#ceil writing

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 12) [note: trigger warning for a pretty rough spanking scene with a belt and minimal aftercare. if you need to, you can skip to the midway point (there's a line between the first half and second).]

first chapter >> last chapter

-

He keeps your hands tied behind your back on the ride home.

All that does is confirm the fact that he must know. Graves must have tracked him down or perhaps he was approached by someone who did consider your sudden arrival in town suspicious. Why else would the sheriff chase you all the way into the mountains on horseback and then take you back with him? He would’ve within his rights to leave your thieving self to wander alone in the woods and succumb to the elements.

John doesn’t say a word the first hour of the ride back. You can feel the anger emanating from him though. He almost shakes with it. His anger somehow upsets you more than whatever is left to come. 

“Anytime you wanna start talkin’, I’m all ears,” John finally says, breaking the silence. 

You keep your lips pressed together, stubbornly silent. There’s no use giving yourself away before you’ve learned how much he knows. You haven’t built this life of yours with loose lips. 

“I don’t know what in the Sam Hill has gotten into you,” he continues, and his voice is cobblestone tread rough in the night. “Running off all by yourself. There ain’t nothing out in these parts except outlaws and highwaymen. There are men out here that’d love to get their hands on a woman like you—not even a knife to defend yourself with. You haven’t even got a scrap of food on you, never mind water. You’d’ve been dead in a week if the men out here hadn’t picked you off themselves.”

His words make your stomach ache. You know that there are worse things out there. A thousand gruesome ways to die. You’re less of a lady than John might think—you’ve heard stories. You’ve brushed close to that reality yourself. You wonder how he’d take it if you were to tell him about what had happened back east. 

Maybe running away this time hadn’t been your smartest idea, but it had been your only. You can’t fault yourself for the instinct to survive. 

“I know,” you mumble, dropping your chin to your chest. 

“You gonna explain to me why you stole my horse and ran off in the first place?” he asks. 

It’s the strangest interrogation you’ve ever heard of—sitting on the same horse with your back to the man questioning you and your hands tied together at the wrists. You wonder if you leaned back whether you’d feel his heart beating furiously in his chest. 

You remain mulishly silent though, reticent to answer the question.

“Maybe I’ve been spoiling you,” he continues, trying to rationalize it to himself. “After the fuss you put up those first few days, I thought a bit of structure and discipline would do you well, and it did. Giving you a bit of slack was my mistake.”

You frown at that. Those don’t sound like the words of a man with any knowledge of the circumstances leading to you running off. He might not even have come across Graves at all in the hours since the man made his appearance in the general store. Otherwise, you can’t imagine how he wouldn’t make the connection. 

Still, you can’t make yourself come right out and say it, even though every iota of your being aches to let the truth out. Call it nerves overpowering the need to be truthful and good. You vacillate between honesty and self-preservation, but each avenue feels like being dropped into a nest of vipers. 

But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. If he knew, he wouldn’t question you like this. It’s a boon you can’t give up, not yet. Not when the thought of his inevitable righteous fury fills you with dread and self-loathing. 

“I don’t have to explain myself,” you spit out suddenly, and it’s not you saying those words but something ugly and sad in you. “You’re not my owner.”

“I damn sure am your husband though,” John growls, winding his free hand around your hair to tug you back into his chest. “And I know these parts far better than you, little miss. Beyond running off on me for no good reason when I thought we put your reticence behind us, you went and put yourself in danger the likes of which you couldn’t even fathom.”

“I’m not an idiot,” you snap. “I know what men are like.”

“You’re telling me you pulled that stunt knowing what kinda danger is out there in the woods?”

“I wasn’t thinking!”

“I know you weren’t,” John grunts. “That’s the issue.” 

The rest of the ride home is uncomfortably quiet. John keeps one hand clamped on your waist while the other holds the reins of both horses, the two walking alongside each other back down the trail towards the house. The ride home is a lot longer than the ride out into the woods since John refuses to let either of them go faster than a slow trot while your hands are tied behind your back. 

He snorts in derision at your suggestion to undo your binds. “That eager for your punishment?” 

That gets you to zip your lips. 

When you get drowsy, John tips your head back and makes you sip from his waterskin. His hand fits carefully around your throat to hold your head in place, his fingers curling around to just graze the nape of your neck. Your throat pulses under his palm when you swallow. It’s far too intimate for how restless you feel, damn near shaking out of your skin, but it briefly shushes the voice in your head until he pulls his hand away. 

A shadow under the doorway of the house startles you at first before it takes a step into the faint light of the setting sun and you recognize the bristly blond of Simon’s shorn head and the red bandana shrouding the bottom half of his face. The tension ebbs back into you when you realize with creeping humiliation that the black horse you rode home on must belong to him. 

He watches the two of you approach with predictable disinterest, his eyes betraying nothing. The shame is excruciating. 

John brings the horse to a halt some feet from Simon, not bothering to greet him. You wonder if it’s the anger choking him or if this is just routine, men trading favors in silence lest a word in gratitude break the spell. After dismounting himself, John helps you down, all but picking you up and lifting you off the horse. 

Simon doesn’t say a word to either of you when he takes the reins from John’s hands, giving him only a curt nod and you a cursory glance before leading his horse away to mount. He doesn’t spare you a backwards glance before taking off back towards town. You watch him over your shoulder while John guides you up the porch steps and into the house, until the shape of him disappears into the horizon. Then the door shuts behind you. 

Alone now, your attention turns back to John. He stares down at you consideringly, a hand planted on the door he just shut until he lets it fall to his side. You can see the gears turning in his mind, weighing something out. 

It wouldn’t be right to call it anticipation; it’s not quite dread either. 

“I don’t make idle threats, you know,” he says, apropos of nothing. 

His words make you frown until you glance down to find him undoing his belt. Your blood turns to ice. He tugs the thick strap until it comes sliding out of each loop around his waist. The buckle rests heavy in his palm, thick fingers curling around it, and when he bends the belt in two, you already know that he intends to follow through with his threat from earlier, the one you said you’d gut him for.

“I’ll scream,” you warn, heart in your throat. It almost chokes you. “I mean it. I’ll scream like the devil.”

“Don’t go makin’ no empty threats now, darlin’,” he says in a low voice, almost taunting. You can hear the hard edge in his voice though. It’s not something he craves, but he’ll take it. 

“You touch me with that thing and I’ll never forgive you.” 

John’s eyes go hard. “I’ll just have to take that chance.” 

And then he’s on you.

He hooks an arm around your waist when you try to rush past him back out the door and it forces the breath out of you. 

You struggle as best you can with your hands tied behind your back, trying to wriggle out of his hold even as he heaves you up into his arms and climbs the staircase towards the bedroom. The steps creak under the added weight of you in his arms. The screams come tearing from your throat, ripping your vocal cords and nearly sending you into a coughing fit. 

“Let—me—go—” you shriek, kicking out wildly, hoping to catch something that’ll make him lose his balance. 

“All that squirmin’ ain’t making me feel more merciful,” he growls. 

John kicks the bedroom door open with his foot when he reaches the top of the staircase. The room looks ominous without the oil lamp lit, the shadows growing in the corners swallowing up the end table. The bed is just as you made it this morning, the sheets pressed tight and neat, and you only get a second to take that in before he marches towards the bed and throws you down onto it.  

You hit the bed hard, bouncing slightly. He sits down heavily enough to jostle you and when you try to roll away on instinct, a hand catches you by the bicep and pulls you back. He hauls you across the bulk of his thighs this time, far different from your first meeting back in the sheriff’s office all those weeks ago. Your feet don’t even touch the floor this time around, dangling in the air and flailing for purchase. 

“You brute—you bastard!” you screech.

“I’m not gonna be as charitable this time,” John says, yanking your dress up and your drawers down until your bare bottom is exposed. You gasp at the cold air, murmuring something like please, please, please under your breath. “Even if I knew why it was you decided to run off, that doesn’t excuse the fact that you did. You coulda been hurt or worse out there, darlin’, and I’d never have forgiven myself. I’m gonna make sure the lesson sinks in this time.”

He folds the leather belt to hold it in one hand, leaving the other to pin you down over his thighs, making sure you don’t wriggle out. The leather is cool at first when he drags it over your butt. It makes your breathing pick up. It’s so gentle that you can almost trick yourself into thinking that it’s all he intends to do. 

The first lash comes so quick that you barely register it. The second knocks the wind out of you, and then the pain sets in. 

It stings something fierce. Where his palm hurt that first time he bent you over his desk and spanked you, the belt burns. It goes deep and it lingers when he pulls the leather away from your stinging bottom. 

“Hurts like the dickens, don’t it?” John asks, not bothering to wait for confirmation before bringing the belt down again. “You’re lucky it’s only ten this time.”

You howl into the bedsheets, eyes tearing up and spilling down your cheeks. When you try to cover your ass with your bound hands, John grabs them and pins them to the small of your back. 

“What’ll you never do again?” he growls. 

“I—I’ll—”

“Say it, darlin’: I’ll never run off on my own again.”

“I’ll—n-never gonna—oh, it hurts, John—please—”

At some point, you must say the words he’s looking for. You lose count of how many times his belt has struck across your ass. Like thunder coming after lightning, you feel it and then you hear it. The sharp snap comes as a second wave of agony in and of itself. 

Your throat is stripped raw by the time it’s over. The aftermath finds you with a puddle of drool under your cheek, hair matted to your face. Sweat slicks the backs of your thighs and down your spine. Even the gentlest brush of John’s hand over your backside, the belt deposited off the side of the bed, makes you flinch, the skin there tender to the touch. You’ll surely feel it deep in your bones come sunrise. 

Too exhausted for anger, all you can do is lie there. It sits heavy in your stomach though, a pit at the center of you. You want to say, who gave you the right? The answer burns a ring around your finger though. You want to say, you don’t understand, it had nothing to do with you. It has everything to do with him and you. 

You can tell he wants to say something. It gets choked in his throat, but you can hear it in the way his breath draws in, like he’s trying to coax it from his chest but it simply won’t come out. 

“Stay right there,” John rumbles instead, shifting you onto the bed to let you lie on your belly. 

You moan in pain when he moves you, sniffling into your arms. The crook of your elbow is sticky with your tears and snot. 

The bed dips under his weight when he comes back. You flinch violently when he draws the skirt of your dress up again and smooths his hand over the tender cheeks of your backside, spreading a cool salve over your skin. The first touch of his hand makes you hiss, tears beading in the corners of your eyes again, but then the cool sinks in, alleviating the ache. 

He does that for another few minutes in silence. Gentle, tentative touches, only stopping when the salve has been spread evenly over your bottom. He’s quiet when he shifts you up the bed until your feet are no longer dangling off the end. You’re distantly aware of him taking off your shoes and tucking you into bed, but the events of the day have finally gotten the better of you. It would be easier to push a boulder up a hill than crack even one of your eyelids open.

Time passes slowly; sluggishly. Your thoughts can’t quite catch up with it, either too quick or too slow. You’re stuck in thoughts of the desert, caught in a sandstorm that manifests too suddenly for you to take cover. All you can do is close your eyes and wait it out. 

Morning comes like a brutal summoning into the waking world. 

It hurts, but you expected that. Before your eyes even open, you’re aware of a throbbing pain coming from your backside. You wince when you shift to your side, squeezing your eyes tight. You contemplate rolling over and taking your chances with John’s temper. The thought isn’t as appealing in the light of day though. 

It takes some time to get out of bed and when you do, you have to step tentatively from floorboard to floorboard, the ache making it decidedly uncomfortable. You can’t imagine what sitting down will be like. Riding a horse is just out of the question. 

From the bedroom window, you see John standing in front of the house with Simon, back again not even twelve hours later. With the window closed, you can’t hear their conversation, nor can you read their lips. Their exchange doesn’t last long though. After another minute or so, and a nod goodbye, Simon walks back over to his horse standing nearby and lifts himself up and over onto the saddle, taking off towards town. 

When John turns back towards the house, you see him glance up towards the bedroom window where you stand. The circles beneath his eyes are dark, pronounced. On another day, you might’ve ducked out of sight or jumped away from the window, but now you hold his gaze. 

He breaks your stare first this time, heading back inside. It’s less satisfying than you thought it’d be. 

You spend the day resting in bed and avoiding John for the most part. He spends the majority of the day out of the house. You hear him downstairs in the kitchen around midday, fixing himself up something to eat, and you listen attentively to the scrape of the chair across the floor and the pan on the stovetop. Like the day he brought you home, he brings you up a tray only to leave it at the door, rapping the door with his knuckles to let you know before heading back downstairs. 

When he comes up for bed, you’re already lying down with your back to the door, the oil lamp left unlit. John doesn’t say anything to you as he changes into his nightwear. He smells fresh when he climbs into bed, like he bathed in the creek out in the woods. You breathe in deeply, trying to keep your breath quiet enough to not disturb the silence. The pillow under your head is saturated with his scent. You turn your nose into it when he lies down on his back instead of curling into you like he usually does. 

Your chest aches at that simple denial. There’s a wall between the two of you and you know where it came from. Any trust that you’d built lies in ruins now. 

Perhaps that’s not quite right though. It’s a romantic notion that you’ve been building something together all this time, but it doesn’t feel right now that you have the wherewithal to look back and reflect. All this time, whenever you’ve touched, you’ve held him steadfast and at an arm's length away, stopping two degrees short of intimacy. 

Deliberately effusive; and worse, you’ve called it affection. 

The tenderness in your heart is the worst of it. There’s a bruise there, and it’s been there awhile. It’s only grown with your recent troubles. You tell yourself every year that you’ll air it out come spring, but then the winter comes and it freezes over again.  

The pillow under your chest grows damp with your tears. 

Your dress the next morning is cornflower blue. The wheatfields are golden stalks swaying in the breeze. It’s a pleasanter day than how you feel. 

The ride into town is as painful as you thought it might be. You wince with every stride, your bottom still tender as a rose. John’s arm tightens around your waist when you squirm, like you might slide off the saddle and try to flee again, and you bite your lip to hold back the urge to snap. 

The little bit of independence you’d grown to enjoy is snatched away from you. You expected that as well, but that loss of privilege comes with a biting ache. You fight the urge to gnash your teeth and bark at him that you’re not a child when he grips you under the arm and leads you down the road. It wouldn’t do you any good. 

When John leaves you off at the general store, you’re surprised to find Kate back, hale and hearty. She looks up when the chime over the door jingles and raises her eyebrows in greeting. The sound makes you flinch, memories coming back unbidden. 

You look over your shoulder to say something to John before he leaves, but the door is already closing behind him by the time you turn around. Your lips are pursed on a word that dissolves in your mouth. It has a bitter aftertaste. 

“Thought you wouldn’t be back for a few more days,” you say instead, turning back to Kate. There’s already a chair pulled up for you by the wall and you make yourself comfortable there, grimacing at first when your sore backside touches the wood before settling in. 

She shrugs. “Plans changed. Gaz and I made it back late last night.”

You frown. “Gaz?”

“Kyle Garrick. Sorry—slip of the tongue. You’ve met him already. He used to go by Gaz way back when.”

“Way back when?”

“Not my story to tell. You should ask one of them, if you’re curious.”

You are, but not enough to ask. “Maybe.”

The two of you lapse into silence after that exchange. Before leaving the house, you remembered to bring with you some needles and wool to pass the time. They’re not as familiar in your hands as you’d like them to be, but you suppose, barring the possibility of Graves or another bounty hunter showing up in town to cart you off, you’ll have time to learn. 

The thought leaves you anxious. It feels distinctly more possible now. 

“You met Miles while I was away?” Kate asks, out of the blue.

Your head comes up at her question. “Miles?”

“He was minding the store for me while I was away. Said you came in the other day.”

You swallow reflexively. “Oh. Yes, I suppose I did meet him. I didn’t stay long, since you were gone and all.”

She hums and looks back down at the book in front of her. You feel nervous all of a sudden. 

“He said you were very helpful,” she says abruptly, breaking the silence. You flinch. “Told me some gentleman came by with a warrant for a murder back east and you were kind enough to take it to your husband for him so he could keep minding the shop.”

Your throat constricts. She pins you under her gaze, unblinking eyes staring into yours but not looking for anything. Wispy blonde bangs brush along her forehead when she tilts her head ever so slightly. 

You nod instead of answering. 

“Did you give it to him?” she asks.

“I didn’t have a chance to. The day got away from me,” you say tersely. 

“I heard something about that. Kyle said John had to borrow Simon’s horse the other day. Said something about him taking off in a hurry.”

Again, you don’t answer. It feels like without knowing it, you’ve crossed over a threshold. 

“Do you still have it?” Kate prompts when again you don’t respond. You don’t tell her that you don’t because in all the fuss the other day, it must have slipped out of your pocket and drifted off into the wind. “The warrant?”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. 

“That’s alright. I have a good enough idea about what it might’ve said.” 

Sweat beads on your upper lip. She all but says it outloud. You’re as still as a ferrotype under her gaze, imprinted in place, unable to move so much as a muscle or force a word past your stiff lips. 

“You’re under no obligation to tell me or anyone,” Kate says, and her voice is suddenly gentle, softer than you’ve ever heard it before. “I’m sure you had your reasons. I won’t be telling John, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh. Thank you,” you breathe, throat so tight that the words almost don’t come out. 

It’s the closest you’ve come to admitting to it, tangentially or not, and even now it’s spoken only out of the corner of your mouth. You don’t think you have it in you to recite the events sequentially. Even in the privacy of your memory, it comes piecemeal, in fragmented images that flicker across your mind because maybe to remember it whole would be too much. 

You don’t say much more after that, and neither does Kate. That wasn’t the point of bringing it up, you think. You'd know if it was. 

When John comes to fetch you at the end of the day, you leave without saying goodbye to Kate. Only a stiff smile before heading out on your way. If she returns your smile, you don’t notice it. To John, you simply duck your head and follow him out the door, letting him help you up onto the horse without a word. 

If it bothers him that you refuse to speak to him, he doesn’t show it. 

It’s so many steps back that you might as well be back where you started. Maybe even further back, a voyage gone so wrong that when you look over your shoulder, you can’t make heads or tails of where you came from. The trees from the other side of the trail never look quite the same. 

If you could open your mouth and say it, you would. If you knew he’d listen. But you don’t think John is that kind of man. Against the gold of the setting sun, he cuts a figure from times of yore. He speaks plain while you tend to speak in fricatives and bilabial stops, incapable of enunciating the words. 

You feel like a wound on the world. Getting it wrong again and again. 

It’s an old pain, one that started back when you were too small to hold it all. Now, you’ve grown large enough to hold it, though it holds you back in turn. You remember your parents studiously ignoring first creation like some noxious cloud billowing from the chimney. There’d been too many children for them to care about the runt. Shipped off to your aunt’s and uncle’s just for the cycle to repeat itself. 

It’s an old grief, this one, friendly because it nudges at your hips when you brush by, striking in the blue-green. And when it burns, it burns.

“John, I—” you say when he helps you down back at the house. 

He stares down at you, waiting you out. Your mouth goes dry, the truth beyond your grasp again. Your heart aches when his brows furrow and the lines around his eyes crease again, frustration welling beneath the surface. 

You understand. It sits under your skin too. 

"Go inside," he says instead when you don't go on. "I'll bring in the horses and start supper."

Your God sits at the edge of the bed, wholly lacking praise. It’s not His fault that it’s been awhile. These days, you can hardly muster up the energy to say hello. You gargle saltwater before you bathe and scrub your skin free of blood, waiting for the next morning to come.

And you think, lying on your side while John sleeps on the other side of the bed, wouldn’t it be lovely to get it right now, rather than in retrospect?

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

today's obsession is:

you're sitting on your couch working, and johnny's distracting you by eating your pussy, but you really need to work so you tell him no puppy I have to work and he's says please please jus' a little bit and you tell him okay but don't be loud, licks and kisses only and then you have to pretend to concentrate on work while he only licks and kisses your pussy for 35 mins ://///

[strawberryspence]

ceilings, plaster, can’t you just make it move faster?

Steddie Week / Day 2: Fluff and Angst ( @steddie-week )

-

There’s beeping on his side as Steve slowly gains consciousness. He can hear birds chirping, and the trees dancing against the wind. Which was weird, because he remembers closing the window last night.

“Pst! Steve!”

Steve’s eyes shot open, jumping out the bed to reach for his spiked bat when he sees Eddie’s head wedged between his bedroom windows. He looks like a damn burglar.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” Steve drops his bat, rushing to open the windows wider, “Eddie? What the hell are you doing?!”

Eddie jumps clumsily inside the bedroom, “Like a ninja!” Steve bites down laughter. If he looked as dorky as this man, he doesn’t even know why Nancy dated him.

“Why are you here?”

Eddie pokes his ribs, “Are you really asking me that?”

Steve swats his hand away, “Yes. It’s a perfectly normal question to ask when you’ve just been woken up by a man who climbed your roof.”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie sings, “We have a date.”

Steve gapes at him, “What? Was that today?”

“Yes.” Eddie laughs. There’s no hint of anger or remorse in his voice, “Go on, get ready for the day. I’ll make you some brunch.”

Rushing to get ready, Steve showers and dresses up in his favorite Levis and polo. His hair also doesn’t take him more than 5 minutes to sculpt. It’s like he’s having the luckiest damn day ever. When he finally walks out of his room, the smell of waffles and coffee spreads through his senses.

Steve sits on the counter, “I am sorry for forgetting about our date, Eds. It completely slipped my mind.”

Eddie laughs, pushing a plate of waffles in front of him, “No worries, sweetheart. You’re still healing, you deserve all the rest.”

There’s a pause as Steve squints at him.

“Healing? Healing from what?”

Eddie shakes his head, “None of that now. Eat so we can go to the carnival.”

“Carnival?” Steve perks up at the mention of a carnival, “There’s a carnival in town?”

Eddie nods, his mouth stuffed with a forkful of waffle. Steve’s always wanted to have a carnival date, but the last time the carnival was in town, Steve was too busy trying to stay alive in an underground Russian bunker.

“Yep! So get some food in you and we’ll go. We’re burning daylight here.” Eddie urges him to eat.

Steve laughs, “Slow down. The carnival won’t leave.”

Steve takes the first bite of his waffle and literally moans on the spot. The waffle melts on his mouth, a combination of sweet and soft sensations bursting.

“Oh my god.” He moans, stuffing himself another bite, “Did you freaking make this?!”

Eddie smirks, “Yes.”

“Why the hell is it so good?”

“It’s my mom’s recipe. I only pull it out for the pretty boys.”

Steve chokes on a bite, his cheeks flushing, “So I am just another pretty boy now, huh?” Eddie cackles at his reaction, pushing a glass of water his way.

There’s a twinkle of warmth in his eyes, and a smile so soft Steve knows for sure it’s only for him, “The prettiest boy.”

-

The carnival was— perfect. It had everything Steve has ever wanted to try. In a sense, it’s like everything was catered for his pleasure.

Steve looks around in wonderment, as people walk and move past them, “Dude, we should’ve bought the kids!”

There’s a sharp pain in his chest as he remembers the kids, but it's gone as quick as it came. Steve clutches his chest, chasing the pain.

Eddie looks at him, hands immediately wrapping around him in concern, “Stevie? Are you okay?”

“No. I— I just—“ He tries to straighten up and he feels… nothing, “Nothing. I think my heart skipped a beat or something.”

Eddie smirks at him, but his eyes soft with worry, “Sweetheart, I haven’t even held your hand.”

Steve feels his face heat up, “Oh, shut up.”

“Well. Which one do you want to do first? Ride some rides? Play some games?” Eddie pulls him by the hand, intertwining their hands together as they walk around the park, “You know what, I’ll win you one of those bears from one of the games!”

They spend the next few hours just playing and riding rides. They tried numerous carnival foods that Steve was never allowed to try as a kid. It's the first time Steve has actually gone to a carnival and had fun. Eddie’s loud and crass and wonderful in so many ways. He has tricks for game after game, and even if he’s scared on some rides, he still rides for Steve.

It’s the perfect date.

“Eds, you can stop trying. You’re wasting your money.” Steve whispers as Eddie hands more money to the carnival personnel.

“I am going to get you that damn bat toy and I won’t stop until my wallet is empty.” Eddie winks at him, as he squats and stares at the barrel of the water gun.

Eddie concentrates intensely as he tries to get the water to shoot on the hole. The personnel look bored as he watches them, but Steve only has eyes for Eddie. There’s pure determination on his face, squinting hard so he can finally win the damn bat toy. Steve shouldn’t have should interest on it to begin with.

The lights above it start lighting up one by one, Eddie just has to reach the top and he can finally get the stuffed toy. Steve doesn’t even realize that they won because he was only staring at Eddie.

“Jesus Christ! Finally!” Eddie grabs the bat toy from the personnel, hopping up and down with joy. His lips stretched into a huge smile, and his eyes bright with excitement.

Steve wishes he could stay in this moment forever. In this light and sparkling moment with this person that he could love— this person he might already love.

“One bat stuffed toy for your majesty.” Eddie kneels one knee, and presents the stuffed toy like it’s a bar of gold. Steve plays along, nodding ceremoniously, before taking the bat into his hand.

It’s not a bar of gold, not a crown, not a diamond. But it’s Steve’s most prized possession.

A personnel walks past them, shouting in a megaphone, “One more hour till closing!”

“The carnival’s closing?” Steve asks as Eddie straightens up.

“Apparently. You want to do one last ride?”

Steve shrugs, “Sure. I think I have…” He pauses, tries to think of what he had planned for tomorrow. Weirdly enough, he can’t think of anything.

Eddie pulls him along, “There’s one more ride I want to visit before the sun sets.”

As they walk past the stalls, the lights start flickering open. Bright, colorful lights start surrounding them. It’s not dark enough yet, but Steve knows it’ll be beautiful in the dark.

“Here!” They enter the line for the ferris wheel, which was surprisingly empty, “Come on!"

The personnel lets them in on one of the carts, smiling respectfully as he locks it, “See you on the other side.”

The wheel starts moving, slowly but surely and soon enough, they’re on the top. From where Steve is sitting he watches as people walk around the carnival like tiny little ants. The sky starts changing its colors. The bright blue, turning into a softer orange and pink.

“It’s beautiful.” Steve whispers, breathless as he sees the entirety of his hometown.

Eddie chuckles quietly beside him, reaching for his hand and taking into his, “It is.” Steve turns to him and catches his eyes on him.

The ride stops as they arrive at the top. The cart moves ever so slightly, and it feels like someone lulling him to sleep. Steve lets his head fall on Eddie’s shoulder as he watches the scene in front of him.

“Did you have fun today?” Eddie asks, his thumb softly caressing Steve’s hand.

“Yeah.” Steve sighs in content, “I think I’m going to bring Robin here tomorrow.”

A sharp pain stabs him again, the same one he felt earlier. Steve jolts up, as he clutches at his chest again, massaging it slowly, “What the hell is that?”

“I think it’s time, Steve.” Eddie says, there’s a hint of sadness in his voice.

Steve turns to him, confused, “Time for what?”

Eddie moves closer, cupping his jaw into his hand, “Time for you to wake up.”

“I am awake.” Steve pulls away, narrowing his eyes.

He shakes his head, “No, sweetheart. You have to wake up.”

The beeping is back, and Steve swings his head around to see where the sound is coming from. He gasps as he looks down at the ground, all of the people are gone now. It’s just— It’s just him and Eddie, on top of the ferris wheel.

“What’s happening?” Steve demands.

Eddie tilts his head, “You don’t remember?”

Steve shakes his head, as Eddie takes his hand again, “Here. Close your eyes.”

He gulps, but obeys. The beeping subsides.

Eddie starts talking, “We went back to the Upside Down, to finish what we started and then—“

Lights start flashing in his eyes, like thunder striking in the dark. Vines strewn everywhere in the ground.

Steve remembers screaming, lots of screaming. He remembers running in front of Robin. He remembers using all his strength, he remembers killing a monster, he remembers using his body as a shield. He remembers— he remembers pain. All around his body, like sharp pain, heightened a thousand times over. He remembers hearing sobbing and Robin begging him to stay.

He tried.

Steve gasps awake. “Robin? Is Robs okay?”

Eddie grins at him fondly, “Yes, sweetheart. Robin is alright.”

Steve looks down at his hands, “Am… I dead?” His eyes widened in realization, “Eddie? Are you dead?”

“I am not sure, sweetheart.” Eddie shrugs, “I don’t remember a lot either. I just woke up here and then— I remembered that before we went to fight Vecna, you…” Eddie laughs, his cheeks flushing, “You asked me on a date. To go to a carnival. So here I am.”

The beeping is back, and it’s louder than ever. There’s a gust of wind that brings a soft whisper, “Dingus. Please.”

“Robin’s calling me.” Steve whispers.

“I know.” Eddie says back, “You have to go back.”

“We have to go back. Together.”.

Eddie smiles at him, but it’s small and painful and Steve hates it. “I can’t hear any beeping, Stevie.”

His lips quiver, Steve starts shaking his head, “No. No. We have to go together or I am not leaving.”

Eddie holds onto him tighter, “No. You have to go back. You have to wake up.”

“Will you be there?”

Eddie blinks, pursing his lips in contemplation, “I am not sure.”

Steve clenches his jaw, swallowing the lump forming on his throat, “Are you real? Was any of this real?”

Steve looks around. The carnival is now gone. It’s just him, and Eddie and the ferris wheel. The sky is still there, watching over them in a combination of beautiful orange and pink hues. The sun is still setting, vividly and slowly. The end slowly sinking into the horizon.

Eddie giggles, “Of course, I am real, sweetheart. Everything was real.”

“Then I want to stay.”

“No, baby. You have to go back. Listen to the wind.” Eddie pulls him closer, leaning his forehead into his.

Steve lets his eyes flutter shut as the wind shakes the cart, tiny little voices being brought by the wind, tiny little pleads from Robin, Dustin, Max, Erica— from everyone. Everyone pleading and begging for him to wake up and come back.

“Can you hear it now?” Eddie asks.

Steve nods against him, as Eddie continues, “Everyone needs you. You have to go back.”

“I promise to find you. When I wake up, I will find you.” Steve promises, because there’s no way in hell he’s going to live in a world without Eddie Munson in it.

Eddie nods, there’s a look in his eyes that doesn’t fully believe it, but he says, “I’ll be waiting for you, sweetheart.”

Eddie leans over, his lips soft against Steve’s. Steve tries to map it out, tries to memorize it as best as he can. Eddie’s lips are chapped and rough, but it’s the softest and most gentle kiss Steve has ever had. He reaches over to wipe the tears streaming down Steve’s cheeks.

The beeping gets louder, insistent and— There’s a sharp pain in his chest and it feels like getting struck by lightning.

Eddie pulls away, “Wake up, sweetheart.”

There’s heaviness in his chest and then— Steve gasps, opening his eyes. It feels exactly like being drowned, and being able to finally breathe again.

“Oh my god! Steve!” He hears a voice sob. It’s a voice he would recognize anywhere.

The heaviness lifts away, and silhouettes surround him. Steve holds out his hand, and someone takes it.

“Dingus.” Robin sobs, “I thought I lost you.”

Steve can feel tears running down his cheeks. He looks around, his eyes getting used to the light. He blinks at everyone, roaming his eyes on each one of them.

He turns back to Robin and behind her is a big window. The sky is streaks of orange, the sun obviously setting. It looks exactly the same as the sky from his dreams. It was real.

Steve opens his mouth, his tongue feels heavy and sharp, but he wills himself.

“Eddie.”

(The beeping starts slowly, barely even there. The cart lulls against the wind and caresses his cheeks, with it a silent whisper of his name.

He smiles and waits.)

[moeggoi]

"This man would hurl himself in death's way to save you. You are sure of this -- but why?"

[akeminui]

*stans

[ohbo-ohno]

Loving the idea of Soap being pussydrunk as all hell when it comes to his Princess. He’s been denied her for so long and now that he gets to feel her, taste her, he just can’t get enough. He never wants to leave her slick pussy, whining and clutching at her when Ghost tries to pull him off.

knight johnny is a virgin before ghost comes along and i love the idea of him going from having to stomp down all his lust and need all the time to being allowed to be horny, allowed to be needy. he'd be like a different person once ghost gets his hands on him, allowed to want things and to ask for them :(

he's sooooo needy for her in general too :( has to ask (beg) permission to touch her literally anywhere, so it's such a treat when he's allowed to eat her out at whatever pace he wants. usually ghost makes him beg for every lick :/ makes both the princess and johnny go insane with need and ghost likes his pets a little drunk on their pleasure

he tries to hold onto her for a little longer when ghost goes to pull him off :( early on in the relationship he'd try and fight, try and force ghost away so he can go back to licking her cunt, but every time without fail he's forced to the floor, usually ends up getting fucked doggy style cause ghost wants to remind him of his place :/ but later on he'd listen so well, even the tiniest nudge from ghost has him doing exactly what he's told, no hesitation. just wants to be a good boy

also @ceilidho said "ghost lets johnny kiss his princess" at one point and i just. i capsized like a boat. johnny having to beg to kiss his princess has me :((( she's so so pretty and he loves her soooo much, he sits at ghost's feet and just begs and begs endlessly, wants to kiss her so bad. but he has to wait, has to sit and stay and be good.

sometimes he's only allowed to give her a peck on the cheek or the lips, and that's almost worse than not being allowed anything at all. but sometimes he's allowed to make out with her, and he nearly knocks her over with how he lunges for her, sticks his tongue down her throat and soaks both of their chins, leaves her lips swollen and bruised

[iatemyceilingfan]

After reading one of the best fanfiction's I've ever found thanks to a random tiktok I saw about it, I REALLY wanted to make some fanart for it!

So, here it is! I hope you like it, @whimsywillowwrites ! Also go follow them, they're silly and I like em a lot.

No text version

I spent a few hours on the background and the lighting, tinkering it for a while to make it work. I'm really proud of it and think it captures what was described in the story well, on top of the things I decided to add to it, too.

That's all! Thanks for staring at this for two minutes 🤘🤘🔥

[emry-stars-art]

YES, PLEASE AND THANK YOU @snazzy-jas-z-is-a-fan-of !!

(Find the royal au writing masterpost here 💕)

And I’ll do an art-only version of this post for your reblogging pleasure here :) there's always always more to be said about this so I might make another post on the same topic but later

Anyway onto the juicy stuff

Okay so. Evermore and Palmetto both have glove etiquette, but in Evermore Nathaniel never had to worry about it, because he was expected to constantly be wearing gloves from first day he’s able to after getting nasty scars on his hands. Except for when he’s working or helping Nathan work. The nobles and specifically Prince Riko made it clear that they had no desire to see how ugly his hands were. (This is also why he has a habit of wearing a little of his hair down on the left side; it helped cover the scars on his cheek that ruined his pretty complexion.)

Then he comes to Palmetto and Day introduces him to a whole new set of rules. Gloves are a common and important part of dress and fashion, but people are also able to decide whether or not to wear them at any given time. The only real rules on gloves are when not to wear them; you always take off gloves to eat or drink, and to offer your hand in greeting or service.

Nathaniel gets to kind of ease into it; he’s not around anyone important enough to need to offer proper greeting or help, so mostly he takes his gloves off to eat in the servants quarters, where he doesn’t deal with more than curious glances. There’s a lingering fear of letting anyone important see his hands, no matter what Day says to assure him otherwise.

Then Nathaniel becomes the prince’s guard. Nothing changes for a while - the prince has always been more self-sufficient than most - until one day Nathaniel sees the prince eyeing the fall from his horse. (Really Andrew is trying to get up the courage to dismount, because even if the fall isn’t actually an issue for him, his fear of heights sometimes catches up to him when dismounting horses.) Nathaniel understands by now that he’s allowed and expected to help, so he reaches out - and remembers. He’s also acutely aware that the prince hasn’t yet seen his hands, then also also acutely aware of how serious Day was about the proper etiquette, and slips off his glove. The prince gives his hand a curious look, but accepts the help and all but crushes Nathaniel’s hand in his as he finally makes the fall. Even on the ground, though, he doesn’t let go quickly. Instead, the prince’s thumb brushes once across the back of Abram’s hand and he turns his hold, pulling Nathaniel’s hand up to examine it. The only thing keeping Nathaniel in place is the bone-deep instinct that he isn’t to deny anyone, especially a prince. Maybe the prince would decide he didn’t actually want to see Nathaniel’s hands and Nathaniel could go back to wearing his gloves with little more than a strike to the cheek for making the prince look at them.

But the prince does no such thing. He drops Nathaniel’s hand and continues on as normal. Nathaniel does his best to do the same, but that’s probably the first kind skin to skin contact he’s had in years. He isn’t recovering as quickly as he imagines he should.

(Meanwhile Andrew was NOT about to let an opportunity to hold Nathaniel’s hand slip like that, and he finds that he doesn’t mind the roughness. Most other guards were pulled from a much more privileged crowd - usually who had some callouses or scratches at most. Nathaniel’s hands show Andrew that this one isn’t all bark and no bite. Andrew… really likes them.)

Gradually, Nathaniel (likely soon or now Abram) gets used to taking off his gloves. He doesn’t without reason, it takes him a while not to feel naked without them, but it only takes a few more instances for him to realize that the prince truly doesn’t mind his scars. Helping the prince from his horse becomes easy habit (GS isn’t necessarily tall, but neither is Andrew. No step stool = Abram’s help).

Maybe there’s even a few times Abram is completely gloveless when he’s around only Day or the prince. He finds himself hiding his hands subconsciously when he’s not thinking about it, but he’s never once told to cover up.

Then Abram is kidnapped, taken back to Evermore. All the same rules are enforced and more. In this case, gloves aren’t all that different or upsetting. That much is okay.

It’s when he gets back that things change. Since he’s blind for a while, he’s relying much more on touch and hearing. It’s also a good tactile reminder; if he were still in Evermore, he would never be bare handed. This is when he truly gets used to not wearing gloves. (During this time he’s also touched more gently and more often than ever in his life. Others’ bare hands on his naked skin to care for scars and rashes and fever, first Day and medics and then Day and Prince Andrew. Abram finally, finally realizes that this is what he’d been missing. He actually finds himself calmed and cared for in being touched.)

Even when his sight returns, Abram only wears gloves out of doors or to formal events. Slowly and so, so carefully, Andrew finds more small reasons to touch Abram’s hands, and Abram always finds rationalization to accept. Then Abram even leaves his gloves in his saddlebags or pockets when they go out.

Winter hits. Abram has very few burn scars on his hands, but even the simple knife scars can seize and ache in cold weather. By now Andrew is very attentive to Abram’s pain or discomfort, so he notices. Abram’s hands hurt.

So Andrew buys him new gloves, lined with soft, warm fur. Abram is both pleased and disappointed - pleased because any gift from Andrew is a good gift, and disappointed because the prince expects him to wear gloves again. But the first time Andrew sees Abram wearing them indoors, he says easily, “They’re to keep your hands from the cold. Wear them only as much as you need.” (Because, again; he’s not going to admit it, but he loves Abram’s hands.)

It probably takes a long time for Abram to get accustomed to much more touch. He likes holding the prince’s hand, he’s used to that this far into their courting, but anywhere else with anything more than clinical intent - sometimes including with clinical intent - he gets overwhelmed very easily.

Andrew is careful with him. Like we mentioned in the last post, Andrew’s had about six to eight years longer to get readjusted to wanting and touching; Abram is essentially starting fresh. It’s a lot for him to handle.

(Don’t worry, though, I promise they figure it out. Just like they always do, in every universe, for all of our mental health.)

[nocaptainonthisship]

honey

Bear Shifter!Price/Reader

(coming to an ao3 near you as soon as I finish writing the damn thing.)

It frightened you, that first winter all those years ago, waking beneath warm, immovable mass of unknown provenance. You could not understand then all the things you now know to be true. They were nothing but myth. Imagination. A collective fantasy undertaken by society in its entirety when confronted with that which the mind could not yet understand. These stories didn’t walk among you like men did, these beasts and brutes did not hide in a crowd. 

They did not take pretty maidens back to their dens for debauching. 

Until he did. Except he wasn’t a beast and only sometimes a brute, and he didn’t drag you anywhere. No, you came willingly to John Price’s bed, even if you didn’t understand the implications of a crisp fall day, of orange leaves littering the yard, of blackout curtains on every window and a pantry full of supplies. 

No, the first time you had woken like this you had been afraid, your brain sluggish and syrupy as molasses. Sleep felt like the only true thing left to be desired. Desire felt like a prison. It went to war with the confusion inside you as you struggled to open your eyes, to get your bearings, too understand just how much time had passed that you felt as though you were waking from a long coma and not a post-coital nap. To rest wasn’t just desire, it was imperative, a matter of life or death as grave as the matter of discovering what had happened to you. 

You had opened your eyes to find a gray dawn, a bedroom where you recognized the shadows if not the specifics. That warmth that cradled you shifted and rumbled as if sensing that sleep had lost this battle. As if he was preparing to go to war. There was a hand which spanned almost the width of your ribcage, nestled under your breasts. It pulled you closer until all you were aware of feeling was skin against skin.

“Honey,” didn’t sound so sweet, whispered in your ear. It sounded like the boulders of your former life tumbling down the sides of the old quarry. It sounded like an oath, fealty wrapped around you like a fur coat. It was almost enough to lull you into complacency. 

What you didn’t know then, but you know now, is that, “Honey,” never was a term of endearment. It was a demand. It was an order just as much as the ones he barked at his men in the field. Looking back, you wonder if he had not yet realized what kind of holy bond tied you together. It was instinctual. 

Taking you out to dinner, taking you back to his home, taking you to his bed, taking and taking and taking until you were empty and ready to be filled with a version of yourself you had not met yet. All the things you had learned, all the versions of you that you had been were built on foundations of sand. Who you were told to be, who you were taught to be, who you were afraid to be. All flimsy under the weight of him. All vanished, and leaving behind only instinct. Only honey, warm and golden and thicker than your thoughts. 

Instinct, over and beyond reason. 

You know now what it all signifies. The cold grey dawn peaking behind curtains which you had neglected to fully close, the warmth which caressed you and dragged you back to the shores of slumbering. You know now that the hands which grip you tighter as you wiggle are not the hands of merely another hopeless lover. These hands are the hands of your mate, and he isn’t going to let go. 

When you’re awake enough, you like to tease him about the way he purrs. John will protest and grumble and say things like, “Not a damn cat, love.” There is no other comparison, though, to the way it rumbles through his chest, rattles its way into your bones, calms the place in the back of your brain which is consumed at every moment by the bond which you share. It’s the song of home, which settles inside your soul and wipes away its ragged edges. 

You had been something before him, a leader and a fighter and a pillar of your community. You had been more than the body which kept him sane through the months of sleep. You had also been deeply, desperately unhappy. Lost and adrift in a world which could never care how un-moored you were, you had harbored inside you a hunger which you feared would never be met. Not feared – known, in the way you knew your name or the skin of your hands. Before John, you had longed for him in a way which could not be spoken of, even if you wished. Before John, there was only this secret greed inside you, this desire to be taken away from the rules and regulations and repercussions of the world. To be reduced - or perhaps to be elevated - by the protection and the provision of a man who loved you. 

Held against him now, as he purrs against your back and his hand finds your hip, you do feel reduced. Its a return to your factory settings, a hard reboot, a knock on the head that makes you less of a woman. More of the beast and the brute. Maybe you were born to be his mate, and your body knew before your mind. Maybe you were remade, reformed, reforged in the image of him to become his perfect half rather than born as such. Maybe that piece of you had not existed until, seeing his face for the first time, it formed itself out of the ether of you and uttered, “Mine.”

[ceilidho]

ok but Ghost who realizes how much his size turns you on and then can’t keep himself from emphasizing it whenever you’re around. Spreads his thighs when he’s sitting to take up more space. Rolls his shoulders back and straightens to his full height when you walk through the door (his posture is already military-grade, but it’s that last infinitesimally small, casual slouch that disappears when you’re in the room in favour of emphasizing his height). Starts wearing shorter sleeves or rolling up his sleeves to show off the pronounced muscle of his forearms. Whenever it’s just the two of you, he always has a hand on you somewhere, showing you how much space his hand takes up on you, how much of you he can fit in his palm.

[housethemd]

What if House/Wilson/Amber had a baby?

Amber finds out she’s pregnant, but there is no way to know if it was Wilson or House who fathered the child.

They spend the entire nine months she is pregnant bickering over who the father is (well House and Amber bicker, Wilson stops them when they get to mean.)

They have a little girl, and for logical reasons they list Wilson as the father on her birth certificate, but they raise her together.

As she grows she turns into the spitting image of Amber, making it harder for them to discern her biological father. House argues she has blue eyes, thus she must be his. Wilson argues back that his mother has blue eyes, therefore he could produce a blue eyed child. They all lay in bed at night sometimes and debate certain features or behaviour of their daughter, but they all know the truth.

They don’t want to know who’s she is biologically.

The unknowing makes them feel like she really does belong to the three of them.

(And maybe she grows up and does a 23 and me or something and pretty much accidentally tells them who her biological father is, by way of relaying results.)

[luminousbeings-crudematter]

oh this is so NOT funny and QUITE gross of Johnny, but manipulating you while you're injured?

maybe your car breaks down and you (stupidly) touch the blown radiator hose. manage to give yourself some fairly serious second degree burns on your fingers.

and now you're dependent on him for everything, aren't you?

who's going to take you to hospital so you can have you fingers looked at? apply the anti-septic salve? change the bandages?

who's going to cook for you, and bring you hot drinks all the time? you can't hold any cutlery, can you? he'll feed you, though, there's nothing to worry about.

and of course he'll run the bath for you. he'll help you once you're in there too! you can't do clean yourself, you might break the blisters and that could cause an infection! Besides, your fingers hurt, don't they? Johnny will take your bra off, don't you worry. he'll get on his knees and take your panties off too.

and if you ask him why he's stripping his own clothes off, getting into the bath with you? well how else is he supposed to clean you? don't you go on being a prude now, he's lived with you for so many years, it's nothing he hasn't seen before.

and you are thankful, of course you are, even if you don't show it! it would be a nightmare to do anything by yourself, he's a lifesaver. you need him until your fingers fully heal.

and when you're warmed up from your shower, you thank him for his help. you're squirmy, uncomfortable in his presence, feeling icky about how he'd run his hands all over you in the bath. but. it's not like you could do anything about it. you're betrayed by the stickiness between your legs, and you'd just like him to leave your room, please.

but you didn't think that he was done, did you?

you've got burnt fingers, hen, how will you touch your tight little pussy? naw lovie, you can't even hold your little vibrator. don't worry, your johnny's here now. he'll kiss your little pussy better, you'll forget all about your fingers that hurt so much :((((

[haejjoon]

"the stickers above your bed are childish."

it's not the best conversation opener goro's ever come up with. it doesn't even classify as decent. but goro akechi is eighteen years old and alive in a time when he shouldn't be, so tact isn't exactly the first thing on his mind.

akira, the cheeky little fuck he is, doesn't rise to the bait. he doesn't even see it as bait, screw him. "i guess," is all he says, taking with goro's jab in calm, quiet stride.

"they're ridiculous. they don't even glow as advertised," goro continues. "how much money did you give to have them hang on your ceiling—ten thousand, twenty thousand yen? you got scammed."

"yusuke sure did," akira says. a wistful smile curls on his lips. "he got them for me as a gift."

nausea that goro refuses to acknowledge as envy snakes around in his gut. of course they were a gift. akira "wouldn't even buy himself a decent lunch if it meant saving another yen on metaverse gear" kurusu could never, would never, be so frivolous. goro should have known better.

"and you deigned to put them on the underside of this crumbling café's roof." goro's words are bitter. he hopes akira doesn't call him out on it like he always does. he can't explain this one away.

"yeah," akira murmurs, looking up to stare at the shitty plastic stars littering the ceilingside. "it was a gift. i wanted to use them."

goro lets out a harsh ha. "so it was pity?"

"...not really." akira sounds so, so far away. "they reminded me of the stars back at home. i actually had trouble sleeping the first few nights here, 'cause i wasn't used to the pitch black."

akira turns to goro, smiling softly. a small dimple winks at him from his left cheek—a star, embedded perfectly on his pale face. "you should come see them with me once this is all over."

what is goro supposed to say to that? no, really, what can he do?

standing before him is a man who stuck silicone stickers to his ceiling because he was robbed of his night-lights back at home. standing before him is a man who's offering, truly offering, to take goro back to enjoy that view with him.

i'm not even really here.

and goro watches akira look at him so expectantly—stars on his cheeks, stars in his eyes, stars stars stars—and curses maruki to the heavens; not only did he have to bring goro back, but he had to give him a fucking heart while he was at it.

"that sounds ridiculous," is what goro says. the lie slips past his lips like tar. crunches through his teeth like asphalt.

and flittingly, goro wonders if akira is the kind of person to make wishes upon the stars. akira only grins back, turns his gaze back to his fake galaxy.

"yeah," akira agrees, "it does."

[wanderingcas]

interesting but not surprising: putting my own complicated feelings on the human experience and what living truly means in this particular au cas's journey

[owlpellet]

we just discovered that the landlord of the apartment complex we recently moved out of somehow got all the negative reviews of the business scrubbed off google and bribed the CLEANER who cleaned our apartment after we left to leave its now sole 5-star review

certainly there is some kind of legal violation in doing this?

[starrystevie]

currently thinking about steve harrington, pop music lover and abba enthusiast, discovering a*teens in the early 2000's.

he's a high school teacher and the kids introduce him to 'bouncing off the ceilings' which, quite frankly, takes a few listens to grow on him. it's high pitched, high energy, and too much to listen to on a grainy boombox at 8am. but on the fifth or so play of if, he finds himself tapping his toes to the beat and humming along.

it seems like a no brainer to stop at the store on his way home and pick up the cd, 4 bright and smiling faces peering up at him from the cd case, the name 'a*teens' big and bold across the top. he listens to it in the car, a little bit impressed the further the tracks go on, and brings it inside to finish listening to as he cooks dinner.

when eddie gets home, coveralls covered in grease and hair pulled back in a low ponytail, he stops in his tracks at the music. steve turns around wondering where his daily kiss on the cheek after work is only to see eddie standing in the doorway with his face scrunched up.

"what the hell are you listening to?" eddie asks, condescension lacing his tone. steve rolls his eyes and turns the music up louder on the remote, flashing eddie a cheeky smirk.

"something the kids were listening to today. i think it's pretty catchy."

he turns back around to tend to the ground beef on the stove while eddie finally comes into the kitchen to wash his hands and give steve his well-deserved kiss. the cd is sitting on the counter and eddie picks it up, fake gagging at the cheesy lyrics spilling out of the sound system.

"stevie, even for you this is... bad," he says as he casually flips through the cd jacket, reading over the over-processed lyrics and photos of the teen stars. steve's about to defend himself when eddie perks up, a half grin on his face and shoves the booklet into steve's face.

"can i help you-?" steve squaks out and eddie points quickly at a line in the back of the pages. "-what?"

"look," he whines, slamming his finger into the page once more. "read."

formed in 1998, a*teens consists of members amit, dhani, marie and sara. as an official cover band of the swedish pop group abba, make sure you grab their first album the abba generation with hits like "mamma mia" and "dancing queen"!

steve turns to look at eddie, his mouth open just slightly in shock, disbelief flooding through him. "no fucking way. no wonder i like them."

eddie laughs and sets the cd case down, wrapping his arms around steve from behind and pressing kisses to the back of his neck. the two stand in the kitchen laughing and swaying to cheesy pop songs blaring on their too nice speaker system while the ground beef in the pan almost burns.

later that night when they're in bed and trying to fall asleep, steve can feel eddie humming where he's cuddled up against his chest. the notes sound similar and when steve can finally place it, he presses his smug grin against eddie's shoulder.

"told you it was catchy."