That day they have failed you my beloved you need not think of them anymore. They are nothing but vile creatures worth far less than the dirt on the very ground they stand on. You are nothing like them."
He nuzzled into your neck bringing you back home in his cave as he continued.
" you are far more than that, my sweet beloved, gentle, and beautiful Wife. You are a precious gem sticking out from the rest of the rubble." The dragon knew, but you felt it was something he could not fix, but he could be there to make you smile, that same smile he fell in love with. He couldn't make that whole town disappear, for it would sadden you even more, but he could tell you that you are worth far more to him than the rest of your kin were stupid and vile creatures to do what they've done. He could spoil you like a husband should.
The dragon gently lays you back in his nest with the finest silk sheets and mattresses, along with stuffed toys and anything else he had gotten for you over the years that he had been with you. And Morax not wanting to part from you for a single moment snakes his arm underneath you to pull you closer laying right beside you where he belonged his brown and gold draconic tail wrapping around your leg wanting to be as close to you as possible. His eyes only had a room for one as they were trained and focused taking in every little thing you do even now as you cry and whimper he only saw the beautiful bride he had taken still as beautiful as you were when he had married you. That beautiful white and gold glittering dress to match his robes he made sure to pick out the finest treasures and gems from his horde decking you out in glittering gold and other delicacies from the earth please his little dragon mind greatly. Your family couldn't be there but the other sovereigns were the dragons of the other six elements congratulating him. Despite him marrying a human, they lovingly accepted you as one of them, far more than They could have ever done.
Your smile will shine like gold in his memories just as brightly as the gold and glittering ring he had made for the both of you. He had carved it himself with the raw Elemental energy of Geo. He had even so much as carved the innards of the band with each other's names as if it was a signature on parchment.
Marriage was a human tradition, and he cared little for humans except for, well, you, but the idea of a contract of love and binding two mates as one intrigued him. Now, he was obsessed with the titles that came with husband and wife. He was happy to call himself your husband and was eager to call you his wife.
As he reminisced on the contract ceremony 'Wedding' all the while playing with your delicate human hand, his eyes trained on that glittering band signifying your title as his wife and forever mate, his clawed hand threading through your head of hair, practically purring in delight at the warmth sharing with you, hoping this would have calmed you down from your sadness. Oh, how your husband wished to ease you of your pain forever, but he knows he could not wipe your precious memories as much as he regrets. As much as your memory hurts you, human memory is fragile and precious. Even the moments of hurt will be tied to moments of happiness, and he never wants for you to lose those.
His heart squeezed feeling your hand clench his robes your fingers grazing against his bare chest. He whispered your name only to be met with quiet snoozing. He couldn't help but chuckle you were so cute.
"Good night, my dear. Have good dreams, only for you to wake in my arms again; I love you, my wife."
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actual-changeling · 6 months
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"I love you."
Crowley stops dead in his tracks, his hand wrapped around the door knob with white, trembling knuckles, and closes his eyes.
There were nights, many nights, way more than there ever should have been, during which he traced the constellations in the night sky and imagined what it would be like to hear those words from his mouth. Whether he would say them softly, wrapping each one in gentleness, reverence, or hurried, afraid of who else might hear, terrified that this will be the last words ever spoken between them. If he was particularly drunk and particularly lonely, chasing after the feeling of Aziraphale's brushing over his wrist as they walked by each other in the comfortable mess of the bookshop, he imagined them as a slow drag of breath right next to his hear, a whisper not even God would be able to hear; a promise of worship.
In all of the fantasies, and that is what they were, nothing more than shameful imaginations Aziraphale could never know about, he said it back. Whispered it, screamed it, forced it out between sobs or kisses or panting breaths.
When Crowley opens his eyes again, uncried tears are clinging to his lashes.
Outside, the first splatters of rain are painting the sidewalk black and people hurry by, trying to escape the storm as the sky breaks in two. Within seconds, the steady drum of water against the window is louder than the noise of the traffic, louder than his heart's attempts to beat out of his ribcage and bare itself to him.
He cannot look at him.
It is his first thought and the only one that matters now, he cannot look at him or he will shatter like hot glass dropped in the snow, flying apart into thousands of tiny shards. Crowley tries to rip the image of violet eyes and his perfect fucking cupids bow out of his mind without success (he knows what it tastes like now, remembers tracing it with the tip of his tongue and opening his mouth with a hunger he has never felt before).
Swallowing his own, he listens to the familiar rhythm of Aziraphale's breath, undisturbed and distinctly human in a way that makes them too human to be real, his mouth opening and closing around unshaped replies.
The sidewalk is empty save for a handful of people diving for cover in the pub across the street, and for one precious, fragile moment, the world narrows down to an angel and a demon who watched the first storm rain down on Eden, a white wing held steadily above his head to keep him dry.
Crowley never asked why, and over the centuries, the question got lost in all the others piling up every time they met. He knows why, though, without needing to hear it from him, and it is not because Aziraphale already loved him back then or saw a pitiful creature in need of protection. The answer is so much simpler - he was being thoughtlessly kind because that is who he is.
He is being thoughtlessly kind now, too.
The tension drains from his knuckles and he presses his palm to the cold metal, settling back into a body that now recalls the taste of those three words in the air and yearns for nothing more than to taste them straight from his mouth.
Crowley pushes the door open and steps onto the sidewalk, his clothes clinging to his sharp angles as the rain drenches him completely within seconds, and then he walks home without a single look or word back.
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spockfallsinlove · 9 months
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Prompt: Spock’s hands are injured and since Vulcan hands are so sensitive he can’t help but cry about it
"Shit," Jim is saying, over and over, as he digs the salve out of his bag. "Shit, hang on, shit—"
Spock, for his part, is biting down on his cheek so hard that he tastes blood, his hands held out in front of him and shaking. The burns aren't severe, but the pain is enough for his telepathic bonds to be burned themselves.
The storm rages outside the cave they've found themselves in. Lightning had struck as they were running to find shelter, causing a fire. Jim was trapped and Spock didn't give it a second thought when he pulled the burning debris off of Jim, his hands scalding from the embers.
"Jim," he croaks out, his voice shaking despite his best efforts. He doesn't know what he's asking for.
Jim uncaps the salve, hands steady as he scoops out a dollop. "This will hurt," he says. "I'm sorry."
Spock grits his teeth and lets out a small cry of pain as Jim, as careful as he is, painfully applies the salve to the burns dotting Spock's fingertips. Jim then wraps each finger in medical tape, wincing at every hiss and sharp breath that Spock takes.
"The comms," Spock manages to get out, "are they—"
"Still down because of the storm." Jim sits back on his heels, face pale and drawn. He wipes his forehead with his arm. "Damn it, Spock. I'm sorry."
"It's of no consequence," Spock lies, biting down harder on his cheek. The pain is mounting; not just the burn, but the lack of feeling he has in his hands. It's like he's been thrown into the dark with nothing but fire and pain to accompany him.
Something in his face must betray the true extent of his pain because Jim suddenly looks stricken, eyes wide. Spock realizes, belatedly, that there are tears streaming down his cheeks.
"What can I do?" Jim asks, his voice steadier than the panic Spock sees in his eyes.
"I cannot—" Spock sucks in a breath. Tries to steady himself, unsuccessfully. "Without touch..."
Jim nods, like he understands. With Spock, he always seems to understand. "Your telepathy. It's dependent on your hands."
"Yes. It's..." Spock squeezes his eyes shut at another wave of pain. "The burns are painful. But the lack of connection to my environment may be... worse."
Jim grips Spock's wrists, which are undamaged from the flames. It's like a balm over Spock's wounds; an anchor in the darkness. Jim's expression is intent. "What about my touch? Does it help?"
Spock could sigh with relief. It's like he's found home again, after groping in the dark for so long. "Yes," he says, gratefully.
Jim's hands grip just a fraction tighter, his fingers imprinting into Spock's skin. "Then I will continue to do so, as long as you need it."
The pain is already receding, Spock falling into the comforting warmth that is Jim's presence. "That may be a very long time," he says, a little more honestly than he would like.
Jim smiles. He releases one of Spock's wrists, but only to run a thumb across Spock's temple. "Forever, if you need it," he promises softly.
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peachcitt · 2 months
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from: thirteen by @anna-scribbles
art by me :)
start from the beginning // read the november chapter // read the most recent chapter (january)
hey listen. look me in my eyes. have you read thirteen by anna scribbles. i think you need to read thirteen by anna scribbles. i think if you want your life to be forever changed you need to read thirteen by anna scribbles. i think if you are a person who is breathing and alive you need to read thirteen by anna scribbles. thank you
#thirteen#miraculous ladybug#ml art#emilie agreste#adrien agreste#miraculous ladybug fic#ml fic#ml fic rec#my art#THIS IMAGE HAS BEEN HAUNTING THE INSIDE OF MY BRAIN EVER SINCE I READ THE NOVEMBER CHAPTER BACK IN NOVEMBER#now. listen. in an ideal world i would've done this way back in november but uhhhhhhh i don't know what happened. suddenly it was december#and now it's february! not sure how that happened. anyway my goal is to be making a piece of art for each chapter to convey#just how fucking INSANE this fic makes me feel. like how crazy and insane and awesomely constructed it is. anna just GETSSSS ITTTTTTT#(and is using her 'get it' ability to hurt me bodily)#like with every chapter i read i am just assaulted with this intense desire to Make An Image which is not really an impulse im used to#since i don't draw a ton but anna's voice is just so evocative of images in a way that just. inspires every creative impulse inside of me#i took forever to read the december chapter but the moment i read it i already had an idea of something i wanted to draw for it.#my idea is. well. complex for me to say the least but as i told anna i am determined to make my skills match whatever i need to do because#the way she writes it is literally haunting me it is shooting me with a gun it is so something i have no idea how to handle#except i guess to repeat her themes and ideas and imagery in a collage of sorts#i don't know that's what my october chapter comic felt like- a collage. and this one does too in a way even though it's very different#i just like connecting the dots. and then smashing the dots together in an image#anyway. read thirteen. it is changing me all the way down to the dna
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autistic-beshelar · 1 year
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rue is, i think, in love with the idea of love.
they set a wager. the lords of the wing will find true love in this romantic, ephemeral bloom, if they only seek it. they can win it, as though it’s a game.
they long to abolish the courts. their own court has never held any love for them - why would any other court be different? a court stifles, a court smothers, a court suffocates love. the courts must be abolished, so that love can bloom. true love, love that is unfettered by politics, or station, or duty.
they are the architect of the bloom. the hunt, the heart. the dance. the potions. they will pour love into a cup and the guests will drink their fill. fae from across the realms will fall in beautiful, perfect love at rue’s hand. 
they have become the arbiter of love. when an engagement between a cruel prince and a wild goblin is set, what else can they do but judge it unfit? it was not love, it was not true. 
they share a moment in a forest with a venerated captain. he is tall, as they are. he is clawed, as they are. he is a beast, as they are, and so beautiful for it. they fall fast, and hard, and heavy. and perhaps it is only the nature of queerness, of a life lived behind a mask, yearning for the faintest spark, that causes them to love so fast. 
or perhaps they did not truly fall in love with hob at all. for they did not see him. 
they fell in love with a reflection of themself.
except, of course, that hob is not a reflection of rue. hob is his own person, and like any real person, he cannot live up to an idea. and while rue is on a wonderful journey of revelation and self acceptance, it is baffling to them that someone else’s love does not always mirror their own.
rue, in an act of bravery and vulnerability and hope, removed their mask. and they long so very much to remove hob’s - but he has never worn a mask. he has always been exactly as he is - a soldier, devoted and dutiful. an outsider, used and abused by his court. rue’s true form was hidden by their court, while hob’s otherness has always been mercilessly exposed.
rue loves hob for the idea of who he could be, if he could simply unmask as they did. but hob needs, just as rue does, to be loved for who he is.
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