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morallyinept · 7 months

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Shoot: Shortlist Magazine, issue 485, 24th August 2017.

Photographer: Tom Oldham

Interviewer: Chris Sayer

Grooming: Karen Alder

Full interview, behind the scenes, outtakes & shoot photographs below.👇🏻

Jett's Pedro's Shoots Masterlist

• Cover shot, magazine clippings & original shots used in the magazine.

• Outtakes.

• Full interview.

We've lost Pedro.

He was right there, moments ago, obediently standing on his mark at the centre of our makeshift hotel-room-photo studio, giving our photographer a display of facial dexterity you’d expect from a caffeine-jacked children’s presenter.

“More teeth! Wide eyes! Eyebrow! Eyebrow!” - The photographer effortlessly pulling the puppet strings of Pedro Pascal’s boyish, happy-despite-a-case-of-chronic-jetlag face.

Then he’s gone. And the screaming hen-party in the room next door is one uninvited guest up.

Rumours that a male stripper is sending the women on the other side of the wall into a frenzy have got the better of him. While the rest of us, shackled to the set by our polite British sensibilities, titter and giggle at the thought of a greased-up strong boy thrusting the buffet table, only the Chilean in the room has the cool brass cojones to unstick from his mark and storm one door over to get an eyeful.

Those cool brass cojones, we’re about to find out, are an inherited asset to which Pascal owes a lot more than just a cheeky peek inside a hen party.

The Exile

Pedro Pascal has led a life punctuated by tyrannical, blood-soaked despots, and of them all, Augusto Pinochet, the Chilean dictator who called for the heads of Pedro Pascal’s parents, seems like as good as any for us to kick off with. But first, booze

“Tequila’s one of the things that’ll keep me awake,” 42-year-old Pascal says, now sitting across from me at the hotel bar, confirming he’s still in the fog of mixed time zones. He reaches out for the waiter, who promptly mistakes Pascal’s request of Herradura Anejo for Kahula, before they both agree on a Don Julio.

“With fresh lime juice, on the rocks,” he adds. “Tequila to stay awake, fresh lime to avoid scurvy.” My ‘make that two’ gesture may well be the most transparent and desperate to please Pascal’s ever had to endure. But blindly following suit soon pays off. If I hadn’t ordered the hard stuff before hearing him recount the tale of how his parents were forced, and miraculously managed, to flee Chile with a 9-month-old Pedro in their arms, I sure would have done afterwards.

“They were activists,” he begins, starting a story that hasn’t had any of its honor diluted by the years since 1976. “The story, as I understand it, is that there was a gun fight. Somebody had been shot in the leg, and a priest, knowing my father was the resident doctor of Santiago’s Catholic University, brought the wounded man to our home to tend his wounds. After my father patched him up, he was hidden in our home for a number of days. In that time, the priest had been captured, taken into custody, and tortured for information. He gave names, my parents’ identities were added to a list, and the regime came looking for them.”

Pascal raises his drink to his lips, his ice cubes clinking, a pre-emptive toast to the bravery, luck and gravity of what followed for his parents.

“They were forced into hiding for 6 months. In that time, they staked out the Venezuelan Embassy and worked out the miniscule window of opportunity they had to vault over the embassy walls to claim asylum, and find safety. They knew that, during their shift change, there was a moment when one guard would leave his post for the bus, as the entering guard was stepping off the bus. That was their tiny window, and they went for it. They climbed over the walls with me and, even with the guards inside trying to kick them out, managed to explain how their lives were in danger and knew the protocol for claiming asylum. It was pretty smart, and fucking lucky to be honest with you.”

Successfully escaping the terrors of Pinochet’s torture camps and a fate similar to that of fellow activists - which, according to US government documents declassified in 2015, included being burned alive - the Pascals were gifted asylum in Denmark, before a Chilean doctor 1 year later offered Pascal’s father a position at his laboratory in San Antonio, Texas.

“It’s strange, because in a weird way there’s something so removed about the dramatic elements of the story. They exist more as ghosts in my experience of growing up, because I was a baby when it all happened. And it’s a story I've only really managed to unpack as an adult. When the subject was approached, I wouldn’t say I got much resistance from him, it wasn’t off limits, but clearly, it was something that was a little too fresh to talk about.”

I ask him how he feels about us being in a country - one he called home for 4 months earlier this year while filming Matthew Vaughn’s upcoming Kingsman: The Golden Circle - governed by a political party that still idolises Margaret Thatcher, a woman who openly named Pinochet as a “true friend” and actively lobbied against his prosecution for war crimes.

Pascal closes his mouth, conjures an invisible key out of thin air, uses it to slowly lock a padlock on his lips, and then tosses it away. His gesture speaks volumes. It’s a firm but fair full-stop to question, until…

“I can’t talk shit about her in the UK, can I?”

I assure him that whatever he’s about to tell me, someone else is probably saying something far worse right now.

“Okay, I’m going to put it this way. I remember seeing The Iron Lady. I got really upset about how soft, charming and cute the movie was. And, as great as Meryl Streep was, I was very uncomfortable, not with her portrayal, but the movie as a whole. That movie. That movie was full of shit. Let’s leave it at that. You’re sure I can’t get into trouble by talking about Margaret Thatcher, right?”

States of Safety

I pull him up on how English his accent has suddenly become.

“Oh, it’s embarrassing. It’s because I’m hanging out with you. The instant I hear it, I can’t help but emulate it.”

Pascal’s mimetic abilities no doubt came in useful during formative years in the US, primarily in Orange County, California. He’s visibly embarrassed to admit they were filled with “the white privilege the world suffers from to a degree”. He tells me about the time he got drunk at a roller derby and saw a young up-and-coming local band called No Doubt. He talks about cable TV. Spielberg films. He talks of doodling on his hand in class - a doodle that would later become a permanent fixture as a bullseye tattoo at the corner of his thumb and forefinger. He talks as if he’s lived the perfect posters-inside-of-your-high-school-locker US existence that was beamed around the globe in kids’ TV shows like Saved By The Bell. Chile was every single one of the 5,800 miles away for Pascal.

Even so, he still managed to fall into the clutches of his second tyrannical despot. Although, this was one that would leave an impression on his childhood from the pages of his favorite book, in the shape of a villainous rabbit.

“It’s very anti-communist that book, isn’t it.” He says of Watership Down, a book he classes as a defining read and, unarguably, should have been more relatable and real to him than any of his fellow classmates.

“I do remember a traumatising experience as far as the movie was concerned. My dad took me to see what he thought was a cartoon, and he was faced with rabbits ripping each other apart in fields of blood. After that, I got around to reading the book for assignment, and I remember it being so thrilling that I’d often catch myself standing up without realising to read it.”

The Long Game

If Pascal’s first 9 months are the basis for an Oscar-winning political thriller, and his childhood in Orange County a script for a mid-morning children’s sitcom, his years before hitting the Game Of Thrones payload is the grafting-actor-done-good biopic. It’s a classic, with 20 lousy restaurant jobs quit in favour of small-time TV parts and commercials leading up to the crack at the Big Time.

“Oh, it was more than 20,” he admits, taking us back to the time long before growing a top-shagger ‘tache for Game Of Thrones’ Oberyn Martell, and later the cartel-crushing ‘tache of DEA hero Javier Peña in Netflix smash Narcos.

“First, I wasn’t very good at it. Second, I would always prioritise acting over waiting tables, and third, I’m just not very good with authority.”

Which brings us neatly to tyrannical despot three, and maybe four, or Lord knows how many depending on what cliff-hanging marker you’ve reached in George RR Martin and HBO’s claret-soaked fantasy universe. The story of Pascal’s acquisition, shall we say, of the Oberyn role and set up to the diving board hanging over stopped-in-the-street success, is a well-trodden tale and one that can be condensed down to: Pascal helps his graduate mentee prepare for his first taped audition; realises this was the role he was born to play; calls in huge favour from friend Sarah Paulson, who knows how to get a shoddy Pascal iPhone video script reading to the right people; right people are wowed by Pascal and his riff on his father’s accent for the part; Pascal help bags himself a life-changing role that includes the most-re-enacted-down-the-pub death scene in the history of Game Of Thrones.

“That was the best part,” he says, his lime and tequila now nearing its end. “It was really hot in Dubrovnik during the 4 days that it took to shoot that fight scene. Having my eyes gouged out meant I was lying down on my back and having cooling rivers of blood put on my face. And then I had to lay there with chunks of prosthetics on my face, which were all very cool to touch, too. They had to do take after take, apologising for it. But I’d just say: ‘Hey, you take your fucking time.’“

Cartel Crusher

By the time this interview finds its way into your hands, Pedro Pascal will be days away from the world that brought him face to face with his most recent tyrant. Netflix will be opening the hatches and preparing to drop another bomb into the faces of fans all over again, all prepared to see Pascal’s DEA agent Javier Peña bring the Cali Cartel to its knees, all intrigued to see how the smash-hit can carry on beyond the death of its bulbous Colombian cocaine baron, that dare we say, we’re all going to miss. How could we all fall for such villainous shithead?

“Oh, there definitely is a machismo fascination there. But I never felt it. I grew up afraid of drug dealers. It’s not that I judged them, I was just afraid of them. So I’m not seduced by the golden guns and the mountains, the chesty company and the suitcase of cash. I understand the appeal, but it didn’t appeal to me. But I never felt I should demonise these guys either. And that was a worry for me. With the DEA, we’re dealing with a kind of, uh, vehemently conservative culture. I was real worried about the [the real life] Steve Murphy and Javier Peña finding out how liberal-minded I actually am. I was very self-conscious about it. But that thinking, it’s just in my blood.”

Right on schedule, Pascal’s ‘people’ appear, ready to whisk him away from his now-empty tequila glass and off to see Andrew Garfield star in the 7 ½ hr play Angels In America - the last place anyone jet lagged would want to be. I use his slow rise from his chair as an excuse to get one more question in. I begin to ask how someone who’s come from a background so deep-rooted in the left, from parents who risked everything for a liberal belief system, feels in this time of xenophobic politics and right-wing White House clownery. But he cuts me short.

“To be really candid about that, I carry around a certain amount of shame in terms of not doing more. Like I said, liberalism is in my blood. As hard work as it is to be in the arts of any kind, or to make a living from something that you feel passionate about, just posting something on social media isn’t enough. Yeah, I marched with my sister against the Iraq war in ‘03. Yes, my family and I have always been sort of, I suppose, very liberal doers, when given the opportunity. But I don’t have the balls to give up my career and dedicate everything I have to any particular cause. And yes, right now, I feel guilty about that.”

Jett's Pedro's Shoots Masterlist

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal shortlist #pedro pascal interview #pedro pascal shoot #pedro pascal photo shoot #pedro pascal speaks #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal magazine #shorlist magazine #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal photos

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obsessedbyneon · 5 months

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Embassy Suites Hotel (built in 1985), interior landscape in the atrium. Located in La Jolla, California. Designed by Steve McCurdy, 1995.

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#scan #interior landscape #embassy suites hotel #la jolla #california #1980s #1990s #interior green

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aniron48 · 4 months

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24. just really needed a hug sort of hug for 00leiter would be amazing if inspiration strikes! 🥰

Alex, mi vida! Thank you for always inspiring and indulging my deep-seated need for 00leiter, and thank you for this prompt. 🥰 Your wish is my command, my friend! It's here, continuing below the cut, as well as on ao3:

sometimes it takes the night to fall

“My mother wanted me to go to law school,” Felix says. His tone is measured, and this, this, is something he’s going to include in his annual performance review at the Agency, which his supervisor signs every year without reading a word: Agent Leiter is calm and measured, even when he is soaking wet, covered in pink feathers, and holding a flash drive with the plans for a chemical weapon designed to take out half of Europe, circumstances which Agent Leiter would have avoided entirely had his MI6 counterpart not been a fucking asshole.

“‘You’ll make good money, son,’ she would tell me,” Felix says. He pulls his Glock out of his holster, pointing it toward the floor to let the water drain from the barrel. “‘You’ll wear nice suits.’ But no, I knew better. I didn’t want to take the motherfucking bar exam.”

“You wear nice suits now, Felix,” Bond drawls, looking him up and down, and Felix is either going to punch or kiss that look off his face, but he hasn’t decided which, yet.

“Normally, I would agree with you, James,” Felix says. Measuredly, again, because he’s a goddamn station chief for the CIA. “But right now, my nice suit looks like it survived simultaneous explosions at a poultry farm and a Pepto-Bismol factory.”

Felix had had plans for their mission in Prague, plans which involved a timeline, and coordinates on a map, and the judicious use of SIGINT. James Bond had had instincts, and even if those instincts had been accurate, as far as identifying the Belarusian middleman they were looking for went, his methods left a lot to be desired, seeing as they primarily involved a chase through a crowded craft fair in the center of town, followed by what could charitably be called hijacking a bachelorette cruise in order to chase said middleman down the Vltava River. And now here they were, on a deserted dock in a decidedly seedy part of town, mercifully free of bachelorettes, but with an unconscious henchman tied to an oil barrel behind them, waiting for the ride that would take them not to their warm, comfortable hotel room near Karluv Most, but to the U.S. Embassy, where Felix could hand off the hard drive and then spend the rest of the night filling out the ream of paperwork required after the sort of nuclear-grade shitshow James Bond tended to leave behind him on a good night.

“I think I know what you need, Felix,” Bond says, and the way his mouth turns up at the corner can’t mean anything good.

“What I need,” Felix says, “is not to be picking penis-shaped confetti out of my beard.”

“No,” Bond says, stepping closer, and if the British exfil team doesn’t get there soon, Felix is going to paddle to the Embassy on a goddamn inflatable canoe, “No, that’s not it.”

He brings a hand to the back of Felix’s head, drawing him in close. “Why don’t you start by putting your arm around my waist.”

They’re Felix’s own words from years ago, directed back at him with Bond’s characteristically lethal precision. Not long after the events in Bolivia, Felix had flown into London for the memorial service of another MI6 colleague who had died in the line of duty. Later, after everyone else had left, he’d joined Bond where he stood in the back of the church, stiff with grief and the bone-deep chill of the British winter.

“She drowned, you know,” Bond had said, his tone conversational. “004, I mean. She deserved better. It’s a terrible way to go.”

Bond and Felix had been lovers for mere weeks at that point, if that designation even applied to the handful of hours they’d stolen in South American hotel rooms and, on one memorable occasion, the lost luggage room of a train station in the middle of nowhere. But Felix wasn’t an idiot. He’d been in Venice when Vesper died. Even then, he’d known Bond well enough to know what wounds would be fatal to him, if left untreated.

“It is,” Felix had said. He hadn’t dared to say much of anything else. “I’m sorry for your loss, James.”

“It’s England’s loss,” Bond had said. He’d already begun to go distant around the edges, all of the lines of his body tensed for a fight. Felix had wanted nothing more than to demand Bond come back with him to his hotel room, to fuck him fast and merciless until all the tension bled from his body, until he was easy and louche again, unspooled against the Egyptian cotton sheets. But his first instinct with Bond wasn’t always the right one, back then, and he’d looked at Bond in silence for a long moment before making his decision.

“Come here,” he’d said. “I’m going to give you a hug.”

Bond had looked at Felix like he’d just suggested they piss in the baptismal font. “A what?”

“A hug, Bond. Jesus Christ. Come here.” He’d pulled Bond in by the lapel of his expensive wool coat. “You start by putting your arm around my waist, like that. Then you put your other arm around my shoulders. Like this, asshole. And then—” Felix had squeezed with all his might. “Then you hold on tight.”

They are here, now, tonight—and by “here” Felix means Prague, means the dock, means covered in dirty river water and the detritus of phallus-shaped souvenirs, but he also means so much more than that—in no small part because all those years ago, his own instincts had been right when he’d taken James Bond in his arms in an empty church, and so as angry as he is, he’s powerless to deny James this, now. He gives in to the inevitable and steps into the embrace, dropping his head against James’s neck.

“I hate you,” he says, but there’s no longer any heat in it. “This was the worst night of my career.”

“The ladies liked it,” Bond says.

“The ‘ladies’ thought we were strippers. One of them threw her drink on me when I refused to take my shirt off.”

“The night is still young,” Bond points out. Felix refuses to turn his head to look at him, on principle, but he can feel Bond’s smile against his cheek.

“Fuck you and your entire country,” Felix says. “I’m glad we threw your fucking tea in the harbor.” But his head is still on Bond’s shoulder, and his arms are around his waist, and he’ll stay that way until the sound of a distant motor signals that their ride is near, and the night moves on around them.

#prompt fills #one shot #my fic #sometimes it takes the night to fall #james bond #felix leiter #00leiter #fluff

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frances-baby-houseman · 5 months

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We decided to really take our time getting to Atlanta so we're spending the night in Indianapolis on our way down, and I'm so excited! We're going to leave chicago at like 5 am (I was going to say crack of dawn but that's 7:15 this time of year lol), and get there by lunchtime and go to the children's museum! Then we'll hang out and maybe I'll take the kids to the pool at the hotel and Adam is going to see the Pacers play so we'll hang around and get pizza in the hotel or something fun. I'm really excited! We've gotten pretty good at hotel overnights in the past couple of years and I think it's goign to be so fun. We're going to be staying at our favorite, Embassy Suites. It's so nice to have two rooms! I'll bunk with the kids and then when Adam comes back from the game he can sleep in the other room and not wake anyone up.

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queeniebee6 · 2 years

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Indiana Wants Me (Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson)

Eddie is a rockstar on tour with a boy toy in every city. He’d never travelled to Indiana before, and he’d certainly never met ‘the King’.

After a Corroded Coffin show, rockstar Eddie Munson and Hawkins local Steve Harrington get down and dirty, a few times over.

WARNING: contains explicit content, please read at your own risk

Words: 6,268

Ao3

Eddie watched the young man slip away from his hotel room as he shut the door, yet to properly secure the fly of his pants since he’d slipped them on in haste… mainly as a means of shuffling his latest conquest out the door.

He loved Michigan… Corroded Coffin had travelled Michigan three times since they started touring a few years back. He could always count on the eager young men at each show to be ready and willing to jump in a cab back to whatever average-looking three-star hotel he was staying in.

It was just past 3 in the morning, and Eddie’s wake-up call would be going off in a few short hours. Tomorrow… Well, later today, they would arrive by rickety tour bus in Indiana, and Eddie just hoped for something a little more riveting than what some of his friends in other bands had relayed. He loved playing, whether it was a show for 10 people or 10,000 people, he would get into it nonetheless. But, when the show was over, and the curtain fell after their encore, he was always itching for something to keep that high going. Sure, there were the drugs and booze; but the last time he played his hometown, his uncle made him promise to slow down on the substances… he didn’t say anything about pretty boys in Pennsylvania.

Upon entry into Indiana, not 12 hours later, Eddie was sure that his worst nightmares had come true. There may as well have been tumbleweeds rolling along the desolate streets. Eddie groaned as he watched very little go past the window.

“Calm down,” Jeff chuckled, handing his guitarist an already lit cigarette. “You’ll still find tail; you always do. You’re like magic with that shit,” he teased. Eddie gave him a small smile and took the cigarette, not hesitating for a moment as he brought it to his lips.

Thankfully, things were looking up as they pulled into Indianapolis, and then to the Embassy Theatre. The streets were much more lively and there was even a smattering of people waiting for the gates to open. The bus came to a lurching stop out the back of the theatre and Eddie made haste in getting out. He hated the long drives on the bus, mostly because he was forced to sit still for far too long. His bandmates followed suit and the roadies got to work unloading and setting up their gear. Eddie went through his usually ritual: smoke a dart, sound check, down a beer, get dressed into his show clothes, make sure his hair looked good - it had always been his pull with concertgoers, another beer, a cheeky line, and another cigarette while he waited for the clock to hit 6:55.

The opening number was always Eddie’s favourite; they started the chorus with some pretty pathetic pyrotechnics, but god if it didn’t set the crowd to 100. Teens and adults were jumping, screaming and singing along to song after song, and Eddie couldn’t get enough. Once 8:30 hit, he always started to look for someone worth snatching up after the concert. Of course, there was always the risk of whatever boy caught Eddie’s fancy being straight, but Eddie was getting pretty good at picking them. He spotted a couple of contenders; tall young men that looked like they could hold him against the wall with their tongue down their throat, but also looked like they’d take it up the ass just 40 minutes later when Eddie needed to release some of that post-show adrenaline. He was ready to lean into the crowd to tell a tall blonde ball of muscle to meet him round back when he saw him. Tanned with doe-eyes and perfect hair - definitely not the kind of hair that had head-banged, but certainly the type of hair Eddie wanted to grip a fistful of tonight. He was standing amongst a group of very enthusiastic youngsters and Eddie made his way over to where they stood, their excitement growing as he neared. Like he did every night, as Gareth began his drum solo he leant over and beckoned the man over. His friends stared at him with confusion and bewilderment but pushed him towards the stage nonetheless.

“Meet me at the stage door after the show; don’t bring your friends,” Eddie whispered, hand tightly gripping the unnamed man’s neck. The young man gave a nod while Eddie was still breathing down his neck before the two parted ways and went back to their respective jamming and ogling.

Eddie leant against the stage door blowing poison into the air; his hands were still shaking and his heart was pounding from the adrenaline that he could never shake. He saw the familiar figure walk sheepishly up to him and Eddie couldn’t help but smile; he was even prettier under the moonlight.

“Hey,” Eddie smirked as the smoke floated around his head.

“Hi,” the young man mumbled, but the essence of a smirk was certainly reciprocated.

“What’s your name, babe?” Eddie queried, stubbing his cigarette out on the wall behind him.

“Steve… Steve Harrington,” the young man replied, eyes following Eddie’s ringed fingers.

“Well, Steve Harrington,” Eddie chuckled, drawing out the boy’s name. “You ready to party like a rockstar?” Eddie winked, pulling Steve back through the stage door.

The band and crew could have cared less about Eddie’s escapades with fans, so getting Steve backstage was easy - getting him in a cab was a little harder. Under the guise of a roadie, Eddie snuck Steve into a cab that was taking them to their hotel. They snuck inside, picked up the keys and Eddie made haste in pushing Steve through the door to his room. Once inside, Eddie lit another cigarette, slowly walking toward Steve.

“I umm…” Steve began as Eddie’s fingers latched onto Steve’s hip. “I don’t really… I’m not… I came with my friends… I don’t know your music very well,” Steve rambled a little, clearly nervous, but not hesitant by the way he pressed his body back into Eddie.

“Ouch,” Eddie whispered before breaking into a soft chuckle and taking another drag of his cigarette. “Way to break my heart, Stevie,” he whispered, making sure his breath could be felt on Steve’s neck. “Did you at least like what you saw?” Eddie queried, pressing Steve’s body tighter into his if that was even possible at that point. Steve nodded slowly before reaching his long arm to take the cigarette from Eddie’s fingers, bringing it to his own lips and inhaling. This kid was brash, and Eddie liked it. Watching Steve’s lips around the cigarette that was just in his mouth made Eddie’s hunger for the young man grow.

Eddie took the cigarette back gently and slowly pulled Steve over to the wall; Steve clearly got the idea, as their last step ended with a shove, Eddie’s back colliding with the wall just how he fantasised. Eddie held the cigarette away from the two of them as their lips collided roughly. Eddie could taste the alcohol on Steve’s breath and hoped that meant he was old enough to be in a stranger's bedroom… not that Eddie hadn’t been drinking long before his 21st birthday just last month. Eddie pulled away, his teeth running along Steve’s lips as he did.

“How old are you?” Eddie questioned; he had questionable morals at the best of times, but sleeping with children was never on the agenda.

“20,” Steve said roughly, his voice drunk with desire. Eddie gave a smirk and a confident nod as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. Eddie’s eyes didn’t move from Steve, studying his furrowed brow and following as his eyes darted off to the right. Eddie followed the younger man’s gaze, connecting with where Steve’s eyes lay on a small bag of powder.

“It’s just coke; you can have some if you want,” Eddie whispered; again, long list of moral calamities on Eddie’s part, but pressuring back-woods youths into taking drugs wasn’t one of them.

“Maybe later,” Steve whispered, breathing in some of the smoke as it expelled from Eddie’s mouth and nose. Eddie stubbed out the cigarette on the dresser - he’d pay whatever bond they lost - and knotted his hands into Steve’s hair, pulling the younger man towards him roughly. Steve kissed Eddie with fervour, his teeth grazing Eddie's lips and his fingers finding comfort in the belt loops of Eddie’s signature ripped jeans. They kissed without ever stilling or breaking apart, breathing each other, in favour of pulling away. Steve, with stature and arm size that clearly outweighed Eddie’s, pushed Eddie tightly against the wall and lifted the rockstar ever so slightly off the ground. Eddie, rock hard and pouring with adrenaline, took it as an invitation, lifting his legs and wrapping them tightly around Steve’s waist. Steve and Eddie’s tongues ran circles around one another, the muscles tossing and froing as Eddie pulled on Steve’s locks. Steve used the dresser to help him hold Eddie up as he began to thrust their clothed crotches into each other.

“Fuck, Steve,” Eddie whispered against Steve’s lips, inching closer to the edge of the dresser so that he could feel Steve even more heartily. “Clothes, now,” Eddie demanded breathlessly, and Steve was happy to oblige. The younger man sat Eddie delicately on the dresser and peeled off his jacket; Eddie did the same, mirroring Steve as he removed his shirt. Eddie wasn’t one to gawk - he didn’t like to give men the satisfaction - but goodness, if Steve Harrington wasn’t the most beautiful man Eddie had ever seen, with a taut body and chest hair that made Eddie want to tear into him that instant. Steve’s own eyes raked over Eddie, a clammy hand coming up to trace over the older man’s tattoos. “You like?” Eddie questioned with a smirk, pulling Steve closer to him.

“Don’t flatter yourself, rockstar,” Steve whispered, fingers trailing down to where the tattoos met Eddie’s belt. “But, yeah… I like,” Steve admitted, causing a wide smile to spread across Eddie’s face. Steve worked on Eddie’s belt buckle, opening his buttons and fly and pulling Eddie off the dresser to work his pants off. Eddie’s eyes followed as the younger man dropped to his knees, hands knotting in golden tresses before Steve could even get Eddie’s boxers down. Eddie didn’t hesitate in stepping closer to Steve once his boxers were pooled at his ankles; good thing Steve didn’t hesitate either, gentle hands gripping Eddie’s upper thigh as his soft lips wrapped around Eddie’s head. Eddie’s guttural groans were instant, skilled hands pushing Steve’s head down, likely before the younger man was ready. Steve’s pink lips worked Eddie’s length with ease, long eyelashes fluttering closed. Eddie’s head tipped back as he let out a moan far gentler than his exterior suggested.

“Steve,” he groaned, right-hand tightening on the younger man’s roots, left-hand sinking to hold Steve’s cheek. He could feel the way his face contorted into a smile as he continued bobbing. Steve’s pace slowed a little, making a point of working Eddie’s shaft entirely, hand creeping from his thigh to grip Eddie’s base. “Fuck, Steve… don’t stop,” Eddie whispered breathlessly, his aching cock disagreeing with Steve’s loss of speed.

Eddie thrust sharply, deciding that Steve’s delicate approach wasn’t for him. Steve whimpered slightly at the jerking motion, and Eddie would be lying if he said it wasn’t a turn-on.

“You’re doing so good,” Eddie whispered through a flustered whine. Steve spluttered a little, but seemingly invigorated by the praise, he forced himself down further, hands snaking to grip Eddie’s ass. The pretty boy liked to be praised; noted on Eddie’s behalf. Now, Steve bobbed in agreement with Eddie’s hands pushing him down. Eddie’s moans began to escape him loudly, with little care for the patrons next door. “Fuck, Steve - you’re amazing!” The groan came from his chest; he hadn’t praised the younger man with any intention, but he was glad he did. Steve let out a soft hum and allowed Eddie’s cock hit the back of his throat, trying to hold the tears on the brim of his eyes for the sake of the rockstar's pleasure. Eddie could feel the crescent-shaped indents of Steve’s fingernails in his cheeks, only paid back by the pleasured pull of Steve’s locks. “Steve, I-” Eddie fumbled, unable to finish his sentence before he was finishing, releasing down Steve’s throat; the younger man seemingly unphased as he swallowed around Eddie.

Eddie used his grip to pull Steve away from his crotch, immediately dropping to his knees himself and locking lips with the young man again. Steve’s lower legs moved out from behind him as Eddie forced the pair into a horizontal position on the floor, lips never parting. Eddie was completely naked, bar the pants around his ankles, so he made haste in unbuckling Steve’s belt and undoing his pants to expose his achingly hard cock through thin briefs. “Ouch,” Eddie chuckled, palming Steve gently. Steve’s breath stuttered at the feeling, hands gripping Eddie’s biceps with eyes screwed shut. “What do you want me to do to you, babe?” Eddie queried, but the oversexed haze was clearly crowding Steve’s brain; the younger man shook his head, like trying to clear it away.

“Anything…” he replied breathlessly, trying to rut himself into Eddie’s hand. Eddie’s eyes widened and his eyebrows raised, liking the sound of that. He pulled his hand away from Steve, causing the most filthy whine to leave the taller man’s lips.

“Hey, Steve,” Eddie whispered hoarsely, breath trailing down Steve’s chest as Eddie moved south. “Have you ever been eaten out?” He queried, Steve’s eyes opening to see the devilish smirk on Eddie’s face. Steve was trying his best to act cool, but his sexual experiences started in Hawkins and ended roughly 1 hour away in Indianapolis; he wasn’t exactly Magnum PI. Steve shook his head quickly, lifted to look at Eddie where he hovered over Steve’s needy crotch. “Would you want to try?” Eddie asked, phrased much more gently than the first half of their romp would have anticipated. Steve bit his lip in hesitation, but the tender smile Eddie was giving Steve while he awaited his answer, made hesitancy seem silly.

“Yeah,” Steve smiled back, causing Eddie to stand up and hold out his hand for the older man. Steve was brought to his feet but immediately pushed to the bed, Eddie working on pulling the man’s pants to the ground before connecting his lips to Steve’s neck.

“Bend over,” Eddie whispered, his breath causing Steve to shudder and his cock to twitch. Steve did as he was told as Eddie kicked off the clothing pooled at his own feet and slowly made his way to his knees. Eddie gives Steve ass a quick squeeze, but the younger man is oddly still. “You let me know if you wanna stop, yeah?” He muttered, but didn’t wait for Steve’s reply as he spread his cheeks. Eddie licks over his hole and he can feel how tense Steve is; Eddie runs a hand over Steve’s back and pets gentle and soothing circles - circles that match those he’s now making with his tongue.

Steve’s moans are disheveled, muddy with hot air and pleasured cries. If Eddie wasn’t so occupied, he’d be grinning ear-to-ear. Eddie spread Steve wider, running a now lubricated thumb over his taint and Steve answers him with a groan. Eddie can see over Steve’s back how the younger man is gripping the sheets and pauses for a second to appreciate how melodic Steve sounds - he’d make an album out of that.

“Please,” Steve whimpered, muffled by his face in the sheets. Eddie wants to reward Steve for being so good, he recommences in full force, pressing his tongue into the ring in front of him and Steve quite literally yelps. Eddie has to tighten his grip on Steve to stop him from jumping away; but, Eddie doesn’t need to stop to check that Steve’s okay, he can tell by the way his thighs shake that he is more than fine. Eddie, tongue lapping and ringed knuckle running devilishly slow up and down Steve’s behind, stills just as Steve finishes. He explodes with a high-pitched moan and Eddie takes the opportunity to stand up and lean over Steve, to praise him like he most certainly wants to be.

“That was so good, Steve. You did so good.” He whispered, moving sweaty hair off Steve’s neck and peppering his back with kisses. Eddie was never one for gentle praise, but he did count himself manipulatively charming; if this was what made Steve Harrington pliable, then so be it. “Did you like it?” Eddie asked, receiving only a quivered whine and a nod against the sheets. “You were amazing,” Eddie added, making sure Steve heard his praises being sung. “Did you want to keep going, or have a little break?” He asked gently, hands carding through Steve’s hair. Steve shook his head a little messily, eyes fluttering closed.

“Keep going,” Steve mumbled, surprising Eddie to say the least. Eddie almost wanted to ask if he was sure, given the state he appears to be in, but Steve reached his long and strong arm up and pulled Eddie into the most desperate kiss he’s ever had, tasting himself. Once they’ve pulled apart, Eddie wastes no time moving back to his throne behind Steve Harrington’s perfect behind. Eddie gives Steve’s hole another swipe with his tongue and Steve’s twitches with pleasure beneath him, the over-stimulation clear in the way Steve shakes. Eddie crawls just a few feet away to where his jacket had been discarded to fish out a small bottle of lube; he pops the cap and coats a few of his fingers. He pressed one in slowly, expecting Steve to be resistant. Boy, was he wrong. His fingers slid in and out with ease, Steve completely relaxed and let out encouraging gripes of pleasure. It wasn’t long before Eddie had two fingers, and then three pumping - still carefully - in and out of Steve as he writhed. Eddie had been with a lot of men at this point, but he wasn’t sure he’d even been with - or even seen - one as pretty as Steve Harrington.

Steve’s mouth was agape and his eyes were rolling back into his head as his moans and peppered breaths became one. Someone with shame might want to avoid a hot-shot rockstar seeing them like that, but something about Eddie - but maybe it said more about Steve - made Steve want Eddie to know he was desperate. “E-Ed…”

“Yeah, babe,” Eddie whispered, his hot breath making Steve’s hole flutter.

“Wanna ride you,” Steve mumbled, already starting to roll from his long-standing position face-down on the bed. For what felt like the millionth time that night, Eddie’s eyes widened with surprise, but he couldn’t even hide the smirk. Eddie was always in charge; that was the way he liked it. But, the thought of watching Steve bounce on top of him and suddenly he was hard again. Eddie nodded enthusiastically as he bounded over to the bed, sitting himself up against the headboard. Steve, on shaky legs, crawled to straddle Eddie’s lap, taking the lube the older man was still holding.

“I got it,” Eddie whispered, holding an expectant hand out. Steve squirted a generous supply and tossed the lube to the side. Eddie’s fingers found themselves between Steve’s thighs, running his digits over the prepared hole. Steve was visibly needy, keening himself down onto Eddie’s fingers. Eddie stifled a chuckle, but the pair seemed to be in the same mindset about Steve’s desperation and gave each other a knowing smile. Eddie moved quickly to run the lube up and down his length before wiping his hand on the sheets and looking up at Steve, their big, dark eyes meeting each other. Eddie gave him a far too delighted smile and Steve relished for a moment at the fact he was most definitely seeing an Eddie Munson that very few had before. He wasn’t a fan before his friends dragged him to the show, but he most certainly was now. After a silence that felt out of place amidst their steamy romp, Steve grabbed Eddie’s cock and lined himself up before lowering, letting out a whimpered moan that harmonised with Eddie’s gruff one.

Eddie found Steve’s hips and gripped them tightly as the younger man began to slowly lift and lower himself, finding steadiness by holding Eddie’s torso. Eddie assisted in lifting Steve as they quickened the pace, the both of them releasing pleasured and rhythmic grunts into the air.

“Oh my- Steve,” Eddie whispered under his breath and Steve smiled with accomplishment. From dirty and cheap hook ups in motels under fake names, to bouncing - very successfully, might he add - on the dick of one of America’s hottest rockstars… practically something to put on the resume.

“You’re welcome,” he couldn’t help himself, with his new and abounding confidence. Eddie looked scandalised, but Steve could tell it was in jest. The rockstar opened his mouth to quip back, but Steve made a point of clenching around his cock, and any thought Eddie might have had was replaced by a deep gasp.

The sounds of their moans, and their bodies pressing together at great speed, filled the room - it wouldn’t be the first time Eddie got a noise complaint and he never intended it to be the last. Eddie glanced up at Steve, eyes shut tight and face screwed up as he concentrated on bouncing rhythmically. If Eddie hadn’t known better, he might have thought that feeling in his stomach was more than simply being close to the edge. Nonetheless, he studied Steve’s delicate face; scrunched up and thrown back, hair bouncing and lip quivering. Eddie could feel Steve’s thighs shaking, his own mirroring the very sensation; the pair moaned in tandem, louder.

“God, Steve,” Eddie whispered.

“Eddie,” Steve returned through gritted teeth.

At this point, Steve was bouncing so forcefully that Eddie could feel each slam hurt his thighs. They vocalised affirmations directed at one another into the air before collectively reaching their ends. Eddie watched Steve through tight jaw and squinted eyes; Steve’s eyebrows were raised and his lips parted, his whole body stiff, like he was trying to stop himself from imploding. Moments later, Steve was falling forward, chests pressed together amongst smatterings of sweat, cum and chest hair. It was all over, but they instinctively kissed one another, tongues finding each other like they had hours earlier.

Eddie felt filthy - was filthy. He knew he should shower - probably should have showered before they started. Instead he pulled gently away from Steve and reached for a cigarette from the nightstand, Steve rolling to sit beside him against the headboard, their shoulders touching.

This was usually where Eddie would give the guy the cue to leave. “Well, this was nice,” he’d say, in his most charming voice as a means of avoiding any disgruntled lovers. “Do you need some cash for the cab home?”

This time was different; Eddie wasn’t about to usher Steve out the door, in fact, he might have even intervened if Steve tried to leave. This kid was nothing special; he was an stuffy future-breadwinner from butt-fuck nowhere; he was an echo of every sad sap that Eddie had bedded in the last four years. But, there was something about him that Eddie couldn’t place… and that he certainly didn’t want to let go of. Eddie lit the cigarette and took a long drag before handing it to Steve, the younger man taking it without hesitation.

“Thanks,” Steve whispered.

“For the cigarette or the sex?” Eddie quipped, causing Steve to chuckle as he blew the smoke away.

“For the cigarette,” he replied knowingly. “You should be thanking me for the sex.” Eddie let out an exuberant ‘ha’ as he tipped his head back against the headboard and the room fell silent in their back and forth exchange of tobacco.

“You like living in Indianapolis?” Eddie queried, the conversation light, and unlike their interactions so far. He watched as smoke blown from Steve’s lips entered his vision.

“Oh, I’m from Hawkins,” Steve replied, his voice hoarse, from smoke or sucking Eddie off, Eddie couldn’t be sure.

“Where’s that?” Eddie asked, eyeing him sideways, without taking his head off the headboard.

“Like an hour North-ish,” Steve said nonchalantly. “It’s just a shitty little town - it makes the news sometimes… more often now than it used to,” he explained, handing the cigarette back to Eddie.

“Fair enough,” Eddie mumbled, stubbing out the nothing that was left of their shared cigarette. “Did you want some clothes? You surely don’t want to sleep in your jeans?” Eddie asked, hands oddly clammy at the thought of Steve declining the offer in favour of returning home.

“Oh, umm… I guess?” He questioned and Eddie’s heart started to race, like the adrenaline from a show, or the line of coke that he hadn’t had in hours. “I don’t mind sleeping like this… unless you mind,” Steve said quickly, eyes on Eddie like glue. Eddie felt his body relax, but he tried to not make his internal rollercoaster of emotions visible to Steve.

“Oh, totally,” Eddie whispered, lifting the grimey comforter beneath and slipping his bare legs under it. Steve did the same, wiggling himself down the bed until he was comfortably snuggled. Eddie gave him a soft smile before leaning forward and connecting their lips. Steve’s hand found Eddie’s boney hip, rubbing circles with his thumb as they shared a few moments with their tongues intertwined before Eddie pulled away. Whether it was because he was too exhausted for round two, or too scared to consider where their kiss was headed, he’d never tell.

“G’night… Eddie Munson,” Steve whispered; it was said like he was teasing, and the provoking smile on Steve’s face made Eddie roll his eyes.

“Goodnight, Steve Harrington,” Eddie said back in the same manner, the pair rolling away from each other to get a few hours of sleep. For once, Eddie hoped the physical memory from last night was still there when his wake-up call went off in the morning.

~~~

It went off, that’s for sure; loud and way too early. If it were up to Eddie, he would have snoozed the fucker ten times if it meant staying where he currently lay, head against Steve’s chest. Eddie had no recollection of moving into Steve’s arms last night, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. He silenced the alarm he would much rather break and turned back to see Steve stirring ever so slightly.

“Hey, Steve,” he sang, running ringed fingers and painted nails through coarse chest hair. They looked even filthier than they did last night, but Eddie felt like he was encased in a cloud - probably wouldn’t admit it out loud though. “Steve, wake up,” Eddie whispered, rousing Steve with peppered kisses and a gentle tongue over his nipple. Steve looked down at the rockstar, and Eddie was glad to not see any startle or regret.

“Morning,” Steve grinned, reaching his arm not trapped beneath Eddie to move a piece of hair from the other man’s face. “That alarm sucks,” he chuckled and Eddie couldn’t help but reciprocate.

“Tell me about it, man,” he grinned, pushing himself up to a seated position and then off the bed. It was not lost on Eddie how Steve’s eyes raked up and down his body, backlit by the sunrise through the open window. “I gotta shower,” Eddie smiled fondly, bringing his messy locks up into a bun on the back of his head. “Did you… wanna join me?” Eddie asked a little apprehensively. Steve, not even verbalising an answer, rose from the bed with immediacy, nodding as he followed Eddie closely. Eddie flicked on the shower, it spluttered as it reached the desired temperature. “After you,” Eddie smirked, hands flourishing as if he were inviting the Queen of England. Steve mirrored his chuckle and stepped into the shower most certainly not big enough for the two of them. Eddie followed, body pressed against the back of Steve. Eddie reached over him to grab the miniature soap bottle the hotel left, squirting some into his hand before reaching around Steve’s body to lather it into his chest, the remnants of last night caked on both their bodies. Steve’s head found home resting backwards against Eddie’s shoulder, letting off a contented hum as Eddie’s hands travelled further south. Eddie gave Steve’s neck a harsh, wet kiss - sure to leave a mark - as he scrubbed away the mess he’d single handedly made between Steve’s legs.

“Last night was great, Eddie,” Steve admitted, like the hot water and gentle hands washed away his inhibitions and he was speaking freely.

“Mm- yeah,” Eddie replied, eyes closed as his hands ran the length of Steve’s body. Steve was most definitely clean, and they both knew that, but neither were making any effort to stop Eddie ‘cleaning’ the younger boy. Eventually, Steve reached for the soap, turning to face Eddie in order to return the favour. Eddie was leant against the shower wall in a 6am haze as Steve rubbed at his body, hands exploring in a way they hadn’t the time to last night. Eddie looked at Steve through half closed eyes, steam rising around the pair, and found himself pushing Steve’s hands away from his now clean body in favour of dropping to his knees. Steve didn’t hesitate to put the soap back on the ledge and rinse his hands, looking down at Eddie with long lashes. Eddie looked up at him, tongue pressed over his top lip and a slight furrow in his brow.

“Umm, Steve…” Eddie whispered, jitters running down his shoulder-blades. Steve raised a brow and gave him a smile, as if to encourage him to continue. “Could you… I know that I… I know that you… I just don’t really like…” Eddie struggled with his words. “Could you not… maybe…” he trailed off and looked away, internally cursing himself for how ‘unsexy’ he was being. Steve gripped Eddie’s chin and brought his gaze back up to the taller man.

“Don’t worry about it; it’s all good.” His smile was gentle and knowing and immediately made Eddie’s heart flutter with a feeling he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before. “Besides,” Steve continued, hand reaching around to hold Eddie’s messy bun. “I’ve got my handle anyway,” he teased, and the relaxed chuckle Eddie let out was better than all the songs Steve heard Eddie play last night. Eddie made haste in taking all of Steve in. He didn’t love the taste of soap that was his own doing, but he was more than willing to deal with it, if it meant hearing those noises Steve made last night. Eddie was quite skilled on his knees, and had Steve with his back against the tiles and a delectable moan from his mouth in moments. Eddie worked his shaft with both his mouth and hand, free hand roaming around Steve’s behind for a few minutes. Steve was a mess, moaning and whimpering with weak knees and a tight grip. “Ed. Oh- Ed…” he went on, his hips bucking ever so slightly. Eddie took all of Steve in, a hum in the back of his throat which sent Steve over the edge. The younger man, hand laced in Eddie’s hair pulled him back just as he came, small strings of fluid hitting the rockstars face. “Oh, Eddie. I’m sorry,” Steve whispered breathlessly as he squatted down to somehow mend the situation he’d caused. Eddie simply chuckled, shaking his head, pushing himself back to a standing position and sticking his face under the shower’s spray.

“It’s all good,” he said casually before reaching to turn off the faucet. The pair stepped out of the shower, grabbing the towels side by side and working them over their own bodies. Steve went out to where his clothes remained scattered from last night, and Eddie to his suitcase to fumble for something to slip on for their short ride to Illinois.

“I’ve just gotta pack some things,” Eddie called across the room, Steve turning as he pulled on his jeans. “Have a look at the room service menu on the dresser… we’ll get some breakfast,” he muttered, rifling through crumbled garments to mind a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt.

Once dressed, Eddie sauntered over to Steve, reading the menu over his lover's shoulder.

“Anything, tickle your fancy, pretty boy?” He questioned, hands finding a comfortable resting place on Steve’s hips.

“Pancakes,” Steve said gently, and Eddie smiled against the back of his neck. Eddie ordered their breakfast and Steve hid out of sight when it was dropped off. They sat on the edge of the bed and just ate in a moment of silence; eyes raking over each other, but never at the same time, never catching each other’s gaze.

It was Eddie who finally broke the silence.

“What do you do, Steve?” Eddie asked gently, still finishing his bite. “For work, I mean?” He asked as he swallowed. Steve put his fork down and adjusted to better face Eddie like he hadn’t been staring him down for the last 5 minutes.

“I work in a video store… with my best friend… Robin. She’s kind of the reason I came last night.” Steve said softly, before redirecting his attention to his pancakes.

“I thought I was the reason you came last night,” Eddie teased, punctuating his flirting with a wink. Steve rolled his eyes and gave the rockstar a gentle shove.

“Gross.” Steve smiled widely before being unable to stop himself from gushing more about Robin. “She really loves you guys. Made us get a hotel up here and everything.” Eddie beamed back at Steve.

“Well… if she’s the reason you came last night, then I guess I’m a big fan of hers too,” Eddie smirked; he could have sworn he saw Steve blush, but he wasn’t confident enough to make a scene of it. Eddie took another bite of his breakfast as a loud knock rattled the front door before it swung open; Steve looked frozen with fear.

“Eddie…” The voice called, originally stern, but graduating quickly to being apprehensive. It was Corroded Coffin’s manager Keith, his eyes flicking between Eddie and Steve. “You’re up…” he grinned with suspicion. “And eating… breakfast,” he continued, not taking a step inside but staring with delighted confusion. “Uhh…” he mumbled, like he'd forgotten what he originally came in for. “Bus is packed; we’re leaving in 20,” he finally said, giving the two boys another once-over before ending with a genuine smile and closing the door. Eddie took his final bit of pancake, almost exactly as Steve did the same, standing while he was still chewing. Steve did the same, placing the room service tray back on the dresser before picking up the bag of coke and holding it out for Eddie while he shoved his last t-shirt in his bag.

“Oh…” Eddie whispered, forgetting it had been left for him. “You can take it,” Eddie said nonchalantly, resulting in Steve’s widened stare.

“Umm, that’s okay,” Steve responded, pushing forward again. Eddie took it from him and quickly shoved it in his pocket. “Well…” Steve mumbled, unsure how to start a goodbye he didn’t really want to give.

“I had a lot of fun, Steve,” Eddie said quickly. Steve nodded hastily.

“Yeah!” he responded, probably a little too enthusiastically, but Eddie certainly didn’t perceive it that way.

“Wait,” Eddie said softly, a genuine smile on his face as he struggled to pull a t-shirt from his bag. He laid it on the bed, and Steve could see it was the Corroded Coffin shirt the guitarist had been wearing last night. Eddie grabbed a marker from his bag and stood before the shirt to scrawl something on it.

<i>Hey Robin, your best friend’s a loser, but you seem pretty cool. Thanks for being a fan. Love, Eddie Munson</i>

It was small and messy, but very clearly written with love, and Steve knew Robin would love it too.

“Here,” Eddie smiled, thrusting the shirt into Steve’s chest. “A thank you, to Robin,” he grinned before closing the gap between the pair. Eddie placed a gentle hand on Steve’s arm and connected their lips, it was passionate but placid, and Eddie felt his body react a little higher up than usual. He pulled away and gave Steve as strong of a smile as he could muster. “I’ll give you some cash for the cab,” Eddie announced before turning, only to be stopped by Steve’s hand against his chest.

“It’s all good; my hotel is like, across the street,” he replied softly before connecting their lips again. This time, Eddie was certain it wasn’t his dick making his whole body feel warm at that moment. They pulled away and shared one final glance and smile as Eddie grabbed his bag and started slowly towards the door. Eddie and Steve reached the door, knowing, for both their safeties, they had to go their separate ways.

“Make sure your friends get you a ticket next time we’re here, yeah?” Eddie had tried to make it sound like a devilish line, but it definitely came out much softer. Steve nodded quickly and Eddie threw him a wink as he opened the door. Steve exited and went one way, and Eddie went the other.

He couldn’t wait to tour Indiana again.

Part 2

#eddie munson #st4 #steddie #steve harrington #steve x eddie #steveddie #stranger things #stranger things 4 #steddie smut #steddie imagine #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steve and eddie #eddie x steve

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gal-palanaeum · 4 months

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Trillium by Truthwatcher_Vez

Rated Teen, 1000 words, Ann/Tress/Salay Salay prepares for an espionage job, and reflects on the precious people in her life.

Salay lets herself in to the posh suite located on the top floor of the premier hotel of the Core Archipeligo. Ann is settled on a couch in the main room, three guns disassembled onto the coffee table in front of her, the parts lovingly organized in neat rows. She notices Salay, and lowers the piece that she’d been meticulously polishing. “Any luck?”

Salay nods. “Right where the informant said. Third floor of the embassy, hidden away in the study.”

Ann smiles in delight. “The job’s a go, then?” She looks fondly at the rows of tranquilizer gun pieces. “Better get these babies reassembled and ready for action!”

Her enthusiasm brings a smile to Salay’s own lips. She crosses the room and bends forward to exchange a quick kiss of greeting with her trigger-happy lover, then turns towards the entrance of the adjoining room of the suite.

A line of silver foil has been laid across the threshold. Salay steps over it and into the other room. Here, a portable worktable has been set up by the window where the light is best, near the foot of the room’s single king-sized bed. There was a time that Salay wouldn’t have dared cross the boundary of silver into a space where a sprouter is working. But Tress is nothing if not meticulous, and it’s been ages since a single spore has escaped the raised metal sides of her sprouter’s bench.

Tress is absorbed in her work, and so Salay clears her throat to give warning as she approaches. She sees Tress bob her head in acknowledgement, swinging closed the compartment of a needle-like device that contains a tiny pellet of sunlight spores. She half-turns to look at Salay, pushing thick goggles up on her head and removing her leather work gloves. “Back so soon?”

“It didn’t take long to confirm the location of the safe.” Salay nods to the device in Tress’s hands. “That’ll be enough to melt the lock?”

“That’s the idea.” Tress looked over the device with a critical eye. “It’s done well in all of the initial testing, at least.”

Salay looks over towards the armoire, where three cocktail dresses hang in a row in contrasting yet complementary colors. Their target is confirmed, their preparations complete. Now all they have to do is attend the ambassador’s party, sneak into the study, and find evidence to verify that one of the dukes is committing treason by selling state secrets.

After all this time working together, the three of them function in beautiful harmony. Salay works point. Ann is the lookout. Tress is their sprouter and mastermind. If someone had told Salay at this time last year that she would be working with one of the King’s Masks, she wouldn’t ever have believed it. Her life now is so, so much better than it was all those many long months ago.

Keep reading

#femslash february #wlw cosmere #cosmere femslash fic #cosmere fanfic #salay cosmere #tress cosmere #ann cosmere #tress and the emerald sea #ssp1 #ssp1 spoilers #cosmere #tress/salay/ann

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phykios · 2 years

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Ain't No Sunshine, part 2 [read on ao3]

Little girls all over the world planned their fairytale weddings–more than one of them imagined that they were going to marry a prince. Annabeth was no different. She had had her fair share of wedding-related daydreams, more often than not featuring one person in particular. Sometimes he wore a suit and tie, and she a white gown, as they stood on a Long Island beach; sometimes he wore his navy uniform, while she wore her least rumpled set of overalls, conducting a quick marriage on the base before she was sent back home.

Reality wasn��t like those fantasies.

Her wedding consisted of a prince, two witnesses from the Theran embassy, and a third person to certify the marriage. Someone had mentioned before the ceremony that Annabeth would need to convert to Greek Orthodoxy at some point, and then they’d have a big wedding in the church later. It would be a whole state event, with multiple dinners, dances, and other fineries. There were even talks to declare the day a public holiday.

Right now, however, a marriage certificate was being drawn up, and certain documents were being backdated. By the end of the day, as far as the law was concerned, Annabeth Chase had married Percy Jackson four years ago, before their children were born.

A royal family might be able to withstand one royal bastard in desperation, but two? She supposed that was unthinkable.

And so, Annabeth married the father of her children four years later. Her children’s father–His Highness Prince Perseus, the Hereditary Prince of Thera. She was called “your highness” as well now, the Hereditary Princess of Thera. It felt fucking bonkers. Not at all like the daydreams she’d had when she’d been watching Snow White in the downtown theater during her pregnancy, fat and sad and alone.

But there was no honeymoon, no reception, no dinner. After the wedding, she spent the day at the embassy in Washington D.C., preparing for her new role as a figurehead’s wife. In two weeks’ time, they would fly to London, where she would get a longer princess intensive, but right now, it was about making sure that their story was in order, and that she was able to properly bow and curtsy to the right people.

From the wedding to the princess lessons, it had been an absolutely exhausting day. Someone else had taken the kids away with the promise of toys and television, and no less than seven people had eyed her shoes with a poorly-hidden judgmental sneer. And Percy had vanished, too.

He seemed to keep doing that.

He had vanished after their wedding, leaving her at the door of her hotel room with a polite reminder that she could order anything she wanted from the kitchen, before promising to see her in the morning.

Something similar probably happened to Snow White on her wedding night, she thought, glumly. But it wasn’t at all what Annabeth wanted.

He hadn’t kissed her again. He’d hugged her, and had held her hand on the drive from Philadelphia to D.C., in his limousine (his limousine!). But he hadn’t kissed her.

He’d kissed Alexander and Annemarie’s foreheads, but only when they had been asleep. Bleary eyed things, her children had been hustled into the embassy car in Philadelphia with a new stuffed animal under each arm. Fish. Thera had a thing about fish. Something about being a national animal. But hey, if it kept them quiet and entertained while she tried to figure out how to explain just what the hell was going on, she couldn’t really complain. They were just old enough to ask a lot of questions, but just young enough to not care about the answers if they were plied with toys and sugar. And Percy apparently now had the money to do both.

Sleepy kids normally meant easier bedtime, but it was a little bit of a drive to the Plaza–because of course, they were staying at the damn Plaza. Like the rest of this messed-up fairytale, it was stuffy and cold, and everyone from the embassy staff to the driver kept looking down on her black, sensible pants.

It would be even worse tonight. Both of her children had fallen asleep on the drive, and to get them inside, and up to their suite, she was going to have to wake them up. Which meant Annemarie was going to throw a tantrum.

Which meant on her second day of princesshood, in all likelihood, she was going to get them all kicked out of the Plaza.

When they were smaller, she used to be able to carry both of them at the same time. They were too big for that now, big enough to throw themselves on the ground and raise hell whenever something didn’t go their way. Sometimes, watching them, she wondered if that’s why her mother had left her, or why her dad and Charlotte hated her. Annabeth was just too much and unlovable.

But she loved her kids all the more for it.

But that didn’t mean she wanted to deal with it tonight.

As they pulled up to the hotel, she sighed, steeling herself to wake them, offhandedly wondering how much of a scene would need to be made for King Poseidon to call the whole thing off, and go find a displaced princess and marry her to his new heir and have proper babies who were born with silver spoons and genetically-ingrained etiquette, and who didn’t throw peas at their mother in pure, toddler rage. (She had a hard time blaming them for that, though. She was so bad at making peas.)

Automatically, she reached her hand for the handle, only to find that the car door had already been opened. “Your highness?” her bodyguard asked, his voice soft and low. “Should I take the prince, or the princess?”

Annabeth blinked. “What?”

He nodded to the sleeping children, both of them cuddled half on her lap, looking like precious angels. Drooling on her. The very picture of their father.

She hated that thinking of that still hurt.

“Which one would you like to carry?” He paused. “Or I can get Marcus to get one and I can carry the other.”

He was offering to carry one of her children.

Annabeth wasn’t going to have to wake them.

She could already feel the tears neither twin would cry tonight pricking her eyes. “Can–can you carry Alexander, please?” Annemarie was more likely to be upset if woken up and found herself in a stranger's arms.

He nodded, reaching over her to pluck Alexander from her lap. Annabeth lifted Annemarie, and the driver held the door for her as they walked into the hotel, bypassing the front desk altogether.

It took her longer than she would have liked to realize that Percy wasn’t with them.

“Excuse me,” she said to her bodyguard as they rode up the elevator. They were traveling very, very high. “Where is P–his highness staying?”

“The prince will be in the suite next to yours, ma’am.” His stony facial expression never wavered, even as Alexander started drooling on his suit.

Her bodyguard walked all the way up to her room with her. Alexander never stirred. Annemarie’s childish breath puffed evenly against her neck, her girl in deep sleep. He even set the little boy on the bed, before giving her a bow and retreating.

The suite was empty. Annabeth had been in hotel rooms before. Cheap, impersonal motels, with lifeless, generic interiors. This room was richly appointed. But the only life came from the architectural details. It was still no one's home.

Percy was nowhere to be found.

So she tucked her children into the too big bed, side by side. They didn’t make a peep.

It was marvelous.

It was quiet.

She did manage to slip on her pajamas before climbing into her own too big bed. Alone.

She wasn’t sure if she was crying from relief or crushing loneliness, nor did she figure it out before she fell asleep.

***

Philadelphia to New York to London to Athens to Thera. The journey ahead was going to be long and grueling, but at least she had just a little more time stateside before she moved to the other side of the world.

She called her old office from their suite in the Plaza and quit, with no explanation, spinning her new ring around her finger. Someone else, she had been assured, would pack up the old apartment, sending her things over to Europe within the month.

Annabeth only got about halfway through dialing her dad’s number before she chickened out, hanging up.

She wished she could say she did nothing but lounge about the Plaza, racking up a room service bill, strutting about in a fluffy robe, and fully basking in her new, luxurious reality. Alas, she still had two excitable, inquisitive toddlers to attend to. At least in that regard, Percy had been able to step in.

He’d been talking to the twins, of course, whenever he could. It wasn’t that she never imagined Percy as a father in their years apart, but his perfect natural skill was not what he had expected, particularly since she knew for a fact he hadn’t exactly had what you’d call a decent male role model growing up. But Annabeth had been pleasantly stunned to watch Percy with Annemarie and Alexander, patiently explaining who he was, and answering as many of their questions as he could: where he’d come from, where he was taking them, was he really their father.

Annemarie, especially, adored her daddy. She’d taken to him almost immediately, when, during their brief time in New York, he’d asked to take them for a walk in Central Park, a favorite place of his. And when Annemarie had seen the horse-drawn carriages which meandered through the park, he had engaged one for them, to her immense delight.

Her little boy wasn’t quite as quick to warm up to this strange new man, however. He glared at him from the other side of the carriage bed, pressed as close to his mother as he physically could be. Annabeth couldn’t help but smile, kissing the soft hair on the top of his head. “Look, baby,” she said gently, pointing. “There’s Belvedere Castle. Do you see it?” He leaned over her, his hands gripping the side of the carriage, his eyes wide as he stared at the tower, and Annabeth couldn’t help but grin. Chip off the old block.

Central Park was… well, it was kind of a shitshow these days. The public works were falling apart, the paths were sparse and bare of people, and even the trees seemed to droop with neglect. But it was still Central Park. She had spent some of her best years running around this place as a child, more often than not with the man beside her.

She turned her head, and for a split second, she saw it–Percy was looking at her, his eyes soft, a sweet smile gracing his face. But when their eyes met, he whipped his gaze away, looking out in the other direction towards nothing at all.

From there it was just a matter of time. Annemarie loved horses and fish and boats, she loved chocolate and the color blue, and Percy was more than happy to share those things with her. Alexander was more suspicious, but he was easily mollified by a new toy car, and after dinner, they were treated to the twins loudly running around their suite, chasing each other in a combination motorized-amphibious race.

Or at least, Annabeth was. Percy had ducked out after about half an hour, having barely touched his food. Already sick of the kids, maybe?

She was frowning at the adjoining door which linked his suite with theirs when Alexander came up and patted her knee. “Mommy?”

Annabeth turned back to her son, taking his hands. “What is it, baby?”

“Are you okay?”

Her heart unfroze, just a touch, and she smiled. “Of course I am. Tell you what–Mommy has to go out and talk to Mrs. Buros for a little bit, so how about you and your sister go into your room, and you can put on some cartoons!”

The children cheered, racing to grab the prime spot on the hotel bed. In a flash, Annabeth had them set up with some Mighty Mouse, and she knew they would be enraptured for at least an hour.

Annabeth had no intention of talking to Mrs. Buros, her ill-tempered, sour-faced Greek instructor.

Just to check, she tried the door to his suite in her room. Locked. She cursed, under her breath.

Key in hand, then, she slipped out of the suite, quietly closing the door behind her, and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of her bodyguard, standing at attention. “Ma’am,” he nodded.

“Jesus, Marcus.” Her heart was thudding in her chest, all decorum flying out the window. “You scared the piss out of me.”

Valiantly, he repressed a smile. “My apologies. How may I assist you?”

She looked up and down the hallway. There were a few more suits posted here and there, with two very stony looking men standing outside the door to the suite to her right. “Is Percy in?” she asked.

“His highness is engaged in a meeting,” Marcus said, staring straight ahead and not looking her in the eyes.

“Okay… When will he be done?”

“Uncertain, ma’am.”

“What’s the meeting about?”

He blinked. “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

Annabeth frowned. “Why not?”

“I–”

“Is it about me?” There was a decent chance it was. She knew she hadn’t exactly been excelling at princess lessons, and that a decent chunk of his staff still had yet to warm up to her.

“No, ma’am.”

“The kids?”

“No, ma’am.”

Well there went the next few theories. “I’m his wife. Tell me what’s going on.” Oh, what a wonderful combination of words.

Unfortunately, they apparently weren’t as magical for Marcus as they were for her. “I understand, ma’am. Unfortunately–”

“You’re not at liberty to say,” she finished, grumbling. “I get it.”

But Marcus was saved any further questions by a sudden commotion in the room next door. Already moving, he gently edged her back towards her room, his bulky frame leaving her no room for compromise. “I think you should return to your suite, ma’am,” he said, sternly.

“Well, I think you should–”

The door to Percy’s suite flung open, and a woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform poked her head out, speaking rapidly in Greek, too fast for Annabeth to pick up on, though she definitely recognized the word “doctor.” Whatever it was she said, the guards sprung into action, darting into the suite, and the door swung closed, but not before she heard a piercing, groaning cry of pain.

Annabeth started. “Who was that?”

“It’s nothing, ma’am–”

“Was that Percy?”

His stunned silence said it all.

Ducking beneath his frame, she darted over to the door, pounding on the wood with her fist. “Percy?” she called. “Percy are you in there? Are you okay?”

The door swung open again, but it wasn’t Percy. It was the nurse from earlier, who immediately began ranting in Greek to someone behind her, harsh and angry. Annabeth could sense Marcus’ presence as he wrapped his hands around her arms, gently attempting to remove her, but Annabeth’s feet felt like they were glued to the floor. Her hands were cold, and her ears were ringing.

The nurse had blood all over her front. Another agonized moan came from inside the room.

In short succession, the door was closed, and Annabeth was returned to her suite. Immediately, she ran to the adjoining door, hoping that maybe, somehow, it had miraculously unlocked itself–to no avail. Pressing her ear up against it, she thought she could hear more Greek being shouted back and forth, the sounds of boots shuffling on the carpet. Pained sobbing, nearly hidden beneath the sounds of Heckle and Jeckle.

She stood there, pressing herself to the wood, until long after the noises had stopped.

#my fic #pjo fic #percabeth #the rivalry ends here #hi hello what's up surprise

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