#JESUS this was back from february i think

[crazychaoticizzy]

Just the Tip

CONTENT: 18+, MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, morning sex, dom/sub/switch reader and character depending on which one you’re reading, my knowledge on some of these characters is limited since i’m new to the fandom so they may be mischaracterized, the most basic concept but it’s something ✨

WORD COUNT: 573

MASTERLIST

“C’mon, baby… Just the tip, I swear.”

You both knew he was lying. He didn’t do just the tip. You knew that, and yet you still obliged him in the early morning.

“Just for a bit. I have a meeting today,” you mumble. You bury your face further into your pillow as he climbs on top of you. Now that you’d said it, you realized how much you didn’t want to go to that business meeting.

“I know, baby. I swear this time it’ll really be just the tip.”

You hum as he pushes your panties aside. His fingers briefly glide against your folds before he replaces them with his cock.

For a moment, he abides by his promise and only puts in the tip. He ruts into you and moans in your ear before pushing more of himself in. You’re too tired to notice entirely, although you can feel it. You don’t comment on it, though, even knowing that you should. You excuse it by convincing yourself just a little bit of indulgence wouldn’t hurt anyone.

It isn’t long until his hips meet yours. Your mouth falls open in a surprises moan when he pulls out almost completely and shoved himself back inside. Your eyes shoot open, and you look up at him with a questioning gaze.

“Oops.” The stupid smirk on his face tells you this is definitely not and oops situation, but you can’t find it in yourself to argue. Especially not after he begins a fast pace.

It looks like that meeting will have to wait. What a shame…

Jean Kirstein, Eren Yeager, Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Toji Fushiguro, Ryoumen Sukuna, Roy Mustang, Portgas D. Ace

There was no sound prettier than the sound of your boyfriend’s voice, still groggy with sleep as he holds onto your hips for dear life.

Just the tip. That’s what he’d promised you. But Jesus Christ, the way your walls stretched and squeezed around just the tip made him delirious. You’d barely given him anything and his eyes were already rolled to the back of his head.

He whines and whimpers in your ear, pleading, begging for you to let him put more of himself inside.

“Baby… Baby, please… I know you’re busy today but I need-”

With the way he moans in your ear, his hands twisted in the sheets and leaving bruises on your hips, it would just be cruel to say no, wouldn’t it?

Armin Arlert, Reiner Braun, Choso Kamo, Sanji Vinsmoke

Sometimes you find yourself hating how coy he can be. How fucking clever he is infuriates you, especially when it’s early in the morning and the only thing you want is for him to not follow what you said.

You moaned his name, long and drawn out, as you tried moving your hips back to push more of him inside you.

But he keeps his hands on your hips, preventing you from moving any further. He tuts and shakes his head, barely moving the tip in and out.

“We can’t get too carried away. We both have things to do today,” he whispered, his voice still raspy and thick with sleep.

You groan, attempting to move your hips again. When he resists, you give up. “Please,” you beg.

He chuckles. You think for a moment that he’ll give in to your pleas and screw you until you’re a mess beneath him, but he only kisses your cheek and pulls away.

It leaves you feeling empty and upset, even with the promise of a proper fucking when the two of you return to work.

Erwin Smith, Levi Ackerman, Kento Nanami

this has been in the drafts since at least February sorry about that guys hope y’all enjoyed 💜

[yeahiveheardofbears-fics]

Be My Anti-Valentine

You and your best friend Steve have a movie night on Valentine's Day, since you are both perpetually single. Except, maybe not for long...

hey babes! Happy way late Valentine's Day! I will say that i did base the reader character, once again, on my OC Mac from my ST rewrite series. so some side characters, relationships, and places will be from that universe. You don't need to read that to get the story, but if you like this dynamic then I definitely recommend it! I treat this little smut one shots like deleted scenes that didn't make sense in my main fic, but wouldnt escape my brain. I also did a lot of build up because I can't seem to write smut for Steve without making him an absolute loverboy <3 Enjoy!!

l-bombs, friends to loves, lots of exposition word count: 14,096 TW: uhhh, really not much, this is pretty loving honestly. underage drinking i guess

REQUESTS ARE OPEN, IF YOU LIKE THIS, PLZ MESSAGE ME CAUSE I NEED INSPO <3

fic masterlist

read on ao3 or read below the cut:

February 14th, 1986

The neon glow from Family Video flickers just across the street, casting a greenish hue onto the wet pavement outside. Through the glass doors of Vinyl Frontier , you can see the faint movement of Steve inside, pacing behind the counter, no doubt pretending to look busy. You know better.

He’s probably just spinning a tape case in his hands, waiting out the last few miserable hours of his shift—same as you.

You stretch your arms above your head with a groan, then lean against the counter, staring at the real misery: the Valentine’s Day display Jet had you set up. Rows of records with love songs, sappy ballads, and an obnoxiously large hand-drawn sign that reads MAKE A LOVE MIX FOR YOUR SWEETHEART! in looping red letters. The entire thing makes your skin crawl.

You’re halfway through reorganizing the New Releases section—because some asshole put Iron Maiden next to Cyndi Lauper —when the store’s phone rings behind you. You sigh, abandoning the records to grab the receiver.

“ Vinyl Frontier , what do you want?”

There’s a scoff on the other end of the line. “Wow. That’s how you answer the phone now?”

You smirk, already recognizing the voice. “Oh, it’s you. My bad. Vinyl Frontier , home of angsty losers and overpriced imports. How can I help you, Steve?”

“Much better.” There’s a pause, then his voice lowers conspiratorially. “Listen, just giving you a heads-up—there’s a couple that just left my store, all lovey-dovey, handsy as hell. They’re headed straight for your store, so you’ve got, like, thirty seconds before you have to witness… whatever the hell they were doing here.”

You groan, already standing to peek through the store window. And sure enough—there they are. The couple in question, walking hand-in-hand across the street, their matching red sweaters obnoxiously bright.

“Ugh. Them?”

“You know them?” Steve asks, bemused.

“They were making out between The Smiths and Bauhaus the other day,” you say, flopping back against the counter. “I Lysoled the shelves after they left.”

Steve makes a disgusted noise. “Jesus Christ. They were all over the romance section at Family Video . Like, I get it, love is great, whatever, but I work here. Have some goddamn respect.”

You snort. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Harrington.”

“Oh yeah, it’s been real happy,” he deadpans. “Nothing like watching every couple in Hawkins remind me that I’m pathetically single.”

You roll your eyes, even though you feel the same way. “It’s like an infestation. Can’t even walk two feet without seeing someone swapping spit.”

“Tell me about it.” There’s some muffled conversation on his end, the sound of a VHS tape clattering onto the counter. “Anyway, you still coming over?”

“Obviously.”

“I grabbed your stupid movies,” he says, sounding so put out that you have to grin. “But just for the record, I still think your choices are ridiculous.”

“They’re perfect,” you correct. “What’s wrong with them?”

Steve exhales like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Alright, let’s start with The Thing . How exactly is that an anti-Valentine’s movie?”

“Because it’s about paranoia and distrust,” you say. “There’s no love. Just body horror and existential dread.”

“Uh-huh. And Sleepaway Camp ?”

“You know damn well why.”

“Okay, fine, that one’s fair.” He pauses. “But My Bloody Valentine ? You picked a Valentine’s Day slasher . That’s, like, half giving in to the holiday.”

“It’s a classic, Steve.”

“Mm-hmm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “I feel like you just wanted an excuse to watch a bunch of horror movies with me.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. I don’t need an excuse for that. I can bully you into watching horror movies whenever I want.”

There’s a beat of silence before he huffs a quiet laugh. “You know, I hate that you’re right.”

“I love that I’m right.”

Steve sighs dramatically. “Fine. But when I get nightmares about shapeshifting aliens, I’m blaming you.”

“You’ll live.”

“Debatable.” Another pause, then his voice softens just slightly. “Robin’s not gonna make it, by the way. She’s got a ‘not-date’ with Vickie.”

That gives you pause.

“So it’s just us,” you say.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Just us.”

There’s a moment of… something. Not awkwardness, exactly. Just an awareness that wasn’t there before. You glance around the store, suddenly finding it hard to focus on anything. The record stacks, the cheap plastic Valentine’s decorations Jet made you put up, the couple now giggling in the corner near Fleetwood Mac .

“Well, that just means more popcorn for me,” you say, brushing past it.

“And I won’t have to listen to Robin complain about my movie choices.”

“ My movie choices,” you correct.

“Whatever.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “So, uh… you still coming?”

You twirl the phone cord between your fingers, a habit you thought you’d grown out of. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“Cool. See you later.”

“See you.”

You hang up, staring at the receiver for a second longer than necessary.

This was fine. Totally normal. Just another movie night.

Right?

---

Steve sighs as he hangs up the phone, rubbing the back of his neck before turning toward the counter—only to find Robin standing there, arms crossed, one brow arched so high it’s practically in her hairline.

He stops short, already exasperated. “Don’t.”

Robin tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Don’t what?”

“ Don’t make it weird.” He gestures vaguely toward the phone, like somehow the conversation itself was to blame for whatever this was.

She scoffs. “Oh, I didn’t make it weird. You did that all on your own.”

Steve groans, rubbing his temples. “Jesus Christ, Robin.”

She just smirks, shifting her weight against the counter. “It’s not my fault you two sound like a couple in a bad rom-com.”

He glares. “It’s your fault for having a date tonight.”

Robin immediately corrects him. “It’s a not-date.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Same difference.”

“Uh, huge difference,” she says. “Dates are romantic. Not-dates are for pretending it’s not romantic while still getting nervous about it.”

He gives her a flat look. “That literally makes no sense.”

Robin shrugs. “Well, good news, dingus—you’ve got a not-date too.”

Steve scoffs, crossing his arms. “It’s not a date.”

Robin just lifts a brow. “That’s what I just said.”

He throws his hands up. “No, I mean—it’s not even a not-date! It’s just a normal night. We watch movies all the time.”

Robin sighs, then pushes off the counter, walking over to him with that look—the one that means she’s about to call him on his bullshit.

“Steve.”

“What?”

She softens just slightly. “You do realize that you two are both my best friends, right?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah?”

“And that I’m not blind?”

He groans. “Robin—”

“I mean, come on.” She starts ticking off fingers, like she’s listing off groceries. “You grab her movies for her even when you think they’re stupid, you call her at work just to talk, you let her make fun of you without even trying to fight back—”

“I fight back,” he protests weakly.

Robin ignores him. “—and, oh yeah, you both spent the last five minutes awkwardly dancing around the fact that you’ll be alone tonight.”

Steve crosses his arms tighter. “So what? It’s not weird to hang out with a friend.”

Robin nods sagely. “Totally. Just a friend.”

“Exactly.”

“Just a friend. On Valentine’s day. that you think is funny and hot and cool and—”

“Okay, I never said that I find her hot.” He throws his head back dramatically. “She’s annoying and bossy and thinks she knows everything—”

Robin hums. “Mmm, yeah. Real convincing, Harrington.”

“—and she’s constantly making fun of my hair—”

Robin shrugs. “You kinda deserve that one.”

“—and she has this stupid little smirk when she’s right about something, and she always has to be right, and when she gets all smug about it, she does this thing where she tilts her head a little, and she has this way of looking at you like she’s three steps ahead in a game you didn’t know you were playing—”

Robin lifts an eyebrow.

Steve doesn’t notice.

“—and she has that voice, you know, like all confident but a little raspy, and when she laughs at something she actually finds funny, not just something dumb Dustin says, it’s, like—”

Robin makes a face. “Steve.”

“—all breathy and warm, and she smells good all the time even when she’s just coming off work, and I don’t know what it is, but it’s like cherry or maybe something floral, but not too much, and—”

“ Steve .”

He finally stops, blinking at her.

Robin stares at him, then slowly grimaces. “You do hear yourself, right?”

Steve pauses. Blinks again. “Shit.”

Robin claps him on the shoulder. “There it is.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not like that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She doesn’t even like me like that.”

Robin snorts. “Yeah, sure.”

Steve points a finger at her. “You don’t know that.”

Robin raises both hands in surrender. “Okay. If you say so.” But she’s grinning, and it pisses him off.

Before he can argue, the bell over the door jingles, and a couple walks in, already giggling to each other. Steve immediately straightens up, plastering on his best customer service face.

Robin steps back with a smirk. “Don’t worry, lover boy. We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Steve glares at her as he turns to the customers. “I hate you.”

Robin flashes him a grin. “You love me.”

And unfortunately, she’s right. Again.

---

You hang up the phone, exhaling through your nose, then lean against the counter and let your head fall back, staring up at the ceiling. The sound of a throat clearing makes you lift your head, and when you glance to the side you see your boss, Jet, standing in the doorway of the back office, arms crossed, looking entirely too amused.

"Was that Harrington?" he asks, voice dry as ever.

You roll your eyes and turn away, stacking the pile of records you’d been sorting before Steve called. "No, it was the Pope. He wanted to know if we have any Black Sabbath in stock."

Jet snorts, stepping further into the shop. "So, Harrington."

"Maybe."

Jet leans against the counter, watching you work with that knowing look that always makes you feel like you’re under a microscope. "You two sure do talk a lot."

"Yeah, it’s called friendship, Jet."

"Uh-huh." He tilts his head. "Y’know, back in my day, we didn’t call it friendship when two people made goo-goo eyes at each other across a counter."

You nearly drop the stack of records. "Oh my god, shut up."

Jet just grins. "I’m just sayin’."

You huff and move to the other side of the store, grabbing a rag to wipe down the shelves. The Valentine’s Day display mocks you from the corner, obnoxiously pink and full of records Jet made you pull— Foreigner , REO Speedwagon , Whitney Houston , all the stuff people were eating up today.

"He's annoying," you say, mostly to distract from whatever the hell Jet was implying.

"Sure."

"And bossy."

"Mm-hmm."

"Thinks he knows everything."

Jet makes a vague gesture. "Yeah, yeah, you’re really selling it, kid."

You scowl at him, but Jet just chuckles, watching you scrub furiously at a perfectly clean shelf.

"You know," he says, a little softer, "you don’t gotta dance around it with me. If you like him, you like him. No shame in it."

You pause, grip tightening on the rag. "I don’t."

Jet tilts his head, unconvinced. "Look, all I’m sayin’ is… I’ve been around the block a few times. And I know the look of someone trying real hard to pretend they don’t care about someone when they definitely do."

You set the rag down a little harder than necessary. "And what look is that, exactly?"

Jet just grins. "The same look you get when you talk about him but try to pretend you’re just complaining."

You open your mouth, then close it. Scowl. Pick up the rag again.

Jet chuckles. "Listen, I don’t give a damn one way or the other, but if you wanna keep lying to yourself, at least try to be good at it."

You groan. " Jet ."

"Hey, just giving you some wisdom." He pushes off the counter, stretching. "Y’know, back in the day, I had a girl I danced around with like that. Thought I was bein’ slick, thought no one noticed."

You glance at him, wary. "And?"

"And turns out I was just an idiot," he says with a shrug. "So maybe don’t be an idiot, huh?"

You roll your eyes. "Thanks, dad ."

Jet winks. "Anytime, kid."

---

Steve shuts the register with a satisfying clack and stretches, rolling out the tension in his shoulders. It’s finally closing time, and for once, he’s actually looking forward to tonight—not just because it means getting the hell out of Family Video , but because he has plans.

Casual, totally normal, not-a-date plans.

Robin is watching him, arms crossed, in that ‘I know something you don’t want me to know’ way that makes his skin itch.

He sighs. “Just say it.”

Robin grins. “Say what?”

“You know what.”

“Oh, I was just wondering if you were gonna make a move tonight.”

Steve groans, grabbing his jacket. “Jesus, Robin. Again with this?”

“What?” she says, following him as he grabs the store keys and heads for the back door. “I think it’s a valid question.”

“Well, I think it’s a stupid question.”

Robin shrugs, undeterred. “That’s funny, because you didn’t actually answer it.”

Steve flicks off the lights, plunging the store into dim shadows illuminated only by the neon glow from the sign outside. He turns back to Robin, exasperated. “There’s no move to make.”

Robin smirks, watching as he fumbles a little with the keys. “Uh-huh.”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“Sure, sure.”

Steve scowls. “You really think I’d make a move?”

Robin shrugs again. “I mean, yeah.”

Steve groans, shoving his arms into his jacket. “Okay, fine, let’s say hypothetically I was gonna make a move. What would that even look like?”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Steve exhales sharply, shaking his head, but then—he starts talking. Slow at first, still pretending this is all theoretical, but then it starts flowing a little too easily.

“Well,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “first of all, I wouldn’t just spring anything on her. She’s not the type you can just, like, surprise with that kind of thing. So I’d make it seem like a regular movie night. No pressure, no expectations. Just us hanging out, watching her dumb horror movies, which—by the way—are not romantic at all, so she wouldn’t suspect a thing.”

Robin hums. “Sly.”

Steve points at her. “Exactly.”

They step outside into the cold night, their breath fogging in the air. Steve locks the door behind them, still talking.

“Then, I’d wait for the right moment. Maybe during The Thing, since she always gets way too focused on the practical effects and starts ranting about how they were done. That’s when I’d sit next to her—real casual, nothing weird. But, like, closer than usual. Just enough to see if she notices.”

Robin leans against the wall, intrigued. “And if she does?”

Steve shrugs, flipping the keys in his hand. “Then I’d play it off, act like it’s no big deal. But if she doesn’t ? That’s when I’d start testing the waters. Maybe during Sleepaway Camp , since she’s seen it a million times and won’t be as locked in. I’d stretch, put my arm on the couch behind her—”

Robin snorts. “The yawn move?”

Steve glares. “No, not the yawn move. Just an arm casually placed behind her. If she leans in, then, boom—I know she’s comfortable with it. And then,” he continues, getting into it now, “if everything feels right, if she’s not pulling away or making fun of me, then I’d make my move.”

Robin crosses her arms. “Which is?”

Steve exhales, eyes flicking upward like he’s playing it out in his head. “I’d wait for the perfect moment. Maybe when she’s talking, because she always talks during horror movies—”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “You like that she talks during movies?”

Steve waves a hand. “That’s not the point. The point is, she gets really into it, and when she’s really into something, she forgets to be sarcastic for, like, a whole second. So while she’s mid-sentence, I’d just… shift toward her, lean in a little, make sure she notices before I do anything.”

Robin watches him, interested now. “And then?”

Steve tilts his head slightly, picturing it.

“And then,” he says, voice softer, “I’d go for it. Just—slow, you know? Like, give her the chance to pull away, but hoping she doesn’t.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t make it some big thing, no cheesy lines, nothing rehearsed. Just… see what happens.”

Robin stares at him for a second. Then makes a face.

“Okay, ew,” she says. “Reel it in, Romeo.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

“You were getting way too into that.”

Steve scowls. “I was just answering your question.”

Robin smirks. “Oh, you so weren’t. That was not hypothetical. That was a step-by-step plan.”

Steve huffs. “It was a theoretical —”

“You definitely have thought about this before.”

Steve groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “Robin—”

“You even mapped out the exact movie timing—”

“Shut up.”

“You are so nervous.”

“I am not—”

“Hey, what are you guys talking about?”

---

You’re walking toward Steve and Robin, hands shoved into your jacket pockets, head tilted slightly in curiosity. You glance between the two of them, your eyes narrowing ever so slightly, like you just walked in on the tail end of something you weren’t supposed to hear.

Steve immediately panics. “Why are you here?”

You blink. “Uh… hello to you too?”

He clears his throat, scrambling to backtrack. “I just—I thought we were meeting at my house.”

You shrug. “Eddie’s still working on my car, so I figured I’d just come straight here.”

Steve nods a little too fast. “Right. Cool. Yeah.”

Robin, who had been standing beside him with a smirk so smug it could power Hawkins for a week, is now outright grinning. She’s practically vibrating with barely restrained laughter.

Your eyes flick between them again. “What?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Instead, she turns to Steve with a knowing smile. “Well, I’m off to my not-date . Wish me luck.”

Your brow furrows. “Good luck?”

Robin winks—not at you, but at Steve. “You too.”

Steve glares at her. “Robin.”

She just grins wider and gives him a two-fingered salute before turning on her heel and heading off down the sidewalk, leaving you standing there with an eyebrow raised.

You shift your weight onto one foot, watching her go before turning back to Steve. “Okay, what was that?”

He shakes his head way too quickly. “Nothing. Just—nothing.”

You don’t buy it for a second. But whatever that was, Steve clearly isn’t going to spill, so you let it slide. For now.

You exhale, rocking back on your heels. “Alright, weirdo.”

Steve shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You ready?”

You nod.

“Cool,” he says, fumbling for his keys like his hands suddenly forgot how to function.

Without another word, you both head to his car.

Once you’re at his house, Steve pushes the front door open first, stepping inside and flicking on the lights without a second thought. You follow behind him, toeing off your shoes as the familiar silence of the Harrington house settles around you.

As usual, the place is empty.

“Where are your parents this time?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Steve snorts, tossing his keys onto the hallway table. “No idea. They left a note on the fridge, but I didn’t read it.”

You roll your eyes, unsurprised. “So, what? Business trip? Spa retreat? Another month of pretending they don’t have a son?”

“Something like that,” he mutters, shrugging off his jacket. “Not like it matters.”

It’s not like you’ve been here a ton, but every time you have been, it’s been the same—big house, too much space, and no parents in sight. Just Steve, filling the empty rooms with music or movies, like background noise could make up for the lack of anyone actually being home.

You don’t push it. Instead, you drop your bag on the couch and walk straight to the TV, glancing over your shoulder. “Movies?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got ‘em. You set up, I’ll grab snacks.”

You flip through the stack of VHS tapes he brought home from Family Video .

“You actually grabbed all the ones I asked for?” You sound surprised.

Steve scoffs, walking past you toward the kitchen. “You don’t pay me enough to improvise.”

“I don’t pay you.”

“Exactly.”

---

Steve tells himself he isn’t nervous.

He tells himself this as he unlocks the door, steps inside, and watches as you walk in after him, dropping your bag on the couch like you belong here. Which, in a way, you do.

He’s not nervous.

It’s just a normal movie night. Just like all the others.

Except it isn’t.

Because tonight, he has a plan.

A foolproof, step-by-step, can’t-go-wrong plan—one he stupidly let Robin in on, which means there is no backing out now. She’ll ask about it later, and if he tells her he chickened out, she’ll never let him live it down.

So he’s doing this.

…Right?

This is fine. If he just acts normal, you won’t suspect a thing. He pours the popcorn, pops open a couple of sodas, and grabs a bag of chips for good measure. When he comes back into the living room, you’re already loading The Thing into the VCR.

Steve watches you from the doorway for a second. The way you move so easily in his space. The way you don’t hesitate, like it’s your house too.

And yeah. Fuck . He wants this.

He clears his throat and heads to the couch, dropping down beside you—closer than usual.

You don’t say anything.

Step One: Close the Distance.

Easy.

Done.

You didn’t call him out on it, which means he’s in the clear.

The movie starts, and you sink into it, fully focused by the time the sled dog is sprinting through the snow, the helicopter in pursuit.

Steve lets himself relax. Just a little.

Step Two: Casual Arm Placement.

He waits. Gives it time.

You’re locked into the movie, already muttering something under your breath about the brilliance of practical effects. You do that a lot—talk through horror movies, not in a bad way, but in a way that shows how much you actually care about them.

Steve listens, nodding like he’s paying attention to what you’re saying, but really, he’s timing it.

Then, casually, effortlessly, he stretches, letting his arm fall across the back of the couch.

Not touching you. Just there. Close enough to be felt but not enough to be anything.

You don’t react.

So far, so good.

Steve suppresses a smirk. See, Robin? I got this.

Step Three: The Lean-In.

This one is trickier.

It has to be subtle . Smooth.

He waits again, watches as you settle further into the cushions, legs curled up beneath you, completely lost in the movie. That’s when he shifts—barely, just enough to angle himself toward you. Just enough to close the gap a little more.

Still, no reaction.

That’s either a really good thing or a really bad thing.

He reminds himself of the plan.

Wait until Sleepaway Camp for the next move. That’s when he’d test the waters, when you wouldn’t be as focused, when he could ease into it without making it weird.

But then you glance at him, just for a second, and something about the way you look—eyes slightly narrowed, like you noticed but aren’t saying anything—makes his stomach flip.

Fuck it.

Maybe he doesn’t want to wait.

You’re completely locked in when the scene shifts to the research station, the dog curling up in the kennel with the other huskies. It’s the moment before all hell breaks loose, the moment before the thing reveals itself.

It’s perfect.

Steve watches your profile, the way your eyes flick between the screen and your soda as you reach for it.

This is it.

This is the moment.

He turns toward you, leans in slightly, ready to shift even closer.

And then, of course, everything goes to shit.

Disaster: The Soda Incident.

He reaches for his drink at the exact same time you do.

Your hands knock together.

Oh, fuck.

Cold liquid spills all over your shirt.

You gasp, jerking upright as the icy soda soaks through your clothes.

“Shit—”

Steve freezes. Stares. His brain short-circuits.

This was not part of the plan. Not even close.

“Fuck—hold on—” He scrambles to set his drink down, moving fast like he can somehow reverse time and undo the absolute catastrophe he just caused. “Shit, shit, shit. I—I’ll grab a towel—just—shit—hang on!”

He bolts up so fast he nearly knocks over the popcorn bowl, tripping over the coffee table in his rush.

You’re just sitting there, stunned, dripping soda onto the couch, blinking at him like you can’t believe what just happened.

The movie keeps playing in the background, oblivious to the fucking disaster unfolding in real life.

Steve disappears down the hall, heart pounding, and he knows—

Yeah.

This definitely didn’t go according to plan.

---

You sit there, staring down at yourself, blinking at the damp fabric clinging to your chest.

What the hell just happened?

One second, you were watching the movie, minding your own business, and the next—Steve fucking Harrington managed to dump an entire soda all over you like some teenage rom-com protagonist who can’t keep his hands to himself.

Except this isn’t a movie, and Steve is currently gone, having bolted from the room like the place was on fire.

You exhale, peeling the wet fabric away from your skin, grimacing at the way the cold sticks to you. From somewhere in the house, you hear the telltale signs of Steve running around in a panic. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. The sound of a cabinet slamming. A muffled curse. Footsteps back down the stairs, faster this time, followed by another thud and another round of cursing.

Then silence.

You sigh, shifting uncomfortably, and just as you’re about to get up and find a towel yourself, Steve comes jogging back into the living room.

He’s got a hand towel in one hand and a shirt in the other, looking a little too disheveled for someone who was gone for all of thirty seconds.

“Okay, here—” he starts, reaching out with the towel.

And then he stops.

You blink at him. He blinks at you.

Because, yeah. If he was actually going to clean you up, that would mean touching your chest.

Steve goes bright red. “Right. Shit. Here—just—take it.”

He thrusts the towel at you, along with the shirt, and you grab them both, giving him a look.

“Yeah, genius. Didn’t really think that one through, did you?”

Steve groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I was panicking!”

“No shit.”

You push yourself off the couch, the wet fabric sticking uncomfortably as you shift. “Gonna go change.”

He nods quickly, eyes locked very purposefully on anything but you as you walk past him and down the hall toward the bathroom.

You shut the door behind you and sigh, shaking your head.

Steve had been weird all night. Fidgety. Kind of jumpy. Not normal.

And this? This had to be a new record for him in terms of absolute dumbassery.

You grab the bottom of your shirt, pulling it off with a wince, already shivering slightly as the air hits your skin. Then, you look at the shirt he gave you.

It’s not one of his polos or his sweaters—it’s a T-shirt, old and worn, with the faded logo of the Hawkins High basketball team across the front.

You snort. King Steve in his prime.

The fabric is soft, smelling like detergent and him, and when you pull it on, it’s tight. Not uncomfortably so, but enough that it stretches a little over your chest, fitting snug around your torso in a way that most of your own shirts don’t.

Great.

You shake your head and step back out, making your way to the living room.

Steve is at the VCR when you return, swapping out the tape for Sleepaway Camp , his back to you.

He glances over his shoulder when he hears you come in, eyes flicking down to his shirt on you before darting back up to your face.

“Uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. Again.”

You shrug. “It’s cool, this is how most guys try to get me out of my clothes.”

Steve chokes.

Like, actually chokes.

“…Okay,” you say slowly, watching him. “That was a joke.”

Steve shakes his head so fast you think he might snap his own neck and you narrow your eyes. Something is off with him. But you let it slide, stepping back toward the couch as he finishes setting up the movie.

When he sits down again, he leaves a little more space between you this time, but you don’t comment on it. The movie starts, the opening credits rolling, and as the familiar music kicks in, you shake your head.

Steve Harrington is acting weird as hell tonight.

---

Steve is reeling.

He never fucks up like that.

Sure, yeah, maybe he’s been in a bit of a dry spell lately. Maybe he hasn’t had as many dates as he used to. Maybe he’s been selective (Robin’s word, not his) about who he flirts with. But when he does?

This is the part he’s good at.

The easy charm, the confidence, the effortless way he makes a girl laugh and then smoothly inches closer—that has always been his thing.

But this? This was a fucking disaster.

It has to be a sign that this was a bad idea, that Robin got into his head and made him think there was something here when there wasn’t.

Because if there was, he wouldn’t have botched it so badly. He wouldn’t have dumped a fucking drink all over you like a nervous wreck. Wouldn’t be sitting here now, stiff and awkward, trying way too hard to act like nothing happened.

He flicks a glance at you, at the way you’re curled up on the couch, adjusting yourself in his old Hawkins basketball T-shirt.

And—fuck.

The thing about that shirt?

It was his from junior year.

Which means it used to fit him.

Which means, on you, it’s tight .

Steve swallows hard and yanks his gaze back to the screen before his mind can wander any further.

Platonic. Just friends, Harrington. And friends don’t look at their friends’ boobs in a too-small shirt and think about—

He shoves the thought down so hard it practically leaves skid marks in his brain.

Instead, he focuses on the movie.

Sleepaway Camp isn’t a great distraction—it’s weird, and dumb, and kind of awful in the best way—but it’s what’s on.

You talk through it, like you always do, making the occasional joke, sometimes pointing out a particularly bad effect or cheesy dialogue.

Steve answers, strictly platonically.

He ignores any comment that could be vaguely sexual, even when you joke about the guys’ ridiculously short shorts or when you outright laugh at the worst attempt at seduction in cinematic history. Normally, he’d engage—he’d throw something back, tease, maybe flirt just for the hell of it.

Tonight, though, he forces himself to keep it neutral.

Because the more he thinks about what almost happened—the way he was about to go for it, the way he was about to shift even closer—the more his stomach twists.

The movie ends, and Steve is way too quick to jump up.

“Want another drink?” he asks, already halfway to the kitchen.

You nod, stretching as you get up to swap the tapes. “Yeah, sure.”

Steve heads to the fridge, grabs the handle, and—

---

You’re kneeling in front of the VCR, sliding My Bloody Valentine into place, when you hear Steve’s footsteps behind you.

“No more soda,” he announces like it’s a death sentence, hands perched on his hips. “I got, uh—water, orange juice, milk—”

You pause, turning to look at him. “Milk?”

Steve throws his hands up like that’s somehow your fault. “I don’t know, I’m just listing shit. We’ve got juice boxes if you wanna feel like a kid again.”

You roll your eyes, but the second he says it, an idea sparks in your head. You glance at the TV, then back at Steve, then at the couch, where the remnants of the soda disaster still linger. Tonight’s already off the rails, so why not lean into it?

“Why don’t we just make it a drinking game?”

Steve blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on, we’ve done drinking games before.”

“Yeah, but that’s when there’s more people.”

You narrow your eyes, tilting your head slightly. “And?”

Steve opens his mouth, then stops. He looks at you, thinking, probably trying to come up with a reason why that matters, why it’s somehow different when it’s just the two of you. But he doesn’t have one. Instead, he lets out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, okay, I guess that doesn’t actually matter.”

You smirk, victorious, and push yourself up from the floor. You don’t know why he’s hesitating. It’s not like this is some big deal. It’s just a stupid drinking game to go with a stupid horror movie on a stupid holiday. It’s a way to make the night a little more fun, a little less whatever the hell this has been so far.

Steve still looks skeptical, like he’s waiting for some reason to say no, so you press on before he can talk himself out of it.

“We’re both alone on Valentine’s Day,” you say, watching his expression carefully. “Everyone else is out on their dumb dates, drinking their dumb fancy wine, eating overpriced chocolate, being all lovey-dovey. And we’re here, watching horror movies and trying not to spill anything else on my shirt.”

Steve lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

Encouraged, you keep going. “For once, we don’t have to deal with interdimensional bullshit, no creepy government guys, no nightmare monsters from hell. Just a normal, boring, stupid romantic holiday that we’re stuck spending alone.”

He huffs, crossing his arms. “So, your grand plan is to drink through the pain?”

You shrug. “We deserve a night of dumb, normal young people shit.”

It’s only when you say it out loud that you realize how true it is. You’ve spent so much of the last couple of years dealing with things that no one your age should have to deal with. Near-death experiences, government cover-ups, missing people, watching friends suffer and not being able to do anything about it. It’s been a lot, and maybe it’s selfish, but you just want one night that feels easy.

Steve is quiet, considering. You step closer, just enough to reach out and clap a hand on his shoulder, half in encouragement, half in challenge.

“Come on, Harrington. It’s one night. What’s the worst that could happen?”

For a second, he just looks at you. There’s something in his expression you can’t quite place, something unreadable behind those brown eyes. But then he sighs, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head.

“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll go grab something my parents won’t miss.”

---

Steve comes back into the living room, bottle in one hand, glasses in the other, expecting to see you on the couch where he left you. Instead, you’re sitting on the floor, pillows propped against the coffee table, legs stretched out, completely at ease like this is just how movie nights are supposed to be.

He stops short, eyeing you with confusion. “What are you doing?”

You glance up at him, completely unfazed. “It’s more fun this way.”

Steve squints. “Sitting on the floor ?”

“Yeah.” You pat the space next to you, smirking. “Come on, try it.”

He sighs but doesn’t argue, lowering himself down beside you, setting the bottle and glasses on the floor. His knees knock against yours briefly as he gets comfortable, and for some reason, that small, barely-there contact sends a little jolt through him. He ignores it, grabs the bottle, and tilts it in your direction.

“Alright,” he says, twisting off the cap, “rules.”

You hum in thought. “Okay, obviously, we drink every time someone dies.”

“Obviously.”

“Drink every time someone says ‘Valentine.’”

Steve snorts. “This is My Bloody Valentine , we’re gonna die.”

“That’s the point.” You grin and hold up a finger. “Drink when someone does something really fucking stupid, like running upstairs instead of outside.”

“Classic.” He pours your glass, then his, setting the bottle aside. “What about drink if you get spooked?”

You narrow your eyes. “You just want an excuse to make me drink more.”

He grins, bumping his knee against yours. “Gotta level the playing field somehow.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. “Fine. And… drink if there’s a sex scene.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You just made that one up.”

“Maybe.”

“You so did.”

You smirk. “It’s still a good rule.”

He shakes his head, but his smile lingers as he lifts his glass. “Alright, to terrible horror movies and drinking games.”

You clink your glass against his, and with that, the game begins.

Two-thirds of the way through the movie, and you’re both comfortably tipsy. Not drunk, but warm, relaxed, feeling looser, laughter coming easier.

At some point, Steve stopped noticing when your knee brushed against his. He didn’t think much of it when your arm pressed against his as you reached for your glass. Didn’t acknowledge the way you shifted slightly, leaning more into him as you adjusted yourself on the pillow, both of you sinking deeper into the comfort of the moment.

But now?

Now, he notices.

His focus snaps to the way your thigh is flush against his, how your elbow nudges his arm when you gesture toward the screen, still mid-rant about the practical effects.

And suddenly, it sobers him up just a little.

Not enough to stop enjoying himself, but enough to remember.

The plan.

The one he’d botched spectacularly earlier when he panicked like a fucking idiot and spilled soda all over you. He should have waited for the right moment, should have followed through exactly the way he told Robin he would.

But maybe this is the moment.

He watches you as you talk, completely wrapped up in explaining why this particular death scene is underrated. Your eyes are bright, hands moving as you emphasize certain points, and you’re not filtering yourself the way you sometimes do. This is that window—where you’re passionate, where your guard is down, where you aren’t trying to be anything other than exactly you.

And you look so fucking pretty.

His chest tightens.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t overanalyze. He just goes for it.

His hand moves before he can stop it, reaching up to cup your face, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw. Your words falter, breath catching, eyes flicking to his in startled confusion, but you don’t pull away.

And then he’s leaning in, closing the space between you, pressing his lips to yours.

It’s soft, tentative but steady, warm in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol. His thumb strokes lightly along your cheek, grounding himself, savoring the way your lips part slightly, like you weren’t expecting this but aren’t against it either.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t pull away.

It’s a slow, lingering kiss, the kind that feels like it’s meant to happen, like it’s been waiting to happen. The kind that shifts something in the air, something unspoken but undeniable.

When he finally leans back, just enough to look at you, he searches your face, breath unsteady.

And for the first time all night, you’re speechless.

---

You stare at him.

For a full minute, maybe longer.

The kiss still lingers, warm on your lips, your brain lagging behind, trying to catch up with the reality of what just happened. Steve watches you like he’s waiting for something—maybe for you to freak out, maybe for you to say something, anything.

And eventually, you do.

“What—” You shake your head, eyes narrowing slightly. “What the hell was that?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, you cut him off.

“Wait, no. You’re drunk.”

“I’m not—”

“You’re drunk, and you’re feeling weird about Valentine’s Day, and you were caught up in the moment—”

“I—”

“We’ve been drinking, and you’re—”

“Jesus, would you let me—”

You’re still talking, half-rambling, voice layered with that dry disbelief you always get when shit blindsides you, and Steve, clearly realizing that you’re just gonna keep going, shakes your shoulder a little. Not hard, just enough to jolt you.

You stop. Blink.

He exhales. “I did it because I wanted to.”

Your stomach does something stupid and traitorous at that, but you shove it down, tilting your head slightly, giving him the flattest expression you can manage.

“Okay,” you say. “Well. Now you have.”

Silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable, but something. You’re still way too aware of the fact that his hand was on your face, that his lips were on yours, that you let him do it.

And worse—you kissed him back.

Steve shifts beside you, turning his attention to the movie, but his voice is softer when he says, “For the record, you kissed me back.”

You don’t respond. You just keep watching, your heart pounding way too hard for something as simple as sitting next to him. Your brain spins, trying to process the entire situation, trying to put all the little pieces together, trying to figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do with this new information.

And then, for some reason, you look at him.

Like, really look at him.

He’s still staring at the screen, trying to act normal, and to the average person, he probably looks normal. But you know him better than that. You’ve spent too much time around him not to pick up on the small tells—the way his jaw is a little tighter than usual, the way he shifts slightly like he’s trying not to fidget, the way his fingers tap lightly against his knee. He’s trying to keep his cool, trying to play this off like it isn’t a big deal.

And now, you can’t stop noticing things.

The two beauty marks on the side of his neck, just under his jaw. The way the glow of the TV flickers against his skin. The shape of his mouth, the way his lips look softer in this lighting, the way his eyes shift when something catches his attention on screen. The way his arms look in that stupid polo shirt, his biceps just defined enough that—

Nope. Absolutely not.

You shake yourself out of it, tearing your eyes away, trying to breathe properly again.

And then—like puzzle pieces clicking together—your brain finally catches up. The closeness, the arm around the back of the couch, the spilled soda. You turn to him, narrowing your eyes, and before you can stop yourself, you smack his arm.

He flinches, looking at you, completely caught off guard. “What the hell?”

“You planned this.”

Steve’s face does this weird thing—half shock, half shit, I’ve been caught —before he recovers, shaking his head. “What? No.”

You stare at him.

“Steve.”

He doesn’t say anything and you raise an eyebrow, waiting.

He shifts, clears his throat, and you see it all over his face—he’s absolutely about to try and deflect.

And then, just as he’s about to speak, you say his name again.

“Steve.”

And just like that, he freezes.

---

Steve feels cornered.

And not in a bad way, necessarily, but in a ‘shit, there’s nowhere to run and I’ve already been caught’ kind of way. You’re looking at him, waiting, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, the full force of your glare locked in.

And Steve—Steve does what he does best in moments of extreme pressure.

He rambles.

“If I planned this, it wouldn’t have gone so disastrously,” he starts, gesturing wildly like that’ll somehow help his case. “Like, this is the part I’m usually good at, okay? The flirting, the—moves, the whole making-it-seem-effortless thing. You know, the part where I don’t look like a complete idiot and spill an entire drink on you like I’ve never spoken to a girl before.”

You don’t say anything. You just raise an eyebrow, completely unimpressed.

Steve exhales, shaking his head. “And, honestly? It’s kind of your fault.”

That makes you blink.

“My fault?”

“Yeah, because you—you throw me off!” He gestures at you like that’s an obvious answer, like that explains anything. “You’re always making these stupid jokes, and you’re too quick, and you make fun of me before I can make fun of myself, and you never let me get away with anything. It’s—”

His mouth keeps running. His brain catches up about three sentences too late.

“—it’s really annoying, except it’s not, because I actually kinda—”

Steve stops mid-sentence, everything catching up with him at once.

Fuck.

You tilt your head, waiting.

He swallows, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot.”

You hum. “Yeah, but I already knew that.”

Steve lets out a short, almost nervous laugh before dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay, listen. That wasn’t—I didn’t mean it’s actually your fault. That was—I’m sorry, that was just me being defensive, and that was a dick thing to say.”

You nod slowly, clearly waiting for the rest.

He sighs, looking at the ceiling for a second before bringing his gaze back to you. “Robin put this thought in my head. I mean, she’s been putting this thought in my head. Since, like, the second I met her at Scoops.”

You don’t look surprised.

He shakes his head. “But if I’m being completely honest, it was already there.”

That’s when you stop him.

“Of course she did.” You sigh, rubbing your temple like this is something you’ve been expecting.

Steve frowns. “Wait—what do you mean of course she did?”

You hesitate, shifting your weight slightly before reluctantly admitting, “Because she’s been saying the same things to me for months.”

Steve blinks. That is not what he expected you to say.

It takes him a second to process, but when it clicks, when he realizes what you just admitted, his mouth stretches into a slow, growing grin.

“Wait.” He points at you. “Are you saying you like like me?”

Your entire face shifts into the most unamused expression he’s ever seen.

“Did you just say like like ?”

“Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes. “How old are you?”

“Okay, what about fancy me?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Sweet on me?”

“Oh my god.”

“Got a little crush on me?”

“Steve.”

“Are you pining over me?”

You groan, shaking your head. “I refuse to answer if you keep saying it like that.”

Steve leans in slightly, tilting his head. “Not answering kinda is an answer.”

You look at him, lips pressing into a thin line, but you don’t pull away.

And that’s when something in him shifts.

For once, he stops talking. Stops trying to play it off, stops trying to dance around it, stops deflecting. He just watches you, watches the way your expression flickers—sharp one second, a little softer the next, like you’re not quite sure where this is going.

And then, quieter than before, he says, “How do you actually feel?”

You inhale. Exhale. Then, with the kind of reluctance that makes his heart beat just a little faster, you start listing.

“Despite the fact that you’re ridiculous.”

He grins.

“Despite the fact that you’re a little too cocky sometimes.”

“Objectively false.”

You roll your eyes.

“Despite the fact that you’re an idiot who spilled an entire soda on me.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that was bad.”

You pause, hesitating, but then, softer, you add, “Despite all of that… I still like being around you. More than I should.”

Steve swallows. “Yeah?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

Something settles in his chest.

He exhales, gaze flicking down to your lips briefly before meeting your eyes again, smirking a little. “So, theoretically,” he starts, tilting his head, “if I wanted to kiss you again, would I still be at risk of getting punched, or…”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something there now, something warmer, something less guarded.

So Steve doesn’t wait for an answer.

He just leans in and kisses you again.

This time, it’s different.

The first kiss had been tentative, careful, almost testing the waters. But this one—this is something else entirely. This one is lingering, deeper, his hand sliding along your jaw again, the warmth of his palm grounding you as his lips part against yours.

The shift is slow but undeniable—the way his fingers slide back into your hair, the way he tilts his head just enough to deepen it, the way your hand moves, resting lightly against his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt like you’re steadying yourself.

Steve barely has time to think—barely has time to do anything other than sink into you—before the next thought crosses his mind.

Holy shit. This is actually happening.

He smiles against your mouth and feels the corner of your lips curve upward.

When you finally lean back, it takes a second for his brain to catch up, his eyes opening, his breath coming in unsteady, shallow waves. He stares at you, the way the glow of the TV dances against your skin, the way the softness in your eyes matches the one in his chest, the way his hands are still cupping your face, his fingers threaded through your hair.

He exhales, letting his forehead rest against yours.

And then, without thinking, he says the first thing that comes to mind.

"Wanna be my Valentine?"

You snort.

You literally snort.

"That was so lame," you mutter, pulling back enough to look at him, laughing a little. "Seriously, Harrington?"

He shrugs. "So?"

"So, you missed it. Valentine's Day technically ended like an hour ago."

"Yeah." Steve pauses, thinking. Then, "We can do better next year."

Your stomach does a fucking somersault.

"Next year?"

"Yeah." He's got that dumb, boyish grin again, the one that makes his eyes bright and that's simultaneously too much and not enough. "I can take you out. Somewhere nicer than just my living room, somewhere where we're both not covered in soda. We can dress up, make a real thing of it. Maybe dinner, maybe a movie, maybe the stupid arcade."

"You hate the arcade."

"Not the point."

You huff a quiet laugh. "And what about the year after that?"

"Ah, see that's the year we get really crazy. We take a vacation, maybe road trip to Chicago, rent a hotel room for the weekend."

"A hotel room, huh?"

"Yeah, and we can have a fancy dinner at a nice restaurant. One with tablecloths and candles and everything."

You narrow your eyes slightly, watching him. "So, basically, you're planning a bunch of cliche, classic Valentine's dates."

"Basically."

"Like we're a couple."

"Like we're a couple." He nods.

"And you want to keep doing this for years?"

"And I want to keep doing this for years."

Steve looks so certain, so unbothered by the fact that he just threw out the words 'for years' like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like it's a promise, a guarantee. And when you see the way his gaze softens, the way his eyes flick between yours, the way his expression goes a little more serious, you realize—

That's exactly what he's doing.

You swallow, looking at him, and then, slowly, you ask, "Why?"

"Because I'm an idiot."

You roll your eyes.

"Because I'm an idiot," he amends, "who's liked you for way too long, and I've just been trying not to notice it."

"Steve—"

"And because I know I've made a lot of mistakes, okay?" He pauses, exhaling a little shakily. "Like, a lot of mistakes. But the biggest mistake would be not going for this, not seeing where it could go."

You shake your head, your heart beating way too fast.

"Steve," you say, "we've only kissed twice."

"Yeah, and?"

"And... it's been twenty minutes."

"And?"

You let out a small, exasperated laugh, looking at him like he's insane. "It's been twenty minutes."

"Listen," he starts, and the fact that he's using the exact same tone of voice as you, the one where he's trying to argue, the one where he's determined and stubborn and refusing to back down, makes something in your chest shift.

He reaches for your hands, lacing his fingers with yours.

"There is a lot of shit we've had to deal with. A lot of crazy, unbelievable shit. But this is something I know, okay? This is something I'm sure about. So, maybe we go into it too fast, and maybe we take our time, and maybe we try a few things and figure out what works. But I don't care."

Steve squeezes your hands gently.

"We've spent the last three years dealing with monsters and evil Russians and upside-down hellscapes, and the second I got to kiss you, the second I got to actually act on the thing I've wanted for way too long, I didn't think about any of that. I didn't think about the fact that the world is probably gonna keep fucking us over. I didn't think about all the reasons why this wouldn't work or why we shouldn't be doing this. I didn't think about the risks or the bullshit. I didn't even think about the fact that I'm supposed to be spending Valentine's Day alone. I just..."

He stops, his breath catching a little.

"I just felt it. The way it made me feel. The way I just want to keep doing it, again and again. And the fact that I know, I fucking know, we're gonna have to deal with a lot more weird shit before we can even begin to be normal, I'm not worried. Because at the end of the day, if you're there, then everything else doesn't matter."

And with that, the last of your defenses crumble.

You stare at him. At this ridiculous, self-proclaimed idiot, with his perfect hair and his pretty smile and his dumb, charming confidence.

At Steve Harrington, the guy who used to be the most annoying, egotistical prick you'd ever met.

At the guy who's become one of the best people you've ever known.

At the guy who is, somehow, right now, here, saying all the right things.

"Shit," you mutter. "You're making it really hard not to fall in love with you."

Steve grins, and then, the absolute bastard, leans in.

"Then stop trying."

He kisses you again.

You feel it everywhere—in the way his mouth slides against yours, warm and inviting, the way his fingers tangle into your hair, the way he pulls you closer.

Your fingers curl into his polo, gripping tightly as you shift closer, and Steve groans against your mouth, his hands sliding to your waist like he can’t not touch you now. The warmth of your body pressed against his is enough to make him lightheaded, the scent of your shampoo mingling with the faint whiskey on your breath making his head swim.

His hands start to move without thinking, fingertips tracing over the fabric of your shirt—his shirt—feeling the heat of your skin underneath. You gasp softly, and Steve nearly loses his mind right there. He has to pull back, has to take a breath before he does something completely reckless, but even then, his forehead stays pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“Bedroom?” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

You nod. “Yeah.”

That’s all he needs.

Steve gets up first, pulling you with him, hands firm on your waist as he steadies you. You both stumble slightly, tipsy but nowhere near drunk, laughing under your breath as you navigate through the house. It’s not far—just up the stairs, past the stupid family portraits his parents insist on keeping up despite never being here.

And then, finally, his room.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing you both in, the soft glow from outside casting long shadows across his walls.

And then, Steve is on you again.

He doesn’t hesitate this time, doesn’t second-guess himself as his hands find your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as he kisses you like he’s been waiting to do this forever. Like he’s scared it might slip away if he doesn’t hold onto it.

The backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed, and you sink down, pulling him with you. Steve follows, pressing you down gently, settling between your legs as he leans in, his lips never leaving yours.

His hands start to wander, slow, exploring—mapping you out like he wants to memorize every dip and curve. And god, you’re soft. So warm, so right against him.

 His mind is already racing, imagining every place his lips could follow, every inch of skin he could trace, every way he could make you melt into him.

Your own hands roam, sliding down his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Steve leans back, just enough to let you pull it off, the cool air hitting his skin making him shiver. His chest is exposed, his hair a little messy, his arms flexing slightly as he props himself up, and the sight is enough to make you pause.

Steve smirks, catching you.

But instead of teasing, he leans down, kissing along your jaw, his voice low and soft as he murmurs, "My turn."

Steve teases the hem of the shirt he let you borrow. You sit up a little and he starts to lift it up over your chest, but it's a tight fit and it gets stuck. You're about ready to have him just rip it off at this point, but when he speaks, his voice is soft and gentle and his breath is hot on your skin and all the words die on your tongue.

"Hold your arms up, okay?"

You obey, raising your arms and letting him slide the shirt off. He tosses it on the floor and you shiver at the sudden cold, but it's quickly forgotten as Steve looks down at you.

"Fuck."

The word slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. His eyes drink you in, trailing over the swell of your breasts in your bra, the smooth skin, the curve of your waist, and suddenly, he's overwhelmed.

"So you don't think I'm like, a total perv, I didn't think that shirt would be that... snug when I grabbed it. So, uh, sorry, but I'm also not complaining, because you have a really great—shit, what was I saying?"

"Shut up, Harrington," you mutter, grabbing his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

He chuckles against your lips, then shifts.

Steve starts slow, his mouth tracing a line down the side of your neck. He pauses, sucks at the hollow of your throat, feels the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze over the delicate skin. Your fingers card through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and the sensation is enough to make him shudder, a quiet groan slipping out.

Then, he moves lower, lips pressing a kiss in the space between your breasts. His hands trace over the tops of them, then down, cupping you, feeling the weight, thumbs swiping along the edge of your bra. You sigh, arching into him, and it takes every ounce of control not to lose it right there.

Steve leans back, eyes meeting yours, silently asking permission.

You nod, and he reaches behind you, unhooking your bra with a little more ease than expected. When he slides it off, his eyes flick down to the newly exposed skin, and you swear you hear his breath hitch.

Then, his mouth is on you, and all rational thought leaves your brain.

Steve knows his way around a girl's body.

But right now? With you?

It's like starting from square one.

Because right now, everything is heightened. Every noise you make, every little gasp and moan, every hitch of your breath, every brush of your skin against his. It's enough to drive him absolutely insane, enough to make him lose focus, and when he feels you shift underneath him, when he sees the way you look up at him, his mouth still wrapped around your nipple, sucking gently, he feels that familar tug in his stomach.

It's that same feeling—the one he can't shake, the one he can't get rid of, the one that has him thinking thoughts like 'fuck, she's so pretty' and 'holy shit, I really like her' and 'god, this is gonna ruin me, isn't it?'

But right now, none of that matters.

Right now, he can't stop.

You're arching into him, fingers buried in his hair, tugging lightly, and the sound that slips out when he scrapes his teeth lightly is enough to make his cock twitch. His mouth trails lower, over your stomach, kissing along your hipbones, and he's moving faster now, impatient, hands sliding to the button of your jeans.

He hesitates, just for a second, looking up at you.

"Is this okay?"

You nod, swallowing, and Steve's hands move. He undoes the button, slides the zipper down, and hooks his fingers into the sides. He doesn't wait for a response this time—he yanks, hard, and the sound that slips out is one part surprised, one part pleased, and it's so fucking hot that he can't stand it.

Once they're off, he looks at you, taking a second to breathe, to appreciate how fucking gorgeous you look, laid out on his bed in nothing but a pair of panties. Then, his gaze trails lower, and he sees the wet spot on the fabric, and it hits him.

Fuck, you're soaked.

He exhales sharply, his eyes flicking up to yours. "Holy shit."

"Yeah." Your voice is breathy, a little embarrassed, but there's something there, too. Something needy, something desperate.

"Do you have any idea," Steve says, leaning over you again, "how long I've wanted to see you like this?"

His hand slides down, palming you through the fabric, and when he rubs lightly, your entire body shudders.

"See, this?" He rubs a little harder, the fabric of your panties sliding against your clit. "This is my new favorite thing."

You gasp, arching into him.

Steve keeps going, rubbing you through the thin layer of cotton, watching the way your hips lift into his hand. He presses a kiss to your jaw, then to your neck, sucking lightly, and then, without warning, he slides off your panties and his fingers are back on you. 

"Fuck," he groans, feeling the heat, the wetness coating his fingers. "So fucking wet, baby."

His voice is lower than before, the pet name slipping out without thinking, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to start fucking his fingers into you. Instead, he teases, sliding his fingers, feeling the slickness, the way your breath catches when his thumb circles around your clit.

And then, he dips a finger inside.

You let out a low moan, a sound that has his cock twitching again, and the urge to just bury himself in you and fuck until neither of you can breathe is almost overwhelming. But he doesn't. He doesn't rush it.

Instead, he keeps going.

"This is what I'd think about," he says, adding a second finger. "When I would lay here, at night, after I was done talking to you."

You don't say anything, too focused on the feeling, but he knows you're listening. He kisses down your neck, fingers moving slowly, curling inside of you, his palm brushing over your clit, and then, when he adds a third finger, the stretch is enough to make your brain short-circuit.

"I'd be in bed, alone, and all I could think about was this." His voice is rougher now, the way you're squeezing around his fingers driving him insane. "What you would look like, how you'd feel, how you'd taste."

Steve picks up the pace, thrusting a little harder, his fingers curling, finding that spot, and the whimper that escapes is the hottest fucking thing he's ever heard. He's fully hard now, his cock straining against his jeans, and he has to shift, has to grind his hips against the mattress to take the edge off.

"And now," he murmurs, "I get to find out."

Steve presses his lips to yours, swallowing the moan as he fucks you with his fingers. He can feel the way your body starts to tighten, the way you squeeze around him, the way your breath gets unsteady, and he knows you're close.

"God, look at you." He curls his fingers again, watching the way your hips rock into his hand. "So pretty, baby. So perfect."

His free hand comes up, brushing over your nipple, and that's all it takes.

You gasp, clutching onto his shoulder, your head falling back as the orgasm rips through you.

And then, Steve has an idea.

Before you can even process, he's sliding lower, his lips moving, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, then down, until he's settled between your legs. You can feel the heat of his breath, and then, his tongue drags along the inside of your thigh, and the realization of what's about to happen sends a jolt through you.

You barely have time to process before his mouth is on you, and fuck, the sensation is overwhelming.

"Oh, god," you gasp, and your hands fly down, tangling into his hair, trying to anchor yourself.

He doesn't go slow this time. He's not gentle or teasing. He just licks a long stripe over your pussy, his fingers parting you, his tongue swiping through the wetness, savoring the taste, and when his mouth finds your clit, his lips closing around it, you have to fight to keep your hips still.

Your entire body feels like it's on fire, the pleasure sharp and white-hot.

Steve is relentless, his tongue moving expertly, swirling around your clit, alternating between hard, firm strokes and light, teasing ones. When he sucks, his tongue flicking, you cry out, a string of curses slipping out as your fingers tighten in his hair.

He groans against you, the sound muffled, his fingers gripping your hips tightly, and then, you feel it.

One hand slides under your thigh, his arm hooking under your leg, pulling it up and over his shoulder. His other arm wraps around the other, holding you down, his hand spreading you, keeping you wide open for him.

Then, Steve goes harder.

He doesn't give you time to breathe, doesn't let you recover. Instead, his tongue moves faster, licking, sucking, his face buried in you, his grip on your thighs iron-tight. The sound is obscene, filthy, wet and messy and fucking perfect, and when his teeth scrape over your clit, your back arches off the bed.

"Steve," you pant, trying not to lose it completely. "I'm—I'm gonna—"

He hums, like he already knows, and the vibrations are enough to send you over the edge.

Your entire body seizes, the pleasure shooting through you like lightning. You don't even know what's happening, if you're crying out or moaning or gasping or a mix of all three, but you can't focus, can't breathe, can't do anything other than let it rip through you, white-hot and fucking amazing.

By the time it finally fades, the aftershocks rolling through you, you're completely breathless. Your legs feel like jelly, your fingers are numb from gripping his hair, and you're positive that every nerve in your body is fried.

When Steve pulls away, sitting up, you look at him.

Your eyes are wide, your chest heaving, and it's only then that you notice the lopsided smile.

"Did I kill you?"

"Shut up," you mutter, your face flushing.

Steve's smirk widens. He crawls up, leaning in, his lips brushing against yours. "You taste amazing."

You're too weak, too fucked out to respond. All you can do is look at him, his mouth slightly parted in a loose smile, his lips shiny. And the fact that you're the reason, the fact that he was just between your legs, eating you out, is enough to make another pulse of warmth spread through your stomach.

Then, Steve looks down at you, his smile turning softer.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"You good?"

You exhale. "Yeah. Just... a little lightheaded."

"Sorry," he says, not sorry at all. "I'll try not to be so good next time."

He grins in a way thats too sweet, too genuine, and then, he presses a kiss to your forehead. He shifts, pulling back, and you're about to ask what he's doing when he reaches for the nightstand. He opens the drawer, digging around, and you're about to ask him why he's suddenly acting so weird when he holds something up.

A condom.

Steve glances at you, and his face does that thing—that half-shy, half-smirking thing—like he's still trying to play it off.

"We don't have to," he says. "If you don't want."

You hesitate.

It's not like you've never thought about it. You've imagined him more times than you'd ever admit, late at night, under the cover of darkness, when it's just you and your own mind and the things you'd like to do. But now the guy is currently in front of you, giving you the biggest puppy dog eyes of all time, as if he didn't just give you the best orgasm of your life with his tongue a few minutes ago.

Your heart stutters, and it's not because you're scared or nervous.

"Yeah," you say. "Okay."

Steve blinks, and then, he grins.

"Yeah?"

You roll your eyes. "Yes, asshole."

"Hey." He points a finger at you. "No name-calling while we're having sex."

You snort, and the laugh that follows makes him smile wider.

Then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses you.

The kiss is soft, gentle, almost hesitant, but you can taste yourself on his lips and it's enough to send a shockwave through your system. You wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him closer, and the second his bare skin presses against yours, the weight of him settling between your legs, the hardness of his cock pressing against your thigh, your pulse jumps.

Steve reaches for the button on his jeans, fumbling slightly, but once he's kicked them off, he's on you again. His body is warm, the skin soft under your hands, and his mouth finds yours, his kiss a little more desperate now, like he's trying to ground himself, his fingers sliding into your hair, nails scratching lightly against your scalp.

When you shift underneath him, spreading your legs, his breath hitches, the friction enough to make him grind into you. You bite back a whimper, arching into him, and when you reach between you, palming him through his boxers, his cock twitches.

"Off," you say, tugging the waistband. "Now."

Steve huffs a laugh against your mouth.

"Demanding."

But he doesn't hesitate.

He sits back, just enough to pull them off, and the second they're gone, you swallow.

Fuck.

Steve Harrington is a lot of things.

Gorgeous. Annoying. An absolute idiot.

But right now, you're noticing a whole new set of adjectives.

He's hard, the tip flushed and swollen, and he's a little bigger than you were expecting. He's lean and fit in a way that has heat pooling in your stomach, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he reaches for the condom, and the sight is enough to make you a little dizzy.

"I can practically hear you thinking," he mutters, leaning in again, his mouth finding your jaw. And then, there's that stupid, cocky smirk. "Like what you see?"

"Absolutely not," you deadpan.

"Uh-huh." Steve's grin widens, but instead of saying anything else, he tears the wrapper open, rolls it on, and then, he's leaning in, bracing his weight over you. "You're cute when you're lying."

You feel the head of his cock brush against your entrance, and when he leans down, kissing you softly, his hand finds yours.

He tangles his fingers with yours, pressing them down into the mattress, his thumb tracing over the back of your hand.

"Still okay?"

His voice is different now. Quieter, softer.

And something about it makes your chest ache.

"Yeah."

"Tell me if it hurts."

You nod, and then, slowly, Steve pushes into you.

He goes slow, inch by inch, his gaze locked with yours. It's intense, overwhelming, and you can't tell if it's the fact that his eyes are so fucking pretty, or the way his fingers lace with yours, or the way his breath stutters a little when he bottoms out, but whatever it is, you feel it everywhere.

Steve holds still, letting you adjust, his chest rising and falling unsteadily, his eyes a little more focused now, and you know he's holding back.

"You can move," you whisper, squeezing his hand.

He exhales, nodding, and then, he does.

The first few thrusts are slow, experimental. He's careful, gentle, and the feeling of him, stretching you open, the way his hips meet yours, the way his hand finds your thigh, pulling it up and wrapping it around his waist, it's all so much.

But when Steve looks at you, his hair falling into his face, his eyes dark, the words slip out before you can stop them.

"Harder."

His rhythm stutters. He blinks.

And then, the corner of his mouth tugs upward.

"Yeah?" He pauses, the smirk spreading. "Are you sure? Cause you might not be able to walk tomorrow—"

"Oh my god, Harrington."

"You know, I think we're past the last name thing at this point."

You groan, burying your face in his neck. The laugh that escapes him is so fucking dumb and beautiful and perfect, and then, without warning, he slams into you.

"Jesus," you gasp, your body arching, fingers clutching onto his shoulders.

"Still not my name," he quips, and before you can respond, he keeps going, his hips snapping into yours, and the noise that slips out when his cock hits a certain spot is obscene.

It's different, being with Steve.

With anyone else, you're always a little guarded. Always a little reserved. Always trying to keep yourself in check, make sure your reactions aren't too exaggerated, make sure you're not too loud, not too much, not too needy. But with him, it's different.

There's none of that.

Right now, the only thing in your head is him.

The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, the softness of his hair, the warmth of his skin, the sound of his voice, low and breathy and perfect. His hand slides over your breast, cupping you, his thumb rolling over your nipple, and the pleasure shoots straight through you.

And then, he leans down, his lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

"God, you're gorgeous." He hikes your leg higher, angling deeper, and the drag of his cock inside you is almost enough to send you over the edge. "So beautiful."

You whimper, the sound high and desperate, and his lips press against your neck.

"Could stay here forever," he murmurs, and then, his teeth graze your skin. "Inside you. Just like this."

"Steve," you gasp, your head falling back.

His name on your lips does something to him.

It's almost instinctive, the way his body moves, the way he fucks into you, his hips grinding against yours. His fingers dig into your thigh, his other hand moving down, sliding along your hip, gripping your ass, and the way you react is perfect.

"Just like that, baby."

Steve keeps talking, his mouth running, whispering the most ridiculous things, like how he loves the way you feel and the way your nails drag over his shoulders and the way your breasts bounce when he fucks into you. And every single one of his stupid, filthy compliments has your body tensing, the heat building in your stomach.

Your legs are around his waist, the heels of your feet pressing into the small of his back, and when he leans forward, shifting the angle, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue swiping over your nipple, the sound that escapes is embarrassingly loud.

"Steve," you whine, the sound needy and desperate.

"I know," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. "Fuck, I know."

Steve knows what he's doing. And the fact that he's got you wrapped around his finger, completely under his spell, makes him feel like he's on top of the fucking world.

His hips start to lose their rhythm, his movements getting a little sloppier, and when you start to tighten around him, the whimper he lets out is downright sinful. He leans back, his eyes meeting yours, and when his fingers find your clit, his touch firm, the feeling is enough to send you over the edge.

You don't even try to stop the moan, the sound slipping out, and then, the words.

"Don't stop." Your nails drag down his back, fingers curling, and Steve nearly loses it right there. "Steve, please. Don't stop."

"I won't." His voice is rough, the sound making you squeeze around him. "I won't."

And then, his mouth finds yours, and the second your lips part, the second his tongue slides against yours, the sensation is too much.

"Steve," you pant. "Fuck. Steve."

The sound of his name, over and over, coming out like a plea, is too much.

It's the combination of everything—the way your body arches, the way you clutch onto him, the way you squeeze around him, the way his name slips out.

"Shit," Steve groans. "I'm gonna—"

"Me, too," you gasp, and when you squeeze his hand, the orgasm ripping through you.

He chases after you, the pleasure slamming through him, his hips stuttering as he comes, his forehead falling against yours. Your names spill out, mixed together, and then, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, the scent of sweat and sex and his cologne mingling together, the faint buzz from the TV downstairs drifting through the room.

By the time Steve catches his breath, his head is spinning.

His limbs feel like jelly, and his arms shake slightly, his body half-collapsed on top of yours, the feeling of your bare skin against his making his pulse race. He doesn't pull out, doesn't move, just lets his forehead rest against yours, the sound of your breath the only thing keeping him tethered.

After a few moments, his brain finally catches up.

He leans back, watching you.

Your face is flushed, lips slightly parted, the light sheen of sweat on your skin making you glow. And the expression on your face—the blissed-out, relaxed, fucked-out expression—makes his stomach flip.

"Shit," Steve whispers.

And then, before he can stop himself, before he can think, he says, "I love you."

The words are quiet, a little shaky, and the second they slip out, his breath catches.

Your eyes go wide.

Fuck.

He didn't mean to say it. Not now. Not like this.

The thought comes, unbidden, and then, he's hit with the realization.

Oh.

That's exactly what he meant.

Because it's true.

It's always been true.

Steve has said those words before, a handful of times, and each time, it never meant the same thing. The first time was in eighth grade, during a game of truth or dare. It was a joke, an inside-out version of the words that had everyone laughing. The second time was to a girl he dated briefly during sophomore year. He wasn't in love with her, not really, but the way she reacted, the way her entire face lit up, made him wish he was. And the third was to Nancy, when he was convinced it was true. That it would be true. Forever.

But the second it leaves his mouth, the second he says it now, the weight of the words settles over him.

It's heavy. Solid. Like the kind of thing that can't be taken back, the kind of thing that changes everything.

And when he looks at you, when he sees the way you stare back, the look in your eyes making his chest ache, the words hit him again.

He loves you.

"Fuck," Steve says, exhaling sharply. "Sorry, I didn't mean—I shouldn't have said—"

"You love me?"

Your voice is soft. Small. A little incredulous.

"I..." He pauses, looking at you.

You don't say anything, and Steve doesn't know if he's ever felt this fucking terrified in his entire life.

And then, slowly, your lips curve into a smile.

"You love me," you repeat, the smile spreading.

"Yeah."

"Like, love-love?"

"Oh, so ‘love love’ is okay to say, but ‘like like’ is childish?"

You ignore his call back. "Like, 'I want to hold your hand in public and fall asleep on the couch together and wake up with my face buried in your hair and spend the next ten years wondering what took us so long' love?"

The corner of his mouth tugs upward.

"All of the above."

Your heart jumps, and without thinking, you lean in, kissing him softly. When you lean back, Steve's eyes are a little wider, and the hope in his expression is almost painful.

"Do you...?"

You grin, and the second the words slip out, you know they're true.

"Yeah. Iove you too, Harrington."

"Hey," he starts, tilting his head. "I told you, we're past the last name thing."

"Fine," you say, rolling your eyes. Your face softens as you meet his gaze, and you move your hand to fix some of the hair stuck to his forehead. "I love you, Steve."

He's never loved his name more.

"So," you start, "where does that leave us now?"

"Well, according to my calculations, you are currently in my bed, naked, and I am stil insi-" he pauses, realization hitting him. "Oh my god. I told you I loved you for the first time while I was still inside of you. What kind of maniac does that?"

"Is this what love is like for you?"

"Oh shut up," Steve says, smiling, and finally, he pulls out.

He rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, and then, without looking, he reaches for your hand.

"How about," he says, squeezing lightly, "we sleep, and then, tomorrow, we can talk about all the ways we're going to tell our friends and make them suffer?"

You snort, looking over at him. He's taking the condom off, tying it off, and then, he tosses it into the trashcan beside the bed. He turns back, shifting closer, and the fact that you're both naked, in bed, post-coitus, isn't lost on you.

"And the day after that," he adds, pulling you closer, "we can spend the entire day here, naked, in this bed, and we'll figure out a new plan."

"A new plan?"

"Yeah."

He's so close, his nose brushing against yours, and when his eyes flick between yours, there's a look there. A promise.

"We can make a new plan every day," Steve says, his voice a little lower, "for as long as you want."

And then, he kisses you, and it feels a little like the world shifts.

It's a small shift, just enough for everything to click into place.

Because now, everything is different.

Everything is new.

It's a promise.

And when Steve pulls away, when his eyes meet yours, when he smiles, a little crooked, a little sleepy, a little in love, you can't help but smile back.

[wormdebut]

STEDDIE MICROFIC FEBRUARY — WHATS DEAD STAYS UNDEAD

@steddiemicrofic | Word: Rose | Word Count: 367 | Rated: M | CW: Steve is a horny mess and Eddie is hot as fuck. Sexy shenanigans

——

No. This can not be happening.

“Oh it’s happening, Stevie baby.” Eddie—is this even Eddie?—purrs. Purrs like a sexy demonic cat. Steve can’t stop his darting eyes from glancing at the oddly hot sharp pointed claw-like nails Eddie is sporting, the stunning blood red of his eyes, or the damn gorgeous fangs that glint in the light of his bedroom.

Huh? Steve didn’t even say anything, how would Eddie hear him? Oh for the love of god, this stupid hot vampire version of Eddie fucking Munson that apparently rose from the fucking dead better not be able to read his stupid horny thoughts or Steve is going to combust.

Steve watches in absolute horror as Eddie licks over one of those stupid gorgeous fangs and Jesus Christ—help him.

“Oh I can hear everything running through your pretty little mind baby. You sure do have a lot going on in there.” Eddie smirks and fuck he’s even hotter this way than he was before—No Steve stop!

Eddie grumbles out a laugh and it’s low and sexy—

Fuck.

“God you are so much more fun than that bullshit persona you put on for people.” Eddie snarks and Steve—blushes.

Shit.

“Get out of my head, Eddie.” Steve growls behind a bitten scowl but he’s not sure if he looks menacing or like a dog begging for treats.

Eddie clicks his tongue. “Neither. I think you look as sweet as a kitten, baby.” And that is a growl.

Eddie coming back from whatever the hell happened in the upside down isn’t the only thing that’s going to rise tonight if you know what Steve’s saying.

Eddie snickers.

Dammit.

“I think I liked you better dead, Munson.” Steve huffs. He’s not blushing. Don’t read into it.

“Lucky for you Stevie Baby, I am dead—well, undead. But, I can still fuck you into next week, if you ask nicely.”

Eddie licks over his fangs again…Steve—can’t breathe—fuck.

He sputters. “I didn’t—I’m not—“

Eddie’s click his tongue at him. “Don’t lie big boy.” He prowls up to him and taps one of those claws against Steve’s temple. “I can hear everything.”

Eddie’s smirk is dangerous and shit, Steve is in for a long fucking night.

[tiki-was-here]

Billy Butcher x GN Reader-Valentines Edition

Word Count: 2k

Pretend that this isnt rushed because i forgot about it lol. also if its not clear reader cancels the reservation when they make the phone call butcher just doesnt hear

Valentines Event

Masterlist

You weren’t exactly the kind of person to get all starry-eyed about Valentine’s Day. The whole thing was a corporate cash grab, anyway—overpriced chocolates, gaudy heart-shaped decorations, and forced declarations of love. Yeah, you weren’t that type.

But still.

You glanced down at the confirmation email on your phone, the words practically glowing with your shame. "Your reservation for two at Le Château Noir has been confirmed for February 14th, 7:30 PM."

It wasn’t anything crazy. Just a nice dinner at a fancy place you wouldn’t normally splurge on. A way to say, Hey, I actually care about you, and I like spending time with you, even though you’re an absolute dickhead.

Because whatever was happening between you and Butcher—this thing that was built on stolen moments and rough hands on quiet nights —you didn’t know what to call it.The two of you hadn’t talked about what any of it meant.

And maybe it didn’t mean anything at all.

Still, you had scraped together enough money to make the reservation—partly from your own savings, partly from “borrowing” a bit of cash from Frenchie and MM. They’d get over it. Probably.

Shoving the thought to the back of your mind, you focused on the present—walking beside Butcher, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets, the two of you wandering through the city. No destination, for the sake of it.

The streets were packed with people, moving in and out of stores with bags of chocolate and teddy bears in their arms. Heart-shaped A-Train mugs, Queen Maeve teddy bears, little action figures of the Deep holding bouquets of roses. It was ridiculous.

Half-listening as Billy muttered about some new Vought scandal, something caught your eye—a massive, over-the-top billboard featuring the Seven.

They were all posed dramatically, dressed in shades of red and gold. Starlight stood front and center with a megawatt smile, Homelander beside her, eyes glowing faintly like he was about to laser the next person who so much as breathed wrong. The text at the bottom read: “Make this Valentine’s one to remember. Diamonds are forever! – The Seven’s Valentine’s Special!”

You snorted. “Jesus. They’re really milking the holiday for all it’s worth.”

You glanced at Butcher, smirking a little while nodding your head towards the board. “What do you say, Butch? Gonna get me a nice rock? Maybe pop the question while you’re at it?”

Butcher scoffed, barely sparing the display  a glance. “Not bloody likely.”

“Oh, c’mon. Not even a lil’ something?” You smled, poking fun at him. “I’ll get you a Black Noir keychain in return. Real sentimental.”

“Romance is a bloody scam.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, here we go.”

“Think about it,” he continued, gesturing vaguely at the streets. “Whole thing’s just a racket. They guilt you into spending’ a fortune on chocolates and all that shit, just to prove you give a shit about someone.”

You raised a brow. “Right, because God forbid.”

He kept walking, jaw set. “I don’t see why people make such a big deal about it. It’s just another day.”

You rolled your eyes, but the sting was still there. “Right. Yeah. Stupid holiday.”

You hadn’t expected him to be enthusiastic about it, but the way he dismissed it so quickly—it kind of hurt. Because you had been excited, just a little. And now you just felt dumb.

The rest of the walk home was quiet, tension clinging to the air between you.

Later that night, when you were alone in your room, you pulled out your phone and scrolled to your reservation.

Maybe you had been jumping the gun with the whole fancy-dinner thing. Maybe it had been stupid to think that Butcher would ever entertain something like that.

You sat on the edge of your bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen longer than necessary before finally pressing the call button. The restaurant picked up on the second ring, a professional yet pleasant voice greeting you.

“Hello, thank you for calling Le Château Noir. How can I assist you this evening?”

You inhaled sharply. Just do it. It’s not a big deal.

“Hi, I’m calling about my reservation for tomorrow night,” you said, voice steady but distant, as if saying the words out loud made them more real. “The table for two at seven thrity?”

Down the hall, Butcher had been walking past your door, intending to grab a beer from the fridge. But your voice caught his attention, and something made him pause just outside the room.

A table for two at eight?

“For two, yes,” you confirmed, nodding even though they couldn’t see you.

Butcher frowned, shifting his weight. You never mentioned anything about it to him.

“Under what name?” the receptionist asked.

You gave them your name, confirming all the details, and Butcher had heard enough. He turned away, walking briskly toward the kitchen.

What the bloody hell were you thinking?

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap off with a little too much force, and took a long swig.

You had planned a fancy dinner. For him. After everything he had said earlier about Valentine’s Day being a joke. He didn’t know what to make of it. Part of him was irritated—you hadn’t even told him, and now he was expected to sit through some overpriced meal, pretending not to hate every second of it.

But another part of him—one he refused to acknowledge—felt something else entirely.

Something warm. Something suspiciously close to endearment.

Despite himself, the thought of you planning something like that, of you wanting to spend the day with him like it actually meant something…

He set the beer down a little too hard.

He didn’t know what to make of it, so he wasn’t going to make anything of it.

The day started off strange.

For one, Butcher was still here.

You fully expected to wake up alone, but instead  when you rolled over, he was  in bed scrolling on his phone, one arm folded behind his head. His eyes flicked to you the moment you stirred, something unreadable passing through them before he exhaled and looked away.

“Morning,” he muttered.

You blinked at him, still groggy. “You’re still here.”

“Brilliant observation, love.”

You frowned, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “Thought you had shit to do today.”

He shrugged, barely glancing at you. “Plans changed.”

Weird.

But you kne better than to question him— especially so early in the morning.

Instead, you dragged yourself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you shuffled toward the kitchen, figuring you’d have to scrounge around for whatever scraps were left from the last grocery run.

But then—

There was coffee.

A full pot. Fresh. Still hot.

Your brow furrowed as you hesitated near the counter, eyeing the mug waiting beside it. You didn’t even have to ask to know that it was for you.

Still, you didn’t comment on it. Just poured yourself a cup, and leaned against the counter, 

When Butcher finally strolled in, you watched him out of the corner of your eye. He grabbed his own mug—black, of course—and leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, staring at you like he was waiting for something.

You blinked. “Did you poison this?”

He smirked. “Drink it and find out.”

You just scoffed at him and took your glass to your room.

The whole morning was like that. A light touch on the small of your back when you passed him in the hallway. The way he didn’t snap at you when you stole the last piece of toast off his plate. The fact that he stayed.

Usually, Butcher had somewhere to be. Always on the move, always planning, always chasing the next lead.

But today, he lingered

It should’ve made you happy. A day ago, maybe it would have. Now it just made the ache in your chest worse. 

And now, he was sitting beside you on the couch, one arm draped across the back, fingers lazily playing with the ends of your hair while you scrolled through your phone.

“Not even gonna look at me today, then?” he mused.

You shrugged. “Dunno. Nothing to look at.”

His fingers stilled. “Bit rude, innit?”

“Only returning the favor.”

It slipped out before you could stop yourself, and you weren’t even sure what you meant by it. But he let it go—for now.

By the time evening rolled around, you had fully settled into your mood. It wasn’t even intentional—it was just there.

And it must have gotten to him too, because by the time seven-thirty hit, he was clearly restless.So when he finally stretched, exhaling through his nose, and said, “Well, I’m gonna take a shower,care to join?” you barely acknowledged it.

You just shrugged, staring at the TV. “I’ll take one in the morning.”

“Not even if I promise to make it special?”

Your fingers twitched around the remote.

Usually, that would work. You’d roll your eyes but still let him pull you in, let him distract you.

But not today.

You didn’t even look at him. “Not in the mood, Butcher.”

His face darkened, his usual sharp smirk twisting into something meaner. “Christ, what’s with you today?”

You turned your head, finally looking at him fully. “What’s with me?”

“Yeah.” His hands went to his hips. “You’ve been sulkin’ all day. Thought you’d be happy I’m stickin’ around, but you’re actin’ like I kicked your bloody dog.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped. “Isn’t it supposed to be Valentine’s or something? ”

You glanced at him, brow raising. “And?”

He met your eyes, something simmering there, something edged. “And you’re actin’ like it’s just any other bloody day.You’re supposed to be all over me, right?”

You stared at him for a moment, then let out a short, humorless laugh. “You don’t even like Valentine’s Day, so why do you look so upset that I didn’t plan anything?”

“Tch.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Ain’t upset.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He huffed, looking away for a moment before muttering, “Just figured—” But then he cut himself off, exhaling sharply like he’d already said too much.

You folded your arms. “You figured what?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there, staring at the TV like it suddenly had all the answers he needed. But his grip on his knee was just a little too tight, his shoulders just a little too tense.

“…Figured you would’ve still gone to that dinner.”

So that was it.

He knew.

Your stomach twisted. “I—” You let out a breath. “I canceled it.”

He stiffened slightly. “Right.”

“You made it pretty clear how you felt about Valentine’s, so I figured there wasn’t much point.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, in a low voice:

“That’s different.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

Butcher ran a hand down his face, looking uncharacteristically frustrated. “It’s different when it’s you.When its us i mean…”

The words weren’t particularly soft. They weren’t overly romantic. But from Butcher? They might as well have been a love confession.

Your fingers tightened around the remote once more“You’re an idiot,” you muttered, shaking your head.

Something in his expression shifted. “You still wanna go?”

You gave him a wry look. “You think I can get the reservation back?”

He  sighed, glancing at the clock. 7:09.His lips twitched, just barely.

“Guess not.”

There was another pause before you sighed, rubbing your temples.

“Fine,” you mumbled. “Let’s order pizza and watch something stupid.”

Butcher snorted. “That’s your idea of a Valentine’s date?”

“It is now.”

He didn’t argue. Just plopped down next to you on the couch as you placed the order.

The pizza arrived, you put on the cheesiest rom-com you could find, and somehow, between bites of greasy food and sarcastic commentary, you found yourself leaning against him, head on his shoulder.

He reached into his pocket, then tossed something onto your lap.

You frowned, picking it up. It was… a keychain. A tiny, dumb-looking Black Noir keychain.

Your lips parted in surprise. “Wait—”

He looked away, feigning nonchalance. “Didn’t wanna show up empty-handed.”

You stared at it for a moment, something warm flickering in your chest. Then, shaking your head, you muttered, “You’re impossible.”

He grinned. “And yet, here we are.”

And when his arm slung around your waist, tugging you just a little closer, you didn’t pull away.

[lcriedlastnight]

Oscar has been planning on proposing to y/n for a couple of months by now, already bought the ring, tried multiple times to propose to her but every time he felt too scared/ anxious to do it. One time Y/n accidentally finds the ring somewhere in their shared apartment

this is so cute! thanks for the request! ilysmmm. mwah!

tw: fem!reader, swears, scaredy cat oscar, lmk if you want me to add anything.

w/c: 2.2k

the sunlight peered through your window, through the see-through blinds you insisted on buying for yours and oscar's shared room. the way the light hits your resting features makes your man sigh out in bliss. every single morning he has the exact same thoughts when he watched you sleep, 'i need to spend the rest of my life with her'.

it had almost been a eight months since he first had that thought. seven since he acted on it and asked your sister to come with him when he was shopping for a ring. a second opinion does not hurt.

the ring had sat in his drawer for a good few weeks, maybe even a month as oscar contemplated how exactly he wanted to go about proposing. this was one area he was completely clueless for. give him literally anything else and he would be able to rhyme off the answer quicker than he could answer for himself. your favourite food? those cookies with the chocolate inside. your favourite film? the lego batman movie. clothes size? you were a small but in most t-shirts you preferred them in a medium so they were a bit baggier on you. how you would like to be proposed to? no clue. oscar knew deep down that it didn't really matter where he proposed, or even how he did it. he was sure you would say yes in if he proposed halfway through taking a shit. it mattered a whole lot to oscar, he wanted it to be a memory you looked back on with fondness and love.

the first time oscar tried to propose, it was a super traditional and basic way. the boy had booked for you to both head on a cute getaway before the season started back up again in february. you had always talked about wanting to go to greece, so he had booked you both in for two weeks in santorini. oscar carried the ring in his pocket the whole holiday even though he had planned out when he wanted to ask you.

the restaurant you had both just eaten in was probably one of the most expensive buildings you had ever been in. you told oscar so. he laughed in response.

"i think the paddock costs much more than than, love." oscars arm was around your waist as you walked alongside him, you were basically leaning on him at this point too. you snort at his words.

"fine, the most expensive looking building i've ever been in." you reword your sentence. oscar laughs. he swears he has never laughed as much as he had in those two weeks with you. oscar had ended guiding you both up to the top of this hill, you barely even noticed, too busy talking his ear off from the glass of wine you had drank with dinner. you were on holiday, why not?

there was a cute little bench that had fairy lights wrapped around it sitting pretty at the top of the hill, over looking the city and the ocean next to it. oscar encourages you to sit. he knew he had made the right choice to propose here when, a few days after arriving you had told oscar that greece was probably your favourite place in the entire world now.

you sit with your head on your boyfriend's shoulder as you watch the tide from far above. oscar fiddles with the ring in his pocket, nerves beginning to eat away at him. you grow quiet as your eyes twinkle in the moonlight. jesus, you looked like something out of his wildest dreams, oscar was sure of it. your voice breaks the comfortable silence between you both.

"i know this holiday isn't finished yet but i really have had the best time with you osc. i appreciate you doing this for me. you do too much for me, i want to pay you back for it all one day." your voice is a whisper because talking at a normal volume just doesn't feel right in the moment.

oscar's nerves get the best of him as you bare your heart to him. here you were being vulnerable with him and he couldn't even build the courage to ask you to marry him. the driver was so unsure of where the nerves were coming from, he was completely sure you would say yes, he knew you loved him yet his hand slipped out his pocket to move towards your thigh to give it a squeeze. a sweet kiss is pressed to your hair before oscar is whispering back his reply.

"me too, sweet girl. wanna stay here with you, forever." a part of his brain tells him that if he just proposed like he was supposed to then you would be able to do this with him forever and it would be promised. he shakes the thoughts from his head as he tells himself that now wasn't the right time awayways.

you had come back from that holiday, still his girlfriend and your finger still void of a ring.

the second time almost caused him to have a panic attack. this time it was less traditional and more relaxed. it had been almost two months since your trip to greece and the sight of your ring finger being bare sent oscar into a spiral every time he caught a glimpse of where that diamond should be.

you finally had him to yourself after a gruelling triple header. those races had actually given oscar some of the best results of the season so far, but it had taken it's toll on your relationship as you had barely spoken to your emotional support boy. the time zones messing you up, plus the fact that you had way too much school work to finish causing you to be forced (by oscar, himself. it pained him to do it but he knew how important this degree was to you and he was not going to let you throw it away just because you missed him and wanted to watch him drive in circles for an hour and a half for three sundays straight) to stay at home.

oscar was sure you would be waiting for him on the couch in your shared living room, it's your routine at this point. when oscar gets back home, it is the late evening. maybe around dinner time. he hopes you haven't waited on him to eat.

as the australian boy unlocked the door, he looked around the apartment. three weeks without his home comforts (you) had taken its toll on him. it is sort of dark in the hallway leading to the living room, the door to the room laying wide open. oscar can see the back of the couch and the blaring light of the tv. it was bright.

the ring had stayed at the back of his bottom drawer in his bedside table. it was right next to you, right where you slept without him for twenty-one nights without him. oscar was desperate to get his hands on you.

as soon as the threshold was crossed and oscar was in the living room with you, your perfume hit him like a brick wall. the brown eyed boy almost started crying at the smell, he had just missed you that much.

your laying on the couch, asleep. this actually surprised oscar. you were never usually asleep, you were so good at controlling when and where you fell asleep, waking up however... that was a different story altogether.

oscar takes your legs and lifts them up softly to slide in underneath them. he was not going to lay down next to you because he knew for a fact as soon as he fell asleep there would be no waking him up until at least midday tomorrow. you were like that everyday.

oscar admires you for a bit before the urge to propose to you comes creeping back. the desperation of being yours for the rest of his life, reared its ugly head as his eyes follow the swoop of your lashes against your cheeks. he thinks about shaking you awake to do it.

the boy is too deep in thought to realise you've woken up. it's like you can tell when he is in mental distress and you come to save him from himself.

"you're home." you mumble into the air. it is left hanging, not responded to as you sleepily blink yourself awake to finally get a good look at him. he's lovely to look at. as lovely as ever.

"you okay?" you ask him after period of silence that is too loud to bring any comfort.

oscar doubts he is any good for you, so for the second time he chickens out and doesn't propose, although it does send his tired and self conscious mind into a spiral that almost brings on a panic attack. he's quick to assure you he's alright, "just tired after all that flying." is his excuse. you believe him and do not have to try very hard to coax him into bed.

once you both had done your night routines next to each other for the first time in three weeks and oscar was laying practically on top of you, he thought about the ring again. just sitting in his bedside table when it should be on your finger as you brag to everyone you see in the shops that you were getting married to the love of your life. it will happen and oscar will see it, he just has to build the courage, next time for sure.

that had been four months ago. the boy didn't even try to think about attempting to propose to you, it all bearing too heavy still. the longer he took the more he talked himself into the idea of you not wanting to marry him.

so when you find the ring on a tuesday lunch time, it is safe to say oscar is shitting himself. oscar had been laying on his side with his head on your lap on the couch watching some documentary on whether or not the remains some archaeologist had found was really an alien or not. you were listening in as you scrolled through your phone, carding your fingers through his hair. it had popped into the brunette's mind that he had forgotten to order his sisters birthday present, it was sitting in the basket, ready to checkout but you had distracted him by asking him what he would do if you chucked your glass of water in his face. so he asked you to log into his account and get it for him.

"it's asking for your card details, osc. where is it?" you ask, reading out what the phone in your hand was saying. oscar groans at the thought of you leaving him for even a second physically hurting him. "bottom drawer of my bedside, love." oscar mumbles, concentration falling back onto the tv. unknowing he had just told you the location to the item that had been plaguing his mind for the past eight months. the realisation doesn't kick in when he hears your gasp, or when he is rushing through to your room to check in and make sure you are okay. it only hits when he sees you sitting on the floor in front of the piece of furniture, turning around to face him with tears in your eyes and a ring in your hand.

"is this what i think it is?" you ask him, voice shaking. oscar really is dumb because he cannot work out his you are crying with happiness or out of sadness. although he is quick to sit beside you, hands reaching for the ring but you pull it back out of his grasp, waiting for the answer.

"yeah," oscar sighs. "i've tried to propose to you twice now but every time i get too scared and don't. i've been trying to for eight months". oscar gets even more worried than he originally was when he sees your frown. there was no way he had just fucked this up with you.

"i could've been engaged to you for eight months?" you ask, you seem genuinely disappointed by this fact and that is what snapped everything into place in his brain. you wanted to be engaged to him. oscar jumps forward to wrap you into a bone crushing hug that makes your heart skip beats.

"i will marry you oscar." you tell him.

"i'm so sorry i chickened out, i don't know what was wrong with me. i could've been almost married to the most perfect girl in the world. my most perfect girl." oscar murmurs his apology into your hair but you had already forgiven him. way back before he had even apologised.

the light still beams into the room, oscar thinks about buying black-out curtains until he sees the way the morning light hits your eyes just after you have just opened them. although they close again much too quickly for oscars liking.

it is like you can feel oscar's stare because you grab his arm, pulling him closer to you.

"love you osc." you mumble into the pillow. eyes drooping again as your face relaxes. oscar presses a kiss to the side of your head as he whispers "love you even more, pretty.".

[imfinereallyy]

Spooky Spouse🕸️𓆩♡𓆪🕸️

happy spooky season :) this is for my mutuals @cranberrymoons @penny00dreadful @theheadlessphilosopher @vthx who when I asked about when we think steddie bday's was, it derailed into well...this. And it was too hard to resist.

v brief mention of nsfw

"You want to what?"

Eddie stares at Steve excitedly, practically vibrating in his spot across from Steve in the kitchen.

"We should get married on Halloween!" Eddie shouts.

Steve lets his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose as he looks at his very manic, albeit very cute, fiance. "Babe, I love you, and for that, I am going to hear you out—"

"Love you too." Eddie interrupts softly.

Steve's mouth curves at the edges; he's sure he has what Robin has claimed as his 'lovesick' smile on his face. "—but why would you want to get married on your birthday?"

Suddenly, Eddie's excitement switches into an embarrassed blush. Hiding behind a finger spun around a soft curl, he mumbles, "...about that..."

Steve sighs and leans back in his chair. He feels the familiar ache in the bottom of his back, scarred road rash that never quite healed right in 86'. If he sits too long in one spot, Steve finds himself fidgety and unsettled.

He wonders briefly if he can convince Eddie to give him a massage later.

Eddie's embarrassment shifts for a moment to concern, eyes wondering where Steve's back meets the base of the old wooden chair they found on 74th Street two years ago. Steve knows Eddie had liked the way the chair creaked like Steve's knee, and that was reason enough to bring it home. Now, though, with the way Eddie holds his breath to see if the familiar creak of the chair will mix with the sounds of Steve's young bones aging, Steve knows he won't have to do any convincing at all.

"I'm okay, Eds. You were saying."

Eddie's face blooms red again. "Okay, only if you promise not to be mad."

"That is never a good sign."

Eddie bites his lip, "What if I told you that my birthday isn't really on Halloween?"

Steve stares blankly, "I know I've had a few knocks on the head, Eds, but I'm pretty sure you can change your name, not your birthday. Having a wedding doesn't mean you get to move your birthday."

"Well!" Eddie jumps, this time with more anxious energy, "You see, that's what I mean; we wouldn't have to move my birthday if we got married on Halloween."

"Okay, you lost me. Am I concussed again? Did we go too hard last night? I know you said you were 'gonna fuck me so good I would forget my name,' but I'm pretty sure this isn't what you meant."

Eddie takes a deep breath before getting on his knees in front of Steve, taking his hand into his own. "Stevie, I mean that I lied. My birthday isn't Halloween. It's actually in February."

"What."

"You said you wouldn't be mad!"

Steve snorts but gives Eddie's hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm pretty sure I actually said that 'wasn't a good sign'. I never agreed not to be mad."

"We both know it means the same thing to you." Eddie huffs.

Steve's lovesick smile is back again, despite knowing he should be mad. "You're telling me you've convinced everyone your birthday is on Halloween?"

"...well, everyone but Wayne." Eddie's smile turns sheepish.

"Jesus Christ Eds."

Eddie jumps up from his knees back to his feet. Steve can hear Eddie's ankle crack at the sudden change. He keeps a hold on Steve's hand. "Listen, I had good reason. I love Halloween; I should be a Halloween baby. My death was almost by bats; I mean, by that logic, it's almost full circle."

"I feel like you're D&D'ing me into logic that doesn't make sense. Eddie, are you trying to make it worse?"

Eddie throws his head back and groans, "No. I'm just—I love Halloween. It feels wrong not to have something important on that day."

"So you decided to change your birthday? Ed's that's not legal."

Eddie's excitement comes back tenfold, giving Steve whiplash. "Well, neither is our wedding! So it's perfect! Honestly, very metal of us to be fighting the law on such an amazing day." Eddie's arms flap around in excitement, making their conjoined hands move messily throughout the air.

Steve wants to be mad; he really does. But he can't help it; he just loves this idiot too much. "Fine, we can get married on Halloween."

"Really?!"

Steve stands, bringing his lips to Eddie's hand, then gently to his lips. He murmurs against his mouth, "On two conditions."

Eddie nips Steve's lip, "Anything, baby."

"One." Steve starts, sliding his tongue into Eddie's mouth, just to be a brat, before pulling back. Eddie groans but doesn't protest. He knows that this is the rare occasion it's his turn to be punished. "You have to tell everyone the truth about your birthday."

"Yep, fine. You got it." Eddie grabs Steve by the back of his neck and pulls him back. Consuming him greedily, Steve gives in to the distraction for a moment. Loving the feeling of Eddie's heat pressed against his own.

Steve pulls back reluctantly, a trail of spit connecting the two of them. Eddie whines and paws at Steve's hips, trying to draw him back. "Two, you have to tell me when your actual birthday is."

The heat clears from Eddie's eyes and the sheepish look returns. "Uh..."

Steve starts to remove himself from Eddie, but Eddie scrambles to bring him back against his chest. "Fine. Fine, I'll tell you."

Steve leans his forehead against Eddie's, patiently waiting for him to spill.

"It's February 14th."

Steve's eyes go wide, "Oh, Jesus fucking Christ."

**

this spiraled form all of us being convinced eddie would lie and say his bday is on Halloween. to my mutals, sorry I didn't tag you all it got to long, but this was for you guys ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

I keep seeing / hearing this "fact" every Christmas Season

And it drives me to distraction (in large part because I bought into it, and repeated it myself, without thinking, for a long time):

"Christmas is actually Pagan, because The Bible says Jesus was born during Lambing Season (when the shepherds watch their flocks by night). And Everybody Knows lambing season is in March - April. So: ha! Gotcha!"

And this is repeated by both neo-Pagans, who want to claim that their religion was somehow "stolen" by the early Church, and by Conservative Christians who dislike the secular, party atmosphere, of contemporary Christmas celebrations, and are seeking to (literally) demonize those practices.

But a few years ago, a question popped into my head (I forget exactly what prompted it):

"Lambing Season in Northern Europe is in March - April. But Jesus wasn't born in Northern Europe. When is the (or was) the Lambing Season in Bethlehem?"

First, I looked up the breeds of sheep native to the Middle East, and the most common, ancient breed of sheep in that part of the world is the Awassi Sheep (DuckDuckGo page of image search results). Then, I looked around for breeding & lambing information. According to this 2011 abstract, the ewes can mate in April (not give birth), all the way through September, and their pregnancy is about 5 months long.

So lambing season could've been anywhere from September through February. And the tail end of December is comfortably in the middle of that.

So yeah, maybe December 25 was Jesus' birthday.

As someone who is no longer either Pagan or Christian, this isn't really any of my business, anymore, I suppose.

I just get annoyed by the implicit bias of: "The whole world looks like my back yard. And all of history should feel like my childhood memories." ...Especially when it's coming from people who are otherwise talking about history and or biology.

[obviousflirtations]

Zero Gravity (Part 3)

In which Maisie Johnson, professional snowboarder and known force in the snowboarding world, somehow falls for a 'pretty boy hockey player'. Jack Hughes finds the one girl who makes him feel like he's on his toes because she matches his energy. Want to start from the beginning? Part One Part two

Maisie didn't know what to expect when the photo of her and Jack got posted to the New Jersey Devils social media accounts. He was basically their golden boy, and she was some "random snowboarder" that just happened to win double gold in February.

When she saw it, she was sitting in her hotel room, half scrolling, half watching what was on the TV. She paused her scrolling to look at the photo. Jack looked excited, a genuine smile. Maisie looked... Well, she looked both vaguely annoyed and amused. It wasn't the worst forced photo she had taken.

The caption? Jersey does it best.

She rolled her eyes before she went into the comment section. She liked to see what people were saying about her, even if most of it was how she needed to be humbled (usually).

Top comment?

RedGerard

Save some talent for the rest of us

She huffed a laugh. Red Gerard was one of her closest friends. They were at most of the same competitions and went to the Olympics together just months prior. If she was a black cat, he was golden retriever in their duo.

She wasted little time replying to his comment.

Mais_Johnson

Generational greatness is a burden I bear

She went back to scrolling through her feed until she got a notification.

JackHughes liked your comment JackHughes followed you

Maisie groaned internally and externally.

Then she got another notification. A DM. From Jack. Maisie about threw her phone like it caught fire before she opened it.

Hey, it was super cool meeting you. I think I can look past the whole 'Aves fan' thing if you come to another home game.

Maisie though about how to reply way longer than she should have.

She typed a message, and I can look past your love of proving gravity right, before she promptly deleted that and tried again with a little less snark.

Sounds like a lot of work

She stared at the chat. Far longer than any self-respecting professional athlete should have when they barely knew the other person typing as she waited for a response.

It took five minutes not that she was watching the time until another message from Jack appeared.

You're terrible

She thought about responding. She really did. Instead, she liked the message. And left it at that. Then immediately went to IMessage and sent a text to Red.

From: MJ

Help I think NJ's golden boy wants to be my friend

From: Menace to Society

Oh no What a hardship You'll live

From MJ:

Red Red, this is serious I literally told him "Gravity made a stronger impression" To his face

From Menace to Society

oh OH He probably thought you were flirting You need more friends

From MJ:

No I got you

From Menace to Society:

What did he say tho?

From MJ:

Asked if I wanted to go to another game

From Menace to Society:

If you do, can I come?

From MJ:

Jesus Christ

From Menace to Society:

That's a yes

From MJ:

... Fine

Next part from Jack's POV?

[sponsored-deactivated20210106]

Just the facts:

Facts:

JV is a very recent convert to (allegedly, see next) Roman Catholicism.

JV is a sedevacantist, a radical brand of Roman Catholic who believes that the Pope isn't actually the Pope (!) is schismatic, and seeks to overthrow the Vatican. (* sede vacante "the vacant chair" meaning "no Pope on the Throne")

As Veep, JV has direct access and control of the CIA. (The CIA doesn't swear an oath to defend the people of America or the US Constitution-they swear fealty to the Executive Branch.)

The CIA, as do all spy agencies, have many bioweapons and chemical agents they are known to use for incapacitation and assassination purposes. Some of those agents cause the lungs to fill with fluid, causing death from "pneumonia"-especially if medical staff are unaware.

The Pope is dead. (Yeah the Vatican probably isn't faking it? This is the weakest "Fact")

The Timeline:

1. In January, newly minted Veep JV criticized his church's role in immigration advocacy very brazenly on CBS' Face the Nation. JV suggested the Catholic Church was in it for the money: "Are they worried about humanitarian concerns or are they actually worried about their bottom line?" (This begins his public hat red of the Pope.)

2. In this past February of the Jubilee Year 2025, Pope Francis publicly and rightfully criticized the Trump administration's increasingly worsening immigration policies: particularly the inhumane mass deportation plan, calling it a "major crisis". For the first time, the Pope appeared to specifically address the alleged Catholic, JV.

3. JV publicly clapped back and claimed the evil deportation policies were actually endorsed by Roman Catholic doctrine, specifically Ordo Amoris doctrine the concept of "rightly-ordered love" or "true charity"-a theological doctrine which is based in Jesus's parable of The Good Samaritan about helping everyone.

4. The Pope, who is the Pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church and who can indeed pontificate on the moral teachings with divine authority, then gave public homily and statements (without mentioning JV specifically) TL;DR-it is heretical and schismatic to claim it is Ordo Amoris when the mass deportation and Trumpism's policies and actions are in fact obviously evil and the exact opposite of the doctrine about charity, compassion, hope and love for all.

5. Every other theologian on the planet calls JV a retarded twat. They all side with the Pope on Twitterx.com and...

6. JV refers to himself as a "baby Catholic" and tweeted that there are "things about the faith that I don't know" but he publicly and obstinately asserts that he's right and the Pope is wrong. This is the definition of Heresy, believe it or not.

7. Vance acknowledged that the Pope was critical of him, but stated he would "continue to defend his views"-whatever that means...

8. Oh, look! The Pope's suddenly been taken ill!

9. Oh, look! In intensive care in the best hospital in Italy, Rome's Gemelli Hospital-sure this is just normal, common-or-garden-variety "pneumonia"

10. February 28, JV addresses a National gathering of Catholics, unrepentantly announcing firmly that he's not going to "litigate with [the Pope] or any other clergy member about who's right and who's wrong"-

11. JV: "I don't think it's good for us as Christians to constantly fight with one another over every single controversy in the church"

12. The Freudian slip: "That is how I will always remember the Holy Father, as a great pastor, as a man who can speak truth to faith in a very profound way at a moment of great crisis," JV appeared to prematurely eulogize the still very much alive Pope, with wording that would mirror the actual eulogical tweet less than 12 hours after the April Easter meeting.

13. Still February 28, JV seemed surprised to learn from the Bishops thar Pope Francis might actually pull through, and awkwardly attempted to take intercessory credit: "Every day since I heard of Pope Francis's illness I say a prayer for the Holy Father because while yes, I was certainly surprised when he criticized our immigration policy in the way that he has, I also know that the pope, I believe that the pope, is fundamentally a person who cares about the flock of Christians under his leadership, and he's a man who cares about the spiritual direction of the faith..." as long as that direction is Trumpism, and the Pope doesn't get in the way, and God protects him from assassination attempts...

14. April; Easter Sunday; 🇻🇦The Vatican: JV forces a meeting with Pope Francis seemingly for the sole purpose of shaking his hand.

15. The Pope has a sudden ischemic stroke, enters a coma and shortly dies.

16. This stroke could have been caused by any of the transdermal hemostatic chemical agents routinely used for such purposes, or something else, but the handshake points to Prince JV and his retenue.

The Evidence:

Corpus Delicti quantity (1), dead Pope.

Modus Operandi and outcome consistent with CIA, and JV going to "finish the job-because if you want something done right, sometimes you have to do it yourself"

In Terrorem—JV has repeatedly, appeared to warn the Pope to back off, has eulogized the living Pope, and had a very public imbroglio ce altercatio

Pleno lure Excommunicato Recapiendo JV is a self-avowed schismatic heresy twofer: Obstinency and Sede Vacante

The Verdict:

👩‍⚖️ A Sussus Amogus

Thank you for reading: I write original conspiracy theories sometimes here at @sponsored-deactivated20210106 ...in the best ranting, typo-filled screed (as befits the genre), best that I can manage while on hold or waiting for the bus. I am always annoyed by the sheeple, incapable of any critical thoughts, who regurgitate ad nauseum some bizarre Kremlin propaganda or other State-sponsored narrative, like "jet fuel doesn't burn hot enough to melt steel; the Jews blew up the WTC towers!" (Saudi Arabia) — or religious cult dogma, "flat Earth but the Government is covering it up" and "evolution isn't real and the Earth is 6k years-young!" (Biblical Literalists and Young Earth Creationists). I encourage you to do your own research, but even more important than that: I encourage you to think critically and be contrarian even to the "contrarians"... There's an infinite amount of inaccurate and incorrect information and beliefs (much of it quite harmful) and an infinite number of ways to be wrong. It doesn't matter where you start very much as long as you iterate towards congruence with reality, and continuously refine what that reality is. Sometimes my conspiracy theories turn out to be very close guesses; other times I'm completely wrong — and often the truth remains hidden behind vague and incomplete reporting or obvious cover-ups... a range of possible realities that we could be occupying... assumptions and speculation will only get us so far... then, embracing the uncertainty with patience and humility, keep watching.

[offsidetracked]

I've seen some takes that BYCHANCE would be BAD WRITING.

And I respect it, I just don't agree.

Let's get into it.

I think we all agree that Stranger Things is deeply psychoanalytic. Horror in general is. One thing I come back to over and over again when analyzing horror is this quote from Freud:

"Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways."

This is true for both Mike and Will, just in different ways.

By the end of S4, Mike's character arc is much clearer than Will's is. It's brilliantly written, truly. His relationship with El is straight up (lol) a toxic coping mechanism for dealing with his shadow, i.e. everything he represses and denies about himself.

There's even a literal shadow behind him the first time El dresses up as "a girl" (fantastic catch by @dungeon-master-mike). While Finn stares into the camera. Subtle.

Mike's journey is, to a large extent, about coming to terms with, embracing and expressing his feelings for Will. He knows on some level, that they're there. He just violently flees from them at the moment.

What about Will? What does he repress and deny?

Not his feelings for Mike.

The whole point of the painting in S4 (besides the Chekhov's Gun aspect) is largely about admitting these feelings and expressing them (even if it's in a veiled way). So it's not that. And it won't do to just let him sit passively next season while Mike figures his shit out. That would be bad writing if anything.

So what about Will?

Well...

This was, as I guess you know, part of the large leak that happened on February 22. It seems legit, judging from the scope and the official looking graphics and illustrations.

And it made me more confident in something I've suspected for a while:

A big theme in Will's S5 arc is ✨TEMPTATION✨ Resisting it, giving in to it. And finding out the consequences of both.

I suspect it will culminate in a Garden of Gethsemane type situation with Vecna at some point. You know, when Jesus was tempted to flee from the path of the cross and let the world face judgement without him (the Bible got some quality drama🧃).

"Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak." —Matthew 26:41

☝️that's what bychance would be about in a nutshell:

Being tempted by "worldly desires" and creating a slippery slide into Will's more selfish and self-gratifying sides, sides that will bite him in the ass precisely because he refuses to reconcile with them.

They'll rise like zombies and wreck havoc in a bunch of brain dead ways.

BYCHANCE would be the upside down version of BYLER.

It's needed (or something similar is) to make Vecna's final temptation believable. The audience has to doubt Will's character and the limits of his kindness, wisdom and valor juuuuust a little. It's his final trial. The stakes should be high and we should all feel slightly nervous, even us bylers.

But we need stepping stones to get there.

We've already seen what happens when Will suppresses these sides of himself. Eventually, he explodes 💥:

Look at him.

You're telling me he wouldn't take a little detour to the dark side?

Like most people who've suffered through childhood trauma, Will carries a great deal of repressed rage. The narrative has to deal with it. And this is the last stop to do so.

That's his arc this season.

BLOWING UP as a result of the trauma he's endured and BEING SUSCEPTIBLE TO TEMPTATION because of it.

And, I feel like a broken record saying this, bychance could be a great way to get the story there.

That's the main reason I'm onboard with the idea; it would be such an interesting journey for Will's character to go on while serving byler beautifully.

Sounds like damn fine writing to me.

[sworeidnevercompromise]

Dear Jojo, please throw at me a fluff fic for Zach Maclaren in which he was very sick and bsf!reader had to nurse him alone for days because his family just happened to go on a camping trip without him. I'd love to have Zach confessed his love to the reader and more fluff moments after that pleaseeeee <3

💌 out like a light: a zach maclaren x reader drabble word count: 740 warnings: none! ⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ other works

author's note: sorry this took so long! meant 2 have it out by valentine's but college is kicking my ass!!!!!

This wasn't how you expected to spend your Valentine's day.

Sure, it's not like you had many plans, considering the fact that you don't have a boyfriend and all, but you were pretty set on sitting alone in your apartment and rewatching The Notebook while eating whatever shitty chocolate you found at the convenience store down the street. Of course, those plans were totally squashed the second Zach called you.

"I'm sick," he had said, coughing, "Can you come take care of me?"

You had rolled your eyes, but it was in a fond sort of way. Leave it to Zach to not know how to take care of himself while he was sick. "Aren't you visiting home for the weekend? Can't your mom take care of you? Or, get this, you could do it yourself."

He had groaned into the phone, coughing a bit more. "It's Avery's February break or something, they're on vacation. I was supposed to go, but...you know. Anyway. Come on, Y/N, help a guy out. You're my best friend, right?"

You had sighed. It was so hard to say no to him. "Okay, but you owe me one. I'll be there in an hour."

And that's how you ended up here, sitting next to Zach's bed, nursing him back to health. "Jesus. Your fever is high. Put the cold towel back on your head."

He laughs, his voice hoarse. "Okay, Nurse Y/N."

He looks so cute, even when he's sick. He looks up at you through his eyelashes as you adjust the cold towel on his forehead, and you feel butterflies in your stomach. "Better?"

He smiles, slowly. "Little bit, yeah."

You pull up a movie on his computer, setting it on the bed next to him, and you watch as Zach slowly drifts off to Pride and Prejudice.

"Good movie," he mumbles, tiredly, "My mom likes it." His hand is right next to yours. You wish you could reach out and hold it. Your fingers twitch.

"Yeah," you say softly, "Mine too."

His hand envelops yours, and he's looking up at you once again, clearly fighting to keep his eyes open. "Thanks for being here."

The butterflies in your stomach flutter once again, and you nod, smiling at him. "Of course. Go to sleep, Zach, I can tell how tired you are."

He nods, leaning back into the soft pillows, practically burying his face in them. He mumbles something.

"What?"

"Mm. Love you."

You blink. Zach MacLaren just said he loves you. Time seems to stop. "Zach?"

He doesn't answer, already fast asleep. You turn you attention back to the movie.

A few hours later, you're making soup in the kitchen, stirring it with a large wooden spoon. Zach emerges from his bedroom, sitting down heavily at the counter.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," you say, decidedly not bringing up what he mumbled before he fell asleep. He probably didn't mean it, anyway. "Sleep well?"

Zach just stares at you.

You laugh awkwardly. "Um...okay, well, I'm making you soup."

He keeps staring at you. "That's all you have to say? That you're making me soup?"

You turn the stove off, ladling soup into a bowl. "Uh. Yeah."

Zach rubs his temples. "Y/N, do you not feel the same way about me, or something?"

You stop moving. "I just thought....I thought you meant it like, as friends. Since we're...you know. Best friends, and all." You hand him the bowl of soup and a spoon.

He takes the soup, scooping some into his mouth and swallowing before squinting at you appraisingly. "I invited you over to my family's house on Valentine's day, and you think I'm saying 'I love you' as friends?"

You fidget with the hem of your skirt. "I thought you just asked me over because you needed someone to help you while you were sick."

He laughs. "I mean, yeah, but...it's also because I wanted to spend time with you. I really, really like you."

You smile. "I really, really like you too."

Zach reaches across the counter to take your hand. "This soup is amazing, by the way. You're a great caretaker, Y/N."

Heat rises to your cheeks. "I guess I don't mind being your nurse."

Zach waggles his eyebrows. smirking flirtatiously. "Maybe next time you can wear a sexy nurse costume."

"Not happening. Now, shut up and eat your soup."

"Okay, okay. Doctor's orders."

[mochinomnoms]

How do you think explaining Christmas would go down with the boys? I'm specifically looking at Krampus, cause the holiday is all about joy and hope and lights and and giving, and then there's just this half goat demon man that will stuff you in a sack and torture you for Your Sins.

The story of Krampus is actually really metal tbh. There was this evil butcher that killed, chopped, and salted these three kids that were hanging outside his shop, and then St. Nicholas came along and uses the Power Of God to commit actual fucking necromancy to bring the kids back to life. God then cursed this butcher to follow around St. Nich as a punisher that comes around every December 5. The French call him "the whipping father" it's fucking insane actually.

Some of the holiday is also a little weird when you put it into perspective, like: oh yeah, there's this red guy that you write letters to and then he breaks into your house and you leave an offering of milk and cookies for him in exchange for candy and gifts :D! He also has flying reindeer with very cute names btw! But we're not going to talk about that actually cause now we have to decorate this whole ass pine tree that I brought into ramshackle :D it's gonna be great! :D

Bro imagine giving them advent calendars! Those little ones with the small toys or chocolates- give one to Riddle he needs one. Lots of sugar intake to catch up on

🦩

To be real, I was raised very Catholic (ew) and traditionally Mexican so my Christmas stuff is very different from what you see on TV and like in Hallmark movies.

So like, we celebrated it as a religious holiday, so the Santa stuff is kinnda foreign to me, I only heard about it from school. We still got presents and stuff, but I remember doing Posadas, which is children reenacting the Mary and Joseph seeking shelter by going to houses and singing and asking for shelter. At the end we go to one of the parents' houses or to the church and have a little party! We also didn't really decorate like I've seen in American homes, we had like a cute tree usually, but mostly decorated the altars to La Virgen and the Nativity scene.

The biggest difference I've found is that we celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve instead; we had Nochebuena, so we'd go to midnight mass, have dinner, and at midnight we open presents. Technically, kids didn't get presents because of Santa or anything like that, we got it cause kids get gifts like how the three kings gave baby Jesus presents. Though that also is a different winter holiday in January or February, not sure. When I got older my family started getting more Americanized, and my brothers got the whole Santa deal, but we still did a lot of the church stuff.

Considering that there is no mention of any sort of religious institution in Twisted Wonderland, I imagine my explanation of Christmas would be very foreign. Though Noble Bell College basically being Notre Dame in the Masquerade event and Rollo practically inventing Catholic guilt in a world without Catholics has some implications? I actually don't think there is any mention of any deities that the cast or world in general worship, though perhaps it's implied with Hades? He's not referred to as God of the Underworld though, he's King so maybe??

This got off-topic, but I like to think any explanation of traditions from back home is fascinating to the boys! And there's a lot of winter holidays besides Christmas and Las Posadas, I mean Hanukkah is big and Yule is reemerging as people learn more about where traditions from Christmas comes from.

If you're like me and have a religious aspect to your winter holidays, I think they're curious about it and asking all sorts of questions! If you had the more traditional American Christmas, then they're super curious about the whole Santa deal! Like, they thought you said your world didn't have magic, so what's with this magically man in a red suit and white beard?

(Also, I don't know what advent calendars are, they have candy I'm guessing? If it's a calendar, then I'm safe to assume it's like a count-down to Christmas day?)

[cardboard-strawberries]

I'm thinking about Christopaganism

God and Jesus have been on my mind a lot lately, and it's not the first time. Around January/February I had started really looking into it. I don't fully know what sparked it, most likely Christmas being just behind us, but had gotten me really focused on it. I'd been distant from the Theoi(I'm a Hellenic Polytheist) for awhile at that, and I subconsciously really missed religion. Long and short of it is that through exploring Christianity (nothining too deep, I never got past a few chapters into John and a lot of YouTube videos), I reconnected with Apollon. But now it's back. I've been feeling drawn to dig out the Bible I'd bought, and after skirting around it for a few weeks, I finally found the courage to just try tonight.

There's so many mixed feelings around Christianity for me. I didn't grow up religious, not really; vaguely pagan at a young age, but my family stopped when I was pretty young. My mother and my grandmother are both firmly anti-christianity. I understand why, my grandmother left after years of being deeply involved in her church, and is now a strong atheist, and my mother was a product of my grandmother's Christian parenting. I understand the pain that the religion has caused, and even considering feels betraying these people so dear to me.

But I want to be able to explore; let myself wander till my soul finds its home. And right now, Christianity feels worth at least looking. I read a bit of the Bible tonight. I lit a bit of incense and a candle as an offering. I'm feeling kind of good about all of this.

If any christo-pagans, or even progressive Christians, have any good resources they'd like to share, or advice they could give, I would love that. Christianity is honestly still something I know very little about, and there's so much to it, it's all a bit overwhelming.

Thx for reading my ramble

[clairifys]

Prolonged love - Joseph Liebgott x Fem!Reader

Summary: Sometimes the best things in life take a long time, and sometimes life throws you for a loop. It sure threw (Y/n) for a loop when grabbing German POWs in Hagenau turns into her having to babysit a young Dutch girl.

Tw: Swearing, death, reader being trilingual, mentions of war, mentions of concentration camps, mentions of abuse, killing, slightly dirty? not full on smut, reader is female, slight misogyny due to the time period, she/her pronouns

Word count: 6.5k

I do not own Band of Brothers, nor do I own any of the characters. I am not intending to be disrespectful towards any of the people on this show

The Dutch name is pronounced like (Tina-ka) Tineke, and the nickname Tine is pronounced as (Teeny)

I was born in Chicago. My mother was born in Groningen, Netherlands, and my father in Antwerp, Belgium. I was the oldest child, and after me, my parents had five others. Despite having six kids, we were all taught Dutch and German from a young age. The sole reason I was accepted into the military was because of me being trilingual, I’ll forever be grateful to my parents for teaching me their languages. 

February 9, 1945 

Easy Company was on its way to France. We were stationed in Haguenau, which had been taken by the Allies in December. Honestly speaking, I didn’t really know what to expect when we got there. I was sitting in the back of a truck, squished between Babe and Liebgott. Joe had become a close friend way back in Toccoa when he’d fallen running up Currahee, and I stopped and helped him up. We both had our 48-hour weekend passes revoked, but we made the most of it that weekend together. After that, we’d spend our weekend passes together and hang out.

I was leaning against Joe as I’d been almost the whole ride, his arm slung around my shoulders as I read a book that I had found when we invaded Foy. It seemed the Krauts enjoyed good literature as I was reading For Whom the Bell Tolls in German. I was a translator for Easy Company, being able to speak English, German and Dutch, I was a heavy asset to the team. It was a beautifully told story about the Civil War that had some romance aspects while also being brutal. I finished the book twice, and now I was reading it a third time.

“Jesus doll, I think I’ve seen you read that damn book about forty times now. How good can it be?” Joe said when he noticed my attention had strayed.

“Oh it’s a beautifully told story, Joe. Although, I don’t think you could read anything that didn’t have pictures.” I replied jokingly to him, looking up at him from where I was leaning against him. I could hear Babe and Malarkey laughing, and a young soldier, Jackson watching intently. 

“How can you read that, (L/n)?” A quiet voice asked in front of me. It’d been from Jackson. He lied on his documents so that made him 20 right now while I, at 23, was considered young. 

“I can speak and read German. Although my mother is a Dutch immigrant, my father was a Belgium immigrant.” I spoke honestly. Picking up languages was a bit of a gift for me. I’d always been good at remembering and learning languages, probably since I was taught three languages at once from a young age.

“(Y/n)! I’ve read that book! It’s so beautifully written.” A new voice spoke from the opening in the back of the truck, I quickly jolted from Joe’s shoulder, as he groaned from lack of contact, to see who the familiar voice belonged to.

“David Webster? Where the hell have you been?” I interrogated, while simultaneously giving him a toothy smile. He blushed slightly while asking Jackson for a hand to get up on the truck and suddenly Joe spoke up sharply, 

“The hospital. Must’ve liked that hospital Webster, cause uh, we left Holland four months ago.” After saying that he gave Web a dismissive look while tightening his hold on my shoulders. Suddenly, I felt very awkward, and slightly bad for Web - the war was tough and it was understandable to be afraid, it just wasn’t fair that some men snuck out only to get killed or injured more severely than the first time. They started going back and forth, jabbing at Webster passively, although it didn’t seem to be because they didn’t like him, they were just tired and upset. I gave Web a smile before getting off the truck, following Joe close behind.

“Y’know, you didn’t have to be so mean to Web.” I said calmly, making sure to not seem mad at Joe as to not have him get defensive.

“I guess, but it’s bullshit that we had men come back just to get killed.” He said quickly. When he said that, I saw Lieutenant Lipton sluggishly walking towards a building. The poor man had a bad case of Pneumonia, so I ran over and put his arm under my shoulders to help him. As I did that, explosions rang over our head and fell a little farther than we were. He gave me a smile and I helped him into the building he was walking towards. It was pretty on the inside, Luz and Captain Speirs were in the room along with Webster walking in. 

“Hey look who it is. Nice digs, huh, Lip? (Y/n)?” Luz said to me and Lipton as I helped Lipton situate himself on the couch.

“Yeah.” Lipton called back, unenthusiastically and coughed slightly after.

George came over with a blanket and put it on Lipton. He had a lit cigarette in his mouth, so I took it out and took a long drag from it.

“Hey what gives (Y/n). Just ‘cause you’re a pretty dame with a nice rack doesn’t mean you can steal my cigs.” He said while laughing, only partly joking. I gave him a look and replied,

“You’re just mad, this is all you get to see of my ‘nice’ rack.” 

He laughed and replied with a ‘you bet’. As he said that, a new voice spoke up, mock confident.

“Ahem. Is this the company CP for Easy?” He asked, looking at me and Luz weirdly before I went to get Lip a cup of hot coffee. 

From the kitchen, I could vaguely hear that he called himself Lieutenant Jones and that he was asking for Captain Speirs. I came out with a coffee for Lipton as Speirs was drilling him about going to the back to sack out and rest. I noticed Jones had stood up when Speirs walked in.

“Christ Captain, give him a break. He’s got Pneumonia!” I told Speirs as I handed Lipton his coffee and gave him a squeeze on his shoulder. Lipton thanked me with a small smile as the new guy looked at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher.

“Hello to you Ms. (L/n). If he doesn’t rest up though, that Pneumonia won’t go away.” He said pointedly at Lipton.

“I’m sorry, are you a field nurse? I didn’t think they let field nurses come this close to action.” Jones asked me, even though he wasn’t asking with any malicious intent, and it was all curiosity, I still got upset.

“Why d’ya think I’m a field nurse? I’m literally in uniform.” I deadpanned at him while giving him a little attitude for automatically assuming I’d be a field nurse just because I was a woman.

“Oh. I’m sorry, truly I was just curious. I didn't mean any offense, I just didn’t know they let women become paratroopers.” He said quickly, face turning slightly red.

“They don’t. (Y/n) here has some insane stamina, and she’s a helluva shot!” Webster spoke up for me, and I threw him a smile.

“Oh gee, Shifty’s got a better shot than I’d ever dream of having.” I replied, giving credit to Shifty, as he did have a better shot and he was just the sweetest man alive. At that, Winters walked in and told us he’d need fifteen of us on a patrol tonight to capture prisoners. When he said he’d need a translator, I instantly knew it’d be me or Joe as we were the only two in Second Platoon who could speak German. Webster could as well, but we didn’t know which Platoon he’d be in. 

After Nixon and Winters left, Speirs began talking to Lipton about who should lead, and who he could take for the patrol. During this, Jones asked to be on the patrol, which Speirs answered quickly and easily with a no, that he hadn’t any experience. 

“Lipton, how many prisoners do you think there’ll be?” Speirs asked the man in question.

“Honestly, sir, I’m not quite sure, anywhere between three to forty it seems.” He said in reply.

“(L/n).” Speirs called for me as I was sitting in a chair reading.

“Ya want me to be a translator, that it?” I asked, knowing that’s what he was about to ask me.

“Yes ma’am.” 

“Alright.”

When Webster and Lieutenant Jones left for OP two, I decided to get going as well. I knew Liebgott would be there so that was a good enough reason for me.

“Web, I’m comin’ with. Joe’s probably there right now.” I said to David, although slightly talking to Jones as well, to let him know I’d be going to.

“Yeah, no problem. Say when you’re finished with that book, d’ya mind if I reread it?” He asked me as all three of us walked down the street.

“Awh hell Web, I’ve read this thing three times now, you can go ahead and read it now.” I said while throwing him the book, silently noting how quiet Lieutenant Jones was behind us. The two men were running around crouching behind a little garden wall as I stood up, not seeing why they were doing that. When I heard the door open, Sergeant Kiehn came out, greeting me and Web and telling us where OP two was at. Before anymore words could get exchanged, bombs and mortars started raining down on us and we started running and ducking to take cover. We sat against the wall of a building before a man shouted out that it was all clear. After that, we quickly got to the building where OP two was located. Once inside, I immediately went upstairs and sat down on Joe’s bunk and plopped my stuff down.

“Hey doll, where’d you run off to?” Joe asked while wrapping his arms around me as a way to annoy me.

“Went to help Lip, where’d you go?” I asked while laughing at him.

“Came here.” He replied while digging his face into my stomach and faking sleep. Web and Lieutenant Jones came up not too long after I had, and when Jones saw me and Liebgott he immediately stiffened and gave me and Joe a weird look.

“This spot taken?” Webster asked.

“Nah it’s all yours.” Joe said to him while turning his face away from my stomach, my hands went down to card through his hair and he took notice of Jones’ look.

“Fuck are you staring at?” Joe asked him while sitting up and giving him his own glare.

“I’m sorry?” The Lieutenant asked, offended.

“You got a starin’ problem? Why you lookin’ at me and (Y/n) like that?” He challenged him.

“Alright, alright. Quit fighting, we’ve got news.” Webster said, breaking up the fight.

“Dummer, zimperlicher Junge, der dich so ansieht. (Stupid, prissy boy, lookin at you like that)” Joe mumbled to me in German, only loud enough for only me to hear.

“Er ist einfach sauer, weil du mich berührst und nicht er. (He's just mad because you're touching me and not him)” I said back laughing.

Me and Joe got up to go talk to a bunch of men in the corner laughing and smoking, while Webster and Jones went to talk to Malark. When Joe heard them talk about the patrol he pulled Web aside and I went and sat next to Babe to listen to what he was going to say.

“What do you know about this patrol thing?” Joe asked Web quietly.

“Uh, nothing.” Web said while nodding his head.

“Oh, come on, Web. You gotta know something.” Ramirez interrogated.

“I don’t” He replied adamantly 

` “Bullshit.” 

Web and everyone went back and forth and soon more people sat down to listen. I knew Web wouldn’t give anything up, so I decided to. My head was starting to hurt and I wanted to lay down before the patrol knowing I’d be on it at 0100.

“Speirs is picking fifteen men, Jonesy boy wants to be one of ‘em.” I said while yawning. Joe looked down at me and said,

“I say let the kid go, he could use the experience.” He smiled then Ramirez perked up,

“And I bet they could find fourteen other replacements to help him out.” while smirking.

“Nope.” I said, popping the p. “Babe, McClung, Ramirez and I are going out there.” I said dismissively.

“(Y/n)!” Web hissed at me.

“What?” I asked, confused. Then proceeded with,

“Pssh, I’ll just say it was you who said it, Joe and Babe’ll back me up, won’t you boys.” I asked, smiling up at Joe then at Babe.

“Course we will, doll.” Joe replied and Babe grunted. Webster deadpanned me and sat down when Malarkey started telling us about the patrol. 

When the phone rang, and the PX supplies came in, I was ecstatic. New shoes and a shower? Felt like late Christmas. On our way out, the Krauts started to bomb us. We ran down the stairs and I threw myself under a table with Joe. When we had made it outside, we heard there was a casualty, Bill Kiehn. He was a Toccoa man. It was upsetting and it was unfair that he’d gotten through Bastogne only to die like this. I hadn’t known him too well, but the fact that I’d been talking to him 30 minutes prior made me feel like throwing up. Instead of staying to watch, me and the rest of the second platoon went over to the showers to pick up our new ODs. 

Arriving at the showers, we went to go pick up our new ODs, and anything else they’d dropped for us. Nixon was standing by the depot and was holding a box with my name on it. Being the only woman paratrooper here meant I’d need a different size uniform and boots. I thanked Nixon and grabbed the box, opening it. Inside there was a uniform my size, boots, and women’s sanitary needs, a new bra set, and a few new pairs of panties.

“Well ain’t you a lucky gal, getting new undergarments while we’re stuck with the same briefs.” A voice came from behind me. Getting ready to yell at whoever was looking over my shoulder, I turned and realized it was Joe.

“Aww, poor baby has to wear the same briefs.” I replied, feigning upset and then laughing when I saw his disgruntled expression.

 Before I could run off to take a much needed shower, Malarkey called for us to let us know who’d be going on the patrol.

Heffron, McClung, Ramirez, me, Liebgott, Grant, Wynn, Jackson, Shifty and Webster. When we heard how many second platoon men were going, you could practically feel the rage flowing from us. 

We’d all been pissed, wanting to complain but knowing it’d do us no good. Malarkey went off towards the showers and told us to as well. There were men standing at the entrance, undressing and some coming out wet. I didn’t want to undress, even if it was only down to my bra and panties. I’d been behind Joe when I took my first few layers of my tops off. Down to my black bra and army-issued pants was when Webster came up to talk to Joe, effectively, scaring the shit out of me.

“Jesus, Web, you came outta nowhere.” I said, holding my hand to my chest to calm down.

“Oops, sorry (Y/n).” He said while rubbing the back of his neck nervously. I’d noticed his face had turned a bright shade of red, but I thought it was because he was embarrassed that he’d scared me. A hand shot out to grab my arm and turn me around when I noticed it was Joe. 

“What’s the matter?” I asked curiously.

“Do you not see everyone lookin’ at you like they’re starving men looking at their last meal?” He asked bewildered. Suddenly, I became hyper aware of most of the men's eyes on me, waiting for me to finish undressing. Before I could respond Joe spoke up again.

“Nevermind that, just finish and we can go in together.” Quickly I went to undo my belt, and I realized Joe was already down to his briefs, waiting on me. I felt bad to make him wait, but he didn’t have to if he didn’t want to. I took this time to really look at Joe. Sure he was cute, and I’d definitely thought about him like this before, but would he really want me? I tried not to let my hopes get up, and as I slipped my pants down my legs, I forced myself to look away from his bare chest.

Having a hot shower was probably the best thing I’d had in a long time. Quickly scrubbing my body and hair down and then rinsing off, I stepped outside in a towel and grabbed my new uniform, and new undergarments.

Joe had finished showering, so I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to a random building to change, and do my hair. When we got in, there was nobody there, probably all in the showers, so I took Joe to the first mirror I found in a bedroom and made him sit down. He had no obligations and I told him I’d be back after changing. Once I finished, I brought out my old undergarments and towel and hung them out to dry.

There was a vanity on the opposite side of a bed, with a little cushion seat, and some old, dusty hair products. I quickly got to work using them and braiding up my hair.

“Why’d you pull me away doll? Want me that bad huh?” He questioned while smirking at me and drawing a cigarette from his front pocket.

“Yeah, you wish. I wanted someone to talk to.” I joked back before replying honestly and looking at him through the mirror. I finished doing my last braid as Joe was telling me about one of his comics he found that he enjoyed. Standing up, I walked over to stand in front of him, looking down on him as he was sitting on the bed. He stopped talking and we made eye contact. He looked as handsome as ever sitting in his new ODs, with a fresh shower.

“Well don’t you look handsome in your new uniform with your hair combed.” I said to him in a sweet voice running my hands through his wet hair. His eyes darkened as his hands went to hold onto my hips.

“Jesus, (Y/n). We’ve been through hell and back and you’re still the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen.” He said confidently. I could feel my face getting hot, he’d said things like this before, but this time, it felt different. Stronger almost. 

“Oh, Joe. You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met.” I whispered to him, and he looked up at my lips, silently asking me. I slowly closed my eyes and let my hands fall from his hair down to his face, I slowly leaned down as he looked up and closed my eyes. As our lips were less than a centimeter apart, someone awkwardly coughed.

We sprung away from each other, embarrassed that we got caught. Looking at who it was, some random replacement apologized and said he left something in here and it was his room.

When he left, I started laughing and grabbed Joe by the arm to pull him up.

“Come on, I bet everyone is wondering where we went.”

“Goddammit Johnny, you’re breaking my heart.” Luz said.

“Come on, George, just give me, I don’t know, ten, fifteen bars?” Martin pressured him

“Juicy fruit, happy?”

Johnny and Cobb had been pestering George to give them Hershey bars. I knew there wasn’t enough, and that it wasn’t fair so I just stayed quiet the whole time. Cobb began badgering George again and when George went to defend himself, a whole group of men walked in.

“Whoa, Hershey bars!” Joe exclaimed, coming up behind me to rest his hands on my shoulders from where I was sitting in front of the table of candy and treats.

“Jesus Christ.” Poor George just couldn’t catch a break.

“Wait your turn, Liebgott.” Cobb said, pissing me off. I never really liked Cobb and he didn’t like me.

“Yeah, who they for?” Liebgott asked George.

“Not you, Lieb.”

“Oh come on George, one bar!” Joe pestered, wanting to get that bar.

“Y’know who they’re for? People who don’t interrogate me. Here, (Y/n), have a bar!” George replied while looking Joe in the eye.

“Oh George! Thank you!” I exclaimed excitedly. I hadn’t known the last time I’d gotten chocolate.

“Christ, you’re only giving it to her because she’s a woman and you wanna get on her good side in case the opportunity arises to fuck her!” Cobb said angrily as I turned around, glaring, ready to hit him.

“That sounds more like something you’d do, knowing you couldn’t get a woman to sleep with you willingly if your life depended on it!” I yelled back at him which caused him to call me a slur of colorful words. After that, Joe yelled at him and I ignored him.

“Hey big mouth! Give Lieb a Hershey bar, huh?” Perconte asked.

When I heard his voice, I jumped up, running up to him to give him a hug.

“Perco! Your back!” I exclaimed as he hugged me back.

“You gotta be shittin’ me! Look who it is!” George laughed and said.

“How ya feeling?” Joe then asked him, smiling.

“As long as you keep your hands off my ass, I’ll be fine.” Perconte replied, laughing.

“Have a Hershey’s!” Luz threw one at Perconte.

“Hey he gets a fuckin Hershey bar?” Joe asked, offended as I came to sit down next to him, opening up my Hershey’s.

“Ask ya girlfriend to french ya when she’s done eating it.” George joked as I took a bite into my bar and broke it in half.

“I’ll do you one better, Joe.” I said after I swallowed and handed him the half I didn’t bite into. He took it with thanks.

“That’s not one better, he’d rather you kiss him (L/n)!” Luz said while laughing right after. Joe pushed him backwards while also laughing

At 1700, there was a briefing about the house we’d be going into. I was next to Shifty, talking with him. Every now and again me and Joe would make eye contact, until the other looked away. Winters, and Martin walked in which caused Joe to look away first. Winters explained Johnny would be going in Malarkey's place, and that made everyone slightly more comfortable. I was on Johnny’s team, along with Webster. I walked out and Liebgott was waiting for me, he left with me and as we passed Speirs, he told Joe he didn’t have to go on the patrol.

We’d been all stationed in the basement for now before the patrol. Having to eat slop and we couldn’t have our helmets. I sat with Shifty as I ate.

“Youse gonna be out there with a gun?” Shifty asked me in a sweet voice, I knew what he was talking about. He was asking if I’d be helping shoot.

“Nah, well obviously I’ll have a gun, but I’m mainly a translator.” I smiled at him and he smiled back.

“I don’ understand why they never let you shoot with me. You’re a helluva sniper.” Shifty told me, making me giggle at him.

“Oh Shift, you know how to make a woman feel good about herself.” I replied, happy that I got to talk to him before the patrol. He always knew how to make someone happy, even during nerve-wracking times.

At 0100, we were getting into those rubber boats, and setting sail on a short trip across the river. Before the fourth boat could even get far, it flipped and we were down three men. I wasn’t too nervous, knowing that I’d been through worse. When we got to the other side, Martin had someone cut the fence and me and Web, being translators, meant that we had to be up front in case we found any Germans. 

So far, we’d gotten up to the steps of the house we’d need to get prisoners from. Johnny had shot into the window, and Jackson went up to throw his grenade, except, instead of waiting for it to finish detonating, Jackson didn’t stop and immediately went into the house, getting hit straight in the face with his grenade. As we ran in, me and Web were yelling at the men in German. We started to split the three men up when I heard a small cry in the corner of the room. I stopped to turn to go towards the sound.

“(L/n)! What are you doing?” Johnny yelled at me.

“Sir! There’s a child!” I shouted, confused. When I got down eye level with the little girl, I noticed she was only in a thin, white nightgown, with no shoes. She looked malnourished, hurt and mostly scared. 

“Alsjeblieft! Alsjeblieft! (Please! Please!)” The little girl cried in Dutch, shrinking away from me when I went to get her.

“Het is goed schat! Rustig maar, ik ben hier om te helpen! (Its okay dear! Relax, I'm here to help!)” I replied to her in Dutch. What had a little Dutch girl been doing here? I didn’t have time to continue to calm the little girl before Johnny started yelling about getting on the boats and leaving.

“Klein meisje, ik ga je ophalen. (Little girl, I'm going to pick you up.)” I warned her before grabbing her bridal style and running with her out of the house and covering her eyes to make sure she didn’t see what was happening around her with Jackson. Pushing everyone into the boats, the girl I was holding onto kept crying and crying. The poor little girl couldn’t have been more than four years old. 

“Het is goed schat. Het is goed schat. (It’s alright baby. It’s alright baby.)” I kept repeating to the small frightened girl. When Webster jumped into the boat behind me, we started going back to our side. He had his head ducked, as the Krauts kept shooting at the back boat. He had his arms around me when he realized I was shielding a child.

“(Y/n)! What the hell? Why do you have a child?” He yelled out over the gun fire.

“I don’t know! She was in the corner, she’s Dutch!” I replied, still confused as to how she got here and why she wasn’t in the Netherlands. We all ran downstairs, I was still holding onto the little girl, she had come from the Germans territory so I had to stay with her by the other prisoners. Nobody had come up to me about the girl yet so I took this as a time to try to get information so she wasn’t bombarded when adrenaline wore off.

“Wat is je naam? (What’s your name?)” I asked her calmly. She looked up at me with teary dark blue eyes. “Tineke.” She responded in a quiet voice. I was sitting on the floor and I held her so she was only facing me. I could feel someone watching me, but for now I didn’t care.

“Mooie naam! De mijne is (Y/n)! (Beautiful name! Mine is (Y/n)!)” I replied while smiling at her and gently carding my hand through her dark brown strands. Her skin was deathly pale and it was obvious she hadn’t drank or eaten anything in a long time. I gave her my canteen and she took it wearily. She wouldn’t drink it because she was scared of what could be in it. I took it back and took a small sip and gave it back. When she noticed I was okay, she started drinking out of it rapidly. 

When she finished drinking, I asked her more questions. 

“Spreek je Engels? (Can you speak English?)” I asked her. “Little bit.” She replied hesitantly.

“Very good, mijn liefje! (My love!)” She seemed to smile a little at the name I’d given her.

“Where is your mommy?” I asked slowly. She started to get upset at the mention of her mother but she replied anyway.

“She die. The Duits kill her. I am Joods. They take her and kill my mammie in de camps for Jodens. Then they keep me. (The Germans kill her. I am Jewish. My mommy. Camps for Jews.)” She told me in a somber tone. When she couldn’t think of the right word, she’d just say it in Dutch. I thought about bringing her to Joe later knowing he was Jewish, she might feel comfortable with him. 

“You’re safe now, liefje.” I told her while bringing her close to my chest. She ended up falling asleep not even ten minutes later. It gave me time to think about what she had said. She never mentioned a last name which made me believe she didn’t know it. The camp she was talking about was also weird. What did she mean by a camp for Jewish people?

Jackson had died. That boy who’d just turned twenty, had died. He had his whole life ahead and he died in a stupid war. I hadn’t even known him too well, but he just died in front of me, in front of everyone. I was thankful Tineke was asleep as she’d already seen enough. 

A day had passed since the patrol. The Germans were taken away and Tineke wouldn’t talk to anyone except me, and occasionally Joe. When Winters had found out about her, he had to ask her questions. I had come with because she couldn’t speak English very well and she refused to go anywhere if I wasn’t with her. The poor girl had been traumatized and it seemed like she’d been like that for a while.

While asking her questions, we found out her family was Jewish, and when the Germans found out, they took her and her family out of their homes to be sent to a camp. She didn’t know much, just that her mother and her got away and when they were found by the two Germans, her mother tried to fight against them resulting in her getting shot. Tineke was then taken as a hostage. 

Doc Roe came in to see how she was and it turned out she had been malnourished, and if I hadn’t found her when I did she would’ve been dead. Later that day I took her to the building where the second platoon was located to introduce her. 

I walked in and held onto Tine and went upstairs.

“Guys, this is Tineke. She was found in the house with the other POWs and she’s Dutch. She can speak some English, but don’t bombard her.” I spoke when I went upstairs and saw everyone. They all looked at us, and one by one I walked around with her and had her say hi to everyone. When I got to the last person, Joe, I sat down on the bunk with him and had her greet him.

“Tine, why don’t you tell Joe what you are.” I reminded her. I had told her to tell him she was Jewish before we went upstairs.

“Jewish.” Was all she said, nervous and not knowing too much English, she turned her face away into my chest. I rubbed my hand down her knotted, dirty hair realizing she needed a bath.

“Ain’t that cool! I’m Jewish too!” Joe responded in a sweet voice, smiling down at her when she slightly turned her head towards him. Before any more words could get exchanged, Webster came in to break the news that we were to go on another patrol that night and there would be another meeting at 1800. It was currently 1530 so I decided to bring Tineke down to the kitchen sink where I could give her a makeshift bath. I remembered how my mom would do that for me and my siblings when we were little and there were no baths in any of the houses.

I grabbed some soap and put it in her hair while I’d tell her stories to pass the time. 

“A long time ago, there were two moons. It was said one of them, named houden got too close to the sun, and out came thousands of dragons.” I told her a story my mother used to tell me all the time.

“Houden? To hold?” She asked as I began rinsing out her hair.

“That’s right. That’s how dragons were born.” I told her. As I finished saying that, another voice piped up from behind me.

“I didn’t know dragons were born from the moon.” Joe came up behind me and waved at Tineke, who brought her hand up slightly.

“That’s because I never told you that.” I said while smiling up at him. He moved to have his arms around my waist and laid his head on my shoulder. I finished rinsing Tine off then I grabbed a towel and wrapped her in it. Nixon had got clothes small enough to fit her from one of his sources. It was a small, black dress with a dark brown fluffy shawl. She also had stockings and tiny boots. When I finished dressing her, I braided up her hair and put on a hat.

At 1800 we all went down to the basement to await Winter’s meeting he called.

“Whatcha lookin’ at Webster.” A drunk Cobb said. I put one of my hands on Web’s shoulder, holding Tineke to my chest as she slept on me, and he turned to give me a smile.

“That’s what I thought, college boy.” Cobb said while swaying lightly on his feet. I gave Cobb a glare and squeezed the hand I had on Web’s shoulder.

“Are you drunk, trooper?” Lieutenant Jones asked him, angrily.

“Leave me alone.” Cobb replied, looking away.

“Answer the question.” Jones said firmly.

“Yes, sir, I am drunk, sir.” Cobb said sassily before adding, “Drunk, and sick and tired of fucking patrols. Taking orders-”

“Hey Cobb, shut up. It’s boring, okay.” Martin cut him off before he could finish what he was saying.

“Taking his side, Johnny?” “Yeah, I am.”

After that shit show I went and sat by Joe, wanting to make sure I wouldn’t be in Cobb’s line of fire in case he decided to throw something.

Winters came in to not only tell us that we didn’t have to go on that patrol, but that we’d also be off the line tomorrow. After he left, everyone started talking, which woke up Tine, who had no idea what was going on, but was happy because everyone else was. 

When I went upstairs, Winters was waiting for me.

“Hey, (Y/n).” He said, a bittersweet tone to his voice.

“Hello, sir. Anything I can help you with?” I asked, slightly nervous that he had waited for me.

“It turns out, we found one of Tineke’s family members. Her aunt and uncle. They’re set to come tonight.” He said quietly.

“Oh. Well that’s great!” I smiled slightly, feeling my heart get heavy at the fact that the young girl would be leaving.

“Tine, you hear that? Your aunt and uncle are coming to pick you up.” I told her, looking down at her. She perked up, looking between me and Winters and then she smiled. She smiled bigger than I’d ever seen her smile.

When her aunt and uncle arrived at 2100, Tineke ran up to them and they picked her up. They repeatedly thanked me and Winters and before they left, I gave Tineke a hug and kiss and turned around to walk away. As I did that, I noticed Joe was standing there waiting for me, smiling sweetly at me. We walked away, arm in arm to go back to the house together. The next day, we’d all been sent to the trucks to move to our new location. I was sitting next to Joe, my head on his shoulder as I slept. 

We had made it to Germany. The Krauts surrendered and Hitler shot himself. We were finally able to stay in an actual house, with actual baths and actual beds. To us, life couldn’t get any better. 

Me and Joe had been sharing a house with Perco and Luz. Frank and George went out to get eggs from a farmhouse a few blocks down so right now it was just me and Joe.

“You excited, doll?” He asked me from the table. I put down one of the wet dishes I was washing, and replied,

“For what Lieb?” “We got through the hard part!” Oh. I hadn’t really thought about that yet.

“Well, yeah, I guess. I’m just scared that I’ll have to go to the Pacific if this war finishes soon.” I replied genuinely.

“Oh don’t worry about that right now.” He said while standing up and coming behind me. I put down the last dish and pulled off the wet, yellow gloves I had on to wash the dishes in.

“Y’know, Perco and Luz just left.” 

“I know Liebgott, I’ve got eyes.” I replied, smiling up at him while turning around to face him. He put his hands on the sink behind me and smiled down on me.

“Well if your eyes are any good, then you’ll be able to see how much of a hold ya got on me.” He spoke before closing the distance between us and closing the gap.

I immediately closed my eyes and kissed him back. We slowly pulled apart, and without another word he slammed his mouth into mine. This time, he was much more passionate. His hands wandered down to my waist, and mine went up to his neck and hair. I gasped as he bit my bottom lip, and he snuck his tongue into my mouth. I kissed him back with as much fervor as I could, slightly pulling on his hair without realizing. He moaned into my mouth and the vibrations caused heat to pool in my stomach.

His hands started to roam down my body, causing me to moan as well. He pulled me flush against him and then pulled me up the stairs into one of the rooms I was occupying. I gently sat down on the bed and his fingers went to my uniform top, unbuttoning my shirt. 

Perconte and Luz were walking down the trail to the house they were sharing with (Y/n) and Joe, they had eggs to cook up for everyone. When they got inside, they expected to see (Y/n) and Joe downstairs, waiting for them like they had been before.

“Hey, where’d they go-”

“D’you hear that?” George cut Frank off when he heard what sounded like muffled banging from upstairs. The two men immediately smirked at each other, and Luz ran upstairs.

They stopped outside of the door getting ready to knock, when they heard moaning from the other side.

Before Frank could hold George back, he knocked on the door yelling, 

“You two better hurry up before me and Perco eat all the eggs!” It was quiet for a moment before Joe shouted out towards the two men,

“Go ahead! I’m eating something way better!”

IM SO SORRY THIS IS SO LONG! If I missed any TWs lmk and I'll add them!

[theseerasures]

A Theory on the Periodization of Wicked: Part Four

ANOTHER CAVEAT

i have, at time of writing, not yet seen the newest Broadway company of Wicked helmed by Lencia Kebede and Allie Trimm. all my comments below are therefore only applicable to before they took over.

SEPT 2021 (Broadway Reopening) - PRESENT: POST-COVID

i'm just gonna assume i don't need to explain the significance of COVID here. you'd expect such an epochal event--one which uniquely impacted theatre--to offer an incontrovertible date for this period's beginning, but there's actually quite a bit of wiggle room because cast changeover was almost nonexistent between pre- and post-pandemic. the majority of Ginna Claire Mason's tenure on Broadway was pre-shutdown, to say nothing of the entirety of her career as Glinda. this is not true of her final Elphie Lindsay Heather Pearce, so one could argue this period really started on February 2022 when Brittney Johnson took over. but that opens the door too much imo for other later edge cases like Talia Suskauer, Alyssa Fox, Mary Kate Morrissey, and even Brittney herself; she had been IN Wicked since 2018, after all. so fuck it: other actors have left and come back to the show across period shifts before, and i'd never considered them exceptions.

which is probably the most intellectually honest way to think about Wicked coming back: that the entire cast left in March 2020, and (with the exception of Shoba Narayan) all just happened to come back at around the same time in September 2021. because much as the show promised this triumphant constancy--things being as they were--everything was different. returning actors were coming out of lockdown with no idea how to behave and having to do their jobs where they pretend to be other people who also don't know how to behave (but in a cool, scripted way); they were doing this for an audience which had no idea how to behave, and especially had forgotten how to behave in a theater. for Wicked specifically there was the movie, which finally seemed to be happening. the show was already taking flak for stagnation in the previous era, and now changing with the times felt more necessary than ever.

to Wicked's credit, it made some changes. no more direct pipeline from tour to Broadway--or at least a much less predictable one. an influx of Elphabas and Glindas who have never done the role (though never at the same time), and a particularly radical expansion in casting BIPOC and out queer folks as principals. in short order we got Brittney Johnson (first Black principal Glinda), Jordan Barrow (first Black Boq), Kimber Elayne Sprawl (first Black Nessa), Mary Kate Morrissey (first out queer Elphaba), Austen Danielle Bohmer (first out lesbian Glinda), and most recently Lencia Kebede (first Black principal Elphaba) and Jenna Bainbridge (first wheelchair user Nessa). these decisions garnered a great many exultant cries, many of which sounded like "jesus christ how did it take you THIS LONG," but hey! better late than never. incoming cast members both new and old were tacitly encouraged to innovate and really make their mark on these now iconique characters. all of this was clearly meant to foster a new period of flowering creativity for Wicked...

...

yeah, so there's a major issue with this all new all different all transgressive Wicked. in the plainest terms possible: you can't actually make transgression the norm.

from a theoretical standpoint, there has to BE a norm first for it to be transgressed. there's no practical reason to pine for the days when after every Popular every Glinda thought they were going to be fired and National Treasure Eden Espinosa was condemned to the Chateau D'If for doing too zesty a riff during TWAI, but they demonstrate the underlying point here, which is transgression isn't just doing something new. there's a unique thrill to doing something that isn't allowed. (it's a thrill live theatre is very suited to evoke, because live theatre is all about the tension between the rigidity of a scripted narrative and the idea that anything can happen when it's live.) we saw how limitation could shepherd creativity with the previous era's Glindas, who one way or another felt compelled to perform a lot of specific actions but built distinctive identities around those things anyway. a Wicked in which each actor can just perform as the spirit moves them sounds inventive and exciting but would, in actuality, be a hot mess.

it'd be a fun mess to talk about tho! but that's not what we got, because Wicked was obviously NOT going to throw out the entire rulebook when rules were what made it such an August Broadway Institution in the first place. last era it tried to balance Wicked-as-stable-marketable-product and Wicked-as-evolving-art by normalizing some previously transgressive elements. this time they brought in fresh blood, encouraged them to change things, loosened all these silly rules...except they didn't actually do that last part. the Eden Riff in TWAI experienced a few brief years of freedom before being once again outlawed, and the list of items either required or banned hasn't shortened at all. rather than lifting the restrictions, Wicked just moved the furniture a little bit. and while i'm sure there was sincere intent (perhaps even effort) behind encouraging incoming performers to shake things up, encouragement doesn't count for much when it only comes after a three day lecture on the importance of Wicked and preserving the show's legacy.

and the new incoming casts, which on paper feels like the perfect complement for new ideas, only ended up working against the show changing very much. recall that during the newborn stage of Wicked 2.0 just about every Gelphie performing had already done it before, a feat all the more impressive back then because there were FOUR separate Wickeds and the show was less than five years old. there were some (notable) exceptions, but on the whole Wicked 2.0 was helmed onstage by people who knew what had changed, and what could change. this time people were told "do whatever!" when they were still learning the show and its accumulated five billion layers of red tape. and if you're the first of a marginalized community to perform a role...that just compounds the pressure, doesn't it? good job being exemplary and exceptional outside the text! hope you weren't expecting to give solid-but-conventional performances like your more privileged peers tho, because now we're counting on you to change everything (but not too much! just the regulation amount).

it's tempting at this point to attribute Wicked's increasing over-legislation to a really good enemy; like, i wanna say this is all the fault of Joe Mantello or corporate interests or algorithms, except...well, just compare interviews done for the 20th anniversary with similar ones from the 10th. they were alternately cocky and reflective in the latter, but there was a degree of irreverence then that is almost completely absent in the former, which is all about the history and the legacy and the Importance. everyone doing the show nowadays is or has to perform being really REALLY into Wicked, like it's some kind of sacred artifact, and of course that's going to color the production itself. incoming actors might have never performed the role before, but they will have been steeped in The Wicked for decades through cultural osmosis if nothing else. the baggage of Wicked--its impact, its longevity, collective appraisals on what worked and what didn't--will increasingly dwarf the individual people who make the show happen, which means those people will, by and large, grow increasingly self-conscious and conservative in their own contributions to the show.

the Elphabas seem to have adjusted better to these shifts. i instinctively wanna say it's because Elphabas on the whole are coming in with more prior experience, but that would be doing folks like Lindsay Heather Pearce, Lissa deGuzman and Lauren Samuels a disservice. maybe they're more used to it since Broadway Elphabas were already so heavily scrutinized in the previous period, or maybe they're reacting against the indistinct constraint of those predecessors, but each Elphie has been bringing something coherently unique to the role. a Lindsay Elphie is markedly different from a Talia Elphie is markedly different from an Alyssa is markedly different from an MK, etc etc. they're not unaffected by the uptick in bureaucracy and shifting standards--hitting the INTG E3 is? optional now? maybe? and every Fiyero riff is basically the same--but they've been able to finesse compelling acting choices regardless, either within the restrictions or just by being naughty.

with the Glindas...i'm not sure what happened. we had a phenomenal start with Brittney who, by resuscitating some of the character's earlier elements and dynamically adding onto them with her own take, has a strong claim to being the most influential Glinda of this period. all her successors on tour and at the Gershwin, though, seemed to have a tough time carving out their own identity in the role, maybe BECAUSE they get so in their heads about how to make the part "their own." so what we get is this vacillation between being extremely referential and overthinking every possible new idea they have, all the while anxiously anticipating SOME kind of immediate feedback, be it positive (in the form of a pleased audience) or negative (via a slap on the wrist from management or a quiet house). there's very little to these Glindas outside of desperately trying to give people what they want, which a) makes for a very inconsistent character, and b) feels especially at odds with GLINDA, who is supposed to be so charismatic we let her decide what is good and what we want, for us.

nowadays Glinda might as well feel like an entirely separate person in each of her scenes, and at no time in the show does it become more obvious than during Thank Goodness. there was a little of this last period too, with Jenni Barber and Amanda Jane Cooper, but a confounding number of contemporary Glindas have pinned their hopes on Thank Goodness to be the showstopping lynchpin to cohere their characterizations. rationally it makes sense: Glinda has increasingly become a dramatic character and there are more and more Glinda actresses who clearly think Glinda is tragic and so sad u guys, so Thank Goodness gets bumped up in the priority list of things to Get Right. on an emotional level i empathize and i...THINK i respect the hustle? but that doesn't change the fact that Act Two Glinda is and always will be harder to pull off than her Act One counterpart, and focusing on her Saddest Song (tm) at the cost of all else weakens, not strengthens, Act Two Glinda, to say nothing of Glinda and Wicked as a whole. there's no foundation to this very weepy house you're trying to build, so Thank Goodness just becomes another version of Glinda unmoored from everything else.

am i being too harsh? probably! so i'll say on the whole i still enjoy this era of Wicked more than the very early days of the show, in Wicked 1.0. the highs are higher and the lows aren't as low, because the show's identity and the direction of its principal characters don't feel as precarious. and i'll reiterate that i truly do not think there has been some drastic decrease in the talent and care put into Wicked. everyone involved with the show currently is either here for it or VERY good at pretending they are. in a way that's what's so frustrating about this era, and why i decided to do this project in the first place: the academic in me knows expecting perpetual growth and progress is capitalist and heteronormative, but that doesn't stop me from wanting it anyway. i want the Wicked of today to be the gayest best it's ever been, and only getting better, because it's how my brain has been wired, and because precious few other things feel like they're trending in that direction right now. but that's just not how things go, and trapping myself in the same mindset as Wicked's creatives--always demanding instant palpable changes for the better--isn't going to improve either the show or my enjoyment of it.

[splinteredmercies]

hold for trauma

read on ao3 ⋆ masterlist ⋆ navigation

pairing: samira mohan/original female character (eva viteri)

contains: latina original character. home-cooked meals as love language. queerplatonic vibes that might not stay platonic (it won't). no bench scene; this is my sandbox, and i dicate what goes.

word count: 2,156

author's note: almost the same note as ao3 but -- eva has been living in my drafts since february 12. i told myself to wait until the entire season was out, and lo and behold: season one of the pitt is over. / this feels really niche, but i hope some people will see the vision, lol.

After PittFest, Eva takes one look at Dr. Mohan and decides the R3 in a dire need of a home-cooked meal and a place to decompress. It’s no big deal; attendings are supposed to look after residents during perilous times, right?

“Fuck,” Eva hisses, limping into the hospital.

Rolling her ankle while walking to the hospital isn’t what she wanted to happen. Not at all. But her nose was buried in a copy of The September House, and really, what else did she expect?

She limps past Central, aiming for the lockers and staff lounge, and catches Perlah’s attention. “You alright there, Dr. Viteri?”

“Oh, sure. I’m having an amazing morning. Peachy, really.” Eva looks up at the board. It seems the night shift had a rough night. “I guess that won’t last long.”

Still, Perlah lingers, and her eyes pointedly travel down to the leg Eva isn’t holding weight on. Eva smiles and jokingly says, “Don’t walk and read at the same time.”

“Again, Eva?” Dana’s voice comes from behind her, and Eva tilts her head toward the charge nurse.

“Jesus, that was like my first month here, Dana.”

A lingering sense of shame zips down Eva’s spine, and the reminder unwillingly enters her mind. Eva would have been okay with falling, perfectly capable of getting up and brushing off her clothes as if nothing had happened. But Abbot had been the one to haul her off the ground and make her his first patient of the night despite her protests. Eva remembers that she hadn’t even worked a shift with the night staff yet, which is mortifying.

“Did I make that much of an impression on y’all?”

The contraction of “you all” falls from Eva’s tongue, sweet and slow like the honey she religiously swallows every morning. But no one says anything; Eva has been here a year, and most of the staff is accustomed to the way her voice dips into Southern tones with certain words and phrases.

“We called you Dr. Bookworm for the rest of the rotation.”

“You, what?”

Dana laughs and bumps her shoulder to hers. “If it’s any consolation, only Langdon will call you that nowadays.”

Eva’s nose wrinkles. It isn’t a surprise that Langdon still has the gall to do so. “Add him to today’s shit list.”

“It’s not even 7 am yet! You usually wait ‘til noon to add him.” Dana breezes past the point, circling back to Eva’s ankle. “Wanna start with ibuprofen or acetaminophen, hon?”

“Probably ibuprofen. I think I’ll be fine in a couple of hours. It was more a scare than anything else—the kraken is still here?” Dana confirms his presence, still waiting for a bed in psych, and Eva breathes out, “Jesus. Hasn’t it been a week already?”

“Yeah. He’s on Zyprexa. That’ll have him down for a bit.”

“Until all hell breaks loose. And then we’ll have to say our prayers.” Dana and Eva share an amused look, and Eva motions to her backpack with a twirl of her fingers. “I’ll be right back. I packed only one Celsius today! I hope you’re proud of me, Dana.”

“When you’re voluntarily reducing your caffeine consumption? Always!”

Eva restrains herself from turning around and sticking out her tongue. She’s getting far too old for those impulses. Eva drops her things in the lockers and her lunchbag in the staff lounge’s fridge; there’s some masking tape on it, hastily labeled “VITERI” with a marker from her junk drawer.

Eva returns to Central with the aforementioned Celsius in one hand and an oversized water bottle in the other. The bottle bounces loosely across her thigh as she carries it limply while walking.

“No more needles!”

Even with how busy the ER is, the shout echoes, and Eva’s eyes are drawn to the sources. She steps to the side, watching as Princess sprints behind the naked man. Perlah and a security guard quickly follow her. Eva sighs loudly and falls beside Langdon. “It is officially twenty minutes into our shift, and we’ve seen a naked man afraid of needles.”

“We’ve only got twelve hours ahead of us.” Langdon cracks open his Red Bull. “What are your thoughts on dogs?”

“Oh, I am not doing this today, Langdon. You’re already on my shit list. Bother the med students about it.” Eva ignores his astonished “Already?” and watches the board again. “Abbot’s UGI bleed is still waiting on that surgical consult. I’ll see if I can sweet-talk them to come down here sooner rather than later.”

“Better you than me,” Langdon scrolls through something, and his fingers fly over the keyboard. “I don’t know how you get the consults down here so fast. What’s your secret?”

“I pay homage to my ancestors and Mother Earth everyday, asking for abundance and good luck.”

Langdon pauses typing; his eyes narrow at her in confusion. “I thought you were Catholic.”

“I am a woman of many multitudes, Dr. Langdon.” She grabs the phone and dials the surgical department’s extension. “Which is why you should listen to me when I say that your wife doesn’t need another thing to take care of.”

“I’m going to ask Dana—”

“—She will say the same thing!”

Eva and Langdon squabble until Robby arrives with a group of fresh faces. She watches them, cataloging faces and names, as she finally gets a surgical consult to come down for the UGI bleed.

With a rolled ankle and an ensemble of medical students and residents, Eva hopes the shift will be productive, even with Robby’s personal history with this date.

Popping up from her position, Eva does not take any of the new faces to update on the UGI bleed from her successful mission of obtaining the surgical consult. There will be plenty of opportunities for them to learn today, just not at this moment.

She can’t wait to get home and knock out, preferably with Connie around her legs. Eva has never worked a shift of this magnitude before; her legs feel like jelly, even though the pain in her ankle has subsided, and she smells of sweat and antiseptics. Despite wearing her favorite clip, it tugs oddly at her hair, and with her adrenaline wearing off, a headache begins to set in by the time Eva ambles past Mohan.

“Dr. Mohan.” Eva watches as the younger doctor whirls around to look at her. Mohan is on her own special dosage of adrenaline, and Eva barely contains a sigh.

“Dr. Viteri! Where do you need me?”

“I need you to go home, Dr. Mohan, preferably before you keel over.” Mohan opens her mouth to protest, and Eva wonders when Mohan has last ate a full meal. She questions Mohan lightly, “Do you like lasagna?”

“Lasagna?”

“Yeah, like the Italian dish. I left it prepped this morning; all it will need is an hour in the oven.” Eva pauses. Mohan is still wound up, limbs drawn tightly; the R3 almost looks like a scared animal preparing for defense. “I have a cat. He’s an attention whore, if you’re interested in animal-assisted therapy.”

“I—” Mohan’s limbs sag minutely, and her eyes trail over Eva’s face. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t offer it if I weren’t. We should leave before Gloria comes down to yell at Robby about having to pay us overtime.” Mohan laughs hesitantly and seems confused at their interaction. Eva continues, “We’ll eat dinner, and I’ll take you home. You are still taking the bus, right?”

Mohan falters minutely. “You noticed?”

“You’re my resident, Dr. Mohan. What sort of attending would I be if I don’t keep an eye on you all? And I don’t think anyone should be alone after tonight.”

Briefly, the last few hours flash by Eva’s mind. So many people, crying out in pain; Eva has felt their heartbeats in her hand, felt their blood flow through her fingers. She watched how life drained from their eyes, one after the other, and can still feel the way one patient clutched her disposable white gown, begging for someone to call their mother.

Eva hasn’t left the hospital grounds yet, but she knows she will schedule a meeting with her therapist as soon as possible, even if it means paying out of pocket.

“Right…” Mohan observes her; her pretty doe eyes inquisitively travel over Eva’s face. Eva isn’t sure how to categorize Mohan’s reactions and hopes that the younger doctor isn’t taking offense to something.

“I live in Shadyside, though. Are you sure?”

It’s not an immediate “no,” and Eva smiles reassuringly. “I’m sure, Dr. Mohan. I’m going to check on one more thing. Meet me in Central when you’re ready.”

It’s odd to lead Mohan into her home.

Eva doesn’t regret her decision, nor will she, but very few people have seen her home, breathed in the air, and cohabited in the same rooms.

Valeria has been here for a night or two to attend concerts, as some of her favorite artists are seemingly opposed to playing anywhere near their family home. Ava and Logan are familiar with the cozy little corner of her living room through the lenses of Zoom, although they probably know the place just as well because it was their mother’s childhood home.

But they don’t count; Valeria is her youngest sibling, and Ava and Logan have been part of Eva’s life for years since ole’ Professor Nardi took her on as a mentee.

This is entirely different. Mohan is a coworker and her resident, but Mohan also needs a home-cooked meal more than Eva does. She needs comfort, for a willing ear to listen for an hour or two. Eva can practically hear Valeria ranting about “eldest daughter parentification in Latinx families,” but she ignores the thought and helps Mohan hang her bag on the hooks by the door.

Eva serves Mohan a calming blend of chamomile tea and makes small talk while the lasagna is being baked. It’s a lot of superficial talk; the sort of questions and answers they’ve done hundreds of times when the ebb and flow of patients slows down enough to allow it.

“Connie should be around here,” Eva tells Mohan, sliding the honey pot and dipper toward the younger doctor. “He’s a Maine Coon, so he’s very hard to miss when he’s walking around.”

“Maine Coon—aren’t those rare?”

“Yeah, I got lucky finding him—ah, there he is!” Connie emerges from the darkened hallway, and Eva coos and scoops him up in her arms with practiced ease. “Connie, this Dr. Samira Mohan, the smartest doctor we have at the Pitt.”

Mohan smiles at Connie as Eva slides him into her lap, handing her a treat to bribe him to stay. Eva turns away and begins to prepare a quick salad. They are in a quiet and comfortable ambiance until Mohan interrupts with a hesitant question: “You really think I’m the smartest?”

“Of course, I do.” Eva blinks, wondering where this question comes from. Had she not emphasized her admiration for Mohan before? Mohan is silent, and Eva peeks at her through her eyelashes. “Have I not said it before?”

“No—you—” Mohan seems to struggle for a moment, eyes focused on Connie instead of her. “You do in your own way. You don’t really single anyone out. Dr. Collins says you’re too busy trying to be fair with everyone to have a favorite.”

That’s… that’s a funny thought. Eva’s lips quirk and she busies herself with chopping cilantro.

“You know? I got a job after high school, to put myself through undergrad. I worked with a lot of younger girls who were still in high school, and more than once they said I was tough nut to crack.” She drizzles olive oil and lemon juice into the salad bowl, adding salt and freshly cracked pepper to taste. Eva continues speaking, “So, you’re not the first to say that they’re unsure of what I think of them, and you won’t be the last.”

Mohan seems to digest the information, her fingers deftly petting Connie’s forehead. “Dr. Robby told me to be more like you today.”

“He said that? To you? You have nearly perfect patient scores!”

“He was telling me I take too long with patients.” A million things enter Eva’s mind, namely complaints about capitalism and the nature of American healthcare, but she keeps her mouth shut and lets Mohan speak. “Almost everyone calls me Slo-Mo, but you don’t.”

“You never call me Dr. Bookworm,” Eva shoots back, and then sighs quietly. “Names have power, and you don’t seem like the type of person to appreciate a nickname like that. And you’re not slow; you’re careful. That’s not the same thing.”

A beat, and Mohan says, “Thank you.”

They share a smile ladened with mutual understanding.

Eva turns away and begins preparing the kitchen island for their meal. She sets the dinnerware on it, which clinks against the granite. “Since we are breaking bread together, I think you can call me Eva instead of Dr. Viteri. Outside of work, of course.”

“And you can call me Samira.” There’s a small quirk to Samira’s lips now, and she sips her tea carefully. “Outside of work, of course.”