#getting together

[buddie-fic-recs-this-way]

buck naked

-if you love them being silly and in love, this one's for you!

author: disasterbuck | rated:t | words: 941 | ao3 link

summary:

Eddie finds it difficult to talk about his feelings because it always leaves him far too vulnerable and exposed. So, when he finally decides it's time to tell Buck how he feels, he has a plan to get them both on equal footing.

-

Buck turned, slicking his wet hair back, and then yelped and covered himself comically with his hands when he saw Eddie standing there.

"Eddie!" he exclaimed, his face turning red. "I'm naked!"

"Obviously," Eddie replied.

-kels reasons to read-

cuteness overload

short and sweet

eddie being a little shit

@disasterbuck

[stevebabey]

the four steps between (best) friends and lovers

summary: Long-time best friends, it's not a surprise that it's you Steve comes to when he needs a fake girlfriend. One little white lie, one perilous family dinner, one evening of pretending to be a couple.

How hard could it be?

[ 12k + best friends to lovers + fake dating + fem!reader]

STEP ONE: THE PROPOSAL

"Be my girlfriend."

The glass held between your fingers slips and makes a loud bang as it hits the sink. The water from the tap pours over it, unaware of the incredibly unusual change in the universe that just occurred.

You tilt your head up, ignoring the lost glass, and raise your eyebrows high. "Come again?"

Steve huffs a little, as though you're the one being rather dramatic, and leans further forward across the island. His hands are planted firmly, his hazel eyes wide as he all but pouts at you. You're still grappling with where the hell that came from.

"Be my girlfriend. Please." He says. "For just one dinner, I promise. I swear I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't actually desperate."

You blink, clearly having missed a beat somewhere.

Frowning, you finally shut off the tap and rescue your abandoned glass from the bottom of the sink. You pick up and give it a quick once over for any chips. Scot-free, luckily.

"Okay, back up." You say, giving a small shake to clear your head. You make a face. "First of all, Harrington, ouch."

Steve sags a bit. "C'mon, you know that's not what I mean."

Not even a hint of a smile at your dig — which tells you he's probably pretty serious then.

"Secondly, what dinner is this? What could be so important that you have to show up with a faux-girlfriend on your arm?"

Steve properly slumps this time, a loud groan accompanying the languished movement. His forehead presses against the counter-top and you bite your tongue to avoid making an unhelpful, teasing comment about it. Instead, you refill the glass in your hand and wait patiently.

"I…" Steve begins, his voice muffled against the counter-top.

"MybrotherisintownwithhisfiancéeandI—"

"Steveeee," You interrupt as you give in to the urge, leaning over and poking him in the head. "If you want my help, please stop mumbling into the counter and tell me the problem."

He doesn't move for a moment, still face down, but you can see the rise and fall of his back as he sighs deeply. He shifts, twisting so his face is no longer hidden. It's noticeably pinker than it was a minute ago.

"My brother is in town next week." He explains. "With his fiancée. And my parents really love to kick up a fuss whenever he gets brought up, whether it's, yanno, like, about jobs and shit or whatever."

Steve waves a careless hand out. He rises from his slumped position, tucking his chin into the palm of his hand.

"And, like, this time it was about relationships. It was all," Steve's voice pitches up, whiny and nasally. "When are you going to get a serious relationship like Brandon, Steve? When are you going to settle down, Steve? When are you going to stop being a disappointment, Steve?"

He huffs another sigh, this one tinged with more defeat. You feel your face twitch in sympathy.

"So, just to get them shut up I…" Steve averts his gaze to study the counter-top suddenly. He draws an idle circle with his free hand. "I said that I was actually dating someone."

You take in his words. "But you're not."

"Thank you, genius. I had no idea." Steve straightens up with a scoff, throwing his hands out. Dragging them down his face, another groan warbles out of him.

"But now they're expecting me to show up to this dinner with someone — someone I'm dating — and I cannot admit I lied. So, please, be my girlfriend for one night."

You snort. His distress, a disaster of his own making, is just a tad bit funny. Just a little. A smidge. "Dude, chill. Just say your girlfriend is sick and she can't come."

Steve laughs mirthlessly. "That's like the adult equivalent of saying oh you don't know her, she goes to another school. No, I can't do that! C'mon, please."

His hands clasp together, raised in a plea.

"Think of it as one hugely, massive favour."

You take a moment to think it over.

"When is it?"

"This weekend, Saturday, 5 o'clock."

"Dress code?"

"Formal. Duh."

"How many people?"

"Uh, my mom, my dad, my brother, his fiancée. Maybe my uncle? Four or five."

Saturday was only a couple days away. He'd left it awfully late to ask—and you're not exactly sure who else would step up for the job if you said no. For the first time since he threw out the insane suggestion, you properly consider it — and feel your face screw up instinctively.

You? Pretending to be Steve's girlfriend?

Sure, to some girls that probably sounded like a dream come true, but it hadn't ever been like that between you and Steve.

You weren't even sure if you could picture it, being tucked under his arm, receiving delicate kisses on the head instead of noogies. Your nose wrinkles again at the oddity.

It wasn't like people didn't like to speculate — men and women can't just be friends, after all — but getting on Steve Harrington's kiss list had never really been a priority to you. Would you even be able to pull it off?

Your mind casts out to the girls that Steve tends to date, nit-picking as you try to think of what separated you from them. While Steve would certainly vehemently deny it, you're pretty sure you can pick a pattern out from the array of girls. A type that you certainly wouldn't see yourself fitting into.

Steve just… doesn't go for girls like you.

Steve, watching you closely, sees the hesitation sink in. He leans forward again, bargaining face on.

"You can veto every movie we watch for the next month."

You squint at him. Raise your chin an inch, forcing yourself not to smile too obviously. It's not often you get to see Steve looking ready to actually grovel for something.

He narrows his eyes, catching onto your deviousness. "Fine. I'll pay for your shakes for the next month, too."

You take another moment to think it over, exaggerating the hmmm sound you make. You tap your finger against your chin, indicating you're not quite convinced yet.

Steve leans further forward, his expression inching toward a bitchy disbelief. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

He looks as though he might start another slew of scoffing, his tongue pressed into his cheek, before he seems to re-evaluate what's at stake here.

He says, "I will drive you up to Indianapolis on—" He holds up one finger. "—one occasion when you ask."

Grinning, you stick out your hand for him to shake.

"You've got a deal, mister."

Steve sighs, his shoulders sagging in relief as he drops his hand to rest in yours. You give it a firm shake and just when you can see the thank-you forming on his lips, you tug his hand forward. You grin wider, almost taunting.

"I would've done it just for the shakes, just so you know."

Steve does scoff this time, ripping his hand back from yours. "You're an awful friend."

You bite down your smile, already dreaming of the free shake you'll be sipping all the way out to Indianapolis. You take a sip of your water and raise your brows at Steve over the lip of your cup.

"Hey. Don't you mean awful girlfriend." You wiggle your brows, not failing to see the hint of pink that colours Steve's cheeks.

Despite the colour in his face, Steve manages to deliver a long, unimpressed stare at you.

His eyes flick down your figure, clearly turning your words over in his head, then back up. As though he's actually realising what he's asked you to do.

He huffs another sigh, running his hand down his face. "Jesus Christ. This is an awful idea."

"Hey, it's your idea, not mine."

—

A stray blouse flies from the closet, landing in an unceremonious lump at the foot of your bed.

You toe at it gently, narrowed gaze travelling from the murky colour up toward the closet, to the perpetrator currently tearing your wardrobe apart. He doesn't even pause, hands still digging, almost resembling a dog burying a bone.

Sighing, you drop your head back, hair splaying against your pillow. The water-stain on your bedroom ceiling greets your sigh with silence.

You had thought that, while sure, yeah, the Harrington's are a fancy bunch, it ultimately wouldn't be that much of a hassle to step in as Steve's date.

You'd have to dig through your closet for the nicest thing you owned (and seldom wore) and you and Steve would concoct a ludicrous story that could be the next John Hughes film.

It would take an hour, tops.

A severe underestimation. Maybe the promise of one hugely, massive favour should've tipped you off.

"Are you being serious right now?" You moan from your place on the bed. You shift your head forward again, eyeing your best friend across the room.

Steve, still buried in your closet, makes a loud harumph in answer. His voice comes out muffled against the clothes, too swamped amongst the fabric. "—Y'know, this wouldn't be so hard if you actually had anything wearable in here—"

You make a noise of indignation, tipping your head further forward. Your necklace shifts, the pendant sliding down the chain and hitting the comforter beneath you.

"And just what are you trying to say?"

Steve pauses for a moment, his hands halted on a pair of coat-hangers. He leans out from the clothing and lets his head loll back, his hazel eyes forming a flat stare.

"Har har." Steve says sarcastically. He turns back to the closet, the coat-hanger in his hand scraping as he pushes it along, assessing each piece with quick, attuned eyes. "I'm just saying you have a lack of clothing that my mother deems acceptable."

He turns back for a second. "Which is a good thing, by the way."

You hum in agreement, letting your head flop back onto your pillow. You've seen the pantsuits Cynthia Harrington wears.

Steve continues his barrage through your wardrobe, making a noise of disapproval every couple of seconds.

You also can't say you had expected to get started so soon; as in immediately post fake-girlfriend proposal. It occurs to you that perhaps you've said yes to something bigger than you expected.

"You're taking this really seriously." You comment.

"Yeah, well," Steve reaches in and tosses another blouse, this one pale-blue, on the bed by your feet. "I know you've met my parents before but they're, like, different when Brandon comes around."

"Different?"

"Like worse. Way, way worse." He draws a line with a flat hand. "Brandon makes them just so—"

His hand curls up, forming a fist. He sighs, dropping it to rest on his hip. For a long moment, he stares into your wardrobe.

You push up on one elbow, brows knitting together. "Steve?"

Steve jolts lightly at your voice, torn out of his thoughts. He reaches out and plucks another blouse from your wardrobe, a maroon pleated one that you'd sworn you had thrown away. It's horrendous and definitely picked out by your mother. He turns and chucks it on the bed, crumpling atop the others and looks up at you, hands perched on his hips.

"Just, like, the smoother this dinner goes, the better, okay?"

You sit up completely, catching the seriousness leaking into Steve's voice. Damn. He actually sounds pretty worked up about the whole thing.

You smile, aiming for comfort. Even if you hadn't quite grasped what you had said yes to, Steve was still your best friend.

His parents were… difficult on the best of days. It was clear he was going for the least eventful, head-down approach as he could for this.

You could do that.

"Okay." You nod, more serious this time, eyeing the blouses on the end of the bed. You miss the relief that shutters across Steve's face. "We got three days til Saturday. What do you need me to do?"

"You can start," Steve says, spinning back to face your chest of drawers this time. His eyes flash over, with a hint of mirth. "By telling me if you even own a skirt that goes below your knees, you scandalous woman."

You laugh and get to your feet, wandering towards your drawers to pull open the bottom most one. Fishing around, you try to recall if you have anything church-worthy, tongue poking out your lips.

A hideous woollen skirt gifted to you for Christmas a couple years ago springs to mind. You shiver.

"Below the knee, huh?" You say. "You better start telling me about the role I'll be playing if I can't even turn up as myself."

You're only half joking. Your fingers curl around the scratchy fabric and you wrinkle your nose in recognition. Tugging it forward, it escapes the confines of your drawers and splays out with a sudden poof. You get the joy of remembering just how ugly it really is.

Twisting, you hold it up to Steve who has taken your place on your bed, laid back.

"Think this'll do?"

Steve's head perks up and he locks onto the skirt in your grasp. "Ugh, it's awful. Perfect."

You drop the skirt, abandoning it to take your place next to Steve on the bed. The springs creak slightly as your weight joins Steve's, the bed dipping and forcing you closer together. A smile sneaks onto his face.

"Okay, but for real," You jab a finger into the softness of Steve's side and he makes a little noise of complaint. "You've gotta tell me what I'm expecting for this, dude. It would be, like, catastrophically mean of you to send me in there blind."

Steve sighs — something he's really doing that a lot recently — and rolls toward you, propping his head up with one arm. The edges of his polo stretch as his bicep bulges. He frowns down at your comforter as he thinks.

"I don't know if I actually can prepare you for it." He admits, raising his gaze to look at you through his lashes. "Like, I think we're gonna have to just come up with a story and fend off the questions as best we can."

Another thought occurs to you. You frown. "Wait, don't your parents, like, know about me already?"

Steve's gaze darts away, this time staring at your comforter with a greater intensity. He gives a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, well, that's why it'll work. They basically already ask me when we'll be getting together."

Your brows jump. A teasing grin taunts your mouth but you forsake it for a more helpful approach.

"Alright, then," You say. "Then let's do better than fending off the wolves. If I'm gonna be your fake girlfriend, I'm not gonna half-ass it. Let's knock the socks off your parents."

Steve's eyes jump up, meeting your stare and it takes another moment before he realises you're being genuine. You grin, poking him in the side again.

"And Brandon."

"Yeah?" Steve smiles. He sounds a tad awed at your dedication, his eyes roaming over your face gently. After a moment, he shakes his head, as if clearing his thoughts. "Okay. Uh, we have to come up with a backstory first."

"And it has to be one that your parents will believe too."

Steve nods, then pauses, a frown knitting together his eyebrows. "Wait, when did we get together? We can't have just started dating that's— like, almost as bad as showing up without a girlfriend."

You blink, perturbed. "What?"

"Oh, hey mom and dad." Steve says, his tone sardonic and flat. "Oh yeah, this is my girlfriend who I somehow started dating just one week ago, coincidentally just in time for this family dinner."

You cringe a little. He does have a point.

"Fine." You say. A little worry burrows into your brain — the longer you make your 'relationship', the more details you have to construct, to remember, and recall correctly.

You worry your bottom lip. "How long is long enough though? If it's too long, we have to remember more things."

Steve's mouth twists in thought. He gives a hmm.

"I think the last time you saw my parents was… sometime around New Year's Eve, right? They had that party, d'ya remember?"

You wrack your brain and find a memory with glittering fireworks and greasy hot-dogs. Steve had too much champagne and emptied his stomach into a bush. Faintly, the memory of passing by Mr and Mrs. Harrington fits in there— only for a moment.

"Yeah," You say.

Combing over the last years' events, you try to think if there's anything else you would've seen them at.

Graduation? You try to smooth out the wrinkles of that memory too; sunny day, sweltering gown. You hadn't remembered seeing Steve's parents there. "'Cos they didn't come to graduation, did they?"

"Nope." Steve says, popping the p. He rolls back to lie flat on your bed, folding his hands to rest on his chest. "What about after one of my basketball games? The final one of the season." He proposes, eyes tracking back to you.

You laugh without meaning to, spurred on by Steve's surprise.

"Really? At your basketball game? That's when the sparks went flying and we got together?"

Steve's mouth drops open an inch in offense. He throws his hands up. "What? That's, like, totally romantic." He defends. "Besides, it's a good reason for our friendship to have changed."

"You lost that game."

"I still scored!"

"Fine." You appease, laughing lightly. "We got together after you lost the last basketball game of the season."

Steve wrinkles his nose again. "Well, don't put it like that."

You laugh again, soft and light.

"Who asked who?"

"I asked you." Steve says.

You nod, carefully trying to commit the detail to memory. Your head spins as you try to think up the variety of different questions you might get asked at the dinner.

What sort of questions might his parents ask? Or his brother? They'll probably want to know the basics — how you got together, how it's going. You might get a shake-down to see if you're worthy of dating a Harrington.

Then, of course, there is the matter of ensuring you're a convincing couple. In love enough to be brought along to an exclusive family event.

That means… getting touchy. The thought sends a jolt through your stomach— will you have to kiss?

You bury the thought. You'll cross that bridge and have it's subsequently unavoidable, awkward conversation when you get to it.

You're not sure who'll you will have more trouble convincing; Brandon or Steve's parents. But from what you know of Steve's family, you'd bet none of them know him that well.

For all you know, this could well be a walk in the park. Maybe the easiest free trip to Indianapolis ever earned.

"What's Brandon like?" You ask, trying to get a better sense of who you'll be fooling. "Do you think he'll ask many questions?"

"He's…" Steve's eyes shift from you to the ceiling, his mouth forming a flat line. "An asshole, like my dad. He's got this amazing talent for getting under my skin. Which usually includes undermining just about anything I have going for me in my life. Or—" He gestures to you with a sigh. "—what I actually don't have going."

He rolls his head in your direction, his mouth twisted into a bitchy frown.

"He used to always rat on me to our parents when I was kid. He once got me in trouble for going to see Tommy just because he didn't want to walk me over. Said I disobeyed authority." Steve makes quotations with his fingers.

Your brows raise in disbelief. "Isn't he, like, fifteen years older than you?"

Steve huffs a mirthless laugh. "Yep. Told you, asshole. So, yes, he'll probably ask questions but I don't think he'll expect I'd do something as desperately pathetic as faking a girlfriend so hopefully we'll fly under his radar."

Reaching out, you whack Steve on the arm, relishing in his annoyed ow!

Eyes narrowed, you wait til he's looking at you with his what gives? face before you say, "What you're doing is not pathetic, nor is it desperate. It is an act of survival against your shitty family, okay?"

Steve stares at you for a moment before his shoulders seem to melt, the tension leaking from them. He flops his head back.

"Okay." He murmurs in agreement.

"Alright," You say. "Now, let's get this story straight. We got together at the final game of the season, which would mean we've been together for nearly…"

STEP TWO: THE ACT

Your legs itch and you fight the urge to readjust your tights for the umpteenth time.

Steve, in the driver's seat beside you, drums his hands against the steering wheel too rapidly to be casual. He keeps darting one hand to his mouth, teeth worrying at his thumbnail.

You'd reach out and smack him to get him to stop but you're beginning to feel the lurch of nerves yourself. The drive from your house to Steve's has never seemed so, so entirely too short.

"Okay, uh," Steve's throat clicks, clammed up from his silence for too long.

He hadn't spoken much when he had picked you up, other than to laugh at your joke at the mismatch of yourself and your prim outfit.

You'd ended up finding a double-breasted blazer in your mom's closet and you look almost ready to run as the local mayor. You're even wearing tights.

"We got together the 20th—"

"—of June, last year." You finish for him.

Steve nods, his face still facing forward. His eyes look a tad unfocused, even as he reaches out to adjust the collar of his dress shirt. "Right. So we've been together for, uh, about ten months."

You nod encouragingly, checking the details in your head. "You asked me out. Our first date was—"

"—at The Hawk." Steve cuts in, parroting off your memorised answers. "We saw Labyrinth and, uh, then I drove you home."

That part isn't technically untrue. You and Steve had gone to see Labyrinth together back in June of last year, but it certainly hadn't been a date. You find the details lend themselves quite easily regardless.

"That's when we had our first kiss." You remind him, even if it makes your face heat minisculy. "What did you get me for Christmas?" You quiz.

"Uh," Steve's hand rabbits against the steering wheel, nerves evident. He finally breaks his stare from the road to glance at you, his brows furrowed together, eyes worried. "Fuck, I can't remember."

"It's fine," You stress, waving a hand. "You got me tickets to Billy Joel and we drove out to Indianapolis for the concert in April."

Steve nods a bit too manically, his perfectly coiffed hair coming a bit loose. The houses flashing by the window gradually get bigger, fancier. He bites his thumbnail again and this time you do reach out and tug his wrist away.

"Thanks." He murmurs.

He turns the wheel, the engine droning as the car takes the corner to enter his street. Your nerves hike a mile higher and you tug at your tights fruitlessly again. The street is lined with nice cars — not unexpected for Steve's neighbourhood.

What is unexpected is the sheer volume. You and Steve peer out the car windows, eyes wide, as you take in the full street. When you swallow, your throat feels particularly dry.

You turn to Steve. "I thought they said it was a family dinner?"

Steve, his eyes darting from car to car, either trying to find a park amongst the packed sidewalk or maybe just panicking like you are, takes a moment to meet your eyes. He looks a lovely shade of chalky white.

"They definitely did."

There's a free space down the end of Steve's street, the driveway already full with two cars, neither you can recognise.

Steve's foot hits against the brake too abruptly and the car jerks to a stop, rocking forward. You grip the edges of your seat tightly as Steve kills the engine. For a moment, neither of you make a sound.

"What if there's more than just family in there?" Steve croaks, turning slowly to face you.

The paleness in his face has pitched toward something greener. He swallows heavily, twisting back to stare out the windshield and his hands on the wheel tighten. "Oh my god, this is— this isn't gonna to work."

"Steve."

"Valentines, we did Lover's Lake," Steve mutters to himself, eyes still out the window. "Fuck, this is so stupid."

"Steve," You try again. His own panic is worsening your own and if he continues to spiral, you fear you might never make it out of the car and you did not wear itchy tights for that to happen.

"You got me the Michael Jackson record for my birthday," He rattles off again, almost absentmindedly, as though his mind can't pick between panicking about trying to remember all the details or the apparent extra guests.

"This is— oh my god, we're never gonna convince them."

"Steve." You say firmly. His head snaps around, broken from his mutterings. He blinks at you.

You take a deep, exaggerated breath in. Steve follows instinctively, his shoulders rising as he inhales.

"We will convince them." You insist earnestly.

Offering out your upturned hand, you wait for Steve to shift to place his bigger hand in yours. When he does, your fingers curl around it, cradling it.

You can feel the rabbit of his pulse at your fingertips and you meet his eye as you say, "We know each other—really well. We're best friends. We've practised, we look the part, okay? Now, all we have to do is… be a couple for an evening. It's going to be fine."

Steve swallows and for a moment, he doesn't say anything. Then his breath bursts out in a release of tension, his hand finally squeezing yours back. "God, what would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn, probably." You tease, thankful when unease hanging on his frame is replaced by something more familiar.

Steve makes an appalled noise, tightening his grip on your hand so you can't pull it back. His other hand moves, his fingers dancing across the ticklish skin on the inside of your arm til you shriek out in laughter, yanking your hand back.

Your laughter seems to have dimmed the nervousness a bit. You glance over your shoulder, down the street, and track an older couple dressed primly entering the Harrington home. As you turn back to Steve, you swallow to gather your nerves.

"Ready?"

Steve doesn't look like he is, his shifting, unsure eyes and stressing hands. He pushes his palms against his slacks and takes a sharp inhale, before meeting your eyes. "Ready as I'll ever be."

You count the steps up to the doorway without even meaning to, arriving at the Harrington doorstep in approximately 47 steps. The maroon double doors before you seem taller than usual. Steve raises his hand to knock and then halts, his attention shifting to his upraised hand.

He quickly tucks it back against his side, except this time with his elbow held out for you.

A faint pang of surprise in your chest, coloured with something softer, nicer. You’ve seen somewhat what Steve’s like on his dates and you’ve certainly heard plenty of the aftermath. But you’ve never been on one, of course.

As you loop your arm to nook in his, you find yourself unexpectedly eager to find out exactly what it’s like to be Steve Harrington’s date.

Steve knocks on the door, then twists the knob and lets himself in.

Despite seeing the earlier guests, there’s little to prepare you for the room full of people that stand on the other side of the door. Moving on instinct, clinging to Steve’s arm, you step through the threshold and into the lion's den.

Your nerves fry. Never mind lion's den; you feel more like a fly caught in a web. Frog boiling in a pot? No, that doesn't work because you know exactly what you were signed up to when you said yes to Steve.

Well, not precisely. You survey the crowd, counting at least three times as many people as you were expecting with nervous eyes.

Your little white lie with Steve just graduated to having an entire audience. No pressure, right?

“Steven.”

The croon of Cynthia Harrington greets the pair of you.

You feel Steve stiffen up beside you, his shoulders rolling back, his entire body straightening up. His throat bobs as he swallows nervously.

“Mom,” Steve says. His voice is a bit dry and he swallows again. “You didn’t say there were going to be this many people here.”

He’s polite enough to not word it as an accusation. His niceties don’t work, bouncing off the painstakingly sculpted smile of a businesswoman.

“Please, it’s a networking event, I’m not sure what you expected.” She adjusts her diamond earring, swaying and heavy, as she speaks dismissively. “I told you this, Steven.”

You never hear anyone call Steve Steven other than his parents.

“No, Mom, you didn’t.”

There’s a barely restrained bite in his words.

That catches Cynthia’s attention. She stops her roaming gaze to focus on her son, not even glancing at you. After a moment, she gives an exasperated huff.

“Well, why else would we be back, Steven? Your father is trying to close business with Mr. Collings.”

The sting isn’t even for you — in fact, you don’t even think she realises she’s dealt it — but you feel it all the same. Steve’s arm looped with yours tightens, a minuscule motion.

Though you know he thinks they’re all assholes, it doesn’t stop Steve from hoping they’ll come back for him.

“Right.” Steve says, voice tight. “Sure. Of course.”

You’re just thinking about dragging him away from this barbed conversation, clearly pricking all his sensitive spots, when Cynthia’s sharp gaze slides over to you.

Her eyes gleam in recognition and her posture changes.

“Oh, is this the girlfriend you’ve spoken of?”

This time you’re the one who stiffens up. It’s momentary. You know that Steve’s likely freaking out too and at least one of you has to pull yourself together.

The most winning smile you can manage glides onto your face.

“That’s me.” You squeeze Steve’s arm with your hand. It's half in genuine comfort, half in show.

Cynthia regards you for another long moment before she manages to straighten up further, as though pinched.

“Oh! Yes, I recognise you. Remind me of your name, dear?”

It’s a struggle not to grit your teeth. Steve and you have been friends for nearing ten years now.

Still, you relay it politely for her. Your smile feels a bit wooden now.

“Oh, Steven. How nice.” Cynthia says, a touch of patronisation in her tone. Her beady eyes slice back to yours. “He had such a crush on you for the longest time, it’s—”

“Mom.” Steve hisses, cutting her off. Another unexpected jolt of something warm in your chest. Wait, really?

You chance a glance up at Steve. His ears are tinted pink.

You’re not entirely sure what to make of how that makes you feel, so you shelve it for later. Maybe when you’re not being thrown to the sharks by Steve’s awful parents.

Okay, too many animal metaphors. Falling asleep to the Discovery Channel last night is definitely taking its toll.

“We’re gonna mingle, find Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. He moves forward, past his mother, and tugs you with him. Your legs itch with the reminder of your scratchy tights.

“Alright, Steven. Make sure you say hello to your brother!”

Steve huffs, loud enough that you hear it, and you let him lead you through the throngs of middle-aged people. He stops when he reaches the kitchen, finally unwinding his arm with yours.

He does it so he can shove his hands in his hair, a stressed motion from Steve if you’ve ever seen one.

“God, okay, that went well.” He says sarcastically.

“Stop. You’re ruining your hair.” You reach up and rescue his lochs from his harsh grip, fingers around his wrists to tug his hands away. You’re far too aware of how long it had taken him to do.

Steve lets you. When you focus on his face, you notice the pink from his ears is also on his cheeks.

The question jumps off your tongue, unbidden.

“Was she telling the truth? About… the crush? Or was she just trying to tease you?”

The pink dips closer to scarlet. Steve sighs, his eyes closing for a moment.

“I— she- yes,” He admits. Your heart shudders at the revelation. Steve’s eyes open and he twists his hands so he can hold yours in them. “But, like, not now. In the past. Years ago, I promise.”

For his sake, you do your best not to take it too seriously. Even if you wanted to pry, now is not the time nor the place to do so.

However, you can’t resist a small, teasing grin. Steve catches it and his embarrassment gives way to exasperation instantly.

“You likeeed me,” You say in a sing-song voice.

Teasing is not unfamiliar in your friendship with Steve and getting to joke around, even at this strange party, feels nicer. Steve groans dramatically, his eyes closing and his hands pushing against your hands to shove you away.

A new voice interrupts.

“Liked? I sure hope he likes you now, being his girlfriend and all.”

You and Steve both snap out of your easy joking, remembering that you’re supposed to be presenting as a couple. Head turning to who had spoken, it only takes a couple of seconds for you to place who it is.

He looks a little bit like Steve, but not really.

The eyes are different, not as slanted and he hasn’t got any of Steve’s beautiful moles. But the nose, the mouth, put together with matching brown hair and tan skin, you know who this is without having to ask.

“Brandon.” Steve says. The name is stilted in his mouth.

Brandon smirks, his same hazel coloured eyes dragging a long, scathing once-over of his younger brother. He doesn’t look impressed, if his disinterested expression is anything to go by.

Then he does the same to you.

It’s almost tangible, the prickly feeling of his gaze raked over your body. Searching, hunting, nearly making you want to perk up to gain his approval.

God, Steve was right on the money. This guy is like his father but worse.

“The eye-candy of the month, huh?” He says to you, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.

You consider, then make the decision to throw all pleasantries out the window. You don’t smile back.

“Actually, Steve and I will be coming up on one year soon.”

Tangling your hands back together as you say it, you lean into Steve’s side. It’s warm, smells of his cologne. Only when you gaze up at him, do you let a smile grace your lips. It’s soft and genuine.

Steve smiles back down at you, crooked and lovely.

“I’m surprised anyone could settle him down,” Brandon continues and you turn back to him, fighting the urge to narrow your eyes. It doesn’t escape you how he’s jumped from one slight dig to the next.

He’s clever with it. Polite enough that Steve can’t exactly bring it up as an issue.

Brandon continues, swirling his crystal tumbler of whiskey idly. “Surprised he wanted to. Little bro always seemed like such a womanizer. Didn’t think he’d want just one chick.”

He leans in and socks Steve on the shoulder, hard, when he says the word womanizer. He’s grinning.

You have to admit, Brandon’s far too good at this — good at getting under your skin. If you hadn’t been forewarned of his behaviour, if you actually were Steve’s girlfriend, it would certainly rub you the wrong way. He’s certainly doing his best to sprinkle grit and strife between you two.

And you know it hurts Steve to hear — Sure, maybe when he was a thick-headed freshman, with no clue about the world, he had acted that way.

Nowadays... Anyone who knows Steve, even a little bit, knows he wants the real deal, more than anything.

“Not anymore,” Steve says, though it’s not nearly as confident as he usually is. He clears his throat and casts his gaze around. “Where’s Ariel?”

“Ah,” Brandon hums, looking around himself. He takes a long sip of his whiskey. “Not sure. I think I left her in conversation with the Erickson’s from across the street. She’s been pleading with her eyes to be saved but hey, she’s gotta learn sometime, right?”

Your lip curls up in distaste before you remember yourself. Fingers intertwined with Steve’s, you clutch them tighter for some semblance of strength.

You’ve got to get the two of you out of here before you start outright sneering at this man — which is very much not the heads-down approach Steve had asked for.

“Babe,” you say, effectively dismissing Brandon’s comment as you look up at Steve. He looks down at you and squeezes your hand. “Can we grab a drink, please? I’m feeling thirsty.”

Steve murmurs his affirmation and you both turn back to Brandon to bid a polite goodbye. His left eye twitches just once, the only indication that he’s put off by your subtle rejection.

“Well,” Brandon fixes his features, his smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you. What was your name again, sweetheart?”

“I didn’t say.” You say, forcing the politest, more nonchalant expression on your face. You let him stew in the awkwardness, waiting for him to break and ask.

He doesn't. Brandon just smiles, though this time it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He holds out his hand and despite how you don’t want to, you place your own in it to shake it.

“Well, it’s been real nice getting to meet you. I hope I’ll see more of you later tonight.” He smiles like a promise. His grip tightens in the handshake.

You grip his hand tighter, matching his strength, and for the first time in the whole conversation, you match his perfectly fake smile.

“Not if I see you first,” You say, spoken pleasantly enough that the meaning of your words doesn’t sink in until you’ve pulled back. You urge Steve somewhere, anywhere that’s not here.

“C’mon, let’s get that drink.”

There’s a punch-bowl out in the living room, thankfully. Displayed next to it is a large jell-o mould, arsenic green, and jiggling gently whenever someone bumps the table. Rich people stuff, you assume.

You eye it curiously as Steve quietly ladles a cup for you, then himself.

The punch is pineapple flavoured but peachy in colour. You sniff the cup Steve gives you hesitantly before you take a small sip. It’s nice. Mostly juice.

You peer up at Steve over the next sip and the cup hides your near hiccup of surprise when his hand slides along your waist. His hand, warm and large, settles on the small on your back and urges you closer.

“That was— wait, this is okay, right?” He pulls his hand back an inch, hovering over your waist. You nod without having to think about it.

“Okay,” He sighs in relief, resting it back down. His thumb moves, soothing along the fabric almost absentmindedly.

He grins at you, “That was, like, amazing to watch. The whole —not if I see you first— just, god, his face. Amazing.” His hand on your waist squeezes lightly. “You’re amazing. I didn’t know you could be so snobby.”

He says the last word slightly too loud and you laugh, worriedly stealing a glance around the room. No one’s paying you much mind. You do notice, however, that Brandon’s meandered into the living room now.

You sidle closer, tucking up under Steve’s arm.

Surprise touches Steve's features; his brows raising a bit, lips parting, and cheeks colouring that ruby colour once more.

It’s as if, despite all your previous agreements, he’s forgotten that you’re supposed to be acting like a couple.

As if he’s forgotten that couples act like this. In love, that is.

“Are you finding this weird?” He murmurs, volume control on this time. It’s said just to you, muffled into your hairline.

From afar, you think it might look like he’s kissing your forehead.

You take another sip of the punch, peering at his dress shirt, and consider his question. It’s not weird, per se. You tell him as much.

“I think it’s just new,” You look up at him — closer than you usually ever see him. His lashes are long and spidery. His hazel eyes are lighter under the lights. “Just different to what we’re used to. It’s… nice, I think.”

“You think?”

You expect Steve to tease you for your own unexpected soft answer but instead, his response comes out with a strange reverence.

If you had to pick a word, something traitorous would maybe call it hopeful. Wait, traitorous? Wait, hopeful?

"Yeah," You shrug a little, no big deal. "I mean it's not that much different from how we already are, right? Just a little more..."

Steve's thumb swatches along your back, more intentionally this time.

"Touchy?" He provides.

You nod and pretend the strange acknowledgement isn't making you feel a tad more flustered.

The touchiness is really quite nice. It’s sweet to have an anchor in this freaky social situation, very much unlike the aforementioned and abandoned Ariel. Steve’s hand on you is a grounding touch, a constant soft reminder of the person who has your back—literally.

And the person is Steve — which, again, isn’t really that different from what you’re used to. He sorta always has your back anyway.

You suppose it hasn't really crossed your mind before, not in depth at least, the small changes that would occur if you and Steve really did date.

How different would it really be?

Chin tilting up, you slyly steal a look at him as Steve scans the party. He's probably planning escape routes, jaw clenched subtly. He's clean-shaven, not a whisper of that stubble that you think suits him rather well.

Would you still be friends, if the two of you dated?

The question feels silly the moment you think it, even if it's only spoken in your mind. You wrinkle your nose lightly and hide it behind another sip of punch. There's an easy answer to that.

Of course you would. It's like you just said: not that different from how you are now. Same teasing dynamic, same loyal history, same sharing embarrassing secrets and same driving around doing nothing, loving it.

Just more. More of this.

Steve squeezes your side warmly, his head twisted to look back down at you. He's asked you a question you realise.

"Hm?"

"I was asking how long do you think it's acceptable to wait to fake a heart-attack to get us out of here?”

Amusement draws your eyebrows up. You grin up at Steve. "A heart-attack? At your youthful, healthy age? C'mon, Steve, they'll never believe it."

Steve's expression twitches closer to bitchy as he considers your rebuttal. You take another sip of punch. He relents.

"Fine. What else? I’m not above faking haemorrhoids.”

The punch in your mouth comes back out in a surprised splutter, thankfully landing mostly back in your cup. A drop of it streaks down your chin.

Your surprise quickly morphs into a glare, eyes shifting up to deliver it to your best friend.

The shit-eating grin on Steve’s face tells you that his timing was not accidental.

“You’re unbelievable,” You hiss because what happened to the polite, head down, and not eventful approach that Steve had all but pleaded from you?

He reaches for a napkin for you without asking — and then tugs you in closer with the hand around your waist, brings the napkin up to your face. He hovers, giving you a moment to realise what he’s doing, before he dotingly swipes away the streak of juice.

“Careful now, honey,” He says, giving the petname a teasing intonation.

How he managed to pick the petname that does actually make your heart perk up in your chest is beyond you. Maybe he knows you better than you think.

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You ask, brows raised, pretending to be annoyed. Your bitten-back grin gives you away. “Making me spit my punch and then just sprinkling in a petname—”

“—like you didn’t do that first, with Brandon in the kitchen.” Steve interjects. He crumples the napkin and drops it back on the table.

“Okay," You say. "Fair."

"We forgot to discuss that, actually," Steve says. He sounds casual but he looks away, studying the punchbowl rather intently. "What... like, do you like to be called? In a relationship?"

It is an oversight both of you managed to miss, which makes you feel a little foolish now. You focus on the question.

"I like honey," You admit gingerly. A tepid smile threatens at your lips and when you look up at Steve, he's already turned back to watch you closely. "It's a bit old-fashioned. Sounds more like something you say if you're married but...I think it's nice."

"Yeah," Steve says softly. "Me too."

Something hums brightly in your chest at his gentle expression, his fondness zeroed in only on you. You break his gaze to swallow, your mouth suddenly dry.

"What about you?"

Steve chuckles. "Don't like babe."

"Too late."

“Yeah, well, obviously.”

There’s a beat and you think if you’ve ever had this conversation before. Sweetened preferences didn’t usually make it into your gossip sessions. This is new territory.

“I like sweetheart too,” Steve says, somewhat offbeat. As if he’d thought for too long if he’d say it or not.

He peers down at you, a scrunch in his nose. “Not like Brandon says it though. He might’ve ruined that one for me.”

“He can ruin this dinner, but not that.” You decide for him. “C’mon, sweetheart. We look like we’re stealing all the punch.”

Using your hand in his, you lead him away from the punch table and weave through the people milling about the living room. A touch of resistance makes you glance back. You can see a pink glow painted on Steve’s cheeks.

Your feet come to a halt, twisting back to properly face him. You can’t resist the urge to tease. “Oho, you weren’t kidding- you do like that one.”

“Oh, shut up,” Steve murmurs, his tongue pressed into his cheek and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t believe I raised you so poorly as to address a lady like that, Steven.”

You jump at the intrusion, realising you’d unluckily managed to stop right beside Mr. Harrington. Fuck, why are all of Steve’s family so good at sneaking up on you? You chalk it up to their snakeish tendencies.

“Dad.” Steve says hurriedly. Then, with a quick swallow, he corrects himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Harrington is not what you’d call an impressive man. Sure, his suit is tailored to fit and you have no doubt his overwhelming cologne costs more than three paychecks combined — but in substance? He lacks. Severely.

You’ve met him thrice.

Every time, you wonder how someone as wonderful as Steve, can come from someone like him.

Though, it certainly explains the god-awful ‘King Steve’ phase Steve had gone through in his freshman and sophomore year. You shiver at the memory.

“It was warranted, Mr. Harrington, believe me,” You jump in to move the attention of Steve’s father back to you, easily shouldering the blame. A smile, cool and collected, graces your face. “I was teasing him, after all.”

Mr. Harrington grunts in disagreement. “Hardly an excuse to speak so crudely, especially in front of guests.”

Opening your mouth to defend him again, Steve speaks first. “You’re right, sir. I apologise, it won’t happen again.”

Steve still shoots you a thankful glance. You clamp down your half-formed response and squeeze his hand instead. He squeezes back.

Maybe the two of you should’ve learned morse-code with all the squeezing you’re both doing. You hadn’t anticipated holding his hand for this long.

You could let go. You don’t really want to — and you’re pretty sure, neither does Steve.

You can’t remember the last time you held his hand.

“Your new girlfriend, I presume?” Mr. Harrington nods to you.

Steve barely gets a moment to respond when his father is waving him forward, stepping back to open a circle of middle-aged men behind him.

“Come, there’s a few associates I’d like you to meet, Steven.”

There’s no question, only a demand. Despite how it feels like stepping into a pit of vipers — damn you, Discovery Channel — you and Steve join the circle.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Harrington addresses the four men before you, a wry smile on his face. “My son, Steven.”

Then, as an afterthought, with a glance your way. “And his girlfriend.”

“Oh? Not fianceé?” One of the men speaks up. He’s balding, his hair combed over in an attempt to cover his ruddy coloured scalp.

“I’m afraid you’re thinking of my other son, Brandon.” Mr. Harrington says, words suddenly imbued with a proud tone. Steve’s hand grows rigid in yours, though you don’t think he’s even noticed. You send a squeeze back.

A different man speaks up. This man has all his hair, but also has a pot-belly that threatens to send buttons on his dress shirt flying.

“Ah, well, fianceé to be, I bet.” He says, speaking directly to Steve and ignoring you. “Soon it’ll be the ol’ ball and chain. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, son.”

Then the fucker winks at you—as if you’re in on some big joke. A deep, miserable pity dawns in you for their wives.

“Actually,” Steve begins. There’s an edge in his voice.

You glance up at him concernedly — sure, these guys are douchebags, but you know that. Throwing in the polite and heads-down approach in front of his father might be the worst timing ever.

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Steve says. The bite in his voice has receded and instead, he sounds calm. Polite. “My girlfriend is one of the best things in my life. She’s smart, talented, beautiful— and why she chooses to waste her time with me is a mystery to me.”

He speaks as though he believes every word he’s saying, a hundred percent. You realise you’re holding your breath when Steve turns to look down at you. His hazel eyes are soft, genuine.

“She makes me a better person. She’s… She’s my best friend.”

The line between your genuine friendship and this fake concocted act blurs entirely — and suddenly, you can’t tell what is real and what is not.

Worse, you’re not sure which you'd prefer more.

Does he really think all those things about you?

Steve, who should probably, definitely take up an acting gig after this, plants a quick, nimble kiss on your forehead to sell his loving words.

He turns back to his father’s business friends.

“Believe me, if I ever get so lucky as to marry her, I’d be the ball and chain.” He chuckles. “Not the other way around.”

You’re still holding your breath, heart stuck somewhere halfway up your throat. The businessmen before you show varying amounts of surprise and annoyance—none more of the latter than Mr. Harrington himself.

It doesn’t matter. Steve’s said it all in that perfectly polite way that’s so often been used against him. Something within you glows hotly with pride.

“Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us,” Steve says politely. He drops your hand to re-link your arms once more, then nods to them. “I need to reapply my haemorrhoid cream.”

You’re pretty sure Steve turns you both away from the conversation as fast as he does, knowing that you’re gonna laugh. You do, his last sentence so unexpected it turns your laugh into this foul half hacking, half coughing noise.

Steve pats your back, expecting it, raising his voice as he walks you forward, “There, there.”

There’s a little smugness in his tone. You wait until you pass back into the front hall — now Cynthia Harrington free — to unlink your arms and smack him on the chest.

“Asshole!” You exclaim, but you’re already laughing. Steve’s laughing too, the sound bright and honeyed amongst the dull murmur of the event. God, the looks on their faces.

“I didn’t think you would actually do that.”

“Hey, it got us out of the conversation, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but,” You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, gaze falling from his for a moment. “I mean, won’t your dad…?”

Steve sighs and then shrugs. “I think I’m done trying to impress people like that. If you’re not up to standard to them, why the hell would I care about their opinion of me?”

Your heart feels a little wobbly at that. Steve has always been devastatingly earnest; it’s just less often directed at you. The two of you are used to teasing.

You fall back on it. “Awww,” You coo, gripping his forearms and leaning forward with a coy grin. “You got haemorrhoids for me, honey? That’s so romantic.”

Steve narrows his eyes, trying and failing to suppress his own smile.

“Hey. Fake haemorrhoids, thank you very much.”

“Eh, what’s the big difference?”

“One is my bleeding heart, the other is my bleeding ass, is the big difference.”

He can barely get through the sentence before his laugh takes over. You dissolve into laughter too, cheeks beginning to ache with the force of your grin.

“Steve? Leaving so soon?”

The sweet bubble of laughter around you and Steve pops at the sound of Brandon’s voice. He’s in the doorway that leads to the kitchen and at your attention, he steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah, actually,” Steve says. His eyes track Brandon with every calculated step his brother makes til he stops, a few metres from you both.

“Y’know, I heard that hasty exit in front of dad. Did you know that was in front of Mr. Collings? Y’know, the one guy dad’s trying to close a deal with?”

Shit. You swallow heavily. You didn’t know that. You know neither did Steve.

Beside you, Steve grows tense. When he swallows, you hear his throat click from dryness.

Brandon watches and revels in the tiny reactions, his smirk growing. He tucks his hands into his suit pockets casually.

“I talked with mom, too. Learned some interesting stuff, especially about your pretty lady here.”

He nods to you, hazel eyes slicing across to meet yours. Your nerves start to stand on end, something threatening in his calm demeanour setting you off. You grip Steve’s forearms tighter.

“That she is the best friend you’ve been mooning over all these years. And I just thought—” Brandon clicks his tongue. “Man, what are the chances that we don’t hear a thing about you two getting together until this conference? Crazy timing, if you ask me.”

He tilts his head to the side, examining the two of you closely. His smug nature is far, far too much like that of a predator toying with its prey.

“It’s like- wait, no—”

Brandon cuts himself out, fishing a hand out his pocket to gesture to you, grinning smugly like something is funny.

“Is he paying you?”

You recoil back, so baffled and taken aback by the cruel mockery Brandon jumps to make of his younger brother. To make of your best friend.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap.

Brandon blinks, surprised, and a bit of his smugness dries up. He draws his hand back, holding it up defensively.

“C'mon, like it's not just the kind of pathetic move he’d pull. I haven’t even seen the two of you kiss.”

He chuckles as if the idea is ludicrous.

STEP THREE: THE KISS

You act without thinking — turning back to Steve, your hands reach up to tightly grasp the collar of his dress shirt.

You see Steve’s hazel eyes widen ever-slightly, then you’re pulling him down, pressing up on your toes, and kissing him.

And… oh.

He’s not half bad at that, you think. It takes Steve a moment, but then his arms circle your waist and after a tentative moment, he kisses back gently, deepening the kiss. Not bad at this at all.

For one brief, precious second, you’re kissing your best friend.

And it's entirely incomparable to any kiss you've experienced before—immeasurable in passion and utterly undoing in a thousand ways.

Steve breathes a little heavier, his cheeks flushed, when you break away. You sink back down off your tiptoes, hands dragging off Steve’s rumpled collar to rest on his chest. You turn to face Brandon.

He doesn’t look so smug anymore. He looks ticked off. Good.

“Brandon, you’re an asshole.” You state plainly. “I hope one day, soon, your fiancée realises what a cruel and shallow bully you really are. And I hope she leaves you for it. Truly.”

The ticked off expression on Brandon's face veers closer to aghast and offended—as if he can’t believe you have the gall to speak to him that way.

“I hope you realise what a stain you are on other people’s life and I sincerely hope that I never have the displeasure of meeting you again.”

Moving to grip Steve’s hand in yours, you move towards the door without a goodbye.

STEP FOUR: THE AFTERMATH

It’s bright outside. Stepping out feels a bit like waking from a stress dream, where in reality, the sun is shining and things that were driving you nuts aren't really problems you actually have.

You stall on the front doorstep, where you were just an hour or so ago.

Well, that didn’t go… awfully, you think. In fact, you’re feeling quite happy with serving Brandon a perfect brand of his own medicine.

You’re about to open your mouth and say as much when Steve drops your hand, brushing past you to head down the stairs, “C’mon, let’s go.”

Your stomach drops at the tone of his voice, a prickly disappointment draped over his words. You’d think you’re reading into it — if Steve wasn’t currently heading for the car, not even waiting for you to catch up. A dead giveaway.

Tights itching from the hasty movement, you quickly follow him and puzzle for a moment. He’s mad. But at what? It takes only a moment to hazard a pretty good guess.

Before the dinner, the awkward conversation of how touchy you two would be had been breached. You and Steve both agreed; no kissing. Even with how close the two of you were, it felt like strange territory to cross into. An unspoken line not to cross.

By kissing him, you’d broken that rule.

Guilt wells up within you. Your moment of telling Brandon to suck it suddenly feels tainted by the sliminess of kissing Steve without permission. You pull at your tights uncomfortably, trailing behind Steve on the sidewalk.

As you reach his car, you swallow the lump in your throat, and speak up.

“I'm sorry, okay?"

Steve, who's reached the driver's side door, looks up and over the top of the car. Then furrows his brow.

"What?"

"For..." The word gets stuck in your throat like wet paper. "Kissing you when we said we wouldn't do that. That was-" You inhale sharply and study the trim along the edge of the car window.

"I just really couldn't stand how he was talking to you. And I thought that would shut him up."

You glimpse back up at Steve. He's softened a little at your words, the crease between his brows gone now. His eyes dart away, a muscle in his jaw working tightly.

"Yeah, well, you were right. It worked."

Steve seems to hear how short his words sound right after he says them, especially as you rear back an inch. He gives a sigh, his eyes falling shut for a moment. "Look, I'm not mad about the kiss, okay?"

His particular wording isn't lost on you.

"But you are mad." You press.

"I'm not."

You step closer to the car, desperate to understand. He is mad but he's not mad about the kiss? Does that mean he is or isn't mad at you?

"You sound mad."

Steve makes a sputtering noise, like he's torn between denying it or not. You catch it, pressing your hands against the car window to lean in even closer.

"So, you are mad. At me? Are you sure it's not because of the kiss?"

“Yes. No." He's furrowing his brow again, confused between how to answer your question correctly. He pinches the bridge of his nose with another sigh. "It’s- no, I'm not mad at you.”

Still not an exact answer. You eye him warily, your guilt still lingering at the front of your chest, aching painfully. It forces out your next words, reminiscent of a rambling apology. You take a step back from the car and begin to pace.

"It's okay if it is the kiss, Steve. I- I mean, we said we wouldn't and I broke that- and I don't want you to ever feel like—"

“I just— I didn’t want our first kiss to be like that!”

That halts your pacing, feet quite suddenly rooted to the spot. You turn rapidly back to Steve, your eyes wider than they were a moment ago, heart jammed back up your throat. Did he just say...?

Steve realises what's escaped him a moment after you do. His hand leaps to cover his mouth as if he can smother the secret he's just let slip.

His eyes crush closed. He smushes his hand against his face more forcefully as though he's trying to push the words back into his mouth.

"What does that mean?" You ask softly. "Steve?"

He clears his throat, dragging the hand down and off his face sluggishly. "That, ah, no- nothing!" He deflects, hands making a crossing motion. "It means—zilch. I just, ah, you know- it's—"

He's thought about it before—about how he'd want a first kiss between the two of you to go.

A glow in you dissolves, the saturated sweetness of it riding through your veins like a sugar rush. You have a sudden wish you weren't wearing such a ghastly outfit for this conversation.

"Steve," You interrupt him. You round the front of the car slowly, stopping with still some distance between you. Let him meet you in the middle. If you're right about all this, that is.

"If there's even a small part of you that wants to do that again," Your breath shudders at your inhale. "You need to tell me."

"A small part?" Steve echoes your words, his tone incredulous. He rounds the car to meet you, his hands out in front of him, flexing into fists. "Don't— don't say what I think you're going to say, if you don't mean it."

He pauses in front of you, eyes blazing with a fierce emotion as he stares down at you. He studies your face and then groans, tipping his head back and burying his hands in his hair.

"It's a big part, y/n. A huge fucking part of me wants to kiss you again and has wanted to for awhile." Steve stresses. His hands sag down from his mussed hair to hang off his neck before he gestures back to the Harrington house.

"What I said in there? About my crush on you being ages ago? I lied. I've had a crush on you for years and I don't think I ever stopped and so if you don’t mean what I think you mean, please don’t… Don’t give me hope.”

There's desperation in his final plea.

A thousand emotions course through you, all competing for your attention. You squint incredulously at Steve, half tempted to sock him for the feeling of a kept-secret. You're best friends for gods sake. Years. Years, he said.

A tremble takes your heart. You open your mouth and try to find the right words.

"Wha... You never said anything."

It comes out a little insulted.

Steve stares at you, flabbergasted. "You never seemed interested!"

"I didn't think I was your type!"

Though it seems impossible, Steve's eyes widen further, his hands shifting to hold out before him, fingers spread wide.

"Are you saying you've thought about it before!?"

"No!" You exclaim, suddenly stressed. You run your hands across your face agitatedly. "I mean, yes. Of course, I've thought about it before!”

Your fingers splay against your cheeks, pulling an expression not unlike the painting The Scream. You're not sure you've ever been this stressed, this undone before.

“Every day through fuckin' high school someone asked me if we were a thing. I just... hadn't, like, considered it til today. Properly."

"Okay, okay," Steve breathes in deeply.

He brings his hands together, clasping them, and he rests them against his forehead. For a second, he stares at the ground before he meets your gaze, dropping his hands.

"And... now?"

Fuck. Right. Cards on the table, you guess.

"Like," You don't know where to put your hands now. They drop off your face and hang loosely at your side. "I told you, I hadn't really, like, thought about it — but we were in there and it just wasn't that different!"

It's a heavy effort to keep yourself looking at Steve. There's no decoding the expression on his face, not when you're already frantically trying to unscramble your own feelings.

"If we did actually, yanno—" You stumble over the words, a fierce and bumbling heat flaming your face. "—date and be—I don't know—boyfriend and girlfriend, like, I guess what would actually change? And now I think we've just been one step removed from dating this whole time!"

Steve takes an almost quivering breath in and takes a step forward, bringing you both closer. He asks the million-dollar question.

"Would you... want that?"

"I," You flex your hands anxiously. "I don't think we can go back to the way things were." You say truthfully.

Something crestfallen ripples across Steve's face. It's hidden away in the next second. You gulp involuntarily. You feel so nervous you can feel it's fizzing inside you, bubbling like a freshly carbonated drink.

But more than that, it feels like you're balancing on the precipice of something good. Like waiting for news on whether you get something you desperately want.

And there it is; the true revelation.

"And I don't think I want to."

The admittance hangs between you, strung out and tinged with your apprehension and Steve's disbelief. He stares at you, brown hair tousled and messy, pink lips parted in his surprise.

He's your best friend and he's been waiting all this time. Holding the torch quietly, the flame flickering low sometimes, but always burning, always for you.

How the hell did you miss it?

"You..." He croaks. He reaches up and tugs at his tie as if it's suddenly too tight around his neck. "You mean that? You'd want to, like, date me?"

What you really want is to kiss him again. To chase away the tender look of disbelief in his eyes with a passionate press of your mouth against his. But you won't kiss him without asking twice in one day.

"I would like to try," You say. It takes a lot of courage to not lose your nerve. You rock up onto the balls of your feet to let out some of the rampant nervous energy.

Steve clocks it, some part of his brain that knows you, and all your tells well, finally coming back online. You're as nervous as he is, and maybe just as unsure.

But you want to try.

That's about all Steve's ever wanted. A chance for more between you.

He closes the distance between you, his hands shifting up and sliding along your neck to cup your jaw. It's ticklish enough to make you shiver and Steve smiles at the motion. He draws your faces closer and you push up on your toes to reach properly, magnetically drawn in.

He pauses just before your lips can touch.

Your eyes scan his face and he does the same to yours, both of you drinking in the intimate closeness. This close, you can see the tiny quiver hidden in his lips.

Fondness percolates between you, sweeter than sunlight and softer than a daydream. You can't resist the smile that toys at your mouth. Steve smiles too.

You're excited.

His pupils are blown wider than usual, only a ring of hazel around them. It might be your new favourite colour.

"I imagined," Steve murmurs lowly, his eyes now trained on your lips. "Our first kiss would be more like this."

The kiss is different from the one in the hallway. There's no surprise in it, no hesitance — Steve cradles your face between his hands preciously and kisses you so fiercely you ache.

He kisses with painstaking reverence. With an unfaltering adoration. Steve kisses you as though he envies anything that's ever touched your lips.

You grapple to find purchase on his suit jacket, your fingers curling around the material and pulling him closer without breaking the kiss. Steve hums into your mouth, his nose pressing against yours. You're both trying to pull each other closer.

"That was-" You breath heavily against his mouth as the kiss breaks. Your eyes open. Steve's gazing at you through his lashes, honey-eyes doting.

"You-" You try again, realising you haven't finished your sentence. You can barely get a word out, a relentless grin overtaking your lips. "I mean—you thought it- like that?"

"I hoped." Steve whispers. He's grinning too, not yielding any of the nearness between you. His thumbs on your jaw swatch softly across your skin.

God, he'll undo you entirely. This newness, this intimacy, it's ruining you. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and bite it meanly to try to contain your grin.

"So, like, you wanna try? For real?" You say, matching his whisper. Speaking too loud feels like it breaks the moment—and you want to savour it as long as you can.

You can't even imagine how Steve must be feeling, waiting all those years. You take your feelings and multiple them tenfold. It's dizzying. It only endears you even more.

"Like, being boyfriend girlfriend?"

Steve's eyes crinkle in happiness as he scrunches them closed for a moment. His nose scrunches a little too at the motion. He takes a deep inhale and opens his eyes.

"Dating, boyfriend girlfriend, sweethearts, I don't care what you call it." He breathes. "Yes. Yes, to all of it."

Then he kisses you again, stealing the affection off your lips with an ardour that threatens to make your knees weak.

You kiss and kiss until you and Steve are both smiling too much to properly continue.

Only a couple days ago he'd asked the same question you had asked him, except as a begged request to help his ruse. He's the only one you'd have said yes to, you know now, the only exception.

One can only wonder how the two of you would have carried on if you had said no — never gone along with his frankly ridiculous plan, never showed up on his arm to fool an event full of people, never kissed him just to piss off his brother.

Never known the true depths of affection Steve held for you.

As you crowd in closer — your lips skimming across his gently, hearing the hitch in Steve's breath before you kiss him once more— you're thankful you'll never really know.

taggin some peeps below! @illyrianbitch @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @spideystevie @djotime

@katsu28 @inthehystericalrealm @djarinova @cheugyphobe @sunshinesteviee

@sunlitide @citrinesparkles @bigfrogs

just ppl that either expressed interest in the preview or i thought would enjoy! <3 i don't know what possessed me to pick this draft up and straight up like double the word count and finish it in one day but whew,,, i enjoyed that sm

[blank-potato]

From New York To D.C.

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Thunderbolts!Reader

Summary:

“Joaquin Torres,” he says smoothly, offering a handshake. His voice is warm, confident, and you can't lie, it makes you feel a little tingly. The Falcon. You weren’t living under a rock; you knew exactly who he was. You’d seen him on TV, soaring through the sky beside Captain America, pulling off impossible saves like it was just another Tuesday. What you weren’t expecting was to see him up close. And of course, he was even hotter in person. And now you were supposed to keep your cool? Life’s unfair.  You hesitate only a moment before taking his hand. “I know,” you say, your voice a touch too honest. That earns you a small laugh, which you mentally pat yourself on the back for.  “Fan?” he asks, eyebrow lifting in amusement. You try to play it cool, despite the fact that your brain is short-circuiting. “Something like that.” Or You're both on different Avengers teams, but when you hit it off at a gala, you start sneaking around.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, making out, implied smut but no smut, late night phone calls, teasing, mutual pining, sneaking around, getting together, love confessions, getting caught, rooftop date, texts from the new avengers group chat, reader breaking and entering for Joaquin...twice

WC: 6.7k

A/N: Might be obsessed with Joaquin Torres right now. The crush I have on Danny Ramirez is actually driving me to madness. Enjoy the product of said madness.

***

Galas were the worst. Stiff suits, fake smiles, and enough small talk to make your brain melt. But the whole team had to show up to these things. Public events, fundraisers, whatever would help. The New Avengers’ reputation was still… rocky, and good PR was something your squad desperately needed.

You’re at a charity gala in D.C., standing near the hors d'oeuvres table, staring down a plate of shrimp like they’ve personally betrayed you. Everyone had disappeared off somewhere, so you were left on your own with nothing but time.

You’re so lost in your own misery that you don’t even notice someone reaching past you to grab one. Your eyes follow the hand up the arm, to the shoulder, and finally to a face. A very handsome face. He doesn’t look at you at first, too focused on choosing between the shrimp and some kind of crostini. 

But then his gaze flicks to you, and stays. You’re so happy it does, even if you’re halfway to melting by the time he’s opening his mouth.  

“Joaquin Torres,” he says smoothly, offering a handshake. His voice is warm, confident, and you can't lie, it makes you feel a little tingly.

The Falcon. You weren’t living under a rock; you knew exactly who he was. You’d seen him on TV, soaring through the sky beside Captain America, pulling off impossible saves like it was just another Tuesday.

What you weren’t expecting was to see him up close. And of course, he was even hotter in person. And now you were supposed to keep your cool? Life’s unfair. 

You hesitate only a moment before taking his hand.

“I know,” you say, your voice a touch too honest. That earns you a small laugh, which you mentally pat yourself on the back for. 

“Fan?” he asks, eyebrow lifting in amusement.

You try to play it cool, despite the fact that your brain is short-circuiting. “Something like that.”

You collect yourself, ready to give an introduction.  “I’m—”

“I know who you are too,” he interrupts, a glint of something teasing in his eyes.

You smirk. “Keeping tabs on the competition?”

“Competition? Not quite.”

“Oh really?” You step in just a little closer, just enough to make it obvious. Your eyes meet his, and there’s a flicker of tension. But you invite it, a little tension never hurt anyone.

He grins, cocky and unbothered. “Yeah… because we’re the actual Avengers.”

You roll your eyes, scoffing playfully. “I don’t know about that, Torres.”

He laughs, and you feel it in your chest, a warm ripple that makes this whole awful gala suddenly seem a lot more tolerable.

“I know we’re on opposite sides of this lawsuit,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice, “but… do you want to dance?”

He nods toward the dance floor, offering you his hand. You know you probably shouldn’t take it; there are rules, professional boundaries, and logic, but there’s no saying no to those pretty brown eyes of his.

“Just don’t drop me on my ass,” you mutter, slipping your hand into his.

His hand is bigger than yours, warm and steady. It makes you feel… safe. Which is ridiculous and borderline embarrassing considering you’ve known him for all of five seconds. But that’s just the Joaquin Torres effect.

As the music wraps around you and your bodies move together, close enough to blur lines, you tilt your head up and smile. “You’re not a bad dancer.”

He chuckles, effortlessly keeping in rhythm. “I’ve got some moves.”

You raise a brow. “Just on the dance floor?”

He looks at you like he already knows you’re trouble, and before long, the smirk he tried to hold back finally wins.

“In some other places too.”

He spins you with ease, pulling you back into him in one smooth, practised motion. He was too good. 

“You might’ve just made my night, Torres.”

He glances at you, arching a brow. “Is that right?”

You lean in, voice soft against his ear, “Between the mindless small talk and repetitive conversations, it’s nice to talk to someone that actually interests me.”

His breath catches, heart hammering, but he doesn’t back away. A burst of confidence then makes you guide his hand lower, to the small of your back, and feel his fingers press in a little more firmly, holding you there.

“You interest me too,” he says, casually.

You have no idea if you’re doing a good job of being super hot and super mysterious or if you’re playing right into his hands but either way you interest him. 

That’s a good thing, right?

When the song ends, the room's energy shifts, but neither of you moves right away. Joaquin's thinking, you don't know what about, but you swear in that moment you’d never wanted to know anything so bad. 

“Want to go to the balcony?” he asks.

You blink, surprised but smiling. “What?”

“What do you mean what?” he teases, tugging you gently toward the nearest door. You walk with him, weaving through the crowd, but your gaze stays locked on his. He moves smoothly, like he knows just where to step. Meanwhile, you’re trying your best not to trip over your feet; you feel completely lost in him. 

Is this what love at first sight is? Turning into a mindless idiot?

You get out to the balcony being able to see all the night lights flickering in the distance, the stars out in full force tonight.

Letting out a sigh of contentment, you notice Joaquin staring at you and only you, the view from the balcony couldn’t concern him less. You were the main attraction. 

“You’re looking at me a certain type of way…,” you murmur.

“Can you blame me?” he says softly, opening the door and guiding you outside, into the night.

He leans casually against the railing, eyes still locked on you like he couldn’t dream of looking anywhere else.

“I was just thinking,” Joaquin says, voice low and sincere, “I’ve seen some pretty incredible views flying over the Grand Canyon, New York at sunset…”

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “And?”

He tilts his head, grin softening into something more earnest. “None of them made my heart race the way you do.”

You should’ve known something like that was coming. But still you bite your lip, fighting the smile tugging at your cheeks. “God, you’re smooth.”

“Only when I mean it, and I mean every word.”

“You’re going to make me do something I regret,” you admit. 

It wasn’t a lie. If he kept looking at you with those pretty eyes and talking to you with that voice of his, you’d pounce on him right here, right now. Important senators, dignitaries and politicians be damned. 

“If you keep looking at me like that, I might too,” Joaquin says. You swear he can read your mind, or maybe you were drooling right in front of him and just didn’t realise.

“So, you wanna go somewhere more private?” he suggests, and you’re a little surprised he beat you to it. 

Somehow, those words are enough to make something inside you give way. A dam breaking. A match struck.

As soon as he said that, you briskly made your way to the nearest empty hallway and started trying to devour each other. 

You press him back against the wall, the distant hum of gala music barely registering anymore. His breath catches, hands hovering at your waist like he’s not sure if this is real, or if he should hold back.

“You wanna— are we doing this?” he asks, still not quite believing that he’s gotten himself into this situation. 

“Yeah, we’re doing this.”

You loosen his tie a little, not even trying to tease him and pull him for a sloppy kiss.  You needed him now, fuck being mysterious. You find yourself smiling against his lips when you feel him grip the fabric of your clothes to press your body against his. The kiss grows messier, hotter, as if the two of you are trying to make up for every second you spent not trying to eat each other's faces. 

Your breath is shaky when you finally look up at him, his eyes are blown wide, hair messier, lips parted so beautifully. He might just be the death of you. You might just drop dead right now, in the middle of this gala, and your biggest regret would be that you never got to have sex with him. 

“You…,” he breathes out, forehead pressed to yours. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

What did he think he did to you?

You tilt your head slightly, smirking. This was doing wonders for your ego. All this from him, and after one dance, was insane, but the chemistry was undeniable.

“I could say the same about you,” you murmur, your fingers brushing along his jaw. “One dance and you’ve got me sneaking around like a teenager.”

You slip your hands beneath the hem of his shirt, palms against warm skin. “I want you to show me just how much you want me.”

Joaquin crashes his lips back onto yours, determined to make sure you never forget how good he could make you feel. 

You pull back to breathe again, now wishing you didn’t have to put space between you. Oxygen was secondary; Joaquin was the only thing you needed right now.

“Fuck,” you whisper, eyes raking over him, “you’re perfect.”

Your fingers trace along his jawline, and before you know it, you’re both pressed close, the hallway closing in around you, knowing full well anyone could walk by at any second.

You nearly lose your balance when he starts kissing your neck. It’s feather-soft, barely there but devastating all the same, making you feel like you’re floating. The heat of his lips on your skin, his cologne, warm and comforting, drifting in and making you weak. 

“Damn,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and rough.

You feel a buzz against your thigh and pull back confused. 

“You’re uh… vibrating.”

“Oh, it’s my phone,” Joaquin says, now a little sheepish as if he wasn’t just turning your brain to soup. He sighs and fishes it out of his pocket, his eyes widening when he sees who’s calling, “It’s Sam, I kinda disappeared on him, I should…”

“Oh yeah, of course,” you reply, still slightly out of breath. Before you completely detangle from each other. As you walk away, you can’t find it in yourself to stop smiling, heart still racing from the encounter. You wish you’d gotten his number, but you had your ways. You weren’t exactly the giving-up type.

“See you soon, Falcon,” you mutter to yourself as you watch him stumble out of the hallway, trying to fix his hair and tie. And you’re totally not looking at his butt… it’s a cute butt, though.

***

Morning hit Joaquin like a ton of bricks. He’s normally on his best behaviour, but the unexpected happened. So maybe you actually hit him with a ton of bricks.�� There was something about you he couldn’t shake, and it wasn’t just the way you pushed him up against a wall and kissed him like your life depended on it.

There’s a distinct, irritating buzzing coming from his nightstand. It was too early to be receiving calls in his world.

He groans, slapping at the desk trying to pick it up when his phone vibrates again.

“Hello,” he grunts as he finally answers, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, still sprawled out on his stomach.

“Torres?” The voice on the other end is familiar to him, but he can’t quite place it. Whoever it is, it made his heart skip a beat, that’s for sure. It was sweet and gentle, with a hint of something hopeful that caught him off guard.

He sits up, now a tiny bit more awake, “Who is this?”

“The girl you were dancing with last night…the one you made out with,” you tease.

He chuckles, amused even though he sounds half-asleep. “Ah, the fake Avenger.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“How did you get my number?” he asks, a note of curiosity slipping in. He’s 99% sure he didn’t give you his number, only because he was kicking himself on the way home for not doing so.

There’s a brief pause, then a soft shuffling sound, “Hello?”

“Yeah, I’m still here…” you say, voice a little shaky.

On the other side of the line, you’re hesitating, knowing you might’ve crossed a line. Maybe even been a little sneaky and broken a few laws. But when a guy like him sweeps you off your feet, you do what you have to do. “I have my ways.”

He laughs again, warm and genuine, and you can’t help but feel relieved. At least you’re not officially a stalker in his eyes.

“So, to what do I owe the honour?" he asks, voice still thick with sleep but curious.

“I’m in D.C. for another day and a bit, so… I was wondering if you could show me around the city.”

“You want me to take you out?” Joaquin asks, a playful glint in his eyes. A date? With you? He’s definitely completely awake now.

“If you want to continue what happened last night, before we were so rudely interrupted… maybe have a coffee or two, eat a whole bakery.”

He chuckles, and you swear you’ve never heard anything so sweet. Turns out the Joaquin Torres effect works over the phone too. 

“We’ll have to be careful, with the press and all that.”

“I’m pretty good at disguises…” 

Joaquin grins, probably a little too wide, but he can’t help it. There’s just something about you. 

***

You’re waiting in the park, hat pulled low over your eyes, trying to look casual despite the nerves buzzing in your stomach. Considering you’d tried to climb him literally just last night, you thought you’d be a little less jittery by now. Still…

There’s the sound of footsteps behind you, then a hand suddenly lands on your shoulder. Before you can even think, you spin around and, without warning, flip whoever it is onto the ground.

Groans escape the guy beneath you, and your heart skips a beat when you hear a familiar voice.

“Torres?” you ask, eyes wide as you stare down at the very cute superhero sprawled on the grass.

He laughs weakly, rubbing his back. “Is this how you say hello? Judo moves?”

You cover your mouth in shock. Talk about making a bad impression. He stands up, dusting himself off casually. 

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, still frozen in your position.

“It’s alright, I can take a hit, or well, a flip.”

He chuckles, smiling at you, and you feel yourself relax. You look him over, he’s also dressed down, trying to look as inconspicuous as you are. But there’s no disguising that handsome face of his. If you weren’t careful with these kinds of thoughts, you’d be climbing him again in no time.

“You miss me? Just kidding, I know you missed me.”

“You wish,” you bite back, as if you weren’t the one that invited him here.

“You’re right, I do wish you missed me. It’s not every day that I meet someone like you.”

You roll your eyes, but he’s charming. You’ll give him that.

“So, where to first?”

Joaquin grins, “Anywhere you want, but after I can take you on a fly around the city if you want to.”

“Is that your secret weapon, Falcon? I bet that has all the girls swooning.”

“You have no idea,” he jokes, flashing that easy smile.

The date that wasn’t officially a date went surprisingly well. You both tried not to draw attention as he bought you gelato, then spent a solid hour trying (and mostly failing) to beat the top score on the DDR machine, the two of you laughing breathlessly as Joaquin missed another arrow and nearly tripped. Then came the dramatic groans and determined squints as Joaquin tried to win you a toy from the claw machine, insisting, “One more try. I’ve got the angle this time.” 

Sitting on the roof of his apartment building afterwards, you lean against each other as you hold onto the duck plushie he eventually won you. You’re close, and it feels comfortable, like you’ve known him much longer than just an evening and a day. 

“Will I see you again?” you ask softly. You hope you don’t sound desperate, but you can’t remember the last time it felt so easy to be with someone like this.

“If you want to.”

He looks at you, a small smile tugging at his lips, but says nothing.

“Plus, you have my number,” you remind him with a teasing grin, “You know, the one you hacked to get because you like me so much—”

You cut him off with a playful nudge, “You’re so annoying.”

***

It’s been over a month, and things have been going well between the two of you. Video calls were all that kept you going, sharing movies, teasing each other when one started to nod off on screen. You weren’t expecting to fall for him like this, but here you were, completely hooked.

You call him late at night, after a long day filled with missions, training sessions and meetings. All you need is your daily dose of Joaquin Torres.

The call rings through, and when he finally answers on video, you quickly adjust your hair and straighten your shirt, making sure you look okay before he comes into view. His hair’s a tousled mess of curls, eyes a little tired from working too hard, but still, he smiles at you like you’re giving him energy. 

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite Avenger,” he grins. “Is that Quino?” he asks, nodding toward the duck plushie you’re clutching under your arm.

“Yeah, he misses you almost as much as I do,” you say, waving it at him with a smile, making him chuckle.

All you wish is that he were right there beside you, so you could curl up on his chest and just breathe him in.

“I saw you on TV…” he says, and you’re a little surprised. 

“You did?” You perk up, eyes brightening.

He nods, voice sincere. “You looked really heroic…”

“You really mean that?” you ask, your voice suddenly smaller, softer. The praise meant a lot to you, knowing that what you were doing was actually worthwhile, that you were making a difference and that he noticed that. 

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you grin, tucking your chin into your pillow. “You have the biggest heart. Brave, superhero, and boy—” You pause, catching yourself before you expose yourself. He wasn’t your boyfriend, was he? “...um claw machine extraordinaire.”

“Is that so?” he laughs. Looks like you got away with it. 

“Who else would suffer through that experimental synth-folk concert I dragged you to?”

“It was… experimental and definitely... an experience.”

“Still trying to save my feelings.”

You laugh, warmth blooming in your chest as he mirrors your smile.

“What are we watching tonight?” he asks, adjusting his camera and settling back against his headboard.

You both scroll through options and finally settle on a movie. As the movie plays, you listen to his running commentary, the comfort of his voice softening the distance between you. Even through a screen, it feels like he’s right by you.

At the halfway point, you feel your eyes starting to get heavy. “You falling asleep on me?” Joaquin asks, his voice soft and teasing. This happens more often than you’d like to admit. Something about Joaquin made it impossible for you to have a sleepless night. 

“No…,” you say, but you’re obviously nodding off.

“You sure about that?” he chuckles, watching you blink slowly like each one takes an incredible amount of effort. “Because you just answered with your eyes closed.”

“I’m… just resting them,” you mumble, voice slurring slightly as your head lolls to the side.

Joaquin smiles, soft and fond. “Uh huh. Just resting them. Should I keep talking so you can pretend you’re still awake?”

You don’t answer. Or maybe you do, but it’s a sleepy murmur he can’t quite catch. He watches as you fully drift off, your breathing evening out, face relaxed in the glow of the screen.

“Goodnight,” he whispers. 

And even though you can’t hear him, you smile in your sleep anyway.

***

You can't eat, you can't sleep, what else could it be?

You’re in love.

Which is why you’re currently half-delirious, jet-lagged, and sneaking into his apartment like some lovesick burglar. You tiptoe through the place, heart pounding with excitement and nerves, when you see him. He’s standing in the kitchen, shirt slightly wrinkled, hips moving to whatever beat is pumping through his headphones. He hums along, completely lost in it as he washes the dishes. 

You smile, watching him for a second too long before deciding to sneak up behind him.

Just as you're about to tap his shoulder—

In one swift, fluid motion, he grabs your wrist and flips you over his shoulder. You land on the floor with a thud, him pinning you down before you can even blink.

So this is how he felt that day.

“Joaquin, it’s me!” you gasp, wide-eyed.

“Oh shit,” he mutters, instantly pulling back when he sees your face. He rips his headphones off as muffled music spills into the room.

“Surprise?” you groan, winded but trying to smile. 

“Why on earth did you break into my apartment?” he says, half-scolding, half-amused. He helps you to a sitting position, and you groan again, rubbing your back soothingly. 

“I wanted to surprise you.”

He shakes his head, that crooked grin tugging at his lips. “You’re insane.”

“And yet, here I am.”

He helps you up, laughing under his breath. “You could’ve just knocked.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You hold your arms up, and he doesn’t miss a beat, hosting you into his arms and taking you to his bedroom. 

He places you on the bed, and you snuggle against the sheets, surrounded by Joaquin's scent, something you has been missing a little too much.

"Straight to bed? How did you know I didn't want to go to the living room, hm?" You say as you take off your jacket.

Joaquin's about to give you a snarky answer when he sees it.

The shirt you had on was unmistakable, bright red with a stylised graphic of his wings spread, and “Team Falcon” printed boldly across the chest.

"Are you serious?"

He can't contain the smile that works its way into his face.

“I wanted to show my support,” you say innocently, flopping back on the bed with a grin. “How do I look?”

He stares at you, trying not to smile too widely, eyes dragging over the sight of you.

“Very sexy.”

He’s leaning down, about to kiss the ever-living hell out of you, when you suddenly spot in the corner of the room a small corkboard filled with photos, and one catches your eye. You walk over, squinting a little. “Is that you in high school?”

Joaquin looks up from where he is. “Oh no,” he groans, “I forgot those were still up.”

You practically teleport over there and look at his pictures with glee.

“Your hair was so long,” you say, smiling as you take in the photo of a much younger, slightly awkward but still undeniably cute version of him. “I love it!”

He groans louder, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t say that.”

You move on to another photo, one of him in the Air Force, his smile wide beneath a pair of aviators, arm slung around a fellow pilot, wind whipping through his hair.

“Oh…” you breathe, fingers pausing on the screen. “Now this is a whole different kind of adorable.”

Joaquin leans over to look, a bit embarrassed. “That was before I knew what I was getting into. I thought flying meant clear skies and cool jackets.”

You glance at him, grinning. “And now look at you, still flying, just more likely to encounter an alien or Hulk or something.”

You study the picture for a second longer, then softly say, “You look proud. Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

He quiets, voice softer now. “That day was… big for me. First solo flight. My abuela cried when I sent her the photo.”

You turn to him, warmth blooming in your chest. “She should be proud. I know I am.”

He blinks at you, a little stunned, he wasn’t expecting to get like this with you so soon. “You’re gonna make me emotional over an old picture.”

“Just trying to balance out all the teasing,” you wink. “Can’t have you thinking I’m only here to have sex with you.”

“You’re here to have sex with me?” he says, his voice dipping when his arms wrap around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. He had you, and you didn’t mind one bit.

“Of course, that’s all you heard,” you mutter, putting the picture down as he grins smugly against your neck.

“You said it,” he murmurs, voice low, smug. “Not my fault, I have a gift for selective hearing.”

You huff out a laugh, twisting in his arms to face him. “You are impossible.”

“Oh?” he arches a brow, clearly enjoying the challenge. “You wanna say that again?”

Without warning, you shove him back toward the bed. He stumbles with a surprised laugh and lets himself fall dramatically onto the mattress. “Attacking me now?”

“I prefer the term ‘light sparring,’” you say, crawling onto the bed after him. “What? Afraid to lose, Falcon?”

He tries to roll away, but you straddle his waist before he can escape. “Okay, wow, this took a turn,” he grins, hands hovering in mock surrender.

You lean down, playful but close enough to feel his breath. “Looks like I win.”

"Just wait until I start playing dirty."

He starts tickling you which sends you into a laughing fit, nearly falling onto him. He uses the moment to flip you over, pinning you to the bed with a triumphant grin. “Don’t start a fight you can’t win.”

You pant, giggling, squirming under him. “Not fair. You used the element of surprise.”

“Also known as tactics.” He dips down to kiss you, it’s soft and warm. The kind of kiss you wanna get every day. When he pulls back, his voice is soft. “You’re not just here to sleep with me, huh?”

You look up at him, brushing a thumb across his cheek with a hand you pull free. “No, Joaquin. I’m here because I like you. A lot.”

“Good. Because I like you too. A lot.”

You’re not sure if either of you had admitted it before, but it felt too good to ignore. 

You tug him down beside you, both of you still catching your breath, tangled up on the bed. The teasing fades into quiet comfort, laughter still lingering in the air.

Brushing your stray eyelash off your cheek, he pauses, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the world. Then he kisses you, it’s deep and slow yet intense. His hands cup your face like you’re something important, something precious, and his mouth moves over yours like he’s trying to devour you, trying to pull you into him until you can’t think of being anywhere else. 

When he finally pulls back for air, his gaze drops to the Falcon shirt you’re wearing. He smirks, voice low and teasing. “As much as I love the merch…”

He trails off, fingers ghosting over the hem, and you get the hint. You raise your arms, heart pounding, letting him take it off.

One after another, articles of clothing form a pile on the floor until you’re both naked, your bodies moulding together perfectly against one another. And you must admit you’ve been dreaming about this moment since the first time you kissed. The curve of his shoulders, the tension in his strong biceps as he held himself over you, he was perfection, sculpted even.

His warm lips make their way down your body, slow and deliberate, like he’s savouring every inch of you. Each kiss sends a shiver through you. You’re not sure how you’re going to survive the night. 

“What are you gonna do with me, Joaquin?” you whisper, breath hitching.

He looks up at you, a smile on his lips, eyes dark with emotion. “Whatever you want me to.”

***

“Something’s going on,” Alexei says, “She’s been flying around like a butterfly, no?”

For the past few weeks, you were practically floating around the tower with a grin that wouldn’t quit and a twinkle in your eye. Baking cookies at odd hours, humming to yourself, and sighing contentedly at your phone every time you get a text from someone. Like nothing could get you down, and it’s been weird. 

“We should leave her to it,” Bob says with a smirk, clearly enjoying the cookies a little too much.

You're all busy prepping for a mission. Maps open, gear scattered, energy high, when Yelena approaches with a question, brows knit in mild frustration.

“Don’t worry, I got the schematics on my phone,” you say, handing it to her without looking up.

“It timed out,” she mutters, before turning it back on. But both Yelena and Ava suddenly go quiet.

You’re barely paying attention to the murmurs around the room, eyes fixed on your laptop, until you hear something that makes you want to retreat into yourself like a turtle into its shell.

“Why is Falcon your lockscreen?” Ava teases, and you stop typing instantly. Your head turns, a nervous smile plastered on your face. 

“I—”

You glance around the room. Everyone is looking at you now.

You just had to have him as your lockscreen. 

“I admire his heroics. Is that a crime?” you say, trying to keep your tone light.

“So much so that he’s your lockscreen?” Yelena adds, “This picture isn’t even of him in his suit, he's holding a puppy...”

John looks at the picture and nods in agreement, "Yeah, this seems way more intimate."

You can feel the questions rising in the air, and you’re sure you don’t have a good answer to any of them. 

“I’m a fan, okay? But, I don’t have to explain myself to any of you.”

They exchange knowing looks but drop it, more amused than judgmental. You stare down at your laptop, pretending to be focused again, but your heart’s still racing.

***

You’re waiting on top of Avengers Tower, the wind tugging at your clothes as you hug your arms around yourself. The city glitters below, but your eyes are fixed on the sky. After being teased relentlessly by practically the whole team interchangeably for the past few days, you needed your Joaquin time.

Then you hear it, the familiar sound of metal wings slicing through the air, followed by the soft thud of boots hitting the rooftop. You turn just in time to see him land, wings retracting, that helmet still on and that perfect smile already tugging at his lips.

Without thinking, you rush forward and jump into his arms, laughing as he swings you around. 

“How was the flight?” you ask, breathless, as he laughs and pulls off his helmet.

“Not too bad,” he grins, setting it aside. 

“I love this,” Joaquin says, looking over the modest feast you’ve put together with a genuine smile.

Setting up the movie, you both settle in, cuddling up next to each other. Already feeling more connected than when you’re forced to video call, this was different. Nothing could compare to feeling the warmth of his body vibrating against your side when he talks and laughs.

The movie hits a lull in the action, and you both fall into a comfortable silence.

“Do you think we’ll ever be able to go public?” you ask softly, the city’s quiet hum blending with the flickering screen.

“Absolutely. This is only temporary,” Joaquin replies, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing your cheek like a promise.

You smile, leaning into his touch. “So in other words, you wanna show me off?”

He grins, eyes sparkling. “You bet. Can’t wait for everyone to know you’re mine and I’m yours.”

Your heart skips a beat, as it often does when you’re with him. “We’ve been handling the distance well so far…”

“Yeah,” he nods, eyes locked on yours. “But I’m ready for the part where I don’t have to secretly fly across states just to kiss you goodnight.”

A slow smile spreads across your face, and you reach for his hand, squeezing it gently.

“Me too, Joaquin. Me too.”

***

The day was like most others, busy, a blur of tasks and distractions, but you froze when you saw it. On your phone, a breaking news report flashed: Joaquin, hurtling toward the ground, one wing damaged and useless. The sickening thud as he hit the earth echoed in your mind like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

At that moment, the world stopped spinning. Time slowed to a crawl.

There was no hesitation. You were up, grabbing your things, and moments later, you were on a Quinjet bound for D.C. You knew he was being treated at the Avengers Compound, but you didn’t care; if it meant breaking in, you would.

Fear clutched at your chest, terror gnawing at your bones. The thought that your life could never be the same without him was unbearable. No more late-night calls, no more spontaneous flights through the sky, no more drifting off to sleep to the sound of his voice. It would all be over.

And you weren’t ready to let that happen.

***

The fall was brutal, but it could have been far worse. He had experienced worse, but right now, he was still in a world of pain. The only thing he could think of as he was falling was all the regrets, all the things he’d left undone, left unsaid.

He never got to tell you he…

His eyes flutter open when he hears the unmistakable sound of someone breaking in through the window.

There’s a clumsy rustle as the intruder fumbles with the curtains.

“Fucking… stupid curtains…”

Another muffled thud echoes in the quiet room as the figure trips.

He knew that voice anywhere. He whispers your name, and you look up from the floor. You look like you’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. But instead of fear, your expression melts into a complex mix of emotions. You’re happy to see him alive, terrified, and overwhelmed all at once.

You rush to his side, barely able to hold yourself together, 

He whispers your name again, soft and hoarse, and somehow it eases a fraction of the pain twisting inside you. But he’s still injured, bandaged, bruised, fragile in ways you’ve never seen.

“Joaquin…” you breathe, voice cracking as you lean in and hug him gently, careful not to press on any wounds.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he needs you to survive. Like you’re the anchor that brought him back.

“You scared the crap out of me,” you whisper against his skin, your voice trembling.

His arms wrap around you weakly, but surely. “I’m here,” he murmurs, like a promise he plans to keep. “Not dead.”

Suddenly, the chaos of your joint situation comes to mind…

“The media, our teams—” he begins, voice strained.

“None of that matters!” you shout, the words ripping from your throat. “Not when you’re hurt.”

Your eyes rake over his injured form, bandages stark against his skin, a gash on his side still seeping faintly beneath the gauze.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he offers, trying to sound reassuring.

You step closer, giving him a sharp, disbelieving look. “Are you kidding me?”

He gives a small, sheepish laugh, but it quickly turns into a wince as the movement pulls at his side. “I mean it. I’ve literally shot out of the sky before. This is nothing, I’m actually kind of an expert now.”

You know he’s joking around for your benefit, but you still can’t help but worry. “Don’t downplay it. You almost died.”

His grip tightens slightly around yours. “Yeah, but I didn’t. And you’re here.”

The exhaustion was obvious; he needed you here more than he knew how to express but struggled to find the words.

“Were you stealthy getting in here?” he asks, half amused, half amazed, unable to figure out how you managed it. You had come through the window decked out in tactical gear, which was mildly concerning, so he bets it’s an interesting story.

“Well?” he teases.

You bite your lip, looking just a little guilty. “I scaled the building, and at least ten people saw me come in here. I knocked out a few security guards, and the Quinjet may or may not be parked like... right outside the front door?”

Your list of crimes and bold moves was impressive, and Joaquin couldn’t be more proud. The fact that you did all that for him was overwhelming.

“You didn’t.”

You shrug. “I don’t care. Nothing was going to keep me from you. I…”

“I love you,” Joaquin says, taking the words right out of your mouth. It’s raw and comes straight from the heart. He thinks he’s known this for a while, but never said it aloud.

“I love you too,” you reply, it leaves your lips so easily you wonder why it took you so long to say it. 

For a moment, the chaos of the world fades. It’s just the two of you, in the hush of a hospital room, holding on like it's all that matters. Then you notice your phone flash, you’d put it on silent to do your little sneaky break-in, and you’ve never been more glad you did. 

You glance at the screen to see a flurry of missed calls and texts from the Avengers group chat.

Bucky: Hey. 12:01 PM Bucky: Did you steal the Quinjet? 12:01 PM Bucky: Come back right now, and we might not kill you. 12:03 PM Yelena: You flew to D.C.?!?! 12:07 PM

You scroll down a little further, not liking the nervous feeling that's bubbling in your stomach.

Bucky: HEY.  12:20 PM Bucky: TEXT BACK. 12:20 PM Bucky: ANSWER YOUR PHONE. 12:27 PM

Well, something judging by the texts you can tell there's been an escalation of sorts. The word, 'HEY,' has never been so intimidating and you've now discovered that you don't like it when Bucky types in capital letters.

Ava: 🙃 12:45 PM John: 🙃 12:50 PM

You have no idea what this means.

Bucky: ON OUR WAY. 1:00 PM

You're fucked.

You rest your head on his chest, letting out a long, frustrated groan.

“What’s wrong?” Joaquin asks, voice low and laced with concern.

“There’s a tracker on the jet I stole, and they're coming here,” you mumble into the sheets, muffled by the fabric and your own regret. You sigh, rolling onto your back with a dramatic flop. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Too focused on me?” Joaquin chuckles, warm and amused, and runs his fingers gently through your hair. The gesture is soothing, comforting in a way that only he can manage.

“Always.” You look up at him, with a little pout, “They’re gonna kill me.”

“Nah,” he smirks, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “They’ll just make you do recon missions in Siberia for a month.”

You groan again, burying your face in his side.

“You’re worth it, though,” you mumble, voice soft but certain. “I’d steal ten more Quinjets, if it meant I could be with you.”

Of course, you would. 

Then he smiles, that warm, crooked grin you’ve come to crave, and he leans in to kiss you.

It’s slow, reverent, like all of your kisses. When you never know when you’re going to see one another, it makes it all the more important to cherish each one. You can feel his heartbeat under your palm, his hand slipping into your hair as your lips move together. It’s everything, relief, longing, love. 

You’re careful not to press on his side, mindful of the bandages, but even that doesn’t stop your body from curling instinctively closer. You’re so absorbed in each other that you almost don’t hear the very distinct sound of someone clearing their throat.

You break apart and turn around slowly, only to find Sam standing in the doorway. Getting caught making out with Falcon by Captain America just secured a place on your top ten most embarrassing moments ever, just behind running into a stop sign in front of your whole school. 

Sam doesn’t look mad, but he does look monumentally confused. He’d just walked past the Quinjet parked out front, noticed guards slumped over unconscious, and now finds you two tangled up inside.

He raises an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Is someone going to explain this to me?”

“...Meet my girlfriend?” Joaquin squeaks.

Masterlist || Marvel Masterlist

[hairmetal666]

"Is this always how they act?" Jonathan asks. He has to lean close and yell a little for Robin to hear him over the noise of the house party.

"Yup," she says.

She, Jonathan, and Argyle continue to stare at Eddie, sitting in an easy chair, Steve perched happily on his lap. Eddie has a whole bowl of bbq Lay's, and Steve will lean back for a chip, which Eddie feeds him with a smile.

"And they're definitely not dating?" Argyle asks when Steve leans back to whisper in Eddie's ear, mouth pressed close. It's deeply gratifying that they just got in from California and already they see it.

"Steve says no."

"You think he's lying?" Jonathan asks.

"I think he doesn't realize he likes Eddie yet."

Eddie tugs at Steve's hair, and Steve turns back, gives him a smile that's so intimate Robin can't stare directly at it. Instead, she turns to her friends, but Argyle is still watching Eddie and Steve. He's drumming his fingers against his chin, expression what Robin could only call mischievous.

"What are you planning?" Jonathan asks.

"Just helping some bros find true love."

Jonathan looks mildly concerned but before he can say anything, Nancy makes her appearance. And they're something, becoming something, and she cares about Eddie and Steve getting their shit together, but Nancy is smiling and she's so, so pretty. It's easy to get lost in the blue of her eyes and the sweep of her hair and forget about everything else.

---

A few hours later and they're all sitting around a coffee table in the basement, just the six of them. It's sort of funny, she thinks, how it always ends up being the six of them.

They're crossfaded already, but that hasn't stopped Eddie and Argyle from lighting another joint. Her thoughts have gone light and floaty, all that's holding her to earth the press Steve's leg and Nancy's hand against hers.

Argyle is sort of monologuing and she doesn't think any of them are paying much mind, but then he stops mid-sentence, grips Jonathan's shoulder tight enough that his knuckles go white. "Dudes. What if we played Truth or Dare?"

Nancy snorts. "Not on your life."

"I don't think I can move?" She says. She leans into Steve, sighing with contentment.

"I, for one, would love to see Buckley complete a dare," Eddie says.

She sticks her tongue out at him. "I've done plenty. Band kid, remember?"

"Ugh, curse the horny trumpeters." Eddie slumps on the coffee table in defeat.

"I'll have you know, they were very wholesome games."

Steve squints at her. "Wasn't there an orgy in someone's pool?"

She sniffs, looks away instead of answering, which makes everyone laugh.

"Speaking of sex," Argyle says. "No one catch your eye tonight, Harrington?"

"Wasn't really looking."

"That's new," Jonathan says.

Steve laughs. "I'm tired of hooking up."

He's told her that too, countless times. She thinks the real reason he hasn't dated in months is sitting right next to him, drumming his fingers on the coffee table.

"Maybe you've just lost your touch," Argyle says.

"I have not!" Steve clutches a hand over his heart. "If I wanted to, I could pull any girl upstairs."

"C'mon, my dude, no way you're that good."

"I was!" He looks to Robin, Nancy, Jonathan. "I was, back me up!"

"I don't know, Scoops wasn't your best work," she says.

"No, no, we said Scoops doesn't count! It was the hat. The outfit! I did fine after!"

"I happened to think the sailor costume was very cute," Eddie says.

"Thank you," Steve preens. He shifts away from her to lean into Eddie, who grins.

"I don't think we can trust Eddie's judgement here," Nancy says.

Steve points at her. "Yes, and I remember you being totally uninterested."

She squeaks in indignation, Robin smothering her own giggles behind her hand. "It was--it was hormones!"

"Yeah, very uninterested in me." Jonathan chimes in. There's a little second where no one reacts--the fact that Nancy was technically still with Steve when that happened ringing unspoken between them--before Nancy and Steve start to giggle.

"I've hooked up with everyone I've ever tried to," Argyle chimes in, nonchalant.

"No way," the whole group says.

"I've got the touch."

"C'mon, that literally can't be true just by like...stats," Steve says.

"Don't know what to tell you, my dude." Argyle's smile is smug. "I'm really good."

"You're just jealous," she tells him. She nudges his shoulder so he knows she's joking.

"No! Jealousy has nothing to do with it."

They erupt at that, calling out the obvious lie.

"I'm not upset!" Steve shouts over them. "I'm just saying, it didn't happen. Sorry, Argyle. You have bizzaro charm, but there's no way it has a 100% success rate."

"Sounds like jealousy to me, Stevie." Eddie cocks his head with a smirk.

"Harrington, you're so cute when you're competitive," Argyle says. "Anyway, it worked on--"

"Don't say Jonathan," Nancy, Steve, and Robin all say.

"Hey! Why not me?'

"Well, it's just--" Nancy waves her hand in the air. "You're. I mean. It's not hard."

Jonathan groans, hides his face in his hands as they laugh.

"I'll prove it to you," Argyle says to Steve. "100% success rate."

"What?"

"I'm going to seduce you."

"Oh, shit," she says.

She knows what's going to happen even before Steve puts his hands on his hips, awkwardly cause they're sitting, cocks an eyebrow, and says, "Okay."

Eddie grumbles something she can't make out, but Steve shakes his head, laughs. "Nah, it's just for fun, right?"

"Until it works." Argyle tosses his hair.

Steve rolls his eyes. "Gimme your best shot."

They rearrange around the table, Eddie and Argyle swapping places.

Everyone is quiet for a second, Steve reaches for his drink. "You got great hands, Harrington," Argyle says.

"I--oh, what?" Steve splutters. He goes a little pink, and Robin thinks it's the first time she's seen him this flustered by a compliment.

"Yeah." Argyle takes his hand, traces along his palm and knuckles. "Big. Strong. Like you could really take care of someone."

Eddie kicks the table, sending it rocking, scattering empty cups and chip bags. Steve is crimson, totally oblivious to Eddie's flailing.

"Thanks," he mumbles. He doesn't pull his hand away. Robin, everyone, is riveted.

"No one's ever told you that?"

"No. No one."

"That's too bad. It's probably all about your hair and your eyes and your body."

Steve smiles and it's one she recognizes, flirty and a little wicked. "You noticed my body?"

Argyle laughs. "Oh, c'mon, you know everyone notices that."

"Would you believe it if I told you I don't get enough compliments?"

"Not on your life."

Steve leans into him, giggles. "Well, worth a shot, right?"

"Always. You wanna know the first thing I noticed about you?"

"Ass, right?"

"It was how much you love your friends but you hide it behind a facade of disapproval. Made me think maybe you weren't used to the love you want to give being reciprocated."

They're all locked in on Argyle and Steve, but she notices Eddie flinch, move like he's about to stand, Nancy reaching out to stop him. She thinks, then, for the first time, that maybe this is mean to him. He doesn't know it's not real.

"Oh," Steve says. His voice breaks, a little, and her heart breaks for him. "I--oh."

"Your ass was the second thing I noticed," Argyle quips and the tension around the table breaks, Steve giggling.

With smooth confidence she never would have expected him to possess, Argyle cards his fingers through Steve's hair. "Just had to touch it for myself." His voice is soft.

"That all you want to touch?"

Argyle grins. "Not even a little bit."

She watches, stunned, as Steve leans in, face almost touching Argyle's. Eddie makes a noise, a pained cough, and Steve leaps to his feet.

"I can't kiss you!" He half-yells, stumbling.

"And why not?" Argyle asks. He's got a wild smile on his face.

"I'm in love with Eddie!" Steve's eyes are wide, panicked.

"I'm sorry," Steve says to him. "Eddie, I--"

But before he can get the words out, Eddie's climbing over the coffee table, sending drinks and snacks flying, the calls for him to get down ignored as he trips into Steve's arms.

"You love me?" Eddie asks.

"I'm sorry I couldn't say it before. I--got in my head about it and I--I hoped it didn't seem like I was leading you on because my words kept getting stuck, and--"

"Sweetheart." Eddie stops him. "I--" He breaks off, notices that the rest of them are raptly listening to the confession. "Do you want to go somewhere we can talk?"

They disappear upstairs, and she turns to Argyle in awe. "I can't believe that actually worked."

"What can I say, I'm a miracle worker. Are there more Doritos?"

---

Early in the morning, they're piled in Nancy's station wagon, Jonathan driving them home. She and Nancy are in the middle seat, Steve and Eddie in the back. Steve's curled against him, face pressed to his neck, hidden by a cloud of hair. She wants to ask what happened, how their conversation went, if they're official and how long Steve's known he's in love, but Nancy moves closer, head dropping to Robin's shoulder. Their fingers entwine and Robin closes her eyes, smiles.

"Tomorrow?" Nancy asks.

She nods. "Tomorrow."

[mediumgayitalian]

Will usually wakes up in the dark.

Head Counsellor — and Head Medic — duties, you see. And, moreso, representative of his father (or so the man claims). He must be up to greet the sun, and so he must be awake before it rises.

Pitch black, though.

That’s unusual.

“Do you want to go look at the stars with me,” says the pair of eyes hovering above his bed, which Will assumes are attached to a face, and particularly the face of his best friend.

And Will blinks. And squints. And glances outside, where there is not even the barest hint of sunrise — he can feel, in his chest, that the sun is presently as physically far away from him as it can get at this point in the season.

“Nico,” he croaks, eyes sliding shut again, “It’s two in the morning.”

His eyelids reflect the flash of Nico’s grin. “You sound like a cowboy.”

Will’s eyes pop open, and his face burns. He rockets straight up, shoving his best friend, who is laughing. Crosses his arms.

“I damn well do —” He stops, catching himself. Nico snickers. He scowls, and enunciates his words carefully. “No, I don’t.”

“Like Johnny Cash,” Nico says sagely, because he’s a jerk. “Didja just roll in from town, pardner?”

Will scowls and goes back to sleep.

Except, he doesn’t. Because Nico’s laugh is low and raspy, and the mattress dips by Will’s hip, where he leans against it. Where he rubs his palm over Will’s blanket-covered arm, making him shiver. Where he presses in close. Where the warm puff of his toothpaste-scented breath tickles the curve of Will’s ear.

“C’mon,” he murmurs pleadingly, and without looking Will can see his pout, the roundness of his wide brown eyes. “Please? I’m trying to listen to you. You said I’m not allowed out of camp by myself.” Nico lingers at the curve of Will’s wrist, pressing a cool finger deliberately on his pulse point. Will prays he doesn’t feel it quicken, but he can tell by the smirk in Nico’s voice that he does. “C’mon, Sunshine. I want to watch the stars with you.”

Will practically springs out of bed, he jumps away from that low voice so fast. Nico laughs, muffling it with his hands, and it does nothing for the burn of Will’s face, the writhing and churning in his stomach.

“Nice boxers,” Nico observes, as Will bends over his dresser, muttering to himself. Will freezes, and Nico carries on, voice deliberately controlled. “The Ninja Turtles is a really good look for you.”

Will’s face burns so hotly he ceases to feel anything but his own heartbeat in every square nanometer of skin, and then, to add insult to injury, he begins to glow. In his cheeks, at first, but it spreads quickly to the rest of his face, to his neck, down his chest.

Right down, humiliatingly, past his hips, where it shines through the worn-thin fabric.

“I didn’t know I would have company,” Will hisses, stumbling into the first pair of bottoms he finds. He misses the leg holes four times. The glowing gets worse. “What kind of — sick bastard — drags a man from sleep — and then mocks his sleeping attire —”

“Brave of you to call it attire,” says Nico, seeing as you’re covering much of nothing.”

Will misses the leg holes, again. This time he goes careening forward and lands flat on his face.

He’s still glowing, by the time they finally make it out of the Apollo cabin, and Nico is still snickering. Will is still furious with him. Or trying to be. But he gives up, when Nico offers his hand, because the harpies don’t avoid him like they do Nico, and he has suffered enough. No need for avoidable gauging.

Even if the icy cool of of Nico’s sword-callused hands feels good rubbing against his own sweaty palms, and Nico smells, vaguely, like churned dirt and smoke and a little bit of something fresh, herbal. Something good.

“Okay,” Nico says, somewhere past a row of darkened cabins. Will blinks, dazed. Disoriented, in the pitch-black, except the sheen of Nico’s eyes. “Don’t get mad.”

“About what,” Will asks dumbly, a second too late, too quiet. Because Nico’s teeth flash as he smiles, guilty and daring, and then he loses his footing, and the shadows swirl.

Will throws up the second his feet are on solid ground again.

“There, there,” says Nico after a moment, sounding a little shakey himself. He pats Will’s back. “It’ll fade, so long as you brought all your organs with you.”

“What,” Will croaks, and then after a brief, panicked check — “oh my gods…my spleen…”

Nico pauses.

“Well,” he says, and then is silent. He clears his throat. “Well, that’s not an important one, right?”

Will wheezes instead of answering.

His spleen.

His beautiful spleen…

“It’s okay,” Nico assures quickly. “It’s fine. I’ll ask the shadows to be nice on the way back. They should let you keep up to ninety-nine point four percent of your organry this time so it’ll all be fine and dandy.”

He pretends not to hear the mumbled I hope.

Gods help him.

“Where even are we,” he manages, finally. “Stars not good enough in New York?”

“Correct,” Nico says primly. But maybe he catches sight of Will’s still-green face, or maybe he’s just feeling benevolent. Because he smiles, and cups Will’s cheek. Strokes his thumb over Will’s cheekbone. Graciously ignores how Will’s throat closes. “Too polluted, azzurro. I wanted to bring you somewhere worth your time.”

Will feels his breath catch, his heart thump. Azzurro. He doesn’t know that one. And for a moment there is a flash in Nico’s eyes, something like panic, and his hand twitches — like he moves to snatch it away, but aborts at the last second. Draws it back slowly, instead. Lingers.

“Always worth my time,” Will says, before he can stop himself. “You, I mean.”

Nico’s eyes crinkle as he smiles.

“You’re such a cheeseball.”

He is. But Nico looks down as he says it. Kicks his shoe in the grass. Will exhales, and brings up a hand, wraps it around his wrist.

His pulse races.

“Hike,” Nico says when Will frowns. “Uh, the best view around? Up high. Let’s move.”

He stalks off before Will can say anything, tripping over roots and rocks. They’re in a — forest, maybe, of some kind, a trail; Will stumbles over after him and snags the back of his hoodie, when his outstretched hand grasps it, trying to keep in sight.

“Hey,” he says, quiet. “Slow down. I can’t see like you can.”

Nico slows down, so Will can walk next to him. Swallows. Keeps pace, for a moment. Between them their knuckles brush.

After a moment, Nico turns his palm. Will exhales, long and shakey, and matches it, curling their fingers together.

The walk is — good.

They come to the top of a rocky hill and sit heavily. Nico’s breath comes out in cool mist, and were Will not keeping his locked in his lungs, his would, too. Instead he watched the swirl of the steam, as he crosses Nico’s full lips, traces the dark shape of him in the low light. In the thick, night-heavy air.

“You’re not looking,” Nico says, eventually. He swallows heavy, eyes trained on the sky. “Stargaze with me, Will. Look at the heavens.”

Will swallows, dry. He’s not like Nico but his eyes have adjusted, in the dark, and he can see the dark on his cheeks, across the bridge of his nose. He can see the small, shy smile fighting onto his lips. Can see the careful shine of his hair, brushed, for once. The sheen of his silk dress shirt.

“You planned this,” Will says, not a question. “Being — here.”

Slowly, Nico nods.

“Why?”

“I can’t ask my friend to appreciate space with me?” he defends, but it is halfhearted at best, and he picks at his fingernails. “Just ‘cause, I guess.” He shrugs. “Wanted to sit with you.”

It’s not the truth. Or at least not the full truth. Will can feel it like you can taste rain coming in the air, like you can smell the sea before you hear the waves.

“I thought —” It’s harder, than he imagined, to say it. To put the words, and all they imply, into the wavering space between them, above their still-joined hands. But he swallows, and makes himself. Voice quiet. Voice low. “I thought this might be a date.”

Nico doesn’t say anything for a moment. And then he squeezes Will’s hand, and nods.

“…I hoped.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Nico’s flush darkens in the starlight. “I did so.” He breathes. Quick. Inandout. “Kind of.”

Will inches closer, a little. “When you ask,” he says, quiet. “The word ‘date’. In involved.”

For a long moment Nico says nothing. Nods. Gnaws on his lip. Picks at a loose thread, and another.

“Will,” he says, looking away. “Do you want to go on a —” he stumbles on his words — “date. With me.”

Will nods, once, eyes not leaving his face.

“Yes.”

“Cool. Groovy.” Nico nods, once, and again. Will’s lips quirk up. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

Will leans closer, still. He can feel Nico’s body heat, at this distance. Feel his breathing.

“I’m here,” he says. “We’re under the starlight.”

He doesn’t know how to say anymore. He stares, only, eyes half-lidded. Breathing slow. Close. Waiting, for Nico to look back.

He does.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, quiet. “But I’m nervous.”

Will nods. Squeezes his hand. They’re both sweaty, now, too warm.

“Me, too.”

Nico nods. Will does, too, and he bites his lip, because it is ridiculous, because there is a lot of nodding. But he doesn’t know what else to do.

Nico does, maybe.

He slips his hand free. Wipes them on his jeans. And then, fingers shaking, breathing trembling, eyes drawn close together, he rests his palm on Will’s cheek. Slides his fingers in his hair, around the back of his neck. Angela his head down.

“Stop me, if it isn’t good.”

Will exhales, and nods again. Nico leans in close, and then closer. And there is the brush of his lips. Chapped. Gentle.

There is a spark, passing from his skin to Will’s. It makes them both jump.

Nico presses in, suddenly. Surges. Like live wire, like if he doesn’t touch, he will die. Like he needs the taste of Will’s breath in his lungs.

“Will,” he sighs, and kisses him again. And again.

Will closes his eyes and sees stars.

———

@willsolaceweek day 4 — will in love

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 149

This prompt has been filled by me! Anyone can write more interpretations and I'd love to see them, but if you're a reader, here's mine! https://archiveofourown.org/works/63921304

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An alternate universe where everything is basically the same, except for that Witchers aren't taught anything about humans, and never truly interact with any. Witchers don't go into towns for contracts. Monster contracts are posted on boards on the outer border of towns. People must check back every day to see if the contract has a knife in it. If it does, it means the witcher is either out fulfilling it, or already has. The witcher will then walk out of the forest with proof of it's kill, you gift them clothing, food, weaponry, sometimes even a steed, and back away slowly. Geralt is a witcher. And the most monstrous of them, if you were to ask him. He has sickly skin, long unnaturally white hair, and those slitted yellow eyes of his. It doesn't matter. Roach doesn't care how he looks, and that's good enough for him. He's hoping this contract will give him some new clothes. He'd even take sewing supplies. His best shirt has a big gash in the sleeve. Which wouldn't normally bother him, he could deal with it, but Roach keeps trying to nibble on it. It's a contract for a bruxa. One that's apparently been causing a lot of issues for some "count." Disrupting parties and attempting to lure people away for the slaughter. Geralt has killed her, and has her head as proof. When he approaches the board with his proof, he sees two humans waiting for him. One of them sneers in disgust, and one of them gasps in horror, tearing up. Geralt presents the head, and then holds his hand out for his reward. The older human shoves the scared one at Geralt. The scared one stumbles as he's shoved, and looks up at Geralt with big, wet blue eyes. Geralt tilts his head and turns back to the older one. That one must be the Count. "Your reward, Witcher." "F- Father!" "Silence, Julian. I don't care what you do to him." The Count turns and leaves. 'Julian' looks at Geralt with fear. Geralt is used to that. Witchers are scary. "I- I thought Witchers only hunted monsters, why did you kill Emmaline?" "...This?" Geralt asks, holding up the head, and the human gags, but nods. "It was a monster. She was a Bruxa. A type of vampire." Julian stares blankly for a moment, before he erupts into laughter. Geralt doesn't usually see or hear laughter very often. He likes when this 'Julian' laughs! Oh, but the laughing turns to sobbing. "I should've known! Of course she didn't like my bloody songs! She liked my bloody blood!" The Julian cries, and Geralt feels awkward. He doesn't quite know how to make a human happy. This would be easier if Geralt were at his camp. He doesn't like being so close to a town. He needs to be in the woods. He scoops up his (apparently) Julian, and throws him over his shoulder and walks him back to camp. Julian is now sitting by Geralt's campfire, still crying, but now it's silent. Geralt sits down beside him. Humans comfort with touch, he thinks. He doesn't truly know. He awkwardly puts his arms around Julian, and it doesn't seem to working.... Aha! Because the tears are still coming! Geralt can fix that! Geralt leans in and licks the salty water away. Julian starts laughing again, and finally relaxes. Geralt did it! He's such a good humankeeper! Having a human around is difficult, but Geralt is quite happy with this new arrangement! Geralt smiles a lot more than he used to. His human is adorable, and he's funny! And Geralt is learning so much more about humans! But sometimes that's horrifying. Geralt learned humans need to eat every day, so Geralt has begun hunting more. Julian didn't tell him this fact, Geralt had to learn it by himself when Julian fainted one day. Geralt also learned that humans are delicate things. Julian tripped over a root in the ground and ended up bleeding! BLEEDING! Geralt nearly lost it, that day. He licked his scratch clean, and bandaged his human, and kept a grip on his arm the rest of the day to balance him. They're sensitive, too.

The night had a light breeze, or so Geralt thought. Julian was shaking, teeth chattering, breaths visible. Hm. Perhaps it was colder than Geralt thought. He drags the human over, making Julian let out an odd "whoop!" sound, and wraps his arms around him. Julian scoots closer before settling, wrapping around geralt.

Humans are also curious. Too curious. Julian followed him on a hunt once and almost got hurt. Geralt shouted at him, immediately felt horrible, and apologized, but made sure to let Julian know that Julian was the one who did something stupid. Geralt thinks about getting a leash to keep his human safe at camp, but he doesn't think Julian would go for it.

His human seems happy! Until he doesn't. All of a sudden he's walking slower, and constantly frowning, and he sighs every few minutes! It's driving Geralt crazy not knowing how to fix it! He's tried all the things that have worked before! He licked him, he hugged him, he let him pet Roach, he made him a bigger portion of food, but nothing is working!

"What troubles you?" "…Hm? Oh, sorry. It's just… I wanted to be a bard. Before." "Before?" "…My father.. Sold me to you, Geralt."

Oh yeah.

"…What's a bard?" "G- Geralt, you don't know what a bard is?" "No." "Why, it's simply the best career out there! At least for me. Bards make music. They travel the continent singing their sweet melodies and sharing their feelings and hope to every townsperson out there. Farmers and nobles alike love a good bard."

Julian twitters on some more about these 'bard' titles.

"How do you become a bard?" "Well, you need an instrument. I had a lute, once. And you write songs in a notebook or journal. And all you have to do is sing them."

Thus Geralt makes a plan. Geralt goes searching for these items, loots here and there, and he believes he has a perfectly functional 'lute' and a journal. Geralt has a journal. It's too full of monsters to be given to his human, though. His human deserved one just for his songs.

When Geralt gave these items to his human, his human started sobbing. Shit! But Julian insists it's "happy" sobbing??? That's a thing? Humans will also cry when happy? Geralt will take note of this.

Geralt's Julian is MUCH happier now! And he makes such nice noises! He sings for Geralt all the time now. He strums his lute, and sings, and when he's not doing that, he's humming, and when he's not doing that, he's excitedly chatting away to Geralt, and it all makes him so happy. His human is happy! He likes his little human friend. And Geralt now knows for sure his human friend likes him back.

"Though it hurt so much at the time, I'm so very glad my father gave me to you. I've truly never been happier."

It appears Julian's last humankeepers were bad at their job, despite being humans themselves. Oh well. Doesn't matter now. Geralt would never rehome him.

Thus comes Geralt's problem. Winter is coming. He needs to head to the keep. He can keep his human alive up the path, Geralt's sure of it. He's skilled in humankeeping by now. But the actual staying part is what scares him. What if when Julian meets the other witchers, he finds one that can keep him even happier than Geralt? What if Geralt loses his Julian!? It's just unthinkable!

[steddieas-shegoes]

the perfect pair (of tits)

for @vecnuthy

Happy birthday Vec!!!! I genuinely lost track of my days so have this extremely silly and rushed fic that I wrote this afternoon/evening! Brought to you by the images shared of Joe Keery at the beach, tits out. I hope you’ve had a lovely day and can’t wait to see you at the Djour ♥️

rated e, 18+, minors dni | 1903 words | cw: unsafe piercing practice | tags: friends to lovers, getting together, chest hair, nipple licking, biting, coming in pants, coming untouched

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

“He’s got the perfect nipples, you know?” Eddie laments.

“Uh…no?” Robin replies.

She’s looking at him like he’s a pervert. Maybe he is. He’s definitely horny.

“I should take him to get them pierced,” he resolved. He stands to offer it, but Robin shoves him back into his seat. “What? He’d totally do it.”

“You’re drooling,” Robin says in response. “I can’t possibly listen to you say even nastier things about him if he gets a nipple pierced.”

“Not a nipple. Nipples, plural. Since he has both of his.”

Steve gets out of the pool and Eddie watches water drip down his hairy chest, down his even hairier legs, onto the pavement below. He wishes he could lay under him, between his legs, maybe he could lick the water from behind his knee or something. He’s had dreams of licking sweat off of him, but this might be the next best thing.

“Jesus,” Robin groans. “Did you hear me?”

“Obviously, I did not.”

“Hopeless. Disgusting and hopeless.”

“We should probably head in. Looks like a storm’s coming in,” Steve says as he drips water onto the chair Eddie’s sitting in.

Eddie slides his leg closer, sighs when a few drops fall on his knee. He’s too busy looking up at Steve to notice that there are some small drops of rain falling on the pavement a few feet away.

“I call the big shower,” Robin jumps up and rushes into the house. “See ya!”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling fondly as she races inside. After the sliding door closes, he looks back down at Eddie. He reaches a hand out.

“You wanna head in?” He asks.

“Sure,” Eddie says, taking his hand. He feels like a damsel in distress, a princess being led to her wedding chamber. “Lead the way, my prince.”

Steve’s neck is red and Eddie can’t look away. The rain gets heavier and he hears thunder rolling in the distance. He doesn’t remember the weatherman saying they were expecting rain today, but they’re never right anyway.

He kinda wants to stay out here, let the rain soak them both through. Steve’s already wet, and Eddie hasn’t completely dried off from his dip in the pool. It might be kinda fun.

But where there’s thunder, there’s lightning, and Steve’s a bit of a stickler for safety. It wouldn’t be smart to stay out in a storm.

“You ever thought about getting a piercing?” Eddie’s dumb mouth asks as soon as they’re inside. Steve’s toweling off his hair, sending more water droplets to the floor of his kitchen and Eddie’s body.

“Like what? Like what Hargrove had in his ear?” Steve starts to towel off his chest and Eddie can’t stop staring. God, he just keeps drawing attention to his perfect, stupid, hairy chest.

“No. Or, I guess, if you’d like that. I meant a body one,” Eddie manages to explain while his brain melts out of his eyes. “Not ears.”

“Oh, like a belly button ring?” Steve pokes at his bellybutton, pinches skin together like he’s imagining a piercing there.

Eddie’s going to have an aneurysm.

“Sure. Or your nipples.”

Steve looks up at him, brows drawn together. Clearly he hasn’t considered that. He is now, though.

He doesn’t break eye contact with Eddie as he brings his fingers up to one of his nipples, pinches it, then nods.

“Yeah, I guess I could see it,” he says, nonchalant.

Eddie feels as chalant as a person can. He’s going to pass out from lack of oxygen in his lungs and blood in his brain. His dick is rock hard in his borrowed swim trunks.

“You could?” Eddie squeaks.

“Yeah, man,” Steve pinches his other nipple, lets out a gasp. “I think having a hole in my body that I chose to be there would be kinda like therapy. Plus, I could get a shiny ring and it would look cool.”

“Yeah,” Eddie chokes out. “It would look super cool.”

Steve rubs at his own nipple, then his hand drops. “You know someone who could do them?”

Eddie’s still staring at his chest, unable to look away.

The hairs on his chest are dark, still wet. His nipples are hardened from his pinching and the air conditioning being turned much too low for their post-swim activities. Eddie wants to bite them.

“I mean, I could probably do them,” he offers.

He should not have said that. He has only ever done two piercings. One was his own nipple and he was high out of his mind when he did it, and the other was Frankie’s lip, which he ended up hating and taking out two days later. He has no training.

Also, he’s so in love with Steve, there’s no way he could focus on doing it right.

“Dude, really?” Steve’s eyes light up. “That would be sick.”

“Yeah. Sick.” Eddie steps closer. “But it does hurt a lot more than just a pinch.”

“Like how much more?” Steve steps closer.

“More like a bite.”

What is he doing? He’s standing so close to Steve, his shirt is almost brushing against his wet body, and there is no way Eddie can handle that.

“Like the bats?” Steve’s face falls.

“No!” Eddie rushes to explain. “Not like that. Like a person!”

Now, Steve just looks confused.

“No one’s ever bitten my nipples,” he says, and he sounds heartbroken. He looks heartbroken. “Or done much at all with them.”

Eddie’s hand flies up to his chest, rests against his heartbeat. What is he doing?

Steve looks down at where he’s touching him, then back up at his face. “Eddie?”

“Sorry!” Eddie’s hand drops, but Steve shakes his head. “What?”

“Show me what it’ll feel like.”

Eddie must’ve passed out earlier, hit his head on the floor. There’s no way he’s conscious. This is straight out of his fantasies.

“I…what?” He wouldn’t fumble this hard in a fantasy. He’s always so smooth, so charming in his dreams. “You want me to…”

“Bite them.”

Eddie nods, but still doesn’t understand.

“Right, right. With my teeth?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “How else would you bite them?”

Eddie doesn’t think Steve knows about nipple clamps. It’s probably for the best.

“Right. I’ll just…do that.”

He leans down and figures while he’s here, he might as well lick them, too. Just to get Steve ready for his fucking teeth.

They both let out moans when Eddie’s tongue connects with Steve’s nipple, circling the pointed bud a few times before he sucks it into his mouth. Steve nearly falls, but Eddie’s arm wraps around his waist and holds him up.

“Shit,” Steve whispers.

Eddie looks up. He’s red-faced, biting his lip, one hand tangled in his own hair.

“I can-“

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Okay,” Eddie says as he lets out a breath.

He still thinks he’s dreaming, being this up close and personal with Steve’s chest.

He’s gentle when he takes him between his teeth, not applying much pressure, just keeping him there. Steve’s holding his breath, and Eddie swears he can hear his heart beating in his chest.

When he bites down, Steve whines so loud, he’s sure Robin’s gonna come downstairs to yell at them.

But then Steve’s hand is in his hair, grip so tight it’s making Eddie groan. It feels good, borderline too much.

He knows rolling Steve’s nipple between his teeth is more than what he needs to do. A piercing is over quick; A sharp, seconds-long pain and then a dull ache. Nothing like what he’s doing now.

Steve’s holding him in place. He couldn’t move if he wanted to.

“Shit, do the other one,” Steve says as he tugs him back and moves him over to the other nipple. Eddie’s not gonna argue. “God, that’s good.”

Eddie whimpers as his teeth tug on Steve’s nipple. He can feel himself leaking in the swim trunks that he will have to refuse to return until he’s washed them himself. This is not the point of this little experiment. This is only to prove to Steve that he can handle a fucking nipple piercing.

Clearly he can if he’s enjoying this.

Steve’s hips shift and Eddie realizes he’s just as hard as he is. He manages to pull away enough to look at him, watch his head tip back when Eddie’s hot breath cools the spit on his skin.

“No one’s ever done that to you?” He can’t believe how many girls have been in bed with Steve and just…not attached their mouths to his chest in any fashion. They must’ve been clueless as to what it looks like and feels like to have a beautiful boy helpless and wanting more because of them.

Steve shakes his head.

“Shame. You’re pretty when you’re feeling this good,” Eddie smirks before he latches back on.

He lets his hand run through the hair on his chest, groaning when Steve starts panting and whining, desperate for something. Eddie wants to convince him to let him suck him off right here in the kitchen, but he isn’t sure how to ask.

Biting and sucking a man’s nipple is one thing, choking on his dick in his kitchen is another.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Steve says as he frantically reaches down to put more space between Eddie’s body and his lower half. He gives a high-pitched moan. He stills. “Shit.”

Eddie stops what he was doing and pulls away.

He looks at Steve’s face, still red, but completely relaxed. He looks fucked. Well and truly fucked.

“Fuck me, Steve, did you just come?” Eddie can’t tell. His bathing suit is a bright floral print that Robin got him as a joke, and it’s already wet, so it’s hard to see a particularly dark spot.

Steve nods.

“I made you come just by playing with your nipples?” Eddie can’t believe it. He’s the luckiest man in the world. He wants to suck on Steve’s dick even more.

“Can you pierce them now?” He asks instead of answering.

“Are we gonna talk about how I just made you come from playing with your nipples after?” Eddie is a firm believer in communication.

Also, he wants to offer his dick sucking services.

“Yes. Definitely. How long will it take them to heal?” Steve sounds like he’s catching back up to what just happened, his breathing slowing back down to normal.

“You want the safe answer or the answer that’ll make you happy?”

“The safe one. I’m not trying to lose a nipple,” he gives Eddie a pointed look. “A week? A couple?”

“At least a few months,” Eddie says. “But you healed from the bats so quickly! Maybe you’ll heal faster.”

Eddie does the math on it. If they pierce them tonight, he should be good to have a mouth back on them by Christmas. Maybe even sooner if they’re extra careful and he doesn’t get them caught on anything or get an infection or-

“Do it again.”

Eddie’s a simple man. When a beautiful guy asks him to bite his nipples until he comes in his pants, he’s gonna do it.

And later that night, after Eddie’s successfully pierced Steve’s nipples, he holds ice packs to them while Steve sleeps. Robin’s in the guest room, mad at them for being so stupid. She’ll be over it by morning.

Eddie won’t be over any of it anytime soon.

[kitchen-spoon]

It was a Rainy day in April when the ER doors flew open and Eddie was called over to an ambulance that just pulled in. A gurney was being guided out the back and on it lay the most beautiful man Eddie had ever seen. Tan, and muscular in a basketball jersey covered in mud. Somehow even soaking wet and dirty the mans hair was immaculate. His head was thrown back in pain, eyes squeezed shut as he gripped at his swollen very dislocated knee.

Normally being a head orthopaedic surgeon he wouldn’t be down in the pit but, chicago Easts E.R lost power due to the storm and has started referring everything over to them. It was all hands on deck right now.

“Put him in trauma room 2, I’ll take care of it, it’s a simple dislocation.” Eddie ordered. He followed them inside and helped transfer the man over onto the bed. “Someone tell me who this guy is.” He called out exasperated.

“Steve Harrington.” The man - Steve pipped up.

“Thank you.” Eddie couldn’t help but laugh. He took Steve’s chart away and shooed everyone else from the room.

He approached the bed again, gloved hands settling on Steve swollen purpling knee. Steve hissed at the slightest touch of the area. His kneecap was raised and twisted to the left.

“Your knee is dislocated Steve, its swollen but once its re-located the swelling will go down with some elevation and icing. Also, You should wrap your knee for the next month if your going to be playing sports again.”

“All that without any X-rays or tests?” Steve chuckled. One of his eyes was squinted open and he was smirking at Eddie, his eyebrow raised.

Eddie wasn’t one to brag but, he also wasn’t one to waste a chance to peacock a little in the name of flirting with a tan, hairy, muscular man with perfect hair.

“I’m the head orthopaedic surgeon in this hospital. I deal with much more complicated circumstances than this everyday.” Eddie shrugged, smirking back.

“Why do I get the best of the best then if i’m just a simple dislocation?” Steve’s body didn’t tense up this time when Eddie touched him, too distracted to notice yet. “Did you get in trouble or something?” He giggled.

“No.” Eddie looked up at him, smiling proudly as he spoke. “I’m head of my my department Sweetheart, and I’m good at what I do. Best of the best like you said.”

Steve finally winced, looking down as Eddie lined his hands up, he didn’t apply any pressure yet. “The Chicago East ER is shut down so we are taking the over flow from the storm.” Eddie continued on, he watched Steve face as he gripped his knee.

“Guess I just got lucky then.” Steve laughed tightly.

“I’ll make it as quick and painless as I can Stevie.” Eddie said as he locked eyes with Steve’s wide hazel doe eyes. He looked like a baby deer it made Eddie’s heart squeeze. “On the count of 3 Stevie, you got this.”

Steve nodded, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath. He counted out, “one…two..”

Eddie braced his feet on the floor and bent his knees on one. And on two he forced Steve’s leg straight and pushed his kneecap back over.

“Mother fucker.” Steve grit through his clenched jaw. His hand reached out and landed on Eddie’s forearm gripping tight.

Once his knee was in place Eddie let go and held Steve’s hand instead. “Good job sweetheart.”

“Thank you.” Steve replied automatically, then blushed when he caught himself.

“I’ll wrap your knee, remember to ice it.” Eddie got up and grabbed the stretch bandages from the cart.

He wrapped Steve’s knee methodically, occasionally looking up to check on Steve. Every time he did Steve was laying there with his eyes closed a smile on his face.

“All done.” Eddie said quietly as he finished, he didn’t want to startle Steve. Instead he slid a hand up Steve’s outer thigh.

Steve laid there for another 10 seconds then opened his eyes and looked to Eddie, silently reaching a hand up to ask for help.

Eddie complied of course, he slid his hands into Steve’s and gently pulled the man up. Once he was sitting up Steve didn’t let go of Eddies hands. “Are you single Eddie the head orthopaedic surgeon?”

Eddie smiled, “I am. But how old are you.” Eddie was hopeful but he still wanted to ask. He wasn’t going to date a college student at 35.

“I’m 29.” Steve sounded hopeful.

“I’m 35,” Eddie squeezed his hands.

“Take my number?” Steve bit his lip.

It was Eddie’s turn to blush as he nodded, grabbing the note pad off the supply cart.

Steve wrote his number in big swoopy strokes and singed his name off with a heart. He handed it to Eddie then got up off the chair. “Call me.” He whispered in Eddie’s ear as he passed by, placing a hand on his shoulder. The fingers on his free hand rested on Eddie’s chin turning it towards him, he leaned in slowly, eyes watching Eddie closely until their lips finding touch and they slipped closed. He ended the kiss off biting Eddie’s lip, dragging it between his teeth has he pulled away.

“Bye Eddie.” He whispered, then turned away walking out of the trauma room.

Eddie watched him go, and when he couldn’t see him any longer he looked down at the paper with Steve’s number and bit his own lip.

The moment didn’t last long, a nurse crashing through the door and calling him over to a trauma bay. He put Steve’s number in his pocket and tied his hair up, heading over to his next patient.

[cosmicrelease]

steve notices everything about eddie. and one thing he has noticed recently is that eddie has been painting his finger nails more often. sure, he always paints them black because it’s “hardcore”, but still steve is obsessed.

one day while he is hanging out at robin’s he notices her collection of polishes, “do you think you could teach me how to paint nails?” steve inquired.

“of course i can. this wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain metalhead painting his nails would it?”

steve blushed, “robs, will you teach me or not?”

a couple weeks, and a lot of practice later, steve finds himself at eddie’s place for a movie night. they had already eaten too much pizza and were about to start a second movie when eddie casually said,

“hey stevie do you mind if i paint my nails? i’ve seen this movie dozens of times and i need a fresh coat.” he mentioned with a small laugh.

“want me to do it?” steve asked hesitantly.

“what?”

“do you want me to paint your nails?” he asked more confidently this time.

“um I’m not sure what you know about painting nails but i’ll let a pretty boy like you give it a go.” eddie quipped. leaving steve with a pink tinge on his cheeks.

after eddie went and grabbed the bottle of black polish he and steve situated themselves to face each other on the couch, “are you sure you’re okay with me doing this on the couch? what if i get it everywhere?”

“i trust you sweetheart.”

steve shook the bottle, mixing the polish together, another trick he picked up from robin. then he grabbed eddie’s right hand and began meticulously swiping polish across the nails. steve could feel eddie’s eyes on him so he was trying his best to not get nervous causing a shaky hand.

“stop staring at me you’re making me nervous!” steve tried to bush it off as a joke.

“i can’t help it stevie! you just look so adorable when you’re focused.” eddie openly flirted. causing the other man to blush again.

once eddie finally pulled his eyes away from steve’s pink cheeks and looked at his almost done nails he realized something, “holy shit steve! i didn’t think you’d be this good at this! have you been secretly painting your nails and not letting me see?”

“what? no! trust me if i painted my nails i would show you.” steve joked.

“be real steve how did you get so good at this? i mean, i paint my nails regularly and I’m not even this good. have you been secretly practicing?”

steve didn’t reply while he cleaned up the edges and made sure they were dry he released his hold on eddie’s hands, quickly missing the feeling.

“i asked robin to teach me. you never know when a friend might be i need of polish assistance.” steve tried to joke.

“really sweetheart? because i think you just wanted an excuse to hold my hand.” no hint of joking or teasing in his voice.

steve felt caught. he thought he had done a good job of hiding his feelings for eddie. had he really been that obvious? what should he say? what if eddie is upset? would eddie call him sweetheart if he was upset with him?

avoiding looking eddie in the eye steve softly asked,“would you be upset if it was?”

eddie took steve’s hands in his, looking softly and sweetly at steve, “of course i wouldn’t be upset! if anything i’d be overjoyed! you think i just flirt with everyone stevie? i was hoping you would notice at some point, i wasn’t exactly being subtle about it.

“i think it’s adorable that you learned how to paint nails just so you could hold my hand. but i want you to know you could have just asked. you can ask for anything you want baby and i’ll give it to you.”

steve was looking into eddie’s eyes, looking for any hint of lie. but he couldn’t find one. he knew eddie was being sincere. before leaving eddie hanging for too long steve piped up, “can i have a kiss?”

eddie smiled wide at the request before leaning in to give steve exactly what he asked for. and they both knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

a/n: your honor, they love each other! and they deserve to make out! this thought came to me when i was painting my nails and i felt compelled to share it with the world.

[ex-martian]

I want you to imagine that Charles and Erik dated during First Class.

I want you to imagine that everyone in the team knew and had no problem with it. That after the satellite dish scene, they kissed.

I want you to imagine that someone in the team (let’s say it’s Sean) had a knack for photography. That he took a picture. That Erik, in a stroke of romanticism took it and wrote on its back.

Now I want you to imagine that, many decades later, Charles has a photograph on the far back of the drawer of his nightstand. That it’s a picture of two young men kissing tenderly with the flora of Westchester on the background. That the words “The point between rage and serenity” are written on its back. That he only takes it out in his worst moments. A reminder that even the worst of sinners have the potential to be God’s favourites.

Why are you imagining this? This never happened. No one had a knack for photography. They never kissed. They never said “I love you”.

If you’re a writer or an artist , this is a petition. Do something with this before I explode. The clock is ticking.

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve has no idea how he got talked into this.

Actually, that’s a lie, he knows how it started: a phone call, his mother, and a sudden way for her to be in the spotlight for her yearly fifteen minutes of Hawkins fame. He just can’t recall why he agreed to it.

“It's an opportunity, Steven." She says, heels clicking against the department store tile.

An embarrassment is what it was, but Steve knew better than to tell his mother that.

"You should be honored that Wendy--that’s the head chair of the charity board, you remember her don't you? She used to attend your piano recitals--she asked for you personally." His mother expertly plucked a shirt from the rack, holding it up to the light.

"Those were your parties mom, not my piano recitals." Steve reminds her as she holds the shirt out to him. He took it, adding it to the stack he had in his hands.

The parties were the exact same kind of shit this as this “Valentine's Day Fundraiser” a way for rich people to celebrate themselves by making others uncomfortable.

Only instead of being forced to play piano so his mothers friends could wine and dine with the famous Harrington's, he was being hauled up in front of the entire town (or whoever was attending this stupid event) and auctioned off as a “date” to the highest bidder.

(“It’s for one day, Steven, don’t be so dramatic. Why is your generation entirely incapable of taking a joke and having fun?” His mother had said, when he tried to tell her he wasn’t comfortable with the idea.

Of course there was no answer that would please her; soon enough, Steve found himself dragged about town as his mother played dress up.)

"You'll be standing alongside the Mayor, the fire department, even that idiot, Mary Marie--"

She stops for a moment, eyeing a jacket with a critical eye.

Just as quickly she dismisses it with a hum, prowling on to the next section.

"--the point is that there will be plenty of candidates for the children to pick from, but you’ll be the only hero up there."

That same critical eye turns on him, appraising him like he was no more than a horse in her stable, adding up imperfections and dividing amongst his best qualities.

(Despite a lifetime of training, it still takes everything in him not to squirm.)

"Not to mention a Harrington.” She purrs, taking a step closer to run a manicured hand down the front of his shirt, smoothing away a stray crease. “Women will be throwing money to win a day with you."

Steve has to fight not to outright shudder.

"Which means you have to look your best. Now stop whining, we’re almost done.”

Steve doubts that, but it doesn’t matter; he never had a choice to begin with.

xXx

Four hours, one shower, and several rounds of his mother’s nagging and meticulous styling, ,Steve finds himself back in Hawkin’s High, staring at the gym.

His mother had long swept past him, having spotted some high school friends and gone over to lord her lifestyle and general wealth over them.

For a fundraiser, the charity board in charge had spared no expense in dressing the gym up. Red, pink and white balloons decorated the doorways and a large stage hauled to one end.

Tables with thick, white table cloth are artfully arranged about the floor, caterers swiftly moving between them.

This is probably the fanciest this gym has ever looked, and Steve wants to be anywhere but inside it.

“Oh--Steve.” A gentle voice says next to him, and Steve turns his head in surprise to see Chrissy Cunningham look nervously up at him. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Me neither honestly.” He tells her, watching the way that makes the younger woman smile. “But I’ve been volun-told to be auctioned off. What about yourself?”

Chrissy runs her hands down her dress, a modest if not beautiful blue halter dress , wincing as she snags a nail on it. “The school held a vote at lunch about who would represent the school tonight. All of the varsity cheerleaders and basketball players were involved.”

“I see.” Steve says, keeping his voice gentle and playful. There had always been a part of Chrissy that had reminded him of El. Someone who needed kind words in their life. “You got voted as tonight’s sacrifice, huh?”

Chrissy laughs at that, hand flying to cover her mouth. “I guess you could say that.” She says, and seems surprised at herself for it.

“Did Jason get picked too?” Steve asks. It would make sense if he was, the guy was the basketball Captain after all.

Chrissy nods, then chews on her lip. “Yes but--he’s not happy about it,”

Steve snorts and tries to cover it with a cough. “None of us are.”

“It’s more that I’m being auctioned off.”

Chrissy must catch the look on his face because she rushes to add; “You know, like any boyfriend would be! I know it’s just supposed to be a fun silly thing and they’re not really dates but…” She trails off, voice growing quieter at the end. “He worries.”

The word “worry” sounds like it means something else entirely.

Steve feels for her.

“Hey, if Jason’s an ass about it, let me know.” Steve says after a moment of shared silence. “You don’t deserve to deal with him being a kid about this shit.”

Chrissy blinks up at him at that, hand almost to her mouth as though she’d subconsciously raised them up to chew on her nails. “Thanks Steve. That’s nice of you.” She whispers it, and Steve nods and smiles at her.

“There you two are!” A woman says, rushing over with a clipboard. “Steve Harrington and Chrissy Cunningham, right? We’re gathering all the dates behind those doors.” She turns and points to the opposite end of the gym. “If you both would follow me please?”

Steve motions for Chrissy to go first, and moves to follow her when a flash of curls crushed down by a blur of white, blue and electric yellow catches his eye.

He turns automatically, seeking it out and sure enough, ducking down the hall is Henderson, Sinclair hot on his heels.

A familiar mixture of emotions lights up Steve’s spine, and he knows immediately he won’t be able to rest until he figures out what the gremlins are up to--because their Hellfire Club was supposedly canceled today on grounds that Munson had stolen a microphone, or some other crap.

“I’m really sorry, I’ll join you in a second!” Steve calls, before darting down the hall, after them.

xXx

Here’s the thing about the kids.

Mike can be downright squirrely when he wants to be.

The guy is all long-limbs and ever-changing moods, and the second he spots Steve he vanishes around the corner and leaves no trace of himself behind.

Dustin, similarly, is catty.

The kid’s not fast, but when cornered, he has a tendency to do the most insane, ridiculous things.

Currently Steve is ninety percent sure he just saw him jump out a window, and the only reason it’s not one hundred is because his eyesight isn’t the greatest these days, and it’s entirely possible Dustin found something to put that stupid Weird Al shirt on and threw that out the window instead,

It wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.

Knowing this, Steve automatically goes for the easiest target: Lucas.

See, Lucas is, of course, the most athletic and the only one likely to give Steve a run for his money should he too, decide to bolt.

He also was the most likely to stop and actually talk to Steve, because unlike his friends, he possessed some emotional maturity.

Or just maturity in general.

“Come on Luc, what’s going on?” Steve calls out, the second he rounds the corner and spots the kids. “You’re freaking me out.”

That makes Lucas stop and come to him, while the other two dipshits bolt.

Steve leans against a wall, eyebrow raised as Lucas slinks forward, but knows instantly from the grin the kid’s trying to hide that whatever’s going on right now, is their usual kind of bullshit.

(An internal part of him, the part that has to deal with the unusual bullshit every six months or so, sighs in relief.)

“Okay, you have to swear not to be mad.” Lucas starts, which is never a good sign, but at least it’s coming from Steve’s second most trustworthy kid.

(Will still holds first place, after the time he ratted out Mike for dumping nail polish all over Max’s jacket.

“She was super rude, but she didn’t deserve that.” Will had said with a stubborn set to his jaw.

Steve had ruffled his hair and together they had plotted a way to get revenge on Mike without letting Max outright murder him.)

“We uh, might have heard that you were being auctioned off tonight.”

Which was not at all where Steve thought this was going to go.

“Okay?” He hedges, waiting to see where Lucas spills the part that makes Steve worry.

“So you played D&D with Erica and Dustin, and neither of them will stop bragging about it.” Lucas says, a slight pink coloring his cheeks, “--and Mike won’t say it, but I know it bothers him too so we thought we could, uh, buy you. For the day.”

Lucas sends out his gigawatt grin, the one he uses when he’s trying to be his most charming. “To make you play D&D with us.”

Something warm and soft blooms in Steve’s heart. A kind of love he’d never had before hauling the little shits out of the line of fire the first time.

These kids were gonna be the death of him, he just knew it.

“If you ever tell the others I said this I will deny it ” Steve says, pulling out his wallet and forking out a handful of twenties. “But I would be happy to play your dungeons and dipshits game with you.”

Lucas doesn’t even correct him as he accepts the money with a grin--a real one this time. “Really?” He says, and it's so stupidly hopefully it makes Steve’s heart squeeze.

He reaches out, pulling the kid in for a hug for a second. Claps him on the back a few times before pushing fondly at his head.

“Over being taken on a date by some middle aged woman? Absolutely. But like I said,” He playfully shoves Lucas away, “You tell anyone and I will deny, deny, deny.”

“Sure Steve, whatever.” Lucas says, before running off to go find his friends.

Steve watches him go for a moment, smile on his face, before turning back to the gym.

He’d rather play D&D with the kids any day over dealing with this farce.

(The shocking thing, he finds himself thinking as he wanders over to where the other dates are situated, is that he means it. Even if a hot, beautiful girl bid on him--he’d rather spend the day with the kids.

Doesn’t that just say something about his life these days?)

xXx Eddie xXx

His club was going to kill him.

Normally, missing a game would be downright heresy. Betrayal of the highest order, particularly considering he’s the damn dungeon master. Sure, other people can DM, but not for the current ongoing campaign, which means Eddie landing his sorry ass in detention disrespected the sanctity of both his club and his people.

A fact he will need to beg on hands and knees to makeup for.

The siren song of the microphone, nevermind the idea of having an honest to god stage to prowl around on at lunch was simply too much for Eddie to resist, particularly when it came to his anti-Valentines Day speech.

Not that he was the type of guy to roll his eyes at all the lovey-dovey crap floating around, but more that people could be so stupid about it.

…and maybe he was a little bit jealous.

Eddie convinces himself it’s fine. He plans to have a session for the missed game on Sunday, when he knows his friends had planned to hang out at his place anyway.

Still feels bad about it as he walks down the halls of Hawkin’s high, annoyed that detention took as long as it did.

There’s people milling around, in the kind of stupid dressed up clothes that wasn’t formal, but could be described by evil words like “business casual.” The best skirts and knitted tops, slacks for the men paired with button up shirts or polos.

Like a fucking swarm of Steve Harrington’s--without any of the guys charm.

Not that he had any charm.

Definitely not.

Eddie gives an overactive shudder to clear his head, making his way out of the school as fast as he can.

Because life, the universe and everything in it hates him, he’s interrupted.

“Eddie! Oh thank god, look guys it’s Eddie!”

For the briefest of seconds after hearing Henderson’s voice, Eddie’s worried no one thought to tell the kids that Hellfire had been canceled.

Or, considering Eddie’s over the top response to the first time one of them had tried to miss a campaign night, they might be worried he’s dying (rather than simply an “unbearable idiot” as Jeff had called him earlier.)

His freshman lambs quickly swarm him, three pairs of eyes staring with weird amounts of hope (Sinclair, Henderson) and awkward embarrassment (Wheeler.)

“Eddie! Eddie, they're only letting Juniors and Seniors place the actual bets!” Dustin sounds frantic, practically vibrating in place before him. “They won’t let any of us bid on Steve!”

Any fondness Eddie felt evaporates in a puff of vexed smoke.

“That sounds like a you problem.” He challenges, raising an eyebrow.

For once, the freshmen don’t cringe back.

Instead he’s treated to steel sliding across Henderon’s face, Sinclair right behind him and Mike, who refuses to meet Eddie’s eyes, but stands with his friends anyway.

“Come on, think of all the chaos it’ll cause!” Dustin is pleading, his hands waving in the air in a way that reminds Eddie of himself. “Isn’t that like, you’re whole thing? Going against ‘the Man’!?”

Yes, because publicly buying Harrington for a date in front of Hawkin’s self-proclaimed elite was a great way to stick it to ‘the Man’, instead of, say, painting yet another target on his back.

“I don’t think getting into a bidding war over taking Steve Harrington on a date is going to go over well.” He deadpans.

Dustin throws his hands in the air. “It doesn’t have to be a date! ”

“Jennifer’s mom’s friends bid on her. For a girls night.” Mike adds so quietly it takes a minute for the words to process.

“Just saying!” He adds frantically, as though Eddie is going to call him out for this betrayal.

Considering the downright fearful look he’s wearing, Eddie might just do it for shits and giggles in his next campaign.

“We’re begging you, don’t you want to see Steve play D&D? We promise you can even watch the whole thing and embarrass him or whatever!” Dustin continues, hands clasped together in front of him.

“There you idiots are.” A judgey, annoyed voice calls, cutting into the conversation.

Eddie has never met Sinclair Jr. but immediately assumes the girl walking towards them with her arms firmly on her hips must be her “Steve’s up next, idiots. I know you know how auctions work, so I shouldn't have to remind you about having to physically be in the room to bid on him.”

She stops, cocking her head challengingly. “Unless one of you is going to call in from a payphone?”

Cheeky.

Eddie loves cheeky.

Even if she is eleven.

Muted calls ring out again from the gym. Apparently Hawkin’s middle aged women have started their fight for a day spent with one of the “young, local heroes”.

The very thought of Steve, all scraped up in the stupid Scoop’s Ahoy sailor uniform, guiding kid’s out of the mallfire with his broad chest and buff arms and--

“Eddie.” Dustin whines, bouncing frantically in place.

‘Head out of the gutter, Munson!’ He thinks, annoyed at himself (and perhaps, a little bit more understanding of the ladies shouting out numbers in the gym).

“Do you still only have five dollars?” He says, and it's not defeat, not yet, but he can see the hope reignite in their eyes.

This was stupid. A stupid, stupid, stupid idea!

“We have a hundred now.” Lucas says firmly, which is at least a lot more than five.

The calls from the gym are playful but there’s a catty undertone now. Those women really want that date with Steve, and Eddie knows walking in there, bidding on Harrington is a death sentence.

Dustin’s done something to his eyes. They’re wide, shined over like he’s about to cry. Like this fucking matters to him.

It drills into Eddie in a way he hates. How the three of them, (even Mike who is still trying his best not to act like he wants this) are handing him all their dreams. He’s someone they look up to, someone who can make things happen, and he’s always liked that feeling--but this?

This was asking a lot.

“Eddie man, please. You’re our only hope.” Dustin says it softly, and goddamn him, it’s like he knows Eddie is weak for this shit. That under all his leather and chains that he cares.

About them.

He just wishes what they didn’t care about was fucking Steve Harrington.

He knows they think the guy hung the moon. Just as he knows he'll need more than money to fend off the competition and actually win Steve: he'll need a plan.

Knows, even, just how he’ll do it.

“Baby Sinclair, a word?” He crooks a finger, walking a few paces backwards as a plan rapidly forms.

She flicks her eyes over to him, and with an appraisal that says she had already judged him and found him lacking. “It’s Erica.”

Eddie bows low to her, arm brushing the floor. “My deepest apologies, Lady Erica.”

She rolls her eyes but comes over anyway and lets Eddie whisper in her ear.

Read the rest on A03: LINK

[sailorofmidnightseas]

Rich men

Pairing: Sylus x MC

Summary: You weren't a rich woman, at least, in the materialistic sense. You had your flat with a reasonable rent, a job with a reasonable salary and enough money to go out every once in a while or treat yourself with something a bit more expensive after a bit of saving. Yes, compared to some, you lived well, compared to others, you were a poor rat - or kitten, as an annoying, handsome Onichynus leader would call you. - “You are mad.”, you said when you saw a familiar, gorgeous motorcycle standing in front of the Hunter's Association. “Hello to you too, kitten.”, Sylus smirked, leaning against the vehicle. “Your taxi is here.” “And why is my taxi in the middle of Linkon? Does the driver have a death wish?” - “And is this a friendly outing, or one of your romantic rendezvous?”, you asked seriously and Sylus stared at you, his slice of pizza falling onto the plate. In a different situation, you would be proud of herself to render the silver-tongued man speechless.

************************************************************************

You weren't a rich woman, at least, in the materialistic sense. You had your flat with a reasonable rent, a job with a reasonable salary and enough money to go out every once in a while or treat yourself with something a bit more expensive after a bit of saving. Yes, compared to some, you lived well, compared to others, you was a poor rat - or kitten, as an annoying, handsome Onichynus leader would call you. 

Frankly, you were surprised your distaste for him waned the more you got to know him. However, who could begrudge you the grudge after your disastrous first meeting? At least Sylus was honest enough to have admitted that it had been far from welcoming. He does have some redeeming qualities, you wouldn't deny that. 

When you had visited his base for the first time, the wealth had made you dizzy. The carpet underneath your feet probably had been more valuable than your organs combined. Sylus had noticed your discomfort and teased you about it, naturally. It wouldn't be Sylus if he had let the chance slip through his fingers. You would have loved to wipe that smirk off his stupidly handsome face. 

Now, you were an emotionally mature woman and you could - albeit somewhat reluctantly - admit to yourself that the infamous head of Onichynus might have grown on you more than anticipated. You chided yourself for the silly little crush. Calling it ‘love’ was probably an exaggeration - and made it much too real -, so a ‘crush’ it was. 

Your plans of telling Sylus? Nonexistent. You had too little proof whether he reciprocated (that man was hard to read sometimes), so if he didn't, it would be a humiliating affair. Besides, you were from two worlds, in more ways than one. You lived in Linkon, he in the N109 zone. That was the first world. The second was more class-based. You were regular middle-class whereas he lived in unfathomable wealth. 

You almost pitied Tara. Your friend was so eager to see you get together with ‘Skye the Fruit Vendor’ - one of his worst lies, in your opinion - but you were a realist. Different social classes didn't mix and wealthy men often had countless girlfriends and mistresses. No way would you be one of them, no matter how much you might like him. You deserved more than being a plaything for some rich man.

If only Sylus were to get the memo. 

___

“You are mad.”, you said when you saw a familiar, gorgeous motorcycle standing in front of the Hunter's Association. 

“Hello to you too, kitten.”, Sylus smirked, leaning against the vehicle. “Your taxi is here.”

“And why is my taxi in the middle of Linkon? Does the driver have a death wish?”

“Such a feisty kitten. Come, I packed you new clothes. We're going out for dinner.”

“Are we now? Who said I have a free evening?”, you asked and crossed your arms, but Sylus was unperturbed. 

“You never have plans on a Wednesday evening.”

“Did you have that crow spy on me again? I told you to reduce that!”

“And I did. I am a man of my word. What can I say, Mephisto seems to have grown used to you.”

Noting your disbelievingly arched brow, Sylus walked up to you.

“I promise I did not send him to spy on you. Even though I wish you hadn't asked me to reduce the surveillance. How am I supposed to know whether you need help?”

“I’m a tough girl, Sy - Skye. A trained Hunter.”, you grinned and flexed your arm. “I'm not so easily in danger.”

Sylus arched his brow, but said nothing. 

You let yourself be driven to the restaurant and were positively surprised to discover it being a…normal pizzeria. You had half expected another luxury establishment where you had to be dressed to the nines. 

Sylus saw your surprised expression and was pleased with himself. He had a hunch you were craving pizza - your exasperated message had revealed so much. He also knew his kitten craved something fat or fried whenever you were stressed. Perhaps that would finally get through that daft woman's head. Sylus was startled out of his inner preening when you grabbed his hand and dragged him inside. 

He barely tasted his pizza, too focused on the delight on her face.

“I'm in heaven.”, you sighed. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Don't look so smug.”

“Can't a man be pleased his plan worked?”

“Plan?”, you asked and finished another slice. Sylus smirked and you weren't sure what to think of the gleam in his crimson eyes.

“Seeing you fed and happy after an exhaling day, of course.”

Your heart jumped in your chest. It was considerate. It hadn't been your goal when you had written him the message in a bout of frustration. But Sylus had rented a table in a simple pizzeria, had driven to Linkon and picked you up from work to treat you to dinner. 

Through a romantic lense, it might indeed be considered an act of wooing, and if Sylus were another man, you might have looked deeper into it. 

Stay rational, you reminded yourself. Sylus arched a brow when you didn't respond. 

“Kitten?” 

“You have strange delights.”, you said and Sylus tilted his head.

“Is that so? I'd say it's reasonable, be it for a friend or…lover?”

Sylus, you idiot, you sighed. You swallowed the bite and shoved the plate aside. One pizza slice remained. You folded your fingers and Sylus wondered what awaited him, and not without a pinch of apprehension. 

“And is this a friendly outing, or one of your romantic rendezvous?”, you asked seriously and Sylus stared at you, his slice of pizza falling onto the plate. In a different situation, you would be proud of yourself to render the silver-tongued man speechless.

“...I'm not sure I follow.”

“What is-”

“‘One of your romantic rendezvous’?”, Sylus interrupted indignantly. “What am I, some lowly womanizer who dates a different woman every week? Who changes women like clothes?”

You looked at her folded hands on the table. I might have hit a nerve - and stepped into a faux pas.

“I didn't mean to…question your honour.”, you said, attempting to appease. 

“And what was your intention?”, Sylus asked dangerously low. 

“Staying rational.” 

“Kitten, what are you talking about? You're not making sense.”, Sylus sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. His demeanour softened when he noticed you growing uncomfortable. 

“I…assume there are romantic intentions behind this evening?”

“You assume correctly.”, Sylus said just as softly. “If that bothers you, it doesn't have to be that. We can just enjoy the food as friends.”

“It doesn't bother me, far from it, to be honest.”, you admitted. “I have grown fond of you, Sylus. And I have acted on prejudices and stereotypes concerning rich men.”

“The other romantic rendezvous.”, Sylus said. You nodded seriously. 

“A rich handsome man like you has countless women waiting for an opportunity. Rich women, decked in jewellery and beauty.”, you explained and clicked your tongue. “I am just a Hunter. You've seen the building I live in. It's normal, unassuming. Sylus, what are you doing? My pizza!”

“Kitten, stop talking.”, Sylus said and addressed the waiter as they left. “We'll be back in a minute.”

You were pulled out of the pizzeria, Sylus’ grip around your hand tight and warm. The cool night air was refreshing against your heated skin. You hadn't realized how stuffy it was in the pizzeria.

Sylus stopped a few metres behind the building. His large hands framed her face and he looked at her with such soft eyes you thought your knees might buckle.

“Kitten. My sweet, feisty kitten.”, he sighed and kissed your forehead. “The mere thought of anyone else but you being by my side is unfathomable. There was no one before you, there will be no one beside you and after you. I don't care that you don't drip in gems and gold. I have enough money for both of us. Whatever you need, it's yours. Be greedy.”

You were speechless. Oh, you had done him a disservice. For all his reputation, Sylus was a man of his word and you knew that.

“Don't look so guilty, kitten. I understand your way of thinking, but please don't question my loyalty again.”

You sank against his chest and hugged him. 

“I'm sorry.”

Sylus merely hummed and kissed the top of your head, breathing in the smell of your shampoo. Now, he knew why you hadn't been as receptive as he had wanted to his courting. Granted, he hadn't explicitly stated his intention, but his kitten was a smart woman. 

“My kitten.”, Sylus whispered against her forehead. You smiled weakly.

“My…Sylus?”

“Smart kitten.”, he grinned.

You stood outside for a few more minutes, your head tucked under his chin. After you went back inside and Sylus paid, he took you back to his base. As if you would be leaving his sight tonight. 

[blank-potato]

Body Party

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

“Oh? Where are we going?” you ask excitedly, swinging your legs and grinning against his back. “You wanna do it in the living room? You little freak, I love it,” you laugh, smacking his back lightly as he keeps walking, completely unfazed. “No, we’re not doing it in the living room,” he mutters, trying to sound annoyed, but you can hear the smirk in his voice. “So… the kitchen, then?” “No.” “Elevator? I’m down—” “Please, stop talking.” Or For some unknown reason, in your sleep, clones of you have been escaping and wreaking mild chaos, but all they seem to want to do is bother John Walker.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, fluff, smut, oral sex (male receiving), implied p in v sex, teasing, angry makeout session, love confessions, getting together

WC: 3.2k

A/N: This is finally escaping my drafts. Don't know what brought this on but here you go. Reader has empathic replication where she can create clones that embody her emotions like Raven in that one episode of Teen Titans.

***

John wakes up to being poked by a finger jabbing at his shoulder. He stirs, shifting under the blanket with a groggy groan.

“Wake up.”

Finally cracking his eyes open, he blinks into the dark and sees you standing over him, the moonlight outlining your silhouette.

He mumbles your name, questioning. “That you?”

You smile faintly, the kind that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Kinda.”

Before he can respond, you climb on top of him, straddling him with a quiet intensity.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” he asks, still half-asleep, the confusion thick in his voice.

“I'm horny.”

John blinks up at you before sighing. “Yeah, okay.”

He flips you onto your back, and you start the sloppiest, messiest, desperation-fueled makeout session. Fingers grasping at fabric, his touch like static electricity on your skin, jolting and fevered.

This had become the routine for the past week, and it was beyond confusing for both of you. 

You had the power to replicate yourself. The catch, your clones were manifestations of different emotions. And now, for some unknown reason, clones of yours have been ending up in his room while the real you was still asleep. 

The first time it happened was a trip and a half. The Avengers had just completed a successful mission. If you don’t count the bickering between the two of you, that was par for the course. It was harmless and playful, if anything.

He’d kept giving you those sharp glances and clipped orders like, “You shouldn’t go in alone,” or “Cover your flank,” like he was still in the military. It irked you a little…okay, maybe more than a little, but nothing too major. At least, that’s what he thought.

So when he’s just settling back into his bed, trying to ignore the aches and bruises he sustained today, he’s not expecting to see you kicking his door open with way too much force. He’s confused. “Hey, you okay?”

He sits up straighter as you stalk toward him, looking at him like you were about to take flight, fueled by nothing but pure rage. You grab him by the shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists, and look him in the eye with an intense fire that makes his breath catch.

“What are you—?” John starts, but he doesn’t even get to finish. You were a woman on a mission, and whatever that mission was, it didn’t involve patience.

“Don’t talk. Your voice is already pissing me off,” you spit at him, eyes burning with something fierce.

You yank him forward, continuing to ruin the neck of a perfectly good shirt as you shove him hard against the door. The thud reverberates through the room, but neither of you flinches.

And then, in a strange turn of events, one that he never could’ve predicted, you crash your mouth against his. It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

His hands hesitate for only a second before one’s in your hair, the other on your back, holding you close. 

He can barely keep up, fighting to catch his breath, to catch up with you. It was all heat and hands and clashing teeth. You bit his lip hard enough to make him grunt, and he wasn’t sure if it was pain or adrenaline that kept him pinned there.

Eventually, he comes to his senses, just barely.

“Easy, hotshot,” he says, voice rough, as he gently tugs your head back by your hair, trying to put a sliver of space between your mouths.

He’s gasping, trying to steady himself, trying to figure out what the hell just happened, and why you looked so damn good furious. Your eyes were wild, your chest heaving, and he had no idea whether to kiss you again or duck for cover.

“Do you have any idea how much you piss me off?”

“I seem to piss everyone off.”

“Don't be a smartass.” You grab his face, forcing him to look at you. He scoffs, a rough and disbelieving sound, because in most, if not all situations, he’s the one accusing you of being the smartass, not the other way around.

You reach for the now ragged neck of his shirt and pull down, tearing his shirt clean off his body.  John didn't know what was going on, but he didn’t hate it. Not one bit. 

“You’re always so rude. Giving me orders and bossing me around.”

“Someone has to do it,” he replies.

“Don’t fuck around, Walker,” You growl, your fingers trailing down his chest before you feel a bulge in his pyjama pants.

“Guess you like this,” you murmur, smirking at him, eyes dark with something reckless.

John tilts his head, lips twitching into the ghost of a grin. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

You push him back onto the bed with a shove that’s more daring than rough, something in you daring him to stop you, but he doesn’t.

Next thing he knows, you’re pouncing on top of him like an animal, leaving angry marks on his jaw that he wasn't looking forward to explaining tomorrow.

You kiss again, it’s rough and messy, but completely unfiltered, all that unresolved tension spilling out with every bite, every gasp, every desperate pull. There are claw marks against John’s back now, angry red lines that sting under your touch.

“That’s it,” you growl, grinding against him as his fingers dig hard into your hips, holding you in place.

You’re about to talk again, but John shuts you up with a kiss, rough and consuming, returning the favour by ripping your shirt off with that infuriating, stupidly sexy super soldier strength. You can't lie, it does something to you.

As you make out, you’re frustrated and angry, and that only makes it worse, whimpering for him between gasps, your need and resentment spilling into each kiss. You liked riling him up, seeing him lose that tight control, unravelling over you like you’re the only thing in the world that can make him snap.

“Fuck… John…” you breathe, voice cracking with want when he pulls you back by your hair, his mouth hot and possessive on your neck, leaving hickeys like bruised warnings only he has the right to give.

“You gonna…fuck me this hard…too?” You pant out, and his eyes widen. Before he can utter a response, the door slams open for the second time in one night. And also for the second time in one night, you’re there.

John blinks slowly. There was a version of you in his lap and another one at the door that looked beyond mortified.

You rush over and make your angry clone disappear off his lap into particles.

"I'm so sorry!"

You take in the damage, his shirt was discarded on the floor, ripped down the middle like it never stood a chance, hair a mess from too many grabs and pulls, lips a dark, swollen shade of red, and he was completely wrecked.

Chest rising and falling like he’d just come out of a fight, or something worse. Or better. His eyes lock on yours, dazed, turned on, and completely unsure of what the hell just happened.

“…What the hell was that?” he finally manages, voice hoarse.

***

The next morning, John’s seated at a table, nursing a cup of coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. You hadn’t really explained what happened, just half-mumbled apologies before you scurried away.

He’s mid-sip, trying to focus on anything but the phantom sting on his neck when—

“Who did you get into a fight with?” Ava asks, raising a brow as she walks in, eyeing the red marks blooming across John’s neck like he’d been mauled by something with claws.

John glances at you.

You’re sitting across the room, all innocent, with your eyes glued to a book.

“…No one,” John mutters, taking another long sip of coffee. “Just… had a rough night.”

Ava catches John the second time he glances over at you, flipping through pages too fast to be actually reading. 

“Oh,” she says, slowly, eyes narrowing in realisation.

Before she can press further, Alexei strolls into the room, pausing mid-step when he catches sight of John’s neck, the faint red lines disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

He raises an eyebrow, surveying the damage like it’s an autopsy report. “You look like you tussle with wild boar.”

John exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah, well… the boar won.”

Alexei hums. “Boar must have had very soft hands.”

John sneaks yet another pointed look at you, “Something like that.”

Later in the day, as you’re making your way to training, John pulls you aside, firm hand around your arm, guiding you into an empty hallway with more urgency than grace.

“Hey, I have a regular human arm here. You could pull it off, you oaf—”

“We need to talk,” he interrupts, tone sharp and eyes locked on yours, serious in that way that makes your stomach tighten.

“About?” you ask, already knowing.

“Your nightly habits.”

You sigh, shoulders slumping. Yeah. This was something you’d been hoping to avoid. 

You rub a hand over your face, groaning under your breath. “I can't control it,” you admit, voice low. “It hasn’t happened in a while, but sometimes I’m stressed or… emotionally compromised, I create clones.”

“Emotionally compromised,” he repeats, crossing his arms. “That what we’re calling it now?”

You glare at him. “Don’t start.”

He lifts a brow, clearly biting back a smirk. “I woke up with claw marks on my back. It seems like someone started already.”

You finally look him in the eyes, frustration and embarrassment swirling together. “I’m really sorry. I'll take extra precautions tonight. No clone of mine will defile you.”

John meets your gaze, a slow, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Here’s hoping,” he says.

***

That very night, he's awoken by a weight on his chest. What else does he see but your face looking back at him, your hyperactive clone practically vibrating on top of him.

“Hi, Johnny!” you exclaim, your cheek squashed against his chest.

“What the fuck?” he groans, and not just at you calling him Johnny. If he didn’t know it was you, he’d have been reaching for the gun lying on the dresser.

“I just wanted to say hi and… give you a gift.”

“I don’t need a gift.”

“You’re not happy to see me? I’m happy to see you…let me show you.”

You wrap your arms around him, hugging him tight, nuzzling against his neck with a mischievous grin. This is a mindfuck. You kiss him softly on the lips, feeling him melt into your touch, slow and warm.

Your fingers work as fast as your lips do, tugging his shirt up, tracing along his abs with deliberate, teasing strokes.

It feels good, so good he never wanted it to stop. So trust me when I say, it pains him to lift you off his lap. But he does it anyway, groaning softly like it’s the hardest decision he’s made all week.

Without warning, he tosses you over his shoulder like you're weightless, his hand settling on the back of your thigh to steady you.

Both of you leave his room, the door swinging shut behind you.

“Oh? Where are we going?” you ask excitedly, swinging your legs and grinning against his back. “You wanna do it in the living room? You little freak, I love it,” you laugh, smacking his back lightly as he keeps walking, completely unfazed.

“No, we’re not doing it in the living room,” he mutters, trying to sound annoyed, but you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“So… the kitchen, then?”

“No.”

“Elevator? I’m down—”

“Please, stop talking.”

Your clone continues to shift and wiggle as he knocks on your bedroom door until he hears the shuffling and faint swearing behind it.

You open up, looking delightfully half-asleep, eyes squinting, and clearly struggling to adjust to the hallway light. The sight of John standing at your door, seemingly holding a large sack of potatoes, is not exactly welcome.

"It's 4 am, jackass," you mumble, voice rough with sleep.

"Exactly," he says, lowering what turns out not to be a sack of potatoes, but a clone of yourself, and unceremoniously shoving her into your arms. "I should sue for the way you're interrupting my sleep."

"I'm sorry, I thought I had it handled," You sigh, wiping a little drool off your cheek. “Clearly, I was wrong.”

“So much for taking precautions,” he huffs on the way back to his room, running a hand down his face. He can’t deny that, god help him, he missed your lips on his. Missed someone being close. Missed you.

The next few nights are a mess. He gets a visit from a few different emotions: Lazy, who slept and ate cookies on top of him, Passion, who surprisingly didn’t try to have sex with him but rather recited sonnets and compared his beauty to that of the stars which felt far more intimate, and Angry again, who he fucked until the sun came up. It’s been exhausting. 

He never really thought to look at you that way before. Sure, you were sharp, bold, and you challenged him like no one else ever did, but it was purely platonic. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He definitely didn’t like the way you smelled, or the way your laugh hooked under his ribs, or the way you bit your lip when you were trying not to smile. He never paid attention to any of that.

But this was… different. 

The next night, he wakes up to find not an excitable clone or a smug one, just a figure in the corner, watching him.

“Are you there?” he asks, voice low.

“I just want to sleep. Can I…?” you ask, your voice barely holding itself together.

“Yeah…”

You sound so small, so quiet, so defeated. It makes John’s heart ache, he hates hearing you like that. The last time he remembered hearing you like that was when you were beating yourself up over not being able to save someone on a mission. 

He shifts in bed, lifting the blanket and scooting over, leaving space for you. You move like a frightened deer, trembling, eyes darting like you're already looking for a way out.

You hesitate for only a moment before crawling into the bed beside him, inching under the covers. Then, slowly, you rest your head against his bare chest, your cheek pressed to the warmth of his skin.

“Are you scared?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He begins petting your head gently, fingers threading through your hair with surprising tenderness. You lean into his touch, something inside you loosening, some invisible coil finally unclenching.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper. “I just feel… tired. And I’m lonely. Are you lonely too?”

John swallows thickly, the words hitting harder than he expected.

“Sometimes…” he says. And in the quiet after, it feels like the only truth he’s allowed himself to say all day.

Another version of you enters his room. You’d think it was the real you if it weren’t for the wide, anxious look on your face, like you were carrying something heavy that no one else could see.

You #2 crashes on the other side of him without a word, your head gently resting on his shoulder. You don’t ask for permission, you just need to be there, and somehow, he understands.

“Do you hate me?” you ask quietly, voice barely more than a breath in the dark.

John’s eyebrows shoot up in shock, eyes darting to your shadowed face.

“Not at all.”

Did you really think that? Maybe he had been a little harsh on you last night. Sure, the two of you argued now and then, but it was never from a place of hate.

“You’re a little annoying,” he admits with a tired smile, “and stubborn. But you’re also brave… kind, smart as hell. How could I hate someone like that?”

You don’t respond in words. Instead, you bury your face in his chest, hiding from the world, and maybe from yourself.

He shifts slightly, reaching out to help tuck you in, making sure both versions of you are safe and warm under the covers, nothing left exposed to the cold.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, anytime.”

***

He wakes up, feeling kisses being laid all over his face and neck. He blinks slowly, still half-lost in the fog of sleep, then sees you beaming down at him. This wasn’t either of the clones he fell asleep with last night. 

“Oh, good morning!” you chirp, eyes sparkling.

“I wanna give you something,” you say softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Can I give it to you?”

He smirks, already suspicious but curious. “It depends what it is…”

“A blowjob.”

He blinks, thinking it through—eyes narrowing just a bit as if weighing the possible consequences.

“...Sure.”

He’s gripping the sheets as she arches beneath him, a wicked grin playing on her face the whole time.

“You’re so…” his hands twitching with need, he can’t even finish the sentence. 

“You can grab my hair. Oh! And fuck my face if you want to,” you whisper, before guiding his hands to your hair and tightening your grip.

As if on autopilot, he pushes you down onto his cock, taking control with fierce urgency. It’s messy and sloppy the way you’re taking him in, but still, you look up at him with those innocent eyes, as if you weren’t just actively sucking his soul out first thing in the morning.

Everything feels heightened, sensitive, and he finds himself crashing over the edge. His legs tremble as he shoots his load into your mouth.

“You’re so cute,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Since your mission is complete, you hop off his bed and disappear. 

***

As much as he enjoys your kisses and your warmth, cuddling with you, or more accurately, the clones of you, he couldn’t keep pretending, and you couldn’t keep doing this either.

John finds you alone in the training room, throwing punch after punch into a bag like it’s the only thing keeping your world from falling apart. You sense him there before he says anything, but you don’t turn around.

“Talk to me,” he says firmly.

From his tone, you know this isn’t a suggestion.

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling the weight of having to confront what was so obviously bubbling beneath the surface for weeks, maybe longer.

“I think I'm reaching out for you subconsciously because… I like you.”

John's brows lift, his expression unreadable. “Huh.”

“Huh?” you repeat, incredulous. “Is that… is that all you're going to say?”

He takes a step closer, considering you with that maddening calm, even though he was anything but on the inside. “I’m trying not to say the wrong thing,” he admits. “Because if I say what I’m really thinking, I don’t think we’ll stop at just talking.”

You chuckle and nod. You guys probably shouldn’t start climbing each other in the middle of the communal gym. 

“Let’s just start with, ‘I like you too’, can’t leave a girl hanging.”

Before even a hint of self-doubt can creep in, John smiles and says, “I like you too, I like every part of you.”

“Even the crazy bits?”

“Yeah, even those,” he says before pulling you into a big hug. 

“I’m sweaty,” you whine as you squirm in his arms. 

“I don’t care,” John says, arms tightening around you. “You could be covered in mud and I’d still want to hold you.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is thudding hard. “Gross,” you tease.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You love it.”

You did. There was no question about it.

Masterlist || Marvel Masterlist

[hairmetal666]

It's Wayne that goes with him when he buys the truck. He offers to go with him. Uses one of his few days off to do it.

On the way there, it strikes Steve that his own father would never do this with him. The man hadn't even bought the Beemer himself, just sent an assistant to take care of it. And here Wayne is, driving them to a used car dealership, humming along to some old country-western song on the radio.

It takes three dealerships for them to find it, but Wayne is patient, stoic, takes careful note of the cars that catch Steve's interest. He asks the salesman if he can pop the hood, peers at the engine, kicks the tires. He asks questions Steve would never think of, about adjustments to the odometer, history of repairs, if it was in any accidents.

Steve never considered wanting a truck, doesn't think it's his style. But he's walking the lot at the third dealership, and he sees it. It's a Chevy, blue and white, a few years old. It's in good condition, but was obviously used for work.

He walks towards it.

"You like this one?" Wayne asks. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it.

"Yeah, it's--yeah," Steve nods.

Wayne does his checks, asks his questions, gives a nod of approval.

It's the first car he takes on a test drive.

He barely has it on the road before he knows it's the one. It surprises him. He always thought he was his true self in the BMW, but now--the engine has a throaty grumble to it, can feel it rumbling through his foot on the pedal, and it's--it's--perfect.

"This it?" Wayne asks as they pull back into the lot.

"Yeah, yes. It's. Yeah."

"Well, let's get to hagglin."

Wayne is, of course, an expert haggler. By the end of it, he's got a couple thousand dollars knocked off the asking price, Steve more than within budget.

They drive back to Wayne's little house on the outskirts of Hawkins, the one the government gave him, the sun just disappearing behind the horizon.

Eddie stands on the small porch, wide smile on his face.

"Wow, Wayne," he says. He wraps an arm around his uncle's shoulders. "You really did a number on him."

"It's a solid vehicle, Ed."

"Never took you for a truck man, Harrington," Eddie teases.

"Can't you see how gorgeous she is?"

Eddie raises an eyebrow, his smile not faltering. "Wow, it's true love then."

"Looks like it. Wanna come for a ride?"

There's only a second where Eddie hesitates, but then he's running inside to grab shoes, tripping on his way to the truck.

---

It happened like this:

Eddie Munson died in the Upside Down in 1986.

He's reanimated by Vecna for the final battle, a puppet to do his master's bidding.

When they win, when Vecna is dead in a pile of dessicated vines, they can't find Eddie. Scour the Upside Down for him and come up empty. They have to assume he's dead, like everything else there, kept alive only by Vecna's power. None of them want to leave without him, but the world is destabilized, they can't stay, El has to close the gates.

That night, Steve pulls the battle vest from under his bed, sobs into the blood-soaked denim, the grief from the loss just as fresh as March of '86.

He and the kids, they go visit Wayne. It becomes a regular thing.

Two weeks after the end of Vecna, Wayne calls him. He's panicked, near hysterical, nothing like the man Steve's come to know.

He goes, fast as he can, to Wayne's house. All the lights are off, the front door ajar, and he runs, clattering into the living room.

Wayne is in the recliner, face pale and strained, and on the couch--on the couch--

Eddie Munson.

His hair's lank, his skin sallow, the light in his eyes dim, but it's him. Unquestionably.

Steve does the only thing he can think of, calls Hopper. He shows up a little while later with El and Will.

"I called Owens," Hopper says.

"Why would you do that?" Steve is angry.

"Look, kid, I get it. But none of us are equipped to deal with this."

He's right, so they wait.

It doesn't take the doctor, El, and Will long to figure that Eddie is Eddie, even though his heart beats a little slow and his skin's always cold and his blood is slightly the wrong color. He's still at least 75% human, and that's enough.

Only those six people know. It's dangerous to tell anyone else when the world still thinks Eddie Munson is a serial murderer. Owens asks for time to clear his name, and they have no choice but to agree.

After two days, Steve thinks he should give Eddie and Wayne space, but as he rises to go, Eddie's hand grips his wrist. "Stay?" He asks. Steve doesn't leave.

It's hard, keeping the secret from the rest of the kids, Robin. He wants to tell her, more than anything. About how they share a bed most nights, how he's memorizing the shape of Eddie's body in a way he shouldn't, how the gentle desire turns to profound longing--but Eddie's safety is the most important thing, so Steve keeps it to himself.

---

They go out in Steve's truck almost every night, always on backroads. It's the only way Eddie can leave the house.

It's Steve's favorite thing, the only time Eddie seems truly happy. They roll the windows down, turn the music up, and whip around deserted farm roads. Sometimes, Eddie will stick his head out the window, shout out into the night.

Steve is in love with him.

He has no idea if Eddie feels the same, figures it doesn't matter. He'll harbor this flame for the rest of his life without complaint because Eddie is alive.

He thinks he's done a good job at hiding his feelings, thinks he's able to avert his gaze, hide his blush, when Eddie comes out of his room in only his boxers, thinks Eddie hasn't noticed how Steve's eyes linger when they share joints lying in the bed of the truck.

Except tonight--tonight--they're driving back home, and Eddie, he's been quiet, distant, fidgety, and now he reaches out to turn down the radio, which has Steve's stomach in a knot.

"You--Steve, you've been so great. To me and Wayne, and--you're family, you know? To us, you're--but--"

And Steve thinks this is it, that Eddie noticed, that he's being let down easy, and he wants to throw up, cry, but Eddie's still talking.

"You have a life to live, right? You're--you're 23 and you're not stuck here like me, and I know Robin is ready to go and the kids are--they're going to college soon, and you shouldn't stay here for me, I'm--"

"What?" Steve says.

"What?" Eddie echoes.

"I don't want to leave," Steve says.

"But--"

"Where you are is where I want to be."

"I'm in love with you," Eddie says. Cover his face with his hands.

Steve pulls the truck to the shoulder. His hands are shaking.

"You love me?"

"I'm sorry." His apology is muffled. "I didn't mean--I know this fucks up--"

"Eddie." He says, soft. "Look at me?"

One deep brown eye peers up at him. "Eddie, I--I'm hopelessly in love with you."

Both eyes now, mouth a bright curve. "You mean it, Harrington?"

"Fuck, can't get enough of you, Munson."

"You know, if I thought for a second anything like was possible, I would've--fuck, I would've made a move ages ago. I would've--"

"Shut-up," he whispers against Eddie's mouth. "Kiss me."

---

And later, Robin will ask if he has someone, and he'll say yes, and she'll ask, soft, "is it him?" and he'll nod, and they'll both cry.

Later, a news report, Eddie Munson's body was recovered from the bottom of Sattler Quarry, bearing the same wounds as Vecna's other victims.

Later, Chief Powell will hold a press conference, say they're looking for a man named Henry Creel, wanted on suspicion of killing his mother and sister and the aggravated assault of his father with an MO that matches the 1986 killing spree.

Later, Steve will shave Eddie's head, Eddie crying softly as the hair tumbles to the bathroom floor. Steve will kiss the tears away, one by one, say, "I know it's hard to let go. But we'll move away, to a place where people say 'you look like that guy, that Eddie Munson,' and you'll say, 'I get that a lot,' and your hair will grow back, if you want it to."

Later, they'll invite everyone to Wayne's , everyone except Dustin, busy in Boston with an internship, and Eddie will be there to welcome them.

Later, he and Eddie will take the truck, drive up to Boston. And Eddie, he'll spy Dustin first, walks up to him and says, "Pretty metal tattoos, little dude," and they'll all cry until Dustin stops to yell at them for keeping the secret.

Later, Steve and Eddie will leave MIT--Dustin screeching that they have to call him every night promptly at 8pm still ringing in their ears-- in search of their future.

[mediumgayitalian]

Right before he left for an errand of his father's, Nico di Angelo almost kissed him.

Will is sure of it.

He'd been so close. Will had felt his breathing, spine tingling, on the curve of his dry lip: he had stood on on the bottom stair of the porch of Cabin Seven, a little shorter than Will even than usual, hands hovering over Will's wrists. Will had fought with the temptation to slide his wrists just so upward, just enough to slot against his open palms; he had resisted, in the end, but it was a close thing, a desperate need to feel the chill of Nico's chapped hands through his bandages, past his tangled string bracelets. Nico had parted his lips, meaning to say something, and Will had exhaled, quick and short, flicking down to meet his eyes, already staring. Nico's pupils were dilated, even obvious with the dark dark dark of his eyes, and his eyelids were low-slung, long eyelashes fanning. He had managed one word.

"I --"

And then Will's stupid watch chimed, and Nico glanced down, and he cursed, wrenching his hands away, and that time Will did grab them, just for a milisecond, just on reflex. And Nico had frozen and stared down at their joined hands, eyes wide, but Will was already halfway through a reflective "Sorry! Oh my gods! Sorry! Don't be late!" and Nico straightened, eyes narrowing in determination, and rushed out his okayseeyoulaterbye and sprinted across the common, disappearing into the shadow of his cabin. And Will stared after him for several minutes, until his vision was obstructed by a camper.

A camper who turned to him, eyes wide and sheepish and hopeful, wrist bent oddly, and said: "Hey, Will --"

And Will screamed his frustration so loud the camper jumped out of his skin, squeaking out an excuse, and walked quickly off, which was just as well because Will doubted he could be very much help when he was so busy stomping back to his cabin, burying his face in his pillow, and screeching until his voice went hoarse.

"Fucking boys!" he shouted.

Lou Ellen, in his cabin for some reason, flipped a page of her magazine, snorting.

"Hear, hear."

And that was that.

-- -- --

Except that wasn't that.

Because Nico sends him letters.

"I don't get any of those," Percy observes , peeking over his shoulder. Will slams the paper to his chest. shoves his face away, and storms off, face burning.

"Maybe because you are a tool," he mutters darkly, and flushes worse when he does not mutter at all, and Annabeth laughs so hard she chokes. He ducks into the stables and presses his steaming forehead to the wood, eyes squeezed shut, letter clutched to his chest as he waits out Annabeth's wheezing, Percy's hurt mumbling.

"I'm not a tool, am I?"

"Oh my gods I am going to pass out."

Once she reassures him, giggling, and drags him off Somewhere Else, Will peeks out. There is Clovis, curled up on the ground, but he is out cold. There is Miranda, a little ways away, tending to an olive tree, but she minds her own business. There is Connor, rigging...something, but that's okay. Will knows his pressure points.

He exhales, willing the heat away from his face. It doesn't work. He sits down in Guido the Pegasus's stall, anyway, shooting him a small smile in greeting, and smooths out the letter on his thigh. It reads:

Dear My Friend Belov

Will,

Hi.

Okay, hi again. I let this letter sit for two weeks because I was embarrassed. I don't know what to say. Because I'm

Hi. Again.

I have locked myself in my room with a pen and no food source (you would not approve). I gave one of my father's minions a key. They are not to release me until I have filled at least one page. So.

Uh, -- wow, is it stupid, writing 'uh', I used to write letters for competitions at school -- I miss you. I guess. I got a papercut yesterday and my stepmother gave me a bandaid. It was so strange and then I blinked because -- it shouldn't be strange, right? That's what you do for papercuts. But then I realized that I never get bandaids for papercuts. You just healed them.

And then I realized I have become a booger.

Will stops, and laughs. Guido huffs and raises his horsey eyebrow at him, and Will knows its in judgment because horses are the judgiest creatures on Earth, except for church ladies, and his ears burn. But he cannot force away the giant smile on his face no matter how hard he tries. He shifts, laying back onto the haypile -- and ignoring Guido's whiney huff, see, being mean has consequences -- and holding the letter above his face. From this angle, he can see the scratch marks bleeding in from the back, from all the words Nico has crossed out. Will considers using his X-ray machine to determine what it says and then realizes that is insanity. His pulse fires in his ear, loud and red-hot.

What does booger even mean.

I used to -- fight manticores! Empousai! I fistfought The Original Werewolf and won!

You make me weak.

He hears it, loud and echoing: the stutter of his heart, the actual moment where it pauses for a second, as if it doesn't have a job. Will inhales sharply and freezes with his fingers pinching the edges of the pages, breathing out, and out, and out; he exhales the sum total of oxygen left in his lungs and does not move, still, shifts only his eyes as they swing rapidly from line to line and word to word and trace every shift and bend of the careful cursive letters.

I don't -- that's maybe not the best way to write that but I tried three different sentences and they don't work right. What I'm trying to say, is: I used to be really cool and badass and everything, but you keep bossing me around and I keep letting you, and now I use conditioner in my hair.

He snorts a laugh, finally, swimming vision rebalancing as his lungs inflate again. His hands shake, ever so slightly, so he rests the letter gently on his lap, and tucks his hands under his thighs. Guido noses gently at the mess of his hair, and Will leans into the clever horse, smiling.

Which you don't even use! Because you're awful like I used to be and use -- that stupid 3-in-1 stuff! Because you never have time for anything! Because you don't tell people with papercuts to stuff it and get their own bandaids! Because you're ridiculous!

I guess I am really just thinking: sleep. You, I mean. I sleep until my servants wake me, which, I mean, there's no sun down here, but is probably noon or something. You should sleep, because now that I'm not there I'm sure no one else is bothering you to do it, and you're an idiot.

So.

I reached the end of the page so I don't have to write anymore. I hope you get this letter soon and you haven't dropped dead from exhaustion, even thought I know you haven't because I would feel it and I would kick your ass right back to the land of the living.

I love you

Don't kill yourself. Be meaner.

Love, Bye,

Nico. (di Angelo)

"Of course you have servants," Will mumbles, and buries his face in his hands.

Guido neighs at him, loud and exaggerated directly in his ear. Will shoves him off, scowling, and somersaults to his feet, standing with his hands on his hips. Guido blinks his big eyes at him. They are dark, like Nico's. Will considers screaming. He doesn't want to receive a hoof to the kneecap, so he doesn't, and instead redirects his energy into finger-combing Guido's mane and making general groaning noises of discontent. Guido rolls his eyes at him, which is rude. Which is -- judgey, and Guido is a dumb horse and he should not be embarrassed in front of a dumb horse but he is and it is the worst and all Nico's fault, he knows it.

"You're a horse," Will says, huffy. "You do not understand my gripes. How would you feel if you fell in love --" Will falters -- "if you -- well -- well!" He stops, squeezing his eyes shut. Don't kill yourself. Be meaner.

What is wrong with him.

What is wrong with him.

"Did you know he smells like a garden," Will says, eventually. He loosens his hold on Guido's mane when he whinnies in discomfort, pressing a smooch of apology between his giant eyes and using his hand to shake his fist at the heavens instead. "Just -- all the time. He smells like when you dig up the dirt, right before you put the flowers in the ground. That -- heady smell. You know?"

Guido blinks at him.

"Of course you do not know. You are a winged horse, and I need a straightjacket." He smooths down his patchy coat, sighing. "Guido, which pegasus do you have a crush on."

Guido, being a horse, does not answer.

"Is it Princess Peach Sour Rings?" He glances over at the dusky orange mare, lips pursed in consideration. Guido, too, looks in interest: they make eye contact, look to Will, and then back at each other. Will swears he sees them raise their eyebrows. "It's Princess Peach Sour Rings, isn't it."

The look in Guido's eyes says: you are unwell. Will doesn't need to be distantly related to Pegasus Himself to glean that much. Unfortunately, he's directly related to the God of Being Delusional, so this flies over his head.

"Okay, Guido, we are going to do what's called a Guided Thought Exercise. Are you ready? You don't look like you're ready. You need to take a Deep Calming Breath. Good. Okay."

Will closes his eyes for the Effect. He takes the thoughts his brain just constantly has of Nico -- smiling; Nico with his tongue poking out of his mouth, concentrating; Nico with sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, eyes glinting, sword a moving shadow; Nico hopping out of the window of Cabin Eleven, cackling as he is chased across camp by several furious, shouting, now-moneyless children of Hermes -- and envisions balling them up and tossing them out his ears. This, predictably, does nothing. Will ignores this failure and moves on.

"Guido, imagine for a second you are a regular, boring horse. You do not have cool wings like the rest of your friends. But it's cool 'cause you can gallop really fast. Maybe. And then one day, this other horse -- Princess Peach Sour Rings, are you imagining her -- comes in and this horse is just the most beautiful horse you've ever seen. Big, beautiful brown eyes, almost black, really, except when he stands by the campfire they glow like amber." Will clears his throat. "Uh, she, I mean. Princess Peach Sour Rings. And -- and, when this beautiful horse comes into the stable, you notice she has the most graceful wings you've ever seen and also coincidentally the most powerful kick in the land. And all she is valued for is her kick. And it makes you sad. Because the wings!"

Will pauses. He shifts so he has either hand on Guido's face, staring directly in his eyes. Guido allows it. Will cannot resist another smooch, tinier this time, right on his big snout. Then he pulls back and resumes eye contact.

"Guido," he says, seriously, "I have lost my metaphor. My brain is noodles."

Guido bumps his head softly against Will's. Will groans, leaning into the touch. Nico had accused Will of making him weak. Well, Nico makes him stupid. Constantly. Will is generally a really intelligent and articulate person. Nico makes him feel like his Wernicke's area has been pulled out with a fork. Which is an issue, because Will relies on his Wernicke area among others to do things such as brush his teeth and oh yeah, also surgery, because as Nico has so deftly pointed out this camp is broken. And also illegal. But Will has a job so he can't really be worried about that right now.

He screams.

Guido, gently, headbutts him. Will picks the letter up from the floor and shakes it violently.

"I am going to -- burn this," Will says, lying. He notices his fingers have creased the thick paper and rushes to smooth it out. "In a fire. Yes. Right now." He nods to himself. "Bye, Guido."

Guido does not respond. All well, though, because even if he could Will is too busy muttering to himself, tripping every forth step, scanning the looped cursive for hidden messages that are clearly not there. He kind of hopes if he holds the page up to the light then the words hey I should have kissed you before I disappeared for a hundred years that's my bad will appear, but this is all for naught. No such words appear. Only y's looped in a really gay way and that's stereotyping, it is, but they really do kind of follow the pattern.

"If you had kissed me I would have let you," Will says to the letter, because the only way he is saying that to Nico himself is if someone successfully clones his body and forces a microchip in his brain. "Like, just saying."

The letter, predictably, does not respond. This is perhaps for the best as if it did Will would have grander problems, which is saying something, because his mother fondly calls him Math Textbook, which is funny if hurtful. Anyways.

He makes it back to the middle of Camp, and stands for several minutes in front of a blazing brazier. There is if he is not mistaken a can of paint at the bottom of this one. That would explain the fumes. It would also explain the Chiron shouting at the grotesquely accurate spray-painted depiction of a penis on the side of the Big House and the various gathered Hermes children standing in smug Miranda-rights silence.

"It would be a great shame to burn you alongside evidence of a crime," Will says to the letter, solemnly. "Nico worked very hard to get you to me." He turns red as the sun as he says it and ignores it because he is well-rounded and developed and mature and emotionally available and adult and not emotionally repressed in any which way shut up Austin. "Maybe I will burn you individually, instead. Yes. More personal, that way."

He folds the letter carefully along the seams so as to conceal its contents from wandering eyes and marches with grand purpose, double time, to the Arts n Crafts shack. He notices the pottery wheel is out and twitches towards it, remembering the increasingly ugly vases he is creating and gifting to Chiron to see how long he will politely accept them before finally cracking, but remembers at the last moment that he is on a Quest and cannot afford any further distractions. He does take a quick second to flick a spot of paint on the back of Drew's neck but that is unrelated and cannot be traced back to him.

"Hi," he says, to the crowd at large. Lacy waves enthusiastically. Will waves back and makes a heart with his hands also because she is the best and Will loves her. "Does anyone have a lighter or a match or flint or something of the likes?"

Mitchell pauses. Will leans over to observe the jewelry box he is painting and nods in serious appreciation. He is very fond of the individual muscle veins being painted on Naruto's likeness.

"I am trying very hard to think of a non-terrifying reason you are so intent on a source of fire," Mitchell says gently, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "See, the way you have requested it reads arson to me, if you can imagine."

"What if I wanted to start smoking cigarettes."

"Hm."

"He could be learning lighter tricks," Valentina offers. "You know, put a bunch of hand sanitizer on and then set your hands on fire. The such."

Will nods enthusiastically. Mitchell somehow does not look assuaged.

"Aren't you a." He pauses, pressing his hands together. "Hm. Is lighting your hands aflame sanctioned by a medical professional such as yourself?"

"I think freedom of expression is important, yeah."

"...I see."

Will pats his shoulder. He continues to look alarmed, but returns reluctantly to his mostly naked Naruto painting. Will, as always, appreciates his endless support. Nobel Peace Prize for Mitchell Lastname 2013.

"So," Will continues, when no lighter is brought forth, "no flames?"

"No," says Valentina, sadly.

"No," says Mitchell, less sadly.

"If you're going to self-annimilate, do it elsewhere," Drew says, not sadly at all. She adds a careful dot of red paint to the grotesquely accurate depiction of Connor Stoll's decapitation. "I don't want the heat to dry out my hair."

"Self-immolate," Will corrects, and wanders off.

His search for a lighter produces no results. You'd think, in a Camp as oft-flammable as this one, the task would be an easy one, but Will wants it too badly, see, so the universe has punished him for the crime of hope. 'Tis likely why Nico did not kiss him, actually. Will pauses as he considers that Nico might not return if Will wants that too badly, too, just like his brothers, and gently and lovingly places that thought in the box in his brain labelled 'YIKES'. He pushes forward, humming.

"Nyssa," he says jovially, running into her. She pauses, eyeing him warily.

"You're not getting an alibi from me again, Solace. I don't want a repeat of..." She shudders. "Last time."

Will schools his face into a mask of sincerity. "Of course not, Nyssa, I would never, Nyssa, what do you take me for, Nyssa, I am only a boy, Nyssa." He is careful to cross his fingers behind his back lest he set off his allergy. Nyssa does not notice but seems to suspect.

"One day you're gonna suffocate," she says cryptically. Will inclines his head knowing she is correct. "It will be your own fault."

"I need a lighter," Will says, batting his eyelashes to change the subject. He makes his face as innocent and hopeful as he can manage. "Not for arson, I promise. Well, only kind of. The definition of arson is broad."

Nyssa sighs and walks away.

"No one in this Camp loves me," Will laments. He folds the letter back along its careful creases and tucks it, in its worn envelope, into the many beautiful and non-excessive pockets of his shorts, patting in gently. "I guess you get to survive, letter. You will remain the last manifestation of any affection Nico has for me as it surely fades for a cuter boy with nicer jeans down in the Underworld. How ye Gods are moved by my plight, and yet, none can break the ancient Sisters' iron decrees; doomed, by all Fate's accounts, for mine own torch to burn; down to embers, down to coal, down to ash; forgotten in the wind and reduced to the wind of memory; a weak, pitying blast in the stillness of the future."

The sun shines brightly in approval of his misery. Will shoots a thumbs up at it, sighs wistfully for at least seven seconds, to really seal it in, and follows the rest of the camp to the dinner bell. Percy only pouts sadly at him three times and then is easily distracted by dessert. None bring up the arson, although Mitchell watches with careful eyes.

Will sighs and sulks through dinner, pushing the food around his plate until he remembers he's ravenous and shovels it down. He rebuffs his siblings attempts at conversation by virtue of being too heartbroken to speak, not unlike Penelope, awaiting her beloved Odysseus, but then Kayla claims that bluegrass is a mid shadow of jazz and Will is so indignant he needs both hands and a borrowed third hand from Austin to properly list all the ways she's wrong. By the fiftieth stanza of their argument, obviously in couplets because they are not animals, the letter stops burning a hole into the khaki. By the seventieth, Austin starts weeping in misery, and he has almost entirely forgotten it. By the ninetieth, he resigns it to a hidden page in his journal, stashed under his mattress.

He is sure, anyway, that it is a fluke.

After all -- Nico could have kissed him, before he left.

But he didn't.

-- -- --

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