#developing relationship

[aventurineswife]

The Language of Flowers

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Blade x Reader, Fluff & Angst, Romance, Introspection, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Symbolism, Metaphors, Emotional Depth, Established Relationship/Developing Relationship, Soft & Subtle Gestures of Affection.

Warnings: Mentions of Trauma, Survivor’s Guilt, Internal Conflict, Moral Dilemmas, Philosophical Themes, Themes of Immortality & Loss, Mild Manipulation, Mentions of Violence, Combat References, Yearning, Emotional Suppression.

Tagslist: @smoochi-modest, @themiddletenmasibling

The clematis flower sat between Sunday’s fingers, its violet petals softly brushing against his glove as he studied it in quiet contemplation. You watched as his eyes traced the delicate veins running through each petal, the navy-blue pupils reflecting something distant—something that lingered between the past and the present.

"You brought me clematis," he mused, voice gentle as ever. "A flower that speaks of resilience and artifice. Do you believe me to be a man of deception or of ingenuity?"

You hesitated before answering, sensing the weight in his question. "Neither," you admitted. "Or perhaps both. The way you see the world, Sunday… it's different. You find beauty where others see illusions, and yet you fear the dreams you once nurtured. I suppose this flower reminds me of you—always reaching, always entwining with something just out of grasp."

Sunday’s wings fluttered, an unspoken emotion stirring behind his composed mask. "I have spent so long questioning whether my dreams were worth the cost," he murmured. "But you…" His fingers curled slightly around the stem. "You offer me a kindness I do not know if I deserve."

You reached for his hand, your warmth seeping through the fabric of his gloves. "And yet, you accept it," you said softly. "That’s a start, isn’t it?"

For the first time in a long while, Sunday smiled—not for the world, not for an ideal, but for himself.

Aventurine twirled the clematis flower between his fingers, his usual smirk playing on his lips. "So, let me get this straight," he drawled, leaning back against the lavish lounge seat, "you’re giving me a flower that symbolizes both ingenuity and trickery? Darling, I’m flattered. Truly."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. "I just thought it suited you. The way you weave your words, how you always seem to be three steps ahead of everyone else… It reminded me of you."

His eyes glinted as he leaned forward, closing the space between you. "And here I was thinking you liked me for my winning personality," he teased, plucking the flower from your grasp and tucking it into the lapel of his blazer. "But I suppose I'll take what I can get."

You crossed your arms, feigning exasperation. "Must everything be a game with you?"

His expression shifted, just for a moment—a flicker of something unspoken beneath the bravado. "Life is a gamble," he murmured. "And the trick is knowing which bets are worth the risk."

His fingers brushed against yours, lingering just long enough to send a thrill through your veins.

"And you," he whispered, voice quieter, more sincere, "are the one bet I don’t mind losing."

Jing Yuan’s eyes traced the clematis flower nestled in his palm, its delicate form a stark contrast to the battle-worn hands that held it. The gentle rise and fall of Snowmoon’s slumbering breaths filled the quiet garden as you sat beside him, watching his contemplative expression.

"A flower of mental strength and artifice," he mused, tilting the stem slightly as though testing its resilience. "You must think rather highly of me."

You chuckled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "More like I know you, Jing Yuan. You carry the weight of the Xianzhou with such ease, making it look effortless—even when I know it isn’t."

A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. "Ah, so I am a performer now, am I?"

"In a way," you admitted. "But there’s an artistry in what you do—maintaining peace, guiding your people… it’s not deception, but it requires a certain kind of ingenuity, don’t you think?"

Jing Yuan hummed, turning the flower between his fingers before tucking it carefully into the folds of his coat. "Then I accept this gift," he said, "as a reminder that even a man of strategy must appreciate the beauty of unpredictability."

His gaze softened as he looked at you, the warmth in his expression melting away the distance between you. "And," he added, voice lower, "as a reminder that even the dozing general must stay awake for the things that truly matter."

Blade’s fingers hovered over the clematis flower you had placed before him, the deep violet petals stark against the cold surface of the table. His red eyes flickered toward you, unreadable.

"You think this suits me?" he asked, voice devoid of mockery, yet tinged with something akin to disbelief.

You nodded. "The flower represents mental strength and ingenuity. Both things you have, whether you believe it or not."

Blade exhaled slowly, picking up the flower with deliberate care. "Strength," he murmured. "And deception. I have known both intimately."

You reached across the table, resting your hand over his. "Not deception," you corrected. "Artifice. The ability to create something from nothing—to survive, even when the universe has tried to erase you."

His grip on the flower tightened slightly. "I am not whole," he admitted, a rare confession from a man who had long since discarded the need for such vulnerabilities.

"You don’t have to be," you whispered. "Even a clematis vine blooms with fractured stems."

Blade stared at you for a long moment, then, slowly, he brought the flower to his chest, resting it against his heart.

"Then perhaps," he said at last, "I can learn to bloom again, too."

[Navigation]

[spacebubblehomebase]

stargazers au my beloved

Hehe. UwU -Bubbly💙

(Drew Vaggie 'cuz I've been neglecting her.)

[kjack89]

The Radiance of the Dawn

I know it's been forever, but I couldn't let @barricadeday pass without writing at least a little something.

To that end... E/R, canon era, developing relationship, implied canonical character death.

The silence in the backroom of the Musain was punctuated solely by the scratch of Enjolras’s quill against the parchment, and the occasional dull thud as Grantaire’s bottle returned to the table between sips. It was a comfortable silence, the kind both men had borne in each other’s company more than either would likely admit.

As was usually the case this late at night, the only light came from a single, guttering candle that flickered in the light breeze that came in through the open window. Once, Grantaire might have suggested that Les Amis invest in some additional lighting sources should their Dear Leader insist upon straining his eyes in the dim light; now, he knew better than remark upon it, lest he risk Enjolras’s wrath. Again.

But even silence may only do so much to prolong the length of a wick, and without further warning, the candle spluttered out. “Last call, I take it?” Grantaire said from the sudden darkness.

Enjolras didn’t laugh, but there was still slight amusement in his voice as he sighed, “I suppose so.”

The silence of the night broken, both men gathered their things, another dance made comfortable by its familiarity. Easier than usual, also, by the faint light coming from the window, and Grantaire glanced over his shoulder as he drained the final dregs from his bottle. “Ah,” he said. “No longer can we call this another long night spent at the Musain.”

Enjolras looked out the window as well, his brow furrowed. “I don’t see—”

“Do you not?” Grantaire interrupted, giving Enjolras a small, lopsided smile. “One would think that Apollo would recognize the sun as it emerges yet again over the horizon.”

“Evidence, perhaps, that I am not Apollo,” Enjolras shot back. “Evidence, I am certain, that you shall ignore lest it ruin your metaphor.”

“I do love a metaphor,” Grantaire agreed, his smile widening. “How well you know me, to know as such.”

His words were saccharine, and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “As if you have given anyone a moment’s grace from your metaphors,” he huffed, with no real heat. “I am certain the only time you are ever truly silent is when asleep.”

“You’re welcome to accompany me to my bed to find out for yourself.”

Enjolras did not dignify that with a remark, instead leading the way down the stair, not waiting to see if Grantaire would follow.

He needn’t have, regardless, as wherever Enjolras led, Grantaire would inevitably follow.

By the time they spilled out onto the street, the sun had crept high enough in the sky to cast Paris in a golden glow, and when Enjolras turned to say something to Grantaire, he had no sooner opened his mouth than Grantaire gasped. “Wait,” he said, fumbling in his pockets, and Enjolras frowned.

“What could you possibly—” he started, exasperated, though he was cut off by Grantaire once more.

“Got it!” Grantaire said, emerging from his pockets triumphantly with a scrap of paper and a bit of charcoal.

If Enjolras was exasperated before, now he was downright baffled, and he raised both eyebrows as Grantaire pressed the paper against the nearest wall, sketching something with rapid movements. “Dare I even ask?”

“Just…stay…still,” Grantaire murmured, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

Enjolras, of course, was not much one for orders, and so immediately crossed to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder. “What are you—”

“Did I not tell you to stay?” Grantaire cried as he glanced over at him. “Now you’ve gone and lost the light!”

But Enjolras’s eyes were still on the half-completed sketch, something unreadable in his expression. “Is that meant to be me?”

Grantaire looked back at the drawing. “Well, it was going to be,” he muttered, a scowl darkening his expression. “Would that you had just stayed still for once so I could capture the image.” He glanced back at Enjolras, something almost hesitant in his expression. “It was just– the light had hit you just so, and I would have been remiss had I not tried to capture it.”

He made as if to crumple the paper but Enjolras intercepted him, smoothing the paper out against the wall once more. “It’s beautiful,” he told Grantaire, who squirmed slightly at the sincerity of his words.

“The dawn light makes even the ordinary seem beautiful,” he muttered.

Enjolras gave him a look. “Are you calling me ordinary?” he asked mildly, and when Grantaire just spluttered indignantly, he gave him a sharp smirk. “That is what I thought.”

“Well,” Grantaire huffed, taking the paper back from Enjolras, and this time folding it carefully before he slipped it back into his pocket, “if my own words are to be so taken out of context…”

He trailed off and Enjolras just shook his head affectionately. “Something that certainly no one has ever done to me,” he said pointedly. “But it is a fair likeness, and far more generous than I deserve. Thank you.”

Grantaire ducked his head. “Your praise is misplaced, but thank you nonetheless.”

“Of course,” Enjolras continued, with his never ceasing need for the final word, “if only your dedication to your craft could be matched by the dedication to our Cause.”

It was an old argument, of course, and Grantaire’s eye roll in response was practically de rigueur. “Firstly, if you think I have any dedication to ‘my craft’ whatsoever, I daresay I would assume you had drunk almost as much wine as I. Secondly, this is in service of the Cause.”

To say Enjolras looked skeptical would be an understatement. “How so?”

Grantaire shrugged. “The dawn is a metaphor,” he said, as if it was obvious.

“A metaphor for what?” Enjolras pressed, and when Grantaire just made a face, he prodded, amused, “Grantaire?”

Grantaire scowled at him. “Let a man think for at least a moment and he’s certain to come up with something.”

Almost certainly despite himself, Enjolras managed a light laugh, and shook his head. “That is what I thought,” he said, shaking his head, and he started down the street in the direction of his home. 

He had barely made it to the next door when Grantaire called after him, “The future.”

Enjolras half-turned to look back at him. “What?”

“That is for what the dawn serves as metaphor,” Grantaire told him. “The radiance of the future. A new horizon we seek to reach, and the hope that we shall some day get there.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Is that actually what you believe?”

“Does it matter?” Grantaire countered, and Enjolras shook his head.

“I suppose that is an answer in itself, and one I should have expected.”

Grantaire grinned at him. “You do me credit that for even one moment you expected otherwise from me,” he said sweetly.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Expected may be too strong a sentiment,” he said, something sour in his tone. “But for a moment– I suppose I hoped.”

Grantaire nodded slowly, taking a measured pace towards Enjolras. “Hope, like the dawn, is a fickle mistress, and disappears after far too brief a time,” he said evenly.

Enjolras’s lips pursed. “So says the Cynic.”

Grantaire just shrugged. “If one does not trust to hope, one will never be disappointed.”

Enjolras’s expression darkened, and he shook his head, turning away yet again. “Your drunken wit may ring like wisdom to a fool’s ears, but I’m afraid mine are not so easily affected,” he said scornfully.

But Grantaire reached out to grab his arm, holding him in place. “Enjolras—” he started, and Enjolras looked back at him.

“What?”

Grantaire wet his lips almost nervously. “Hope lies beyond my reach, but belief may yet be within my grasp.”

Enjolras’s expression didn’t flicker. “Belief in your full glass, as you’ve long proclaimed.”

“Yes,” Grantaire said, “but belief also in the dawn.”

Enjolras’s eyes met his evenly. “In the future?”

Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Or at least that the dawn shall come again on the morrow.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Enjolras just sighed, disappointment and disapproval clear on every plane of his face, lit still by the early light of day. “So you believe in certainty,” he said dismissively. “That which requires no faith.”

But Grantaire just took a step closer to him, his grip on Enjolras’s arm loosening, turning almost reverent. “And belief in one more thing,” he said, something almost hesitant in the words. “One that requires faith most of all.”

“What?” Enjolras asked, the word no more than a single breath for how it hung between them.

In answer, Grantaire closed the space between them and pressed his lips against Enjolras’s.

Enjolras did not return the kiss, did not lean into Grantaire’s touch or open his lips against Grantaire’s. He did not lace their fingers together, did not press his body against Grantaire’s, did not trace a gentle finger across Grantaire’s dark stubble or cup the back of Grantaire’s head.

And yet, he did not pull away.

Instead, it was only when Grantaire pulled back, his nose just brushing against Enjolras’s, that Enjolras finally sighed, a rebuke, perhaps, or a plea, “Grantaire…”

“Tell me I am wrong to believe,” Grantaire murmured.

But Enjolras just shook his head. “I cannot give you what you seek.”

“I seek nothing that cannot be found at the bottom of my glass,” Grantaire told him, hesitating before adding, “And to perhaps one day be worthy to kiss your lips once more.”

Enjolras swallowed, and ducked his head, but again he made no effort to push him away, even as he ordered, his voice low, “Go home, Grantaire.”

It was only then that Grantaire finally released his grip on Enjolras, his hand trailing down Enjolras’s arm to brush against his hand. “Goodnight, Enjolras,” he said, matching his pitch. “Or should I say, good morning.”

He squeezed Enjolras’s hand just once before finally letting go, and it was Grantaire who finally turned to walk away, leaving Enjolras standing in the street, the dawn light casting his indecision in shades of gold.

— — — — —

The dawn lit Enjolras from behind, casting him in a halo of defiance as he stared down the National Guard.

This time, the indecision was solely theirs as they exchanged hesitant glances, until—

“Long live the Republic! I am one of them.”

Grantaire emerged into the light, the dawn seeming to illuminate a fire within him, a fire not even Enjolras had ever dared to hope might kindle. Too late, perhaps, but as Grantaire declared, “Finish us both with one blow,” Enjolras knew that at the least, his hope had not been misplaced.

There was no further need for metaphor as Grantaire took his place at Enjolras’s side, belief made tangible, both men wrapped in the promise of the dawn and the ironclad certainty that while neither would see it, the sun would rise again the next day on a future which belonged now solely to their dreams.

[hisbucky]

*OT3 on a road trip* Eddie: We need to take a left. Buck, backseat driving: Left? Are you sure? Tommy: Babe, he has the map. Eddie, confidently: As sure as I am straight. Tommy: *promptly takes a right turn* Eddie: ...Why did we take a right? Buck: I'm going to hold your hand when I say this...

[hitlikehammers]

that tune without the words

“It was nice, walking through those woods, talking to you,” and the tone of his voice in admitting it makes the whole shebang another line item for Eddie’s getting-to-know-Steve file: lift this man’s standards out of the fucking gutter—but then his tone’s turning sorta wry: “Even if it was mostly about how you were impressed that I was less of a douche than advertised.” 💕

rating: t ♥️ cw: mid-S4, Vol2, steve goes back for eddie’s ‘body’, interdimensional bat venom can be a hell of an paralytic inconvenience ♥️ tags: eddie munson lives (to go on a date that’s not walking through dead hell-forests 🎉), steve harrington having a one-sided/unfiltered heart-to-heart with the cute boy who carved his probable bisexuality indelibly intonstone 💎 (no biggie), an over abundance of flirting in times of mortal peril, planning a future in an actively crumbling hellscape=(soon-to-be)couple goals, happy ending (and hopeful ending, too!)

for @steddielovemonth day two: "if you're lost, you can look and you will find me // if you fall I will catch you, I'll be waiting" —Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper

title credit here🪶

When they tangled with Vecna, Eddie’s body gets left behind. Sure, yes, they all know the timeline, the logistics, how the story goes. The gates seal. Supergirl goes nuclear. They kinda-half-lose. The town’s a fucking mess. They gotta lick their wounds.

But the in-between bits get hazy, see.

Specifically when Steve went AWOL and ran back, jumped through the closing gate he’d just barely managed to climb up through in the first place, given the extent of his wounds, and runs for the body they abandoned because he doesn’t leave his people behind.

And somehow in just a couple days, Eddie counted as his people. Even just his body.

The strength, the speed, the stamina to not have been stuck in the Upside Down, to not have dropped the dead weight in the way back up, to not have got suctioned in and crushed in half as the fissures crept closed: that’s the fucking stuff of legends, of parents lifting trucks off pinned children. No wonder they call Steve the mom.

But yeah. Eddie’s body’s left behind.

For like…ten minutes, max.

Then Steve fucking Harrington had to be all Steve fucking Harrington about it, say fuck that, and weigh the risk of two dead bodies as sufficient collateral to leap like it was a fucking two-for-one at Melvald’s.

Bastard made it back, too. Bloody as fuck, everything that’d healed even a little bit torn at least twice as wide in breaking back open; three extra broken bones, with at least on being a rib that there’s genuine concern over puncturing a lung with one more wrong move—and a likely one, given the evidence thus far.

And also, there’s Eddie.

Eddie, who’s breathing, who they don’t know until later whether Steve managed to somehow resuscitate, or if the powers that govern the hellscape zapped him back for nefarious reasons, or maybe they’d all just…fucked up and missed that Eddie wasn’t even all-dead in the first place.

Details, remember. The in-between parts got real hazy.

Eddie knew the truth form the get-go, though.

Having to witness Henderson fall apart, draped across him was maybe the most harrowing thing eddie has ever had to live through—but the point was, he did live through it. Everything was foggy, and he felt like his world was blinking too long in between knowing it was still there, like reality and his place in it were too close to sleep to be rooted, to be trusted, to be sure at all that it would last and that his shitty attempts to get any air in weren’t just painful acts of desperation to delay the inevitable.

But then there had been lips on his lips, and he’d tasted his own blood there but then more blood, other blood.

And his lungs were blissfully full for the first time in what felt like eons.

He wants to turn to find out who’s there, whose mouth had just spared him in his torment for even a few extra moments before the end, but he—

He can’t fucking move. He hadn’t realized that part before—oxygen deprivation, hell of a distraction apparently—but now that he clocks it?

That lungful of air’s gasping out fast as fuck as eddie panic because what’s happening what is happening—

What’s happening is that mouth on his again, giving him back the breath he’s foolishly wasting on panic, coupled with a too-broad hand, palm braced at his chest and fingers curled up his shoulder: firm. Steadying.

“Poison,” a voice says low, close to him enough that eddie thinks he maybe feel warmth from it but he’s not sure, he’s not sure what he does and does not feel and that’s most of the fucking terror: “in the venom. My legs were numb as fuck after, the went too deep at the core and it just fanned out, couldn’t feel a fucking thing but the pain til we got supplies.”

The hand moves fuller to his chest like it’s testing something, then the lips are back, filling up his lungs, like someone who knows how this works, who’s done it before—

A lifeguard would know. Would have done it before and…

Okay, like, Eddie didn’t spend most of every summer the past handful of years in a carefully disguised little copse of shadey trees near enough to keep the community pool in his sights because he was planning to get in the water, y’know?

“But then it felt like there wasn’t enough air when I tried to breathe deep, way worse than my legs, like from,” and he touches Eddie’s neck, then, where the bats barely got him by comparison to…other places so Eddie thinks—with the newly-restored moments of oxygen to his brain cells—Steve’s talking about his suspicious noose-shaped souvenir.

Eddie wants to be able to see, wants to see and know with all his sense that this is steve: touching him and coming back for him and saving him and—

“You’re still breathing,” and shit, it’s like Eddie’s prayers are answered without a god believed in, his fucking lucky day, because Steve’s leaning and holding still so the his cheek under Eddie’s nose, and the bow of his lips just at the corner of Eddie’s mouth, gasping out his assessment when the hint of damp the exhale gathers on his skin, all with a kind of relief that feels…too big, really. Like Eddie can’t possibly deserve that. They barely know each other.

But fuck if Eddie—who was very much banking of giving up the goddamn ghost down here just a couple minute prior, especially once everyone had left and he was just staring at the red lightning waiting to be struck down for good—but fuck if Eddie is gonna pretend he doesn’t want to deserve that care and relief, to merit and earn it for himself, specifically from Steve, especially the Steve he’s gotten to know in the last seventy-two hours. All the shit about crisis revealing a persons true nature?

Sign Eddie the fuck up for a) all of Steve Harrington and his truest true nature as well as b) the sworn duty of keeping this far too tightly wound paladin barbarian crossbreed marvel of a specimen from any more crises, and ensuring the opposite instead, maybe like, holding him close. Kissing his neck. Falling asleep in each other’s arms. More…stuff like that.

Time probably moves faster the vacuum of real actual Armageddon, so. He probably can shrug off the ‘barely know each other’ stuff.

His heart’s doing a little floppy-floppy thing with Steve’s mouth still so close; with knowing Steve’s mouth had been closer, so. Yeah. He’s sold, 100% on board. Bring him the dotted line, he’ll be Mrs. Harrington by morning.

Or…evening? It’s just fucking dark here, he doesn’t even remember what day it is.

“Too much,” and Steve’s not moving form where he’s gauging—presumably—Eddie’s breaths at the source, whispering and so, so close as he waggles his hand around; “before, but,” and Eddie gets it quick: too much commotion. To much hysteria, and more than merited, but Dustin’s sobbing? Robin’s shaking, Nancy’s armor-grip on her gun making trying to measure a pulse less than worthless and Steve…Steve has getting them the fuck out before the gates closed, Eddie remembers hearing that—which begs the question of why he’s here again bow, but one thing at a time.

The one thing Eddie wants to focus on is Steve thought to come back at all, and thought it not inpossible to find him alive and not-yet-but-still-eventually-capable-of-kicking, because the bats had numbed him to fuck, too.

And he hadn’t told anyone, Jesus fuck—this man, and giving more shirts about him already than Eddie’s maybe given for anyone, is gonna be what actually manages to put him six feet in the goddamn ground.

“I had a feeling,” Steve says, and Eddie doesn’t have to try and fail to turn to see the triumphant smirk he’s pulling, still relieved but like, vindicated now, too.

“And even if I didn’t,” he sobers quick; “I wasn’t leaving you here.” And Eddie wouldn’t stilled if he was capable of moving in the first place because…yeah, he’s basically figured he was being left here. Was pretty much solidly on his way to making his peace with it too when feet landed close to his knees and lips closed over his own and the rest is…

Is now. Where Steve Harrington doesn’t leave Eddie Munson, even as the world ends in their fucking faces and all proves to be as good as lost.

He won’t settle for them counting among the loses and that’s…

That’s just kinda…wow.

“Was really banking pretty hard on that feeling, too,” and Eddie hears Steve’s voice strain a little, even as there comes a little tiny huff of slightly manic laughter, and a rip of fabric from fuck knows where. “Want to get to know you better, Munson,” he says, tight like he’s holding up tensions, or swallowing back pain and Eddie doesn’t like that, and likes even less that he can do fuck all about it right now.

But if they’re gonna be in the business of getting to know each other better, then Eddie’s filing that sound away in the ‘keep that shit away from Steve forever’ file.

Eddie likes dealing with forevers in his head, because they so rarely work out for him in life. He craves disappointment, maybe; but.

“Walking through the woods, half-fucking paralyzed was some of the,” Steve starts, honest and earnest before Eddie catches half-a-shrug out the corner of his eye and…maybe he’s not the only one who deals in forevers in their head, and if he’s suddenly not the only one, maybe less disappointing could possibly be imminent.

Maybe.

“It was nice, talking to you,” and the tone of his voice in admitting it makes the whole shebang another thing for the getting-to-know-Steve file: lift this man’s standards out of the fucking gutter—then his tone’s turning sorta wry:

“Even if it was mostly about how you were impressed that I was less of a douche than advertised.”

Eddie wants desperately to laugh, to bump shoulders with Steve again like he did a little, tries for more when they were walking side by side, he wants so fucking bad—

Then there’s fire in his fucking throat.

“Oh, fuck,” Steve sounds more startled than concerned, where Eddie’s kinda afraid his neck is melting into lava or some shit; “yeah, yeah, baby,” and hold the fuck up, what did Steve just say, what did Steve just call him? Our of nowhere?

The lava feeling’s way less important; in fact, takes enough of a back step to make some sense with Steve’s neck words, with his hand back in Eddie’s chest to brace his shoulder:

“You’re coming back, just keep,” he’d tries to laugh, and the sound had gotten lost on Eddie in the agony but it hadn’t been lost in Steve, his baby, holy fucking shit—

“Oh.”

Steve’s tone is something entirely new; awed a little, floored a little, not bad, so that’s a plus, but…overwhelmed like at the edges but then fucking ecstatic in the middle, which down here shouldn’t even be possible, until his hand pressed a little harder into Eddie’s ribs on the less mangled side and—

“Strong enough to feel, now, even when I still can’t feel everything,” Steve’s face swims, gorgeous and kinda like an answer to the universe in the minimal view space Eddie has to work with as he slowly crawls back online, a process not actually being helped by Eddie putting together what’s causing Steve’s reaction—the way his heart’s pumping’s growing a little undeniable even on his own end, and Steve’s hand feeling the raw effects of Steve on Eddie’s body right now isn’t helping matters at-fucking-all, but also Eddie never wants that touch to leave him ever fucking again, ever.

It’s a delicate sort of contradiction.

“Shit, yeah,” and Steve’s laughing, and it’s a soft joy-tinged thing less than the manic hysteria thus far.

Eddie’s fucking toast, man. No hope for him now.

“Strong enough even if I’m kinda fucking shaking,” Steve holds out his hand that, yeah, is in fact a little trembly but hey.

Eddie can’t feel shit yet too good, but he’s almost certain he’s got to be no better. Blood in his veins certainly ain’t winning any awards for steadiness.

And Steve leans down, this time back with another one of those vaguely hysterical laughs and Eddie can’t see everything outside of the angle his head’s held at just now, and the whole problem really starts with how he can’t feel a lot of shit á la bat venom, but.

If Eddie had any money, he’d actually wager that Steve fucking Harrington. Just touched his lips to Eddie’s neck, just kissed where his pulse would kick between his collarbones. And, true or not, the possibility of that?

Holy fucking shit.

“I hope these aren’t too tight,” Eddie sees the motion from Steve’s shoulder, feels…or thinks he feels the lightest ghost of pressure at his fucked up side: tight. The tearing from before; Steve had been wrapping his sorry ass up.

Talk about Eddie’s goddamn knight in shining armor, Jesus fuck.

“Pretty sure it came down to the fact that their poison hit me like it did because of where they got me the worse, and that’s what made me hope in the first place, you know. Your worst bleeders are in the meat,” and yeah, Eddie really does think that’s real sensation for the soft press of Steve’s hand at his flank, not say nothing of the burning flush to his cheeks, blood’s moving just fine there.

“Fucking deep but not so close to the bloodstream, to pump around and make it worse,” and he touches Eddie’s neck again, and ah: that was why Steve had the reaction he did, mainline to the ticker to get it all swum around. “More of it in you, obviously, because there were more of them, more teeth, but not up here,” and fuck Steve Harrington for the way his hand brushes Eddie’s neck almost tender-like, just…fuck him; “no a direct fucking line to the source.”

Yes. Fuck him. Preferably soon and with Eddie at full sensation and on a horizontal surface that’s not bloodsoaked and vaguely reeking of rot.

Just, y’know. If anyone’s taking note of preferences.

“Thank god for it,” Steve breathes out, the air fluttering over Eddie’s face and he can feel it and he wants to cry, he wants to jump up and dance; can’t do that year but his pulse makes a damn good attempt.

“But yeah, anyway, just walking through hell with you was,” Steve shifts back to the part where he’d seemed to be extolling the virtues of apocalyptic flirting, but before Eddie can file it away to do so much better in whatever’s to come? Steve’s slotting his fingers between Eddie’s own; he can’t feel the whole of it, but he damn well feels enough to know the way they fit is perfect, like they were cut form the same clay millennia ago.

Of course Eddie’s heart goes flippy-floppy again; it fucking has to.

“Not the part about Nance so much, though.”

And Eddie thinks he frowns because…oh.

Oh right, yeah, he really hasn’t had a glimmer of hope in hell that what kinda feels like is happening right now was even on the goddamn table, so…maybe he had tried to funnel his sense of pure and unadulterated loss into at east giving the boy he wanted, what < i >that boy wanted.

Whoops.

Won’t be making that mistake ever again, though, at least. Lesson learned, loud and clear.

“That’s been and gone, man,” steve sighs, a if Eddie needs more convincing. “And I don’t want to go back to where I left it. I want to love someone, who loves me.”

It feels heavy and vulnerable, but all Eddie wants to do is shot me, it can be me, let me have the adventure of learning how to love every bit of you better than you ever thought to even hope after pretty fucking please with a goddamn cherry on top—

“So she’s,” Steve huffs, definitive-like: “out of the picture. She could maybe learn to be that, but, and Steve moves, the most intentionally he’s done it so far to look Eddie straight in the eye when he wraps up the point:

“I’m not interested enough to wait.”

Which means it’s no fucking coincidence, that eye-contact, and Eddie’s ping-ponging pulse for it is 100% prevent valid and then some.

“And I know can’t talk right now, so I get this isn’t really,” Steve sucks his teeth in a genuinely unbearably adorable way; “fair, or probably even like, wholly ethical,” and Eddie’s only been around for days but that sounds like Robin right there, and the feeling of a dangerous pull near his cheek makes him think the urge to smile wasn’t wholly ignored by his beat to shit body, fucking progress.

“So think of it just like a,” he hums, then snaps his fingers as he lands on: “suggestion! A suggestion. Like me, just, putting it out there, which I usually do before anyone feels the same way anyway so this is just like, variation on the theme, but,” and Steve’s eyes are so big, Eddie’s never seen them looks this way before while Steve tips his whole face so Eddie can watch before he can sit up or turn his neck, must be fucking painful but he doesn’t even flinch, and Eddie’s only ever just kinda fallen for the puppy droop of those gorgeous eyes. Now they’re all, big and wide and bright and breathless and holy shit, Eddie’s really is just so screwedbest thing ever.

“I want to take you to dinner, a movie.”

Okay, hold up. That idea, said out loud and meant and directed to him: that might be the best thing ever.

“Maybe a drive in so no one will see if you let me hold your hand, or put my arm around you, or start necking with you halfway through,” like that isn’t making Eddie wonder if he just can’t feel the hard on every piece of him is very convinced he has to have right now, if his body can actually pony up just yet.

“If you want, of course. We could go slow,” and it’s like Steve’s thought about it, like this isn’t just adrenaline and near-death and zero impulse control. It’s most like he…like he actually wants. “Just a movie, even like at my house. Or yours. After they,” Steve clears his throat, the only part he’s even hinted awkwardness in; “after they take care of that.”

Ah. Right. Eddie probably does now have a trailer anymore.

Weird how little he’s caring about that at the moment.

“I could cook, I’m not bad at it,” Steve’s ploughing in with secret knowledge because: Harrington. Apron. Sauce on his cheek. KO-fucking punch to the heart, no survivors.

“Takeout’s fine too, I’d get whatever you wanted,” he pivots before trialing of, chewing his bottom lip then saying a little softer:

“But I would look up recipes too, practice to learn your favorite foods.”

And maybe Eddie really was never supposed to survive the Upside Down. He just maybe completely misinterpreted the way he was gonna fuckin’ die .

“I’d kiss you at the door if that’s okay, if that’s not to far,” then Steve’s bit-sparkle eyes darken even in the hell-dim around them; “or take you to bed if you wanted, but only as much as you were sure.”

And y’known how Eddie’s heat’s been flippy-flopping?

What it starts doing then leave that schoolgirl shit to dhame.

“I want to date you, basically,” and Steve’s shoulders are all squared up, like he’s making a pitch that has any chance of failing, and Eddie does have some working knowing of the past failures…thing, but he genuinely believes those fuckers have been at least partially brain dead to leave a man like this free for the taking, by Eddie of all fucking people.

“I want to try, and see if we can be something,” and the way he says those words, it’s…it’s like a soft perfect flame in Eddie’s chest, the first thing he thinks he can feel again fucking perfectly right,

“‘Cause fuck Eddie, I’ve been looking for something for what feels like forever, and the only thing I keep coming back to for any of it is thinking about you, and ain’t that a plot twist, the deepening of the idea that any of this stretched last what started in that fucking boathouse. “Had a whole-ass sexual awakening over you when you started shepherding my kids, can’t let that go to waste, man.”

And holy shit, dude. Eddie can’t leave him hanging on that confession no matter how mostly-carefree his smile stretches. Because Steve’s been in it since last fall?

Well, Eddie’s not one to easily be outdone.

“What?” Steve squints at Eddie’s face which…okay. He probably looks absurd but he’s trying really hard here, and miming isn’t easy when your muscles don’t want to get on board, yeah?

“Are you,” Steve scrunches his nose; tips his head; considers; “are you trying to,” he frowns, like he’s ready to dismiss what he’s guessing but then says fuck it and leaps:

“Are you trying to whistle?”

Yes, oh my god, sign him up for his marriage license for real, they’re meant to fucking be.

It takes Steve a second to make sense of the absurdity, and the fact that it’s only a second is a feat in itself:

“When I was a lifeguard?”

Eddie watches the timeframe, the length of admittedly varying types and depths but always constant infatuation, start to sink in and then:

“Jesus, Munson, for real?”

And lips are coming for his lips, and he’s real hopeful he can feel them this time but: no. Not yet.

But they fill his lungs up quick and full where he’s getting better which breathing by the minute, but. Any but if a boost is appreciated.

Especially from those lips, felt fully yet or not.

“That’s just because I’m gonna lift you up here in a second to crry you, and it’s gonna hurt like fuck no matter how gentle I try to be,” Steve warns him; “so breathe as slow as you can until I can lay you back down topside.”

Right. Right, because…the Upside Down was breaking apart and they’ve been here how long, fuck, they need to get a mov on…probably.

But Steve doesn’t seem concerned about anything but getting his arms around Eddie to pick him up just right, and then staring at him all star-bright bbsome more, and that’s…way more pressing, to be honest.

“But when we get there,” Steve glances behind him; “how about we look into doing that in a way that’s more spit-swapping, less rescue breathing, that cool?”

And holy fucking shit, Eddie genuinely believes right now that he could fall in love with this motherfucker, what the actual hell.

That, and he thinks he’s gonna enjoy it, to boot.

Jesus H. Christ on a goddamn cracker—

He’s looking forward to it more than the air in his fucking lungs could even hope to rank.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here and here

[chao-macchiato]

Left Yourself Open

Left yourself open is now up! Thank you everyone for all the support and apologies for the delay! <3

Dr. Robotnik is having an existential crisis (by his standards). After observing his clumsy assistant on a mission, he realises that Stone is actually notoriously hard to hit. The man is highly skilled, and it turns out he had been pacifying the genius by LETTING him treat him like a human punching bag.

Determined not to be coddled, Robotnik issues the man a challenge. Stone was to actually try to dodge him, to fight back.

What follows is a hilariously awkward descent involving roboticised trollies, feigned affection, accidental compliments, and Robotnik's increasingly panicked internal struggle as he discovers that maybe, just maybe, that affection is becoming...less fake.

[A.K.A - Stone is notoriously hard to hit and Robotnik takes this as a personal challenge.]

[cupidford]

Human Urges by topsyturvy_turtely

Johnlock Love Letters #2362

John utterly and truly hated it. He despised himself for it. It annoyed the fucking SHIT out of him. That stupid, always present, torturing urge to be kissed!

[pollyna]

Hangster prompt that could go two ways when Jake, exasperated, tired, a little drunk and a little heartbroken, asks Bradley - in front of everyone and Penny, during one of their nights out at the Hard Deck - what he knows about:

Prompt A: unrequited love and Bradley answers with the description of two men looking at each other from the opposite side of a piano, while a kid tries to learn a new melody, telling each other they are in love for then never talking about it again just for the love to find space in every aspect of their life but never ever in the way it was supposed to.

Prompt B: love. What the hell does it know about love. Just for Bradley to stop in the middle of a sentence to look up at Jake, smiling softly and asking him if he's really ready to hear all that Bradley does know about love, and if he has a little more time to spear, he could tell Jake what he doesn't know about it.

[peter-pan-demonium]

Post-Thunderbolts* Bishova Fic

The Only Exception

It's about four months after the events in Thunderbolts* and Bob has been paying attention to his fellow team members and all the dynamics between them.

But what he finds the most interesting is whatever is happening between Yelena and Kate Bishop.

Check it out on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66062983

[wangxianficrecs]

🔒 if you really want me (move slow) by sunflowersfield

🔒 if you really want me (move slow)

by sunflowersfield (@sunflowersfield)

G, 1k, Wangxian

Summary: This cannot mean what he thinks it means. Wei Ying is probably dating someone. No, he is probably married. Lan Zhan will surely meet his wife the next time they spend time together, and then he will have to erase all of the scenarios he has created in his mind. Then he will have to forgive himself for the ridiculous conclusions he has jumped to. Kay's comments: Lan Zhan is really going through it in this stories as a chronic overthinker, but luckily, he has a very good therapist and Wei Ying can be very direct when given a hint! Excerpt:“You’re here!” Wei Ying exclaims, and Lan Zhan can’t help but wonder if he’s imagining the excitement in his voice. Why would Wei Ying be excited to see him? “I am,” he answers, unsure of what else there is to say. For some reason, this response makes Wei Ying giggle. When he pulls Lan Zhan toward the bar and offers to buy him a drink, Lan Zhan can do nothing but follow. “Water, please,” he manages to say, and Wei Ying fulfills his request with a smile that could light up the entire city. When Lan Zhan returns home later that evening, he goes over this interaction in his mind for nearly an hour, committing every detail to memory. Finally, he falls asleep.

pov lan wangji, modern setting, modern no powers, getting to know each other, strangers to lovers, developing relationship, fluff and angst, falling in love, angst with a happy ending, mutual pining, mental health issues, therapy

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[bbeehive]

𝕴𝖓𝖋𝖑𝖚𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊

Pairing: Friend's older brother!Choso x fem!Reader Synopsis: After a moment in the Kamo household the thread of your story has been entwined with those of the two boys who live there. One, a boy you met during your first semester of college who’s warm smile firmly burrowed it's way deep into your heart. The other, his older brother with an air of mystery and the sultry lingering scent of crushed cigarettes following close behind him. The way his eyes roam over you rocks your world and unbeknownst to even himself, he'd give anything, do anything just to keep your eyes fixed back squarely, solely onto him.

Your knuckles rapt several times on the wooden door and the moment your eyes caught sight of the figure behind it you knew you were done for.

Itadori had brought up his brother once or twice before. A quiet dude. Dishevelled looking, usually tired. Keeps to himself and almost never leaves his room, let alone his apartment. You expected something like that when Yuji sent a text informing you that he needed to get a few errands done so it’d be a while before he’d get back for that study session.

‘My big bro’ll be home, he’ll open up for you.’

Some hermit, a odd looking dude who looked like he’d never seen the light of day. While beholding him now you find that the description wasn't entirely a lie.. But god was it far from the truth.

Whatever.. whoever you expected, it wasn’t him.

The wooden door drew open and your face was immediately met with the faded print of the large t-shirt that fitted nicely over his broad chest.

You blinked. How tall was this guy? You considered yourself a pretty average height, a lot of guys were taller than you but this.. this was stupid. You had to actively tilt your head upwards and you obliged to do so, your eyes trailing upwards along the serpentine ink around his neck, the small head of the reptilian creature making an appearance just under the black stud in his left ear as the guy tilted his head to the side with indifference, stretching the muscles of his slender neck.

A soft yawn drew your attention to the lips that parted for its escape. You found it a lovely sound, a sound you wouldn’t mind hearing again once. Maybe twice. A couple more times actually..

You figured it wouldn't be long before you'd hear it again when your clear eyes flickered up to his far muddier ones. It was like he had just gotten out of bed. Sleeping a few minutes before begrudgingly coming to answer the door. Or rather attempting at sleeping, quite unsuccessfully as evidenced by the dark circles under his dark dark eyes.

Those deep brown lenses gave insight to no particular emotion or thought you found, but were still so mesmerising, so much so you almost didn’t register the large stripe of black tattooed over the bridge of his nose. Which was quite unprecedented considering the fact that it was the most noticeable feature of his face, stretching from the side of one cheek to the other. It was an unusual place for an unusual tattoo but you felt it fit him well as did his strong nose and his pretty.. pretty lips..

My god he was hot.

“You’re Yuji’s friend.. Right?” He asked, sluggishly blinking down at your form, his voice a mellow hum. A pale heavy hand reached up to scratch the back of his head, inching a few strands of hair out of it’s messy updo as he gazed somewhat skywards, seemingly addressing more himself than you. “He did say a friend was coming over...”

He blinked again and focused his eyes back onto you. “Uh.. You’re welcome to stay and wait for him till he comes back.”

You barely took in what he was saying, quite frankly struck dumb at the make of the man standing before you. There’s no way he was real.

You stared up at him, wide-eyed and an expression of slight bewilderment crosses over his. One eyebrow raising slightly, the twin piercings hooked into it moving with him as he took in your odd gaze. It wasn’t everyday he opened his door to find a stare like yours waiting for him. He shifted a little at his doorframe, waiting for your response to his offer.

A few seconds passed before you realised you’d been staring too long and your face warmed as you promptly swerved your gaze to the right, focusing on a small rut in the wall. You let out a nervous little laugh as you asked the obvious question. “Sorry, could you repeat that?”

His features relaxed as he observed the change in your manner, giving you a subtle smile as he leaned slightly against the doorway, a tattooed wrist sliding into the pocket of his loose pants. “Would you like to come in and wait for my brother?”

You nodded a little in embarrassment. “Yeah.. That’d be great.”

He moved to the side, giving you space to step in. “Come in.”

As you moved in through the front door you heard a sudden jingle and subconsciously reached for your phone only for the guy to already have his in hand, his brows narrowing slightly at the screen before he looks back over to you again.

“Yuji won’t be back for a while.” He began. You nodded.

“He said he’d be picking up some things didn’t he?”

He shook his head slightly. “That was before. He’ll be gone a lot longer than whatever time that was supposed to take him.”

You wondered what on earth he was talking about until he uttered the word ‘coach’ and it all made a lot more sense.

“Ah..” You sighed. It wasn’t long before the vibration in your pocket informed you of the same thing.

“He says he’ll get back as soon as he can..” Your eyes glance over the ‘sorry’ message on the screen.

Knowing that man he’d probably keep Yuji there till the very next morning. You wondered if you should just reschedule, who knew when he’d get back.. But you’d already made your way here and to make a journey all the way back to that bus stop just to wait on transport with that unreliable timetable, in the cold too, didn’t seem all that appealing. You had your materials and counted on studying all the difficult stuff with Yuji.

Not that he’d probably be of help or anything but struggling together would be fun.. and he did say the most surprisingly conductive things at times. You didn’t mind waiting for Yuji but you also made a glance at his older brother standing before you, arms crossed as he looked over you with a pending stare.

You didn’t want to be a bother.

“You’re still welcome to stay if you want.” Choso states as if having sensed your dilemma.

You looked up at him with a small smile, feeling relieved to hear the simple sentence.

You nodded.

“Okay.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: Kinda realised that I should probably promote this fanfic on tumblr too :P

Chapter 2 is out on Ao3 !! if you liked this intro chapter check it out if you think you'd like to follow a more serialised story from me ^^

Art drawn by yume041624 on twitter/x & edited by me :33

[vashwoodficrecs]

Eyes of the Storm

by: tenshinokorin | @tenshinokorin

M, Vashwood, 74k, ongoing

When Nicholas D. Wolfwood gets roped into being the new caretaker for the now-abandoned orphanage where he spent his childhood, he soon finds out that his own hidden memories are not the only thing haunting him. (posting in installments!)

First of all, anything Tenshi writes is going to find its way onto the blog at some point or another, so this should surprise no one. The characterization is always on-fucking-point. But this creature Vash especially makes me insane, and the overall world building???? Oh man, there is shit that I Did Not See Coming.

Also Livio, I love you. Holy shit.

I am eating this AU whole. Unhinging my jaw like a snake.

[kjack89]

Background Noise

It's been so long I almost don't remember how to do this.

Hiiiii sorry I've been MIA, it's an election year. You know how it goes. Anyway, here's a little something as proof of life. Love you all for sticking with me. I'll be back when I can.

E/R, modern AU, developing relationship. And all of the fluff.

Enjolras finished the sentence he was typing and sat back in his chair, reading through the paragraph he’d just written with a furrowed brow. Well, it wasn’t the best writing he’d ever done, but considering it was a filler paragraph in the middle of a letter to local elected officials that would almost certainly never be read by anyone other than some low level staffer or intern, it would have to do.

He sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face, his hand stilling when he caught what someone was saying nearby. “...Despite the immense popularity of the campaign, sales of Energizer batteries actually went down during the years that the ads ran. Duracell claimed—”

Enjolras lowered his hand to frown at Grantaire, seated at a nearby table in the back room of the Musain and still blithely rambling without looking up from his phone. “What are you doing?” he interrupted, equally parts confused and incredulous.

Grantaire broke off and glanced up at him, and Enjolras noted that he didn’t even have the good grace to look abashed. “Reading the Wikipedia entry for the Energizer Bunny.”

As if that was an even remotely normal thing to be doing. “Why?” Enjolras sighed, rubbing his forehead.

Grantaire shrugged. “Seemed appropriate,” he said cheerfully. “You know, because he—” He broke off, making a face. “It? They?”

“I don’t think the pronouns of a corporate marketing campaign are really relevant,” Enjolras said dryly.

Grantaire raised both eyebrows, amused. “Oh, so respect for pronouns is conditional now. I see how it is.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together. “I didn’t say that—”

“Anyway,” Grantaire continued, ignoring him, “like I said, seemed appropriate because the Energizer Bunny just keeps on going and going and going and going—”

“Yeah, I get the idea,” Enjolras said waspishly. “But why are you reading it out loud?”

Grantaire just shrugged again. “Why not?”

Honestly, Enjolras wasn’t even sure what answer he expected, and he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is this something that you do often?”

Grantaire scratched his cheek as he considered it. “Define ‘often’.”

Enjolras gave him a look. “Grantaire.”

Grantaire grinned, that slightly crooked grin that inevitably heralded him saying something that would piss Enjolras off. “Sometimes, when you’re otherwise occupied and slash or completely lost to the world, it’s a fun little thing I like to do.” His grin widened. “Or at least, it’s fun seeing how long it takes for you to notice.”

It spoke volumes that Enjolras wasn’t even remotely surprised. “Of course.”

“It’s a drinking game,” Grantaire added brightly. “Or at least, I drink while I play it, so that counts, right?”

“Of fucking course,” Enjolras sighed, even less surprised by that. “I should point out that by that logic, and I use the word as loosely as the English language allows, any game you drink while playing is a drinking game.”

Grantaire’s grin sharpened into a smirk. “This is exactly what I’ve been saying! I just think—”

But Enjolras cut him off, far too used to Grantaire’s ability to take a tangent and turn it into a diatribe until someone interrupted him or he otherwise got bored. “As fascinating as it always is to learn how you choose to spend your time, you’re going to have to knock it off.”

“Why?”

Enjolras bit back his immediate response that it was because it was annoying as hell. “Because it’s distracting,” he said instead.

“Of course,” Grantaire said, with a wry twist of his lips. “Heaven forbid I distract the Noble Leader from his all-important work.”

He doffed an invisible cap to Enjolras, who felt strangely tongue-tied and wrong-footed, the way only Grantaire ever seemed to be able to make him. “I didn’t mean—” he started, but Grantaire cut him off.

“I suppose it’s about time I head home, anyway.”

Enjolras glanced down at the time on his phone and then back at Grantaire, frowning. “You’re heading home before midnight?”

“Sorry, did I say head home?” Grantaire asked, draining his beer and setting it back down on the table with a thud to shrug his coat on. “I meant to another bar.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and looked back down at his computer. “That sounds more like it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Goodnight, Grantaire.”

But despite his rather pointed farewell, Grantaire didn’t leave, instead lingering for long enough that Enjolras glanced back up at him, his brow furrowing. Just when he was about to ask what was wrong, Grantaire gave him another smile, smaller and tighter this time. “Goodnight, Enjolras,” he said, finally turning and leaving, dropping his beer bottle in the recycling as he did.

Enjolras stared after him for a long moment before shaking his head to clear it and looking stubbornly back at the letter. Ten minutes of staring at it without adding a single word later, he sighed and shut his laptop with a snap. 

Typical Grantaire, he thought sourly to himself as he grabbed his bag to pack up all of his things, somehow finding a way to annoy him without even being physically present.

He’d just have to try to work on it again the following night, ideally without the dulcet sounds of the Energizer Bunny Wikipedia entry. 

Of course, knowing Grantaire, he’d find a new way to annoy him anyway.

— — — — —

Just as Enjolras suspected, the next night seemed like a repeat of a thousand nights that preceded it. After the Les Amis meeting wrapped up, Grantaire lingered while everyone else dispersed, leaning back in his chair to prop his feet on the chair next to him, sipping from his beer as he scrolled through his phone. 

But at least he was mercifully silent while doing so, which Enjolras would take as a win.

For his own part, Enjolras settled in to finish the letter, all too aware that it needed to go out sometime the next day. He worked better with a deadline, after all, so finishing it up should have been a breeze.

Unfortunately, Enjolras instead found himself unable to concentrate, glancing at his phone and clicking over to Twitter as if it would somehow have updated in the prior thirty seconds. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, and he rubbed his face vigorously with both hands as if that might somehow get him to concentrate.

It didn’t.

Instead, Enjolras sat back in his seat, scowling. He was in his favorite place to do work, he’d had the perfect amount of caffeine so he was alert but not jittery, and yet he couldn’t force himself to actually get anything done. It was almost like something was missing, something in the back of his mind that kept him on task, or—

His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he looked over at Grantaire, who was still conspicuously quiet. “That thing you do,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire glanced up at him. “Where you say stupid shit while I’m not paying attention?”

“Yeah?” Grantaire said cautiously.

“I realize I didn’t actually define often,” Enjolras said. “So, uh, would you say that this is a daily occurrence?”

Grantaire looked amused. “Would you say that you ignoring me is a daily occurrence?” he asked, saccharine sweet.

“Yes.”

Grantaire grinned. “Well, there’s your answer.”

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “Fucking Christ,” he muttered, running a hand across his face before straightening his shoulders. “Right. Well, you can do it again.”

Grantaire’s grin faded, just slightly. “Do what again?” he asked.

“Talk, or read out loud, or whatever other stupid shit you try to get away with without me noticing,” Enjolras said, something resigned in his tone.

Grantaire blinked. “Really?” he asked, equal parts amused and skeptical.

Enjolras shrugged helplessly. “What can I say,” he muttered, well aware he was blushing and equally aware that Grantaire would undoubtedly use this against him at some point in the future, “I’ve apparently gotten so good at tuning you out after all these years that you’ve essentially become a really effective white noise machine.”

He half-expected him to feign offense at that, but Grantaire just laughed, the sound bright and genuine. “Well, at least you can no longer say I’m completely useless,” he said, and Enjolras rolled his eyes, even if he couldn’t quite stop his answering smile.

“No, I guess I can’t,” he agreed. He hesitated before asking, “So will you read to me? Whatever nonsense you’ve been reading, or anything you like?”

Grantaire’s expression softened, just slightly. “For you?” he asked, with none of his usual sardonic sharpness. “I think I can manage that.”

He picked his phone up again and cleared his throat before reading out loud, “Neither Kamala Harris nor Donald Trump is campaigning on the coming ‘tax cliff,’ which is rarely mentioned in their paid messaging or stump speeches. In their only debate, Harris talked about taxes far more than Trump, who only mentioned them twice — once to deny that his tariffs amounted to a “tax” on consumers, and once to promise future tax cuts, without much detail.”

Enjolras had been expecting another stupid Wikipedia entry, or maybe something equally inane from Reddit. He hadn’t expected a news article, and even less a news article about politics, one of many things Grantaire always professed not to care about.

He was out of his chair before he even realized it, crossing over to Grantaire. “Let me see that,” he said, reaching for Grantaire’s phone. Grantaire raised both eyebrows but nonetheless handed it over, standing and crossing his arms in front of his chest as Enjolras scrolled through the article in question, his brow furrowing. He glanced back up at Grantaire. “You were really reading this?”

Grantaire shrugged and reached out for his phone. “How else am I supposed to be able to effectively argue with you?” he asked, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Maybe it was.

Maybe it was as obvious as Grantaire saying God only knew what while Enjolras tuned him out.

Enjolras felt a slow smile stretch across his face, and instead of handing Grantaire his phone back, he closed the space between them and kissed him.

For one long moment, Grantaire was perfectly still, but then he kissed Enjolras back, wrapping his arms around Enjolras waist and opening his mouth against Enjolras’s. 

Then, without warning, Grantaire pulled away. “What?” Enjolras asked, just this side of breathless.

“You need to finish that by tomorrow,” Grantaire said, nodding toward Enjolras’s laptop.

“Are you really trying to be the responsible one right now?” Enjolras asked, grinning.

“Yes,” Grantaire said, suddenly serious. “I’m not giving you any excuse to blame me, or this, for fucking things up.”

Enjolras scowled. “I wouldn’t—” he started, and when Grantaire just gave him a look, he held his hands up and laughed. “Fine, I probably would.”

Grantaire nodded. “And I definitely don’t want to give you a reason not to do that again,” he said, smiling that crooked smile again, and it took everything in Enjolras not to kiss him again. 

“Fine,” he sighed instead, tearing his eyes away. “But I still need you to keep reading something.” He paused and made a face. “Not that article, though, I really don’t need to hear about fucking Trump right now.”

“Fine by me,” Grantaire said, taking his phone back from Enjolras. His thumbs flashed across the keyboard as he typed something and then he settled back down into a chair, one conspicuously closer to Enjolras and farther from his beer. 

Again he cleared his throat, only this time, he read, “The Constitution promises liberty to all within its reach, a liberty that includes certain specific rights that allow persons, within a lawful realm, to define and express their identity. The petitioners in these cases seek to find that liberty by marrying someone of the same sex and having their marriages deemed lawful on the same terms and conditions as marriages between persons of the opposite sex.”

Enjolras would’ve recognized those words anywhere. "Obergefell v. Hodges?” he asked, amused, shaking his head fondly. “God, you’re such a nerd."

Grantaire glanced up at him. “Takes one to know one,” he said, sticking his tongue out, and Enjolras barked a laugh and shook his head once more before finally returning to his work as Grantaire continued reading, his voice a soothing background to the sound of Enjolras’s typing, the way it had been for years now without him ever noticing.

But he noticed now.

And since he did notice, he had a brand new motivation to get through his work in a timely manner. 

And judging by the grin that Grantaire still wore, he knew it, too.

[steddieunderdogfics]

D&D rec: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56414623/chapters/143347438

A fix-it fic in which Steve approaches the whole post-s4 situation by stubbornly doubling down on the idea that if he’s going to be forced to deal with the horrors of the Upside Down, he should also be able to game the system. Pretty sure there’s a rule book somewhere…

hitlikehammers is one of my favorite authors in this fandom - this fic in particular is a gut punch that balances humor and angst and complicated pining beautifully. I also love the play on the trope of “Steve plays D&D.”

if you can’t write your own necronomicon, store-bought is fine by hitlikehammers

@hitlikehammers

Rating: Mature

14,421 words, 3/3 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Temporary Character Death, (TEMPORARY being the important part; I mean: that IS the orienting concept of the story), Pre-Relationship, (but won't stay 'pre' if these crazy kids succeed in their crazy plot!), Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Necromancy, Dungeons & Dragons References, (as in: HEAVY Dungeon & Dragons References), Grief/Mourning, But Then: What If You Interrupted Your Strange Process of Grieving/Feelings Realization, By Putting All Your Eggs In The ‘What If It All DOES Match D&D?’ Basket, Including but Not Limited To The 'Raise Dead' Spell?, The Adventures of Platonic Soulmates Trying to Understand the Nerd Game, Specifically to Try and Resurrect a Certain Dingus' More-Than-A-Crush, Resurrection, (and its consequences), The Dungeons & Dragons References Work With About As Much Leeway as Show v Game Demogorgons, So: Stretchy Like Gumbo, And Then All Of A Sudden:, confessions of feelings, Feelings Realization, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Happy Ending

Summary:

Steve gets stuck in his head about it: the fucking gravestone they’re putting up. He hates the idea of it being installed over nothing, just plopped on grass and dirt and just, just…nothing. Almost like they’re saying Eddie was somehow nothing, and when the overall notion hits on that thought specifically, Steve has the simultaneous urge to break a window and vomit, and it’s just, it’s not— He needs to find a way to curb that feeling. He hates it enough to mention it to the others, who don’t get it. At all. Maybe because it’s Steve, and they don’t think he knew Eddie enough to be this…this. If Steve was in a clearer frame of mind, maybe he’d be able to wonder, too. But he’s not. In a clearer frame of mind. He can’t process all that much beyond the all-consuming need to not bury nothing under Eddie Munson’s name. Which doesn't even touch yet on the way it also sticks in his head that, if they were going to name half of the Upside Down bullshit after the nerd game, if the parallels were gonna be just, accepted as a rule? Then why shouldn't the existence of a spell in the nerd game called 'RAISE DEAD' be accepted, too?

Thanks for the rec!

This rec is a part of Theme Weekend. The theme this weekend is Dungeons & Dragons Fics.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[hitlikehammers]

Early November, 1984 and all Eddie wanted was to light up behind the Byers' place in peace🚬

he went all that way and all he got for it was a maybe-dead💀-but-definitely-unconscious-king👑-slash-maybe-babysitter(?), plus some shithead children directing his van🚐 to those fucking abandoned labs that may as well be lit up in neon lights screaming 🚨THIS IS A FUCKING TRAP🚨

Eddie shouldn’t be here. Like, not in a it’s forbidden kinda way, but more in a, there’s no real reason for him to fucking be here.

Save for the obvious.

It’s just…after the whole dead-not-dead thing with the youngest kiddo, the property around the Byers house has kinda turned into no-man’s-land; easy place to get high when Eddie wants a change of scenery, basically, with no one trying to break his nose, or call the pigs.

Or snatch his supply.

But when he hears that fuckface Hargrove call out, the tone on him—and Eddie’s real sensitive to tones, he can guess between the lines for everything he can’t read—he perks up; listens in. Stays put out of sight.

(And no, he does not cream his pants when Harrington calls back, Jesus; taunts like the cocky prick that he is—

And no it is not a close thing or…whatever.)

Point being: he hears more than sees what happens. Up to and including a gaggle of literal fucking children dragging Harrington toward wha Eddie thinks is Hargrove’s eyesore of a car, one of the sheepies crossing around like they’re planning on driving it, and Eddie’s not one for the rule of law or anything—definitely not if it’s Hargrove’s property that’s on the line—and fuck yes Eddie’s driven without a license, and far below the age to get one, but, but—

He’s tripping over himself to turn the keys in his own ignition and swinging the van around quick enough to kick up dirt before he leans over and throws open the passenger door.

“Hey,” he hisses, low but not quiet, he needs them to hear but he doesn’t know if Hargrove’s gonna storm out any second, it’s a delicate balance; “hey, get in,” and he’s crawling over the seat to open the back, too, to push things to the side to mostly leave it flat, tossing blankets to the middle with no care for their cleanliness because there’s no time for that shit, there’s no time and then he’s grabbing the hinges of the doors and flinging his whole top half around to eye this hoard of strange ankle-biters and what’s revealed quickly to be their still-weirdly-attractive-when-beat-to-shit charge in Steve Motherfucking Harrington, trying to project some degree of meaningful trustworthiness, because he is trustworthy, here and now, but they’re kinda in the fucking clock of crazy-eyes-Mc-West-Coast stumbling out of the house, so Eddie’s kinda gotta urge these rugrats with real feeling, waving his hands to the point where his fucking wrists hurt:

“Get in.”

And of course these little urchins still and just, raise a fucking eyebrow at him. Like they’re not working on an inexact sort of fucking timeline—

“Who the fuck are you?”

Yeesh. He wasn’t off when he said they were ankle biters; the little lambies have teeth.

“I just wanna help,” Eddie tries to say it with as much of the genuine concern that he really and truly feels, and not get weighed down with the probably-suspicious-off-the-bat vibe of pulling up in a random van just to start the exchange out with waving some strange kids into the back of it.

Jesus, that sounds terrible, wow, okay.

He gets it.

“No,” oddly, not the ringleader girl who eyed him first but it’s the curly headed boy now who stands up, squares his shoulders, and stares Eddie down with an only-slightly-less-menacing glare. “No, you’re not gonna hurt Steve.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, I swear,” Eddie’s honestly surprised by how unmuddled his tone bleeds put as desperate, versus irritated by this motley crew of munchkins trying to fight him when he is risking his own neck to help them.

And…King Steve, but then: can he be that motionless, hanging awkward from the noodles limbs of a handful of preteens (at most)?

“I just want to get you out of here, somewhere safe,” Eddie bites his lip, wonders where the fuck he intends to go and realizes he was probably just going to drive toward his home and hope for the best; “Er, somewhere safer than here,” and they don’t fucking budge, little assholes, and Harrington doesn’t fucking twitch, and just, just…

Ugh.

“Come on,” he urges them again, just shy of begging; lets how fucking nervous he’s getting seep clear into his tone a little, but he honestly doesn’t think he’d have convinced them to move if not for the crashing of something in the house behind them, and—well.

Nothing like impending doom to speed shit along.

“I wanted to drive,” the redhead’s muttering with a scowl as they heft the body they’re barely keeping off the ground and awkwardly feed Harrington head-first up to Eddie where where he’s crawled properly into the back of the van to help, and Eddie thinks these little fuckers just might be more wild and feral and insane even than he originally would have guessed for how they make to scramble behind their Steve; only just manages to steady and lower the royal body as careful as he can before the hoard clamors in and denies Eddie so much as a moment to press his finger under Steve Harrington’s flop of bloody hair and touch below his jawline where those stupidly infuriating moles of his speckle his skin, marks that Eddie’s hasn’t ever really paid attention to ever, nope, Eddie only needs now to assess whether he’s just accepted a dead fucking body into his van but: no.

Maybe a little sluggish, but pulse’s strong. Which: Eddie doesn’t care about past the legality of it all. Beyond getting saddled with a murder charge or some other bullshit.

No other reason. Of course. Yeah.

The only thing that floors him more than the Hardy Boys-plus-Girl on steroids tearing onto the cushions around where their unconscious charge is laid out, as Eddie shifts into gear and makes to get the fuck out of dodge, like, yesterday, is the even-louder voice in his head that asks probably the most pressing question:

The fuck did the King do, and how, and why, to make these children this loyal?

What follows all that is quite arguably—actually more than that; definitely a strong contender for—the most surprising thing that’s ever happened to Eddie. That could maybe ever possibly happen to Eddie, in any circumstance for any reason within any universal construct or reality. And he’d been really marinating in his Munson Doctrine this year, too, having been forced to reevaluate some shit after the letter arrived to hammer the most disappointing nail in the coffin of Eddie’s first senior year, but then…fuck everything, then there were the stupid little sheepies and their stupid gorgeous goddamn babysitter—which still, still: what the fuck was that, who the fuck even was Steve Harrington?—and Eddie’d barely even put the ink down to dry before all of them banded secretly together and shredded that motherfucking document before it could even properly take root in Eddie’s brain.

All while something else entirely started to take root in his chest, in his hea—

Well. Something. Something that wasn’t even remotely recognizable inside his most recent—and most polished to date, if he does say so himself—draft of the Doctrine like, at all.

Which is the point.

Because Harrington was indeed alive, and did indeed wake up, and clocked Eddie quicker than expected, even by name—Munson? What the fuck?and hell if that hadn’t fluttered between Eddie’s ribs an indefensible amount that no one would ever know about ever, thank you very much, but still: Jesus H. Christ—

But all his own humiliating discombobulation at the not-even-hands-just-voice-and-presence-of-the-golden-boy aside: it’s a damn good fucking thing Harrington wakes up, and is definitely not dead, because Eddie knows where the King lives, and he knows he’s not driving in that direction but had instead been foolish enough to give these shitweasel munchkins the benefit of the doubt here, like that there maybe was a safe house or some shit, fucking sue him, he was a little prepccupied, yeah—by the threat of a chase with that Hargrove fucker and then by the absolutely spectacle of Harrington screeching at the wayward waifs like a harried mother at the stovetop, because fuck, but Eddie nearly crashes them into three ditches and at least five trees for for trying to watch and he can’t even pretend otherwise—but the end result is definitely not a fucking safe house, and these little asshats have directed him in the wholeass wrong direction, if the undeniable fact of the old abandoned labs at the edge of town looming big through his windshield, looking at least slightly less abandoned (as if that’s not goddamn terrifying in and of itself), what the fuck has he literally driven into, is he an accomplice, and to what, and just, just Jesus—

“Hey.”

Eddie is honestly wholly jolted out of his spiral for a lot of reasons, here. The low tenor exhale of a sound in a voice too kind and open and invested, to much like music given what it does to Eddie, what music means to Eddie and what this voice shouldn’t fucking mean too straight out the goddamn gate. The proximity of a body close enough to feel the warmth of each breath. The indefensible feeling of it being nearly erotic out of nowhere and with no justification at all—just the reality of Eddie’s world right now, to feel the barest brush of the side of a body alongside his, leaning forward where he’s still in the driver’s seat. All of that would tip his world at the very least into a different sort of spiral pattern, breathless in a completely other way.

But.

What knocks Eddie hardest and most effectively in one go is the hand on his shoulder, braced to comfort and steady, and the realization in the flesh of how fucking big it is, how the span of that palm, those fingers, because Eddie knew those hands looked big, not that he’d studied them with any real…attention or anything but feeling them was something entirely other, and the touch, the touch is…is—

“Hey,” and Harrington’s breath is close enough then to tickle Eddie’s hair, goddamn: “breathe.”

And where Eddie hadn’t been wholly aware that he wasn’t, y’know, doing the breathing thing so well, either for the absolute insanity of the evening or the ominous spread, all proper D&D-style foreshadowing of nope don’t go there not now not ever waiting where these menaces had directed him to drive; but whatever the reason, where Eddie now takes a gulp of air in now that fucking burns, there’s Harrington, leaning over a little more, a second hand on Eddie chest to steady him as he falls all while he’s fucking squeezing Eddie’s shoulder, only a second before he’s getting ready to jump out of the van like he wasn’t just beaten unconscious like, five fucking minutes ago.

What the actual flying fuck.

If Eddie weren’t a goddamn idiot, he’d put the van in reserve before anyone could get out the back, fuck the way they’ll be thrown against the sides, at least they won’t be walking—willingly—into whatever the fuck’s waiting, all angry red and kinda…pulsating in the distance in a way that may or may not be a trick of his own paranoid mind, and then spewing little glowing motes into the air like lightning bugs.

Which could be charming, if it weren’t way fucking past the season for that shit.

And in fairness, the whole experience of Steve Harrington touching him and leaning close and breathing near him and telling him to breathe? That shit does carry him through—mostly—the hours that will follow, cliche and genuinely fucking embarrassing as it is, as it will be, to acknowledge at all.

But in the now—

“Thanks, man.”

And…oh, well, fuck.

As in point number one: that hand—bothhands—really are distracting as all hell but then also, simultaneously, very much point number two:

What the actual fuck.

“What?”

Apparently sending Eddie-usually-eloquent-enough-to-spin-some-pretty-bullshit-on-demand-Munson reeling outta nowhere is this fucker’s MO. Probably for the best that Eddie’s been writing him off as a pretty airhead for years now—if for nothing more than his own sanity.

Or else, like…relatively speaking.

“You got us here,” Harrington gestures out the window and…yeah.

“Here?”

That’s the relative part. And the insane part to be thanked for. Because where they’ve ended up is definitely the DoE labs that were supposed to have shut down or whatever, after people disappeared and came back and disappeared again and also didn’t and were never gone and fake bodies and whatever.

No one thanks anyone for bringing them to a place like this.

“And it’s more than I could have asked someone to do,” Harrington’s going on like it’s a casual thing, a favor like walking his goddamn dog and not more like what’s actually staring them down inside the fencing, namely the building that doesn’t look as abandoned as advertised by half, and definitely doesn’t at all look like the only thing it’s missing is a big neon sign blinking TRAP! FREE TRAP! IN THE MARKET FOR A QUICK PAINFUL DEMISE AT THE HANDS OF THE WORLD’S SHITTIEST TAINT FACTORY EAST OF ARMPIT-IAPOLIS? STEP RIGHT UP! ALSO REMINDER: CLEARLY A TRAP!

“Harrington,” Eddie doesn’t love the way his voice trips over a bonafide gulp. “Steve.”

He also doesn’t love how much feeling sneaks into that part because one, where the fuck’d that even come from and two, he…

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever said this guy’s first name out loud. As in…ever.

He doesn’t love how nice it feels, how scary but bubbly-warm it tingles at the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach.

So there’s all of that.

Still set inescapably under the threat of the non-existent-but-no-less-real-neon-sign-of-death and…stuff.

“We know what we’re doing,” Steve’s pats Eddie’s shoulder again, moves the hand from his chest like he’s pulling away, like he’s leaving to go toward the trap and Eddie whips his head around just in time to catch Steve shrug sheepishly and add:

“Like, mostly.”

It is not at all lost on Eddie, how Steve doesn’t even try to sidestep that he’s walking into the gaping maw of probably death, here.

That might be the most terrifying part of this yet.

“I could,” Eddie’s voice is a crackle, so he tries clearing his throat, licking his lips; “I could at least try to help.”

That comes out a little stronger, but not steadier, and he doesn’t really think he’s making his point very well at all.

But then there’s Steve, and his hand back full on Eddie’s shoulder, saying:

“You could,” like he believes that; “and we’d be grateful,” added in like he means that too.

And most unbelievable of all of it, what he tacks on last with a squeeze of his hand and a lower pitch for no reason Eddie can figure save to catch inside the clench of his pulse so it takes to jittering like fucking mad as the King himself exhales:

“I’d be grateful.”

And what the fuck does that mean, said with eyes so bright when the night’s so dark?

And what the fuck does it mean when Eddie’s heartbeat starts jittering, a butterfly between cupped hands, until:

“I need you to be safe though,” and the words have physical form, brush Eddie’s frizzled curls straight behind his ear like…tenderness, delicate.

What. The. Fuck.

Eddie blames the way his heart goes form butterfly to battering ram, ready to crack through his ribs for no reason save a feeling he can’t justify, but’s too real to pretend away as less when he half-fucking-moans:

“What about you?”

Because Steve’s shepherding the kiddos. He’s keeping Eddie on the sidelines, safe. He’s charging into battle with a handkerchief and a bat and a goddamn pair of rubber gloves found from somewhere, sticking out his back pocket like he’s flagging in day-glo, holy hell—

But who takes care of Steve?

“I’ll see you at school,” Steve winks, leans this time to bump one shoulder straight to Eddie’s and then he’s jumping out the back of the van, and he’s moving too fast and—

“Harrington,” Eddie calls, suddenly forgetting he’d ever been trying to keep quiet, to avoid attention of whatever they’re going out to face, Hargrove or harbingers of worker fates, or both at once; “fuck, fuck,” he hissed as he trips over shit that got shifted back in his way as he stumbles to the doors and yells:

“Steve!”

And it’s like maybe saying his name does something to Steve himself, too, because he pauses, and even for the distance, the little curve of his lips isn’t a smirk, it’s a smile.

It’s fucking beautiful.

And then he’s saluting cockily before he turns on his heel with just one last parting shot;

“See you on the other side, Munson.”

And the tunnels beyond only let him watch so long, see so far. The weird shit in the air, and the bandanas he can see a scuffle over, to make sure they’re tied over noses and mouths, lit by weird pulsing colors, obscene squelching noises he can hear the echoes of even this far back and just, just…

Typical eldritch fuckery from a monster manual.

That doesn’t belong in real life.

It’s a fucking trap, Admiral. Good fucking god.

And Jesus H. Christ, but Eddie hadn’t even had the chance to light up tonight as he’d planned, as he’d explicitly driven out to do.

For fuck’s sake.

>>>part two 💚

For @miraculousmultifan, who requested Post-S2; 'Now, I’m not going to deny that I was aware of your beauty. But the point is, this has nothing to do with your beauty. As I got to know you, I began to realise that beauty was the least of your qualities. I became fascinated by your goodness. I was drawn in by it' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—very late, obviously, and MID-S2, rather than post but it ENDS UP being post-S2, promise 🖤

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