#apropos of nothing at the moment.

[caracello]

oh i meant to say this a while ago but just for the record i'm not comfortable being called 'ceo of [x character]' or talked abt like i'm the only one allowed to like a f/o etc ^^. idc if you use it for yourself of course i just don't really like it used for me.

[sunsetno4]

Dr. Mortum, I love you so much. 😭❤️

[curiousscallop]

!! one of the worst ocd things that i don’t think ive ever seen discussed is how — especially/specifically in relationship ocd (by which I mean any kind of relationship not just romantic) — it makes it borderline impossible to accurately and comfortably identify your needs and boundaries or whatever because it’s so so hard to tell what’s an obsession vs what’s a legitimate issue that you need to stand up for yourself about

[bookshelfdreams]

the thing about night vale that makes it stand out to this day and makes even the old episodes hold up is how unabashedly unashamedly queer it is

and I don't just mean that cecil declare es his undying love for a man he saw once within the first 10 minutes of the entire show. I don't just mean the many, many casually lgbt+ characters

I mean that it's just. So fucking weird.

like the first thing to understand about it is that long-form fiction podcasts like this weren't really a thing before. night vale was foundational to not only it's genre, but it's format. audio dramas weren't dead exactly, but they were going out of style, who listened to the radio for fiction in 2012?

and Fink & Cranor just came along and went fuck you, we're gonna do what we want. we're gonna tell the stories we want to tell how we want to tell them.

there's a giant glow cloud that drops dead animals. DO NOT APPROACH THE DOG PARK.

like. I can't really express it. but from its very first moments it was just so. genuine. like you could really feel that this was written by people just doing whatever they thought would be fun or cool or interesting, who wrote for themselves and didn't really care about reaching an audience.

hey apropos of nothing let's do a psa about what color helicopters are most likely to abduct your children. have you heard about throat spiders?

and it works! too this day it still works because it's fun and scary and heartfelt and weird as all fuck

of course a website full of queer weirdos would fall in love with this

[inkskinned]

when you were younger, you were often told off for being too sensitive. as if you could control it. as if you, taking your own pain seriously, as if that was the problem. it didn't matter that you were being bullied - and it never mattered if the bully was your parent. it just mattered that you reacted to it.

the other day someone asked why you always seem to take things in stride. you don't know how to say - i don't, i am just not allowed to be a human where others could see it happen.

you watch other people have emotions in public and are often stunned by them. you are always walking carefully around your own, knowing that at some point you could slip and start weeping through your sunday evening apropos of nothing. you're not allowed to feel big things. when you feel big things, you're a messy, annoying person. it's ugly when you cry. it's uncomfortable for everyone.

the other day, you were relating another story to your therapist. you paused for a moment and then let out that little bark of laughter - it shouldn't have hurt, but i guess it did!

you promise that you're not upset about it. you're never upset about anything. you just pass through this world - ghostlike. numb. promising others - oh! i've changed a lot since i was a kid.

[ceilidho]

Haha bear shifter price and mating season go brrr. He gets so frustrated and aggressive, lumbering around in bear form to try and get out some of his pent up aggression. But it doesn’t help because he can still smell you, your scent is all over him from when he’d thoroughly fucked you that morning. You’re sleeping and need to rest and it’s the only reason he’s left your side.

He’d get so territorial. Gets into fights with other bears because how dare they even try and go near you 😤😤.

apropos of nothing, i watched a lot of bear fight videos last night because i have a bear hyperfixation (going on like 5 years or smt)

imagine if another shifter was passing through town and happened to smell Price's scent on you and thought that made a viable breeding partner and he came into the store only to stare at you and make creepy, suggestive comments until your manager shooed him off, but then he just waited outside and it scared you so bad that you couldn't think of anything else to do except call price.

even though it's still early on in your relationship (hibernating season isn't for another month or so, he's just been spending a lot of time with you, taking you to diners and cafes and bringing you tupperware filled with stew and casserole) you call him because you're scared but you don't want to make a fuss by calling the police. he sounds calm on the phone, but you clock the way his breathing pattern abruptly changes when you mention a guy staring at you through the window who'd said something crass about you being "fecund" or something like that.

you don't see the moment price pulls into the parking lot, but you hear the commotion and your head whips around just in time to see price dragging the other man into the woods behind the grocers, one big arm wrapped around his neck.

[glorious-spoon]

to loosen his grip [9-1-1 | Buck/Eddie]

~1k words | eddie & tommy; pre-relationship eddie/buck

spec fic for 7x04

-

The thing is, Eddie's not stupid.

Eddie's not stupid, and Buck's about as subtle as a brick to the face on a good day. He can't help it. Everything he's feeling comes spilling out of him; keeping it inside seems as impossible for him as holding the tide back with a leaky sieve. It's not something Eddie relates to that much, honestly. If anything, he's got the opposite problem. He crushes everything he's feeling into a tight little knot and holds onto it with white knuckles until he can't hold on anymore. It lost him Shannon—would have lost him Shannon even if she'd lived—and it nearly lost him both his job and his sanity in the end. He's still learning how to loosen his grip.

Buck still needs to learn how to get a grip, like, at all.

So yeah, Eddie knows. Not right away; he doesn't really think anything of it when he picks Tommy up from the hanger and Buck is there. In the truck, he watches Buck's receding figure in the rearview mirror for a moment before Tommy says, "Not trying to poach Evan from the 118, I promise."

He's laughing about it a little bit. Eddie scoffs and says, "Buck? You'd have to pry him out of that house before he'd go anywhere else."

He doesn't mention the lawsuit. That's water long under the bridge now, and it's not a time in his life he likes to think back on that much. But he knows it's true; Buck can say whatever he wants about keeping his options fluid, but when he finds people and a place he wants to keep, he hangs onto them.

Tommy is good company, anyway. It's something he's missed, since the Army: the easy camaraderie over beers, sitting in a shouting crowd in Vegas, shooting the shit in a bar afterward. Tommy's got a lift, and he brings his abuelo's Chevelle over, and it's an easy slide from that into a half-casual bout of muay thai, and Eddie has missed that, too: sparring just for fun, just for the hell of it, not for the money or because his demons were going to claw themselves out of his chest with bloody nails otherwise.

"See you've caught some lead," Tommy observes once they're done, bruised and a little breathless, shirtless on the bench in his garage. Eddie caps his Gatorade and glances up, and for a second he doesn't even know what Tommy is talking about until he nods at Eddie's right shoulder and asks, "That from overseas?"

Eddie touches the bullet scar, a long-healed dimple by now. It's not that noticeable anymore, at least from the front. The surgical scars from his thoracotomy are still more obvious, but even they've faded.

"Oh, no," he says. "I mean, yeah, I did, but this one was right here in L.A."

"Right, the sniper," Tommy agrees. "Shit. I remember seeing that Captain Nash caught a bullet. Didn't realize you were the other one from his house that got shot."

"Yeah, well." Eddie shrugs, uncapping his Gatorade again. "It was a long time ago."

He likes that, too. Talking about it with someone who never saw the bullet hole, only the scar. Talking about it with someone who's never had his blood in his mouth, who never knelt above him in a speeding truck and begged him to hang on.

He lied to Buck about it, because Buck's so close to it that he might as well have been shot too. It's easier like this, because Tommy isn't wounded by the memory; Tommy shrugs and asks if he wants to grab a pizza after this, and Eddie slings a towel over his shoulder and lets Tommy pull him to his feet, and they have pizza and a couple more beers, and it's easy. He's missed easy. He thinks he deserves to have something easy, for a change.

-

"I mean, I think it's great," Buck says, apropos of pretty much exactly nothing a couple of days later. "You can never have too many friends, you know?"

He's vibrating with that exact same anxious energy that Eddie remembers from his first day at the 118, when Buck seemed one wrong move away from pissing on the exercise equipment or maybe shoving him down the stairs. It awakens some puckish little part of Eddie that can't help but needle him. You're standing in the wrong light, man, as if he's ever in his life had an opinion about photography lighting, but it got Buck to bristle and snap like a wounded dog, all electric fury, and Eddie liked that, too, for reasons that he understands better now than he did back then.

So he shrugs, and he says lightly, "You know, it's like that thing when you meet somebody and you just click. You know what I mean?"

It's a jab, and not a very subtle one. He still remembers standing in the sunlight and listening to Buck tell him that Natalia saw him, after Eddie watched him hang there in the rain and felt his chest unmoving beneath his palms and sat through those endless hours in the fucking hospital waiting for him to wake up. After Eddie brought him home, and listened to his quiet confession in his kitchen, and tried as well as he knew how to hold Buck's still-beating heart gently.

But sure. Natalia saw him. For all of four months, apparently.

He thinks he wants Buck to flinch and snap back, just a little. It's not the place for it—they're in the middle of a goddamn call—but he's stupid about Buck. Always has been.

Buck doesn't flinch. He sags instead, his mouth downturned, and he mutters, "Yeah. Yeah, I really do."

And it's something they should talk about, maybe, but then Ravi calls up for more slack, and there are other things to focus on for the time being.

[enby-peep]

jin ling gets so so tired of the lans sometimes (sizhui likes to coddle him and hes 0.5 seconds from throwing hands with jingyi at any given moment) and when he does he goes to chill with zizhen bc zizhen is in his opinion The Most Normal Friend he has. and zizhens cool with it they mostly just kinda vibe silently but occasionally. occasionally. zizhen will, apropos of nothing, hit him with something like "i used to have a crush on ur uncle." and jin lings like. "what the fuck. which one." zizhens just says "yeah." when jin lings done throwing things at him and things APPEAR to have calmed down zizhen hits him once again with "ok but fr its sect leader jiang. i mean, youve seen his whip. zoo wee mama." and jin ling has a qi deviation

[enderham]

"I dreamt that you died." Aventurine says, apropos of nothing.

Veritas lifts his gaze from the book he'd been reading, across the first class cabin they're sharing, and to his colleague. Nothing in his expression betrays any emotion or thought about the statement he let out into the world, as is customary for the gambler. Veritas takes a moment to study him more thoroughly.

Aventurine isn't looking at him. The chip in his hand is dancing faster than usual, he's wearing his tinted glasses despite there being no need for them on the transport, and his other hand is hidden in his coat. Veritas has learned to look for that left hand whenever he suspects something is amiss with Aventurine.

He considers his next words carefully. "In many cultures across the galaxy, dreaming of someone's death is believed to produce the opposite effect. It is considered a good omen that brings longevity and prosperity."

There's a long moment of silence, then the chip suddenly stops. Aventurine had been looking at him from the corner of his eye, an indicator that he was listening as Veritas spoke, but he looks away again now.

"Not in mine," He says lightly, almost sings it.

It sounds like mockery, like Aventurine's typical attempts to get a rise out of him, like contradiction for the sake of it, but Veritas knows him better than that. The gambler may seem frivolous on the surface but he always speaks with purpose. The trick is figuring out what that purpose is.

Closing his book, Veritas leans forward, almost into Aventurine's space. The other does not lean away, and finally looks him in the eye, but he can see his shoulders are tense. His left hand is still hidden in his coat. Perhaps, instead of a non-sequitor, his opening statement was a damning admission, Veritas thinks.

"We both know this upcoming mission will be dangerous." He says quietly, he doesn't expect Aventurine to interject, but he pauses anyway. True to expectation, Aventurine stays silent, watching him intently. Veritas continues. "However, we also both know that your role in it is much more perilous than mine. I believe you made sure of that yourself, no?"

The gambler still remains uncharacteristically silent. Gauging Veritas' reaction to his grim statements no doubt. Veritas has passed many a test in his university days with little stress, so it is a new feeling to experience, this uncertainty. He feels like there is a right and a wrong thing to say in this situation, yet he does not know exactly what it is.

"It is my opinion that you should be worrying about yourself, gambler, instead of me, but if it eases your mind, I shall promise to stay alert on Penacony. Not that I wouldn't otherwise be, as you should well know by now."

Perhaps he's revealed too much, shown his hand, as the resident gambler would say, but he's found himself much too invested in said gambler's emotional wellbeing as of late, so he doesn't mind. Especially as that wary glint fades just a little from Aventurine's vibrant eyes, and he wrestles his signature grin back onto his face.

"True to form as usual." He teases. "I can always rely on you to bring rationality to the table, Doctor."

[hallahart]

here's 2000 words of self-indulgent solavellan veilguard reunion fic that is wildly noncanonical, apropos of nothing~

-

The Lighthouse, for all its depressing divorcée energy, is gorgeous—lots of magic lights, frescoes and paintings, high ceilings. Definitely nicer than the mud hovel Rook used to sleep in. But one mural (in what Rook is generously calling the living room—it has more of a tomb-like feel at the moment) is particularly eye-catching, seeing as how it’s about a story high: a woman reaching skyward, rising from the jaws of a snapping wolf with some kind of weird green geometric patterns surrounding her. 

“Who’s she?”

Rook doesn’t know Solas well enough to read him—the man is as impenetrable as Nevarran poetry—but they can hear his teeth grind from across the room. For a thousand year old god (or whatever), he sure is touchy.

“Must you pry into every nook and cranny?”

Rook ignores him, peers closer. “Oh, wait, I see it now. Green glowy hand, pointy ears. You know the Inquisitor?”

“I am surprised that Varric—“ he stops himself, starts over. “Yes. I knew her.”

He’s so obviously annoyed and uncomfortable that Rook has no choice but to wiggle their eyebrows. 

“Knew her, knew her?”

“The Inquisitor is of no concern to you.” Most people would probably backpedal when Fen’Harel looks at them like that, but Rook isn’t most people. They never really had a knack for survival instincts.

“Oh wow, you did, didn’t you?” Rook can’t quite imagine the standoffish man in front of them being romantic with anyone. He’s pretty…severe. They’re pretty sure he’s never smiled in their presence. “You know, I’ve never seen her in person, but those recruitment posters they put up back home—was she really so, you know…” Rook mimes some unlikely curves. 

Solas pinches his nose, and Rook is delighted to see a blush spread across his cheeks. “This conversation is over.”

Rook almost takes mercy on him. But apart from the sad silverware situation, this is the first glimpse of Solas they’ve gotten as a person and not some freaky wolf god with great taste in real estate. 

“So did she break up with you before or after she learned you were an evil trickster god?” They wiggle their fingers in mock menace.

Solas’ eyes flash and Rook knows they’ve gone too far. Whoops. Solas can’t kill them, not without possibly frying his own brain (or spirit, or whatever, Rook’s fuzzy on the details), but they’re sure he can make their life pretty damn unpleasant.

But all he does is sigh, the dark circles under his eyes deepening by the second, and holds up a hand. “Let us please focus on stopping the evanuris. Anything else is a…distraction.”

His voice is hoarse, and Rook immediately feels bad. Clearly this wasn't some meaningless fling (the twenty foot mural should have probably clued them in)—Solas is in it. Present tense. The sad empty rooms start to make a whole lot more sense.

You are the loneliest asshole I’ve ever met, they want to say.

“Yeah,” they say instead. “No problem. Plenty else to discuss. Ancient blighted gods freed from their eternal prisons, etcetera. Say no more.”

Rook can’t be certain, but they’re pretty sure the look on Solas’ face is grateful relief. 

What the hell happened between this guy and the Inquisitor that makes thinking about the gods that want him dead a relief?

___

Rook is lying on the couch pining over Taash and her stupid sexy crystal horn when Varric and Solas enter, already deep in furtive conversation.

The polite thing to do would be to let out a discreet cough to announce their presence. Rook burrows deeper into the pillows and holds their breath.

“Absolutely not, Varric,” Solas hisses. Sometimes he reminds Rook of a sad stray cat they used to feed. Very similar auras.

They come to a stop behind Rook’s couch. “Listen. I get it. Trust me. But if there’s anyone who can help us—“

“No. It is simply out of the question.”

“You’re going to have to face her eventually, you know.”

“There is no reason for the Inquisitor to involve herself. These are my mistakes to fix. Not hers.”

Rook can picture the pitying expression on Varric’s face. “Look around, Chuckles. Your Lighthouse isn’t empty anymore. Like it or not, you have to rely on the rest of us. And Ellana is already involved, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“The Inquisitor is not—“

Varric scoffs in exasperation. “Took her arm off and can’t even say her name?”

Took her arm off? Whoa. Rook’s heard rumors, but…

There’s a brief pause. Rook can imagine the seething look Solas is giving Varric—it’s been pointed at them often enough. 

“Perhaps I should find a crossbow to name after her. Would that please you?”

Varric lets out a breath that’s half sigh, half chuckle. “Too soon. Way too soon.” 

Rook’s tried to pry into this whole romantic situation, of course, but Varric always deflects, saying something like Don’t even get me started or You’ll just have to pre-order my next book.

Another silence. Then Solas speaks again, his tone softening. “I have caused her enough grief.”

Varric sounds unmoved. “Yeah, by avoiding her for ten years. Has anyone ever told you that you’re impossible?”

“On occasion, yes.”

“Seriously, if you think she’s going to sit this one out now that she knows you’re here—“

Any gentleness is gone. “Excuse me?”

Varric’s nervous laugh makes Rook cringe deeper into the couch. “Yeah, about that… listen, you know it’s impossible for Sparkler to keep secrets from her. It was going to come out eventually, what with the whole ancient evil gods thing. I think she could put two and two together.”

Rook can practically feel the frost radiating from Solas’ voice. “You will tell her you were mistaken.”

“A little late for that,” Varric says sheepishly. “She’s, uh, arriving tomorrow.”

Rook winces at the slammed door that follows in the wake of this new information, and the movement is enough to give away their hiding spot. 

Varric peers down at them, his eyebrows raised. “You heard all that, huh?”

“Yeah,” Rook says, sitting up. “That was, uh…”

“Tell me about it.”Varric sighs, rubs a hand down his face. “Tomorrow is going to be a shitshow.”

___

Inquisitor Lavellan is very short in person. And she looks almost as tired as Solas. And she’s pretty–dark hair and skin, bright green eyes and a wry set to her mouth that looks out of place on the person who was supposed to be Andraste’s prophet. Rook was expecting someone a lot more dour and…Chantry-y. 

She’s also really obviously out of Fen’Harel’s league. No wonder he’s been pining for a decade.

She shakes their hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Varric,” she says.

“It’s an honor, your Worsh—uh, your Inquisitorial—“

“Ellana is fine,” she says—kindly, but impersonally, and Rook supposes she’s had this same interaction about ten billion times.

“Ellana, then,” Rook says, and she rewards them with a small smile.

“So you’re the one who interrupted the ritual,” she says. “With some rather interesting side effects, I hear.”

“You mean being magically linked to the grumpiest elf in Thedas? Yeah, interesting is one word for it.”

They’re arrested by the Inquisitor’s hand on their arm. “You could have been cruel to him, and few people would have blamed you. I must thank you for that.”

Her eyes are piercingly kind, and Rook suddenly understands how this woman had entire nations bowing to her will. They have no idea what to say, mouth dry.

“Still, I can’t imagine it’s been easy,” she continues, the wry smile back.

Rook shrugs, hoping their blush isn’t as red as it feels. “In terms of difficult personalities, he ranks a little below my Aunt Beryl, though Aunt Beryl couldn’t turn people to stone with—“

Then they spot Solas over the Inquisitor’s shoulder, hovering in the doorway like a ghost. He’s about as white as one, too.

“Inquisitor,” says Solas, his voice so void of emotion that it gapes like an open wound. 

Rook has a front row seat to the expression that plays across Inquisitor Lavellan’s face. Shock — she grabs the shoulder of her missing arm. Then something Rook can’t quite name—a deep well of some dark thing that makes them shiver, something they hope they never have to feel. 

And then her mouth settles into a grim line, eyes closing for a moment before she turns, back ramrod straight.  

“Solas,” she says, voice steady as she releases her shoulder. Solas’ eyes track the movement with his jaw set.

“You look well.”

It’s like he’s commenting on the weather. 

Rook, frankly, wants to throttle him. The woman you’ve painted onto every other surface of your house is right here, you idiot! Say something better than you look well! They try to communicate this through a series of glares, but Solas seems to have forgotten anyone but the Inquisitor exists. Fair enough.

“You look terrible,” she replies, stepping closer. Her voice is thick. Solas takes a step back.

“I think it best if we—“

“Solas,” she says, stepping forward again, and there is nowhere left for him to retreat. She has the Dread Wolf cornered. Slowly, as though taming a wild animal, she raises her hand to him, coming up to touch his face, the line of his jaw. “You’re really here.”

Rook backs away, knowing this is very much not for their eyes and ears, but—well, they’re nosy, and so they pause in the doorway, shamelessly eavesdropping. Luckily the two elves seem to have forgotten Rook’s even there.

Solas exhales roughly at her touch, ten years of tension rushing out of him in a moment. “Inquisitor—Ellana, I—“

“Hush,” she says, and drops her forehead to his.

Solas’ face crumples. “How can you—I do not deserve—” Rook can barely hear him.

“We have plenty to catch up on,” the Inquisitor murmurs, her voice gentle. “But you are alive, and safe. For now that is enough.”

Like a dam breaking, Solas reaches out, his arms wrapping around her like a drowning man, tight as a sieve. Rook is pretty sure he starts to cry, a sob coming from deep in his chest and shaking his entire frame.

Okay. Enough. Rook’s pretty sure Solas would actually murder them if he remembered they were still there. So they make their exit and ease the door closed without a sound.

They’re happy for him, despite everything. And they really hope they don’t fuck on Rook’s favorite couch.

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

mr. clean

pairing: pre-re2 leon x best friend's mom reader

cw: oral sex, older woman/younger man, smut and fluff

summary: the part two to cool mom's countdown! there will likely be a part three as well (bc they're falling in love) but basically, leon just learns to eat pussy in this one lol

a/n: the title is a reference to the yung gravy song of the same name (i couldn't decide which lyric i wanted to make the title, plus leon would never say any of those things he's too sweet)

wc: 1.8k

link to part 1

It was Spring the next time you saw Leon.

You kept your distance when Leon first arrived, only making an appearance to serve snacks to the boys. Your poor planning left you alone that night. You were hoping to get a moment alone with Leon to propose the idea of having more personal time together that night or the next morning. Leon didn’t need to be asked, he snuck downstairs and found you on the back porch, sipping a cup of tea. 

You heard the sliding door squeak and you turned to find a handsome young blond. You tried not to smile too big, fearing you’d develop wrinkles. 

“I couldn’t sleep…” Leon said, stepping out into the cool midnight air.

“Funny,” you said, brushing a hand across his cheek, “you look pretty sleepy to me.”

His eyelids drooped and he looked like he was about to doze off standing up. 

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you remembered that I always have trouble sleeping, so you stayed up to come see me.”

“Maybe…”

“How’d you find me out here?”

“You always come out here. I remember when I was little and I really couldn’t sleep and you let me drink some of your tea.”

“Oh yeah,” you said, recalling the memory, “and you hated it.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you wanna try it now that you’re all grown-up?” you teased. 

“Sure.”

You handed him the mug and he sipped it. He paused, waited for the aftertaste, and then shook his head.

“Still don’t like it, huh?”

“No, but, uh, thank you for letting me try it again…” He handed it back to you, daintily despite his large hands. 

“I’m assuming you didn’t come out here to ask for a sip of my tea,” you say. 

“No, ma’am,” he said, scratching the back of his head nervously, “I guess I just like being around you.”

“Well, thank you, honey,” you said, rubbing his shoulder. You had the comforting touch of a mother, you could coax him into meeting your eyes without a single word spoken. 

He hadn’t changed too much - same baby blue eyes, same bashful smile. You wondered if anything about him had changed - a girlfriend? Were you still the only woman lucky enough to get your hands on him? The subject naturally came up during your conversation.  

“Are there girls at the academy?” you asked him. 

“Not like you.”

“What am I like?” You were giggling like a teenager, struck by Cupid’s arrow for the first time. 

“Beautiful.” There was a certain weight to it. It wasn’t ‘you’re so sexy’ like men your age would drunkenly slur out, begging you to come home with them. Leon was sober, untainted by alcohol, heartache, or even time. The moonlight reflected on his face, making him look angelic. Rightfully so

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, apropos of nothing, and yet, expected all the same. 

You hummed an affirmative as you leaned in and pressed your lips against Leon’s. His lips were pillowy soft and you couldn’t help but imagine what else he could do with them. It didn’t go further than kissing that night. You pulled back, smiled at him and said, “Why don’t you stay a little while tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You made breakfast for the boys and sent your son off to baseball practice.

“Do you want a ride home, Leon?” he called on his way out. 

“No,” you stepped in, giving him the alibi, “He’s going to help me with some housework… since I don’t get any help from you.” Yeah, the accusation, that got him to leave swiftly. Couldn’t get him to do the dishes if his life depended on it. 

From behind you, Leon asked, “What kind of housework are we doing?” 

You laughed, “None, baby, not unless you really want to. I was planning on doing something a little more fun.”

“Oh, sure, yeah, I’m fine with whatever you want.” Always so eager to please, Leon probably would have done chores for you if you’d asked him. You weren’t one to take advantage of such a sweet boy, though. 

“How about you come upstairs with me?” You stretched out your hand for him to take, and you led him to your bedroom. 

You immediately reclined on the bed while Leon lingered in the doorway, unsure of what to do. 

“Come sit down,” you said, patting the spot next to you. 

When he climbed into your bed, he sat close to you, his sweatpants against your bare thigh. “Leon?” you said softly. 

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever gone down on a girl?”

“No, not yet.”

“Would you like to?”

“If you’ll teach me how.”

“Of course. It’s not hard.”

His eyes lit up at the idea of you teaching him. You figured he might be the type of guy who’d be into that sort of thing. A mama’s boy, a teacher’s pet.

“What do I do first?”

“We should probably start by just kissing before we get to that.”

“Oh yeah, I can do that.”

His kisses began soft and slow, you had to coax him into deeper, tongue-filled kisses, but he was a fast learner. You felt his breath quicken and his dick getting hard against your leg as you continued kissing him. 

“Can I see you?” He asked, tugging at the hem of your shirt. 

“Yeah. In fact, it was getting a little hot in here.” You winked and removed your shirt. 

He marveled at your breasts which were still concealed by your bra. You wore a pretty lace one for him, and the discomfort was well worth it to see his eyes widen with desire. 

“Think you can handle taking it off?” You asked. It took an experienced man to take off a bra, so you didn’t expect much from Leon. Just trying was enough. 

“I’ll try my best.”

“Good.”

You played with his hair and watched the redness rise in his cheeks. He fumbled with the clasp with shaky hands. Clearly he didn’t have much experience. It took him a moment, but he was successful.

“I’m proud of you, honey.” Your words were genuine, he could hear it in your voice, and it made his heart flutter. 

“Thank you,” he said, his pitch faltering. 

Most men who entered your bedroom did so at night, usually a bit drunk, none of them bothering to turn on the lights. The light illuminating your body was an unavoidable one. You had Leon in the morning, and he made you feel okay with the idea of being seen - his adoration for you made you shy. To be loved is to be known, to be known is to be seen in the daylight.

His fingers trembled when he unbuttoned your jeans, but he managed to get the zipper down. His appetite was his only helper, he yearned for something he’d never had the fortune of tasting.

“Just do what feels right. As long as you don’t bite, I’m sure you’ll do great.”

He gulped and nodded, sliding your panties down. They matched your bra. You dressed up all sexy for him, though he would’ve happily taken you without all the frills. Maybe that’s why you put more effort into your appearance when you were with him. To match his utter devotion (you would only ever feel half the admiration he would for you). He revered you as a goddess. 

 You noticed his hesitation. “Start by touching it. I won’t ask you to use your mouth until you’re sure you’re ready.”

He placed his hands on your inner thighs and you helped him by spreading them for him. “Don’t be nervous, honey,” you said, running your hands through his hair.  

“Wanna make you feel good,” he said. 

“You will. I already feel good just being around you.” Yeah, it’s cheesy, but it got a smile out of him. 

He started by rubbing his fingers along your folds gently. He noticed the way your breath hitched when his fingertips brushed your clit. 

“Does it feel good when I do this?” He wasn’t even trying to talk dirty. His utter sincerity made his words even hotter.

“Yes, baby,” you said, breathier now, “It feels so good when you touch me there.”

He started to rub circles over your clit now that you’d told him where it was. “Can I use my mouth now?” 

“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.”

Leon began with little kitten licks and then began to run his tongue along your lower lips, which were all puffy and wet, (they had been before he’d touched you). 

“Did I make you wet?”

“Mhm, it’s all you.”

The encouragement had him diving back in, lapping at your folds. He wasn’t skilled by any means, but his enthusiasm made up for his lack of experience. When you pulled his hair, you felt the movements of his tongue increase in speed and he pressed his face further into you. There was an insatiable desire inside him, an addiction that began the moment he first tasted you. 

“You can put your fingers in me, too, if you want,” you suggested.

“Just one?” he asked, inserting his middle finger, which made you moan. “Or two?” He didn’t wait for your answer before he inserted his index finger and watched your reaction. 

“Yes,” you said, “Two, baby, feels so good.” As he pumped them in and out, his tongue returned to your pussy. He looked up at you with his baby blue eyes. “Curl your fingers up,” you said, showing him with your own hand. He did as you asked and you moaned loudly. 

He studied you, and managed to figure out where you liked his mouth best - your clit, obviously. 

“Leon,” you said, breathing heavily, “you can suck on it, too, just lightly-” you had something else to say, but it didn’t matter because he started to suck on your clit and you were cut off by your own moan. 

Your legs were trembling at this point. “Oh my god, Leon, keep doing that.” You hooked your legs around him and ran your fingers through his hair. “You’re gonna make me cum.” 

Upon hearing that, he moaned into your core. It sent you over the edge. You nearly suffocated him with your thighs when you came. You felt bad for pulling his hair, but he loved it. If you hadn’t been completely taken by your own orgasm, you would’ve noticed. He was brave enough to tell you the next time you saw him. Arousal gave him a certain bravado. 

After you finished, he said, “Did I do okay?”

You laughed. “Yes, you did great. I thought that was obvious.”

You offered to help him out, to return the favor. But, sheepishly, he revealed that he didn’t need any help from you. You could see the wet spot on his underwear. You didn’t realize he was rutting against the mattress the whole time. 

“You had a lot of fun, huh?”

“Yeah.” His voice wavered when he spoke.

You stifled the laugh that threatened to escape your mouth. 

“Does this mean we have to be done?” he asked sheepishly. 

“Think you’ve got another round in you?”

He nodded and climbed on top of you, ready to kiss you with your slick still on his lips. 

“Already?” you said when you noticed he was already hard again. 

“Yeah,” he said with a light laugh. You could see embarrassment shift to pride when he saw how pleased you were to see that he was ready to go again almost immediately.

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

Part 1 | . . . | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Just then Eddie walks in, raising his brows at the veritable mountain of food Steve and Eleven are putting together. “What’s all this?”

Steve smiles warmly at him. “Hey, Eds,” he says, which is certainly an experience. He’s spoken roughly twice with the guy—in his memory—but Steve’s three chapters—nay, three books ahead. Eddie is Frodo, about to embark on his first journey, and Steve is Bilbo, or even Gandalf: someone who’s done this all before, whose eyes carry the weight of worlds.

Speaking of, Steve’s eyes dim slightly the longer Eddie takes to answer, so he waves his fingers at Steve, trying to ignore the swoop in his stomach when Steve’s smile brightens again. “So… what’s this?”

“Dinner,” Eleven answers. “We are making sandwiches.”

Eddie nods, because sure. Why not. “Okay.”

“How’s the song coming?” Steve asks, and the swoop returns, because not only is Steve asking, but he’s asking about Metallica, and Eddie’s gay, metal little heart can’t take it.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, grinning. “It’s so good, oh my god. I mean, it’s gonna take a bit to learn, but it’s gonna be the most metal solo I’ve ever done.”

Steve’s smile dims again. Probably because he’s remembering what happened last time, i.e., Eddie’s death. Eddie pushes down the queasy feeling.

“Eddie,” Eleven says.

“Yeah?”

She turns to face him. Her eyes are more serious than any twelve-year-old’s eyes have any right to be. “You will be okay,” she says. Then, apropos of nothing, “And I can move things with my mind.”

Eddie blinks at that. Apparently his face is doing something, because Steve chimes in. “She can.”

“I can show you,” she volunteers.

“Anything but the utensils,” Steve says in a distracted voice, like this isn’t the first time he’s had this conversation. Eddie wants to laugh hysterically, or maybe cry. Smoking a joint seems like the best third option, except all his stuff is at home. Fuck.

Then she does, lifts a whole cutting board—complete with tomatoes— and moves it over to him. He resists the impulse to snatch a piece and eat it. He doesn’t even like tomatoes, what the fuck, brain.

Steve’s watching with an amused little smile, like he can somehow read Eddie’s mind. That legitimately wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to happen today, so Eddie does his best to stop thinking about it, because he doesn’t think he can deal with more than one real-life superpower right now.

“I need that back, El,” Steve murmurs, and she grins at him before zipping it back over, stopping it just before it hits his face. He nods, brows raised, impressed. “Nice control. Put it down and go wipe your nose, please.”

She does, Steve watching her as she goes, fond little grin on his face. “She’s a good kid.”

“She can move things with her mind.”

“Yeah. Honestly, that’s one of the easier things to get used to. Y’know one of the craziest things, to me?”

“Do I want to know?” Eddie asks hesitantly.

Steve just grins at him. “Jonathan Byers has this baseball bat that he sticks a bunch of nails in.”

Eddie blinks at him. “What the actual fuck.”

Steve nods. “I took it, sometime back during the first year. Actually,” he thinks about it, “what month are we in?”

“Um. October.”

Steve winces. “Great. October…”

“Um. Twenty-fourth.”

Steve hums and thinks. “In about… less than a week, actually, I think—I don’t really know, the concussion messed up my days—oh, hey!” He suddenly says excitedly, then raises his voice. “Rob!”

Robin pops her head in a moment later. “What’s up?”

He grins at her. “No concussions!”

She stares. Slowly, a grin spreads across her face. “Holy shit!” She says. “No concussions!”

“No memory loss!”

“No hearing loss!”

“No eyesight problems!”

She freezes. “Steve. You were having vision issues?”

“Um. Not anymore?”

She groans. “Since when?”

“Um…” he thinks, tilting his head toward the ceiling. “Billy, I think. At least that’s the first time I really noticed it.”

She sighs. “I’m going to murder you.”

“Are not.”

“In cold blood.”

“Are not.”

“Nancy’ll help.”

Steve considers this. “She might. She’d be good at it.”

They both pause for a moment, then Robin turns to leave. “I’m gonna go make sure Jon doesn’t give you a concussion this time.”

“Have him make the nail bat, too!” Steve calls as she leaves.

“What,” Eddie says desperately, “the fuck.”

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[mediocretosubpar-soup]

so postcanon, hua cheng ascends as god of true love. xie lian is delighted. hua cheng is like mehh been there done that except danxia is so genuinely happy for him that he ought to do this right. how hard can it be, the cult can't be all that big. cue hua cheng opens his new palace door and immediately is buried beneath prayer scrolls. it's a lot but hua cheng is no pushover. unfortunately, most of the the gods don't share xie lian's enthusiasm and do their best to stonewall him. sure, xie lian, mu qing and fengxin (the latter two with lots of schadenfreude) would help but hua cheng will die again before he admits, he needs help especially not from mu qing or feng xin. he could make he xuan help but just imagining that asshole's smug, judging face gives hua cheng hives. so it's prayers in heaven, prayers in ghost city, prayers at home. whereever hua cheng he is answering at least six prayers at the same time.

until one day, hua cheng is toiling away at his prayers at the xie lian's temple, while xie lian's gone out and shi qingxuan arrives. moments later, one of ling wen's gormless middle officials shows up to heave more prayers onto hua cheng. the poor sod dumps them all over the temple, it's total chaos. hua cheng is ready to tear their head off. shi qingxuan steps between them, refers by the middle official by name, assures hua cheng that they didn't mean it and they'll sort the prayers for him. the middle official tries to abscond but shi qingxuan baits them with a conversation. after they're done and the middle official has left. hua cheng tells shi qingxuan that the official is going to tell everyone who wants to hear about the miserable life of the formerly, mighty wind master. shi qingxuan is like maybe so but all of this is sorted now. then he gives hua cheng three names of middle officials and what they can be bribed with and explains ling wen's filing system. hua cheng thinks to himself that shi qingxuan really knows what they're talking about. answering prayers is much easier. he's still thinking about it when he xuan visits and he is struggling again. so apropos of nothing, he asks he xuan whether he got any plans for the former wind master and he xuan says something like i don't care what they do with their life. hua cheng kind of asks, so if some god asked him to become their official you wouldn't care? he xuan thinking that no god will do that, says no idgaf. hua cheng is like ok.

and then he asks/coerces (begs) shi qingxuan to become his middle official because shi qingxuan is really good at that.

he xuan lied, btw, he doesn't have zero feelings about that.

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

Apropos of absolutely nothing, this Elrond snippet from when Aragorn is reunited with Arwen is one of my favorite (and in my opinion most underrated) tiny little acting moments in the whole LOTR trilogy:

It’s literally just a handful of frames and yet he manages to pack into those frames a whole visual representation of Elrond’s entire ages-long emotional life—of being the guy who constantly accepts the heartbreak of being left behind because the ones he loves need to be true to themselves and make the choices they feel compelled to make. His dad, his mom, his twin brother, his wife, his daughter (possibly in the future, depending on your thoughts, his twin sons)….it’s all there on his face with that tiny little resigned sigh just before the loving smile. You can absolutely feel him choke down the fear, the concern, the loneliness, the “why is this happening to me AGAIN!?”, because they exist right alongside legitimate happiness to see her do what she wanted and needed to do.

It gets me every time!

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 ao3

Dustin gives Eddie ownership of the walkie. At some point, an agreement must have been made for Lucas and Max to stop talking on their channel, but Eddie isn’t aware of any such conversation having taken place. It feels like he has tunnel vision, the whole world narrowing down to the room, to the bed in the centre of it. To Steve. 

He changes frequencies constantly on the walkie, gritting his teeth against the static. Steve’s voice never comes through again, and his face is back to being eerily still, no expression. Blank. It’s an unwelcome reminder of Dustin’s past words: He looks... gone. 

Dustin leaves him alone late afternoon, saying he’ll ask Nancy to get in touch with Mike again, get an update on whoever this El is, her whereabouts. Eddie nods distractedly as he goes. 

He tries to keep playing the song, but the harshness of the static sets him on edge. His fingers can only push weakly against the guitar strings, the shittiest attempt at a chord position that he’s ever seen; and soon his hands are shaking too badly to even press the button on the casette player. Fucking pathetic. 

All at once, the static disappears. Eddie looks up at the absence of it, to find that Robin has turned the walkie off. 

She stares at him.

“What?” Eddie says, voice hoarse.

She doesn’t reply. Instead, she kneels down in front of him, a mirror image of Dustin. Painstakingly slow, she reaches out with one hand, as if expecting him to flinch; and Eddie thinks of himself in the boathouse, clutching onto that damned glass bottle like a lifeline, how he felt one touch away from losing it completely. 

This time, he’s able to catch his breath. Holds it. Breathes out. When Robin begins to uncurl his fingers from the neck of the guitar, he lets her without resistance. Then she carefully takes the full weight of the guitar from him, sets it aside.

“Look,” she says and nods at the heart monitor. Eddie follows her direction. He watches for a moment, then closes his eyes, listens to the slow, steady record of Steve’s pulse; and his breathing gradually follows the rhythm of each heartbeat. 

When he opens his eyes, Robin is smiling at him. 

“He’s still there,” she says. “He’s not gonna disappear if you take a break.”

A part of him wants to argue, wants to grab the guitar back and scream at her, no matter how cruel that might be. Chrissy, Patrick, Steve—they all died right in front of me, and I did nothing. Now I’ve got the chance to do something, save someone, and I can’t because, what, I’m fucking tired? I need to get a grip. But a larger part of him knows that he’s useless to Steve like this.

So he blows out a long, slow breath. Raises his eyes to the ceiling. Gives a tiny, reluctant nod.

Robin pulls up a chair next to him in response, then says, apropos of nothing, “I haven’t filled you in on the full Starcourt Experience.” 

Eddie tears his gaze away from Steve to blink at her in confusion. “Uh, no? Pretty sure you have, Buckley.”

She’d told Eddie about her summer at the mall while they were all travelling to the War Zone, a jaw-dropping tale that had Eddie looking around at the crew anew, with a far from infrequent thought: Oh, great, I’m the only normal one here.

Robin shifts so that she’s sitting side-on, leans back and hooks her feet over Eddie’s knees. There’s something both casual and sincere in the gesture, like they’ve been friends for years; Eddie doesn’t know if he’s worthy of it, yet Robin keeps smiling like he is. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you the really important stuff,” she says, tilting her head forward like they’re gossiping in class.

And… she talks. 

She talks and talks and talks, gesturing wildly with her hands, and gives Eddie a rundown of what can only be described as ‘Steve’s greatest hits at Scoops Ahoy.’

There’s the time when, near delirious after a long weekend shift, Steve had started singing along to Material Girl as it blared over the mall speakers—and, when Robin made a show of announcing her presence, sure that he’d stop and pretend it never happened, he’d just kept going, adding stupid choreography as he mopped. 

All the times when he would give customers the bitchiest dead-eyed stare if they tried to enter the store before it had opened; when Robin would have to duck into the back so no-one saw her laughing.

Robin barely pauses to draw breath, so that the countless stories crowd Eddie’s head, leaving, for once, little room for worrying; and she must see that something within him has settled, if only for now, because she doesn’t stop him when he eventually picks up the guitar again. 

He doesn’t sing, just plays the melody as Robin keeps talking. She paints such a vivid picture that Eddie doesn’t want to interrupt, almost feels like he can see the ice-cream parlour despite never having set foot inside it—this unexpected haven within a neon monstrosity. Sees Robin catching Steve singing, sees her dubiousness melt away as he dances, using the mop as a prop. 

Eddie keeps strumming as Robin goes on, laughing quietly as she mimes Steve’s idiosyncrasies: running his fingers through his hair, how he’d open the drawer of money at the register with a little drumbeat, the secret eye roll he’d give Robin before having to serve someone particularly difficult.

One such anecdote is being shared, where the punchline is Steve finally snapping that, “This is Scoops Ahoy, ma’am, we can’t work miracles,” and both Robin and Eddie are giggling, despite—or perhaps because of everything; and Eddie looks up at just the right moment, because he—he sees—

Steve’s finger twitching.

It’s the first sign of life in hours.

Robin beams, gingerly prods the finger back. “’Bout time you showed up, dingus.”

Eddie feels a sudden sting in his eyes. He has to bite his lip to keep it together, to move on to the chorus without stopping.

Still, something must show on his face, because when Robin glances at him, she says, “Oh, Eddie,” with a gentle kindness he can’t help but feel he doesn’t deserve. But you’ve known him longer. I’ve got no right to…

When the song is over, Robin carefully pries the guitar from him again, and somewhere along the way, Eddie finds that they’re holding hands. They don’t let go for a long time.

-

Eddie tries to return the walkie to Dustin, but he doesn’t tune back in to his usual channel, doesn’t even turn it on. Instead he takes the seat that had been Robin’s, tilts his head back, eyes ever so slightly unfocused. Eddie recognises the look from Hellfire, whenever Dustin needed to think deeply about his character’s next move—and it feels like such a strange thing to remember now, as if from another world entirely. Eddie supposes that’s true.

“I’m still mad at you,” Dustin says suddenly. 

Eddie nods, half to himself—Dustin looks away. Guilt sits sour in his stomach; the sound of Dustin’s desperate screams as he drove away has never once left him.

“That’s… that’s fair,” he says, quiet. He moves forward a little in his seat, knocking his foot gently against Dustin’s. “I’m… shit, Dustin, I know I keep saying it, but I’m so sorry.” 

It still feels like it’s useless to say, but it’s honest, at least. There are a number of times where Wayne has decided to shield him from certain things over the years; and though Eddie had understood why, that had never stopped him from feeling bitter about it. Cheated.

“I’m mad at both of you,” Dustin clarifies. His eyes dart over to Steve then away again, as if he’s already beating himself up for even thinking it. He pushes back against Eddie’s foot until the sole of his sneaker is pressing against Eddie’s, then draws his own foot back, as if suddenly out of energy.

When Dustin finally looks at him, Eddie offers an apologetic smile. “He…” He glances over at Steve before meeting Dustin’s gaze again. “He made me promise,” he says weakly.

Dustin sighs; it’s resigned, world-weary. “Yeah, I figured.” When he speaks again, his voice sounds strained, rising almost like he’s asking a question. “I think I knew? Like, before all of…” This time, he knocks Eddie’s foot first. “It’s not exactly… he has a sorta… track record, I mean.” 

Eddie sighs, too. “Yeah man, I figured,” he echoes. 

“He made everything… God, I don’t know. He made it,” and Dustin gestures vaguely with his hands, “he made it easy. Easy to, like, laugh about or… Not forget the danger, that’s… I just… It was weird, after the mall, the rest of the summer…” 

Dustin trails off again, and Eddie tries to fill in the blanks as best he can. 

“We didn’t really talk about it,” Dustin continues. “He came to pick me up from Mike’s one day, and his face was still, uh, not great, but he just made this super corny joke about—ugh, I can’t even remember but, Eddie, it was so embarrassing, I know that for sure—”

But the wobble in Dustin’s voice tells a different story. 

“And he… he was singing along to the radio, and I—I just thought that I didn’t want him to—to save us, or be badass or cool or whatever the fuck he’s still hung up about from high school, I just—wanted him to be there.”

I know, Eddie thinks, because he does; because it’s so clear now, how much of a big deal Steve is to Dustin, and Eddie kind of wants to smack his past self who sneered when Steve graduated and he didn’t, and thought bet King Steve still thinks he’s hot shit. 

He reaches forward and squeezes Dustin’s knee. “We’ll get him back.” 

Dustin nods and scrubs briefly at his eyes. “I think I thought I could stop it,” he says. “If I just—if I stayed with…”

Eddie shakes his head. “He wouldn’t have let you,” he finds himself saying again. It’s obvious that Steve would have rather died than let anything happen to Dustin. Eddie can hardly fault him for that.  

“Yeah,” Dustin says, and he laughs a little. He sounds tired. “I know.” 

-

It’s about 9pm when Dustin says it, watching from the window for a sight of his mom’s car turning into the hospital parking lot. “Um, Eddie? I need you to just—check I’m not hallucinating or something.”

Eddie’s heart skips a beat. “What?”

“Shit.” Dustin waves his arms frantically, shaking his head. “Not like that! Just—” He taps at the window. “This guy looked really like Hopper.” 

Like, died in the ‘mall fire’ Chief Hopper? Eddie thinks, still not quite recovered from the scare. He goes to the window, follows the direction in which Dustin is pointing. “What the fuck.”

-

The girl looks about Dustin’s age. Her hair is cut very short, and when they are left alone in Steve’s hospital room, she looks at Eddie intensely. 

“You are Eddie Munson,” she says with a calming certainty.

Eddie nods, but he thinks he would have gone along with it no matter what she had said; she could have told him he was Jack the Ripper reincarnated with the same confidence and he would’ve said, Well, shit, if you say so.

“My name is El,” she adds simply. “I’m here to help.” 

Eddie stares at her. Some of Steve’s words come back to him, when he was eating fucking cereal and trying to pretend like he had even a bit of control over whatever his life even was now. 

“What, like a superhero?”

And the kid beams. “Exactly.”

-

Dustin has left Eddie the walkie again, and El turns it on so the static is loud. 

“You think you can… find him?” Eddie says.

“Yes,” El says. Again, it sounds like it’s a breeze the way she says it, like it’s nothing. “Henry is dead. I tried to…” She bites her lip; it’s only now that she appears to falter. “ I tried to bring Steve back but I—I’m sorry. I was… tired.”

Eddie privately thinks she’s gone to the Steve Harrington School of Downplaying.

“Jesus, his pulse,” he whispers. “That was you?”

El nods. “I tried to—it was all I could—”

“Fucking Christ—sorry,” Eddie says, bites back more curses, more prayers. “Thank you.”

She smiles—and God, she’s just a girl, Eddie thinks, why was this—why was any of it—thrust upon her?

El places a scarf over her eyes like a blindfold without explanation. The static from the radio gets even louder.

And they wait.

“He’s not in The Upside Down,” El says. “It’s like…” She stretches out both arms, lays one hand flat. Then, she puts her other hand slightly underneath the first. “The Upside Down is the floor. We’re here.” She wiggles the fingers of the highest hand. “And Steve is here.” She wiggles the hand that’s slightly below the other. “He’s stuck.” El’s nose scrunches. “Like going halfway through a Gate.”

Eddie plays My Little Town via the tape while they keep waiting. The song competes with the noise from the walkie.

The Gate comparison leads to El telling him that The Upside Down is slowly becoming sealed off from Hawkins after Henry’s death. Eddie thinks of Wayne seemingly not noticing the gaping split in the world at the trailer, thinks suddenly of an English class, of ‘Not with a bang but a whimper,’—and wonders if that is how the world is saved, too.  

Then El stiffens. “Steve?”

Eddie holds his breath. An explosion of static, but it somehow, just for a second, sounds joyful.

El smiles. “Hi. I’m okay. Are you…?”

She goes quiet for a long moment. Her smile fades, but Eddie is relieved to find not a trace of fear on her face.

“He says that he’s… sorry,” she says slowly. “For being… slow?”

“Oh my god, Steve, shut the fuck up with your fucking apologies,” Eddie says without thinking.

El giggles. “I don’t think I should tell him that.” There’s a pause, and she giggles again. “He says that he can guess what you said.”

The tape has moved on to the next song, so Eddie hurriedly makes to wind it back. El stops him.

“Steve says that this is better,” she says. She briefly mimes strumming a guitar. “He can tell that it’s you. It makes a… clearer path for him to follow.”

In his haste to play the guitar, Eddie fumbles the opening notes completely; he swears that he can hear the static shift into something that resembles a far-off laugh.

-

“He’s saying sorry again,” El says, once Eddie has finished singing. “He’s tired.”

“That’s…” Eddie swallows. “Tell him that’s okay. Please.”

She does. Then she asks for the time.

Eddie glances at the clock on the wall. “Nearly ten.” 

“Steve’s asking if you can try again,” El says, “in an hour.” 

“Yeah, ’course I will,” Eddie says, and his heart twists a bit at the thought that Steve must have phrased it like a question rather than a certainty.

“Goodbye, Steve,” El says softly. “You’re almost home.”

As she removes the scarf, Eddie is alarmed to discover that her nose is bleeding.

“Shit, kid, you okay? Should I call for—?”

But she shakes her head. “It just happens, it’s all right.” She rubs at her temples for a bit, and says, “Sorry, I had to stop. I was getting tired, too.”

“You’re good, just—take it easy,” Eddie insists, still watching with concern as she wipes her nose with her scarf.

“I’m really okay,” El says. “Compared to everything else, finding Steve was…” She pauses, then enunciates carefully: “Easy as shit.”

She says it like she’s only ever heard it in a movie, like she’s trying it on for size.

Eddie decides right then and there that he adores her.

-

“I like your hair,” El says suddenly. Eddie had got her a drink from the vending machine, worried that she’d keel over or something as soon as he looked away. “It’s very pretty.”

Eddie smiles. “Thanks.”

“My hair used to be long.” There’s a melancholy tinge to her words that has Eddie listening intently. “I think longer than yours? But I don’t know.” And she grins, small but genuine. “Maybe I would have won.”

“This took me years,” Eddie says and he goes ham on the delivery to make her laugh, tosses back his head dramatically. “I bet you could beat me again, in a few months.”

El beams. Then she pauses, grows serious. “I recognised you,” she says slowly, “from Steve’s… when he was running. He had to—to hide in memories, and—”

“Hey, hey, stop,” Eddie says quickly, but he keeps his voice gentle. Because no matter how much he’s burning to know, he can only think of what he’d want if the situation were reversed and…

“That’s in Steve’s head, okay? That… that should be just for him.”

El nods with a heaviness that suggests she more than understands.

-

Eddie is pushing his luck, he knows it. It’s already past 11, and he’s sung through the song twice, with hardly a break; this time there was minimal change on Steve’s heart monitor.

Now he’s playing the guitar as quietly as possible to avoid reproach.

“Hey, Harrington,” he says mid-strum, makes his voice go low and teasing like they’re still at school together, like they’ve just caught each other’s eyes in the cafeteria. “Wanna know a secret?”

For a moment, he tries to imagine Steve smirking back, rolling his eyes maybe… but then he realises that he doesn’t know how Steve would react, not really. He didn’t even get the chance to process Steve’s response to “Harrington’s got her, dontcha big boy?”—a stupid aside, but at the time he couldn’t help himself; he felt giddy, still almost certain that they were careening towards disaster, but that they might as well have some fun along the way.

I want more time. I want to know you more, Steve Harrington.

“I saw you once, after Hellfire,” Eddie murmurs. “Never said. I was in my van. You were picking up Henderson, and…” He sighs, leans closer, watches the rise and fall of Steve’s chest. “I was waiting for it, you know? Waiting for you to roll your eyes and act all put upon. I’ve seen what it’s like when folks are… tolerated, right?” He goes quiet for a few bars of music, thoughtful. “But that never happened. Couldn’t hear whatever the hell it was you were saying, but Henderson was talking your ear off and you were smiling, and—Christ, man, all I could think was he must really love this kid.” Eddie laughs in self-deprecation. “Didn’t really know what to do with it, honestly. Kinda pretended to forget about it. Didn’t want the fucking ‘Munson Doctrine’ to be bullshit just yet, I guess.”

He finishes the song without saying anything more; his hand falls on the bed and he stifles a yawn, then starts when he feels…

Steve’s finger tapping on the back of his hand. Slow, deliberate. Almost as if he’d be drumming his fingers if he could. Eddie searches, but Steve’s face is placid.

“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, huh, Harrington?”

He doesn’t want to pull away from Steve’s touch, so he puts the guitar down and sings without it. Keeps his voice quiet but steady. Just for Steve.

And just as he reaches, “In my little town, I never meant nothing, I was just my father’s son,” he hears it.

Steve’s heart rate is picking up.

“Oh, God,” Eddie says, torn between gripping Steve’s hand and calling for help. “Steve, it’s okay, you’re—”

And then he stops.

Because Steve’s eyes are opening, fatigued but lucid; and Eddie can catch a tiny smile beneath his mask.

And Eddie feels Steve’s finger move, tracing a pattern across his palm. He laughs through an abrupt sob when he realises what it is.

Letters.

Hi.