#brief moments of period typical homophobia

[asvterias]

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣: 𝖧𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖣𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇

the cast // series masterlist

chap. 1 || chap. 2 || chap. 3 || chap. 4

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Canon-Divergence, Targ!Cest, Implied Mentions of Same-Sex Romantic Relationships, Flirty Undertones, Some Slight Foreshadowing & Typical-Period Homophobia

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Teen!Rhaenyra Targaryen ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader, Teen!Alicent Hightower ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader, (Brief) Platonic!Ser Harrold Westerling ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader ✘ Teen!Rhaenyra Targaryen, Platonic!Queen Aemma ✘ Fem!Velaryon!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Dragonrides across King’s Landing is enjoyable as one might think, especially when The Realm’s Delight urges her Lady Y/N to tag along. The female Targaryen royals; Princess Rhaneyra and Queen Aemma seem to admire a certain Velaryon girl, wishing to seek comfort and reassurance for very different reasons.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.6k+

𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭: @username23345 @fae-the-wanderer @hippivanhan34 @harjasblog @feyresqueen @ithemaduh @poopietomuch @starless-nightz @yelenaslyubov @chittakii @laiahernandeeezzz @flowerluzx

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: Okay, my first chapter is done, tell me how you like it so far! Sorry for the delay, I was putting some finishing touches. If you wanna be tagged in this book, comment below and say ‘future tag’! Also go check out my tiktok page @/localgirlie, where I post videos relating to this fanfic!

🌊 ✘ 🔥

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣

𝖲𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖮𝗇𝖾: 𝖤𝗉𝗂𝗌𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝖮𝗇𝖾

𝟏𝟏𝟏 𝐀𝐂

𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨’𝘴 𝘓𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨

••••

Lady Y/N of House Velaryon and Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, close cousins, and dear best friends, constantly updating each other about their lives. They’d known each other since the many years of childhood and had always been close.

Due to the close friendship between your mothers and political matters between your fathers, your handmaiden always packed an overnight bag whenever your parents decided to visit The Red Keep.

It was a splendid day to ride your dragon, Silverwing, out in the fresh air above the city skies. Simply for the fun, certainly not to convince your dear cousin Rhaenyra to finish her joyride and return to her princess duties.

Were you filled with outright urgency to have her back on the ground? Nope.

Regardless of your numerous attempts, it would have all been worth futile. Rhaenyra didn’t have a care in the world, sparing no expense to those around her. She lived in the moment alone, not doubting what could have been.

Not only was The Small Council hosting a discussion at this very moment but you were late. It would be noticeable the two teenage girls’ absences from the men’s council, wasting no chance to nitpick on the delay. Certainly not to your faces, they’ll be chastising the princess and her dearest Lady to the King himself. No one dared to defile Princess Rhaenyra or Lady Y/N, for the consequences were always quite fatal.

To secretly scrutinize the dragons was one thing but to blatantly insult the dragons was another danger in itself. Best to keep your humble opinion lingering around in your mind if you are smart enough to do so.

So, no you weren’t hurriedly urging the princess to return back to The Red Keep, for the sake of your status. Or the higher sake of hers as a Targaryen princess.

Instead, you allow her to enjoy herself, she requires a breather, and time to develop the recurring sense of another sibling being born. The Royal Targaryen family of three all had anticipated another child as Rhaenyra preferred a baby sister yet held no indifference to the unborn child’s gender.

Soaring and flying through the calm winds, you breathed in the fresh air, enjoying the nostalgic feeling. Going on dragonback was your favorite pastime alongside Rhaenyra, it was no secret nor have you considered it as such.

Allowing the wind to pass through your silver hair as Silverwing released occasional roars, whizzing above the commoners who stopped to glance. No view from below could compare to the ones over the clouds. Every dragonride spent with Silverwing further proved that the beast was displayed in complete adoration whenever you visited her.

You reminded her of her former rider, your great-grandmother Queen Alysanne, whereas she claimed you as her next rider.

The sight was for sore eyes, two female dragons and their female riders, content with each other’s company.

While Syrax was a carefree dragon, Silverwing was quick-witted with her movements. The mother-daughter dragon pair loved their time spent together, often skimming through the high skies and feasting on their well-prepared livestock.

You laughed, pulling onto the reins to control Silverwing’s sharp dodges made against Syrax.

“Would you slow down? It’s not a competition!” You laughed, the grip on your reins firm.

“It is to me!” She shouts back, turning around to face you, her silver hair flowing in the thick wind. You fought back an urge to roll your eyes as Rhaenyra smiled at your acceptance of her unsuspecting victory.

“We should head back to King’s Landing. Isn’t Alicent waiting for us?” You yelled over the sharp gusting winds.

“Yes, she is,”

Once the four of you landed safely on the broken terrace landscape of Dragonpit, you unbuckled your saddle from your waist. You quickly dismounted Silverwing, sliding down from her beautiful wings. As your shoes hit the dirty ground, you run your fingers against her rough scaly skin, gently tracing across it. Silverwing craned her head downward, giving more access to her vulnerable state, cooing as she blinked at you. She purred, shaking her head as you moved to pet her snout.

“My beautiful girl, Silverwing,” You kissed her nose, giggling when she nudged you backward in response. It was a soft shove, barely sending you a few inches away before you immediately embraced her again. She hummed, exhaling roughly, her hot breath radiating onto you.

“Should we leave you two alone?” Rhaenyra teases, sneaking up behind you.

Your interactions were different each time, but so unique in a way. In a way that only you and Rhaneyra could fully comprehend.

In truth, your relationship with the princess was complicated to say the least, typically swerving the line between platonic and romantic love. The Targaryen Princess always held a large role in your heart, but as your age and body progressed, so did your feelings toward her.

But still, you couldn’t openly express your affection for the silver-haired girl, reminded of the period you lived in. Where such love was forbidden and shunned, no one openly hated it but whispering around surely backfired. Then with the consistent whispers follows the judgement alongside the shushed snide remarks. Refusing to condemn yourself to a judgmental life, but once again, you weren’t living based on other’s opinions.

Most of the people who were most likely to talk about you were ranked as handmaidens and other ladies of the court, none of whom had a higher power.

None of those other highborn names were equal to both of your family names. The other common houses owned some land and livestock, but never true power. The real fiery power that House Targaryen solely possessed allied with the blinding sea salt of House Velaryon. Great Valryian houses came with many demands, and luckily you were a combined product of both.

Not when you were a bold Targaryen woman, who reclaimed one of the most notorious dragons.

Therefore, nobody divulged their inquiries about the closeness between the Princess and Lady.

Now, onto Rhaenyra…how could you describe her?

She was truly beyond any simple words to describe her fiery spirit, a true Targaryen woman embodiment, making her even more desirable. Even though she fully understood how her presence affected others, beaming in delight, she’d allow them to swoon over her. Her regal posture and swaying saunter, matched with the stunning outfits she modeled around the castle grounds.

A true princess, indeed.

“Very funny,” You plastered on a fake smile, squinting your eyes.

Silverwing tilted her head at Rhaenyra, almost teasing her to come any closer to you. It wasn’t threatening in any way, just a warm invitation to the reluctant princess. The mother-daughter dragon let out a synchronized shrill of laughter.

Syrax coddled into Rhaenyra’s touch, purring gently, luring the girl into her grasp. The she-dragon had roughly nudged her head against Rhaenyra’s body, basically thrusting her closer toward you, only further signifying true love surrounding the two girls.

Unknowingly to you, the few rushed padded footsteps behind weren’t an over-confident Rhaenyra. Surprisingly, it was a rather shocked and embarrassed princess.

You turned around to be met with an embarrassed Rhaenyra, who tried to keep her cool, failing miserably with each passing second. Her actions made your heart swell in her fondness, eyes twinkling in admiration as she stammered on her forthcoming words.

Making it easier for her, sparing some time to process her thoughts thoroughly. You piped up, tone playfully intriguing.

“Are you embarrassed or flustered, my princess? Or perhaps, both?”

Oh, curse all of Seven Hells! And that switch of sudden formalities sent her brain into overdrive. Yes, everyone else called her princess formally, so it was casual to hear frequently.

But this was coming from you. My princess. She was your princess. You spoke with a clear mixture of elegance and teasing when using formalities on her. It was getting hard for Rhaneyra to control her urges, especially with all these potential witnesses, disguised as workers for the castle. She couldn’t allow you to face dire consequences just for her lack of self-control. Besides, if she truly had the opportunity alone with you, confessions out in the open, this encounter would be very different. All alone in her chambers, with no disturbances, creating an intensified atmosphere, and intimate actions were taken.

During all of your time spent with the princess, she’d never expressed a nerve-wracking emotion such as embarrassment. Even if she hides her embarrassment, your annoying inkling detected it.

It has been a thorn lodged into her side for as long as she knew you. She had hoped that intuition would diminish for your time spent apart. But, sadly, it didn’t, only to flourish and become a source of irritation for the princess.

“Quite frankly, I’m unsure myself.” Rhaenyra maintained a timid voice, struggling to keep eye contact.

You hummed, unconvinced by her staggered voice, supposedly telling the entire truth. “If you say so, princess.”

While Rhaenyra denied your assumptions, Silverwing wasn’t so easily gullible.

However, the older dragon knew the true tension between her rider and the Targaryen princess was more than platonic. Not that the two teenage girls didn’t have anyone else fooled by their closeness. Others had keen eyes, their suspicions being proved right but didn’t dare speak up. Unless they wanted to be met with the terrifying fate of an open dragon’s mouth and the horrid spewing fire following after.

If given the chance, Rhaenyra would protect you, from bold smallfolk stating such accusatory titles unfit for a young princess having close relations with another female, more necessary what meets the eye. The young Targaryen princess would even go against her father’s strict orders, acting out if it regarded you.

How could she not? Especially when you meant so much to her.

Other than that, Rhaenyra would portray the bold daughter of Queen Aemma and King Viserys, the dutiful princess of the smallfolk, and more importantly, The Realm’s Delight, granted by all of the kingdoms to speak upon.

To fall prey to a man’s heart was deemed normal, an acceptance into society. Many people would congratulate the newlywed couple, praying blessings on future children and a great household. God forbid if a woman falls in love with another woman, then it’s considered improper, disgusting behavior.

But being a royal means your love and desire is not your own, but simply a piece of a board game called ‘The Targaryen Dynasty’. Most of the time, it’s unfair, depending on the compatibility of the betrothed or the dedication to developing a certain arrangement that pleases both spouses.

Being a Targaryen meant valuing your duty more than anything. Many gain the demanded power, the dragon blood coursing through their veins, and the ability to claim a worthy dragon.

Targaryens never made their living peaceful, well…some of them thrived on wars rather than peace. Even for one of the greatest houses, nothing else can create its downfall other than House Targaryen itself. Their dangerous dragons were a vital and powerful force. After all, it’s the very symbol used to describe Targaryens and their ascension to royalty.

Death. Dragons. Destruction. That’s all most people think about upon hearing the sacred name of ‘Targaryen’ whispering among many lips.

Is it better to be feared than adored? Would you gain support from genuine love or unwavering fear?

Eventually, Rhaenyra broke out of her trance, embarrassment tinting her cheeks once again.

“Did I break you?” You asked meekly, reaching out a hand for comfort. Stopped yourself halfway, unsure if Rhaenyra would accept it, and retracted your hand. Removing your black leather gloves and anxiously smoothing out your all-black rider’s outfit.

Confusion was laced on her face, eyebrows creased, “What? What do you mean?”

“You’ve never spoken with such shyness, you’re always bold and honest. Embarrassment is not also a common feature of yours.”

“I’ve never seen someone so smitten with their dragon,” Changing the subject was Rhaenyra’s best ideal option at the moment.

What else would she do? Further, embarrass herself in front of you? Gods, no, she had a reputation to uphold, not to wither away by your mere easygoing presence and gentle words. No matter how much of a cocky temptress you proved to be.

She stood a few feet behind you, weary of the older dragon’s sharp gaze. It was obvious Rhaenyra was embarrassed by her sudden fear of your dragon when she had been nothing more than kind to Silverwing.

After all, Silverwing was the most docile creature in the entirety of King’s Landing, maybe in all of the Seven Kingdoms. It made no sense why Silverwing immediately became annoyed by Rhaenyra’s presence.

Very anxiously, Rhaenyra waited for an answer, her body becoming tense and rigid, hoping you’d go along with it.

“Good news, now you have.” You retorted with a huff, oblivious to the obvious relieved look passing onto Rhaenyra’s face.

“Should you call Silverwing your beautiful girl, it’s a little too endearing for a dragon, is it not?”

The princess slowly stepped forward, losing her temporary fear of Silverwing, approaching you.

“Would you prefer I call you, my beautiful girl, princess?” You teased, maintaining her gaze while giving your dragon one last pet on her snout as she softly shook her head at the gentle touch. The Velaryon girl turned to her lovely dragon with a raised brow, “I think she would rather, Silverwing.”

Much to Rhaenyra’s dismay and slight surprise, the dragon nodded at your statement, glancing at the princess. Silverwing slowly opened her mouth, baring her many rows of teeth, displaying a similar action to a small taunting smile aimed at your dear cousin.

Only an amused chuckle left your mouth at Rhaenyra’s bewilderment. It was not often witnessing Rhaenyra being rendered speechless, only fueling your teasing.

“You’re not disagreeing, my princess. If there’s something you wish to inform me on, now’s the time for it.”

“No! I- I never said that, you implied that!” She argued, stammering over her own words, allowing the embarrassment to soak into her features. Any attempt of feigning indifference was now diminished, your cousin was aware.

Not that she’d like to admit, your simple words or gestures made her flustered. She felt absolutely embarrassed to be this flustered over a measly few phrases and bypassing touches.

Raising an eyebrow in confidence, you continued, “I wouldn’t be against it at all. For once in your life, you have to plead a little for good measure.” You grinned, “Would the Princess be considerate to begging for her own sake?”

In an instant, Rhaenyra blushed, an obvious shade of crimson red decorated her cheeks, and an overwhelming smile crept on her face. She tried to suppress it by straightening her relaxed composure or darting her eyes elsewhere.

No matter how she reacted, it was no use at all. You caught onto her movements quicker than anyone else could. Weirdly enough, Rhaenyra liked how easily you have her figured out every time without even trying.

Rhaenyra removed her gloves, giddy to focus on another task than maintaining your intense concentration. As small as it was, she was internally grateful for the little distraction. It was helping her cheeks to return to their normal skin tone, all porcelain with the distinctive Targaryen facial features.

“We should go, you’re delaying us even further.”

“Whose fault is that in the first place? It’s definitely not mine.”

She scoffed, ignoring your statement, retreating to the carriage. Of course, you were right, but the princess always had to have the last word. You knew it and she knew it. It was one of her many admirable traits you loved about your cousin, her unwillingness to back down from an argument even if she’s in the wrong.

“Welcome back, Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Y/N,” Ser Harrold greets, prompted high on his horse, “I trust your rides were pleasant,”

“Try not to look too relieved, ser.”

“I am relieved,” He admitted, “Every time that golden beast brings you back unspoiled. It saves my head from a spike,”

“You mustn’t worry too much about the princess, Ser. She can handle herself.” You replied with a fond smile.

“As can you, Lady Y/N.” He gave you a firm head nod.

Deciding to skip ahead of you, Rhaenyra approached your other friend, Lady Alicent, who was standing by the carriage. You chuckled at her flustered state, catching up to your cousin. Smiling ahead at Alicent, propped on the little carriage steps.

“How were the dragonrides?” Was the first thing to leave Alicent’s mouth with a shy soft smile.

Her eyes squinted in confusion, scanning Rhaenyra’s flushed cheeks, red as ever, making it very hard to ignore. The auburn girl leans closer to the princess, further analyzing the red tint of blush, and whispers to her. “What’s wrong with your face?” Her whisper was low, almost inaudible. So low, that you were unable to hear, despite you straining your ears to intently listen. Alicent was a soft-spoken girl so her voice volume was always at a minimum, having the ultimate advantage of blocking out gossipers.

“I’m fine,” Rhaenyra mumbled, swatting her friend’s hand away, shifting her attention elsewhere. Just avoid making eye contact with you. Everywhere but your piercing gaze that can immediately unravel her true feelings.

Alicent nodded, brushing over her flustered state, deeming it to the weather. The heat from the sun surely brought the redness to her cheeks, nothing else. Alicent had so naively claimed and stuck with it.

“Syrax is growing quickly,” Alicent commented, glancing at the golden dragon, who was intently watching the trio of girls interact. Silverwing has already been guided by the dragonkeepers into the dragon pit. Once you dismount her, Silverwing will disappear, your presence no longer beside her.

“She’ll soon be as large as Caraxes,”

Rhaenyra cleared her throat, the shy timidness in her voice replaced by her regular brazen tone.

“That’s almost large enough to saddle two,” Rhaenyra suggests, implying a future new rider for Syrax; Alicent, if she’s willing to experience the terrifying thrill.

“I believe I’m quite content as a spectator, thank you.” Alicent lifted the bottom of her dress, turned around, and entered the carriage. “For the both of you two, yes Syrax and Silverwing are beautiful, but I will not fly on their backs. I very much prefer to remain on ground level at all times.”

You nudged Rhaenyra’s shoulder, sending her a sly smile, venturing upon the little carriage steps. As expected, the princess kept her intense gaze trained on you, never diverging or faltering, not once.

To her, you were a stunning young woman. You flawlessly completed all the qualifications of marriage into a royal family.

If she were a man, her courtship would already pass, the wedding festivities between you two joyous as ever and the consummation would be passionate and meaningful.

If she were a man, she could do as she pleased, roam around the city whenever. Everything would be at her disposal and would receive little to no consequence. A life without consequences seemed entertaining enough.

But she was not a man. She couldn’t pursue an open romantic relationship with you. She could never court you nor she shouldn’t dream of marrying you. You are both women and couldn’t be thriving wives in a loving marriage.

Your movements halted midway onto the carriage steps, pausing and turning around at the other silver-haired girl.

“Are you to stare at me all day, my princess? If you find me breathtaking, there’s no shame in saying it.” You taunted her, your skirt slightly swaying in the wind.

The familiar flush on her cheeks returned, causing it to be more noticeable, realizing her gaze set upon you was longer than necessary.

Or maybe she was just confused. Did she really like you or were you just a mere distraction? Only until her Uncle Daemon’s sudden secret visits made an expectation.

“What controls your mind with such deep thoughts, princess?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“Your eyes fog over when you highly adore the thoughts running wild in your mind. Surely, it is of much importance.”

“How do you know that?”

“Your mimics?”

“Yes exactly,”

“Years of practice, your attitude stayed intact but your body language seems to defer from you. It’s very detectable when your mood changes.”

“Don’t you have nothing better to do with your time and energy?”

“I would if a certain princess should lessen her time spent with me. Now, I call that being observant.”

“That’s not what I call it.”

“What do you call it then?”

“You’ll never know anytime soon, will you?”

“For now. Your needs and inquiries are often fulfilled by me.”

“When you speak in that manner, you speak as if we’re romantically involved.”

“Should they not be? Who knows what will happen in the future?”

Your tone was insinuating, letting on more than Rhaenyra desperately needed to know. Her heart sped up and the blood coursing through her veins began to heat up.

Why must you be relentless when teasing her?

She swears your intentions are purely cruel when regarding her. Yet, she doesn’t demand answers from you, unless she’s truly too inquisitive.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Y/N.” Her statement was meant to be brazenly sharp, but the delivery was timidly startled. The purpose of her intended delivery and actual response didn’t seem to be conceded correctly. She muttered, cursing in High Valryian at her stupidity.

“My tongue has a mind of its own, princess. I hope you haven’t forgotten that.”

“Don’t apologize, I find it quite endearing hearing your thoughts out loud.”

“Perhaps if you like listening to my thoughts, I have something more intriguing to share.”

“Tell me, as your princess I command.”

“Okay, princess.” You huffed, a small grin gracing your face, taking a seat in the carriage. “We’re already late to the King’s council and we both smell of dragonback because someone wanted to go on a joyride.”

She groaned, walking up the small steps and into the carriage, sliding beside Alicent. The Velaryon girl was sitting across from her, merely an arm’s length away.

“And someone else agreed to accompany them on that joyride,” A footman closed the carriage door behind Rhaenyra.

“If I didn’t, you’d force me to go.”

With the horses’ hooves clicking against the dirty ground, the carriage started its journey back to King’s Landing.

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Rhaenyra clicked her tongue, tilting her head slightly. You shake your head, chewing on your bottom lip, holding Rhaenyra’s gaze. Her gaze shifted to the auburn girl, gulping down any growing desire, ridding her mind of impure thoughts while clearing her throat. “Tell us Alicent, why do you refuse to go on a dragon ride?”

“Alicent is too afraid of heights…it’s a common fear, one that I had developed not long ago,”

“See you understand, Y/N. I don’t see why Rhaenyra can’t do the same,”

“If you’re not up for the challenge, Alicent, just say so.” Rhaenyra smirked, “There’s no use beating around the bush.”

“You’re quite difficult at times, princess, are you aware of that?”

“You never make me forget so I’m obligated to prove it even more,”

“Oh, the Realm’s Delight at her finest moments,” You chuckled, glimpsing at your well-trimmed nails.

“Aren’t all my moments my finest ones, Y/N?”

“Maybe so,”

The carriage ride to The Red Keep was relatively a long one, but a relaxing one at that. While you kept your gaze out the carriage window, unknowingly Rhaenyra had her eyes intently focused on you, studying each facial feature perfectly.

The princess thought she was smart, thinking you were unaware of her lovesick staring but you were highly aware. You fought back a wicked grin, a hand resting underneath your chin as the silence overtook the carriage. It was best to not confess that the princess was admiring you, not so subtly either since Alicent caught on to Rhaenyra’s longing gaze. Her eyes followed Rhaenyra’s own, brows furrowed in confusion as she observed the silent connection.

So much palpable tension wafting in a royal carriage, yet so few words were exchanged.

But there was a certain glint in Rhaenyra’s eyes that exceeded beyond a platonic relationship. It was almost as if she was yearning for your touch, craving to hear those teasing remarks and desperate for even the slightest bit of attention. Safe to say, Rhaenyra, herself, didn’t understand these new feelings sparking within. Of course, this certain feeling wasn’t unfamiliar to the princess whatsoever, but a recurring one.

Unsure of these newfound recurring feelings for the Velaryon girl, she loomed her heart in denial, obtaining a different interest. Her uncle Daemon was another pursuit she often indulged herself in.

Did she harbor romantic affection for her Uncle Daemon? Or did she share them with her beloved cousin, Y/N?

••••

Now inside the castle gates, the trio of girls kept their arms looped together, the Velaryon teenager in the middle, giggling as you sullied the halls.

You rounded up the stairs, venturing closer to Queen Aemma’s birthing chambers. Finally entering the room, filled with busy maids scurrying around, continuing their daily tasks, attending to the Queen.

“Oh, Rhaenyra,” Queen Aemma rejoiced, fanning herself to keep cool. It was a hot strenuous morning, dousing everyone in sweat.“You know I don’t like you to go flying when I’m in this condition.”

“You don’t like me to go flying while you’re in any condition,”

“Your grace,” Alicent acknowledged her friend’s mother with a small smile.

“Good morrow, Lady Y/N and Lady Alicent,”

“Good morrow, Queen Aemma,”

“Believe me, Queen Aemma, I tried to stop her, but she’s stubborn.”

“She joined me, Mother,” Rhaenyra interjects with an eye roll, taking a seat before her exhausted mother.

“Only because she forced me!”

“False accusations. Is there anyone to vouch for your claims?” She asks, sharing a skeptical glance with the other highborn women, none objecting.

A sense of pride overtakes the princess’s facial features, ignoring the pointed gaze sent her way from you.

The Targaryen princess smiles in gaining another victory, “My point stands corrected,”

“Your point stands unfair.”

“Same thing.”

“No, but I’m one of the only people you’ll listen to.”

“That’s not a privilege most people can claim for, especially from a princess. You should be honored, tasked with such a great deal,” Rhaneyra firmly nods.

“Honoured, perhaps. Dealing with you frequently is a bigger burden than anyone else can handle,”

“Oh, so I’m a burden now?” The Princess raises her eyebrows.

“Don’t let it get to your head, my princess.”

You chuckled, venturing closer to the Targaryen women, settling right beside Rhaenyra.

“I’d like to believe that you’re in way over your head,” She turned her head slightly, eyes trained on your small movements.

“Believe what you must, my princess. You’ll still love me regardless.”

“Yes, I always will,” She mumbles to herself, glancing down at her lap before lifting her head.

“Did you sleep, your grace?” You asked the Queen.

“I slept.”

“How long?” Rhaenyra interrogates her mother.

“I don’t need mothering, Rhaenyra.”

“Well, here you are, surrounded by attendants all focused on the babe. Someone has to attend to you.”

At her daughter’s statement, The Queen remains silent, almost contemplating how to further proceed with the conversation.

She hits her foot on Rhaenyra’s dress, “You will lie in this bed, soon enough Rhaenyra. This discomfort is how we serve the realm.”

“Do you agree, Y/N? That women should be made to squeeze out children and nothing more?”

“Leave me out of this, she’s your mother and I’m not going against your mother. You’re on your own.”

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes at you, refocusing her gaze onto her mother.

How convenient must you be when siding with her mother instead of her?

“I’d rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory.”

The Queen laughs at her daughter’s comment, finding amusement in her words.

“We have royal wombs, you and I. The childbed is our battlefield. We must learn to face it with a stiff lip.” The older Targaryen woman solemnly informs, both tone and expression filled with sorrow.

For a moment, Rhaenyra wondered about her future as a grown woman. Marriage and children ultimately occur later, mindlessly staring out at the window. She spares a glance your way, dread filling her mind with the mere thought of you being married off to a dense lord and swollen with his heirs. The thought creeping into her mind caused a grimace to appear on her face.

Not only would you forget about her, you’ll be leaving her in these castle walls. The very castle that you both grew up in. Many memories wandered passed these castle corridors, some rare ones too. By Rhaenyra’s remembrance, you lived in the Red Keep longer than Driftmark with your family.

All she wanted was for you, her and Alicent to remain unmarried and childless.

Is that so much to ask for? Apparently in this society, where men ruled the world, unfortunately, it was too much to ask for.

For once, women couldn’t be bound to marriage and be viewed as an incubator for their husbands. Taught to raise their children and care for the household. Knowledge was limited to women and men made sure of it. Only the Septas and highborn women gained the luxury of knowledge and owning a dozen historian books.

You sent your friend a tight-lipped smile, strumming your fingers against the fabric of the chair, watching as her attention redirected back to her mother.

“Now take a bath, you stink of dragon.” The Queen shoots you a teasing grin, “The both of you,”

“Together, your grace?” You jested, raising an eyebrow, moving closer to your cousin. That little gasp coming out of Rhaenyra’s mouth went by unheard. “I’m sure Rhaenyra would love that, wouldn’t you?” Your eyes met hers, enjoying the dilation in her brown eyes expanding to the very core.

“Hmmm….I reckon so. Would you like that, dear daughter?” Queen Aemma joined in on the teasing of her only daughter.

“Doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Yet you’re still dodging the question.” Your tongue clicked against your mouth at her reluctance to admit the plain truth.

The silver-haired princess chuckles, standing up from the small chair, ready to take her leave with Alicent.

“Will I get an answer or not?”

“Leave you guessing, that’s my way of things.”

“You’re a minx, princess.”

“Careful of the words you speak, I could have your tongue cut off for that.”

“You could but you wouldn’t.” You stepped forward, slow but subtle pace.

“Are you so sure?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You must think highly of yourself.”

“When a princess is righteously spoiling me, what mindset must I inherit?”

“An indifferent one.”

“So if I did that, you’d go overboard with the luxurious gifts, yes?”

“Things would take a different approach, I agree.”

“If anything, this is your doing, princess.”

“Is that so?”

You hummed in agreement, relishing your little banter. So ever as the innocent bystander, Alicent smiled at the interaction, and Rhaenyra tilted her head, brown eyes twinkling with fondness.

“I should have you know–“

“Stay behind Y/N, I seek your kind words.” Queen Aemma interrupts her daughter’s statement, knowing that conversation sparked much undeniable tension and Rhaenyra had little restraint.

The silver-haired princess, already standing, complied with her mother’s wishes, approaching the Hightower girl.

“Very well, I’ll talk to Alicent in the meantime,” Your cousin loops her arms around your friend and they leave the chambers.

“So, how the pregnancy’s treating you, your grace?” You seated yourself in the latter chair.

“To put it into short words, not very good. I fear I may not survive this one.”

“Oh well…” You frowned, glancing at her swollen belly. Queen Aemma was frightened, for herself and the developing babe. Your observations are keen and clever, nothing can get past you so there was no sense of hiding it. Evidently, her movements were just as predicted, her tense posture rolling on her emotions, her forehead creased heavily in frustration and her hand softly clutching her swollen belly.

After Rhaenyra, all of the Queen’s pregnancies were taken by baby boys and it was stressful, to say the least. According to Queen Aemma, the birthing pains were devastating but the grieving pains were far more excruciating.

You hoped to never experience the pain that The Queen succumbed to as Rhaneyra secretly made a vow to never produce heirs, for her own safety.

Sadly, none of the babes survived the birth or even endured the 9-month term as required. For a while, Queen Aemma gave up on birthing her husband any more children, for the sake of her health and well-being. Yet, she still attempted again and again, risking her health, bound by her marital duty, to fulfill the King’s need for a son, a male heir. Rhaenyra witnessed the toll it took on her weary mother, exhausted and desperate to provide a son for The Seven Kingdoms but her efforts were all in vain.

Seeing The Queen’s hopeful spirit vanish with each passing baby was too unbearable to watch.

Of course, this only further increased your worries, despite you not trying to show it, but the entire ordeal was beyond any control.

“Doubt is a common thing, but we shouldn’t let it cloud our perspective. We should have hope, maybe the gods might bless us and finally give the King a son, so you can stop suffering from pregnancies. I don’t even want to think, the outcome if we were to lose you, the effect it’d have on Rhaenyra….”

“My dear, you shan’t worry about the possibilities, it’s not your concern,” She places a hand on top of yours, squeezing the soft flesh. “And there’s something else you should know…”

“What is it, your grace? Shall I fetch for a chambermaid?”

“No, no, I’m fine, leave the chambermaids to their duties.”

“Then, what else might you inquire, your grace?”

“You never fall short of telling me the truth,”

“Of course,”

“So tell me the whole of it.”

“Your grace, please don’t mistake me as a deceitful girl. I’m nothing of the sort.” You reassured the older woman.

She nodded, appreciating your kind reassurance to ease any impending doubts lingering in her mind.

“If you harbor romantic feelings for my daughter in any way, you have my full blessing,”

“Excuse me, my queen?”

“Y/N rest assured I hold no ill feelings towards you nor is this an attempt of mockery,”

“You’re giving me a blessing over something that hasn’t come to pass yet?”

“Only time will tell,”

“So you’re hoping that me and Rhaenyra share affection for each other?“

“It may be now or years from now. All I know is that your relationship with Rhaenyra goes way beyond platonic.”

“What you’re implying is far-fetched, your grace.”

Somehow, you refused to believe her words, choosing to keep your hopes at a bare minimum. It was the best default option for you. As a result of either decision that occurs, you will remain neutral and hold no resentment towards Rhaenyra, your friendship overruling unrequited love. You intend to move past the eventual rejection or surprising acceptance, your heart lies in Rhaenyra’s words.

“Is it? I doubt that. I’ve seen the way my daughter looks at you, simply as you hold the moon and stars for her. As if only the two of you exist in this world and your bond is unbreakable. The love you share for one another is unconditional in so many ways.”

“My queen, since when are you so poetic with words? If I didn’t know any better, you sound more invested in this relationship than me.”

“I’m only invested because I know it’s true.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Instead of replying to your statement, she changes the entire conversation.

“Run along, now, Rhaenyra needs her partner in crime, and Alicent shouldn’t be led astray because of the princess.”

“Your grace, are you purposely dodging my question?”

She tutted you, shaking her head, “No I’m not, just delaying it, there’s a difference.”

“You amuse me, my queen.”

“Where do you think Rhaneyra got her humor from? Certainly not from her father.”

“Well wishes on your pregnancy, your grace. I truly hope the labors and recovery goes smoothly.”

“You’re not the only one.” She chuckles, dismissing you with the shoo of her hand. “Stop fretting about me and go find Rhaenyra. God knows, what will happen without you in her presence.”

“Plenty of mischief rooted from boredom, and ultimately more added stress to The King.”

“Go find her before she does.”

“So, I’m the princess’s protector, now?”

“Much more to her.”

“You have no regard for the peering ears or eyes, your grace? The maids or guards might overhear us and start rumors.”

“What will they do? They have no real power or authority to stand on because they all rely on the mere gossip of others, especially a royal family at that.”

“I see where Rhaneyra gets her resilience from, no doubt about it.”

“Hush now, I’m the Queen, they know to keep quiet about certain issues if they wish to remain employed.”

“Are you certain, your grace?” Hesitant crept onto your expression and you couldn’t bother concealing it.

“Yes, now stop being such a worrywart, it’s a horrible look for a Lady. Run along, for real this time.” She gestured her hand out to the chamber’s doors.

A faint smile carved at her lips, sensing the hesitation in your movements. Still, you ignored the slight hesitancy in your mind, getting ready to take your leave.

“I’ll see if I can visit you tomorrow before the tournament, your grace.”

“Until then, I’ll see you.”

At her command, you politely curtsied and left the chambers, searching for the rebellious princess. Besides, the princess couldn’t have gotten too far, especially with Alicent accompanying her, the girls would be easy to find.

••••

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[shares-a-vest]

@steddiemas Day 13: Snow Day (Winter Wednesday)

wc: 2.4k | Rated: T for flirtatious banter and a post-spicy-times premise | cw: A very brief (and mild) exchange alluding to Period-Typical Homophobia Tags: Stuck in Snow, Car Breakdown, Post-Coital, Getting Interrupted, Multiple/Switching POVs, Established Relationships

This is equal parts Steddie and Clarkson, so I'm tagging Queen of the Clarkson hive, @unclewaynemunson. Also thanks to @rocknrollsalad for not only indulging my Clarkson thoughts and cheerleading me on, but for also providing me with some Scott Clarke crumbs in the form of the Stranger Things comics.

Steve awakens to cold silence with a hand in his hair, fingers gently curling and relaxing in tandem with the steady breathing of the person beneath him.

Eddie. It’s Eddie. And it’s also Eddie’s winter coat, a kaki parka whose slippery material threatens to fall to the car floor as soon as he shifts a little.

He grimaces, aware now of the jeans pulled down to his mid-thigh that would expose his bare ass if it weren’t for the coat protecting his modesty. He is without a shirt too and quickly becomes aware of a tacky coldness sticking between him and his partner. Steve startles and props himself up on his elbow.

He grimaces because he is sticky. He feels sticky.

“Eds,” he mumbles, voice feeling – and sounding – like gravel.

He smacks his dry lips and gulps as he attempts to sit up in the cramped darkness of the backseat of his car.

“Mrmphf,” Eddie hums between another low snore, the hand occupied in Steve’s mussed hair now falling to his partner’s bare chest.

“Eddie, we fell asleep,” he continues, rubbing his eyes enough that he can make out the time on his watch.

He feels his eyes bulge out of their sockets.

“We’ve been out here for hours!”

“So?” Eddie stirs, argumentative despite still being half asleep.

Steve hikes up his pants and bites back a shudder (and a chilly shiver). That tackiness is a problem for Future Safe-At-Home Steve, he thinks as he searches for his shirt.

He’d tossed it off (hours ago, it seems), back when Eddie had pulled him into the back cab as music blared from the radio – a stupid alt station that falls in and out of frequency that Eddie insists is worth listening to. Then he remembers, Eddie situated him in his lap, as they tend to do when they make out in his car.

But the making out didn’t stop there and instead continued with Eddie unzipping his jeans, eagerly pushing them down and –

Well, his next thoughts explain his nakedness, his tackiness and the fact that they’d passed out moments after Dio had stopped screech-singing about…

Steve looks at the dashboard, practically diving into the driver’s seat to check the ignition. Eddie yelps behind him and Steve feels a rush of air that makes him think Eddie probably attempted – and failed – to kick at him.

“You almost kicked me in the balls!” Eddie hisses.

“And I’m freezing my balls off!” he shoots over his shoulder.

Eddie gasps at the thought and Steve can’t help but laugh for the split second it takes him to adjust into the driver’s seat properly and look at the Beemer’s ignition, right where his keys are dangling away.

Oh no.

“Eddie, we left the radio on!” he shrieks, his voice reverberating off the windows and creating a ringing in his ears.

“So?” Eddie says again, sounding like a goddamn parrot as makes a mountain of noise, palming around for some clothes.

“So!” Steve mocks back at his boyfriend, scrubbing his hand over the nearest window.

It’s snowing outside now, so much so that all he can see is white fog. He cranes his neck to get a look at the tires but soon gives up and instead settles for pinching his nose. He breathes in and out for a few moments, preparing himself for the inevitable disappointment of not starting the car.

And yeah, it does not work.

Eddie jumps into the front seat, jostling the whole front cab as he wrestles on his boots, distracted enough to not mention the barking yelp Steve gives.

“You fell asleep,” Eddie quips, shucking on his black crumpled long-sleeved shirt and coming back up with a wicked grin, “I rocked your world, baby, so you need your beauty sleep after that. Naturally, I followed suit because you’re just so warm and cosy and hairy.”

Steve turns to find Eddie making grabby hands at his still bare – and cold – chest. He half-heartedly slaps his hand away, earning a pout.

He’ll tease Eddie about the phrase, ‘Rock your world’ later.

“Maybe we can walk back to Johnny’s Gas Station?” he wonders aloud, the suggestion eliciting a groan of protest.

Wayne bolts upright at the sound of the ringing phone and, before he knows it, Scott is grumbling away next to him.

“You just elbowed me in the stomach!” he complains but all Wayne can focus on is the phone.

He jumps to action and glances at his alarm clock radio. It reads 3:46 am.

The cold air of the trailer hits his legs and he looks down to find himself in merely his boxers. He looks at Scott, who is now upright and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Their blanket falls away and Scott shivers from the exposure.

They make eye contact and his partner blushes, sending a flurry of their calm and quiet evening at home into Wayne’s tired noggin.

Eating dinner, watching TV all cuddled up impossibly close on the couch and then – 

Ring… Ring…

Wayne shakes his head and heads for the kitchen. Clothes (and those other recollections) can wait.

“Wayne Munson,” he answers, voice gruff to an almost comical level he’s sure Eddie would make a quip about.

“Hey, Uncle,” Eddie sighs on the other end, greeting him in the typical fashion he does when he has done something wrong.

“Are you safe?” he asks instantly, turning to find Scott dressed in a blue flannel set of pyjamas and holding the pair of sweatpants he had long discarded on the bedroom floor.

“Could you come get us?” Eddie asks.

His heart skips a beat. He looks at Scott, who mirrors his panic.

“ – My car!” Steve’s panicked voice cuts in, sounding close enough to the phone, the kid must be listening in.

Scott steps forward to hand over the sweats.

“Jeans,” Wayne mouths back.

In a flash, Scott has turned on his sock-covered heels and doubles back, grabbing his beige parka from the coat rack on his way.

“Huh?” Eddie grunts. There’s some incoherent bickering before the boy sighs, “And we need a tow… Steve’s car battery croaked it.”

Wayne sucks in a breath of relief but also bites his tongue and readjusts his grip on the phone.

“It was your fault!”

“No, it wasn’t, Stevie.”

Wayne rolls his eyes at the mischievous lilt in his nephew’s voice on that last one and moves to look out the kitchen window, only to be met with snowy darkness. He’s pretty sure he can tow Steve’s BMW in this weather. There’s no way he’d leave such an expensive car outside, nor would the boy let him.

“Alright,” he says, voice clipped, “Tell me where you boys are at.”

Whatever happened, Eddie and Steve are in for a lecture…

All Eddie can see when Wayne pulls over to the small clearing-come-makeout spot are trapper hats, his uncle’s scowl and Scott Clarke’s snow goggles. He groans and throws his head back, jostling his and Steve’s conjoined form.

“Eddie,” Steve warns, “I gotta unzip us.”

Eddie grumbles and drops his arms so his boyfriend can reach behind him and unzip the giant winter coat he had managed to coax himself into as well. He thinks they haven’t even been back at the car for all of five minutes but, as always, Wayne has come to his rescue quicker than he said he’d be.

But, as he watches his uncle open his car door and round to the back truck bed, Eddie can spot Wayne’s bristling shoulders a mile off – old Army jacket and snowy weather, or not.

He grits his chattering teeth as best he can, standing still with his hands in his pockets as Steve abandons him to give an endless torrent of apologies and offer his assistance.

“Eddie,” Scott nods.

Eddie rolls his eyes. Maybe he should chance it with his uncle, his inevitable grumpiness and Steve. Scott is all winter woollies and moustache as he removes a red tartan trapper hat, one that matches Wayne’s and is likely the one he used to give Eddie himself back before the old man ever owned anything kid-sized.

Scott offers the hat but Eddie shakes his head and gives a gloved, two-finger salute.

“Scotty,” he mumbles as politely as possible before catching Wayne’s eye.

“We’ll talk about this,” Wayne begins, waving the eyelet end of his tow rope (even with Steve close on his heel), “Later.”

Eddie looks at his partner and finds Steve nervously running a hand through his hair.

The pair turn in unison, Wayne pointing and offering instructions that Steve promptly follows and they once again leave Eddie standing with Scott, who rocks on his heels and very obviously ogles his uncle's ‘handiwork’.

He shudders and takes a step forward to block Scott’s adoration from his line of sight. But the man soon follows and Eddie huffs out a laboured breath, readying himself for an overly cheery chat.

How his uncle started dating a Chatty Cathy, he’ll never know.

“We were asleep, anyway,” Scott offers.

Eddie feels a blush creep up his neck to his snow-bitten cheeks, recalling how he and Steve had been peacefully sleeping away in the Beemer before this whole (admittedly embarrassing) situation started…

Or more, a situation they found themselves in the middle of.

They watch in silence as Wayne and Steve work in perfect sync, shovelling away the snow built up around the car’s tires, before attaching the hook, placing the Beemer into neutral and firing up the truck.

“I could have helped, you know,” Scott offers, still looking out the window, finally deciding to break the silence that has befallen the car.

Well, a silence that exists besides Steve Harrington’s snoring in the back seat, which started up a mere few minutes from the clearing the boys were stuck at on the outskirts of McMillan’s farm.

He glances at Wayne in an attempt to gauge just how gruff he is.

What type of gruff it is, too.

Wayne sighs and readjusts his hands on the steering wheel.

“Could have driven too,” he can’t help but add.

“No bother,” Wayne says before shooting a look in his rearview mirror.

“Might surprise you, but I was as silly and eager as they are too, once upon a time,” he chuckles, “I’m sure you were too.”

Wayne only grumbles.

Maybe that wasn’t the best point to make right now.

“What’s the matter?” Scott asks – even though he’s sleepy, he knows Wayne prefers to get straight to the point.

He reaches over the middle console to take the hand Wayne is now resting on his thigh. It probably isn’t the safest move considering the weather but, with Steve’s car in literal tow, they are moving at a snail’s pace.

“I worry about them,” Wayne replies, squeezing his hand, “Goin’ out and...” he trails off before changing the subject (so, if Scott knows his partner, he should consider it dropped, for now), “Besides, they interrupted our night.”

Scott smiles to himself as he continues to look out the window, watching a snow-drenched Hawkins pass them by.

He stays like that until they arrive back at the Munson’s. They stir the boys and reassure Steve that as soon as the weather passes, his car will be worked on. In the meantime, Wayne secures a tarp over the maroon Beemer and rouses the boys inside with zero promises of his famous hot cocoa.

And, just like that, Scott finds himself in bed with Wayne Munson once again, cuddling up to spoon his partner and hoping he won’t get an elbow to the ribs this time.

“No funny business,” Wayne whispers over his shoulder and Scott catches a flash of a smile.

“Not even a little more hanky-panky,” he teases, squeezing his middle.

He presses a kiss to Wayne’s pyjama-clad shoulder (a flannel set he’d gifted him at the beginning of winter).

“And you call me a dirty old man,” Wayne quips before sighing, “Don’t think we’ll get too much’a that now that the boys don’t have a car between ‘em.”

He shifts on the spot and readjusts his arm under his pillow.

“Is that what’s got you all grouchy?”

“We’ve only got so much time over the holidays, is all,” Wayne says with a hint of sadness that sounds more like he has to admit to being disappointed.

“What about you get the boys to work on the car together,” he smiles into his shoulder, “That’ll get them out of the house.”

Steve all but runs into Eddie as he exits the bathroom, finally warmed up and wearing his old Hawkins High sweater.

At least he intends to stay warm, an idea that begins to quickly fade considering Eddie won’t budge an inch as he munches from a bowl of Honeycombs – his go-to emergency snack in lieu of hot cocoa.

Eddie points his spoon in the direction of Wayne’s bedroom and glares as milk drips from the end of his utensil.

“You hear that?” he bites conspiratorially.

“What?” Steve asks, lightly pushing past his boyfriend to dump his towel and soiled clothes in the hallway hamper.

“They’re giggling,” Eddie recoils.

“They’re cute,” he chuckles, “Anyway, shove off! I’m gonna start freezing my balls off again.”

Eddie darts out of the way, his disgruntled frown turning serious.

“Yes, shoo!” he hisses, “Go get all toasty. I’m very concerned about what your balls have endured this cold dark winter night, Big Boy.”

He taps at his shoulder with the commanding spoon before jabbing him with it.

“You think Wayne’s really mad?” Steve can’t help but ask as he throws back the bed covers in Eddie’s room.

“Nah,” Eddie drawls, abandoning his bowl on the nightstand, “You’da seen that vein on the side of his head explode.”

He all but cackles at his joke and beats Steve to get under the covers first, twisting them all about as he flops down.

“And you think he’ll get me a good deal on the car?” Steve wonders, adjusting the covers as he slips under them too, “It’s more than just a cooked battery, it turns out.”

“Hell, he’ll probably get us to work on it,” Eddie gripes as the two of them snuggle in, limbs intertwining on instinct, “I’m sure there’s some lame lesson we are supposed to learn from tonight.”

“And what would that be?” he teases.

“Don’t make me say that screwing each other’s brains out in the back of your car is something we shouldn’t be doing,” Eddie whines.

“You mean, ‘rocking my world’,” he giggles into his boyfriend’s not-borrowed yellow sweater.

[waywardrose]

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 27

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

6.9k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs��​​

fem/witch/goth!reader, sweetheart!eddie, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, chasing, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, blood, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, past child abuse and abandonment, semi-public sex, break-ups, running away, guns, fist fighting, everyone survives, suicide ideation, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird? Weird weird? He shrugged. He liked weird. In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: This was going to be the last chapter, but it's too long. I'm splitting it and posting what's completed. Expect a last chapter and epilogue. Thank you for sticking with me!

27

The doorbell chime made him start, which was stupid. An invasion wouldn’t start with someone ringing the goddamn doorbell. He stared unseeing at the den’s television while MTV went to commercial.

Also, he should be used to the noise. Steve’s house was a hub of activity, between the phone ringing and the doorbell going off and people talking.

Footsteps thumped overhead. He identified that as the man of the house himself walking to the front door. A moment later, multiple voices, all male, rumbled from the foyer. Several pairs of footsteps moved farther into the house.

Then your voice joined the mix. He couldn’t gauge your tone, other than you weren’t pissed. He turned down the TV volume and frowned at the basement ceiling when you kept talking. A male voice said something you replied to.

Eddie eased from the sectional couch and padded to the foot of the stairs. Of course, it didn’t gain him anything. The door at the top remained closed, muffling any conversation. He considered creeping up the stairs, but he didn’t know where the creaks hid in the treads.

He put a knee on the third tread and crawled forward to half-lay on the stairs. Now midway to the door, he could distinguish between the voices. Yours, of course, Steve’s every so often, then three others.

No one sounded defensive or upset, so that eased his mind. Somewhat.

Everyone kept talking, though. He racked his brain for what they could be discussing. It probably had something to do with yesterday’s visit. He hoped it wasn’t government officials who’d changed their minds about not dragging him to prison. Or worse yet, to some underground lab to conduct experiments on him.

What if they were here for you, though?

Maybe they’d figured out you had magic and wanted you to do stuff for them. While in their clutches, they’d take bio-samples from you. They’d clone you — was that even possible? — or make babies in petri dishes — that had to be possible — to grow a whole witch army and take over the world.

Of course, the thought of having a second you intrigued him. Would a clone kiss like you? Taste like you? Would she moan like you do when he sinks inside her? Would one of you sit on his face while the other rode his dick?

His cock grew heavy and hot in his borrowed briefs.

Jesus H. Christ, he chided. Fucking focus.

It was quiet. Too quiet. He strained to hear what was going on.

Soft footsteps shuffled near.

He shot off the stairs and turned towards the TV. He couldn’t be discovered hanging around near the stairs with a half-chub like a perv. And the sleep-pants did nothing to hide it. His gaze darted to the VHS tape storage cabinet by the TV.

That would work.

He careened around the scuffed coffee table. The loops of the cable-box controller tangled around his foot. Like Gandalf in the Balrog’s whip, he’d been caught.

He hissed, “Shit, shit, shit,” as he hopped to the cabinet, shaking his foot free.

The basement door opened. He grabbed the cabinet for balance. A drawer of tapes wobbled open. He shoved it closed. Tapes clattered. Whoever opened the drawer next was going to have to repack it. Whoops. But it was cool. Everything was cool. He checked his crotch. His half-chub had subsided.

“Eddie?” you said as you descended the stairs.

He faced you, propping an elbow on top of the cabinet.

You’d changed into those black jeans he liked. They hugged your thighs and ass. He willed his dick to stay soft.

“Hey, hi, what’s up?”

You gave him a curious look as you stepped down into the basement.

“You okay?”

He waved a hand in a general sort of way.

“Other than, you know, everything, yeah, I’m okay.”

You nodded, though he could tell you knew something was off.

He said, “I was going to pick out a movie.” He glanced at the stairs. “Is everything okay up there?”

You approached him like he was a cornered dog.

“Yeah, everything’s fine, but don’t freak out—”

“Freak out about what?” he asked, warning sirens blaring through his mind.

“The police are here, and they want to take your statement.”

He straightened.

“Statement about what?”

“The night Chrissy died.” You held up your hands before he could protest. “I just gave them my statement about my interactions with Jason Carver. Who is dead.” With eyes wide, you gave him a leading look and head tilt. “I know you’ve had interactions with Jason, too.”

He nodded along as the implication clicked into place.

“Yeah, I’ve had interactions with Carver.”

“You want to give a statement to the police about that night with Jason and Chrissy?”

No, he did not, yet if he didn’t, he’d never be free. Vecna would continue to ruin his life. While Eddie still wasn’t sure about the existence of an afterlife, he wouldn’t give that asshat the satisfaction.

He girded his metaphorical loins — why did everything circle back to his crotch? — and headed upstairs. You walked behind him, not crowding him, but close enough to be supportive. He wanted to look at you, really look at you, and confess his love again. Just in case this all fell apart. There wasn’t time — and he was certain if he did, he’d wuss-out. Compound that with the fact he couldn’t hold your gaze for more than a second, he’d definitely wuss-out.

Taking two steps into the living room, he froze. He must be hallucinating. Chief Hopper, the very one who’d been there at Dad’s arrest, who supposedly died in the Starcourt fire, stood by the dining table. Though there was considerably less of him around the middle, his hair was buzzed short, and he looked like he’d lost a fight with the Wolfman, there was no question it was him.

Chief Powell sat at the table, facing the room. Metal crutches had been propped against the table next to him. Eddie recognized the deputy who stood at Powell’s left. He couldn’t recall a name, but he’d seen the deputy around town.

Steve leaned a shoulder on the tall curio cabinet behind the table. It was a King Steve pose he’d observed many a time at school. The sling and bandages were absent, courtesy of you.

You stepped beside Eddie and took his numb hand. On instinct, he curled his fingers around yours.

Hopper stepped forward, expression calm and hands placating.

“You’re not in trouble, kid.”

If it had come from anyone else, he’d consider it a lie. For a cop, Hopper had been a decent one. He’d ignored Eddie’s underage drinking at the Hideaway. He’d issued warnings instead of speeding tickets.

You turned your head to whisper, “I won’t let them take you even if they try.”

He gave a minute nod before releasing your hand and marching to the table. If they tried to arrest him, he hoped he’d retained that undead speed. He pulled out the chair across from Powell to sit.

You went to stand by Steve, who gave you a warm look. If anything happened, Eddie knew Steve would protect you and vice versa.

Powell cleared his throat and pressed the Record button on the cassette recorder to start the interrogation.

“Chief Calvin Powell and former Chief Jim Hopper speaking with Edward Munson, Monday, March 31st, 1986.” To Eddie, he said, “Mr. Munson, you’re not under arrest. All we want is your account of what happened the night of March 21st.” When he nodded, Powell said as an aside, “Note Mr. Munson nodded in understanding.” He continued, “We have multiple statements from witnesses placing you at Hawkins High School during the basketball game that night. We also have several overlapping accounts attesting to Jason Carver threatening them at gunpoint at a later date.”

Eddie nodded again, wanting to say that didn’t surprise him. However, Dad’s warning to never talk to cops kept him silent. “These folks stated Jason Carver said he’d sacrifice them for this town. They claim he’d wanted to break their bones. Does that sound like something he could do?”

Eddie glanced at you and Steve. If he followed Dad’s warning, he’d never get out of this. Of course, he didn’t have to give them everything at once. That would be out of character. He had to think like a DM and give them just enough to lead them where the party wanted them to go.

“Yeah, along with pinning all those murders on me,” he said.

Planting his elbows on a nearby chair back, Hopper said, “Sounds like he had the whole town fooled.”

He bobbed his head in agreement.

“I heard he hijacked a town hall meeting.”

Powell shifted in his seat.

“Mr. Munson, did Jason Carver and Chrissy Cunningham enter your home the night of March 21st?”

“Yes.”

“Do you recall the time?”

“No, not exactly.” He glanced up in thought. “I guess after ten?”

“What were they doing there?”

“Said they wanted drugs.”

“Did you sell them drugs?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have drugs.”

Which he didn’t. Now.

“But they thought you had drugs to sell?”

He met Powell’s gaze and said, “I can’t presume to know what they thought.”

Powell sighed, frustration clear.

“Alright. Jason Carver and Chrissy Cunningham enter your house sometime after ten, looking to purchase drugs. Then what?”

“I left them in the living room.”

Just like he’d left Chrissy for Vecna to kill. Bait on a hook.

“To do what?”

“Get my cigarettes.”

He could do with one right about now.

“Why would you get your cigarettes?”

“Why does anyone get cigarettes?” He shrugged with a huff. “I wanted a smoke, and I forgot them in my room.”

“Then what happened?”

He rolled his shoulders as if uncomfortable.

“They began arguing.”

“About?”

“I don’t know. I was still in my room.”

“But you know they were arguing?”

“Yeah, Jason raised his voice at Chrissy.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I grabbed my cigarettes and came back to the living room.”

“Did you step in?” Powell angled his head. “Try to intervene?”

“No, it was too late—”

“Too late?”

“Look, he was yelling at her. She said something. Might’ve been his name, I don’t know. Then it got quiet, and then I heard a real loud thump. When I came out, Chrissy was on the floor.”

Instead of floating midair.

“Alive?”

“I don’t know, but she wasn’t moving.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I wanted to go to her, but Jason was…” He shook his head, remembering how intense Carver could get. “Jason was out of his mind.”

“What do you mean, out of his mind?”

“He was, like, in a rage. Scared the shit outta me.”

“How so?”

“He screamed and pounded on his chest.” He mimicked what he saw in his mind, knocking his fist against his breastbone. “His eyes were wild, like something else was behind them.”

“Something else?”

He blew out a breath. This was make-or-break in the story.

“I’m not religious or anything, but he looked… He looked fucking possessed.” He rubbed his forehead. “I know how this sounds, okay? I know this sounds crazy.”

It was quiet for a moment before Powell asked, “Did Jason Carver have the same reaction the night of March 25th at Lover’s Lake?”

“I don’t know. He and—uh…” He snapped his fingers as though trying to recall. “A teammate?”

“Patrick McKinney.”

“McKinney, yeah. They were in the water, coming after me.”

“Where were you?”

“In a fishing boat, trying to get away from them, but I lost my balance and fell in the water.”

“Did you see what happened to Patrick?”

“No, I was swimming away from them.”

Powell nodded in acceptance.

“Okay, back to March 21st: Jason and Chrissy. Jason was screaming, and Chrissy was on the floor.”

“Yeah, I wanted to go to her.” He looked at the table, muttering, “I wanted to save her. Get her away from him.”

He’d tried to do it. He’d shaken her shoulders and yelled for her to wake up, snap out of it, anything, but Vecna’s hold was too powerful. Whatever she’d needed to break the curse, he hadn’t had it.

“What did Jason do?” asked Powell.

“He came after me. He chased me out of the living room.”

“Where did you go?”

“I ran out of the trailer.”

“Did you go to a neighbor?”

“No, I got in my van and left the trailer park.”

“Why didn’t you report this to the police?”

He threw a glance at Hopper. He suspected Hopper would’ve taken him seriously, but that hadn’t been a possibility. Everyone thought Hopper was dead. Including himself.

“Like any of you would’ve believed me — the son of a convicted car thief, trailer trash, a super senior, a freak — over Hawkins’ golden boy, the captain of the basketball team.”

Powell and the deputy looked equal parts uncomfortable and insulted.

Good.

“So, yeah,” he said. “I ran and hid, and Jason kept chasing me.”

While you morons stood around with your heads up your asses.

“Why do you think he did that?” Powell asked.

“Probably because I saw him hurt Chrissy. I was the only witness. Get rid of me, one way or another, and no one would ever know what he’d done.”

Powell shared a look with the deputy, whose face was unreadable. Powell saw something there, though, and turned to him.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Munson. We’d appreciate it if you stayed in town until we conclude our investigation.”

“Yeah, sure, of course.”

He didn’t know where he’d go or how he’d get there. He’d hidden his van in the woods off Coal Mill Road. He needed to retrieve it, but not until it was safe to leave this house. Also, he didn’t know where Wayne was, or if he’d survived. The thought made his insides shrivel and tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

Hopper clapped him on the back, knocking him into the present. The cassette recorder was gone.

“Glad you’re still with us, kid.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Powell arranged his crutches to stand. The deputy assisted, while Steve straightened to show them to the front door. Powell shuffled around the table, his right leg supported at an angle.

Eddie felt your concerned focus directed at him, but he couldn’t indulge himself. Instead, he watched Steve lead the police to the door. Something compelled him out of his chair and moving towards them.

“Hey, Hop,” he said.

Hopper faced him, heavy brow lifted in interest.

“Wayne— Have you seen— I mean, do you know if my uncle’s alive?”

Hopper contemplated the question for a second.

“No, but I think I know who might.” He jutted his chin in a reassuring way. “I’ll give ‘em a call.”

“Thanks.”

Hopper nodded before jogging to catch up with Powell and the deputy outside. He said something to Steve in passing that made Steve grin.

Once Steve shut the door, Eddie dragged his ass to the table and flopped into his chair.

“Jesus, fuck…”

You asked, “Want a beer?”

He rubbed at his eyes, saying, “That’s a good start.”

-

“Holy shit,” Robin said from her seat at the kitchen island.

You kept smearing melting butter on your toast. Steve grunted in front of the gurgling coffee maker. Eddie, who sat across from her, remained quiet.

You’d learned Robin said ‘holy shit’ about a lot of things.

“Guys,” she said with a flap of the morning newspaper. “Guys, look at this.”

Steve abandoned his vigil to see what Robin was holy-shit-ing about. You took a bite of toast and turned. His eyes widened when he read what Robin had pointed out.

“Holy shit.”

Eddie, chin in hand, hummed as he stared at the window over the sink. However, your curiosity had been piqued. You stopped beside Eddie, anticipating Steve sliding the newspaper in front of you. When he did, you swallowed and stared at the headline:

DEVELOPMENT IN LOCAL TEEN MURDERS

You scanned the article. It mentioned the nationwide Satanic panic and how citizens had been led to believe a local cult was sacrificing children to the Devil. The writer praised cooler heads, namely Chief Powell and his deputies, who continued to investigate despite the earthquake and subsequent volcanic fissure eruption.

Ah, you thought, that was how they were covering up the destruction near the closed nexus.

Chief Powell was quoted:

“There is irrefutable evidence Edward Munson is the victim of false accusations. This office has cooperated with federal investigators and spoken with numerous local, credible witnesses to determine such a conclusion.”

Despite police not identifying a person of interest, the writer insinuated the actual murderer might be amongst those who had advocated for hunting down Eddie. They speculated the public accusations against Eddie had been a diversion. While the police investigation remained ongoing, an insider let slip police were closing in on a suspect.

The writer went on to report neither local nor federal investigations uncovered any cult, Satanic or otherwise, in the area. Of course, citizens were welcome to report any cult activity to the sheriff’s office. The article ended with the newspaper promising to keep readers informed.

Holy shit.

“Eddie,” you said, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Read this.”

He blinked a few times before pulling his attention away from the window. With a concerned look, he glanced around the island.

“What?”

You pushed the newspaper in front of him and tapped a finger on the headline. He perused the accompanying article, eyes widening as he read.

To Steve, you said, “Better call Nancy.”

He nodded and dialed Nancy’s number on the kitchen phone. After a playful exchange with Mrs. Wheeler, during which Robin rolled her eyes, Steve’s manner turned serious. From listening to half of the conversation, you deduced Nancy had seen the article. He mentioned Dr. Owens, along with Jason Carver. Nancy said more about Jason, but you couldn’t make out her words.

Steve nodded as she spoke, though. When he hung up, you gave him an expectant look.

“The Feds found Jason Carver’s body. Or what’s left of it. His gun’s missing, but there were bullet casings nearby. Nance told Owens about Carver at The WarZone buying a gun, so that’s a lead for them.”

“It corroborates my story about him, too,” you said.

“And the Sinclairs’,” Robin said, leaning an elbow on the island.

After she’d returned to Steve’s last night, she told you, Eddie, and Steve about the police collecting statements from Lucas and Erica. Their statements had led to yours, then Eddie’s. Maybe others’. Who knows how many people Jason had terrorized after Chrissy’s murder.

You nodded as you pondered how many doors he’d knocked on before coming to yours. It was fortunate he’d found you before Mom. If he’d confronted her instead of you, she’d know all about you and Eddie. It’s funny how you’d been debating on introducing him that day. Eddie still had no idea.

Eddie slid from his stool, mumbling something about a shower. You watched him leave the kitchen. While you’d give him privacy, you first needed to tell him. It was an urge, like a hand pushing at the middle of your back.

He was halfway up the stairs when you reached him.

“Eddie, hang on.”

He stopped without turning to face you, hand on the railing.

“What?”

“The Saturday after Chrissy was killed…”

“Yeah?”

“Jason came looking for you.” When he said nothing, you continued, “I was out front planting—”

“Why’re you telling me this?”

“It’s called backstory.”

He turned his head enough for you to see his jaw around his hair, yet he remained quiet.

“He called me your girlfriend.”

“And I bet a whole bunch of other things.”

You sighed, though you remembered Jason’s accusations.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters was my plan for that day.”

“Plan?”

“I wanted to introduce you as my boyfriend to my mom when you picked me up. I was going to run it by you first, of course, but I wanted to.”

Voice dripping with sarcasm, he said, “Well, the pressure’s off now, isn’t it? They’re out of town for the foreseeable future, right?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Your mouth fell open as he stomped from view.

What an asshole thing to say. You’d been trying your best this entire goddamn time.

“I hope your shower sucks,” you snapped, climbing the rest of the stairs.

His bedroom door closed with a definitive click.

You went to your room and shut the door. If he wanted to be a little brat about it, let him. All you’d wanted to do was tell him the truth. You understood he’d had the worst week and a half in the history of the world. You’d cut him some slack, but you were no doormat.

Maybe it was too little too late, though, and maybe he didn’t need to know. You sat on the bed and wiped at your stinging eyes. Why did you have to bring this up now? Of all times? It was just… It was just that you wanted him to know you’d… Been serious about him? Remained serious about him? That you’d never been embarrassed to be with him?

But shit, he’d been the one who wanted to pause the relationship. If he hadn’t, you would’ve introduced him much sooner. Sure, your father wouldn’t have been supportive, but no one you’d ever associated with ever met with his approval. He hadn’t liked your friends in New York. You weren’t sure you liked your friends in New York anymore, either.

Mom would’ve been more open-minded, though.

Dammit, you needed to call them.

It would still be foolish to call from Steve’s house. You could call from the hospital’s payphone again. You thought you remembered one in front of Bradley’s. With all the extra people Steve had been hosting and feeding, you assumed he needed groceries. A visit to Bradley’s would take care of both issues.

You changed into street clothes and slung your purse over your shoulder before heading downstairs. Steve and Robin sat at the kitchen island, chatting between spoonfuls of cereal. It reminded you of hearing their voices in the middle of the night. It made you miss Eddie even though he was only upstairs.

Greeting them with a soft “hey,” you volunteered to do a grocery run. Steve fumbled his spoon when you asked for a shopping list. Milk sloshed onto the counter. He wiped at the spill with the hem of his t-shirt.

Robin watched him with exasperation before fetching a paper towel.

“That shirt’s going to smell so bad tomorrow.”

He snatched the paper towel from her hand, saying, “You’re going to smell so bad tomorrow.”

“Real mature, dingus.”

He aimed a goofy sneer at her.

After cleaning the spill, he finished the shopping list and retrieved some cash. Robin offered money, but you and Steve refused to accept it. With their hours at Family Video reduced, and Robin’s parents making her pay for her band equipment, it didn’t feel right. You and Steve weren’t hurting for money, in any case.

“Remember, we’ll be gone by the time you get back,” he said, handing you the list and money.

You nodded and pocketed both. They were volunteering at the school, which was kind of them. It was also convenient for you since you’d probably argue with Eddie when you returned. He’d acted like a brat and deserved a spanking like one.

“Maybe I’ll join you two tomorrow?”

“That would be awesome,” said Robin, perking up and scooping soggy Cheerios from her bowl. “You can make meals with me and Vickie.”

“Cool.” You gave her a teasing look. “I want to meet Vickie and hear all about you two in Band.”

Robin blushed, hands fluttering. An arc of milk and cereal splashed across the counter.

Steve laughed, “God, Robin!”

“Shit, sorry!”

With a chuckle, you wished them a good day and left the kitchen. You didn’t want to be the next thing they flung milk on. As you crossed the living room, you noted Eddie’s closed door. That was fine by you. He should stay in there and chill the hell out.

On the drive to Bradley’s, you mulled over what to tell your parents. You couldn’t say you wanted to stay because of your boyfriend, who they didn’t know existed, or that said boyfriend was the accused cult leader everyone in town had been hunting. You couldn’t say you hated Hawkins, but the thought of leaving right now made you want to cry. And you certainly couldn’t say you were bunking with the flirty clerk from Family Video.

Bradley’s half-full parking lot was a strange sight for a Tuesday. With the ads in the windows exclaiming Two For Tuesday, you expected a swarm of shoppers. Then again, half of Hawkins had fled less than a week ago.

You bought two cans of generic soda from the machine out front with a couple of dollars. That supplied plenty of coins to make a long-distance call. You carried the sodas to the car. They’d be nice with lunch. Which was a meal. And Robin had invited you to volunteer making meals with her and Vickie.

Volunteering was a decent excuse to stay.

You deposited the sodas in the car’s drink holders and rushed to the payphone. After paying and dialing the Cincinnati number, the line rang twice before Mom answered. She sounded relieved to hear from you and asked after your car. It took you a second to recall the lie you’d left on their answering machine. You replied the radiator leak hadn’t been bad and had been repaired.

“Then when should we expect you?”

You sighed.

“I don’t want to come down to Cincinnati.”

Incredulous, she asked, “You want to stay in Hawkins?”

Your father’s voice rumbled in the background.

“Yes, actually,” you said. “I’m volunteering at the school. With friends.”

“The same friends you’re staying with?”

You nodded with a “yes.”

In reply, you got the swish of Mom putting her palm over the receiver. Your father’s voice sharpened, though you couldn’t make out his words. Mom responded, yet it didn’t sound like that pacified him.

You closed your eyes, waiting for him to grab the phone from her. Shaking your head, you realized preparing to be berated was something a previous version of yourself would’ve done.

“Mom.” When she didn’t answer, you said, “Mom.”

“Y-yes, honey? What is it?”

“I gotta go — I’m in the middle of a grocery run — but don’t worry about me. Everything’s okay. I’m fine. I’ll call you again, alright?”

“Honey… Where—? Your father—”

“No. I don’t care what he wants to yell about. I’m fine here. I’m safe, I promise. Just…” You took a stuttering breath. “I love you.”

She sighed.

“We love you, too.”

Your hand trembled as you placed the phone handset on the hook. A nickel dropped into the return slot. You never make anyone’s life easier, Vecna had said, using Eddie’s voice. You left it. The next person might need it. Besides, it was only a nickel. You turned to rest your back on the sun-warmed brick.

You’d done the right thing by staying. You were doing the right thing. It was the difficult thing, but you’d faced tougher. You weren’t some spoiled little rich girl who ran away from the aftermath. Even if it hurt — and it probably would. Even if Eddie left you — and it appeared as though he might.

You couldn’t worry about that right now. There were practical things to do. You felt like Scarlett O’Hara as you told yourself you’d think about the aftermath later.

Inside Bradley’s, shoppers and clerks spoke in hushed tones. Beeps from the checkouts didn’t carry beyond the cart corral. The quiet helped you concentrate on Steve’s shopping list. Item by item, you filled your cart, having to substitute skim milk for 2%, whole-wheat bread for white, and a carton of eighteen eggs instead of a dozen.

Steve had written ‘12 eggs,’ like you could buy them individually.

You huffed a laugh when turning into the ransacked paper aisle. The shelves for the industrial-sized packs of toilet paper were empty. That left you stepping onto the lowest shelf and struggling for the last two packs of the expensive floral-printed stuff at the back.

At the checkout, the clerk issued a rehearsed apology for the shortages. With the volcanic fissures now closed and road crews fixing the damage, they assured you shipments would start coming again soon. They helped bag your order since there weren’t enough baggers. They apologized for that, too.

You waved away their apologies and thanked them for their assistance. Because you weren’t an entitled person who didn’t appreciate a favor when it was offered.

Once the car’s trunk was loaded, you headed back to Steve’s. You didn’t know what you were going to say to Eddie about this morning, or how to broach the subject. He’d been dealing with so much stress. You understood that. You didn’t want to be another stressor. He needed to talk to you — or someone. He couldn’t just bottle up his emotions and get snippy when someone wasn’t mindful of his unspoken wishes.

As you made the left onto Cornwallis, an older truck paused at the stop sign on your right and followed you. You hoped they wouldn’t get aggressive when you slowed to get your bearings. You still weren’t used to the neighborhood. Something about it kept screwing with your sense of direction. Maybe it was how all the houses were set back from the road and obscured with manicured shrubs.

You recognized evergreen bushes and the u-shaped driveway of Steve’s house. You put on your turn signal. The truck did the same. You frowned at the rearview mirror, but pulled into the driveway. If the driver was some irrational, as your father had put it, country bumpkin, you’d make them regret tailing you.

You parked beside the enclosed carport and stepped out of the car, leaving your keys in the ignition and purse on the passenger seat. The truck stopped a few yards away. Sunlight glinted off its windshield. The engine went silent.

You stayed inside the vee of your open car door and waited for the driver to reveal themself.

The truck’s door creaked open, window reflecting the greenery of the front yard. Dusty work-boots hit the driveway. Something about them struck you as familiar. You studied the truck as you racked your mind for why.

The truck door clapped shut.

You gasped, eyes going wide. It was Eddie’s uncle, Wayne. He had a black eye and a shallow scratch at the top of his forehead, but otherwise appeared unharmed. You pushed the car door closed and hurried to him.

“Mr. Munson, oh my God! I didn’t— I’m so glad you’re okay!”

With a wry note in his voice, he said, “It’s good to see you, too.”

You offered your hands, which he grasped in his rougher ones. Tears prickled at your eyes. You hadn’t realized how on edge you’d been about Wayne’s absence until he was there.

You squeezed his hands, saying, “Eddie’s going to be thrilled to see you.”

He squeezed back as his expression softened, yet hardly shifted.

“Is he here?”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded. “He’s okay. He’s been asking about you.”

Wayne hummed, sounding pleased. “After that girl was found… Well, I’m sure you know by now. And with the trailer park done split in two, I’ve been staying at the Motel 6.”

“Of course, that makes sense.”

“This Henderson boy said Eddie was in the hospital when I dropped by the school on Saturday, but then that eruption happened.” He gave you a knowing look. “Course, the hospital didn’t have a record of Eddie being there.” He harrumphed and gently released your hands. “Then this morning, Agent Stinson, the one that put me up at the Motel 6, paid me a visit and told me about my nephew recuperating here.”

You glanced at Eddie’s bedroom window.

“Please, come in,” you said, pivoting to show him inside. “I’ll take you to him.”

“I first have a favor to ask.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Will you help this old man get a few things from the truck?”

You grinned.

“Absolutely.”

He led you to the back of the truck. You gasped a second time in so many minutes. Three guitar cases lay in the truck bed. You put a hand on your tight chest.

“I didn’t want to leave ‘em with no one at home,” said Wayne.

He’d never given up on Eddie. Like you, he’d known Eddie was innocent. His days must’ve been horrible, full of waiting and dread. You couldn’t imagine the stares and comments he must’ve gotten at work.

“—fit the amps, but I know these mean more.”

You nodded, feeling like a bobblehead doll as you blinked back tears.

“Whoa, hey now, don’t cry.”

You tried to reply you were fine, but the words wouldn’t come.

Wayne put a strong arm around your shoulders, grounding you. His faded denim jacket smelled of tobacco.

The guitars were just objects and could be replaced, of course, but Wayne was right: they meant something. You’d bet Eddie had resigned himself to replacing them. Coming to terms with that must’ve hurt.

You shook your head at the good fortune, then gave Wayne a smile. Now, Eddie wouldn’t have to go through that.

It took you a few tries, but you finally said, “He’s going to lose it when he sees you and these.”

“Eh, I reckon more for the guitars than me.”

You laughed as Wayne lowered the tailgate. He handed you the acoustic case and bossed around the two electrics. You closed the tailgate for him and led the way into the house. Television noise came from the open basement door.

In the living room, you and Wayne had a hushed conversation about leaving the guitars there. He wanted to surprise Eddie. You loved the idea and propped the acoustic against a sofa arm. Wayne added the electrics next to it before following you to the top of the stairs.

“Eddie?” you called.

“Yeah?”

“You have a visitor.”

“What? Who?”

You stepped to the side, giving Wayne access to the stairs. Eddie choked out something when Wayne was halfway down. You leaned on the doorframe, biting your grinning lip, waiting for their first exchange. However, it was quiet. You snuck a glance. Eddie’s arms were around Wayne, and Wayne’s around him. His fingers dug into Wayne’s jacket.

You closed the door to allow them privacy.

Taking a step towards the guitars, you remembered the groceries thawing in your car. That was unlocked. With the key in the ignition. And your purse in the passenger seat.

You dashed to the car and began unloading it. The kitchen counters filled with bags. Each trip obscured the counters until brown paper surrounded you.

By the time you finished stocking the refrigerator and pantry, Eddie and Wayne had emerged from the basement. Eddie’s excited voice came from the living room, making you smile. You padded to the doorway to watch the second reunion. Eddie knelt in front of the red guitar’s open case.

Wayne said to him the same thing he’d told you: he couldn’t abandon the guitars.

Wordlessly, Eddie nodded and stood. He hugged Wayne again, murmuring something into his shoulder. Wayne put a hand on the back of Eddie’s head and ruffled his hair as he replied. Eddie laughed with a sniffle.

You ducked your head and crossed your arms. If you saw him cry, you’d cry. Then Wayne would be stuck in a house of the emotionally compromised.

When Eddie and Wayne separated, you cleared your throat to make your presence known. Eddie beamed at you in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. Wayne was more restrained, but he appeared just as happy.

“Mr. Munson, would you like to stay for lunch?” you asked.

“I’d like that, but I can’t. The plant’s understaffed, and I’m workin’ a double.”

Eddie wilted, but you didn’t want him to give up hope. He needed something to look forward to.

You asked, “Maybe on a day off?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced at Eddie. “My Friday’s free.”

“Come for lunch,” said Eddie.

“Yeah, stay as long as you want. Stay for dinner.” Raising your eyebrows at Eddie, you said, “We can invite the rest of the party. Make it a potluck.”

“I think we better run that by Steve first.”

“Like he’ll refuse.”

Eddie conceded the point with an agreeable shrug.

To Wayne, he said, “Steve’s got cable downstairs. There’s at least one sports channel.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a good enough reason to return.”

Eddie barked a laugh and knocked his elbow against Wayne’s. He then turned to Wayne and perched his chin on the back of his hands, blinking owlishly.

“You mean my spectacular personality isn’t reason enough?”

Wayne said drily, “Your personality is a spectacle, alright.”

Eddie laughed again. Wayne’s eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips curved into a private grin.

After a moment, Wayne said, “Well, I best be off.”

“Thank you for coming by,” you said.

Eddie nodded.

“Thanks for everything.”

“Anytime.”

You heard the love in that one word. Eddie must’ve heard it as well, because his face softened. It was easy to forget his sharp smile and smart-ass remarks and big personality masked a tender heart.

As you thought it, you asked, “Do you have the phone number here?”

“No, ma’am.”

You hurried into the kitchen, found the pad of paper Steve used for the shopping list, and wrote the number. When you came out with a pad and pen, Wayne and Eddie stood in the foyer. You tore off the top sheet and asked for the motel’s number.

“Just in case plans change,” you said.

After trading numbers, you saw Wayne off. Eddie followed him down the front stairs while you remained in the doorway. Once in the truck, Wayne held up a hand in goodbye before reversing down the driveway.

As soon as Wayne’s truck was out of sight, Eddie brushed past you without meeting your eyes. You closed the door and trailed after him into the living room.

“You want to talk about this morning?”

“What’s there to talk about?” he asked, kneeling in front of the guitars and closing the red’s case.

“Well, geez, I don’t know.” You put your hands on your hips. “Maybe how you brushed me off?”

He laid the acoustic case flat and paused with his hands on top.

“I didn’t ‘brush you off.’ I didn’t want to talk about fucking Jason Carver, okay?”

“That wasn’t the point.”

“No, that is the point. He wouldn’t have targeted you if I’d left you alone from the start.”

You narrowed your eyes at his back. That was a crappy excuse. And still not the point.

“Why did you say it was good my parents had left town so I wouldn’t have to introduce you?”

“I don’t know, alright? Everything got screwed up.” His hands balled into fists. “I know part of it’s my fault.” He shook his head as his shoulders hunched. “I can’t undo it, so… It’s whatever.”

You huffed a breath through your nose.

“It’s whatever?” Letting your hands drop to your sides, you said, “Me being serious about you, about wanting my parents to know you, is not whatever.”

He muttered, “They wouldn’t have liked me, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but I’d make them respect my choice.” You tried to breathe with a too-tight chest. “Because I choose you. It sucks that doesn’t seem to mean a lot to you.”

You didn’t wait for a reply and headed into the kitchen. There were empty grocery bags to deal with. You folded and stacked them on the island while swallowing around the lump in your throat.

If Steve’s parents were anything like your own, there was a stash of empty grocery bags somewhere around here. You found a bag of bags in the pantry — something you’d missed a few times. Of course, you missed it. You’d missed plenty of things these past few days, evidently, but you wouldn’t cry over them. Not now. Not in Steve’s pantry. You added the new bags to the collection, then closed the pantry door.

You turned and startled at Eddie dawdling in the kitchen doorway.

“I choose you too, you know,” he said, fingers playing with nonexistent rings. “And it does mean a lot to me — that you’re serious about me. I’m serious about you, too.”

You nodded, voice constrained by the sudden stranglehold of too many emotions.

“I’m going to go upstairs now.”

You nodded again, though you didn’t like it.

He shifted from foot to foot before leaving the doorway. His faint footsteps disappeared from the first floor. All the while, you mentally screamed for him to come back. You didn’t need him to say more. He just needed to stay. Maybe to make lunch with you, though the idea of eating turned your stomach. However, you wanted to do something dumb, something mundane, with him, like make lunch and drink the cheap sodas you’d bought.

Instead, you trudged into the sunroom and flumped into one of the armless chairs.

[starvels]

starvels’ Cap-IronMan Event Recs for @cap-ironman Steve/Tony Fic Rec Week 2024

For Cap-Iron Man Event Recs, jump yourself into these varied bananza ball pits filled with hurt, comfort, fluff, angst, tropes, comic science and more! Please remember to leave a comment, add a kudos, hit a reblog on a fic post in order to show your gleeful appreciation of such nice balls.

Check out all of starvels’ Cap-IM 2024 Rec Lists [here].

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Apply Pressure by dirigibleplumbing @dirigibleplumbing

Tags: Established Relationship, Bondage, Rope Bondage, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Kink, Top Tony Stark, Sub Steve Rogers, Fluff, Nicknames, Curtain Fic Summary: Steve has trouble concentrating and clearing his mind. Tony and some rope are there to help out. Notes: Playful kink that draws you into the warmth of Steve and Tony's relationship like chocolate chips sinking into a gently churning ice cream.

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respiraro, si te videro by starvels

Tags: Canon Divergence, Secret Invasion, Post-Civil War, Fix-It, Director of SHIELD, Commander Rogers, Enemies to Friends, Skrull(s), Extremis, Savage Land, Temporary Amnesia, Sex Pollen, Trans Tony Stark, Rough Sex, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known, Transhumanism, Comic Book Science, Team Dynamics, Superhero Realism, Hurt/Comfort, Food as a Metaphor for Love, holy shit what's happened to Tony? Summary: Tony spins around and comes face to face with Natasha Romanova with a gun trained on him, Logan Howlett with one clawed arm out towards him and - worst, worst of all Steve Rogers. Tony stares at him, at this Skrull in full Commander of SHIELD regalia, looking at him with his deep blue eyes all wide and sincere and knows for sure that the Skrulls have found the way to beat him, because there’s no way he can look this Steve in his eyes and kill him. “Steve,” Tony breathes and then he cusses. Way to reveal your own weakness, numbnuts, Tony thinks furiously and that’s all the time he has before the Skrull raises its gun at him. Notes: A story as lush, dramatic, and CRASH-BANG-BOOM filled as the Savage Land itself. Complete with jokes at Steve expense and a canon-typical loss of clothing for Tony.

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a four-dimensional object by veslarkinson @vicarioussleep

Tags: Period-Typical Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Civil War, Transhumanism, Identity, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending Hurt/Comfort, Philosophy, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Attitudes, Injury, Carol Danvers & Tony Stark Friendship, Trans Carol Danvers, Computer Programming, format: computer code, Mental Instability, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Angry Steve Rogers, Christianity, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, self-destructive behaviour, Artificial Intelligence, Steve "why have you abandoned (me) your humanity" Rogers, very brief csa mention, Superhero Registration Act, Politics, Brain Damage, Sharing a Brain, Temporary Amnesia, Dark Reign, Tony Stark Whump, Heavy Angst, Mild Gore, Extremis, Homophobic Slurs semi-reclaimed Summary: The year is 1975: the stonewall riots were only six years ago, the CD has yet to be invented, and Tony Stark is taking his first steps into trans-humanism. >>initializing(extremis-setup)… Notes: Utterly compelling and delightfully unique. You WILL be dragged head first into this intricately coded maze and you WILL love it and live for it.

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two's company by welcoming_disaster @welcomingdisaster

Tags: Mentions of Laura Bush, Oral Sex, Idiots in Love, Affection, Sneaking Around, Closet Sex, Closeted Character, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Dirty Talk, Bad Dirty Talk Summary: Steve and Tony sneak a moment. The time and place are a little inopportune. Notes: ULTS WHITE HOUSE SEX. WITH FUN TWIST. SEND TEXT.

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Glass Gardens (The Witching Hour Remix) by Woad @tinctoriawoad

Tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Alternate Universe - Victorian, sanitarium, Psychological Horror, Possession, Supernatural Elements, Muteness, Semi-involuntary Detention, Abuse of Authority, Water Torture, ghost story, Victorian Norms Summary: The year is 1883. Spiritualism is at an all-time high, "taking the waters" is a popular cure-for-what-ails-you, and sanitariums offer retreats to restore the health. When Tony is shipped off to one, he is convinced his stay will be an utter waste of time. That is, until things take a disastrous turn, and Tony begins to doubt everything about himself. Notes: Exceptionally fascinating premise here, with a considered take and some ripping one liners that will linger like good cologne.

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[Art] Gift of Consequence by oluka (lomku) @oluka

Tags: Steve Rogers/Tony StarkSteve Rogers Tony StarkDragon Tony Stark Alternate Universe - Medieval Alternate Universe - Fantasy Summary: Art for the stevetony RBB 2024, paired with Kandisheek's Gift of Consequence Notes: A beautiful grand piece showcasing the best of a fantasy AU, with some fabulously golden nuggets of character details for both Steve and Tony!

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As Luck May Have It by CaughtAGhost (ghosthan) @ghosthan

Tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Tony Stark, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Sheriff Steve Rogers, Christmas, Fluff, Happy Ending, First Kiss, Canon-Typical Violence, One Shot, Human Disaster Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Feels, Getting Together, unestablished relationship, Blood and Injury Summary: T.S. MURDERED BY ASSHOLES CRSMS EVE 1872 Local drunk Tony Stark spends his Christmas Eve getting his ass kicked, and things look bleak. Will Sheriff Rogers be able to save the day in time for the Christmas celebration? Notes: A vibrant, immersive adaptation of the 1872 comics which includes all the great details from the pages you could want, but now with a hopeful, tender ending! What's better than this!

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[Art] Small Universe Stony Bingo by sheepl @somekindofsheepl

Tags: Venomverse, Earth-17084, Earth-11326, Tentacles, Body Horror Summary: Two small universes where Steve and Tony's lives are entangled. Notes: Stop! You will be arrested by these compositions and this gorey universe! Oof! Wow! More please!

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stop bath by starvels

Tags: Canon Divergence, Blackmail, Friends With Benefits, Internalized Homophobia, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Anal Sex, Light Masochism, Complicated Consent, Power Dynamics, Team Bonding, Gender Related, Queer Themes, honeypot mission, Rescue, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Homophobic Language, Body Dysphoria, Gun Kink, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Mentions of Cancer, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Developing Relationship, Anxiety Summary: It’s not complicated. One piece of paper. Short, to the point. Times New Roman. Repulsive. "Continue engagements with Tony Stark until further instructions." ‘Engagements.’ Such a pretty, innocuous term. ‘Until further instructions.’ Such a sweet, auguring threat. They don’t even have to say, or else. Steve gets the message: keep his private life private and his employment gainful by continuing to suck dick. Notes: Oh gay Ultimates Steve, we're really in it now. Tune into the Blackmail Channel to watch this one little paper unspiral Steve's reticent life.

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Give Up The Ghost by foldingcranes @foldingcranes

Tags: Post-Civil War, Canonical Character Death, Director Stark, Kink Meme Summary: Director Stark gets a late night visit. Notes: Oh what yonder yearnings does out guilt best brew? Every inch the frothy, wrenching sadness we want from Director Stark.

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Recursion by Missy_dee811 @laexploradoraaa

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Extremis, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Male-Female Friendship, Body Modification, Interviews, Alcoholic Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has Issues, POV Alternating, Hurt Tony Stark, Pepper Potts & Tony Stark Friendship, Suicidal Thoughts Summary: Tony finds himself at a crossroads when he receives a call from a long-time friend — Maya Hansen. Then, things take a sudden turn for the worse. Will Tony ever be the same? And more importantly, will Steve come to his aid? Tags: A keen take on Execute Program and all the mess that entails, that pulls you deep into the whirlpool of Tony's transhumanist transformation.

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All Good Things by snowynight

Tags: Character Study, 5 Things, Fluff, Geeky Summary: Five cult classics Tony introduces to Steve, or, the geeky indoctrination of Steve. Notes: Sweet and easy as a twirling cotton candy; let it melt on the tongue.

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Reconnection by Penumbren

Tags: Friendship, Angst, Challenge: Cap_Ironman Fic Exchange Summary: Sometimes it's the quiet moments that a friendship needs the most. Notes: Peeking through a small stained glass window and recognizing the tune you hear faintly on the wind, that's what we're doing here.

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the consonant i forget by starvels

Tags: Major Character Injury, Civil War, Amnesia, Character Study, Horrible Agonizing Betrayal, Canon Divergence, Extremis, Angst, Ambiguous/Open Ending Summary: The man who comes to see him in on the 9th day in the hospital is gaunt. Greasy. Less clean than everyone else who's trundled in, asking if Steve knows them and then lied about being disappointed when he’s said no. This man is a spindle. A man spun around too many times. Wind chapped full lips and scratchy threads of his haphazard beard peak over a strange metallic, full-bodied suit of armor that makes something behind Steve’s eyes hurt. He blinks them slowly at the man, just to see if that helps. It doesn’t. Notes: Like an emergency alarm in a hospital, this piece proffers things that should be and things that are worrying and things that require immediate and aggressive attention. Look closer to figure out which is which.

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Sky by resurrectedhippo @resurrectedhippo

Tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Dark Abuse, Violence, Hydra Steve Rogers Summary: For the prompt: “Hydra Cap/Tony non-con.” Notes: WYSIWYG for fics and what we see and get is horribly, precise, and wrenchingly clear here. Peep into the delicious dark!

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We'll Make Our Own Tradition (The Cap and Gown Remix) by wynnesome

Tags: Established Relationship, Identity Porn, but not the typical kind of ID porn, Roleplay, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Rimming, Oral Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Tony Stark's Red Thong of Justice, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Bliss, No Side Pairings, no infidelity Summary: It’s Steve’s and Tony’s anniversary. They have a date for dinner, but the workday comes first. Steve’s includes a very important business lunch. But the person who makes a beeline for him as he waits at the bar is not who he thought he'd be meeting… Notes: What fabulous fun, like hopping on a rollercoaster you've only heard described in the vaguest sense, you will swoop and whoop and grin in delight at the turns.

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trophy hunter by Red (S_Hylor) @s-hylor

Tags: Ultimates, Shameless Smut, Anonymous Sex, Hook-Up, Blow Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Hand Jobs, Anal Play, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Mentioned/Discussed Anal Fisting, Mentioned/Discussed Anal Sex, Face-Fucking Summary: If he had nothing to live for, he had nothing to lose. That was the excuse Steve gave himself when he made eye contact with the man he’d felt watching him for the past few minutes. There was no denying that the man was attractive, sitting at the adjacent side of the bar to Steve. Dark hair and bright blue eyes, mischievous smile framed by carefully trimmed facial hair. He eyed Steve with such blatant interest that Steve knew all he had to do was reflect some of that back at him, and then they could just go from there. Notes: Oh what a delicious premise we DO want to see played out in 20 different ways. This way is particularly fun in its grit and glam.

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It's Because I Need to, Not Because I Want To by Anon1Adult @anon1adult

Tags: First Time, Getting Together, Stripping, Crossdressing, Misuse of Science, Mutual Pining, Sex Pollen Summary: “So I’m learning forty-five minutes is about my max.” Tony said casually. Steve smirked, “Is this you asking to hold my hand?” “No this is me admitting I have a medical condition.” Tony replied reclined on the couch, kicking his now bare feet up on the coffee table. “Now get over here so I can hold your hand.” Or the one where the Avengers are going to leave street crime to Spider-Man because rolling around in the mud apparently makes you dirty. Notes: A great pace and enthusiastic superhero realism will have you hopscotching through this fun tale of needy, situationship comic shenanigans.

That’s all folks!

Thanks for reading and make sure to kudos and comments fics you explore! Fandom is a circle and we are all passing it forward.

[practically-an-x-man]

Francesca (Jimmy Luciano sidepiece)

Summary: On August 9th of 1915, a young man is shot and killed in the Tunnel of Love. For a hundred and nine years after that, he fights his way back.

Or, how Jimmy Luciano became a ghost.

Tags: Backstory, origin story, OC-centric, period-typical homophobia, major character death (I mean he's a ghost in the fic so-), title based on a Hozier song

Word Count: 4.1k

____

“Are you sure about this?”

“Please, my dear, I have a plan. An excellent plan, in fact.” James Luciano insisted, taking a few backwards strides to look at the young man walking just behind him. He couldn’t help but let his eyes trace down Robert’s figure, his slim frame only accentuated by the crisp gray waistcoat hugging his body. He made Jimmy feel underdressed - and that was saying quite a bit, when he was dressed up in his own right, with his best wool vest and his only sport coat around his shoulders.

He stumbled into someone behind him and quickly spun back around, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Sorry, so sorry,” he muttered with a sympathetic grimace, pretending to ignore the glare he received in turn. Even that small glimpse of conflict made something flinch, deep within him. He never enjoyed having anger turned his way. Mundane anger all-too-quickly became righteous anger, anger with purpose, even if that purpose was dreadfully misplaced. And he knew this world around him would be quick to find that purpose, if they learned of the company he kept. 

This plan of his was as dangerous as it was simple. 

And all for a kiss. All for something as ordinary, as common, as a kiss.

“Come now, Robby, we’re nearly there.” Jimmy said, doing his best to recover his energy. He’d been living in this world all his life, after all. It wasn’t about to change. He could let it beat him down, or he could try to seek happiness where he could.

So he moved ahead, weaving through the crowds until he found himself before the Tunnel of Love. Waiting there were two young women, smoothing their skirts and making idle chatter until Jimmy approached them. 

“Good afternoon, ladies, you’re both looking lovely today.” he said, greeting them each with a kiss on the cheek. 

“Oh, like you’d know.” one of them chirped, smiling back at him. Jimmy scoffed, pressing his fingers to his chest as if wounded. 

“Please, doll, I do still know a beautiful woman when I see one. And I seem to find myself in front of two of New York’s finest.”

They both reddened at that, a demure and almost trained gentlewoman’s flush high on their cheeks. Marie waved a hand at herself, a theatrical swoon to match Jimmy’s own grandiose compliments. Dorothy wasn’t so easily swayed, and merely reached out to touch his forearm. 

“You know, there’s only one reason you aren’t already married, Lucy.”

James Luciano chuckled at that old nickname and offered her a brief shake of his head.

“It’s a fairly significant reason, my darling. Thank you both again for all your help.”

“Oh, sure. It’s no trouble.”

That was an understatement, of course. If this didn’t pan out, it could mean trouble for all four of them. Already Jimmy found himself feeling faintly guilty for the level of danger he could be placing two lovely young women - two of his closest friends, one of whom was married with a child of her own - into, just for the sake of a single stolen moment. This was trouble, quite significant trouble, and each of them knew it. He admired their bravery and their generosity in great and equal measure. 

“Er- hello,” Robert said, finally catching up to the group of them and offering his hand out to shake, “I’m Rob. Friend of James’. Pleasure to meet you both.” 

“This is Dorothy and Marie, my coworkers from the aviary,” Jimmy said as the introductions were shared. He waggled his fingers playfully in the direction of his partner. “Looking to help a couple lovebirds get together.”

“And this involves Coney Island?” the other man asked, glancing around at the crowds and attractions around them. The sheer volume of people looking about made Jimmy a little nervous, but nobody even spared them a glance. This was good. Perhaps things would go smoothly indeed.

Jimmy lifted his hands towards the building in front of them, a tall hut with a triangular roof. He supposed it was made to look like a mountain, like the ride had been carved into rock. The entrance was framed with irregular, stony pillars, and a steady flow of people (nearly all of them couples) trickled in.

“The Tunnel of Love,” he said, “Six minutes of beautiful romantic solitude, free from any prying eyes or expectations. It’s simple, really. You’ll go in first with the lovely Dorothy, and then I will follow you with my dear Marie. There’s a concrete lip around the central channel, and once we’re past the lights I’ll simply hop ahead and join you, and Dorothy will step aside. Then we merely have to remember to switch back before the ride is through.”

“This feels… elaborate.” Robert muttered. He passed one hand over his hair, once elegantly coiffed but now mussed and windswept from the coastal breeze. Jimmy had the sudden image of running his own fingers through those loose blond curls, and yearning gripped him like a hand around his heart. It took a Herculean effort to shrug it off.

“Oh, it’s not so complicated. And you get the easy job.” he replied with a brilliant grin, “I’m the only one who needs to get his socks wet.”

“I don’t know, James… I don’t trust this.”

“You don't trust me?” Jimmy reeled, placing a hand theatrically over his heart. Robert just rolled his eyes. 

“You know that's not what I mean. I mean I don't trust this… this plan of yours.” he said, “Why don't we just walk over to the carnival booths, and I’ll win you a prize, and then we can take our affections back to your apartment? Somewhere… private?”

“Because I don’t-” he blurted, then huffed and corrected himself, “Because for one thing, my neighbors would have many questions, and they would not all be pleasant. And for another, I don't want to leave this behind closed doors all the time. I mean…”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck, mildly embarrassed at his outburst. Yet still no eyes had drifted their way. There was too much uproar all around him, all the cheers and screams and roving conversations of the amusement park.

“I know this is still hidden, this idea of mine, but at least it's better.” Jimmy continued, and spread his arms at the spectacle around them, “This is Coney Island! It's one of the things people love about New York City! Not just some poor bird-lover’s apartment in the nobody-cares corner of Brooklyn, if you catch my meaning.”

“I do. I just…” Robert responded, his fingers fiddling with the dark frames of his glasses. It was a nervous habit of his, had been for as long as Jimmy had known him. “I just worry, James. There are a lot of people here.”

“A lot of people who aren’t even looking our way!” he protested, “Robby, please… Six minutes. I’ve thought this through. It’ll work.”

He was silent for a long time. Jimmy wrung his hands together, ducking his eyes as he waited for his partner’s response. 

“Alright.” he finally said, and Jimmy’s heart soared. Robert nodded, then offered his elbow to the women before him. “Dorothy, if you wouldn’t mind.”

He was racked with anxiety the whole walk into the Tunnel of Love. There was no reason for such fear, he told himself: he walked with a beautiful woman on his arm, as did Robert ahead of him, as did many of the couples forming the queue behind him. They appeared ordinary, without suspicion. As was the plan. 

Jimmy watched as Robert, acting the part of the perfect gentleman as he always did, helped Dorothy gently into the floating raft. Her balance faltered once, and he steadied her with a hand against her lower back - not too low, but low enough to catch her. Once again, Jimmy found himself frozen with longing. He wanted so badly to feel Robert’s hands on him the same way, even just the softest brush of his fingers. 

But he was forced to pull himself out of his thoughts, as their raft floated into the dark and the next approached. Jimmy stepped inside easily and offered Marie his hands, becoming a pillar of balance for her to navigate her skirts and find a seat inside the raft. The employee managing the ride gave their raft a gentle push, and the two of them floated into the dark. 

The tunnel was dim but not impossibly so, illuminated by lanterns at regular intervals affixed into the walls. The sounds of softly-moving water echoed across the concrete, covering whatever sounds may have come from the rafts ahead. There was, as Jimmy had surmised, a narrow stone lip at either side of the central channel, perhaps meant for workers to walk along as they lit the lanterns or rescued stuck rafts.

He waited perhaps a moment longer than he should have, until the noise and warmth of the entrance had fully faded and the air grew cool around him, and then Jimmy stood up and carefully stepped onto that slim concrete ledge. 

The floats did not move especially fast, and he caught up to the raft ahead in only a half-dozen brisk steps. Jimmy crouched, offering Dorothy a hand for support as she too stood up and strode onto the stone barrier. So far, it all appeared to be moving along as planned. He hadn’t even gotten his socks wet.

“Thank you, dear,” Jimmy whispered, and kissed her on the cheek. It was about the only place he’d ever kissed a woman, a simple peck on the cheek in greeting or in thank-you. Little did he know, it would be the last kiss James Luciano would have in his life.

He stepped into the raft, nearly falling as it tipped in the water. Just as his balance began to list a hair too far, Robert grabbed his hand and tugged him fully into the boat. Jimmy stumbled, his knees knocking painfully into the wooden seat of the raft, but already he found himself grinning. 

This would work. A kiss in the dark, a single moment stolen amidst the dangers of the society around them, sealed within stone and rippling water… this would work. 

And so he allowed himself to give into those simple wants, to run his hands through his lover’s hair and pull him in closer. Even now, he wished these moments didn’t have to be so hidden. He wished he could woo and court and marry like any of those couples out on the street, any of those in the rafts behind them. He wished a great many things, but above all he wished he didn’t have to hide his affections. He had so much love for the world. 

“I have wanted this…” Jimmy sighed, now closer to his partner than he’d ever been before, or would ever be again, “For a very long time.”

And the world flashed bright before him.

At first it was only a sound, like the roar of a great beast. It echoed through the tunnel, that sound, accompanied by a gleam of blinding light that caught the water below. Jimmy flinched without knowing what it was he’d flinched at, only that it was something loud and terrible. 

Then it came again, like thunder and lightning, and this time he was thrown to the bottom of the raft. The pain came late, but it came all at once, alongside a fountaining spray of liquid. He took a breath and found himself choking, spitting salty copper onto his own clothing.

He heard a shout, perhaps his name, but the sound seemed to come through a deep fog. It was followed by another, sharp and cruel and echoing down from the other end of the tunnel. He could not make out the words. 

He had the sense that he was dying. He’d been shot, and he was bleeding- covered in it, doused in it, and it was still coming - and the world was beginning to fade in a way that was somehow both terrifying and comforting. Even the pain had dampened, though it sparked back to life the instant he tried to move.

Screaming erupted above him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even lift his head, helplessly splayed across the bottom of the raft. He couldn’t see his attackers. He couldn’t see the girls. He couldn’t see Robert. 

Two more flashes, perhaps more, lit up the tunnel. Jimmy’s thoughts crept along, slowing in time with his heartbeat. He was suddenly certain, dreadfully certain, that he would not see the sun again.

James Aaron Luciano died at 4:28 PM on the ninth of August, 1915. 

He returned at 4:29.

____

At first, he wasn't so much as a whisper. He was merely intent, a concentrated bubble of energy like a star from the cosmos.

Help me.

The crowds bypassed him. Their eyes never turned his way. If he was lucky, extraordinarily lucky, one would pass through the invisible web of what now made up his being, and they would pause, and a cry would spring up from him with all the hope that he’d this time manage to find his voice-

Help me. 

But no voice ever came. The one who’d passed through would shudder and leave, and soon they’d forget, and he was once again left alone. 

Help me.

His name. He'd have to start with his name.

____

His name came to him in time, and from there he became a voice on the wind. A man’s voice, he remembered that much, flat and cutting all at once because he’d lived in New York his whole life and never wanted to leave. 

He still didn't want to leave. He knew that much, and very little more. 

But he knew his name was James.

“My friends- I need to find my friends. Robert, Dorothy, Marie-”

Now a few more of them would pause, or turn to their friends and ask if they’d spoken. It still wasn’t enough. They still moved on within moments, and the strange whispering voice became nothing but a story to frighten their children. 

“I need a hospital, please. I think I'm bleeding. I think I'm- I think I'm hurt, badly.”

He had the sense that time had passed. He didn’t know how long. But the booths had been repainted, the barkers had aged or been replaced, the mingling crowds now wore strange and unusual fashions. 

“Help me. Please. I need your help.”

But it wasn’t enough. It still wasn’t enough. 

____

He scraped together something of a body, something visual. It wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t quite human. 

His hands glowed blue like the base of a flame. Even when he peered at them from only inches away, the details were fuzzy. This wasn’t right. He knew his body. He knew there should have been a freckle on the back of his left hand, just between the second and third knuckles. He knew there should have been a small scar at the base of his right forearm, a little divot in the flesh he’d once earned from a particularly ornery African Grey. He knew his skin should have been pale, so pale one could see the faint blue outlines of his veins through his flesh, so pale his knuckles and palms were a lively pinkish-red.

But instead he was blue, with all his intricacies smudged away like wet ink across a page.

It still wasn’t enough. The onlookers saw him, but pretended they didn’t. He only caught so much as a glance before they ducked his eyes, muttered and whispered and steered their friends far away. Because he was now something else, something other, something unexplainable. 

Because he was no longer truly human, at least in their eyes. 

He had grown separate from the world he loved so much. Able to watch from afar, but no longer deemed worthy to participate.

There had to be more than this. He’d scrape it up from the lingering fragments of his soul if he had to. 

Something had to be keeping him here for a reason. He couldn’t be doomed to wander. 

Could he?

____

Closer. He was closer. 

He’d found the details, little by little. Now he could look at his hands and see the pale crescents at the base of his fingernails, the bones of his knuckles pressing against the skin when he closed a fist, the faint dark hair dusted across his hands and forearms. He could glance down and see the knitted wool fibers of his vest, though the fabric was marred by thick red blood. 

And he remembered more. He remembered his life. His name was James Aaron Luciano. Jimmy. Lucy. He was born in the summer of the year 1882, to an ironworker father and a seamstress mother. He spent most of his life working for the New York Zoo, cooped up in the aviary with all manner of exotic birds. He’d never much fancied women. 

Finally people began to look his way, and this was a relief. Many of them grew frightened when they saw the wound in his chest - still gushing blood, no matter how he pleaded for it to vanish - and so he learned to disappear when their eyes fell on him. He’d never wanted to frighten people. He loved people. He always had. 

Through his questioning, and a great deal of trial and error, he learned that it was now the year of 1941. If he’d lived, he would be nearing sixty. Somehow he’d lost nearly thirty years, in all the time it took to pull himself back together again. It hadn’t felt that long. But then again, time had a habit of falling away from him, these days.

He asked about his friends, about Robert, yet nobody seemed keen on giving him a straight answer. Perhaps they’d been forgotten by time. Perhaps that was a good thing. History always seemed to remember those who died, rarely those who lived. 

So he sought out the ones who looked like his Robert - if not him then a child, a grandchild - and directed his questions there. Many of them were handsome men, and as his questions trickled away into grim certainties, his questions grew into flirtations in turn. After all, it wasn’t as if they could shoot him again. He’d already been ripped from this earth, and he trusted that there was no human force that could draw him away from it a second time. 

For a while, he kept track of the time through a girl. She would come in the afternoons, once a week, and would sit on the beach with a book. Jimmy missed reading. In his life, he could hardly be seen without a book in his hands. And though he’d tried to find that passion again, even in just the newspapers dropped by passers-by, his fingers simply fell through the pages. He had no weight, no solidity. He still did not belong to this world. 

But the girl would read aloud to herself on those quiet afternoons. She had a stutter, a bad one, and the doctor had prescribed her a healthy dose of Charlotte Brontë to overcome it. At first Jimmy would stand behind her, invisible and intangible, and peer at the pages over her shoulder. Yet he quickly found that he could complete a page in much the same time as it took her to get through a paragraph, and this left him waiting for quite long stretches of time, and so eventually he chose to merely sit beside her and hear the story through her young and stumbling voice. 

He never learned her name, and she never even knew he was there with her. She grew older, her stutter much better, her visits less frequent, but he still grew to treasure them either way. She was his one source of stories, at least until his own fingers could find the page again.

This was better. If it weren’t for the way he still floated through the world like a secret, and the way that time seemed to have lost its grip on him, he’d feel almost human.

Almost. 

____

Finally he bridged that final gap. Finally his feet touched down on the boards underneath him, and his steps clacked and echoed like all the others around him. Finally his fingers fell solid against the page of a newspaper, the wooden frame of a carnival booth, the hand or forearm of an attractive man. 

He felt none of it, but he no longer passed through. That was about the best he could ask of himself. It had taken long enough just to get this far.

He still wandered. He still made his best efforts to charm the young men he found walking alone through the theme park. Something within him, something deep and primal and inexplicable, told him these actions might someday be worth something. It hadn’t happened yet, and perhaps it never would, but it filled a few of those empty spaces.

Years passed. Sometimes he still asked for the date, and was surprised to learn that over a century had passed since the final moment of his life. He was both aware of it and wasn’t, in a strange way - it felt like a long time, but perhaps not that long. His whole existence seemed to have boiled down to a set of paradoxes. He was human but wasn’t. Noticed but ignored. Forever alive yet perpetually dead. 

And both aware of time and always reminded of how it passed him by. 

But he still clung to humanity with an iron grip. He wasn’t ready to leave them yet. He wasn’t even sure he could.

2024. A hundred and nine years. A world he’d never have seen if not for this afterlife- and there was something beautiful in that, yes. His broken heart was warmed at the sight of the summertime parades, rainbow cloth hanging in every window and lovers of all forms having the courage to walk together in the streets. Perhaps this was what the Good Lord meant to give him, placing him in this afterlife for a hundred and nine long years: a glimpse at the world he’d once only dreamed would be possible. 

It wasn’t his world. He could only watch it pass by around him. But at least he hadn’t faded into the cosmos without knowing this world could in fact be real.

His feet took him through the crowds, past the Ferris Wheel and the Cyclone and that infernal Tunnel of Love until he found himself amidst the rows of carnival games. Stuffed toys smiled at him from hooks along each colorful booth. He’d always liked those little trinkets. They had… personality.

A low swear drew his eye, and Jimmy looked over just in time to see a plastic ring ricocheting off the grid of glass bottles inside the booth. The gentleman who threw it - tall, bespectacled, wearing a jacket with an interesting logo on the sleeve - muttered something under his breath and fidgeted with the remaining two rings in his hand. 

His second effort was just as disastrous, but it made Jimmy smile from afar. Robby had always been awful at these little games too. For all his posturing that he’d win Jimmy a prize, he only ever walked away with lighter pockets and nothing to show for it.

Jimmy found himself approaching. There was something interesting about this one, something that drew him in like even the others had not. He wasn’t sure what precisely it was, or if it was simply a projection of his ongoing loneliness. 

Nobody looked his way as he leaned against the booth. The young gentleman tossed another ring, still without success. Without comment, the barker scooped up the rings and returned them for another go-around. Jimmy had the sense that he’d been waiting here a while, tossing rings for no prize simply to pass the time. Maybe he was waiting for a loved one to catch back up. Maybe it wasn’t worth extending his efforts at charm. 

But he wanted to try. He wanted it more than he’d wanted much of anything in this afterlife. This new drive almost surprised him. He felt more alive than he had in over a century. 

Jimmy reached up, pointing towards the rows of plush purple teddy bears over his head. Each one was only about as big as his hand, some of them leaking cottony stuffing from split seams. The gentleman turned his head- and stopped, fixed his eyes pointedly forwards. 

So he’d heard the stories, then.

But James Luciano had no desire to vanish. Not now. This time he wanted to be seen. This time he wanted to be known. 

“These little guys are cute, don’t you think?”

[cinematicnomad]

the terror fitzier fic recs below the cut for @skylessnights

this far from heaven by 5runner5 (1/1 | 10k+ | Ex) fitzier; slow burn; missing scenes; masturbation; hurt/comfort; getting together

this man—this irritable drunk who apparently saw nothing of worth whatsoever in james—was a sad, far cry from the man he had imagined, when he’d first thrilled at reading the name crozier in dispatches.

forged in the ice by captaincrozier (28/28 | 97k+ | M) fitzier; canon divergence; fix-it (of sorts); secret relationship; canon typical violence

something was forged in that arctic ice, something crozier will carry with him always, something that gave him hope, and the strength to get home. it was love... but the moment of its existence was cruelly brief.... and what is he without it now? haunted by and faithful to its memory, he tries to carry on, but how does one continue when faced with its ghost, every day?

mirror, mirror by palpalou (2/2 | 26k+ | Ex) fitzier; canon divergence; sick fic; misunderstandings; getting together

in which francis flatters james back to health, without noticing how hard he's flirting, actually. [for the terror own language fest, english in chapter II]

sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me. by gwerfel, kt_fairy (19/19 | 85k+ | M) fitzier; past francis/sir james; canon divergence; post-canon fix it; slow burn

they came upon a furrow in the landscape, too shallow to be called anything but a scrape, and all stopped in their tracks. there were indeed men. a crowd of them, walking and talking or sprawled upon the ground, not raving or twitching or gurgling foul smelling blood. they were in appalling condition though, ross could tell even from this distance, but they were still men. a figure stepped towards ross' party, and he would recognize that damned hat and the way hands were tucked up high into greatcoat pockets anywhere. he scrambled with the harness, throwing it off and taking off in a stumbling, inelegant dash across the shingle. "ross!" he heard francis gasp just before he collided with him, holding his dear friend in an embrace that nearly sent them both crashing to the ground. OR ross arrives in time, wounds are still open, and the risky business of having survived is navigated. the arctic does not let you out of its grasp with a wave and a goodbye.

untitled (perfect lovers), 2019, mixed media, london by caravaggiosbrushes (8/8 | 70k+ | Ex) fitzier; au–modern setting; au–artists; enemies to lovers; self-inflicted wounds 

sometimes there is nothing pretty in art. when francis crozier, a conceptual artist with a long and successful career, is invited to the franklin art gallery to put up a solo exhibition of his artworks, the last thing he expects is to find james fitzjames, performer artist and Instagram phenomenon, there, ready to work with him.

penumbra by crafterofwords (23/23 | 84k+ | Ex) fitzier; francis/sophia; canon divergence; period typical homophobia; angst with a happy ending

captain francis rawdon moira crozier and commander james fitzjames, of the royal navy, have survived their harrowing experience in the frozen wasteland of the arctic circle. a safe return to london has been these men's only desire through the very long nights in the arctic, so it is with confusion and discouragement that they find their homecoming has left them wanting. haunted by the memories and knowledge of horrors beyond the scope of what most men can bear, will they be able to find happiness, despite being given all they thought they'd ever wanted?

till human voices wake us by ktula (1/1 | 14k+ | Ex) fitzier; canon divergence; flatmates; repression; trauma recovery; tenderness

“thank you for last night,” james says, because it’s easier to say that than it is to say what he’s actually thinking. “i wasn’t…you’re welcome,” francis says, his gaze going to the sideboard a moment before re-focusing on james. “did it help?” “yes,” james lies. the second batch of nightmares, after all, hadn’t been francis’ fault any more than the first ones had been.

when all the world shall melt by neverfaraway (8/8 | 49k+ | Ex) fitzier; canon divergence; somebody lives/not everyone dies; fix-it; pining 

i’ll not have a picture, he thinks, gazing grimly at james’ drawn, damaged face. i’ll not have a miniature to tuck inside my breast pocket, or a sketch made on a winter’s evening by the fireside. it will be my own burden to remember him, until such a time as this cursed land takes me, too. twenty five men return to england. for francis, this means making a poor job of keeping james from scuttling his career, and working out what a sea captain might do with himself in the absence of a ship.

de remedio amoris by crownlessliestheking (1/1 | 14k+ | Ex) fitzier; past/background francis/sir james; canon divergence; introspection; pining

francis has always been a grasping thing. covetous to the last, drenched in vice, and gripping tight to whoever—whatever—is closest, be it james ross or sophia or the the neck of a bottle. or all three. now, there is james fitzjames.

a moon-blanched land by wildcard_47 (10/10 | 44k+ | Ex) fitzier; canon divergence; sharing a bed; hurt/comfort; retirement; pining

almost a year after their return to england, francis crozier is tired of london society and tired of fighting an inexplicable restlessness. when given the chance to move to a seaside cottage with his former second, james fitzjames, how can he refuse?

so much spring by icicaille (1/1 | 17k+ | Ex) fitzier; canon divergence; emotional hurt/comfort; angst with a happy ending; pining 

in the half-year since their return, francis had become aloof, impassive, withdrawn. there was no logic to this strange metamorphosis. at greenhithe, francis had promised to look after him. had told james: come find me. yet francis had never been further out of reach. on a cold spring day in 1849, francis drops everything and flees london for his sister's farm in ireland. james, hurt and hungry for answers, gives chase.

what ice does by what_alchemy (4/4 | 44k+ | Ex) fitzier; canon divergence; internalized homophobia; sharing a room; slow burn

captain parry’s third arctic expedition takes a year longer to prepare than planned. it leaves in 1825 with ship’s boy james fitzjames aboard HMS hecla. master's mate francis crozier takes him under his wing. this changes everything.

a pair of finches in a brass cage by fiendlikequeen (1/1 | 5k+ | M) fitzier; unrequited francis/sir james; canon divergence; POV sir james; accidental voyeurism

james clark ross brought francis crozier back from the arctic, but he finds francis a changed man—perhaps the most striking change being francis's constant companion, james fitzjames. james discovers, only partly by accident, the true nature of the relationship between francis and fitzjames.

i'll describe the way i feel, weeping wounds that never heal by velocity_owl87 (8/8 | 26k+ | T)  fitzier; canon divergence; hurt/comfort; career ending injuries; recovery; introspection

by sheer blind luck ross manages to find the remaining members of the franklin expedition, many of whom are at death's door. one of these being commander fitzjames and the main concern of crozier, whom ross judges far changed in ways he can't begin to understand. he offers his friend and fitzjames a place to recover while francis faces both external conflicts and comes to realisations about his life, his ambitions...And the person he wants to have with him for the rest of his life. all the while fitzjames struggles with coming to terms with lingering injuries, the ordeal of being known, and the possibility of finally getting his heart's desire.

trafalgar, happier by fiendlikequeen (1/1 | 17k+ | Ex) fitzier; francis/sir james; canon divergence; jealousy; accidental voyeurism; angst with a happy ending

james fitzjames has decided that he is perfectly ambivalent about death— provided he may die with francis crozier by his side. but when james clark ross arrives with both a rescue party and competing affections for francis, things change.

the devils before us by masterofallimagination (6/6 | 42k+ | T)  fitzier; canon divergence; somebody lives/not everyone dies; slow burn; pining

after five years in the arctic, francis and james return to england and begin the long journey home.

starcross by reinetta (1/1 | 17k+ | Ex)  fitzier; au–historical; au–regency; misunderstandings; enemies to friends to lovers

“there is barely a ribbon or a feather or a scrap of silk left this side of exeter.” “no woman under thirty is left unmoved,” tom said, grinning around the stem of his pipe. “even our essie is taken up with the idea!” esther’s dark eyes were dancing in the firelight. “though she is far too young to think of marrying at present—least of all to mr. james fitzjames.”

sleeping felt like lies by the_ocean_weekender (2/2 | 41k+ | T) fitzier; canon divergence; flatmates; depression; angst with a happy ending

escaping the ice is more down to sheer dumb luck than any happenstance of sight, divine intervention, or the not-insignificant amount of skill their crews bring to the occasion, but they all get out alive (bar unfortunate souls sir john and cornelius hickey, whose deaths are viewed by many as, contrarily, rather fortunate.) now, in london, pressed by commander fitzjames to saving their navy half-pay by sharing rooms together, crozier is struggling to return to normality. it would help, he admits begrudgingly, if he could tell the difference between dreams blessed/cursed by the sight and just good old trauma-induced nightmares. and if he hadn’t started to develop feelings for the man who, even ridden with scurvy, still deserved the title ‘handsomest man in the royal navy’.

never seek him, defiantly, at night by veganthranduil (1/1 | 17k+ | M) fitzier; canon divergence; slow burn; bunkmates; recovery; pining; alcoholism 

“the loss of a ship is a small price to pay for the completion of the passage, wouldn’t you say?” james said, employing his best smile. make it look easy, make it look painless, and people would gladly follow you—he’d learnt that early on. “well i’d not thought to see it,” said sir john, looking between the two of them. “if both of you are of one mind, there must be some truth to it. very well.” he clapped his hands together. “francis, james, the two of you can figure out the logistics. i’ll inform the men after david young’s funeral service. begin preparations immediately.”

to be made whole again by 5runner5 (10/10 | 29k+ | Ex) fitzier; canon divergence; eating disorder; survivor guilt; recovery; nightmares

james bit into a laden slice of toast with the undamaged side of his mouth. “i thought we agreed that thinking was very dangerous,” he said, and though his voice was light francis could feel a weight behind it. it was a weight made up of sleepless nights and crying jags; of francis punching a solid wall and of james shouting himself hoarse; of the unbearable social calls and wrenching letters and pitying looks which they could not avoid. they carried a great many heavy things with them, now. london, 1848: francis and james try to put themselves back together.

each mortal thing by jouissant (6/6 | 26k+ | M) fitzier; canon divergence; friends to lovers; gender identity; the dress

truth is a concept with which james fitzjames has been variously acquainted.

pressure ridge by alitneroon (8/8 | 18k+ | Ex) fitzier; canon divergence; missing scenes; POV alternating; happy ending 

here, so far away from the world, it felt as though consequences didn’t exist. he’d already been through so much with the men, he almost imagined that they could know about this too and understand, that it wouldn’t matter. despite everything, the bleakness of the landscape and the food that was slowly killing them, francis managed to find a moment or two of happiness when he was with james.

SWIPE RIGHT (or: THE TINDER AU) by caravaggiosbrushes (2/2 | 29k+ | Ex) fitzier; au–modern setting; POV francis; falling in love; author james; fluff

francis is 51, single, almost two years sober. he has a nice job, a dog, and a tinder profile he doesn’t use that much. one night, he decides to give the app another try. the rest is, as they say, history.

between the pain and the treasure by mysleepyrambles (2/2 | 22k+ | M) fitzier; canon divergence; hopeful ending; slow burn; mutual pining; fix-it

with sir john wilfully blind to the danger they are in, francis takes matters into his own hands.

death is a sailing ship by maleann (7/7 | 27k+ | M) fitzier; canon compliant; canon-typical violence; afterlife; POV james; body horror

james had died knowing that his heart, the core of his very being that no biographer would ever know, would carry on in francis crozier. would be protected, cherished even, because francis deemed him worthy of such care. oh, how he had loved francis then. he had been at peace with this being his last living thought. it’s his only thought now. in this undead life, his love has nowhere to go. james fitzjames wakes up in the afterlife. it looks strangely similar to his cabin on erebus.

one fast move or i’m gone by cosmogram (3/3 | 25k+ | Ex) fitzier; unrequited james/dundy; POV dundy; au–modern setting; au–academia

in a lifetime of unsubtleties, the affair with crozier is james’s worst. crozier’s hand resting on james’s lower back, there for all to see. crozier’s fingers nudging gently at james’s shirtcuffs when they stood around at receptions; crozier’s pale eyes going soft and foolish when james entered the room. sometimes simply crozier’s nod, sharp and proprietary, as though to say get upstairs, get in my office, close the door—as if the rest of them were not right there. or, the one where james and dundy are bright young things (baby post-docs) in english literature, and there’s a cranky new professor in town...

let the river rush in, not wash away by kt_fairy (4/4 | 27k+ | Ex) fitzier; canon divergence; established relationship; crossdressing; internalized homophobia

“it’s not something you wish known when you look like i do, i have learnt. ‘handsomest man in the royal navy’ feeling…” he shot a look at francis before bowing his face towards his teacup. “i had enough on the line, with my parentage, without everyone guessing how...how fine i felt in that dress. how soft and light and bright i felt, playing the very opposite of all i try to be.” or most people come home, boundaries are set, james (eventually) gets a dress.

let us live now / only this by furiously, ilcardinalecheballa (5/5 | 25k+ | T)  fitzier; canon divergence; slow burn; mutual pining; flatmates; friends to lovers

“i've put in for another commission.” james' voice was perfectly ordinary: so much so, in fact, that francis was sure, for the space of two blissful seconds, that he must have misheard. francis crozier and james fitzjames are alive. they are home. so are most of their men. but coming home—coming home together—is a more complicated proposition than it had at first glance appeared. then james' career comes to call.

'tis past, and so am i by glassessay (1/1 | 26k+ | T) fitzier; time travel fix-it; everyone lives/nobody dies (eventually); POV james

james fitzjames dies as francis cries above him, bleeding out of too-old wounds and thinking if only we had known. he opens his eyes in his cabin.

seen by ktula (9/9 | 97k+ | Ex) fitzier; au–modern setting; BDSM; slow burn; author francis; explicit sexual content

against his better judgement, francis crozier goes to a kink convention in canada to promote his new book. it's the dead of winter, and he has a vague suspicion he should have stayed home. then he meets james fitzjames, and confirms his suspicion is correct.

paper boats by Kt_fairy (4/4 | 25k+ | M) fitzier; pre-canon; canon divergence; gender identity; period typical attitudes; the dress

james did not feel quite like himself, dressed up like a sailor. and, strangely, feeling unlike himself was rather satisfying. he supposed it was all the change going on. in a few days he would step onto the pyramus and begin his life at sea, in the hope it was vast and varied enough that it contained a place where someone like him might be able to be honest about themselves, and still live a good life. or james fitzjames goes to sea, finds a place for himself, then finds a way to be himself.

rotten work by for_autumn_i_am (1/1 | 26k+ | Ex) fitzier; au–modern setting; coworkers; pining; misunderstandings; enemies to friends to lovers

james fitzjames, COO of erebus voyages, has a tragic crush on his straight colleague, francis crozier. (well. he thinks francis is straight.) there’s no way his tender feelings will ever be returned, is there?

don’t you (forget about me) by soft_october (1/1 | 6k+ | G) fitzier; canon divergence; POV sir james; outsider POV; misunderstandings; secret relationship

all oddities were temporary anyway! they were going home, francis would be well again, the enterprise would soon return to england, and there would be a farce of a court martial before a knighthood for francis and an easy retirement. and as for fitzjames…well, fitzjames would be reassigned, of course, continue his meteoric rise within the ranks of the navy. he would send a suitable number of letters to francis from somewhere exotic and warm before the draw of newer company turned his thoughts away from the arctic, and those who came with it. after rescuing the remnants of the franklin expedition from the ice, ross would prefer everything go back to normal. it doesn't.

some unknown tropical bird by hauntinghouses (1/1 | 4k+ | T) fitzier; canon divergence; ghosts; supernatural elements; fix-it; angst w/ a happy ending

even after returning to england, francis crozier is haunted by the past.

[rensouli]

Paragraph Prompt #3 - "Olive Trees"

(Credit for the prompt goes to Aurelia once again. Thank you!)

[This story contains the closest thing to "period-typical homophobia" that I think I've written of late, and it's still only a brief implication.]

Winter had departed the countryside at last, and through the window he could see the gardens in abundant bloom. The blazing sunset illuminated all beneath it, making the landscape outside the villa look like a painting by one of the revered master artists in Florence. Far from here, somewhere in the vast distance, the peasants would be returning home from their work. They would eat their modest evening meals, chatter amongst themselves about their mundane lives, and bicker with their wayward children before heading off to sleep in humble beds. Such would be their lives until the grim day of their funerals dawned.

     Voldo breathed a sigh. Even now, amidst all this luxury, his thoughts had traveled back to the circumstances of his birth. He should be grateful for his new life…and he was! Nary a day passed when he wasn’t tempted to kiss his master’s golden buckles as thanks for what he’d been granted. Rightfully so, given his station as a servant in such a proper, prosperous home. Still, his traitorous heart craved more, more still. He gripped a bundle of his recently cropped dark locks with a fist, relishing the stinging protest from his scalp.

     No, he wouldn’t pull any of his hair out this time. Doing that had forced Master’s hand last week, and the barber had only just arrived and departed yesterday. But today was Giovedi. How fitting, for this tidy little drama to play out in his thoughts! He breathed through gritted teeth.

     What right, what divinely given privilege, did Master Vercci have to tease him so? Love betwixt men was not something prized as a virtue by the Church, but every man of sense saw that the rich across the city-states were afforded far more leniency than the average fearful peasant could ever dream of. Besides, Voldo had learnt from his time aboard ship that there were places the eyes of judgement never beheld, whether through carelessness or willful apathy. And though he’d held conflicting thoughts in his darkest moments about whether there existed a Being above to pray to, he was coming to question the dual edge of the blessing bestowed upon him.

      Does he love me, or does he not? The question echoed in his mind, addressed to no one and to Someone all at once. His heart longed for another to understand his pain and confusion, if only for a solitary moment. Were those stares, those cunning smiles, and the untoward, lengthy glimpses of flesh his master allowed him in the morning signs of something more? Or were they mere jests, a mockery of the feelings written so obviously across his foolish face? Not for nothing had Master Vercci taken to calling him “zanni”; was it his plan to turn the rest of his servant’s life into a comedy?

     Voldo regarded the olive trees outside with tearful eyes. It was in their nature to freely bloom, to live as they were meant to in freedom beneath the expansive blue skies. Why couldn’t he?

     Yet an olive tree had no fear of being rejected by the one it loved. It had no fears at all. He was worlds apart from the blissful, ignorant happiness of the gardens, and perhaps always would be. Perhaps he would have sobbed if it hadn’t been for the words that brought him back to cold reality.

     “Voldo!” called Master Vercci from his chamber. “Remove yourself from the window at once and make haste! My bedlinens cannot turn themselves down, sirrah.”

     Voldo heard a smile in those words, and he despised the way it made his heart thrill.

     In obedient silence, he bowed his head, and wrenched himself away from his portal to the world outside. There was servant’s work to attend to.

[softguarnere]

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter Seven: Nvwatohiyadv & Saoirse

Summary: If this is what Hell feels like, at least it’s not as lonely as all those days back home in her room.

A/N: An update? After all this time? I'm just as shocked. I'm trying my hardest to keep up, but I have so many papers and projects due this semester that updates may be a little infrequent for the next few weeks.

Also a massive thank you to the wonderful @latibvles for supplying the name of Zenie's first kiss 🫶🏼You are so beloved And for those of you who like chapter titles, nvwatohiyadv is the Cherokee word for liberty, while saoirse is Irish for freedom - just trying to combine both parts of Zenie's heritage

Warnings: alcohol, smoking, religious trauma, period typical attitudes and terms in regards to race, homophobia, improper binding techniques, language, brief mention of vomit

Taglist: @liebgotts-lovergirl @latibvles @mrs-murder-daddy @lieutenant-speirs

August 1943, New York

Most of them are spilling their alcohol soaked guts onto the docks with retches that hurt to listen to. The few of them that didn’t partake in the guzzling of whiskey the night before are strong stomached until they step onto the SS Samaria, and then they too are sick to their stomachs.

Hardly any of them have ever been on a ship before, and it’s taking them a while to get their sea legs. Funny, how they can fling themselves out of perfectly good airplanes, hurling themselves toward a cold and unforgiving ground, but a ship against the rocking of the waves is what makes most of them feel ill.

But something else is getting to Zenie. Not the usual nerves that send a chill down her spine whenever she spares the occasional moment to be anxious about the possibility of being found out. This is something else. It’s almost like homesickness, or tender feelings for the place she’s about to leave behind.

Life jackets on, they all pack together on the deck as the Samaria leaves New York. She’s short enough that she manages to claim a place by the rail without anyone complaining that they can’t see. After all, just like her, everyone is vying for a peek of Lady Liberty herself.

She’s beautiful. Tall. Elegant. Set against the hazy backdrop of orange sky and mist rising from the waters around her, she’s more of a figure, looming larger than life as they sail by.

Zenie has only met her paternal grandparents a handful of times, but now a memory of her grandfather’s voice whispers to her in his thick accent. “. . . I looked out across the water, and there she was. Her torch guided the ship like a lighthouse, pullin’ us in. All my doubts about leavin’ Ireland left me then. How could I be nervous, with such a lass watchin’ over me?”

Guilt turns into a rock in her stomach. Her father’s parents worked hard to get out of Ireland, to get themselves and their descendants to America. And here she is, willingly going back to the place that they fled.

And now the fine lady watches Zenie as she goes in the opposite direction – leaving America for Europe. If the statue were real, she might recognize something of her Irish grandparents in Zenie and offer her the same strength that she did them so long ago.

What about her other grandparents? The ones who are one hundred percent all-American, whose parents and their parents and the ones before them had been in America since time immemorial. Lady Liberty never welcomed them – they were already here.

It’s silly, really, to wonder whether or not a statue could afford some fondness or sense of protection on a person, but Zenie can’t help but wonder if the figure protects her and her liberties, too, when the world seems so keen on keeping those rights away from her and other Indians.

No. A statue can’t protect anyone, or their liberties. Not really. It’s Zenie and these men and all the other people fighting this war that are protecting those freedoms. The statue is just a reminder of what is often overlooked; it gives an icon to an ideal. If anything, the statue doesn’t represent some omnipresent force that welcomed her grandparents when they immigrated, but rather regular people and their beliefs. The statue only exists because someone believed in something enough to give the world a giant reminder of it.

Well then, what does Zenie believe in?

The lady looming over the water must have some sort of answer. Just as she welcomed Granda into America so long ago, she now watches Zenie leave it – both McGlamery’s traveling towards something that they believe in, though their journeys go in opposite directions.

Go, the godlike figure on the island seems to tell her. Go forth and protect and defend what I represent. For people like your Irish grandfather, who believed in liberty. And people like your Cherokee Granny, who hardly got to see it.

Lady Liberty is stuck in place. Zenie knows what that feels like. But she’s not immobile now. She unstuck herself because of feelings of suffocating in one place. Now she keeps going because she believes in what she’s doing. She believes that she’s a part of something that’s good.

How could she feel guilty with such a lass watching over her?

The longer that they’re on the ship, the more grateful Zenie becomes that she’s not in the Navy, or the Marines, or the Coast Guard. Or any sort of sailor, actually, carrying her secret or not. It’s hot and crowded and miserable. The men stink and personal space is quickly becoming a foreign concept. Her large feet trip her up on the ladders several times, and the only thing that keeps her from tumbling down and crashing onto the decks are the quick hands of her friends that fly out to catch her by the arm.

Toye claps her on the back once after helping her stay upright. She hopes that he mistakes her wince as one of relief and not her dread that he might feel her bandages.

If anything, her secret is only making her experience aboard the Samaria more miserable than everyone else’s. The farther down into the ship they go, the hotter and more crowded it becomes. The binding around her chest makes it harder to breathe, and even though the men all have a few beads of sweat along their hairlines, she feels like she’s glistening with it. All she can do is hope that by some miracle, the ship will reach her destination faster than anticipated, because the second that Zenie sees the hammocks packed together to provide them with a place to sleep, she has a feeling that she won’t be doing much of that – not when the mercury is so high and the oxygen so scarce.

If her feet don’t floor her in this crowded place, the realization that hits her does: where will she change? Clean up? Relieve herself? They’ll toss her out to sea before the ship even sets sail.

“You look like shit, Tommy Boy,” Bill deadpans.

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I’m bein’ serious. Have a cigarette or somethin’.”

“Maybe you should find Doc Roe,” Luz suggests. He slings his pack over his shoulder and sighs up at the racks above them, resolving himself to climb up to the top where there are still a few that are unoccupied. “If anyone wants to offer a trade, now’s your last chance.”

Toye makes a show of stretching out on his rack, which is close to the ground. “I’m good.”

Bill flips open his lighter and holds it to the end of his cigarette. “Same here.”

Finding Gene is probably her best option. He’ll have some sort of suggestion; he always knows what to do. But right now the boat is hot and she’s exhausted.

A vague memory of a church sermon from her childhood flashes through her mind. The pastor, his booming voice like a canon as it echoed off the walls of the church, lecturing the congregation about the fires of Hell that awaited them if they strayed from the flock. He gave the lecture so many times that she could be remembering any given Sunday of her childhood. As a young girl, the danger of the Underworld seemed to lurk right beneath her feet, the ground threatening to split open and reveal lapping flames that would swallow her up if she so much as fidgeted during the service. The Sunday after she had her first kiss – with that pretty Lucy Jordan from out of town, with the pretty hair and the soft lips – she sweated in her family’s pew as she awaited the inferno to take her. When nothing happened, the fire and brimstone didn’t seem quite so threatening, or even all that real.

The heat generated from the bodies all tightly packed around her does make her wonder, though, if this is what the nether regions of the afterlife feel like. At least she’s surrounded by friends. The thought makes her chuckle to herself as she plops down on a rack. She removes a cigarette from the mostly untouched pack in her pocket, nicks Bill’s lighter, and fills her lungs with the smoke, hoping it will help her nerves.

She glances around, chuckling again as she picks up pieces of scattered conversations from the men. If this is what Hell feels like, at least it’s not as lonely as all those days back home in her room.

Yeah, she thinks. Not too bad. 

“My brother’s in North Africa,” Bill’s voice draws her out of her thoughts. “He says it’s hot.”

“Really?” Malarkey snarks from behind him. “It’s hot in Africa?”

“Shuddup.” Malarkey’s hard expression melts as he laughs. Bill rolls his eyes. “Point is, it don’t matter where we go. Once we get into combat, the only person you can trust is yourself, and the fella next to ya.”

Or woman. Lady. Lass. Dame. Whatever slang term Philadelphians use for girls.

Would they trust her, if they knew her secret and then found themselves next to her on a battlefield? Eugene would; he had said she was brave. If there’s anyone I would trust in combat, it’s someone as fearless as you.

Maybe someone else on the ship is fearless in the same way that she allegedly is. Maybe they share the same secret. That’s a nice thought. She would trust these men – these fellas – if the bullets were flying, but if they knew the truth, they would probably never trust her again.

“Long as he’s a paratrooper,” Toye says.

Zenie might not be a man, but she is a paratrooper. She went through the same training as everyone else here.

“Oh yeah? And what if that paratrooper turns out to be Sobel?” Luz asks as he hauls himself up the racks. Looks like he couldn’t convince anyone to trade spots with him.

Above them, someone else’s voice sounds off with a response that she misses over the din of whoever is above her shifting his weight, making the rack squeak. Another thing that reminds her of Sundays in church: learning to tune things out. She doesn’t need to get her feelings hurt by listening to them talk about who they do or do not trust – because while Tommy falls into one category, Zenie most likely falls pretty firmly into the other.

The next thing that she knows, the rack beside her is shifting as Bill stands, and then the people around her fall quiet as Liebgott’s voice fills the space. “I’m a Jew.”

“Congratulations.” She can’t see him, but Zenie can hear the smug smirk on Bill’s face when he responds, “Now get your nose outta my face.”

He deserves it, friend or not, when Liebgott swings at him. He should know better than to say something like that, and she’s planning on telling him so when she jumps up to help the others hold the two men apart.

A sharp pain blooms in her chest, sending her stumbling back into the racks. A gasp escapes from her lips. No one notices – they’re all too busy trying to keep the first Easy Company casualties from occurring before the ship reaches England.

She’s never been hit in the breast before. And now someone’s elbow has just jabbed her there, managing to hurt even through the bandages.

That’s it. She’s got to solve this problem.

It’s a miracle that she doesn’t get jabbed again as she pushes through the throng of bodies. The miracle balances itself out with the fact that she doesn’t see Gene anywhere among them, and no one seems to know where he is when she throws the question out to them. Instead she finds –

“Tommy!” McClung yells above the rest of the voices that swirl around them. In a second, he’s pushed through the crowd and caught up to her, Popeye and Shifty right behind him. “Where’re you off to?”

“Any of y’all seen Doc Roe?”

“No.” Popeye tilts his head. “Are you as sick as ol’ Shifty Boy here from all that whiskey?”

“Just eat somethin’,” Shifty suggests with a nod. “A couple of those donuts from the Red Cross girls had me right as rain.”

Popeye claps him on the back and flashes her a winning grin. “He learned that from me.”

“No, it’s –“ She offers a vague, sweeping gesture with her arm. The heat. The tight space. The lack of privacy. “I just need some air.”

“We were goin’ up top, anyways. We’ll come with you!”

It’s easier to push through the crowd when she’s got three friends helping her clear people out of the way. Earl pushes through the crowd like it’s nothing. Popeye calls out greetings to people as he goes. Zenie scans everyone’s faces, looking for Gene, reassuring herself with the thought that he’ll know what to do and he’ll come up with a plan for how to handle all this bandage business.

“Fuckin’ ridge runners,” someone scoffs as they force their way through the crowd.

At her sides, her hands immediately ball themselves into fists. She scowls, looking around for whoever might have said it. Cobb is sitting on a rack nearby, and she’s willing to bet the comment was thrown from his direction.

“Hey.” A gentle hand places itself on her shoulder and urges her forward from behind. “Just ignore him. Been enough fights on this boat for one day.”

“But –“ She feels herself deflate under Shifty’s touch. He’s right; they’ve been called worse.

The salt on the breeze is unlike any kind of wind that she felt back at home. During the more pleasant times of year, mountain breezes feel friendly and teasing as they play with her hair and snap flags on their posts. The wind from the sea that greets them abovedeck carries a sense of adventure. It’s powerful – powerful enough to carry them somewhere new.

It fills her lungs and whispers to something in her soul. All those days of sitting in her bedroom feeling suffocated and sorry for herself. Now she’s the farthest away from home that she’s ever been, and (as long as she’s not crammed in the bowls of the ship with the other men) she can breathe.

“Feelin’ better?” Shifty asks. His hand hasn’t left her shoulder. Zenie finds that she doesn’t really want him to remove it.

“Much.”

Earl gestures to all the space around them. “Look at this! This is way better than being trapped belowdecks.”

“Well, it’s a long way to England. We can probably spend as much time up here as we want.” I know I will be, Zenie doesn’t add as she relishes in the cool breeze and the sound of the waves.

“We oughtta sleep out here,” Popeye says. “Better than sweatin’ for hours at a time and listenin’ to everyone snore and complain about the heat.”

Shifty nods in agreement. “We oughtta.”

So they do.

The first night of the voyage, they return to their racks with everyone else. Zenie stays awake all night, listening to people pant in the heat, grimacing every time a rack squeaks as someone shifts their weight. Some people manage to doze, but she spends the next day groggy and vows that she’ll take Popeye’s suggestion. Her friends don’t take much convincing.

“Like camping.” They’re all sprawled out on the deck, hoping that any non-coms or officers that catch them won’t send them back below. The waves slapping against the side of the boat are loud but soothing. In the growing darkness, Zenie can just make out Shifty’s smile. He’s in his element. The others agree, and she doesn’t admit that no one has ever actually taken her camping before.

Instead she’s intent to just be there, the ocean sounds sending that thrum of adventure running through her core as it carries her far, far away from that noble statue back in New York. Far away from the loneliness of her room and straight into the next leg of her adventure. Surrounded by friends.

Not too bad.

[faithfulcat111]

Stonathan Sundays

No Six Sentence Sunday today, sorry. I've had a lot of personal stuff going on and actually had no time to write this week. But I still wanted to hit one of my weekly things, so have another Stonathan Sunday, fulfilling the prompt: "Why do you care?"

This also fulfills a few other bingo prompts:

@anyfandomangstbingo Any Fandom Angst Bingo

Title: Stonathan Sundays Chapter 7

Pairings: Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington

Word Count: 740

Warnings: Period-typical homophobia, brief injury description, vague mentions to canon-typical violence and past canon fight

Square filled: Wrongful Imprisonment

@julybreakbingo Post-July Break Bingo

Fandom: Stranger Things

Square Filled: Feelings Realization

"Why do you care?"

Steve winced at the other boy's hoarse voice as he looked through the bars at him. Jonathan looked way too small in the cell, black eye and split lip accompying his bloody knuckles and making it clear that whatever fight he landed himself in had been much more evenly matched than the one they had nearly two years ago. But still, "You were the one who called me, remember? Not the kind of call I like to get in the middle of the night." Thankfully, it happened to be one that Robin wasn't there with him. She and Steve had been nearly living in each other's pockets since Starcourt, but band camp was apparently a type of hell that had Robin crashing at her parents instead.

Jonathan blinked, clearly confused by that. Steve really needed to get him to the hospital or something. There was no way Jonathan had recovered enough from July for another fight not to rattle his brains. Steve sighed as it became clear that Jonathan wasn't going to explain himself without prompting, "Look, you didn't tell me anything on the phone except that you were being held all the way in Indianapolis. And the bozos up there told me you were being held for attempted hijacking of a car and attacking a police officer. Which I told them was a load of horseshit because pretty sure you wouldn't hijack anything outside of Upside-Downy reasons and if that is back already, I'd like to know cause I'd rather just join you in there than go back to Hawkins and deal with that shit again so soon."

Jonathan blinked at him, silent for just long enough for the awkwardness to start creeping in, before bursting into laughter. He wrapped an arm around himself, the sound just slightly too wheeze-like for Steve's comfort, but he was smiling. Genuinely. Steve was terrified.

"No, it was a fight," Jonathan finally contained himself long enough to explain. "A stupid fight is all."

"A fight? Why would they lie?" Steve turned slightly to look back through the door to the main room. No one was hovering, but it wouldn't be long before they came back to ask if Steve was really posting the bail.

"Because they're homophobic bastards is why," Jonathan growled, mouth clearly running faster than his brain. He went extremely pale the moment he appeared to realize what he said, hunching over on himself even more. That could not be comfortable.

Steve blinked at the absurdness of that last thought before shaking his head to fully take in the weight of the moment. He took in Jonathan and how small he was making himself, the way he and Nancy had fallen apart so spectacularly in the aftermath of Starcourt. Steve thought of Robin looking so scared on that bathroom floor, making herself as small as possible as well in that moment before Steve reached out to her. He thought of how pissed his dad would be at Steve using the money he still sent for something like this, even if he never found out. And Steve thought of the last three years, even before everything began that connected them. How he was partnered with the strange quiet boy in his math class and how it pissed him off back then in a way he couldn't quite reason out other than there was something strangely appealing about someone who refused to fit themselves in past-Steve's worldview but also was genuinely helpful in a bizarre sort of backwards way. How he then always orbited on the outskirts of his vision before being forced to confront each other once again. And again. And again. And... Oh.

"Well," Steve tried after failing the first time and having to clear his throat. "Those bastards are the real idiots. Seriously hijacking your own car? Couldn't even come up with something more creative. Losers."

Jonathan jerked his head up, eyes wide with something Steve couldn't quite parse out but the warmth filling him gave him a clue. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before Steve took pity and said, "Seriously, give me a few. We'll get that bail paid and get you on your way back home. We can work out how to get your car back later, I promise."

Jonathan blinked again before his face softened even as he winced at his smile pulling at his lip, "Thank you."

[made-ofmemories]

When Life Tears You Asunder, But You’re Not Alone

(Chapter 18/19)

General Warnings/tags: Found family, implied Wayne/Susan in future chapters, Max & Eddie have a sibling like relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort, Lumax and Steddie make appearances throughout the chapters but the primary focus is on the familial bonds between characters

Chapter specific warnings/tags: This is very much a lumax and steddie focused chapter, lots of fluff! A tiny bit of period typical homophobia but it isn’t particularly directed at any of the characters it’s just an acknowledgement of it existing.

Word count: 3569

Summary: Billy was a pretty shitty brother, there was no denying it, but Max still finds herself mourning for the sibling relationship they never got to have. With him gone she thinks so are her chances of ever having the big brother figure she’s always wanted. Then in a turn of events that she never saw coming, Eddie Munson waltzes into her life. Or more like, almost runs her over.

Notes: Co-written with the wonderful @ladydorian05 and crossposted on AO3.

Series masterlist

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“I see Steve’s car, park over there,” Max says, slapping Eddie’s arm to get his attention as she points at the car in question. They’re 15 minutes late, even with Eddie’s questionable approach to speed limits and Max has been stressed about missing the beginning of the movie she and Lucas are meant to be watching for the entire journey. 

The van has barely come to a halt when she hops out, “Max! Wait, you-” Eddie sighs when the only response he gets is the slam of the passenger door closing, and hops out of the van to follow her. 

“What’re you doing?” Max whisper-hisses when she hears him call for her and turns to see that he's following her to Steve’s car.

“You forgot your glasses.” He explains, holding them out for her to take.

“I know. I did it on purpose.” She says as if the thought of any other explanation is utterly ridiculous. 

“You’ll get a headache.”

“Aw, I didn’t think you cared.”

“I care when I’m the one who’ll have to endure your grumpiness the whole way home.” He narrows his eyes at her, still insistently holding out the pair of glasses between them. 

“He’s right.” It’s Steve, he’s barely out of the car, clearly not planning on sticking around, leaning with one arm braced on the roof of the car and the door still open, “Besides, they’re not so bad once you get used to them.” He shrugs. He’s wearing his own glasses, he’s been wearing them more frequently ever since that day in Family video when Eddie saw them for the first time.

Her gaze flickers to Lucas who nods with a soft expression on his face usually reserved for Max, “You should wear them.”

“Alright, fine.” She huffs, holding her hands up in surrender before she takes the glasses from Eddie and slides them on, “Ok, we’re going now.”

“I’ll pick you up at 9, Lucas!” Steve calls out to the pair of retreating forms heading for the mall entrance.

“10.” Max bargains, turning to look at Steve without slowing down.

Steve looks to Eddie who shrugs one shoulder in response, who is he to stand in the way of young love? 

“Alright, 9:30,” Steve calls back once he realizes Eddie is going to be of no help.

“Deal.”

“They’re adorable,” Steve comments, they’re both hanging around watching to make sure the pair make it into the mall when Max slips her hand into Lucas’.

“Almost enough to warm this cold dead heart.” Eddie jokes, crossing both hands over his chest and leaning against the other side of Steve’s car for a brief moment before he pushes himself away, “Well, see you around, Stevie.” He says, turning to leave once he sees Lucas and Max disappearing behind the sliding glass doors of the mall.

“Actually,” Steve calls and Eddie stops in his tracks, “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out until we have to pick them up?”

“It’s Valentine’s day.” Eddie states, confusion furrowing his brow, “You don’t have a date to get to?”

“Nope, I’m free all day. So? What’d’ya say? I mean, unless you have a date or something?”

“Um no, no date.” Eddie assures him. He might be of the opinion that this entire day is one giant capitalistic nightmare, but if he had to spend it with anyone he’d choose Steve over anyone, “Hanging out sounds good.”

“Alright, let's go.” 

They take Steve’s car, it’s clean and it smells like the little pine tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror rather than the greasy smell of old fast food cartons and the faint scent of weed that seems to linger in Eddie’s van. 

“So,” Eddie starts, letting his head loll to the side as he looks over to Steve who is concentrating on the road, his hair looks nice today, even nicer than usual, “How come Steve Harrington doesn’t have plans on valentines day? You practically have girls lining up at your door waiting to go on a date with you and instead, you’ve ended up playing chauffeur and hanging out with me. It doesn’t add up, man.”

“I like hanging out with you.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“I don’t know,” Steve sighs and drags a hand over his face whilst keeping the other on the wheel, “I guess I just realized there isn’t much point unless you’ve got someone who makes it worth making a big deal of.”

“No one special then?”

He shrugs, “There’s someone, but I don’t know if he feels the same way.”

He.

Steve glances over, taking his eyes off the road for just a fraction of a second, he’s trying to judge Eddie’s reaction most likely. Eddie almost misses the gesture entirely, his brain working overtime trying to process the new information. He’d had his suspicions after Robin had refused to tell him whether Steve was into guys or not, but it wasn’t like he could just walk up to him and ask the question outright.

“Well, you’ll never know unless you tell him how you feel,” Eddie blurts out, truthfully he isn’t sure what he’s meant to say in the situation but staying silent feels wrong.

“I guess, I just don’t want to lose him as a friend, y’know?”

Eddie hums affirmatively, he knows that feeling all too well.

There’s some cheesy pop hit playing on the radio that Steve keeps humming along to as he drives. It’s endearing and the only reason Eddie doesn’t kick up a fuss about the music choice. Eddie has never heard him sing and it’s difficult to judge just from the low humming mingling with the sound of the radio, but he thinks he’d have a nice singing voice.

He realizes halfway into their journey that he doesn’t actually know where they’re going. The roads look familiar, but he doesn’t fully put all the pieces together until they’re parked outside of a local pizza place that Eddie knows well, as it turns out there aren’t all that many restaurant choices in small town Hawkins.

Steve insists on buying, Eddie doesn’t put up much of a fight. 

“We’re not eating here?” Eddie asks when Steve grabs the box of pizza and 2 sodas from the counter and gestures towards the door with a nod of his head.

“No, come on,” Steve says, leaving Eddie scrambling to get up from the seat he had taken whilst they waited. 

The next time Steve stops the car they’re overlooking Sattlers quarry. Steve hops out first, grabbing the food from the back seat. Eddie follows. 

“I used to bring Max out here all the time,” Eddie explains as he follows Steve around to the back of the car. Steve perches himself on the trunk and Eddie copies the action, letting his feet rest on the bumper, “We usually sit down by the water.” He adds, gesturing down to the pool of water at the bottom of the steep drop in front of them.

“Yeah?” Steve flips open the cardboard lid of the box revealing a pizza covered in all of Eddie’s favorite toppings. They’d ordered pizza once a few days after Eddie had gotten out of the hospital and it surprises him a little that Steve had paid enough attention to be able to recall his pie of choice, “It’s nice out here… quiet.”

Eddie lets out a noncommittal hum in acknowledgment, “Bet you bring all your dates out here.” He teases.

“Actually, you’re the first.”

The sincerity of it shocks him, Steve is full of surprises today so it seems, and Eddie crams half a slice of pizza into his mouth as an excuse to delay his response.

“Well, consider me honored, my liege.”

“On the contrary, I’m the one honored by your presence, my good sir.” God help him, he swears he won’t be responsible for his actions if Steve starts talking nerdy to him. “How was your last campaign with the kids?” Jesus Christ! Eddie is torn between wanting to leave immediately before he does something he might regret, like kissing Steve’s pretty lips,  and wanting to live in this moment forever.

------------------

“Damn, everything on the listing is either a romcom or we’ve seen it with the others,” Lucas says looking at the list of movie titles and showing times. 

“I wouldn’t mind rewatching something.” Max shrugs.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to watch something new?”

“Yeah, but it’s better than Mannequin which is our only other option.” She pulls a face of mild disgust, they’d seen the trailer for it last time they were at the cinema with the rest of the party.

Sure she’d sat through all of those romcoms El loved so much, maybe even enjoyed one or two more than she’d like to admit, but they still weren’t going to be her first choice… nor her second, third, or fourth. 

 “The closest showings for the ones we both like are in like an hour or two and if we consider the time Steve and Eddie are picking us up, we shouldn’t go for those.” 

“What about Dead of winter?” Lucas suggests. They’re standing to the side of the ticket line, not wanting to jump in until they know what they’re going to be watching, “We haven’t seen that one and I heard it’s a thriller.”

“Sure, dead of winter it is,” Max agrees, letting Lucas link their hands together as they head for the ticket booth, “If each pays their ticket, we can split the cost for the popcorn and sodas.” 

“Umm, actually I was planning on paying for both of us, I’ve been saving so I’m sure I have more than enough,” Lucas says. 

Max knows that it's common and even expected for the guy to pay, and normally she wouldn't refuse someone offering to pay for her. It’s cute that he wants to be chivalrous, but she knows that it wasn't just that Lucas has saved up his allowance, she knows he's been doing odd jobs around his neighborhood again. She likes him, she cares about him a lot, and she doesn't want him to spend all his money on this date when she can contribute.

She's not sure if she can really call her feelings for him love, not yet at least. But, if they're in for the long run, she wants to make sure he knows that they're a team, that they can do these kinds of things together, that burdens and responsibilities can and will be shared between them.

“Lucas, it’s fine, I can cover it. You don't have to pay for everything. Besides, Wayne’s been asking me to help him fix his car, Eddie’s van, and my mom’s car. He always slips me a few bucks after.”

“Wait, Eddie’s uncle is teaching you how to fix cars and paying you after?” She hadn’t thought it was a big deal, but he sounds impressed. 

“Pretty much. I refused at first, but he’d slip it in my jacket pocket or inside my backpack when I wasn’t watching so I just gave up.” 

She still remembers the first time he slipped the bill into the pocket of her denim vest, the thing got shredded when she washed it. It hadn't been fun picking all the little paper bits from that load. Even if she now accepts them when he hands them to her, she developed the habit of checking every single pocket of every piece of clothing that she places in the washer. 

“Eddie also lets me keep his loose change sometimes, when I have enough I take it to Family video, and Steve exchanges it for bills, he's always complaining about never having enough change.”

“That’s awesome.” Lucas muses as they advance a spot in the long line for the tickets. It seems that just about every couple in Hawkins had the same idea for today.

“Yup.”

“Hey, now that you mentioned Eddie, what’s up with him and Steve?” Lucas asks, turning to look at her with a raised eyebrow.

“What do you mean?” Shit, she needs to tread carefully. This could be about anything, from just them hanging out a lot to him noticing Eddie’s crush. She would hate to accidentally out Eddie.

“Well, you can’t tell me you haven’t noticed the stares, the longing looks, I had to watch Eddie staring at Steve’s lips for an entire conversation the other day,” Lucas explains, “I’m pretty sure Gareth has noticed too he keeps making these weird vague comments during D&D.”

Oh Gareth has definitely noticed, that she’s sure of. 

“ Hell, one of the reasons I asked Steve to drive me here today was because you mentioned Eddie was dropping you off. I just, don’t know, hoped that maybe they could have their own little date or whatever.”

“One of the reasons? What’s another reason?” Max asks. So, it seems like he has noticed the ‘something’ between them.

“I would have gotten all sweaty if I biked here. But don’t change the topic. ”

“You… would be okay if they got together like that?” She needs to know that she didn’t misunderstand his words, that he’d be really okay with Eddie liking guys. She thinks that he is okay with it, but one can never be too cautious, especially in a small town like Hawkins. Would she really be outing her brother if her boyfriend already figured out that he’s into guys?

“Sure! They’re both our friends, I want them to be happy. Wouldn’t you?” He squeezes her hand. Oh, shit, now he’s the one thinking that she might not be okay with it.

“Of course I would. It would at least put an end to Eddie’s pining. Don’t tell him I told you this, and I’m serious, you can’t tell anyone.”

“I’m sworn to secrecy, I promise.”

 “He actually bought Berlin’s ‘Take my breath away’ single.” 

“What!? Eddie buying something not metal? No way, when?”

“I’m not exactly sure when, but I’m sure it happened after he watched Top gun with Steve, he kinda told me after I spent a whole week bugging him about the tape.” Max laughs.

“Holy shit, he’s whipped,” Lucas comments amused.

“I know. It’s a bit sad to watch the yearning on his face when he listens to it.”

“He really can’t see that Steve might… I don’t know. Let him down gently or even give him a chance if not because he reciprocates his feelings then because he cares?”

“I actually have a feeling that Steve might also be into him. But I don’t think either of them know how to go about it. Anyways, enough about them, this is our date. No more talking about other people’s relationships at least until 9:30.”

“Okay.” Without noticing they had gotten to the front of the line. After getting their tickets the line for the popcorn is less crowded, they get 2 medium sodas, popcorn and make a compromise on a box of Whoppers.

Their theater isn’t that full. The other couples probably went for the romcoms. The movie is quite good, even if they missed some of the plot when they began to throw the crunchy chocolate balls and popcorn for the other to catch it with their mouth making a bit of a mess around them.

“I actually liked the movie, even if it was frustrating how you could clearly see how she could have saved herself sooner,” Max says, helping Lucas to gather their trash on the way out of the theater.

“Oh but she did so well in the end.” He comments.

“They had it coming.”

“We still have time, what do you want to do?” Lucas asks, checking his watch once they’ve located the nearest trash can and his hands are no longer occupied by the empty soda cups.

“Let’s go to the record store, I want to find more patches for my vest.”

Lucas manages to find a Gremlins patch, it’s circular with a black background featuring ‘Stripe’ from the movie and the word troublemaker embroidered at the top. Max smiles when he shows her it and he insists on buying it for her. Meanwhile, Max gets a skateboard one and one in the shape of a hand making the rock 'n roll sign adorned with a black spiked wristband. Once the patch bin has been thoroughly scouted, they move on to the tapes section.

They still have a little more than half an hour before Steve and Eddie pick them up, even after they finish browsing the record store. They’re wandering aimlessly around the various storefronts when Max spots the unfamiliar bubblegum-pink exterior of one of the restaurants in the small food court.

"I didn't know there was a place that sells milkshakes."

“Must be new,” Lucas comments, following her gaze, “Do you want one?”

"Yeah, sure. But not from here. I'm loyal to one place and one place only."

"The diner." He rolls his eyes with fondness.

"Damn right!"

"I'll radio Steve. Maybe he can take us both and if Eddie went home, we can call him from the diner."

Eddie and Steve turn up 10 minutes later. Max and Lucas are waiting in the parking lot for them and share a knowing look when they see Eddie already seated in the passenger seat, talking animatedly and smiling broadly when Steve pulls up. Max had suspected they were together when Eddie’s van was still in the parking lot and Steve’s car was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean anything Eddie could have headed inside whilst they were busy watching the movie or taken a walk. 

Steve holds the door open for them all and Max and Eddie head in first. She picks their usual booth and glares at Eddie when he tries to join her.

“Dude,” She says pointedly, both eyebrows raised as she tries to not so subtly gesture towards one of the other tables.

“What?”

“Sit somewhere else, I don’t want my brother crashing my date.” She explains.

“May I remind you that your brother is the one who drove you all the way out to the mall on Valentines day?”

“First of all, it’s not like you had plans anyway. Secondly, you got a date with Steve out of it so you can’t complain.” He doesn’t deny it, which is interesting. She’ll be sure to grill him for all of the details later, well maybe not all the details, there are some things she does not need to know. 

Eddie sighs dramatically, but listens to her and goes over to Steve who is standing by the counter making their order. They’re too far away for her to hear their conversation but she sees Eddie tap Steve’s bicep to get his attention and the way he uses his head to gesture to one of the tables on the opposite side of the room.

She gets a strawberry milkshake and lets Lucas pay this time, he pushes it across the table towards her and takes a sip of his own chocolate-banana one. Her glasses slip down her nose when she leans forward to reach the straw in her glass and she pushes them up with the tip of her index finger.

“I like your glasses,” Lucas blurts, it’s a little out of the blue but she appreciates the compliment, “they suit you.”

“Thanks.” She’s smiling bashfully, taking another sip of her milkshake as an excuse to avoid eye contact.

“I don’t think I could pull them off.”

“Hmmm, I don’t know about that,” she muses, “I think you could.”

“Yeah?” He reaches across the table taking the corners of the frames in hand, he hesitates for a second, only sliding them off her face when she doesn’t make any effort to stop him and then slides them onto his own face, “What do you think?”

A laugh bubbles out of her at the sight, he’s posing with an exaggerated pout on his face, “Yeah, you’re right they look much better on me,” She tells him in a joking tone. She lets him place them carefully back onto her face rather than just handing them back. 

There’s a moment of comfortable silence whilst they both enjoy their milkshakes, listening to the pop music playing over the radio and the chatter surrounding them. It’s busy, probably the busiest Max has ever seen the place but that’s not exactly unexpected given the day.

“Do you think your plan worked?” She asks, jerking her head back in the direction of Steve and Eddie’s table. 

She has her back turned to them so she can’t see them without making it obvious that she’s looking and they’re too far away to eavesdrop on their conversations, that one’s her own fault.

“I’m pretty sure they’re holding hands under the table,” Lucas informs her, craning his neck subtly to try to get a better view, “So I’d say it was a success.”

Risky, but the staff are busy fulfilling the rush of orders and most of the customers are busy paying attention to their own conversations and dates. It’s unlikely anyone is looking at Steve and Eddie tucked away in the corner. Besides, even if someone did say something, who would believe them? Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson and Steve ‘the king’ Harrington, holding hands? No way. Yeah, she thinks giving into her curiosity and turning in her seat to look at them, they’ll be just fine. 

[themalhambird]

In Which The Duke of Aumerle Contrives to hide the deposed Richard In his Bedchamber Without The Knowledge of his Father, Mother, Their Servants and Most Notably His Cousin Bolingbroke (part 9 /19)

“This is Richard’s.” It wasn’t a question, and the fury in his father’s voice made Aumerle shrink. He fought to come up with a suitable excuse but his mind was a blank; there was nothing except for the chain cutting in to the back of his neck as his father pulled the locket towards him. “I…” “Are you hiding him boy?”

No, of course not. That was absurd. The lock of hair was old “I can explain-“ Aumerle heard his mouth say while his brain was still coming up with excuses. “Villain! Traitor-!” Aumerle choked as his father’s fist closed around the locket’s chain and he was hauled to his feet. “Where is he, where did you send him?” Aumerle’s heart pounded against his ribcage as his father shook him violently. “Tell me boy! You tell me this instant, and pray that when the King arrives it’s only Richard I thrown to him and not you as well!” And Aumerle found himself laughing hysterically—as if he had any interest in outliving Richard- though that wasn’t strictly true of course, the thought of being executed filled him with terror. Dying- he didn’t wish to, but then he didn’t want Richard to die either- He fell to his father’s feet and clutched at his robes. “You can’t tell the King, please, father, please, you can’t- Richard- father, he’s – he’s not- I don’t – this isn’t- we don’t – Richard- father, I wanted him safe, I wanted him somewhere where Henry couldn’t make him just- disappear, and father, Richard doesn’t want the throne back; he doesn’t intend to threaten the king. Father, please, you cannot tell the King he is here-“ “He is here?” Aumerle fell sideways as his father kicked him away, anger clear in his voice. “You have an escaped prisoner sheltered beneath my roof?” Shit. “Where is he, exactly?” His father demanded. Aumerle cringed down and stared at the dirt. “My chamber?” “Your chamber. You’ve been hiding a deposed King in your BEDCHAMER?”  The shade of puce his father was turning would be amusing if Aumerle wasn’t the cause of it and his ire was directed at some other unfortunate. As it was, the vein in his father’s temple was throbbing furiously: Aumerle had never seen him this angry before and hoped fervently never to see him this angry again. “Where in your bedchamber, pray? The linin chest?” Aumerle bit his lip and said nothing. “Get on your horse,” his father ordered. Aumerle climbed unsteadily to his feet and did as he was told. “We are going home.” *** His father marched inside. At a loss of what else to do, Aumerle followed him. His father continued to march right up the stairs and towards Aumerle’s chambers. “Father?” Aumerle asked, working to keep up. “For the time being, you forfeit the right to call me that boy, I will not have a traitor for a son.” He marched in to Aumerle’s chambers and slammed the door shut behind him as Aumerle slipped through. For a moment, the room appeared empty. And then Richard unfurled himself from the window seat, bare feet touching the floor. He had dressed- Aumerle’s trousers skimmed just above his ankles and the sleeves of his too-baggy shirt skimmed just below half way down his forearms and somehow, as Richard stood, at seemingly perfect ease as he faced the Duke of York, he managed to look regal. Richard’s regal gaze flickered briefly over to Aumerle, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in a reassuring smile. And then he bowed to York, a graceful bending of one leg and his waist. “My Lord Uncle. I’m pleased to see you again. I never thought I would, after you allowed your other nephew to depose me.” His eyes flicked to Aumerle again and he frowned. “Are you hurt, dear heart?” Aumerle started, and realised he was rubbing his elbow. “I’m fine, I fell from my horse an hour or so ago-“ Richard was by his side in an instant, taking Aumerle’s hand and gently pushing his sleeve up. “It is not broken?” “My Lord- “ York began “No not anymore, not ever again now hush I wish to make sure my Edward is not hurt.” “Your Edward?” York asked, at the same time as Aumerle said “I’m fine, Richard”, and Richard gently kissed Aumerle’s elbow. “Oh, Christ have mercy on you both.” Aumerle’s father whispered, a tortured expression on his face as he looked at them, the way they leant towards each other- as Richard and Robert de Vere had once leant towards one another. Richard straightened to look at York. “Christ? Aye, in time but for the now, I’m more concerned about you, uncle? Will you have mercy on us both? Or will you throw me to my cousin and your son along with me? Or will you have mercy on your son and simply tell the King your men caught me hiding in a haystack somewhere?” York frowned. “That depends,” he said slowly. “On what?” “On two things. First, do you intend to reclaim the crown from Henry?” Richard gave a light, bitter laugh. “Oh, uncle. All the waters of the rough rude sea cannot wash the balm from an anointed King, and I have already expended an ocean’s worth of tears un-kinging myself. Un-kinging Bolingbroke likewise would take far too much effort. Besides which- were you not listening? The crown is a well. A deep, deep, deep well- Harry can keep it; if I am in luck he will drown in it- and if he doesn’t drown in the well, but in fact does well with it- well then. That is well for England, is it not? And as I still love England well, though she did not love me well then no, York, I don’t intend to reclaim the crown. It was made perfectly clear to me by you and others that it fitted ill upon my head. What is your second query?” “Do you love my son, or have you just been sodomising him because you’ve been bored stuck in this room?” Whatever Richard had been expecting this clearly wasn’t it; he stopped short. Aumerle himself felt as if the air had been punched from his lungs; York glared fiercely at Richard in silent demand for an answer. Richard exhaled through his teeth. “I love your son,” he ground out, and Aumerle felt his heart skip a beat as Richard continued. “I have always loved your son, in one way or another; I have known myself to be in love with him since we kissed at Flint Castle, when I fell in love I cannot say, but I hope that answers your question satisfactorily.” Aumerle looked between Richard and his father, hope fluttering in his chest. There was a chance that all was not lost then, that his father wouldn’t turn Richard over to Henry- “You told me your intention in having Richard brought here was primarily to keep him safe,” York asked. Aumerle startled as he realised his father was addressing him. “Yes, sir,” he replied after a moment’s pause, wherein he recalled the garbled pleas he had made to his father earlier. “I knew of a plot being formed to place Richard back on the throne; in principle I supported it- “– he pressed on despite the look of outrage that crossed his father’s face- “my concern was what would become of Richard if the plot was uncovered before it could become successful. Henry usurped the throne, you can’t get around that. And while Richard is alive, he’s a reminder that Henry usurped the throne. Henry can’t possibly have been planning to let Richard live all that long anyway, he would certainly have had him killed if he caught wind of a conspiracy around him. I wasn’t rebelling against Henry so much as I was saving Richard.” York harrumphed. Richard whispered: “That’s not much of a distinction”. “Aumerle whispered back: “Shut up you’re not helping.” “The King is coming here,” York said slowly. Richard’s eyes widened. “Then I can’t stay,” he said. “I’ll leave, immediately- “ “Don’t be foolish,” York snapped. “You won’t make it out of Yorkshire; my men are combing the pale  looking for you and you’re bound to be caught be someone. No, the garret in the South Tower flooded a few years back, the room hasn’t been repaired yet and no one goes up there, not even the servants. You can hide up there until he’s gone and been persuaded that you’re lost. After that, we’ll work out what to do with you.” Aumerle felt a grin spread across his face. Richard nodded his head. “Thank you, uncle,” he said softly. “And- I’m sorry. For any and all pains I’ve put to you.” York looked at him, and Richard held his gaze. The silence between them was charged with gravitas, and Aumerle looked away from them both, feeling he was trespassing on something important. Finally, York harrumphed again. “Get yourself settled in that tower tonight,” he instructed. “And for goodness sake, Edward, if you must wear that locket, keep it tucked beneath your shirt and don’t get yourself flung from any horses.” With that, he left, closing the door behind him with a thud, leaving Richard and Aumerle to stare at each other. “Well,” Richard sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Well,” Aumerle agreed. “You didn’t want to correct him then?” Edward frowned. “Correct him about what?” “His assertion that I sodomise you,” Richard said, mouth curling in to a mischievous smirk as he turned towards the bed. “As far as I can recall from last night, you were the one sodomising me.”

[fantasticallyfruity4]

Steddie things/ head cannons abt these two morons living in my noggin rent free

CW: Dick size comments, smoking/pot, brief mention of (a fear of, nothing actually happens) period typical homophobia. Briefly mentioned experiences with antisemitism. Mention of Chrissy Cunningham anorexic bulimia. Jewish Byers’s. Jewish steddie.

It’s a long one. Oops

NO BUT LIKE THINK ABT STEDDIE NICK NAMES

think abt Eddie calling Steve “lover boy”, like the sweetest most affectionate tone, pulling him into a kiss and whispering “c‘mere lover boy”, sneaking up behind him when he’s cooking or leaning over anything and mumbling “hey lover boy” while he kisses the moles on his shoulder.

Also like, the theory that Steve’s actually packing quite the dick and that’s why Eddie called him “big boy” when he was hotwiring the camper, and and whenever Eddie calls Steve big boy he gets flustered about it because he knows exactly what it’s indicative of. That it’s an innuendo that only him and Eddie understand.

Eddie absolutely has a kink for being called master or dungeon master in the bedroom. I will not explain further. Steve did it as a joke once and the reaction was way too good.

But besides that nicknames for Eddie stump me. Of corse the usual “eds”, usual pet names/ terms of endearment, but beyond that I get stumped.

They use the same hair products, they realize, but in totally different ways and in totally different quantities. They both stand there infront of the bathroom mirror futzing for an hour in the morning, hip checking each other out of the way, teasing, hair spraying and all around being high maintenance bitches together. If Steve finds out eddie killed the last of his Farrah faucet spray? Oh, he is such a little bitch about it, whining and bitching all day until Eddie replaces it. Not like Steve hasn’t used so much of Eddie’s hair spray that the tow do them nearly choked to death in the bathroom that one time.

Speaking of hair, Eddie walks around with his hair in a ponytail or god forbid even a messy bun in the summer or if he’s doing house work or something, anything he really can’t stand his hair in his face for. And it drives Steve crazy, his pretty space all on display like that. Bonus points for Eddie in sweats, shirtless, tattoos and veins on gum tantalizing display, hair up, completely oblivious to how bad he’s got Steve.

Steve listens to the worst pop shit, in Eddie opinion. Bowie, wham, tears for fears, Toto, Elton John, queen. It makes his fucking ears bleed.

But when Steve starts belting good old fashioned lover boy in the shower and eddies sitting in Steve’s room, laughing to himself at the sound, it’s pretty cute. And he can live with it. It’s how Steve got the nickname anyway.

In the car Steve blasts head over heels on the radio on one of their first dates. They’re at lovers lake, Eddie’s trying to get the balls to make a move on him, palms sweaty and anxious that he’s taking too long to make a move or that he’s going too fast, and suddenly he, obliviously, himbo style, yells “oh my god I love this song!” And cranks the volume all the way up. Kills the moment, but when they talk about it later it’s all laughs at how they were both so oblivious. It instantly became their song, unfortunately for Eddie who has to hear is all the time. Steve leaves cassettes of this shit in Eddie’s car and you can’t tell a soul, but sometimes when he’s driving alone he misses his baby, and listens to some of that shit. To feel like he’s there.

Steve eventually comes around to Eddie’s music, even head bangs a little in Eddie’s car. Eddie loves it so fucking much. It’s like Steve’s just that much more into his weird little world.

Both boys are Jewish, I’ll die on this hill. Because I’m Jewish and I said so. My word is law.

Steve is the gold chai Jewish fuckboy. Eddie has an antique magen David from one of his grandparents he wears every day. Tucks it in in his shirt to survive Hawkins :(

“A little havdalah?” “Eddie that’s a joint” “so?” “Sure, fine”

I want to see a fucking yarmulke on all that fucking hair. Eddie is 100% the poor fella who needs to use bobby pins to get his kippah to stick. He and Steve end up barreling into the wheelers one day, accosting Nancy in her bedroom “we need bobby pins! Now! We’re already later to high holiday services Wayne’s gonna kill me I don’t have time to stop at the drug store HAIRPINS NOW WOMAN!”. Idk I just see it so clearly, so funny.

Unfortunately it’s probably where part of the “the freak” reputation comes from. Blood libel and all that good shit. So that’s a bummer.

Eddie and Wayne never had the kind of spare money around to get a lot of things, even after Eddie started selling drugs there was of corse new financial issues, so this lead to Steve noting, the first time he stayed the night in Eddie’s trailer, that they didn’t have a mezuzah. Eddie just shrugged. “We don’t have the kinda cash laying around for nice judaica, harrington”.

And yeah, it was a point. They grew up in such different households financially. Steve had two (albeit absentee, traveling for work all the time) working white collar parents, a two story house at the end of a cul de sac, with an inground pool. And Eddie and his blue collar uncle lived in a trailer, Eddie sold pot because he was too ADHD to hold down a stable job, while Steve worked weird little retail jobs for pocket money, because all the real bills were paid. Eddie paid half the bills at home. Different worlds.

Next day Eddie’s unhappy to wake up in an empty bed but he hears hammering. He rolls out of bed, shirtless, bed headed, grumpy mess, to find Steve nailing a mezuzah to the doorway of the trailer.

“Steve what are you doing?”. Redundant. “We’ll, I woke up this morning, remembered we had a spare in my garage from when my grand mom died and we had to clean out her house, so I went home, dug through the boxes of her shit and found it, came back here and put it up. Was gonna see how long it took you to notice. Uh, surprise.” Hes all sheepish and blushy. Cutest shit ever, Eddie thinks, as he kisses the daylights out of him on the living room floor.

Eddie makes a mean matzo ball soup. “It’s a good thing my ma wrote down one recipe for once. I’d be up shits creek without this to fallow”. Whenever their queer teen comrades™ or Steve’s kids™ are sick, they make soup and deliver it. They look so funny, like imagine mrs wheeler opening the door to this big ferocious grunge fella and nancys ex boyfriend, Eddie holding a Tupperware of soup saying “we made Mike soup. Sorry about his sinus infection.” Shit makes me giggle. Domestic lil bitches, party mom and dad.

Ms Henderson things it’s the sweetest thing when Dustin’s got a cold and they show up.

(This also means that Steve became the stand in alternate for any time someone can’t make a hellfire meeting.)

Joyce nearly court orders that they start coming to Shabbat dinner at the Byers’s. It’s a grand chaotic occasion. Hopper is barely getting the hang of things at this point, trying his best, 10/10, he’s not sure when his daughter ended up Jewish, but he came back from gulag and he was the house goy somehow. Max is always there, because well, max is always there, period. And becuase will and el and max are there the whole party wants to come, so what was once Joyce’s small Shabbat dinner with her two sons and herself is this big communal found family gathering now and she loves it so much.

But the boys! Steddie are so cute at Shabbat dinner. Serving eachother, Eddie grumbling that “you need to eat more vegetables, dumbass” forcing more into his plate, and Steve complaining that “every fucking time we eat a fucking meal together I have to force Protein down your throat! You’re still healing, asshole! You need it!”. And Joyce thinks it’s so cute how they fuss over eachother during dinner. Also bonus points to wills role models of a healthy, loving, competent gay relationship. He needs it. His stoned brother and his even more stoned boyfriend aren’t the best role models of domestic partnership. Mwah.

Steve alwyas makes his moms kugel. Joyce swears they don’t have to bring anything, sweetheart. “It’s the salt and pepper one”. Joyce can’t argue with that. It’s too good to deny.

Eddie once accidentally called joyce mom. He was helping her make something in the kitchen, and he just offhandedly addresses her as “mom” when he asks a question. He instantly goes bright red and apologizes, but, she just smiled. “Sweetie it’s fine. Everyone else calls me mom, you can, sweetie, it’s okay.” And the little punk is shy and blushy as he says okay, thanks. Joyce just adores Eddie.

Also bonus points for hopper having NO IDEA how HE, an adoptive single father, cop, from bum fuck Indiana ended up the surrogate father for like a dozen gay teens. He isn’t gonna judge them, god forbid let a soul put a finger on them but he’s like??? How did this happen??? And how did I become a pillar of the Hawkins Jewish community???

Friday nights also became family game night, with a desperate campaign which is extremely chaotic and idiotic. Eddie and will decided to DM together. Eddies entheasium and dramatics help will out of his shell a little bit- proves that there’s no reason to be shy about loving something, or having a cool campaign. And Joyce adores Eddie for that. They had to teach hopper and Joyce how to play, and they’re still getting the hang of it but it’s funny when they have to help them. Hopper asks a lot of weird questions. “Can I fight the door?” “No but you can roll to see if you can open it” “okay can I shoot the door?” “What are you, Nancy? Just roll to try to open the damn door, hopper”

Steve was such a little prep in highschool, he’s embarrassed by it now. And I’m heavily convinced he must have been on swim team, 100%. Idk it’s just his build. His personality. Eddie found an old team photo and ripped on him endlessly, teasing him mercilessly. One night Eddie gets one of Steve’s shirts and a pair of boxers to sleep in, like he always does, and he spots an old Hawkins swim team tee shirt. So he of corse takes it to be a little shit about it. He turns around to rejoin Steve in bed and Steve’s just slackjawed, realizing this is having way too much of an effect on him. Next day he steals a hellfire shirt to get back at Eddie, and ends up… ends up in a compromising position because of it. He’s gotta do that more, he realizes

Eddie comes around to Family video to see steve when he’s working. He props himself up on his elbows on the counter to loiter around, laying moves on steve, annoying steve, and only going home once he’s gotten a kiss. Robin is dramatic about how much she can’t stand them and how disgusting they are but she’s gotten used to Eddies weird antics and she liked having another weirdo around, and seeing Steve happy, truth be told.

Speaking of kisses, such a diverse array of kinds of kisses they share, but best of all, they mostly share soft, slow, sweet little PG kisses, smiley, cute little loving things. Murmuring teasing words against the others lips, gentle hands cupping faces to respect the hair.

So many smoking head cannons too

Steve obviously smokes (pot, if I need to specify) as well, but he always got that “rich kid crap” in highschool, according to eddie. Once these two are comfy and cozy together eddie just shares his shit with Steve. And he’s got some pretty damn good shit for himself. And Steve can’t get over the difference like holy fuck this shits kicking my ass Eddie god damn.

Eddie is a giggly high. He gets giggly at every little thing and it’s the best thing ever for Steve to Whitney’s. It’s so damn cute. Eddie has been through some wild shit, his childhood wasn’t great, but so see him so relaxed, fucking giggly, it’s the best to Steve.

Steve is a chatty high and an affectionate high. All over eddie, head in his lap talking about how they’re gonna have 6 kids and travel the country every summer in a camper and Eddie sits there nodding like an idiot but thinking ‘wtf is this stoned idiot talking about?’

This high confession is why eddie makes Steve drive the camper, 200%. He expected that Steve had experience with the matter considering this detailed life fantasy he had. Only to later find out he did not.

When Johnathan and argyle come into town and bring their California shit with them? Oh, Cali weed is no joke. They 4 of them get high and it really gets Eddie and Steve fucked up. Eddie has enough of a sense to get nervous when Steve starts to get touch freely, practically in his lap after a couple good hits, but he realizes he doesn’t have to worry when argyle literally pulls Johnathan in for a kiss. He lets Steve be as squishy as he wants for that smoke sesh after that.

I think that these two horny bastards would shotgun from time to time and I wanna talk abt that. The sloppy nasty make-out in the name of sharing smoke. Yeah, okay fellas keep telling yourself that. All Eddie knows is that a shotgun make out means he gets to taste his two favorite things: the inside of Steve Harrington mouth and good bud.

But also imagine how the Harrington house just reeks of pot, and when Steve realizes ‘oh shit my parents are coming home for a weekend’ him and Eddie spend the entire week before that trying to air the house out desperately, all the windows open, candles lit, etc.

Not exactly smoking HC, but not exactly not, Eddie takes Steve around with him to party’s when he deals. Steve gets him in most of the doors, TBH. he was king Steve in high school after all. And Steve just kinda sits there, glued to Eddie’s side while eddie does his shit. Like a lap dog.

Eddies like “you know all these kids and they like you, they hate me, you could drum me up some business you know” but Steve’s like they were all dicks to you in higschool why would I want to be nice to them???

They usually hang out and smoke with Chrissy once a week or so. Light a bonfire in Steve’s backyard. Steve’s gotten some weird shit from Jason carver that he thinks he’s fucking his girlfriend, but the reality is that he’s third wheeling to his very gay boyfriend and his cheerleader besties gossip sesh. Yeah, Chrissy is the worst gossip when she’s high. She also gets munchies like a mother fucker which the boys are SO HAPPY about, knowing abt her ana/mia. It’s not always just the three of them, Robin comes sometimes, sometimes even Nancy surprised everyone with her presence (just to take one hit and spend the rest of the night waxing poetry about her girlfriend). Robin is absolutely the conspiracy theory stoner of the group, and Chrissy surprisingly gets right into it with her. I wanna see these morons ordering so much fucking surfer boy, in weird ass flavor combinations, okay? To the point where they get a call to Steve’s address and realize shit it’s those stoner kids again, they’re gonna get some weird shit. Oh, and of corse once they Byers move back to Hawkins Johnathan joins them, just to whine about missing his boyfriend and get sentimental about how much he loves everyone. When argyle visits he’s the perfect gossip partner for Chrissy because he doesn’t know any of it and she gets to fill him in from the top.

Steve and Eddie to this disgustingly obnoxious thing where the call eachother ‘Steven’ and ‘Edward’ for dramatic effect. It annoys the fuck out of everyone. It’s pretty cute though. Eddie tearing into whoever’s house their hanging out of yelling ‘Steven! Steven how DARE you’ all to find out the dramatics are because he didn’t turn the drier on.

Steve is a moley Bastard. Freckles, moles, birth marks, he’s a fucking giraffe as far as Eddie’s concerned, and Eddie loves kissing all of them, makes a thing out of it, and Steve pretends he’s annoyed and tired of it but he adores it sm. He loves being loved on. Eddie just loves all his unique little bits.

Eddie has pleanty of scars from the demo bats. It’s impossible to ignore. But Steve loves them, reminds him how brave and amazing his man is. So he loves kissing on all his scars and marks, reminding him how beautiful they are

Steve learning how to paint nails just because he hates watching Eddie struggle with his non dominant hand. He just rolls his eyes, goes “gimme the damn bottle”, and does it without letting Eddie protest a second.

Eddie is ADHD as hell. And Steve let’s him use him as a human stim. Wanna play with my hair? Futz with my hands? Mess with my belt loop? Unbutton and re button my shirt sleeves? Sure Angel boy whatever you want.

[scuttle-buttle]

Chapter 21

WC: 1127

Rating: E

Chapter Tags: angst, minor fluff, period typical sexism, discussions of sexual promiscuity/slut shaming, brief mentions of violence/blood, brief period typical homophobia/joke (Niki jokes that Hunt isn't his ‘type’)

Elena drops a magazine on your desk. “Cat's out of the bag, eh?” The look you give her is scalding. “Poor choice of words… sorry.” At least she has the decency to look ashamed for a moment.

The magazine was a popular tabloid. You won't pretend that you hadn't purchased a handful in the past when it had a certain celebrity or band you liked in it. This time though you had the feeling it wasn't going to be a band that was mentioned.

Glancing over the front cover one of the headlines reads "Pummel at the Prix - has the Rat King finally found his Queen? Pg 73". Your jaw drops at the audacity.

"Have you read it yet?" you ask her.

"I skimmed it while I was getting my espresso. The article isn't as bad as you'd think from the headline."

Flipping to the correct page you begin to skim the passage yourself. "Brawl breaks out on the track….. Hunt attacks rival Lauda… seems competition on the track wasn't enough… rumors of an illicit romance between Hunt's younger sister and the staunch Austrian…. who is this woman that stole the Rat King's cold heart?... inside source tells us it's been months and wedding bells are on the horizon… perhaps a little Lauda will be joining us at the races next season..." Grainy color images show James atop Niki, first in the air. Another has Niki being escorted to the medic tent, blood covering his face and you next to him looking worse for wear.

"No, it's worse." You let out a frustrated groan. "Absolute bloody bullshit." Dropping the magazine in the waste bin you rub a hand down your face.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm not sure. We'll wait for it to blow over I suppose. Not much else to do."

Elena hums at your answer. "How is your brother taking it? Aside from…" she gestured to the trashed tabloid.

You'd tried telephoning James at least five times a day since the fight. He was undoubtedly ignoring your calls. After everything he did have the right to be mad that you spent the last few months lying to him, quite literally sleeping with the enemy. But you at least thought you deserved to explain yourself to him.

"And Niki?"

"He'll be fine. A few bumps and bruises really. The worst of it is the broken nose, but the doctor says he should be right as rain in a few weeks."

"I mean I'm glad his face will be fine and all, but how is he taking it? No doubt the press is crawling on your backs about everything."

You blow out a long breath at her question. "Niki is…" you begin and then pause. "He hates not being able to have control in a situation. He lives his life with the idea that every decision he makes is about calculated risk. Niki won't race if the risk of death is over 20%. But with all this, with me, he took a leap of faith." You shake your head, almost in disbelief of his choice.

Continuing, you add "the truth is we would either fizzle out in the beginning and it wouldn't matter, or that we would get on and eventually get caught. Practically a 100% chance of being found out. But he still did it. For me. For us. He knew the risk and he accepted it regardless. And now we both have to face the consequences."

Elena looked unsure, as if she wanted to say something but feared it would upset you. Reading her face you tell her to just out with it. Quietly, she asked "do you think you two will get through this?"

The question doesn't surprise you. You had wondered the same thing back in the medical tent. In fact, you'd been prepared to walk away at the expense of your own heartbreak if it meant keeping Niki from facing the backlash of Hunt and the media.

A small smile spreads on your face. Nodding, you tell her "honestly yeah, I do. He told me he loves me. That I was worth all this to him."

"Maybe wedding bells are in your future then," she teased.

You snort. "Time will tell, I suppose."

Elena pulls you in for a hug. "I'm sure everything will work out. James will come around and these gossips can hop off. You can just give me the saucy details yourself."

Your eyes roll as you hug her back.

🏎

Enzo Ferrari called for a press conference the Monday after the fight. He hoped to salvage the incident and turn it into good press for the team. The legal team instructed Niki to play the lovesick fool before the conference. The idea of the Austrian being seen as more human would hopefully help the public to be more sympathetic to him.

Niki was less than pleased to be at the center of attention, especially since it wasn't actually about racing. His face hurt and all he wanted to do was just about anything other than this. Most questions were very basic - how long, how you met, why the secret, etc.

"Mr. Lauda! Mr. Lauda! Why go after Hunt's sister though? Was it all just a plot to get into his head?"

Niki's eyes narrowed at the reporter. He'd been doing his best to come across as friendly and 'lovesick', as Enzo described, but now he was getting annoyed. "What kind of question is that? Are you just trying to piss me off?"

Enzo threw him a sideways glance. Adjusting his tone, he offers "it had nothing to do with Hunt. We met at the race and it just worked. She is beautiful and smart... And she puts up with me and my bullshit. What man wouldn't want that?" The group chuckles at his admission of having a less than friendly disposition.

Another reporter pipes in. "Tell us, Niki - does she live up to the Hunt reputation in the bedroom?" Raucous laughter filled the room.

Niki angers at the presumption. Arschloch. Trying to keep his cool, he flippantly says “I wouldn’t know what Hunt is like in bed, he’s not my type.”

Despite the guffaws in the room at Niki’s joke, the reporter says “I’m serious! What’s she like in the sack?”

Now Niki is seething. It was one thing to talk about Hunt in that way when he paraded around with his women on the regular, but pigs would have to fly before he let them talk about you like that. Dropping his voice he points at the man. "And I’m being serious when I tell you - fuck you. Press conference over."

He didn't wait around to find out what the team thought of his answer.

Tag list: @ay0nha @apparrio @livvyshmiv @fictionlandslanddreams @vinylrosess @typical-bistander @ntlmundy @mymagicsuitcase @anteroom-of-death @somethingthatsaysbubbles @lieutenantn @multiversemarielle @trashbin2 @whatawildone @metalbreakfast @laura-naruto-fan1998 @greeneyedblondie44 @godidontevenknowwhat 

[maybeebeee]

I'm Getting Sentimental Over You

The moment you've all (??) been waiting for...my universe's 1930s Stevebucky! Featuring pining and obliviousness. Enjoy!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers (pre-serum, pre-war, pining, not actually in a relationship yet!!), Rebecca Barnes/Original Female Character (background, mentioned)

Rating: G

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Rebecca Barnes, mentions of Bucky's other sisters

Tags: Pre-Serum Steve and Bucky, Pre-WW2, Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia (but not overtly, more just the fear of it), Fluff

Word count: 3303

Summary: Brooklyn, 1935. A brief look back to the day Rebecca Barnes realised for sure that her brother was hopelessly in love with his best friend. Bucky was sure he had no idea what she was talking about.

Read on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brooklyn, December 1935

The city air was freezing as young Bucky and Rebecca Barnes stumbled out the front door of the house, their breath immediately fogging up in front of them as they pulled their coats tighter and adjusted their hats.

“Have you both got your mittens?” A voice called from inside the house. Their mother.

“Yes, Ma!” They shouted in unison, though Bucky went on, “And I’ve got an extra pair for Steve as well, just in case!”

“Good! Don’t forget to get potatoes while you’re out!”

“We won’t!”

With that, Bucky pulled the door shut, shoved his mittened hands into his coat pockets, and headed out towards the street with his sister close behind. Truthfully, he had been hoping for a day without any of his sisters to spend with Steve, but there was Christmas shopping to be done right now, apparently, and groceries to be bought, and for some reason Ma only ever trusted him and Rebecca to go together to do all that.

There had been a little bit of debate about whether Mabel, Elizabeth and Flora should come with them this time as well, but the two eldest Barnes children were adamant that they had their routines that they wanted to stick to for at least another year. That hadn’t been enough to convince their Ma, but the weather today had, with the sudden snow that had come down overnight, so at least that was something.

In any case, it had been a few days since the last time Bucky had seen Steve, so he was still planning to sulk a bit about having Becca tagging along — that was, until she slipped and fell on her ass in a pile of snow right outside Steve’s house. He decided that was retribution enough once he was done laughing at her and had actually helped her up, and decided simply to focus on the next best part of the day from then.

Seeing Steve.

Or, well, seeing what he could of Steve underneath the ridiculous number of layers he was bundled under, which Bucky was honestly surprised weren’t just dragging his best friend to the ground with their weight.

“Woah, you hidin’ somewhere under all that, pal?” Bucky teased, tugging at the front of Steve’s scarf to see the rest of his face, already pink-cheeked with the cold, “Think you’ll be warm enough?”

“Gimme my scarf back and I will be,” Steve swatted Bucky’s hand away to pull the scarf back up almost to his nose, “Just making sure I don’t get sick again.”

“Hm, that’ll be...what, only the ninth time this year? I’d say you’ve done pretty well so far, knowing you.” He chuckled, watching with amusement as Rebecca tried to dust off her backside for the hundredth time since getting up, “Bec, you’re just gonna get wet hands if you keep doing that.”

Rebecca huffed, thoroughly unimpressed. “You’ve got spare mittens.”

“Yeah, for Steve!”

She rolled her eyes.

“Not very ladylike of you.”

“You’ve got mittens for me?” Steve cut in, presumably with an eyebrow raised under his beanie. Bucky glanced back at him with a smile, the group of three finally moving towards the street once again.

“Always. Only if you need ‘em, though.” He said, “Otherwise she might swipe them.”

Steve’s eyes crinkled at the corners, “What’d you do?” He addressed Becca.

“Slipped up the footpath comin’ into your place,” She pouted as her brother snickered at the recent memory, “And someone did nothing to stop me from going ass-first into a pile of snow, just stood there laughing at me!”

“That’s exactly my role as your brother. Also, you say that like you didn’t laugh when Beth fell down the stairs and split open her chin,” Bucky jabbed her on the arm, “Also, I helped you up. So you’re welcome.”

“Thank you so much.” She simpered sarcastically, “And Beth falling down the stairs was different.”

“How?”

“It wasn’t me. And she made a really funny noise when she fell.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and looked at Steve as if to say can you believe her? Steve just shrugged in return, so Bucky gave him a light shove and anticipated the returned attempt at shoving him back, which was always really just an excuse to catch his best friend in a brief half-hug when he tried to shoulder against his chest. Got ‘em every time.

“Can we get coffee?” Becca requested the moment they walked past a coffee shop, nose turned up as if to try and smell the bitter grounds on the air as some kind of substitute for the real thing once the inevitable answer came.

“No,” Bucky said immediately, “If you’ve still got money after getting presents you can. I’m not pitchin’ in extra for you just because you want a drink.”

“Fine,” She grumbled, “Bet I’ll still be able to get one by the time we’re done, though.”

“Yeah yeah, we’ll see. What are you lookin’ for, Steve? Gotta get inside somewhere before we all freeze, anything along here?” Bucky gestured down the road, catching sight of a second-hand bookstore that would probably do if no one else came up with anything.

Steve seemed to follow his gaze, squinting towards the sign as he shivered. “Is that a bookstore?”

“Sure is, let’s just go there for now.” Bucky led the way over and held the door open for the other two, earning an admonishment from the owner for letting in all of the cold air once he closed it behind him. He offered an apology and a charming smile, which seemed to be enough to placate the old woman for now, then wandered over to give Becca some suggestions about books to look for.

Having sorted out his sister for now, Bucky went to reunite with Steve, who had seemingly found something interesting in one of the back corners of the store. Unsure whether or not his friend had actually heard him coming — he always assumed probably not — Bucky announced his presence by reaching out to tilt the book Steve had in his hands up slightly so he could see the cover.

“The Maltese Falcon?” He raised an eyebrow, “Didn’t realise you were into detective books.”

Steve shrugged and closed the book, “Not me, my mom. She’s always liked those Sherlock Holmes books, so I figured she might like this too. American detectives, for once.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“I thought so.”

“You gonna get it?”

“Probably. ‘Bout as much as I can afford for mom this year, but I think it’ll be worth it. Hopefully I can get some work soon and get her something real nice next Christmas.”

Bucky nodded, noticing then just how cold Steve still looked despite having been inside this insanely warm shop for a few minutes already. Brows furrowed, Bucky cautiously set a hand on Steve’s back, “You’re still shivering, you want those mittens?”

His friend gave him a smile that looked a little too much like a grimace for his liking, “Dunno if mittens are gonna do much, but thanks anyway, pal.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, knowing that no matter how many times he asked Steve was never going to accept his offer of help on the first go. It was always easier to just do what was gonna help him first and deal with the complaints later. He quickly fished the extra mittens out of his pocket, grabbing the book out of Steve’s hands and holding it under his arm while he slid the too-big gloves over the ones the other boy already had on.

Wordlessly, Bucky passed the book back and unwrapped the scarf from around his own neck before wrapping it around Steve’s, bundled up with the scarf he was already wearing. Sure, he looked ridiculous now, but if he was marginally warmer, that was what mattered to Bucky. Less chance of him getting sick again now.

“How’s that?” He asked, stepping back to admire his handiwork — though pointedly not looking Steve straight in the eye as he spoke.

“So much warmer,” Steve said with a slight chuckle, “Aren’t you gonna get cold now, though?”

“I’ll survive. Got more meat on these bones than you do, punk.” Bucky teased, “Besides, can’t have you breaking your streak of not getting sick. Make it through this month and you’ll have beaten your all-time record for how few times you’ve been sick in a year.”

“Right, and how many times have you been sick this year?”

“Once, and that was ‘cause you gave me whatever that stomach bug you had was.”

Steve winced, “Oh yeah, that was a bad one.”

“Tell me about it,” He chuckled, “I had to do Mabel’s chores for her for a month to make up for throwin’ up on her favourite shoes. Honestly, I still don’t think she’s fully forgiven me for that.”

“I don’t think I would either, pal.” Steve laughed, swatting at Bucky’s hands when he tried to lightly shove him, “Puke in the shoes is nasty.”

Bucky rolled his eyes fondly, as he leaned over to pick up a book that had caught his attention on the shelf, “Whatever. Not like it was while she was wearing them or anything,” He flicked through a few pages and turned the book over to read the blurb, humming thoughtfully, “Actually, this sounds like something she’d read. Might get it.”

By the time they left the store, all three of them had at least one book wrapped in brown paper and tucked inside their coats ready to be hidden away somewhere else until Christmas Day. In the meantime, Rebecca had decided she wanted to go to some department store to look for some accessories or something to gift to the younger three girls. Bucky and Steve weren’t exactly enthusiastic about shopping for such things, though they were both fairly used to it by now.

And Bucky always found some way to make it entertaining.

“How do I look?” He’d found some ridiculous fluffy scarf that was almost definitely too expensive for him to be goofing around with, but he’d tossed it around his neck regardless and posed dramatically to get a laugh out of Steve.

Bucky tried to pretend the sound didn’t make his chest feel full, or his cheeks warm, or his stomach like it was full of butterflies.

Rebecca pointedly rolled her eyes at both of them as she went to pay for the hair clips she’d found, waving once she was ready to head out again, “I’m done with presents, I think. And I’ve still got money for coffee!” She announced proudly.

“Congrats,” Bucky drawled, “You got enough for all of us or just yourself?”

“Just me.”

He snorted, but started off in the direction of the nearest coffee shop regardless. “Typical. Steve, you want a coffee?”

“Nah, ain’t got enough change left.”

Bucky paid for Steve’s coffee, forgoing one for himself so he still had money to pick up the groceries his Ma had asked for on the way home. It was no big deal, he barely even drank coffee anyway, and he was adamant that Steve needed a hot drink more than he did to stay warm in today’s climate.

Steve huffed, but took a grudging sip of the coffee. “I’ll get you back for this someday.” He vowed.

Bucky grinned. “Whatever you say, pal. It’s just coffee.”

Steve went on grumbling about it, but by the time the groceries had been acquired and the group was headed back towards his house with Bucky walking close enough that their shoulders brushed — or at least, Steve’s shoulder and Bucky’s upper arm — he seemed to have gotten over it.

The cold really was biting at Bucky’s neck by now, frigid wind like a sharp knife against his exposed skin as he tried to pull his coat tighter about himself to cover up. He certainly didn’t regret giving Steve his scarf, but he was starting to wish he’d brought a spare one along with the mittens.

Rebecca side-eyed her brother, footsteps careful on the slippery sidewalk. Bucky figured she was trying to avoid the embarrassment of falling over again. “Where’s your scarf?” She queried.

He gestured at his best friend. Really, if Steve had looked ridiculously bundled up before, it was a whole new level of laughable now that he was practically shrinking into all of his clothes to avoid the chill. Bucky bit back a smile, and Becca nodded knowingly.

“Do you want it back?” Steve held up the end of the scarf in offering, “You look cold.”

Bucky waved him off. “We’re not gonna be outside that much longer, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

In fact, they were already on Steve’s street, his place visible through the light fog just up ahead — and once he was dropped off, the Barnes residence was only several more blocks away. Bucky wasn’t too worried about catching a cold in that amount of time, and even if he was, he figured it would be worth it if Steve didn’t catch one. Last time the other boy had caught something in winter it had turned into pneumonia and they’d very nearly lost him, he wasn’t about to risk that again. If it meant sacrificing his own scarf to Steve, so be it.

Bucky watched in amusement — knowing better this time than to offer help, with how his friend had gotten after the coffee — as Steve fumbled around amongst all of his layers to find his house key, eventually procuring it after what seemed like an arduous ordeal. After unlocking the front door, the smaller boy turned around to tug off the extra mittens and scarf he’d been given, but Bucky stopped him swiftly.

“Keep ‘em, it’s gonna be a cold night,” He said, hands clasped gently over Steve’s to stop him from moving further — nevermind how red his cheeks must have been in that moment, he was sure he could blame it on the chill, “I can come by tomorrow and get them.”

“Sounds like an excuse to come over, if you ask me.” Steve teased, at least not straining against Bucky’s grasp. His cheeks were flushed bright from the cold, too, Bucky noticed.

He grinned. “Might be. Is it such a sin?”

“Not really. See you tomorrow then.”

Bucky finally dropped Steve’s hands and took a step back. “See ya.”

“Bye, Becca!” Steve waved, and she mirrored the motion with a “Bye!” of her own.

The two Barnes siblings made their way back to the footpath as the door clicked shut behind Steve, and Rebecca took the opportunity to loop her arm around Bucky’s, which only signalled trouble for him. He was about to make some comment about making sure she didn’t fall on her ass again to avoid whatever topic was about to come up, but she beat him to the punch.

“What the hell was that?” His sister asked jovially, almost in a sing-song kind of voice.

Setting his jaw, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the street ahead. “What was what?”

Becca scoffed. “Whatever that was.”

“Dropping Steve off at home?”

“And staring longingly into his eyes, holding his hands on the doorstep? Could’ve sworn I was about to see a movie kiss or something there.”

Bucky tensed, but didn’t push his sister away. “Can you not joke about that in public?”

Her smile faded a little. “Sorry. There’s no one around, though.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Becca pouted, but gave Bucky’s arm a light squeeze and spoke quietly. “Hey, you gotta stop trying to hide from me. I mean you’re already keepin’ secrets for me and Katherine. We agreed to help each other out with this.”

He sighed deeply, staying silent for a long moment before pulling her closer against his side as they plodded down the alley shortcuts back home. “I know, sorry. I just don’t want anyone getting found out, or in Steve’s case getting caught up in something he probably doesn’t wanna be part of.”

“What do you mean? He already knows about Katherine and everything.”

“I mean about me.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“‘Course not.” Bucky said defensively, “Why would I tell my best friend I’m…in love with him?” He barely whispered the last part, cautious of anyone who could’ve overheard. Becca was right, there was no one around, but still.

His sister huffed. “Not that part, dummy. Just that you, uh, what’s a good term to use? Play batter and fielder?”

Unable to help himself, Bucky barked out a laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know! I’m just trying to put it nicely!”

“Jesus,” He snorted, “Anyway, no. Not that either. And he doesn’t need to know unless I’m sure he’s the same, otherwise I might drive him off or something.”

Becca scoffed again and shoved him with her shoulder. “You’re an idiot.” She said simply.

“Thanks. You’re a brat.”

“I do my best.”

Soon enough the pair were back on their own doorstep, brushing snow off their shoes and coats before stepping inside with their shopping still carefully concealed, bar the groceries. Their Ma was quickly upon them, kissing them both on their freezing cheeks in thanks as she grabbed the groceries from Bucky.

“What happened to your scarf, James?” Ma questioned, one hand on the side of his cold-flushed neck as young Flora entered the scene, silently demanding for her big brother to lift her up.

Bucky obliged the girl as he gave his mother a sheepish grin. “Had to let Steve borrow it.” He said simply, “I’ll get it back from him tomorrow.”

Ma set her hand on her hip. “Does he need a new scarf? I’ll knit him one for Christmas.”

“He’s got one, I think we were just outside a bit too long for him to start with. Poor guy was shakin’ like a leaf.”

“You gave him the mittens too?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good. You need to look after that boy, James, I’m sure his mom’s busy enough at the hospital this time of year. I’ll send some soup over with you when you go tomorrow that the two of ‘em can have. And tell Steve to keep the mittens.”

“Yes ma’am.” Bucky said again with a determined nod. Ma seemed happy enough with that response and turned to Rebecca to get her to help with something in the kitchen while Bucky was left with Flora clinging onto him, tugging at his coat collar and asking if he’d got her anything while he was out, though her words didn’t quite register in his mind for a long moment.

Of course, he was thinking too much about what Ma had said. Look after that boy, James.

Little did she know just to what extent he was determined to look after Steve. He was always the protector, always ready to do what it took to keep those he loved safe — his sisters and his Ma...and Steve.

In some respect, the way he felt about looking after Steve was different to what he felt about his family. Of course, all of them he loved deeply and fiercely, and always would. But...there was some depth he couldn’t quite explain about his feelings towards Steve.

He’d go through hell and back for him whether or not the other boy held the same depth of feelings that Bucky himself did, that was something he knew right into his core. His very bones were etched with the resolve to be by Steve’s side no matter what. And maybe that was what true love felt like.

What Bucky knew for sure, though, whatever happened, he would be there for Steve. By his side. Protector for someone who maybe didn’t need one, but would let him play the part regardless. The two of them against the world.

Until the end of the line.

[goodmanmorgan]

Okay so we all know Arthur is kinda unsure about PDA which is all find and dandy, But I feel like when he’s drunk he’s probably a little more lenient about it. Do you think you could write a short fic about Arthur and a Male reader sitting around the campfire with a few other of the gang members. Having just a fun old time drinking and singing dumb little tunes. 

Like, for once everything just feels at peace. The reader can sit in Arthur’s lap and just laugh and pepper his face with kisses without anyone being bothered. Maybe a soft nsfw end? Nothing too graphic but just imagine Arthur tenderly looking into your eyes as he makes love to you. 🥺 Sorry if this is too much!

First request!! This is a really good prompt and I hope I did ok for my first RDR2 fic! 

Arthur is drunk, and we all know what he's like when he has a little bit too much to drink :)

Word Count: 923 Warnings: Alcohol, Period typical homophobia (only a small paragraph near the end) Reader: Male For the first time in a long time, spirits in camp were high. Sean had just been rescued from Blackwater and everyone was celebrating his safe return. You were sat around one of the tables at Horseshoe Overlook with Karen and Grimshaw, watching their game of rummy and listening to Javier strum his guitar at the nearby campfire amongst the chatter and sing-song from others around camp.

You smile and pick up your drink, going to take a sip, however, finding it empty you shake the bottle and grumble. Getting up and tossing the bottle over your shoulder you hear the bottle make contact with something solid, followed by a quiet grunt. Looking over your shoulder to make a quick apology you see Arthur stood behind you, flushed face and eyes hazy, rubbing his shoulder where the bottle made contact.

“Arthur! Fuck! 'm so sorry!” You slur out, stumbling over to him and laying your hand over where the bottle hit him. “'m okay darlin'” he chuckles, pulling you closer to him by your belt loops as you try to fuss over him. You look up at him with a guiltily and move to cup his face in your hands, bringing him down to place a light peck on his lips.

He smiles against you and pulls back a little, shifting slightly so he could lean closer to your ear, whispering “If you want to make it up to me, may I have a dance?” the slight playful lilt in his voice betrayed how much he'd had to drink, as did his actions. He'd never really do this around gang members without a lot of liquid courage.

You snort out a laugh and nod, waving a goodbye to the two women sat at the table and pulling Arthur by the hand to make your way to the front of Dutch's tent, the two of you stumbling slightly every now and then. Emerging from around the side the two of you spot Molly and Dutch holding each other close and dancing, gazing into each others eyes with soft smiles and chuckling to themselves whenever he dipped her. The sight made you smile and lean into Arthur, they had been so tense recently – they needed this.

Arthur wraps his arms around you as you move to be chest to chest with him, copying the moves of Molly and Dutch the two of you sway together slowly, your head on his chest and his head resting on top of yours. You were like that for a while, both of you just existing in the other's arms – feeling at peace. Untouchable. Nothing and nobody could ruin this moment, Not Micah, not Colm, not even the Pinkertons.

The phonograph eventually stops, both of you pulling apart and bowing at each other with small grins. You kiss Arthur on the cheek as a thank you, murmuring about going to get another drink and he nods, kissing you on the forehead and wandering off to go find something to do.

Heading over to the drinks on the table in front of Dutch's tent you grab a bottle and your hazy mind travels to how touchy Arthur is when he drinks. 'He deserves to let himself go every now and then' you think, grabbing another bottle for Arthur, watching Karen and Sean sneak off to John's tent with a chuckle as you do so.

After uncapping both bottles and taking a swig from yours, you eventually drift to where most people still celebrating were gathered around the campfire, singing along to Javier playing Jack o' Diamonds. You take another mouthful of whiskey and spot Arthur sat next to Uncle on a set of crates singing along, looking more carefree than he has in weeks.

You make your way over to him and all but throw yourself in his lap, finishing your drink and passing him his, his free arm settling around your waist to stop you from slipping off and colliding with Uncle. You give him a cheeky grin and he squints at you slightly, trying to guess what you want from him before he falls into a chesty laugh as you pepper his face with feather-light kisses, the rest of the gang sat around the fire joining him, watching your antics make Arthur turn a darker shade of pink.

Eventually you stop, shifting in his lap to face the fire and lean against Arthur's chest, listening to him joining in some of the songs with his beautifully rough voice right next to your ear, leaning his head on your shoulder.

A brief thought crosses your drunken daze, thinking about how lucky you both are to have the gang. In most areas, two men seen in a relationship together could be hung, but here, in this den of thieves, outlaws and murderers no one -apart from maybe Micah- really paid it any mind. It made you happy. Being here made you happy.

You relaxed back into Arthur further, lazing like a content cat, barely registering the movement out of the corner of your eye. Slightly turning your head to see what it was you spot Karen and Sean sneaking back out of John's tent, hair messed up, flushed and smiling like idiots, Sean more so than Karen. Arthur follows your line of vision to them when you squeeze his arm, pressing a kiss into your shoulder and tightening his arm around your waist, finishing his drink. A silent invitation, one which you accept with another squeeze of his arm.

[corvus--rex]

Another one that's been put down for a nap. I actually have the four planned chapters outlined, it just takes a particular head space to write. It's a 90's au, which means that there is period-typical homophobia involved. Our boys are musicians still in the town they grew up in. Note: they both smoke (I'm sorry), and there's a brief mention of underage sex (both are high school seniors).

@jilli-bean, this is more of the au my paragraph came from. I remembered you asked if I would tag you when I wrote more of it. Here it is so far!

~*~*~*~

~~*~~ present day – June, 1997 ~~*~~

“So, like, I guess he’s gay or whatever. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just, like, y’know?”

The voice belonged to a girl in a sundress talking to her two friends while walking by. Keith stayed where he was leaning against the side of the building and flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke in a sigh. Saying “there’s nothing wrong with that” was just the same as saying “no offense” and then being offensive. He’d lost patience for that phrase a long time ago. But even as done with it as he was, it was still better than getting kicked out of his last foster home three weeks before his eighteenth birthday after being outed by the family’s biological son.

The boys were the same age, and Keith’s foster brother Wyatt was upset at the time for Keith having better grades and, more importantly, attracting the attention of the girl Wyatt had a crush on. The ensuing fight over the girl led to Keith confessing his sexuality, and petty jealousy led to Wyatt telling his parents. His social worker was a godsend, and after a conversation with his best friend’s parents, Keith found himself moving in with them that night. The guest room became his permanently after that. He’d moved out into his own apartment with his best friend Lance McClain-Sandoval when he started college, but the McClain-Sandovals were one of the closest things to a real family he’d ever known. That first night felt like coming home for a second time, and the midnight conversation they had while lying on Lance’s bedroom floor would be forever burned into memory.

~~*~~ October, 1991 ~~*~~

They were supposed to be in bed already. The next day was a school day and both boys knew that Mariana would have their asses if she knew they were still up, but they didn’t care. Lance knew how bad Keith’s foster family was and had nearly crushed his mother in a hug when she got off the phone with Keith’s social worker. He had been the one to pick Keith up from his social worker’s office. And he’d been the one to drive to the Jacksons’ house with him to retrieve everything Keith had left behind. They found it all boxed up on the front step with a note reminding him that they just couldn’t have “someone like him” in their home and around their children. Keith, and Lance, took great pleasure in watching that note go up in flames in the fire pit in Lance’s backyard.

Keith had been fostered in the same large town of Arus for the last three years, and he and Lance had been friends since the first day Keith transferred to Arus High School only two months after the beginning of their freshman year. They had come out to each other in the summer after sophomore year, both relieved that they wouldn’t lose their best friend. They were even more relieved when Lance’s parents Mariana and Diego told the boys that they would love them both no matter what, and that it was no one’s business who they loved. Now it was only one month into their senior year and life was changing again.

“Tomorrow’s gonna suck,” Keith sighed.

“Yeah, it probably will. Wyatt’s an asshole and he’ll tell everyone. Probably starting with what’s-her-tits and blowing any chance he has with her,” Lance agreed.

Keith couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. “Michelle? Yeah, little fucker never had a chance with her to begin with. She’s been banging Chris Proctor all summer. Won’t shut the fuck up about it, even when she’s hitting on me.”

That made Lance roll to face his best friend. “Wait, seriously? I thought she hated him. Something about basketball players not being as good as football players.”

Keith rolled onto his side. “Yeah, that’s what I’d heard, but I guess she doesn’t hate his dick.”

Lance snorted, but when he saw how the strings of fairy lights lit Keith’s face and the sparkle of laughter in his deep violet eyes, his breath caught. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was a bad idea. It had been only hours since Keith was kicked out of the Jackson house, and this wasn’t some summer sleepover spent fantasizing about the future. The crush he’d been nursing for his best friend burst into full bloom, and he couldn’t stop himself.

Noticing the change, Keith’s brows furrowed. “Lance? What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head, “You’re beautiful, y’know that? I’ve been wanting to tell you that for so long.”

Keith’s expression softened. Lance confessing to feeling something more than just being best friends made a warmth settle into his bones. He’d thought his own crush would go unrequited forever and had begun to adjust into the idea that they would remain best friends and nothing more. Lance had just given him hope, and he wasn’t going to let the moment pass.

“Yeah? So are you. I thought I wouldn’t ever get to say it. But if we’re confessing…”

Impulse overrode higher thought, and Lance found himself inches away Keith’s face before he realized what happened. “Can I?” he asked in a soft whisper.

“Whenever you want,” Keith answered just as quietly.

Their first kiss was soft, gentle. It carried the relief of finally knowing how the other felt, and the promise of exploring those feelings. It was hesitant, nervous. It felt as though they were both worried that it was nothing more than a dream and that they’d wake up sore from falling asleep on Lance’s bedroom floor. But the very physical sensation of touch – Lance’s fingers threaded through soft black hair, the light touch of his thumb across high cheekbones, Keith’s hand sliding up soft t-shirt fabric, gripping the lean, compact muscle – it reminded them that they were very much awake, and that their kiss was very much real. When they separated, Lance pulled them back down, Keith nuzzling into his neck.

“I never thought kissing my best friend was something I’d ever do,” Lance said, basking in the afterglow of their kiss and the feeling of Keith in his arms.

“Mm, maybe not, but what about a boyfriend?” Keith asked, delicate fingertips tracing patterns into the t-shirt he had been holding so desperately only moments before.

“Yeah, I could get used to that.”

~~*~~ present day – June, 1997 ~~*~~

Keith was so lost in the memory of his first kiss with Lance he didn’t notice he was no longer alone until there was an arm on his shoulder and the cigarette was gone from his hand. He startled, then realized it was Lance. Keith was well aware how much Lance loved his leather jacket rocker look. It went well with the core of his music taste – a little punk, a little grunge, a splash of metal, a healthy dose of rock. He didn’t look it, but Lance’s tastes ran pretty much the same; it was one of the things they became friends over. But as much as Lance loved Keith’s daily wardrobe, Keith loved Lance’s more casual outfits, almost always topped off with the denim jacket whose back panel he had painted with a dragon and phoenix before gifting it to his boyfriend for his 18th birthday.

“Fucking hell, don’t do that!” he hissed. “Also, excuse you, that was mine.”

Lance just laughed through the smoke. “What, you worried about germs? We do a lot more than just swap spit, babe.”

Keith heaved a sigh, shaking his head at his boyfriend. “Yeah. I know that, and you know that, but I don’t think all of Arus needs to know that.”

“I’m pretty sure they’ve figured it out by now. I’m not exactly subtle, and almost the whole town knows about you after senior year of high school.”

“Fuck I still hate that asswipe. Ok, I’m done talking about him. You, me, Mario Kart, and the six-pack in the fridge.”

Lance crushed the cigarette butt under his sneaker. “Ooh, Mario Kart and pizza night. I still need to beat your ass at Rainbow Road.”

“Not gonna happen,” Keith threw over his shoulder as he walked away. He took off running when Lance gave chase, barely beating him to the truck.

As much as Keith’s true passions lay in art and music, he was also a skilled mechanic thanks to his foster father Carlos. He’d been with the Villalobos family for two years before a family emergency meant that they had to leave California for their parents’ native Mexico. If there was any other family that had felt like home, it was theirs. Carlos and Pilar treated him like one of their own children, and Keith got along with Daniela and Alejandro (Alex to his friends) like real siblings. They were back in California now, and he’d been able to reconnect with them and fill them in on what had happened with the Jacksons and how it had ended well despite them. After hearing about what had happened after they left, Carlos and Pilar had immediately called Lance’s parents, and now the two couples were good friends, the Villalobos slipping seamlessly back into Keith's life.

Keith had worked his way through college, and kept him working currently, thanks to the skills Carlos taught him. It was also those skills that got him his second most prized possession, the first being his his guitars. Keith had been working when the truck’s first and only owner brought it in on the back of a tow truck. He had bought it new, but the transmission on the ’94 Toyota Pickup blew out, and it wasn’t worth fixing. Keith said that it was a total waste of an otherwise solid pickup, and the owner told him that he could keep it if he promised to fully repair it. Six months of working on it in his spare time, and Keith had a rebuilt transmission and a fully working Garnet Red Pearl, extended cab Toyota Pickup.

~*~*~*~

Links to the rest of the series:

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