#however. i think it would be funny if fucked around with ao3

[lbhslefttiddie]

abruptly rather nostalgic for like old choose your own adventure novels where you flip to the page indicated by your choice and like. how hard do you think it would be to rig something like this in ao3

like obv it would be easy to like. be like "if you choose A go to chapter 32" or whatever but like you can embed hyperlinks into fics so you could have it as a thing you click and it takes you there yourself. but then That has me wondering just how far one could, hypothetically, push the limits of a fic on ao3 using just html and sheer force of will.... like that could be really fucking fun to toy with actually....

[ziggyzolch]

Headache (Wanda Maximoff x Reader)

Summary: If you could describe yourself in three words, they would be: little shit speedster. Causing trouble was your favorite pastime, and you've never been caught. That would change, however, when an angsty witch is assigned to capture you.Warnings: Cursing

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

❅❅❅

The stench of vomit and cigarettes fills your nose as you duck and hide in an alley next to a nightclub. Wiping sweat off of your forehead, you peek your head out of the alley and watch the police cars that were chasing you turn the wrong corner. After making sure the coast was clear, you let out a breath then fall to the ground in laughter. “Idiots.” You push out in between giggles.

Being a little shit was your specialty. From egging random houses to stealing the batons of unaware police men, there was nothing you weren’t up for. Graffitiing police cars wasn’t something you did often, but definitely what you had just done. You were adding the finishing touches, pubes, to the massive penis you just spray painted on the car when a cop finally noticed you. It was embarrassingly easy to outrun him, you can’t blame him though.

You discovered your superhuman speed the first time you got caught messing around, and your shit-headedness increased tenfold. The early years of your childhood were a mystery to you, only rarely getting short, useless flashbacks to being in a lab of some sort. You figured that's where your abilities came from, but in all honesty you didn’t really care. Whatever you didn’t remember was not your problem.

A good 3 minutes of laughing later, you catch your breath and sprint back to your dorm, ignoring the glowing red light at the corner of your eye.

❅❅❅

Walking into your dorm room, the first thing you notice is how cold it is. The door closes behind you, a red mist dissipating around it. Your eyes widen and you let out a quiet ‘What the fuck’ before the sound of your chair moving catches your attention. Your window was open. The first explanation you think of is that your roommate is playing a stupid prank. “You aren’t funny, Kate. Why are you even still up-” You pause, a figure suddenly appearing in front of you.

That is most definitely not your roommate.

They cover your mouth right when you're about to scream.

“Shh, she’s sleeping. Move.” The stranger, which you now know is a woman, turns you around and pushes you out of your dorm, her hand still covering your mouth. Your thoughts start racing. ‘What the fuck! I should’ve brought my rape whistle with me. This is definitely human trafficking. Couldn’t they kidnap me tomorrow, I have homework-’

The woman turns you around “Shut up! For fucks sake- ew!” She stares at you in shock. Did you just lick her hand? After an awkward stare off you finally speak, “Fuck you, rapist!” You turn to run when you’re stopped by a…red cloud?

You can hear her voice getting closer while she stomps towards you, “Don’t even try to run, and I’m not a rapist you little shit.”

“Let me go!”

“That’s not happening.”

“Yeah cuz you’re a RAPIST.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose, “Tony told me you were a handful but I didn’t think it’d be this bad.”

“Yeah well…Fuck you and Tony!”

“Oh my god.”

“Rapist!”

“Enough!” You’re about to reply with another accusation when red fills your vision.

Wanda picks you up from where you passed out and sighs in exasperation. Tony’s in for a ride.

❅❅❅

Next Part

A/N: This is the first chapter! I'll probably upload more on AO3 and Wattpad, @ziggyzolch on both :)

[realjungkook]

Too Busy Being Yours

Keigo Tamaki (Hawks)/Reader

Note: first smut (except that one omegaverse i did with my friend on Ao3, but please bear with me, this is probably bad.) Anyway!

Warnings: 18+ (pretty vanilla), Not proofread

Summary: You don't like Hawks, until a late night of unexpected, Passionate events take place.

Word count: 1857

Enjoy!

Your heels click on the floor as you try to follow Hawks’ quick steps. His long legs makes it difficult to follow him while wearing stilettos. The pile of papers are tightly pressed against your chest, as you desperately try not to drop them. You’re barely looking where you’re going, and almost hit two people. Hawks is pulling you along by your arm, and he’s the only reason you haven’t hit anything yet. 

“Can you slow down?” You hiss between your teeth. He turns his head, a cocky smile perched on his lips. 

“Can’t keep up?”

You roll your eyes. Hawks was always teasing you in the worst situations possible, when you were least in the mood for it. 

“I told you we had to leave earlier.”

“Whatever you say.” He turns back. You’ll be there soon. 

Hawks always had a tack for being late. Being his assistant was by far the most stressful job you’ve ever had. And his constant jokes and cheerfulness were draining sometimes. Even if it was uplifting when you’d had a bad morning. 

You finally get to the interview, in a small apartment on a street corner. You stop to catch your breath, sweat immediately collecting on your brow. Of course, Hawks was irritatingly unaffected. 

“See ya later, darling,” he winks, and you shake your head, ignoring him. You were stressed. This interview gave you a bit of time to focus on all the paperwork you were behind on. 

You of course, don’t see Hawks’ smile quickly fading when he realises you weren’t really affected by his teasing. Funny. He wasn’t used to that. 

Hawks rising in popularity meant more paperwork for you. And paperwork for a top 3 hero wasn’t something that could wait until morning. A headache had been forming behind your forehead for the past two hours and it was simply getting too hard to ignore. You sigh, pushing out your chair, getting up to get yourself another cup of coffee. Was this your fifth today? Your seventh? It doesn’t matter, anyway. The only thing filling your brain is heroes, interviewers and media. The tiredness wasn’t allowed to nudge its way in. You couldn’t afford that. 

You’re so lost in thought, you don’t feel the presence sneaking up on you. Only when two warm hands grab your shoulders and you shriek, heart jumping in your throat. 

“What are you doing here so late?” And oh, it’s just Hawks. You groan, pushing his hand away. 

“Fuck off.” 

You turn to walk away again, suddenly forgetting what it was you came for. But Hawks isn’t giving up so easily. 

“Aww, come on, humour me.”

You’ve had enough. 

You turn around, grabbing his collar in anger. Of course, he doesn’t budge an inch. But it certainly feels good, and you’re tired and irritated, frustrated and angry. And you just… explode. 

“Don’t test me! This has been too long of a day… a week… a month… a year for that matter. You’ve tested my limits every day, for however long I have worked for you, I’m so fucking sick of being your plaything. You don’t respect me, you don’t respect my work-”

“Y/n.”

“You don’t seem to care for how I’m doing, just constantly putting more pressure on me. You never take a moment to stop and think. Maybe you’re not the fucking only person in the world.”

“Y/n.”

“Maybe, for just a second, could you care about someone that isn't you. And maybe, just maybe, would you think it isn’t my job to take care of you when you’re alone or sad, I’m your assistant for god's sake, you big!… fucking!… man baby!”

“Y/n! Oh my god, listen!”

You push him back. “But you never listen to me!”

Hawks’ eyes are wild. He looks flabbergasted, as surprised as you’ve ever seen him. But his open mouth slowly forms into a smirk. Your stomach drops. Whether it’s in anticipation, fear, or maybe even excitement, you don’t know. 

“Oh but I do. About the things that are important.”

You tsk. “What things?”

He looks too smug, as he starts to speak. 

“I know that you deeply hate the guy from block 1.”

You stare at him with wide eyes. 

“I do not-”

He laughs. “Don’t play smart. You frown everytime he opens his mouth during meetings, and always object when he has an idea. It’s obvious.”

Obvious, yet only you’ve noticed. 

It’s your turn to look flabbergasted now. 

“Okay, so maybe he’s not my favourite person in the world, you’re right about that.”

Hawks smiles. 

“And you never wear your hair up. I take it you don’t like the sensation.”

It had never really caught your attention, just how much notice Hawks took of you, compared to how little you took of him. You’re borderline speechless. This always happens to everyone around you. His fans, coworkers, but never you. You 're never affected. The man takes notice, and he suddenly seems closer than before. 

“Cat got your tongue?”

If this were five minutes ago, you would’ve sighed and rolled your eyes. But now, you’re silent. 

“I just- I didn't know.”

His fingers find Your neck and goosebumps travel through your whole body. 

“Didn't know what? That I like you?”

Your immediate reaction is of course, denial. 

“That doesn't make any sense. Why would a pro hero be into someone like-”

But you don't get to finish, as he suddenly pulls you close. 

“I’m going to kiss you. That okay?”

 You’re so surprised that you just freeze, staring up into his big, owlish eyes. You can’t tell what kind of emotion hides behind them. 

“Okay,” you whisper, feeling the desire pull in your chest, more intense than you’d ever experienced. Before you get to take another breath, Hawks lips are on yours, soft and wanting, like this is the last time he’s going to kiss you. You really hope that’s not the case. 

Breathing is the last thing on your mind as your mouths passionately move together. You’re clutching his shirt hard, and you can feel his erection growing against you. 

“I wanna eat you out,” he says, biting your earlobe. The surprisement from all of this has still not entirely passed, but you’ve decided to just go with it. 

“Please,” you moan, and it comes out a lot more desperately than you’d anticipated. You clumsy move towards your desk, his lips sucking eagerly on your neck as you both try to unzip your skirt. He hits a spot on the end of your neck that feels incredibly ticklish and good, and you moan a bit too eagerly as he desperately pushes all of the papers off of your desk in one swipe. 

You feel a stab of irritation in your chest, and is about to give him a piece of your mind, before he pushes you down with practised ease. His incredible strength really comes to sight in a situation like this. It turns you on a lot more than you’d thought it would. you seem to get surprised a lot today.

“Spread your legs for me, sweetheart.”

You’re pretty sure he’d be able to spread them just fine himself, but you still listen, flinching a bit when the cold air hits your aching cunt. You’re so wet already that it’s almost embarrassing. 

He grips your thighs securely, kissing up your inner thighs. You’re so wet that you can feel the slick dripping down to your asshole. 

As soon as he gets started, Hawks is unstoppable. He eats you out like he’s starving. You’re too gone to be embarrassed about the wet squelching sounds, as he eagerly sucks your clit with the confidence of an experienced man. Your legs are shaking, and you’re sure that there will be marks tomorrow from where his fingers grip your thighs tightly. 

“Don’t, ngh- don’t stop!” you loudly breathe out, voice trembling as you, to your utmost surprise, suddenly cum. Everything feels overwhelming as he stops, lifting his head, his whole underface covered in your wetness. 

“You’re acting like I would ever,” he says, a bit out of breath. You can’t deny your attraction to him anymore, especially in a moment like this. “You taste too sweet,” his voice drops an octave as he leans closer to your face, breathing against your lips. “You can’t imagine how long I've wanted to do this. I could go on all night, until you’re completely dry. And then in the morning, I want to fuck you until my body gives out.”

That would take a while, especially with the incredible stamina he has, you think, feeling as if you’re in some kind of pleasant haze. 

“You don’t know how feral I am for you, y/n. It’s scaring even myself.”

You stare up at him in surprise, suddenly unsure of what to do. But you don’t need to be sure about anything, as Hawks leads you through it. 

He pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you, as you wonder how you’re even able to take this. On an uncomfortable desk at that. But true to his word, you’re riding him like you’ve never ridden anyone ever before in his apartment a few hours later as the earliest sunlight start to stream through the curtains. 

Hawks face is pulled back in pleasure as he slides his hands up your hips, shamelessly studying your bouncing breasts. 

“You’re so good for me,” he grumbles, and you let out a pleased whine at the praise. The sheets under you are soaked, but with the way Hawks is praising and caressing you, you feel like you could go on forever. 

His mouth drops open, and you can tell that he’s about to cum. You increase your pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin getting impossibly louder. You just hope the neighbours won’t complain tomorrow. 

It’s incredibly thrilling, having the famous pro hero in the palm of your hand like this.

“I’m going to cum,” He warns, and not even a second later, warmth suddenly fills your belly as his white seeds coat your walls. You cum yourself only seconds later, resisting the urge not to scream as you feel his cum dribble down onto the sheets, your body spasming with the shocks. You hold back a wince at the distant thought that you’d maybe scratched his back a bit too hard. You’ll have to remember to ask him later if he’s okay. But for now, you can barely keep your eyes open. 

“Can we stay like this for a little while?” He asks, and you nod faintly, resting your head on his shoulder. Not a single thought passes behind your eyes, only the warmth of your bodies sticking together and Hawks, Hawks, Hawks. 

You didn’t care about the mess. Right now, you only cared about him. And that was enough.

[leighsartworks216]

Moon Blood

Astarion x gn/fem!Tav/Reader

(Basically anybody who experiences periods can read this I just don't know what to tag it as)

Tav is described as having irregular periods and a heavy flow, which I know doesn't really leave it open to everyone. But it's true to my experience, so I'm sure some other irregular-period people can also appreciate this

(Also it's just a really self-indulgent story I wrote for me lmao)

Warnings: blood, blood drinking, period fic, references to sex, swearing

Word Count: 1,210

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You roll over in your bedroll again, groaning as quietly as you could as you clutch at your abdomen. An aching pain roiled just below your belly. And there it seemed determined to stay for however long it deemed fit.

Your moon bloods were always a shock - you never knew when they would happen and you never knew how long they would last, because the gods seem to think it’s funny to make it so relentlessly inconsistent. Not to mention how heavy they could be. After everything you’ve faced on your perilous journey so far, this was the fucking worst.

The pain rises to a peak. All you can do is curl in on yourself, hugging your stomach as tight as possible to will the pain away. Does it help? No. But there’s nothing else that could… Well…

You feel like an idiot when you knock on the wooden post outside Astarion’s tent. You were pretty sure he already knew of your problem, if the restlessness whenever he was near was any indication. You couldn’t imagine the temptation, but you could admire his resolve. That wasn’t why you were here.

He calls a muffled ‘Come in’ and you push aside the canvas door. You see the change instantly. The way his eyes darken with the scent of blood, his smirk more predatory than usual. You begin to wonder if this was a bad idea.

“Hello, darling,” he purrs, low and seductive. His book is set aside in favor of standing to greet you in the small space. His hands slide around your waist, nails pressing lightly into your spine. He leans down, pressing his nose to your pulse as he whispers, “You smell delicious.”

You clear your throat. “As tempting as that is…” You step back slightly, and he doesn’t try to stop you. Instead, he pulls his face from your neck and rests his hands at your sides. One more step and he would let you go entirely. “I just want to cuddle.”

He huffs, face scrunching in annoyance. “You come in here with a banquet between your legs, and all you want is to cuddle?” The irritation can hardly be read as genuine when his thumbs begin to rub circles into your hips soothingly.

“Mhm. My cramps and back are killing me,” you explain. You gesture back outside the tent. “I could go ask Gale, if you think you’ll be too tempted.”

“Don’t even think about it,” he hisses, but it’s an empty threat.

He pulls you with him back to the pile of pillows he was lounging in before, sitting down and leaning comfortably against the pile. You stopped, standing just before him, even as he nudged your hip toward him, silently telling you he was ready for you to join him.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright with…” You don’t know how to phrase it in a way that doesn’t sound strange. But your need to make sure he is comfortable wins out above everything else. “With smelling the blood all night?”

His eyes soften as he smiles. The tinge of animalistic hunger still lingers behind it, but your dismissal of his preposition has pushed it toward the back, almost entirely hidden. “I’ll be alright. I’m not starved enough to lash out at any moment, I swear.”

You frown. “You know that’s not what I’m worried about.”

He chuckles despite your scolding. “I know.” You give him a pointed look and he rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Yes, dear, I’ll be alright smelling your blood all night. Now are you going to stand there all night?”

Assured in his comfort, you finally lay down, draping yourself over him, legs slotting between each other and arms holding each other close, and your head resting on his chest. The first few times you cuddled like this, you were worried your weight would make him uncomfortable, or worse, remind him of his 200 years of abuse. But he insisted, when he didn’t want to be cradled to your chest, of course.

He rests a hand at your lower back and begins working his fingers into the aching muscles there. You sigh and relax further into him. He doesn’t need air, but his chest still rises and falls with slow breaths. It’s disconcerting without a heartbeat to accompany it, or it would be if it was anybody else. But it’s Astarion, and instead the sound of his breathing alone was soothing.

You rest there for a moment, eyes closed. The position you’ve taken eases some of the pain, hand-in-hand with Astarion’s nimble touch. For now, the pain is a little more bearable.

You lift your head to look at him. He’s already looking at you, soft and at ease, eyes round with affection. “If you want to, you can eat,” you tell him. You jump to add, “From my neck.”

He chuckles. “Thank you for clarifying,” he teases.

“Well, like you said, I’m here with a banquet. I don’t want you to suffer just because I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m hardly suffering, dear,” he assures. “But I will take you up on your offer.”

You smile as you tilt your head, exposing your neck to him. He sits up, shifting you as he does until you’re eye-to-eye, before he buries his face against the nearly-faded marks he’s left. He continues to rub your back as he uses his free hand to cup the back of your head, keeping you in place and steady. He takes his time to press kisses all around his target. Your moon blood makes you taste sweeter; your skin smells so enticing. But he can savor it later.

You only get two warnings he’s about to bite: the hand holding your head tangles its fingers in your hair, holding you more firmly in place, though still being gentle about it; and the flat of his tongue running along the old punctures.

The sharp pain of ice in your veins never lasts. His mouth sucks and tongues at the punctures, drawing your blood out with practiced ease and drinking it down greedily. You close your eyes and relax into it. You trust him. And the odd feeling of your blood being pulled from your veins like liquid through a straw and the dizziness that accompanies it is much more bearable without vision.

Once he’s had his fill, he pulls his mouth off your neck and licks languidly at the last few drops until your blood clots. He slowly lowers himself back into the cushions, careful not to worsen your light-headedness with the motion. You rest your head back on his chest like a rag doll, limp and tired. He cards his fingers through your hair a few times before simply wrapping his arm around you. He mindlessly continues to rub circles into your back, keeping the pain at bay for you to sleep.

You try to speak through half-intelligible thoughts as exhaustion and comfort begins to claim you. Mostly ‘thank you’s, though a heavily slurred ‘I love you’ surfaces once or twice. He gently sushes you. And then you’re fast asleep, as if speaking was the only thing keeping you awake.

And in the morning, well, he’s more than happy to take care of you.

---

Tag List:

@satelliteapotheosis @hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @mheerdraws @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @phantoms-fandom-blog @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars

[wannab-urs]

Only Good Girls

Summary: Dave reminds you why you should always be a good girl for him. 

WC: 1.3k

Warnings: PWP/plot what plot, Reader has hair that can be pulled; fingering f receiving; squirting; multiple orgasms; overstimulation; choking; rough sex as punishment; unprotected p in v; mirror sex; bondage (necktie around the wrists behind the back); toaster strudel not a twinkie; excessive hair pulling, see A/N 1

A/N 1 (Important): This is technically really bad BDSM because there are moments where reader would be completely unable to safeword; however, we are going to suspend disbelief and assume they have some sort of system worked out. This is a pre-established dom/sub relationship with safewords, expectations, and limits all negotiated prior to these events. Additionally, I didn’t write the aftercare into the fic. Dave cleans reader up, wraps her in his arms and cuddles with her for a while, makes sure she’s hydrated, and takes a nice soothing bath with her. He’s a good dom! Everyone is happy and having a good time. Promise. 

A/N 2: What happens when a bunch of horny bitches start sending each other tumblr posts about choking, hair pulling, mirror sex, neckties, and dave york? This happens. Inspo is mostly from this post. posting at 6 am bc i think it's funny to post insane smut at the buttcrack of dawn.

Dave York Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

Dave grabs your shoulders and spins you to face the floor length mirror. He’s fully clothed in his suit from work, behind your completely naked figure, and you feel yourself get wet from the sight alone. 

You watch his reflection as he slowly unknots his tie. He pulls it from around his neck and runs the length of silk through his hands. 

“Hands behind your back.” 

You comply immediately, not wanting to make your punishment worse. He wraps the tie around your wrists and slips two fingers between the fabric and your wrists.

“Too tight?”

“No, sir.” 

“Kneel,” he commands. 

The hardwood bites into your knees as you drop to the floor in front of him. You meet his eyes in the mirror. You feel yourself get even wetter as he unbuttons the cuffs of his dress shirt and slowly, carefully, rolls each sleeve up to his elbows revealing his tanned, muscular forearms. 

He unbuckles his belt, grabs the buckle and pulls it free of his belt loops. You jump as the metal buckle clangs on the floor beside you. He grabs your shoulders and guides you forward until your face is pressed into the floor. 

You hear him settle on his knees behind you before two of his thick fingers plunge into your pussy without warning. You cry out at the sudden intrusion. Dave brings a hand down on your left ass cheek.

“You will be silent unless I ask you a direct question. Do you understand?” His voice sounds completely unaffected. Bastard. 

“Yes, sir,” you whimper.

He curls his fingers against your front wall and starts pumping rapidly. Your breath catches in your throat as you try to hold back a scream. You can’t squirm away in your current position, forced to take the overwhelming sensation. You roll your lips in, squeeze your eyes shut, and will yourself to stay silent as he catapults you over the edge. Your fingernails dig into your palms as your body seizes around his fingers and your juices coat his hand. 

He doesn’t even give you a moment to relax before he’s fucking his fingers into you again, this time using his other hand to assault your clit. You start to think he’s going to punish you by giving you so many orgasms you never want to come again. 

The sound of your soaking wet cunt fills the air as he plunges his fingers into you again and again. You try to rock your hips back into him, but he has you pinned in place. You bite your lip so hard you taste copper, wanting so badly to stay silent and please him. You’re so fucking close. Your body is a tightened coil on the verge of snapping. A small whimper escapes you as another wave of pleasure courses through your body. 

His hands leave you immediately, and a pitiful whine falls from your lips as your high is snatched away from you. 

“Quiet, little one. Or I’ll have to gag you.”

You nod, your cheek dragging on the floor. Dave brings his hand down on your ass again, harder than before, and you clench around nothing

“Yes, sir!” 

Dave sits back on his haunches. You’re spread out in front of him, holes on display for him, arms quivering in their tie, shoulders heaving with your shaky breaths. Beautiful. 

He opens his dress pants, pulling his cock out and stroking it with the mess you made on his hand. Moments later you feel his blunt head swiping through your folds. He presses slowly in, making sure you feel the drag of every inch of his thick cock.

It feels like hours before he’s buried to the hilt inside you. He fists one hand in your hair and wraps the other around your throat, pulling your head back until you’re gazing into the mirror again.

“Look at you, pretty girl. All stretched out on my cock. Does it feel good?” 

Your eyes slowly focus and you see his broad frame behind you and your body molded to his liking by his hands. Your cunt spasms, squeezing his cock like a vice. 

“Feels so fucking good, sir,” you moan. You’re starting to wonder how this is a punishment.

He draws his hips back achingly slowly and then plunges into you so hard you think your ass will be bruised from his hip bones. Your breath is audibly punched out of you. He jerks your head back a bit further, forcing your back to arch as he slams his hips into you again. Oh fuck. 

He sets a brutal pace, slamming into you over and over. He uses his grip on your throat and hair to keep your eyes on him, his fist in your hair tightening every time you start to close them. You try and fail not to let out a scream when the tip of his cock kisses your cervix. His hand tightens on your throat, until the only noise that can escape is a pathetic gasp for breath. 

He pulls your back to his chest by your throat and fucks up into your soaking cunt, his cock pounding into your spongy front wall. He grunts into your ear with the force of his thrusts, driving you even wilder. Your core tightens around his cock, your whole body feeling like a coiled spring, until finally the tension snaps. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as wave after wave of pleasure wracks your body before you go limp in his arms.

He lets go of your throat and you’re held up only by his punishing grip on your hair. He drops you back onto the floor, limp as a rag doll and still speared on his thick cock. His left hand grips your hip so hard it will leave fingertip shaped bruises in your flesh, and his right hand wraps around the tie on your wrists. His thumb strokes your hip almost tenderly as he pulls out until only the head of his cock is inside you. 

“You’re allowed to scream now,” he says menacingly. 

He growls as he drags you by your wrists back onto his cock. He sets a pace just as brutal as before, filling the room with the sound of your ass colliding with his thighs and your screams of ecstasy. Your whole body feels wrung out like a used dish rag, but he feels so fucking good inside you that you don’t care. 

He drags you back into him over and over, loving the way you give your body over to him completely. He brings his left hand down on your ass cheek just to hear you moan. You want to beg him to let you come again, but all you manage is a weak please groaned into the floorboards. 

“Come on baby. Give me one more,” he groans, as if he read your mind. 

His hand snakes around the front of your body and finds your clit, dragging rough circles on it as he continues to bury himself inside you. It’s only moments before you’re coming again, sobbing and babbling thank yous and curses. Your body convulses, trying to curl in on itself, to escape the overwhelming feeling of him inside you, but you still whine when he pulls out. 

He lets go of you completely and you collapse onto the floor in a heap. You hear the wet sound of his fist on his cock and realize what he’s doing. 

“Sir, please!” 

His hand once again meets the flesh of your still stinging ass cheeks and you let out a pathetic sob into the floorboards. He strokes his cock until you feel the wet spurts of his cum cover your ass and thighs. You turn your tear soaked face up to look at him, about to ask why he didn’t come inside you, but he beats you to it.

“Only good girls get filled up.”

[dont-offend-the-bees]

We Glimpse Each Other Out of Phase

Hello lovelies; rough weekend, huh? I've had this one roughly drafted for a couple of weeks and was planning to keep it in my back pocket as a Deadboyween prompt fill. However, given the cancellation news, I think maybe we could all use a little gentle melancholy comfort right now. So I cleaned it up a bit, and I hope you will take this little snippet as the warm hug it is intended as 💛 So this technically follows on from/is set in the same universe as my Painland Week fic Something I Can Turn To. A fic which I basically intended to leave as a one shot, but I got quite invested in the universe and have been absolutely blown away by the response to it. So it became a collection which now features, as well as my own fic, two wonderful fics by williamvapespeare and one by Ingi, and I would heartily recommend you check them out if you enjoy this story or my original one! That being said, you probably CAN read this without having read the first story, I just wouldn't personally recommend it, you'll be missing a lot of context and backstory! 3.7k, rated T, also available on Ao3 (registered users only!) Part One (Something I Can Turn To) on tumblr

Charles may have had a bit of a rough go of it growing up, but there'd been quiet moments, too. Most of 'em in a rickety old attic, with the only lad in the entire world he could trust with just about anything.

But there were peaceful times at home, too. Safe ones. Mostly at night. Long as he was quiet, didn't cry too loud or stomp about, he could get through eight-ish hours unbothered. Sure, sometimes he had to pace around the room a bit, silent on sock feet just to shake out the excess energy that wouldn't let him sleep but honestly? He bloody loved sleeping. Couldn't get enough of it. Long as he didn't make a fuss, didn't draw attention, he could sink into his bed in the cellar room and just sort of... bob out of his life for a bit. Like a smoke break, but better for his health. If he was dead lucky, he'd even stumble into Edwin's arms in his dreams; pass the time there 'til morning, when it all kicked off again.

So it wasn't easy, getting used to night shifts. It was a fair trade-off for all the other freedom in his life lately but bloody hell, did it sting a bit, losing that time. That dark, quiet nothing where he could be nothing, too, just for a bit. There was almost something sacred about it. Something he hadn’t known was important to him ‘til it was gone.

At least the night shift was pretty quiet, usually. Most of the people who needed to use a gym at two in the morning weren't exactly there to socialise. Charles' job pretty much amounted to half-dozing at reception and handing someone a towel now and then. He'd not had many nutjobs to deal with or fires to put out.

Then again, maybe a good disaster was what he needed just to stay awake. Christ, he was shattered. Took him a good few tries to get the key in the lock when he finally staggered home.

Charles was sad — but not surprised — to find the kitchen light on when he fell through the door.

He rolled his eyes. "Honey," he called, jokingly, the endearment all funny and wrong on his tongue. He'd call Edwin a lot of things — mate, love, best friend, fucking soulmate — but honey? Mingin'. "I'm home."

Edwin's reply was half a second too slow — textbook Edwin guilt response. Like when your cat didn't jump off the counter fast enough to pretend it hadn't been there in the first place. "Good evening, Charles."

"Good morning, more like," said Charles, drawing the bolts — all three of them — across and dropping his bag in a sloppy heap by the door. His coat came next, then each shoe, leaving a trail behind him as he stumbled towards the voice. The hallway felt too short and dark to be called a hallway, really. Looked more like a cupboard where someone had shoved a load of loose doors they had lying around. There was one to the kitchen, one to the bathroom, one to the bedroom that was basically also their living room. Plus a bunch of other weird little cupboard doors and hatches and grates and things, none of which led to anything you’d logically expect them to. It was a shambles, really. A 'paint it magnolia and fob it off on the students' sort of ruin. But it was home. Even bone-tired, he still found the energy to lock gaze with the weird eye-motif lamp Edwin had picked up somewhere and put on one of the non-shelves, and give it his customary wink. Felt wrong not to. Unlucky, somehow.

A fanlike halo of yellow light spread across the hallway carpet as he pushed open the kitchen door. He found more or less what he'd expected to find behind it. Edwin: sat prim and proper at the scuffed-up little table, surrounded by books and doing a bang-up impression of someone with no bloody idea what time it was. His chin, tucked elegantly behind his curled knuckles in that little thoughtful pose of his, lifted at the sound of the door. His eyes found Charles and narrowed, just a little, sketching a pleased little crinkle or two at the corners.

"Charles," he greeted once again, voice softer this time. "How was your shift?"

Edwin hadn't had those laugh lines when Charles had met him. Seeing as he was twelve, and not exactly full of reasons to smile. Charles wasn't gonna take full credit for them, or anything, but... well, not many other people putting in the legwork, were there?

He dragged in a breath and let it out again, sharply, puffing it out in a raspberry. "Same old."

Charles crossed the kitchen in about three steps (it wasn't a big kitchen), clocking Edwin's book of choice on the way. Some textbook with a long-winded title that basically translated to lawyer gubbins. He put a hand on Edwin's shoulder — and Edwin tilted his head easily, offering his cheek for a kiss. Charles grinned and pressed one to the tail end of one of those little lines.

"Burning the midnight oil?" asked Charles, nicking one of Edwin's favourite expressions. He always seemed to pick up the ones that made him sound about a hundred years old.

Edwin hummed, carefully noncommittal. "I must have lost track of time."

"Could've counted these, for a start," said Charles, tapping the little saucer on the table. It was piled high with used teabags, like some damp and deranged game of Jenga. "Might've given you a clue."

"I've been rather busy," Edwin sniffed, turning the page in his book. "Lots of swotting to be done before my lecture on Monday."

"Right, that's what this is, is it?"

"What else would it be?"

Charles reached out, pinched the book Edwin was reading at the centre, and slid it out of the bigger, decoy book he was holding with its cover facing out. "Oldest trick in the book, mate. Literally," he grinned. He lifted Edwin's secret reading into his arms, having a flip through. "Y'know, most people only pull that move when they've got dirty mags to hide.”

Edwin cleared his throat. Even in the dim light of the table lamp, Charles clocked the embarrassed flush on his cheeks. "Well," he said, setting the law textbook he absolutely wasn't reading on the table. "It does get rather draining, this intensive focus on one subject. I felt the need for a brief diversion."

Charles closed the secret book, glancing at the cover. "Anthropology, again. Like that one, don't you?"

"Hm. There's much to explore; it encompasses a rather broad area of study." Edwin took it back and slid it, sheepishly, behind the pile of other law volumes stacked at his elbow. "It's a fascinating subject."

"Should've applied for it," said Charles, gentle. He rubbed Edwin's shoulder absently — getting a little more intent when he felt Edwin melt a bit, his knotted muscles loosening under Charles' digging thumb. "Or any of the other five million bloody things you're interested in. Y'know, 'stead of the one thing you're not."

"I am interested in it!" Edwin blustered.

Charles raised an eyebrow at him.

Edwin sighed. "I am," he said, bit quieter. "It's just not all I'd like to be doing. But it was the right choice, of that I'm quite certain."

Charles sighed and stepped around him, coming to lean on the table, arms crossed. Their eyes met across the short distance. "Look. If you say it's alright, it's alright. I'll believe you, mate, honest I will."

He nudged Edwin's toe with his own, sock to holey sock. "But, y'know. Not for nothing, but at school you was always going on about all that stuff you wanted to do. Bloody... archaeology in Peru, and whatever else. Just don't see how a law degree gets you there, is all."

Edwin leaned back in his chair a bit, steepling his fingers. "Well, no. No, it doesn't get me to Peru; or Pompeii, or Patagonia —"

"Or anywhere beginning with a 'p'," Charles teased.

Edwin's lips twitched up in a little smile. "But it will get us somewhere. A great many somewheres, I imagine. As degrees go, it opens rather a lot of doors."

Charles cocked his head, squinting fondly. "'Us'?"

"Obviously, Charles," said Edwin, with a dismissive wave of his hand. Like a reality where he didn't bring Charles wherever he went wasn't worth considering.

Charles grinned, ducking his head.

"I'm sure you'll chastise me for my cynicism," Edwin continued, oblivious to Charles and his soppy moment. "But... Well, given the somewhat rocky beginnings you and I have encountered in life, I thought it best to..."

"What? Play it safe?"

"Yes," said Edwin. Firm, unapologetic. "Exactly. Because I would very much like for both of us to be safe in life, Charles."

"We are! Well," Charles shrugged, scratching at his nose with a wince. Still ached a bit sometimes, all told, even though the break was years ago. "We are now."

"And I would like for it to stay that way."

"It will!" Charles half-perched on the table, and nudged Edwin's leg with his big toe. "I'll look after us, won't I?"

Edwin looked up at him, and his eyes softened. Fuck, but he had the kindest bloody eyes — least when he turned them on Charles he did. His hand landed on Charles' knee, gentle as you like; rubbing small circles with his thumb like Charles had done on his shoulders.

"You've done more than enough already, Charles," he said, looking him dead in the eye; not letting him hide for anything. "It's only fair I look after you, too, now and again. Especially when it's within my power to do so."

Charles laughed, a thin, hitching sort of thing. His eyes felt all prickly. Fuck, he couldn't go crying on him, now — his eyeliner'd smudge everywhere, it'd be so obvious.

"Look after me," he mimicked, catching Edwin's hand in his, stealing it all for himself. "You gimme a bloody reason to wake up in the morning, mate. What else d'you need?"

Edwin opened his mouth, brows going all scrunched up like they did at the start of a concerned lecture. Charles ducked in and shushed him quicksharp with a kiss.

"Not saying I'm about to, like, off myself if you chuck me, or anything," he laughed against his lips, fondness glowing in the grate of his ribs like smouldering coals. He chased the kiss with a smaller one, to the corner of Edwin's mouth; the scratchy dusting of his five o'clock shadow. "I'd just wallow about being proper depressed, so. Don't chuck me, please?"

Maybe he was clinging a little too hard for his tone of voice. Maybe he was giving it all away in the hands — always such desperate, grasping fucking things. Always his problem, the hands. How they grabbed things, hit things, did things before his brain always had the chance to catch up. How long 'til Edwin got sick of Charles hanging onto him like a life raft, dragging him down with his dead weight? How long 'til the bones in Edwin's hands started to creak from being clutched too tight?

But Edwin just scoffed, quietly — completely failing to hide that little spark of humour in his eyes. "I hardly think that's a possibility, Charles," he said, lifting his other hand to pat the back of Charles'. His soft fingertips kissed feather-light against Charles' grazed, calloused knuckles. "Honestly,” he sighed, dramatically. “Here I sit, talking about the devastatingly boring career I'm attempting to get off the ground in order to keep you in the manner to which you've become accustomed, and you think I'm about to chuck you."

He shook his head, crow’s feet crinkling and bloody hell. Charles loved him so much it felt overwhelming, sometimes. Like he needed a whole extra heart in his chest just to store it all.

Charles kissed Edwin's hand and flopped, happily, onto his lap, grinning at the mild ‘oof’ it shoved out of him. Grinning even wider when Edwin's other arm wrapped around Charles’ waist without a second thought. Edwin was a bit picky about personal space, for good reason — not with Charles, though. Charles had a standing invitation and he put it to bloody good use.

"Bet you could make a weird job work for you too, y'know," said Charles, dropping his next peck to Edwin's forehead as he sank into his lap. His head felt heavier already; only thing keeping him going was the effort of holding himself upright. Draped over Edwin like a blanket, he could've just dozed off right then and there. But the kitchen chair was creaking threateningly, so. Probably a bad idea. "I know the weird stuff's usually more competitive and that, but you're that smart. You'd run rings round the others, mate, get ahead of the game."

He flung his arms round Edwin's shoulders, scratched at the back of his head, the hair at his nape. It was a little longer than Edwin liked it. He needed a trim. So did Charles, really; his racing stripes had grown out and he kept having to blow stray curls out of his eyes. But they were saving their pennies any way they could. "You could go do something interesting, something a bit barmy," said Charles. "Something with a bit of adventure, yeah? Or at least where you get to have your nose in interesting books all day. You'd love that."

Edwin sighed, resting his cheek against Charles' shoulder as his eyes drifted shut. "That does sound compelling. But I've rather made my bed, Charles; I’ve no money coming in at all if I don’t study for it. And it is interesting, in moderation. Besides, it..."

"What?"

"It seems... like a decent thing to do." The warm weight of Edwin's arm squeezed Charles' waist. "Something I could do a modicum of good with."

Charles heard a rustle, and glanced over his shoulder. Edwin's other hand was flicking through the law book on the table, clever fingers finding the module he wanted without even checking the contents. Charles had to squint at it a moment, his exhausted eyes skittering off the page. He thought he saw 'human' and 'rights' in that word soup of a title.

He softened. "Eds..."

"I merely thought..." Edwin made a little noise of frustration in his throat, angling his face further into Charles. Speaking so soft it almost got lost in his skin, words lodging small and timid in his bones. "So many years, Charles. Trapped at the mercy of other people, no one caring if we lived or died, I... I could do something about it. Learn the right words to say, the right arguments, the right resources. So no one else need..."

Sometimes it fucking killed Charles, that there were people out there who thought Edwin was some... some selfish, spoiled rich toff with no feelings. As if he wasn't the kindest bloody person in the world; as if he hadn't had to carve that kindness out himself with his bare, bleeding hands.

Edwin sniffed. “It was just an idea,” he mumbled. “A silly idea.”

Charles shook his head, stroked Edwin's hair. "S'not a silly idea, love. Not silly at all."

Edwin never struggled to find his words like this — and he definitely didn’t mumble them. Words were his weapons, and he could go toe-to-toe with the best of 'em, talk bloody circles 'round his opponents.

Charles looked from him to the stack of books, the tower of teabags. The plastic clock on the wall, its hands marching on into the morning.

"Aw, mate," he said, rubbing the back of Edwin's neck — and dropping a kiss to the top of his head. "You're dead on your feet, in’t you?"

"I'm perfectly fine," Edwin grumbled. "And I've tests to study for —"

"Tests in subjects you're not bloody taking? Yeah, right." Charles bit his lip, cuddling Edwin's head against his chest. "Can't sleep, can you?"

Edwin was quiet a moment, breathing nice and steady into Charles' throat.

"It's still... difficult," he said.

Three door bolts and four hundred miles was a start, but bad memories had a way of following you about. Charles closed his eyes and breathed in, nice and slow; hoping Edwin could feel it in his chest, find a nice rhythm in his rising ribs.

"Edwin," he said, nuzzling into his hair. "On my life, mate — one of these days, you and me are gonna be so bloody set you'll be able to do whatever you want. Go back to uni fifty times, hundred times, don't care. Study for the rest of your life, if you want.” He tapped Edwin’s temple. “Cram everything that's ever interested you in that big brain of yours. Promise you."

It shouldn't've felt like taking a bloody knight's oath, whispered words at the kitchen table at stupid o'clock in the morning. But Christ, he'd fought off enough dragons to get ‘em here, hadn’t he?

He felt Edwin's smile against his skin, followed by the little dry brush of his kiss. "You could, too. If you liked," he said. "Get your A-levels, apply for university..."

Charles laughed, shaking his head. "Not sure I could keep up."

"Charles," Edwin admonished, in that stern teacher voice that was cuter (and fitter) than it had any right to be. "You're exceptionally bright."

"Ah, come on, mate," Charles mumbled, squirming. Edwin's arm round his waist locked as if it could sense an escape attempt incoming.

"You are. I remember your grades, before... well. Everything that occurred." He smoothed down the collar of Charles' fuck-ugly work shirt. "It's hardly your fault your final years went awry as they did. You could go back, take some courses at the local college. Try again."

"Right, sure."

Edwin huffed, frustrated. "I'm being quite serious, in the event that wasn't obvious."

"When aren't you?" Charles chuckled. He stared at the wall, at the stupid fucking boyband calendar their kooky upstairs neighbour gave Edwin for Christmas. Most of the writing on it was Edwin's, neat and tiny, scheduling tests and lectures and study blocks. Most of Charles' additions were just the word 'WORK', scribbled in on scattered days — more so Edwin knew when he was coming and going, rather than for his own benefit. Always different days, different times. Shift work; no chance to form a routine. He was never great at that, anyway.

"Not even sure what I'd do," he mumbled.

Edwin's palm on Charles' waist rubbed, soothing, grounding. "You never had something you wanted to study?" he asked. "Something you wanted to go into?"

"I..." His brow furrowed. It was so hard to think, sometimes. About times before now. Like all those bloody miserable years just blended into this mush of dread and misery. "I dunno what I wanted," he admitted. "Couldn't... couldn't think that far ahead, could I? I just wanted my mum to be alright. Wanted my dad to think I was worth something. Wanted not to hurt anymore."

He sniffed, and laughed, a watery sort of sound. His arm around Edwin's shoulders squeezed.

"Only thing I ever wanted and got back then was you," he said, flippant, like it didn't really matter. 'Cause it didn't really, did it? Wasn't some big confession or anything. Some deep, dark secret. Edwin knew. They both knew.

But Edwin breathed in sharply, a little ragged round the edges, so maybe he needed reminding now and again. "Charles..."

"Fuck," Charles chuckled, releasing Edwin so he could lean back and rub his eyes — so Edwin wouldn’t have his ear to Charles’ heart when it started beating too fast. "I'm shattered, mate. Dunno what I'm even saying anymore, do I?"

Maybe one of these days, he’d stop being too scared of the fucking size of his own feelings to sit with them a moment.

Maybe they both would.

Edwin sighed, pulling his hand from Charles' waist to pinch at the bridge of his own nose. "I suppose it has gotten rather late." He glanced at the clock, and winced. "Early. You should go and sleep. I'm sure you've had a long day."

Charles hummed, leaving his nice warm spot in Edwin's lap — but his hands didn't leave his shoulders. "C'mon, then," he mumbled, giving them a squeeze. "Bed."

"Better to go without me. I shan't sleep tonight."

"Didn't say anything about sleeping, now, did I?"

Edwin raised his eyebrow.

Charles' brain caught up to his mouth, and he laughed. "Ah — love to, darlin', but. Yeah, seriously, I'm fucking knackered. I meant, like — let's just have a bit of a cuddle, yeah?" He tugged at Edwin's collar where it poked out of his nice green jumper. It was a little crooked — Edwin must've really got into a study groove and unfastened a button or two. Fit as. "I proper fancy a cuddle."

"I'll be restless," said Edwin, all apologetic. "I'll only keep you awake."

Charles hummed, picking up the anthropology textbook and holding it out.

"Keep on reading, then," he said, giving Edwin the big, hopeful eyes he bloody knew he could never say no to. "Just... come read to me instead, yeah?"

Edwin had another dramatic sigh, like it was all such a big ask. He ought to tell that to his fucking smile lines. He took the book — and Charles' hand. "Well. I suppose I can manage that."

~

Charles didn't know how long Edwin stayed awake, in the end. Could've been hours for all he knew, he'd have had no idea — Charles had been asleep in bloody seconds. Head pillowed on Edwin's shoulder, that gorgeous voice rattling off dry old text blocks and making them sound like spoken-word lullabies... how could he resist?

All he knew was when he woke up, it was eleven in the morning, the sun was slanting through the crooked blinds; and Edwin was snoring softly underneath him. His hair a mess, his textbook open on his chest. His arm a slack, warm weight around Charles' shoulders.

Charles smiled, rubbed his dry eyes — forgot to scrub off his eyeliner before he konked out, again. Classic — and settled back in, nestling safe and sound into the the crook of Edwin's arm. Fuck it. It was Saturday. He'd asked Crystal to pick up his shift today, anyway, so him and Edwin could get a little quality time in.

If all they did with that time was sleep, well. Time well spent, innit? It wasn't like a smoke break from life when he did it with Edwin, anyway.

More like... stepping back to enjoy the view.

~~

Thanks for reading my loves, I hope it soothed the ache somewhat 💛 This has been a strange little one because I've essentially had to take something I very much wrote as a one-shot, and build onto what I established. When I wrote that first one-shot I didn't even have a clear idea in my mind for what Edwin was studying or anything! So things will likely change and grow and develop and who knows where we'll end up, but it's nice to see the lads figuring it out alongside me ^_^ Thanks for reading guys! It's been a bit of a long silence from me since Painland Week ended but I promise I'm working on stuff, including the next chapter of Lonely Bones! Regardless of what has happened to the show or whether it gets picked up or not, my plan is to keep writing and creating for it for as long as it sparks joy to do so - and seeing as I've made some amazing friends in this fandom, I think I'm gonna be here a while! I sure hope you guys are, too 💛 (p.s. if you are over 18, trustworthy with semi-secret identities, and like weird rarepair smut, feel free to DM me for my side Ao3 that I'm sure will be getting some action over the next few months xD)

[enjoythesilentworld]

Simon's Month - Labor Day

day 22!! @youngroyals-events

Simon plans to take down RK Solutions from the inside. He also just so happens to be sleeping with the CEO's son.

read below or on ao3 (M, 2k) (cw: minor implied sexual content)

Simon found it kind of fun, at first. The sneaking around, the pretending to arrive separately each morning, lingering and waiting for each other at the end of the day. He didn’t really think the company he worked for needed to be privy to his relationships anyway, romantic or otherwise. He was there to do his job — a job at which he was rather good at — and nothing more. The fact that he was sleeping with the CEO’s son who was also technically his superior made things just a little more complicated.

This was the opposite of the problem he thought he’d have when he’d finally landed this job in corporate. After working for years on the floor in the retail stores that RK Solutions owned all across the continent, and seeing the unfair wages, subpar working conditions, and general shitty benefits, Simon had been ready to finally make a change. From the inside. On his first day, he’d marked Wilhelm as his number one enemy.

Except, that fell apart pretty quickly, because Simon learned that Wilhelm was actually rather kind, and nothing like his mother, who was harsh and high-nosed, just like the rest of the board of directors.

He tried to stay away from Wilhelm, he really did. Simon wanted to focus on his job, on gaining people’s trust so that he could start sharing ideas on how to improve working conditions, and eventually work his way up to making pitches to the board, to Kristina herself. But, Wilhelm kept finding Simon at lunch, or in the elevator, and quickly Wilhelm became Wille and shared lunch time in the building’s cafeteria became dinner dates in tiny restaurants outside of town.

About three months into his time at RK Solutions, Simon went to Wille’s office under the guise of asking a question about some paperwork, but then, suddenly, the door was shut and the blinds were closed and Simon was horizontal on Wille’s desk, the man’s tongue down his throat.

It escalated from there, catching each other in empty offices and stairwells and elevators. Quick hands and hot mouths, loosened ties and mussed hair. It was hot as fuck, the sneaking around, and it helped to take the edge off after a long day in front of a computer.

They didn’t really talk about what this was. That was fine, because they were mainly hooking up and having the occasional meal together. But, then, they weren’t just doing that. Then, Simon was staying at Wille’s and Wille at Simon’s and things got a little more real. They started talking, really talking, and Simon learned Wille is more than just not an asshole, but he is funny and caring and sweet.

He is also, however, a coward.

Once they started talking for real, Simon told Wille all about the real conditions at their corporation’s stores. About the measly benefits, the wage gouging, the sheer number of employees at or below the poverty line. He ranted about how much money Wille’s family made every year, and about all the plans Simon had drafted up to fix things, and how no one would listen to him. Wille listened and nodded along but at the end of the day, he refused to use the power he had. He wouldn’t stand up to Kristina, he wouldn’t stand up to the board. He’d keep playing the part of the little puppet and complaining about it all the while.

“I wish I could help, Simon,” or “It’s just not that easy,” or “That’s not how things work here.”

It put a bit of a strain on their relationship, so Simon pulled back. He would do this part without Wille. He didn’t need his help. They could maintain their ‘relationship’ that was just sex but also maybe more, and Simon could pretend it didn’t kill him that he was falling for Wille, knowing he’d never be able to be the man Simon needed him to be.

Nine months into Simon’s time at RK Solutions and four months into this more-than-just-fuck-buddies situation, on a random Thursday night, Simon is lying on Wille’s chest, in Wille’s bed.

Simon stayed here last night, too, and they’d come back from the office together, Simon lingering at his desk longer than necessary because Wille had a meeting, then taking the service elevator to sneak out to meet the man at his car.

Wille’s telling Simon something about a nature documentary he thinks they should watch when his phone rings.

“Hello?”

Simon hears a muffled woman’s voice on the other side, then Wille shoots up to sitting and Simon’s tumbling backward. “You’re what? But, it’s—”

Simon settles back into the pillows, watching Wille’s face slowly draw together in distress as Kristina rambles on. A moment later, Wille is jumping out of bed and pulling on his boxers with one hand. Simon sits up, too, concerned something has happened, until he nearly gets hit in the face by Wille chucking him his clothes in a balled up pile.

“What the fuck?”

Wille whips his head over and mouths, “Sorry,�� then mimes zipping his lips. Simon can’t imagine Kristina would be able to hear him, and he doesn’t really appreciate being silently told to shut the fuck up. He pulls his boxers back on right as Wille hands up the phone.

“Sorry,” Wille says again, out loud this time, already flying around the room, picking other things up. A used condom wrapper, a lone tie. “You have to go.”

“What?”

“My mother is coming here, like, now. Something about a presentation tomorrow.” Wille doesn’t even glance at Simon. “You know you can’t be here.”

Simon stands from the bed and stares at Wille, confused, but slides on his wrinkled button-up, anyway. “It’s 9pm. You couldn’t tell her to wait?”

Wille scoffs, moving to the mirror to start fixing his hair, hair which not twenty minutes ago, Simon had his fingers knitted in. “Kristina doesn’t really take ‘No’ for an answer. You know that.”

The tone is condescending in a way that is unfamiliar coming from Wille. It makes Simon’s stomach churn.

“Right,” Simon clips, finishing getting dressed. He doesn’t even bother lacing up his shoes, just heads straight for the front door.

Wille doesn’t even say goodbye. The door slams shut behind him, and Simon has decided he is done pretending.

He manages to avoid Wille the next day, and then the whole week, but Wille corners him that next Friday.

“Hey,” Wille says, looking totally confused and innocent. “What’s up? You’ve been dodging me.”

“I’ve been busy,” Simon states blandly, already looking over Wille’s shoulder for an escape route. He really can’t do this right now.

“Did I do something?”

Simon holds back the urge to roll his eyes. “No.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, clearly not understanding. That is in itself is yet another splinter to the heart. “Do you want to come to mine this weekend? Or I could come to yours, if that’s easier.”

The air must have gone thin in this hallway, because Simon can barely get out, “I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

There’s a long pause, and Simon tries not to meet Wille’s eye, but he can’t help it. He sees his own heartbreak reflected there, but also confusion, which makes the anger flare in Simon’s chest, and it makes it a little easier.

“What?”

“I think we should stop seeing each other.” Simon slides to the left to escape. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you around.”

They don’t talk for a month. Simon barely sees Wille at the office, only occasionally through a conference room window or across the room at the cafeteria. He should’ve known that Wille wouldn’t fight for him, considering how he handled everything else in his life.

It doesn’t matter. The thing between them is over, and it never could’ve worked because Wille is under Kristina’s thumb and Simon is currently organizing a secret company-wide march for Labor Day. In two weeks, Simon will march with the all the retail workers from local stores, protesting their unfair treatment and money

Simon is working late on the project one evening, when he hears someone clear their throat. Standing in the doorway to his office, is Wille.

“What are you doing here?” Simon asks sharply, quickly shuffling papers together.

“I just wanted to—” He looks timid, and sad, and that sparks a bit of something cruel in Simon’s chest, because, yeah, Simon is sad, too. He wishes things could’ve worked between them, too. “How are you? You’ve been working late a lot.”

“Oh, you’re keeping tabs on me now?”

Wille takes a step back. “No, I just— I’m sorry.”

Simon sighs and collects the rest of his papers, holding them to his chest. “Look, I really don’t have time for this, I have to go.”

“Simon, wait, please. I don’t understand what happened. Please just tell me what I did wrong.” His voice is desperate, and it pulls at the parts of Simon’s heart that still feel things for him. Then, Wille lowers his voice to whisper, “I miss you,” and it nearly rips his heart out of his chest.

“Wille,” he grits out, trying to hold onto every sliver of self-respect, “I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“But, why? I thought you— I thought you liked me.”

“I do— I did. I did.” Simon closes his eyes for a moment and tips his head up to the ceiling, trying to maintain control. He meets Wille’s eyes again. “But, I just couldn't be your secret anymore. I couldn’t live with myself coming here every day, fighting for the rights of these workers — your workers — begging you to do something about it, and then turning around and sleeping with you. It just— It couldn’t work any longer. You don’t want to use your position for good, fine. That’s on you. But I worked my ass off to get this job so I could do something with it.”

His chest is heaving by the end of it, and he’s exhausted and pissed and heartbroken. Wille says nothing, and Simon is not surprised, so he pushes past him in a hurry.

Things are moving too fast, though, because Simon’s tripping over his own feet and going tumbling to the ground, papers flying. He scrambles to get them, biting back his tears of frustration and embarrassment at the whole thing. Wille kneels down beside him, helping to collect the papers, and then he’s not, because he’s frozen, reading the text on one of the pages.

Simon freezes, too, watching him, suddenly terrified.

“You’re…” Wille starts slowly. “You’re organizing a—”

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Simon bursts out, resisting the urge to snatch the paper from Wille’s hands. He quiets his voice again. “Please, Wille. This is really important to me.”

Wille looks at him for a long moment, eyes still sad. Then, he hands the stack of papers back.

“I didn’t see anything.”

Simon finds it hard to even be excited about the rally now. As much as he hates to admit it, he trusts Wille, and he doesn’t think he’ll tell. But, the heartache remains.

He throws himself into his work instead. The only time to work on the organizing is during non-work hours, so he arrives early and stays late. No one seems to notice. Days pass, there’s no word from Wille, and Simon wonders if he’ll ever get over him.

Första Maj lands on a Monday. Simon arrives early to the park to help get things ready, to start painting signs and handing out flyers and stickers to paste up as they march through the city. Too distracted by the day, he barely thinks about Wille, except that his family’s company is pasted on every sign, so that makes it a little hard to forget.

Ten minutes before they’re meant to head out, Simon’s putting the last touches on a sign, when someone says his name. He turns.

Wille smiles tentatively at him. “Do you have an extra sign?”

[tragedycoded]

oc questionnaire - royston edition.

I'm not happy about this either /bit

So, I lost all my old character intros when I nuked the old blog. They're probably floating around somewhere.

If nobody knows who Royston is, he is the tritagonist (that's right, idiot, Hofer's the deuteragonist) of Doom Metal Love Story and a neverending pain in my neck. As of July 1st, 1873 he is a 45-year-old gambler who's wanted in five states for various flavors of murder and known to consort with 37-year-old First Sergeant Cole Sullivan.

I will do my best to keep spoilers to a minimum; however, for my own sanity, I'm answering for Book 2 Royston.

@the-golden-comet [1, 2] wants to know:

What never fails to make you laugh?

[he immediately starts cracking up]

Well, since you asked, I was just imagining the expression on Laurence Huston face when I stuck him.

What a knob. I cannot wait to drain the snake on his grave. Do not tell Cole I said that.

How can you tell if you’ll get along with someone?

Oh, I get along with everyone, darling. I don't have to wonder ahead of time.

Do you prefer sweet, savory, sour, or salty snacks?

[looks in Sullivan's direction and sighs]

What is your favorite season?

Autumn. [beat] Oh you want me to elaborate? Well I sweat less, for starters--

Never mind.

Where would you like to visit?

Now that you mention it, I've never been to Kentucky.

When do you usually go to sleep?

Why, are you hoping for an invitation? When I'm done for the day. Or when I'm tired. Or whenever I damned well please.

Royston tends to pass out around dawn.

@wyked-ao3 [x] I picked Royston knowing he would have to answer these:

If you had to pick just one enemy who would it be?

[he doesn't hesitate]

Doctor Emil Powell of Wherever the Fuck University. His actions directly lead to Cole's death. If someone didn't have me figuratively leashed to the damned boarding house I'd have caught up to him already, but noooo, I'm not allowed to go ahead and take care of him myself.

When did you feel safest and why?

[scoffs]

I will bring out Gott.

New Year's Eve. I will not elaborate.

If you could save just one other person who would it be?

Listen, I don't have to save him. He's the one who saved me.

Royston thinks people in town give a shit about whether he maintains his heartless badass reputation.

Oh shit @sableglass [x] has some good ones:

Tell us your favorite joke.

Would you believe I learned this one from Sullivan? Cavalrymen are absolutely filthy.

The private--I presume one could say "gentleman," however when Sullivan recited it to me the first time, it went like this:

The private couldn't understand why his lass failed to write him throughout the entirety of the campaign. She said it was out of her power, as he had carried away the pen with him, and left her nothing but the ink-stand.

Oh he thinks that's funny.

What is your proudest achievement?

He just grins. I think that's supposed to means he's proud of still being alive.

Five things that make you happy?

BEER.

TOBACCO.

BEDS.

HOT WATER.

SULLIVAN.

Pre-Sullivan #5 would have just been "GAMBLING."

And finally, from @orphanheirs [x]:

What would your perfect day look like?

[sigh] He's there when I wake up, and he's there when I go to sleep. Typically I'm there when he goes to sleep and then he has to go. If Army doesn't muster him out quickly I will burn down that entire fort. That would be a perfect day.

Do you believe in ghosts?

[siiiiigh] Ghosts aren't real. Spirits, however... are insatiable little bastards, and I have no tolerance for them.

If you could only wear one color of clothing for the rest of your life, which one would you choose?

Black. It's easier to conceal blood, and I notice Cole looking at my ass significantly more when I'm wearing dark clothing. Win-win-win.

Tag! (I have a tag list, let me know if you want on or off it.)

@lychhiker-writes @cowboybrunch @saturnine-saturneight @ashfordlabs @autism-purgatory

@noblebs @aintgonnatakethis @the-golden-comet @asablehart @mauvecatfic

@leahnardo-da-veggie @sableglass @gioiaalbanoart @words-after-midnight

@lavender-bloom @jev-urisk @wyked-ao3

[stevesbipanic]

Boy For All Seasons

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Ao3

Eddie's holiday planning hadn't been pushed back when finals came up so it was no surprise he wasn't graduating again this year. He thought maybe he should give it a rest, Steve wouldn't be walking the halls with him come fall anyway and he's sure Steve's parents found him a nice college to go away to.

He had decided to drown his sorrows in a new record from the new mall when all his wildest dreams were answered. Steve Harrington was still in Hawkins and he was dressed as a sailor! This was too good.

"Hello, Sailor."

"Munson! What're you doing here?" Steve's mood seemed to improve seeing the older boy, Eddie guessed anything was better than this.

"Was hot, wanted ice cream, what're you doing here I would've assumed your dad would be shipped you off to college already."

"I didn't get in anywhere." Steve looked sad at this which wouldn't do.

"Well I'm for one glad you're still around, Stevie."

A very faint blush graced Steve's cheeks, Eddie took this as a win. As he left he could've sworn someone said "That's another check on the you suck side."

Armed with the knowledge that Steve was sticking around, Eddie's plans were back in action.

He wanted to do something big for Fourth of July cause he knew he'd get away with it. Maybe fireworks in the carpark and an Uncle Sam costume.

Eddie was so excited when the day rolled around, he'd been visiting the mall when he could but wasn't always brave enough to say hello to Steve.

Eddie had loaded his totally legal fireworks into his van and was practically vibrating with glee as he drove to Starcourt. However, all the joy inside him quickly left him as he arrived. Starcourt was ablaze with police and ambulances crowding the parking lot.

Eddie could barely process his legs moving as he jumped out of the van, heart in his throat. He doesn't think he took a breath until his eyes landed on Steve hunched over at the back of one of the ambulances.

Steve was covered in blood, his uniform seeped in it and his face busted up.

"Steve, holy fuck are you ok?"

"Eddie? You can't be here...Russians.... Billy....Dustin?" Steve mumbled his eyes not totally focusing on Eddie.

Steve seemed like he could barely hold himself up, Eddie grabbed the cloth that was slipping from Steve's grip and held him up by his shoulder.

"What happened, sweetheart."

"Hurts..."

"I know, Stevie, I'm sorry, I'm sure a paramedic will be back any second."

"You look funny," Steve giggled.

Eddie cracked a smile through the worry, "Yeah well had a whole little suprise for you."

"Bet I would've loved it."

Before Eddie could reply again a girl, covered in a lot less blood came up to them.

"I've got him, Munson."

"Buckley?"

Robin ignored him in favour of taking care of Steve, who's eyes were starting to slip close.

"You gotta stay awake, dingus, that paramedic said you've got a concussion, they're gonna take you to hospital, ok?"

Steve hummed a reply as he lent against her.

"You should get out of here before the cops try to talk to you, Eddie."

Eddie spared one last glance at Steve before nodding, Steve was safe for now and that's what mattered.

As he lay in bed later that night his plans for flustering Steve was overuled for his worry for them, what had Steve gotten himself into, what was he talking about Russians for, fire definitely doesn't cause bruises like that.

That night he dreamt about Steve laying hurt in Starcourt, when he woke up all he wanted was to go and check on him, he promised himself he'd keep a closer eye on him from now on.

Tags: Tags: @zerokrox-blog @smallfrogpleasedtomeetyou @eboyawstenn @sharingisntkaren @goodolefashionedloverboi @the-redthread @steddie-there @questionablequeeries @liorereshkigal @mightbeasleep @carlyv @my2amgaythoughts @gregre369 @space-invading-pigeon @bisexualdisastersworld @epiclazershark @sherrylyn628 @nelotegreitic

[grey-gazania]

I'm sorry someone bombarded you with bitchy comments 😭. While my To Read list is lengthy and continually lengthier (actually I think something of yours with her is on it), I'd like to hear more about Ianneth-Fingon-Maedhros if you want to talk about them.

@polutrope

It wasn't really upsetting, just annoying and honestly a little bit funny. This guy left comments on all six chapters of By Love or at Least Free Will, every time I updated the story, just objecting to the entire premise of the story and ranting about how Elves have incorruptible pure souls and are immune to lust. I was sorely tempted to respond with this quote from "Laws & Customs Among the Eldar":

Even when in after days, as the histories reveal, many of the Eldar in Middle-earth became corrupted, and their hearts darkened by the shadow that lies upon Arda, seldom is any tale told of deeds of lust among them.

'Seldom' is not the same thing as 'never', and furthermore, I don't think lust is even a major theme of my story. It's more about conflicting obligations and unruly hearts.

In the end I deleted the comments without responding, because I have a personal policy of not engaging with people who are acting in bad faith. But I have to assume that this guy has no actual hobbies if he spends his time hate-reading entire stories instead of just...closing the window and moving on with his life. Maybe take up crochet, bro? Or volunteer at a soup kitchen? Watch a TV show that you like? Grow some tomatoes? Do something that will be more fulfilling than typing long screeds on AO3. I promise it will make you a happier person.

Anyway. On to the actual topic of your ask! As you've probably noticed, I am very fond of Russingon. However, I am also very fond of Fingon as Gil-galad's father. At first I balanced these two ideas by keeping my Russingon ideas and my Fingon-father-of-Gil-galad ideas in two separate universes, but then I started really fleshing out Gil-galad's mother, and it made me think some thoughts. To repeat something I said to @cuarthol in a comment on AO3:

...half the genesis of Ianneth was seeing so many stories (in multiple fandoms, not just Tolkien) where the woman is written out of a canon or semi-canon couple to make room for a popular M/M ship instead, without the female character being treated with any respect. I decided that the female perspective on that situation would be a nice change of pace and interesting to write.

I'm not trying to point fingers -- I'll readily admit that I have my male faves just like the next gal and that it's fun to make them kiss -- but the wives and girlfriends don't get a lot of love in fandom, do they? And it doesn't help that the legendarium in general tends to be a bit of a sausage fest. So I decided that Fingon would have a wife and be in love with Maedhros. But instead of focusing just on the forbidden love, I was going to focus on the wife's feelings, too.

Ianneth ("bridge-woman") is one of the Northern Sindar, from the community that lives around Lake Mithrim. She's the daughter of Annael (yes, that Annael), whom I've imagined to be one of the more influential leaders among the Northern Sindar, and particularly among the Elves of Mithrim.

Her betrothal to Fingon starts as a political arrangement. Fingolfin loves Fingon dearly, of course, but he's also been hinting for a while now that Fingon really needs to settle down and start having kids so that there will be a strong line of heirs should Fingolfin die. After all, Argon's dead, and Turgon and Aredhel abruptly fucked off to god-knows-where some three hundred years ago and haven't been seen nor heard from since. Your dad needs some grandsons, Fingon, and this also seems like a ripe opportunity to strengthen the Noldor's alliance with the Northern Sindar.

I don't think political marriage is unknown among the Elves of Beleriand. (For one example in the text, see Celegorm trying to marry Luthien to force Doriath into an alliance.) And the quote I drew the title of the aforementioned Fingon/Ianneth story from, also found in "Laws and Customs Among the Eldar," is:

The Eldar wedded only once in life, and for love or at the least by free will upon either part.

Free will could easily mean, "Are we in love? No. But I'll still marry you, for the good of our peoples, and I'll bring some of Dad's soldiers along with me." That sort of thing happened all the time among real-world nobility, so I see no reason why it can't happen among Elven nobility in Beleriand, too.

At any rate, Fingolfin arranges for Fingon to meet the daughters of some of the more powerful leaders of the Northern Sindar, and he's hint-hint-hinting that Fingon really needs to pick one of them to be his wife. Fingon, having been in love with Maedhros since they were young in Valinor, is not exactly keen on this plan. But he goes along with it anyway because he is a dutiful son, he knows that his father is right about needing to strengthen the line of succession, and he also knows that revealing his (quite taboo!) relationship with Maedhros to his father would probably break Fingolfin's heart.

It takes Fingon a while to decide who to court, but he picks Ianneth because he likes her sense of humor; she has the guts to gently tease him at their first meeting, which he finds quite charming. He doesn't think he can love anyone besides Maedhros, but he does look at Ianneth and think, "This is a woman I could grow to care for and whose companionship I think could enjoy."

The trouble begins when, over the course of their courtship, Fingon starts falling in love with Ianneth without falling out of love with Maedhros. And he doesn't know what to do about this. He can't call off the marriage, and he doesn't want to break things off with Maedhros, so he decides to just...keep the whole thing with Maedhros a secret and marry Ianneth anyway. It's not a good decision, but really, are there any options here that won't end with someone getting hurt? I don't think so.

So we have Ianneth, blissfully ignorant of her husband's infidelity (for now); Fingon, in love with two people at once and feeling horribly guilty about it, but unwilling to pick one partner over the other; and Maedhros, resigned to the situation but still hurting because Fingon is no longer his alone.

Maedhros' feelings are complicated by the fact that, once he meets her, he finds that likes Ianneth. It would be easier, he thinks, if he could write her off as just a political necessity for Fingon, but it turns out that she's charming and intelligent and kind, and he can understand why Fingon loves her. His feelings soften further once Ereiniel is born, because Fingon is so happy being a father, and he loves Fingon, so how can he begrudge him that? There's a line from "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen that I always think of when I'm getting into Maedhros' head at this point:

And thanks for the trouble you took from [his] eyes. I thought it was there for good, so I never tried.

Things tick along about as smoothly as they can for thirteen years, until, in the aftermath of Fingolfin's death during the Dagor Bragollach, as Fingon prepares to send Ianneth and Ereiniel to the Falas for their safety, Ianneth learns his secret. This is understandably devastating for her, and leaves her wondering if Fingon ever really loved her as she loved him, or if his marriage to her was simply a politically expedient sham.

Add to that the fact that she leaves for the Falas less than ten hours after this revelation and spends most of that ten hours either crying or asleep, as she's too upset to really talk to Fingon about what she's discovered, and it leaves her with this horrible knowledge and all the worst thoughts that come from it gnawing at her nearly a full year until Fingon next comes to Eglarest -- time that she spends as the sole caregiver for her young daughter, among strangers in a foreign city, without her mother or her sister or any of her friends who might have theoretically been able to offer her some emotional support.

Theoretically is a key word there, though, because even if, say, her sister had come to Eglarest, Ianneth isn't sure she'd even be able to tell her. For one thing, she can't help feeling ashamed, because infidelity is very rare among Elves, and she can't help thinking that maybe she failed as a wife somehow, and if she'd done something different, Fingon wouldn't have strayed. Then there's the fact that he's the High King of the Noldor, and if this gets out it could cause a crisis in the Noldorin government and possibly tank the alliance between the House of Fingolfin and the Northern Sindar. Ianneth is a practical woman, and she's of the Northern Sindar -- the people who have been living practically on Morgoth's doorstep for centuries, with no Maia queen's magic girdle to protect them. Their alliance with the Noldor is vital, and she would never want to jeopardize it.

So Ianneth is just...completely alone with this pain. She has no one to turn to, no one who can comfort her. And that pain is central to her story, and a not insignificant part of Ereiniel's story, too.

[corazondebeskar-reads]

well it's love, make it hurt - chapter fifteen

well it's love, make it hurt series

fifteen: would have been nice to say I knew you

series masterlist | prev chapter | next chapter

dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

Words: 2.9k

Summary: You and Mando meet again.

Warnings: discussions of genocide, the purge of mandalore, descriptions of grief, survivor's guilt, communication?, talking about feelings??, a tiny bit of groguito

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

9 ABY - Fall

You can’t breathe. Sure, it could be a different ST-70. Maybe all Mandalorians flew them.

But—

You turn your wrist over and stare at your chrono.

You have to try.

You feel like the ghost, now, your limbs cold and prickling. Your feet carry you down the tree to the forest's edge.

It never worked at long distances. But—

If it’s his. If he hasn’t changed the programming.

It pulls right up when you turn the dial.

You press the first button to disable the ground security protocols. It gives no indication of success or failure, but it never had.

Your finger hovers over the button that, if he’s left your chrono coded into the system, will open the ramp.

Your hands shake so badly that you miss the button on the first try and end up jamming your thumb on the screen before getting it right. You’re so busy being mad at your chrono and your stupid nerves that the hiss of the ramp lowering startles you.

The thought of walking up it nearly makes you puke.

It’s funny, you think. You haven’t delved into any of the games you used to play with Mando in five years, but one look at the Crest makes a masochist out of you. That must be it, because otherwise, why would you be stepping into the hull while your chest is screaming?

Time has stood still in the Crest. It’s neat and clean. Your old bed-turned-sofa sits against the wall. You can’t bear to open the bunk or climb up to the cockpit. You can’t move at all, actually, leaden feet stuck in the purgatory of the entrance. Neither in nor out.

But it doesn’t smell right. It doesn’t smell like Mando. Sure, gunpowder and oil permeate the air, but the deep spice of his cooking is completely absent. The scent was so strong before that it clung stubbornly to every soft surface and couldn’t be shaken out.

“You went to all the trouble of that elaborate stunt in the cantina just to come right to the ship?”

The crackle of the modulator startles you enough to whirl around, blaster pointed.

“It worked, you know,” he says quietly, hands up but slowly climbing the ramp.

You back up, blaster unwavering.

“I lost your trail. Smart trick.”

“Then how’d you find me?”

“Got an alert that you disengaged the ground security.” He sighs, and his shoulders slump. “Can we talk?”

“Where’s your baby?” you counter.

“Sleeping in your apartment.”

“What?” You stare, mouth agape, top lip arched in a facsimile of a sneer.

“Well, it’s the safest place in the city, other than this ship. And I wasn’t sure how this was going to go.”

“You left your baby in my apartment. My apartment full of weapons.”

“He’s in the pod, he’ll be fine.”

“You left your baby locked in a pram in an apartment full of weapons.”

“He’s not my baby.”

Mando gives a little shrug with one shoulder.

You stare at him, eyes wide and wild. “That’s... that's worse.”

“I have a monitor.” He presses a button on his vambrace and a speaker crackles. If you listen closely, you can hear soft breathing.

You think something in your brain has snapped. Or exploded. Something critical, maybe. The nausea has been replaced with rage colder than hyperspace. It gives you the nerve to stomp past him down the ramp.

He doesn’t try to stop you. He does, however, follow you.

“Kriff off, Mandalorian.”

“I would, but I have to go with you.”

You whirl around, blaster still in your hand. “Do not follow me.”

“I need to pick up the baby. He’s at your place, remember?”

You scream. You honest-to-stars fucking scream, throwing your blaster in favor of shoving him hard with both hands.

He stumbles back a little. He must have had his guard down; he didn’t really think you’d come at him.

But you do it again, and it’s all the worse to realize he’s just letting you, and nothing is satisfying the burn, the way your teeth ache for a fight. What are you supposed to do? Punch him in his beskar head?

“Fucking coward,” you snarl, gearing up to push him again for lack of a better outlet.

He catches you by both wrists this time. His grip is firm but not painful.

You struggle even though you know it’s over.

He holds still and silent as you spit vitriol and kick at him. He even anticipates when you lunge to sink your teeth into his gloved fingers, yanking your wrists away, and you stumble.

Of course, he pulls you steady, unwavering.

Your chest is heaving; you’re still burning. “Fight back,” you huff. “Fucking fight me back.”

“You don’t want to fight,” he says, infuriatingly calm. “You want to hurt.”

“Don’t you start that shit.”

“I’m not going to, cyar’ika. But I know you.”

“Stop,” you yell. “You don’t get to say that or anything to me. You’re dead.” Your voice breaks humiliatingly on the last sentence.

“I’m sorry.”

You wrench out of his grasp as he repeats it.

You let yourself fall on the ground on your ass., leaning back on your hands in the damp field to stare straight out at the trees.

He sits down next to you, wise enough to keep a safe distance. You hate that it’s easier when you don’t have to look at him. That you can feel him, and you know, you just know it’s really him.

You close your eyes and shake your head. “S’not real. I had a bad ronto, and I’m going to wake up in the fresher.”

“That happen a lot?”

“Nah, just the once.”

“That's good. I gave one to the kid.”

You tip your head back and stare up at the stars. "How are you here?” It’s just a breath louder than the breeze.

“My tribe did not live on Mandalore, but on one of its moons,” he begins but pauses to think. “There was a... complicated political history, one I was too young to understand, that split the Mandalorians. My people built a home on Concordia.”

“You always said—”

“I know. I’m sorry. At the time, it was simpler. Easier than explaining something I didn’t know enough about.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” you mumble. “You didn’t owe me anything. Still don’t.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “Do you truly believe that?”

“Why now?” It comes out softer than you meant it to. Defeated.

He sighs. “At first, I couldn’t. I tried to reach you. But from the sound of it, I made it to Nevarro about three months after you left.”

The nausea comes back with a vengeance. “Oh.”

“I understand, now. Why you left,” he says.

It doesn’t matter. You’re fractured, like the next words out of his mouth will shatter you.

You hadn’t waited.

You had run away.

The horror must show on your face because he does a double take and sits up on his knees, turning to you. “No, sweetheart—”

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Maybe not. It was selfish. But I’ve been looking for you in every crowd for the last five years, and when I finally got a lead, I couldn’t help it. Told myself I’d just see if you were alright. But then I got here. And you were. You were safe, almost happy. I had about worked up the nerve to walk away.”

“And then I tackled you and held a knife to your throat?”

“No. Then I saw you wearing my tunic.”

"What, were you watching me sleep through my window?"

He's quiet for a beat too long.

"Wow. You were."

"And you were using it on purpose."

“It’s just a shirt.”

“Is it? If it is, I can go.”

You both fall silent.

You wrap your arms around your knees and stare at the ground. “I grieved for you,” you whisper. “It’s so stupid. I know it's nothing compared to what you've been through.” You wipe your eyes on your sleeve. "And it’s not like we were together. ” You fail to keep the bitterness from your voice.

“It would have been so much easier if we just… never saw each other again. I would have missed you, but I always knew how it would go. But the idea of you—” Your throat tightens, and you stop, struggling to take a deep breath.

You thought you were over this part. Instead, it's like cutting open a freshly-cauturized vibroblade gash. “I wish you hadn’t come. It was cruel of you.”

The night is quiet, save for the gorgs. What feels like hours pass as you sit side by side in silence.

“You never said it back," he says, not without a trace of sorrow.

You look up, the sudden noise catching you off guard. “What?”

“You said we weren’t together, but that was your boundary. Your choice from the beginning. ‘Hunting and fucking, nothing complicated.’ I thought, for a while, that things had changed. That you just needed time. But you never said it back, and then you left.”

“Never said what back?” Something is itching in your brain, something horrible and sickly. Oh, no. No, no, no.

He tilts his head, and you realize you’ve said the last bit aloud.

“No, that was a dream. We were on a beach, which never happened, so it was a dream.”

“That night? After… after we left Axis?”

You bury your face in your hands. This cannot be happening. You don’t know if you’ll survive this.

“You might have been falling asleep, cyar’ika, but I said it.”

You shake your head. “No. It wasn’t real.”

“It was. I said I loved you.”

“Stop. Stop it. You’ve done enough; fine, I hurt you. I didn’t mean to, but you can’t do this to me.” You dig your nails into the flesh of your forearm and focus on breathing, but the world has narrowed to a roaring wind in your ears and black tendrils taking over your vision.

It's been three years since you've blacked out like that, but it must have happened, because he’s holding you up when you can feel again.

“There you go, sweetheart, just breathe,” he’s murmuring. His bare hands are on you; you can feel the heat on the back of your head and middle of your spine. Your face is burning, and throat flayed.

“What doesn’t matter?” he asks.

“What?”

“You said it doesn’t matter.”

You shake your head to clear the storm and pull away from him, thankful that he lets go without a fuss. “Oh. It doesn’t matter, Mando. It doesn’t matter what was or wasn’t said. Not now.”

“Why? Why doesn’t it? It feels like it matters a lot.”

"We've lived completely different lives; we're not the same people we were then."

"We're not so changed that we can't understand one another."

You’re tired. You’re too tired to move or think carefully enough for this conversation. The panic always drains you, and it’s as if your body is finally catching up to the last three hours. Instead of answering, you just bury your face back in your hands and groan.

“Hey,” he says, reaching over to pluck a leaf from your hair. “I don’t want to leave things this way. Will you stay? Just for tonight, so we can talk in the morning.”

“I don't think that’s a good idea.”

“You fainted. I don’t think you should try to walk home. Unless you want me to give you a ride?”

“Don’t think you can land the Crest at my apartment.”

“No, with the phoenix. The jetpack.”

That wakes you up a little. “No. Absolutely not. No, thank you. I’ll sleep here with the gorgs.”

“You’ll get eaten by a puffer pig.”

“Will not.”

“They can be vicious when they want to.”

“They love me,” you say and wish you hadn’t.

“I bet they do,” and it’s sickeningly soft, not a hint of teasing. “Please, cyar’ika? I’ll sleep in the cockpit; you can have the bunk to yourself.”

You sigh. You don’t think you have it in you to scale the fucking spires and Oga’s roof again. You could go around, but that’ll add another hour. By then, the fucking suns will be up.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” you say.

“Okay,” he lies. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

You let him help you up but pull away when he tries to support you. You don’t need the help; you could stumble around the Crest and find the bunk even if you were fully asleep. All these years haven’t changed that.

When you lay down, that’s the end of it for you. All your energy slips out, and you barely notice when he tucks the blanket in.

You meet the kid first thing in the morning. Like, first thing. Two hours later, with the three Batuuan stars beaming down from the cabin to the hull.

You meet him immediately because he climbs onto the bunk, and you startle awake, reaching to draw your blaster. Lucky for the kid, you left it in the fucking field overnight.

You sit up, and he climbs into your lap and looks up at you with huge brown eyes that should frankly be weaponized. He tilts his head and coos.

“Are you the baby?” What a stupid question, you think through the haze of too little sleep and too much everything else.

He grabs your hand with three little fingers. It’s painfully cute. And painfully painful. He has some sharp little nails.

You look around the bunk. It’s the same as it ever was, except for a fabric draped across the ceiling. The sharpness starts to grow again behind your sternum, but it’s cut off when the kid makes another sound. He reaches up, and you inexplicably lean down. His little hand touches your cheek.

“Yeah, okay, you’re very cute. Did you need something?”

He looks up at you, unblinking, and you find yourself in the galaxy’s strangest staring contest for a minute. Then he yawns and reaches his arms up, and it clicks.

“Oh! That’s your bed, isn’t it?” You lift him and help him climb in. He nestles into the hammock and falls right to sleep.

You think about doing the same. Just going back to bed, or at least pretending to, so you don’t have to face Mando.

Who, of course, pops up in the doorway. He was always so fucking quiet; it only got worse after he stopped wearing his armor around the ship.

Now, though, he's fully clad. He has a hand on his helmet, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I tried to keep him away.”

“It’s fine,” you shrug. “I kind of stole his bedroom.”

“No, it’s okay; he sleeps in the pod all the time.”

Another awkward silence falls. Your head is pounding.

“C’mon, I got breakfast.”

“You got breakfast, or you made breakfast? Because I haven’t had to eat rations in five years.” You accept his peace offering and slide out of the bunk.

He closes it behind you.

“You trap him in there, too?”

“No, he can get out. This is just in case you yell at me again.”

So much for the fucking peace. You scowl and rub your left arm.

He sighs. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how to do this, either.” He waits a moment. “It’s a platter and caf from the docking bay.”

He’s got you there, and he knows it. He brings you the caf as soon as you sit down.

You brace yourself when the modulator picks up an inhale, but when he speaks, it’s not what you were afraid of.

“He’s a foundling. I’ve been quested to return him to his kind.”

“Oh.”

“He was a bounty, first. It’s a long story, but one I would very much like to tell you someday.”

And there it is. You close your eyes, lips pursing.

“I know you said it doesn’t matter. And if it’s what you really want, I’ll leave you alone,” he says.

You chew on your lip but don’t speak, which he takes as an invitation.

“Or, you could come with me.” He raises a hand when you open your mouth. “Just for a few days. I have to leave today to follow a lead before it’s too late. I can come back. Or you could come with us.”

“I have a whole life here,” you warn.

“Is that a yes?”

You groan. It shouldn’t be. You should go to your apartment, pack up your things, and take the next ride out of here so he can’t find you again. That would be the smart choice, to protect yourself.

But what you say is, “Fine.”

“Okay.” He tries to weigh his options, how best to proceed without spooking you. He wants to tear his gloves off and grab your hands, to pull you into his lap.

He doesn’t. He knows you’re not wrong. The things you both have lived through while apart are not insignificant. The pain has forced you to grow in different directions.

But it aches to have you sitting there, to have you home, and to not really have you at all.

So he does the only thing he can think of in that moment. Something desperate but not reckless. He’s thought about little else since the encounter with Gideon.

“Cyar’ika,” he begins cautiously, fingers tapping against the table. “I need to tell you something.”

You look up, lips pursed but eyes soft. Open, willing to chance what he’s about to say, but not without a hint of fear.

“My name is Din.”

*title from "Carpathia" by Taking Back Sunday

[miraclesabound]

When It All Goes to Hell

Summary: Shoresy manages to really fuck things up between himself and Reader, and while Laura is willing to help patch things up, things get ugly first. Sequel to "That Hits The Spot".

Pairing(s): Shoresy/Laura Mohr, one-sided (?) Shoresy/F!Plus Size Reader, eventual Laura/Shoresy/F!Plus Size Reader, background Sanguinet/Mercedes

Notes: I know this makes her a little more like an OC, but I'm now expressly writing Reader as a plus size woman, and Shoresy has given her a nickname related to her job as a publicist for the Bulldogs. She can still be read as any race. Set after Season 1. Any italicized dialogue is meant to be in French. Also on AO3.

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol and drunkenness, romantic frustration, canon-typical language, past fat-phobia on Shoresy's part, Reader using Shoresy's first name, misogynistic and fatphobic language, sexual harassment, aggravated assault, mention of police, description of injuries, hopeful ending (Friends to Enemies to Possible Lovers)

Tags: @pettyprocrastination, @captainsbestgal, @magpie-to-the-morning, @deadbranch, @brewed-pangolin, @ironmandeficiency

When Shoresy calls you over to play foosball with him and Sanguinet and Mercedes, you figure it’ll be guys vs. gals like it’s been most of the evening at the lanes.  Generally, it’s been you, Nat, the twins and Mercedes on one side, and Shoresy, Sanger, Hitch, Dolo and Goody on the other.  However, he surprises you by nodding to his side of the table. When you ask, he says, “Trust me, Pubsy, small game like this – makin’ Sanger play against his sweetie would just be mean.”

Honestly, you don’t mind the nickname. You like your job as a publicist for the Bulldogs, and at least he didn’t choose Pubby. That sounds too much like “Tubby”, and you hope that your weight isn’t the only thing Shoresy sees about you. In the last few weeks since he helped fix up your back, you’ve found yourself getting more and more sweet on him.

You join Shoresy on the red team, while Sanger and Mercedes take blue. “Rules are simple,” Shoresy says. “Gals on goals, guys in the middle, reset the ball if no one can reach it, we’ll play best two of three, losers buy the next drinks.”

You’re decent at bowling and billiards, but it turns out that foosball is much more your speed. With your goaltending and Shoresy on the attack, you absolutely annihilate the other couple. A third game isn’t needed, and you even join Shoresy in a bit of trash talk before Sanger goes to get your victory shots.

You and Shoresy stay a team for the rest of the night, and his arm keeps ending up around your shoulders. The others aren’t blind to the two of you getting cozy. Hitch and Dolo make particular note of it, and their conversation makes Nat’s ears tingle, even over the noise of the bowling lanes.

“You think he’s wheeling the publicist?” Dolo asks.

“Dunno, me son,” Hitch responds. “But ‘s true that where she’s to, that’s where ‘e’s at.” He smiles. “They do make a right pretty pair – would knit a fine coupla’ little ones.”

Nat’s managerial instincts are screaming at her. When no one’s looking, she pulls out her phone and sets herself a reminder – she needs to talk to you within the week about this Shoresy situation.

--

“Am I in trouble?” you ask. Coming into Nat’s office during the day is rare – she usually leaves you to your own devices in your room down the hall.

“Not at all,” Nat promises. “But I need you to be straight with me about something – are you and Shoresy a thing?”

“Um…” you shrug. “We’re not officially giving it the old college try, but we’re not not a thing…I think?” You wish you could give a clearer assessment. You and Shoresy have spent time together every day this week, and he’s been physically affectionate, but he hasn’t tried to kiss you either.

“Fuck…” Nat mutters. You look at her funny, and she speaks more clearly. “Listen, you’re a grown woman, I can’t tell you who to spend time with, but there’s some shit I think you need to see.” She pulls out her laptop and opens it to a video link. “Did you watch the National Seniors Championship back in ’19?”

“Didn’t get the chance.” You come around to her side of the desk and crouch to see the video. You squint when she hits play – “Is that Shoresy and JJ?”

“Yup – and it wasn’t pretty how they met.”

Your eyes grow wider and wider as the video goes on. It’s not just Shoresy hitting JJ’s leg that gets to you, though that’s one of the uglier hits you’ve ever seen. What’s viscerally upsetting is what Shoresy is saying to JJ through the whole thing. You’ve heard some vicious anti-fat talk in your time, both directed at you and in general. However, the pure vitriol coming out of Shoresy’s mouth is enough to make you nauseous.

The video finishes, and Nat turns to you. “You see why I’m worried?” she asks. You nod your understanding. “Plus, he’s getting Laura Mohr to warm up to him. He’s cleaned up his act, but he’s still a loudmouth, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“No, no, I get it,” you say. “I appreciate the lookout.” You really do, even if you feel your heart deflating.

--

Nat’s words echo in your head for the next few weeks, especially after Laura finally accepts Shoresy’s request for a date. You hold out hope that it’ll just be a one-off, but when she starts attending practices and coming along to group outings, you know she’s Shoresy’s sweetie for real.

You don’t hate her – far from it. In fact, as she integrates into the group, you understand why Shoresy is into her. She’s more his type, especially with the age gap, and she’s just good fun to be around. This woman knows every joke you can think of and then some, she’s got good taste in movies, and when you see her around her kid, you recognize that she’s a wonderful mother. You’re even comfortable with her calling you P in front of the gang.

No, it’s not Laura who ruins things between you and Shoresy – it’s Shoresy himself. You understand him pulling away from time together; you’d be doing the same thing if you’d met someone. That part makes perfect sense, even if it stings. That said, when you see him, he’s still kind to you – or so you think.

However, one evening changes all that. You’re finishing up paperwork in your office, and you hear the guys on the team chatting down the hallway. You’re not above gossip, so you put your work down, trying to focus on what they’re saying.

“Think we’ll ever ask JJ back?” you hear Hitch ask. “The man could do his work, b’ys.” You’ve been wondering the same thing yourself – you know he ran back to Quebec after some woman trouble, but you never knew the particulars.

You hear Shoresy’s voice chirp back, “Not if I can fuckin’ help it – Frankie’s a fuckin’ coward who doesn’t know how to treat women. Fuckin’ walrus pulled Laurence LeBouef and didn’t worship at her fuckin’ feet? Fuckin’ fat loser…”

You tiptoe to the office door, close it as quietly as possible – and then go back to your desk and sob. Nat comes by to check on you about ten minutes later, and you tell her everything.

--

You’re not going to have Shoresy booted from the team; you’re not that vindictive - but you do cool considerably around him. You’re still cordial to the others and to Laura, but to him? You are winter incarnate. One time, he tries to tease you about something innocuous, and your response shocks him.

“Knock it off, Fenton, you’re too old for this.” NO-ONE, not even his dad, uses his first name. He doesn’t know how he stepped in it, but he has to make it up to you.

It’s Laura who texts you some time later, asking if the three of you can meet up at Doghouse. You haven’t been answering Shoresy’s texts or calls, and you know that he’s using Laura as a workaround, but if she’s going to be there with him, maybe this won’t be so bad.

On the night in question, you get there early, and you find a seat at the bar. You’re looking at your phone when someone taps your shoulder.

“Hey, is this stool taken?” The voice belongs to a decently attractive man with dark well-groomed facial hair and a stylish haircut.

“All yours – my friends’ll use these other ones when they get here.”

You think that’s the end of it, but instead of taking the stool elsewhere like you expect, the man sits down next to you. “Buy you a drink while you wait? I’m Rolland, but everyone calls me RJ.” You can’t remember the last time a guy took the initiative so quickly to chat with you. You ask for a whiskey and Coke, and RJ gets a tall pint of some beer you don’t know the name of.

The conversation flows easily at first – but then you find yourself ill at ease. You don’t know if it’s RJ’s mannerisms, or if he’s looking too intensely at you – but something here isn’t right. It doesn’t help that he finishes his pint rapidly and is already on a refill while you’re only halfway through your cocktail. When he asks if you want to leave with him after only about fifteen minutes of chatting, you’re only too happy to tell him no.

“Told you, I’m meeting my friends.” Your phone buzzes, and you see a message from Laura. “In fact, they’re parking now.”

RJ has been smiling, but now that smile turns into a snarl. “You got some fuckin’ nerve leading me on, you fat bitch!” Before you can chew him out, something crashes into your face and shatters against it. You lose your balance and hit the floor hard.

As you try to sit up, RJ is staring down at you with a twisted grin. “Not so high and mighty now, are ya?” He reaches out like he’s going to grab your hair, but in a blur, he’s shoved back against the bar, and Shoresy is there, his eyes burning like the wrath of God.

You’re so disoriented by the last twenty seconds that you think you must be seeing things – when did he get here? That said, Shoresy’s voice is unmistakable. “YOU DON’T HIT WOMEN, YOU FUCKIN’ ANIMAL!” He bellows, and he lands at least two punches on RJ, both to the face.

Someone touches your arm and you nearly jump out of your skin. “Hey, P, hun, it’s just me…” You turn, and Laura’s right next to you. “Can you stand?”

You nod, and she helps you up. Two bouncers are pulling Shoresy off RJ, and when you hear a siren, you realize someone must have already called paramedics, cops, or both.

--

The paramedics confirm that you avoided a concussion, but RJ isn’t so lucky. The small cuts on your face are also nothing compared to his black eye and broken nose. The cops even try to hold Shoresy briefly for assault. They don’t let him go until they get the video from the manager showing what happened. By the time it’s all figured, it’s past midnight, and you just want to go home. Laura’s been helping you stay calm, but when Shoresy finally comes over to check on you, you lose your shit.

“Fuck you, Shoresy!”

“Fer what?!”

“Fer bein’ a fuckin’ hypocrite!” you tell him. “I know how you feel about fat people; I heard you shit-talking JJ when he’s not even here to defend himself – and then you go and nearly goddamn kill someone because I’m insulted??”

“But Pubsy, it was more than –”

“I’m not fuckin’ finished! You do this in front of your sweetie too? Like I’m…fuckin’…like I’m yours to save? And now I’m gonna hafta explain this whole goddamn thing to Nat and try to keep it out of the news and….and…oh fuck me…”

You can feel tears stinging the edges of your eyes as the last of the adrenaline leaves your system. Laura lets you lean on her, and she tells Shoresy, “Babe, I think it’s gotta be just us girls for a minute – see you tomorrow?” Shoresy pouts, but he accepts a kiss on the cheek as a goodbye and he scoots out.

You and Laura sit down on a nearby bench, and she pulls a tissue out of her coat for you. While you dab your eyes, she says, “I’m not gonna tell you not to be mad at Shoresy, but did you actually see what it was that RJ hit you with?”

You shake your head. “Nope – just that it crashed on my face and I hit the deck.”

“It was his pint glass – and I saw that one of the shattered pieces looked like a dagger. I don’t read minds, but I know I feared the worst – and I bet Shoresy did too.”

A cold feeling runs down your spine as you remember the violent glint in RJ’s eyes. “You…you think he might have…?” You make the throat-cutting gesture.

“I dunno,” Laura admits. “But I know Shoresy doesn’t want to take any chances when it comes to you – he likes you a lot.”

You want to be happy about that comment, but everything just feels like shit right now. “I’m sorry,” you groan. “I swear I haven’t been trying to steal him – fuck’s sake, I’ve been actively pushing him away!”

“I know,” Laura says. “But…if he were to get himself figured out, would you … be willing to share?”

Your mental gears grind to a halt so fast that you’re surprised steam hasn’t come out of your ears. “….WHAT.”

“That’s what we wanted to talk about with you tonight before everything went pear-shaped.”

The idea Laura’s presenting is something you just cannot process right now. Your confusion must read on your face, because she offers you a hand to stand up and says, “Let me get you home so you can sleep – we’ll catch back up on this in the morning.”

[lightwoodbanethings]

All Seeing Eyes

Also on AO3

The final bit to my re-write of the Murray/Jancy scenes from season 2, but making it Steddie!

Warning: internalised homophobia from Stevie boy! (also much more swearing!)

Eddie told Steve he could take the guest bed as he’d slept on many sofas and pull outs through his lifetime. Both boys gave each other a curt nod and went their separate ways, getting ready to go to sleep for the night. Steve had brought a t-shirt and shorts to sleep in when sharing the motel room with Eddie, however he normally just slept in his boxers. He figured since Eddie wasn’t in the room he might as well leave the t-shirt, still opting to wear the shorts as he felt odd wearing only his underwear in someone else's home. 

He sat down on the bed with a bounce, it was a very springy mattress. He took in his surroundings, the room was cluttered like the rest of the house and there was a big bookshelf filled with rows of books. Steve kept finding himself looking towards the door, thinking about the fact that Eddie was on the other side of it. He couldn’t get Murray’s comments out of his head, he barely knew the pair but why did Steve feel like everything Murray had said about him was right? Eerily spot on in fact. 

Of course he knew he’d looked at other boys in a way that most didn’t, in a way that wasn’t deemed ‘normal’ by a lot of people (his parents included). But he did like girls, that wasn’t a lie. In fact he used to love a girl, Miss Nancy Wheeler. He’d briefly spoken to Robin about his interest in other boys and how he always figured he’d just stick to girls because it was easier, made more sense to those around him. Robin of course said it was bullshit, that his feelings were valid and he shouldn’t do something just to please others. Steve knew she was right, but it still didn’t stop the tight feeling in his chest and the voice in his head telling him it was wrong. 

He had pretty much been able to ignore the whole situation until Eddie came along. Loud, obnoxious, funny, charming and ridiculously hot Eddie. He was so affectionate with Steve and constantly flirted with him, but Steve just figured that was how he was and he wasn’t anything special. But Murray’s words had him thinking, if he was right about Steve….was he right about Eddie? 

Steve shook his head and leant forward, holding his head in his hands and sighing. He wouldn’t let himself go down that road. There was no point thinking about what ifs, he couldn’t risk ruining his friendship with Eddie because this strange man who lives in the middle of nowhere has a hunch. He finally pulled the duvet back and got into bed, wrapping himself up and trying to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. 

“Scared…” Steve muttered to himself, still thinking about Murray’s earlier words. 

With a sigh he closes his eyes and wills himself to fall asleep.

Meanwhile Eddie is sat crossed legged, arms folded, on top of the blanket on the pull out bed. He finds himself staring at the obnoxiously yellow flower print on his pillows, brows furrowed.

“Trust issues” he mumbles to himself, fixated on Murrays earlier comments about his daddy issues. 

The guy knows nothing about his life or fucked up family, I mean yeah Eddie probably has some trust issues as a result of his shitty parents. But since living with Wayne, he likes to think he’s come a long way with dealing with all that baggage. 

Eddie lets his shoulders drop and lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding in. He looks over to the room where Steve is probably curled up fast asleep. His face relaxes as he thinks about the badass boy who he would have never gotten to know if it wasn’t for all this crazy saving the world shit. The guy who he thought was a complete asshole, who actually turned out to be super metal. 

The ‘ladies man’ of Hawkins, the one all the chicks dig. Fuck. Eddie really needed to get over this ridiculous crush. Maybe he should just own up to it? Tell Steve how he feels, let him reject him and move on? After Murray’s observations, now is probably as good a time as any. 

Eddie takes a deep breath in, then stands up. Heading for the guest room where Steve is, but  he only gets half way there before the door opens and out comes Steve in nothing but a pair of old gym shorts. Fuck….what was Eddie supposed to be doing again?

They both stop dead in their tracks, staring at each other. Eddie can’t help himself roam his eyes over Steve’s chest and abs. His body is perfectly toned, slightly tanned, and Jesus Christ the chest hair. Eddie is pretty sure he has stopped breathing. Steve doesn’t notice that Eddie’s blatantly obviously checking him out because his brain is too busy buffering. How can someone make a ratty t-shirt, that’s full of holes and well worn, and some baggy pajama bottoms look good? As Steve trails his eyes back up to Eddie’s face, he also notices the boy's hair is more wild than normal and damn if that doesn’t just make things worse.

“Oh, hey..” Steve somehow manages to get out, though his mouth feels oddly dry. 

Eddie snaps out of his trance, arms swaying awkwardly at his sides, “hey…”

They start to walk closer together, Eddie’s arms bouncing and swaying around as he suddenly feels like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Steve fiddles with the top of his gym shorts and clears his throat.

“I just wanted to say….say um…”

Oh shit, Eddie can already sense where this is going. Time to abort mission.

“Oh yeah, he’s totally drunk dude”, Eddie gestures with his hand before crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Wasted” Steve replies, letting his hands drop down by his sides and letting out a small laugh. So they’re going to brush off Murray’s comments, that’s fine. Steve can definitely do that. 

“I mean yeah, he’s only known us for a couple of hours and all of a sudden he thinks he’s got us figured out” Eddie smiles wide and rocks back onto the balls of his feet. This might not be the way Eddie wanted this to go, but he can adapt. 

“Yeah, right” Steve finds himself nodding along, “I’m glad we feel the same way.”

A voice in the back of both of their minds calling bullshit. 

The boys nod to each other, smiling then looking around awkwardly as the conversation tapers off. 

“So…goodnight then I guess” Steve says as he begins to back away towards the guest room. 

“Yeah…night..” Eddie also begins to back away, not looking where he’s going as he keeps his eyes on Steve, and walks straight into a speaker and television behind him. He lets out a surprised squeal and quickly regains his balance.

Steve laughs at him before giving him a small wave and turning around, “night Eds.”

Eddie flops back into bed, smushing his face into his pillows and letting out a frustrated sigh. It wasn’t exactly what he had planned to do but Steve seemed so insistent that Murray was wrong and it made sense. Why would Steve even think about the possibility of them together, it wasn’t a possibility for him. 

Steve closes his door behind him and also drops back into bed, he lays there staring at the ceiling and telling himself he should feel better now. They’ve spoken about it and are both on the same page, everything is fine. 

Yet he can’t help feeling like it isn’t. He sits up and grabs his pillow and pulls it tight into his chest. He once again finds himself staring at the door. This doesn’t feel right, as much as he wants to push the feelings away he does want Eddie in this bed with him. Even just sharing a room with Eddie offers him comfort, knowing he’s there. 

Steve throws his pillow back onto the bed and jumps up, heading straight for his door. Fuck this and fuck what other people deem to be ‘right and wrong’. As Steve gets to the door, he grabs the handle and pulls it open with force. As he’s about to walk through the doorway he runs directly into Eddie. 

Both boys pull back, looking equally as surprised. Before Steve knows what is happening Eddie is kissing him. It’s quick and brief, Eddie pulling back and searching Steve’s face. All Steve can think is that he wants more. 

Steve grabs both sides of Eddie’s face and pulls him back into the kiss, he practically feels Eddie melt underneath him. The fear and stress disappearing from both of them. 

The kiss is frantic, like they’re both starved and have been waiting for this all their lives. Eddie is pushing back into Steve just as much as he’s pushing into him. Steve feels Eddie grab his waist, the fingers rubbing over the bare skin and sending shivers down his spine. Steve moves his hand into Eddie’s wild mane, grabbing and tugging as Eddie lets out a low moan into Steve’s mouth. Eddie wraps his arms around Steve and tries to pull him impossibly closer, tightening his hold on him. They begin to step back into the guest room, Steve pushing the door shut behind them before they fall back onto the bed.

*******

The following morning both boys sit at the table whilst Murray is in the kitchen plating up their breakfasts. He’s still wearing the same dirty robe from the day before but appears to be wearing what looks like striped pajamas underneath them. 

Steve takes a sip of his orange juice as he glances at Eddie and then back towards the table. Both of them had gotten up and dressed before Murray had come downstairs, it was an unspoken decision that they didn’t want him to know about last night. Mostly because they didn’t want to see his smug expression about being right. 

Murray brings over two plates and puts them down in front of the pair, before going back to grab his own. He finally sits down at the table with a heavy sigh and immediately digs into his breakfast. 

Eddie gives Murray a small nod, as if to say thank you, and begins eating his breakfast whilst Steve pushes around the scrambled eggs on his plate. There’s an awkward silence, filled only by more jazz music, whilst they all begin to tuck into their breakfast. 

Murray begins to fiddle with his fork, looking at it almost like he’s inspecting it before looking at both of the boys in front of him. A small smile creeps onto his face and he turns to look at Eddie, just as the young man is taking a sip of his drink.

“So, Eddie….how was the pull out?”

Eddie almost chokes on his orange juice, before clearing his throat and quickly looking towards Steve who looks equally as surprised before turning his attention towards Murray.

“Um…sorry?” he puts his glass down and watches the cocky expression on Murray's face.

“The sofa” Murray replies, so matter of fact. 

“Oh…yeah…yeah it was good” Eddie stumbles to get his words out, fidgeting awkwardly in his chair. 

Steve smirks to himself, trying to hold back laughter as he tries to focus on his eggs. Murray takes a fork full of eggs and raises it to his mouth.

“I bet” he says towards the metal head, with a huge smirk before reaching to take a bite off his fork. The egg falls off, rolling off the table and onto the floor. Murray just laughs, still looking towards Eddie.

“Ooops.”

[crystallizedkingdoms]

TAZ NC: Forget

Avi’s memory fails for the first time.

wc: 1,210

you can also read this on ao3 <3

my first fic for @taznovembercelebration. twirls hair. I’m most likely gonna be veryyyy inconsistent (aiming for Sunday, Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays but no prommy) and very likely gonna be pretty johavi centric so well theres that. but it’s okay it’s gonna be very fun yayy!!! yippeee! Enjoy 💖💖💖

Memory falters on the third anniversary of the Day of Story and Song. 

Avi’s memory was far, far too good on the first anniversary. Every single memory seemed to plague his mind that first night, his voice stuck in the cracks of his broken heart that no amount of drink could fill. The second anniversary went much, much better, as Magnus dragged him out of the house to enjoy the musical festivities celebrated all in Johann’s— his  Johann’s— honour.

When the third anniversary comes around, Avi’s in his home, but there is no drink in sight. The living room window is open, sunbeams and symphonies from a nearby celebration fill the house with music and life. Avi hums along to every note, all of it memorized so deeply he’s convinced that each piece has been etched into his soul. Avi sits down on his chair closest to the window and lets his eyes rest. The afternoon festivals tend to be a little too happy than what Avi is ready for, so instead he waits by the window, listening to the sounds of bards trying their best to match Johann’s greatness.

Avi’s hums verberate in his chest. He follows along with one piece, the closest to him, and matches along with every note possible. This piece, oh how popular it’s gotten, is one that Johann had written after Magic Brian had died. The rumours surrounding the piece have been strange, and it was one of the first things to make him laugh in his first year of depression.

“…Can you believe they think it’s some secret love song you had for him?” Avi whispers. To nobody, to somebody, but not to everybody. “It’s a little funny, honestly. I’m not mad. You’ve written plenty enough cheesy love songs for him that I can actually make fun of you for. No need to make up another one.”

It’s kind of an embarrassing habit, Avi knows. Gods forbid anyone, especially Magnus, heard that he still falls into this little spell of talking to a lover who’s no longer here. Avi wouldn’t hear the end of it. That’s why he reserves it for quiet days like these. Alone and loving.

Avi strains his ears and listens. One, two, three… there! “Hah. They always fail on that one, you know? Yeah, you probably know. You probably get pissed about it all the time up there. Maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to show off all the time, even in your intimate compositions.” It’s a silly jab, he knows that Johann wasn’t necessarily showing off. He was just that good, in private and in public. There was no need to pretend he wasn’t.

Still, Avi loves to poke fun at him and the performers. That connection, however frail, is easy and hard to forget. I mean, come on, it’s impossible to forget their banter from back then. It’s Avi’s own little form of song, something so unique to them that he remembers it like the back of his hand. Johann says something serious, Avi teases something about the way it was said or why Johann said it, and Johann would quip back. 

Avi tries to imagine what Johann would say in response. 

Not my fault they can’t reach my fucking level. 

Wow. That sounds… weirdly mean. No, no, Johann wasn’t that rude. How silly.

I wasn’t showing off, dude. And it was barely intimate. 

Ugh, no. Johann didn’t sound like that. He didn’t sound like that at all. Did he?

Avi feels his heart pound in his chest. 

Hah, right. I think it cements my place as the best violinist ever. These guys can’t match my level if they tried, 

That felt more right, but the voice in his head didn’t match. Johann’s voice was deeper than that? But, no, it wasn’t too deep. And it couldn’t have been that monotone, right? 

Avi’s eyes open and he straightens up on his seat. The music from the outside world becomes loud, far too loud, and suddenly he doesn’t want to hear it. He can’t hear it. How could he stand to hear it, when he’s struggling to hear his boyfriend’s voice clear in his mind? Why couldn’t he remember what Johann really sounded like?

Avi. His own name. Avi would remember what Johann saying his name would sound like, right? Avi, Avi, Avi, Johann would always say his name like that, under his breath, like it’s the most important word in the world. Avi imagines it in his head, and he thinks that’s it. That’s Johann’s voice. No need to worry, he’s still there. Avi hasn’t forgotten Johann.

…but the inkling of doubt clouds Avi’s mind like a familiar static.

Avi stumbles out of his chair. He reaches and shuts the window closed again, and suddenly, the thought of ever opening them makes him feel sick. Avi casts away any thoughts of music or festivities and he tries to focus only on Johann, Johann, Johann as his hands search his living room. His brain scrambles to pick up each and every memory of Johann, searching deep for the memory of voice. Yet every memory sounds slightly different. Some sound completely stranger to him. Some sound almost like a parody of what Johann must have sounded like.

Avi opens the junk drawer of a console table. His hand dives into the garbage of years well-lived until his fingers grasp a smooth, round object. He picks it up with trembling hands. Shortly after the Day of Story and Song, Lucas Miller had created small copies of a device that recorded the knowledge sent out by the Voidfish. Including the bard’s final inspiration. 

He had sworn off of using it during that second year, after he listened to it nonstop during his first year of pain. Avi wonders how terrible of a mistake he has made. Avi clicks the button right in the middle and his pounding heartbeat roars in his ears so loud that he worries he won’t hear Johann’s words. But they shine through. They always do. 

“You’re going to have to fight. And… you’re gonna win!” Johann’s voice pierces through the silent room. Avi’s breath hitches in his throat. He has a low voice, as Avi remembered, but has it always been as deep as that? His voice is passionate, as all were on that fateful day, but even then his distinctive flat tone gives him away. The voice is so familiar, yet jarringly surprising to hear.

How could Avi forget Johann’s voice?

“Oh, Johann,” Avi cracks. Tears swell up in his eyes with no second to recuperate. He presses the button once again, and he listens to Johann’s voice. His heart aches to remember every single little inflection in every syllable, every tone, until Avi could never forget it again. How could he forget it? When all that Johann ever asked for was to be remembered, his boyfriend can’t even fulfill that only three fucking years later— 

Avi pulls the device to his chest and sobs. “Johann,” Avi cries out. Repeating his name and pressing that button over and over and over and over again. Until it drowns out any piece of music in remembrance of Johann that plays outside. Until memory falters, and an obsession relapses.

[chicgeekgirl89]

I Get it From You

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Andrea Reyes, Gabriel Reyes, Lexi Mitchell, OC Cousin Adriana

Rating: K

For @tarlosweeklyprompts Prompt #2: 5+1 of habits that Carlos picked up from TK and 1 that TK got from Carlos. 

A/N: I may have played a little fast and loose with it, but 🤷‍♀️.

Read on AO3

Charm

“I noticed you started wearing this recently,” Andrea says, reaching out to finger the tiny cross hanging around his neck. “It’s pretty.”

“Thanks,” Carlos says a little numbly, eyes trained on T.K.’s nearly frozen, lifeless form. 

“You’ve never been much of a jewelry person,” Andrea says, her unasked question hanging in the air between them. 

“T.K. wears a medallion around his neck,” he tells her.

“I’ve seen it,” Andrea says. “With his number from New York on it.”

Carlos nods. “He says it reminds him that he’s part of something bigger. That he’s got people to watch his back. That being on that crew probably saved his life, because even when he was…” Carlos hesitates, remembering that his mom doesn’t fully know how deep T.K.’s struggles with addiction have gone. “Even when he was struggling, he knew he had a responsibility to be there and help people. He never takes it off.”

“A good reminder of the support he has, then and now,” she says softly.

Carlos reaches up and brushes his fingers over the cross. “After the fire…everything was just so hard. I felt lost, I was kind of spiraling and one day we were out trying to replace stuff and I saw this and I felt like it kind of called to me. It reminds me where I come from. That I have roots, and a purpose.” He looks up and gives her a wan smile. “That’s probably a less religious answer than you were hoping for.”

She shakes her head, leaning forward to cup his cheek. “It’s a perfect answer.”

Pizza

“Oh my god. What the actual fuck are you doing to that pizza?”

Carlos freezes, pizza halfway to his mouth. “Eating it?” he says in confusion.

Adriana looks at him like he’s crazy. “Eating it? You’re murdering it!”

He looks down to see that he’s mindlessly folded the slice in half. “Mind your own business.”

“Um, you turning a delicious slice of Texas’ finest into that hot mess is my business.”

“How about I eat the pizza I bought and paid for and planned to eat by myself tonight however I want and you shut up?”

“Where did you even learn to do that?” she persists. “I’ve never seen you do that before.”

“It’s how T.K. eats his. It’s a New York thing. I must have picked it up from him.”

“Well can you send it back where it belongs? You look ridiculous.”

He starts to pull the pizza box away from her but she grabs on. “No! Okay! I’m sorry! You can commit pizza homicide all you want!”

He rolls his eyes and lets the box go. “It was so nice and quiet before you showed up here unannounced.”

“You’re welcome, by the way, for saving you from that sad loneliness. Where’s T.K.?”” Adriana asks around a mouthful of cheese and peppers. 

“He has a shift.”

She nods in understanding. “Down at Hunk-O-Mania. Gotta get his last dances in before you two get hitched. Nobody wants a lap dance from a guy with a ring on his finger.”

“It is unbelievable that you think that joke is still funny after like three years,” Carlos tells her with a glare.

“God he and Magic Mike both hanging up their tear away pants in the same year,” she says with fake wistfulness. “The stripping world is losing two of its greats.”

“Don’t ever show up here uninvited again.”

Schmutz

“God I love this place,” Lexi says as she bites into a donut. “I will admit I thought gourmet donuts were a stupid idea, but I have seen the light.”

Carlos breaks off a piece of his matcha donut and nods in agreement. “Have you had their mocha one? That’s T.K.’s favorite. They had that lavender one too, a couple weeks ago and it blew my mind.”

“I would usually say flowers and donuts do not go together, but after this?” she holds up the orange cream donut that’s half gone already. “I’m willing to try it.”

They end up cramming their remaining donuts down as fast as they can when a call comes in and they have to go break up some fighting parents at a high school basketball game. It’s nasty and several people have to get seen by EMT’s for bloody noses and black eyes, but no one ends up pressing charges, so they head back to the station to do paperwork before their shift ends.

“You’ve got some donut schmutz on your collar,” Carlos tells her when they get inside and the harsh florescent lighting of the station illuminates them both.

She raises an eyebrow. “Some what?”

“Schmutz,” Carlos says. “It’s like…dirt. Mess.” 

“Somebody’s been hanging out with their fiancé too much,” she tells him with a laugh as she reaches for a tissue to wipe off her uniform. “Are you headed home to cook up a brisket tonight too? Going to hail a cab to get you there?”

“Shut up,” Carlos says, feeling his face redden. 

“Are you going to stop smiling at people in the store too? And start cutting people off in traffic?”

“Oh my god stop.”

“T.K.’s east coast ways have rubbed right off on you. I would have thought the Texas blood ran deeper than that. Oh god,” she puts on a fake horrified look, “do you think Chipotle is real Tex-Mex now?”

He shoots her a glare. “Don’t you have paperwork to do?”

“I’m teasing Reyes,” she tells him. “I think it’s nice actually. Being with the right person should change you a little. And you and T.K. have changed each other in all the right ways.”

She sends him a smile and starts on the pile on her desk, leaving Carlos to contemplate the warm glow her words have put into his chest.

Team

“Carlitos, thank you for coming on such short notice,” Andrea says when Carlos steps through the front door of his parents’ house.

“No problem,” Carlos says. “Sorry to hear Frankie is sick.”

One of their ranch hands had called out unexpectedly and Carlos was a quick and easy replacement. It wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind for his day off, but family duty wasn’t something he ignored if he could help it. “Where’s Dad?”

“He’s out back,” Andrea tells him. “I texted him and told him to come up to the house. He’ll be here any minute.”

Carlos shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on a peg by the door before turning around to give his mom a hug. Andrea’s face immediately drops and she sighs. “Oh Carlitos.”

“What?” he asks, confused by her bizarre response.

She shakes her head. “You’re wearing a Mets shirt.”

“Yeah, I think T.K. brought it back from New York the last time he went out to see Jonah,” Carlos says, glancing down at the offending blue t-shirt.

“Carlos, you know how your father feels.”

“It’s a shirt Mom. It’s what I had on when you called.”

“You couldn’t have taken a few minutes to change?”

“You made it sound kind of urgent,” Carlos says in annoyance.

The back door opens and Gabriel walks in, a smile on his face. As soon as he catches sight of Carlos he sours immediately. “What are you wearing?”

“A t-shirt that my fiancé gave me,” Carlos says.

Gabriel’s voice goes low, dark like thunder. “In this house we root for the Astros. And only the Astros.”

“It’s a shirt dad. It’s not a big deal,” Carlos says. “T.K. likes when I rep his team.”

“Don’t tell me he’s got you cheering for them too?” Gabriel says, looking outraged. “Oh my god, where did we go wrong?”

“They have some really good pitchers dad. You respect a good team, they’re a good team.”

Gabriel scoffs. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”

“I can’t either,” Carlos tells him.

“Enough Gabriel,” Andrea calls from where she’s returned to the kitchen. “He came to help. Leave him alone.”

“What you do in your own home is your business,” Gabriel says tightly, ignoring her. “But I will not allow those colors to be worn in my house.”

Carlos claps him on the shoulder. “Good thing we’re going to be outside then.”

Friends

“Hey babe!” T.K. calls as he walks through their door.

The TV immediately turns off and Carlos whirls around to look at him over the back of the couch, eyes wide and innocent. “Hey,” he says back.

T.K. pauses, eying him closely. Carlos is trying for nonchalant, but T.K. can smell guilt in the air. He sets down his bag and puts his hands on his hips. “What were you just watching Carlos?”

“A documentary,” Carlos says quickly.

“A documentary.”

“Yep.” Carlos pops the “p” in an effort to seem casual.

T.K. dives over the back of the couch and snatches the remote out of his fiancé’s hand, flicking the TV back on. “A documentary about six friends living in New York in the mid-nineties?!” he yells.

“Okay, hear me out,” Carlos says, holding up his hands placatingly.

“You watched without me!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Carlos cries. “I was watching a documentary and then it rolled into the episode when it ended and—“

“You could have turned it off!” T.K. tells him sternly.

“I was going to!” Carlos says. “But T.K., Chandler and Monica?! What the hell?!”

“You said you didn’t even like it,” T.K. points the remote at his chest. “You said it was ‘fine.’ And then you went and betrayed my trust.”

“Well…I got a little invested,” Carlos says sheepishly.

“I’m glad my good taste in television is finally rubbing off on you,” T.K. grumbles. “But next time you decide to watch a pivotal episode of one of America’s greatest sit-coms, you’d better wait for me.”

Dinner

Carlos is so tired he’s not sure he’s going to make it down the hallway. Every part of his body aches to be in bed though, so he trudges onward, one foot in front of the other until he finally fumbles his way through the door. 

He can’t remember the last time a shift was this bad. They hadn’t had a single second to slow down, one call after another, nearly all of them resulting in a physical altercation or take down, and the final call of the day had been a shootout at a bank with multiple casualties. He’s bruised and sore and completely wiped out.

His bag hits the floor and he’s tempted to drop down next to it, but the next thing he knows arms are wrapping around him and T.K. is pulling him tightly into his chest. “Hey,” he breathes into Carlos’ hair. “I was so worried.”

The 126 hadn’t been called into the bank situation, but T.K. must have found out about it from someone because he’d sent multiple concerned texts. Carlos had answered as soon as he could, but there was a big difference between being reassured in a text and being reassured in person.

“I’m okay,” Carlos mumbles into T.K.’s shoulder.

T.K. pulls back and gives him a critical look, fingers brushing over a bruise on Carlos’ forehead and then a minor gash on his arm. “I’m glad you’re home,” he says, a silent acknowledgement that Carlos isn’t actually okay, but he will be now that he’s here.

“Me too,” Carlos sighs. His eyes feel like sandpaper and he desperately wants a shower, but he’s not sure he’ll stay awake long enough.

“Are you hungry?” T.K. asks. “I made dinner.”

“I think I’ll just—“ Carlos stops his response abruptly as he looks at the kitchen. “T.K. what—?”

Every flat surface is covered in pots and pans, cooking utensils, or food. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes and something is still bubbling on the stove.

“I um, I might have been a little anxious waiting for you to get home,” T.K. says sheepishly.

“So you cooked enough for an army?” Carlos asks.

“I’m going to clean it up,” T.K. says quickly. “I know the dirty dishes stress you out, and I planned to have it all done but then the fish took longer than I thought it would and the sauce wouldn’t thicken so…”

Carlos’ brain is still trying to catch up with what he’s seeing. “You don’t usually cook when you’re stressed.”

T.K. shrugs. “I couldn’t sit still so I asked myself, ‘what would Carlos do’? And then I did it. It’s surprisingly effective.” His face softens and he runs a gentle hand over Carlos’ curls. “I can’t fix your day, but I can at least make sure you’re fed. That’s the Reyes Family Motto, right?”

Carlos’ face relaxes into tender smile. “Yeah. Something like that.”

[undreaming-fanfiction]

With This Ring (14)

Chapter 13 here, Ao3 here

“So…that’s that.” 

How flat, how definite. Steve might have just solved a murder and sure, it felt fantastic and he was drunk on the victory, but it didn’t really change anything. The triumph turned into ashes in his mouth. 

Eddie was still dead. And their arrangement was done. 

The church was quiet, vacated by most of the wedding guests, but Robin and Nancy were still with them, embracing and waiting for what would happen next. 

“I…” he whispered, taking Eddie’s cold hand in his. “I’m…I’m happy you won’t be stuck down there any longer. I really am. And I’m sorry if this sounds stupid, or if I’m seeing something that’s not there.” 

Eddie bit his lip. “Steve…” 

“No, let me finish. Please.” It was almost funny. While Steve prided himself on wearing his heart on his sleeve, no matter how vulnerable it made him, he wasn’t great with words. Just a few hours ago, he had no idea how to voice what he felt. But now the words were pouring out, raw and unfiltered, and he had no intention of stopping them.

He grasped Eddie’s hand even more firmly and felt the cool metal of the ring that, in spite of his and Nancy’s family, found its way to the right person. “Having you back, even for such a short time…it made me realize I was an absolute moron when I thought I could ignore you. That I could forget you, you and your music. At first, I thought it was just an outlet, a hobby, but…I don’t think I would have fallen in love with it so deeply if it weren’t for you. I think I fell in love with music because it was a part of you.” 

Eddie’s lip was trembling, but he wasn’t letting Steve go. He interlaced his fingers with Steve’s and pulled him closer, holding their hands cradled to his chest. How could Steve not continue after that?

“I fell in love with you years ago, Eddie. It took me way too long to figure it out, but…that’s what it is,” he shrugged. “And maybe I should have kept it to myself, to let you pass peacefully. But I wanted you to know. I’m selfish like that.” 

“Selfish my ass, Harrington,” Eddie chuckled, but the sound was wet, pained. “I haven’t seen you do a single thing for yourself.”

Steve smiled at him. “Then let me show you one.” 

Slowly, giving Eddie all the time in the world to move out of the way, he kissed him. It was a brief and chaste peck on the lips. 

Eddie whimpered when Steve pulled back. Before he knew it, Steve’s arms were full of his friend, his love, as Eddie pulled him into a tight hug and buried his face into Steve’s shoulder. 

“You asshole,” he whispered. “You utter asshole. You couldn’t have done this when I was still alive, huh? You just appeared one day with your…your hair, your hands, your stupidly bright smile, made me forget I’d ever even looked at other boys, even if I had no chance with you. And now…how the fuck am I supposed to move on, huh? How am I supposed to leave?” 

Steve was stroking his back, his hair, and maybe there were some of his own tears too. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered into Eddie’s wild locks. They smelled of Steve’s shampoo. “Told you, I’m selfish. And I really didn’t want to hold you back, I swear, but it’s just…it’s impossible not to love you.” 

“Says the guy I’ve been in love with since he butchered “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” on the school piano,” Eddie snorted, but soon his smile faded away. “I think we have…what. Two days before they deliver the tape, and then it’s over for me. I thought…I really thought I’d be happy. But it feels like I’m leaving everything I love behind.” 

“Eddie-”

They barely registered the church door opening. The next sentence, however, was way more difficult to ignore. 

“Well. Good thing you probably won’t have to.” 

Steve and Eddie spun around and stared at the quiet procession from the land of the dead. It was led by Murray who did his absolute best not to limp under Alexei’s weight. Bob was by his side, holding a bunch of books. There was Benny, Nancy’s grandmother, and many others. 

Well. That wasn’t menacing at all.

“But...I signed the contract,” whispered Eddie. He was still wrapped around Steve and didn’t seem keen on leaving their embrace.. “Stupid, I didn’t even think...but I signed it. I need to move on.” 

As surprising as it was for someone without blood flow, muscles or skin, Murray’s face seemed like there was a vein twitching. “Yes, you did sign it.” But instead of finality in his voice, Steve detected...annoyance? Confusion? Definitely internal conflict. 

“...but?” asked Steve, prompting Murray to voice whatever was eating him up inside. 

“There might have been...a loophole,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “If I’m honest...I don’t know if I should be impressed or mad.” He motioned towards Bob who was proudly holding Eddie’s contract in his injured hand. “Read it. And you,” he said to Bob, “tell him what you did.”

Bob’s smile was, as always, gentle and unassuming. He briefly cleared his throat and glanced at the paper. “I, Eddie Munson, swear to move on. My conditions are: I record my music and send it to my contact, Craig in Indianapolis, with potential royalties, rights, whatever...to Wayne. When it reaches him, I can go.” He winked at Eddie and Steve as if it answered everything. 

They just stared back. 

Murray tapped his finger impatiently on the ancient tome in his arms. “And what did you do...?!” 

“Oh, right.” Bob folded the paper back into his shoulder bag, with less care than would be appropriate for such an important document. “When did you send that tape?” 

“Uh…today?” 

The soft tone of Bob’s voice carried on. “Did you check it before sending it?” 

When Steve just stared and remained quiet, a confused wrinkle on his brow, Murray growled. “Just tell him.” 

Smile still on his face, Bob shushed Murray. “I’ll do even better. I’ll show him.” He reached into his vest pocket and produced something black and tiny. It was Ozzy, grumpy and sleepy as always. Bob gently nudged his side and the bat’s wings unfurled, revealing a familiar-looking tape. 

Eddie’s mouth opened in amazement, his eyes wide and still glistening with tears. “Oh.” 

Bob grinned at him, although there was a tinge of guilt in it. “I’m afraid I decided to…how to say it best. Meddle a bit.” 

Eddie licked his lips and stared at Bob, as if he’d just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “So…it never got sent. It won’t reach him because it’s here,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “I...I thought it was already collected on its way to Craig. You decided to swap it?!” He was laughing at the end, wiping his eyes. “Jesus H Christ, undead bureaucracy, am I right? I’m so glad I have rule-breaking friends!” 

Alexei, who had left Murray’s shoulder and was sitting perched on a nearby statue, winked at Steve. He had a hunch that Ozzy had some help opening the case. But Murray could never learn about the feathers left on Robin’s floor, or the nonexistent vein on his forehead would actually explode.

Steve still couldn’t believe his ears. It sounded too good to be true. “So...it’s that simple?” he asked cautiously. “We just...tear up the contract, you do your magic thing and Eddie will be-” 

He couldn’t bear to say it. He couldn’t say it because what if it wouldn’t work? 

Steve tried again, forcing the words through his teeth. “Didn’t you say that no one would ever ask for these spells? And that there was some horrible cost to the ones that worked?” 

Murray really seemed at the end of his rope. His bony fingers clutched the book like a lifeline. “Yeah, I said all of that. And it all stands, except...there’s a certain...peer pressure.” He spat out the words like a curse. “Eddie, congratulations. You’re the first one to get kicked out of the world of the dead. There’s even a petition.”

Eddie just blinked. “There’s a...what?” 

“A petition.” Another paper found its way into Bob’s hands, and he passed it to Eddie in barely contained triumph. “We, the inhabitants of the Hawkins section of the world of the dead, have decided that in order to rest in peace and quiet, we agree to break the unwritten law against resurrection spells.” He laid his healthy hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “No offense Eddie, we love your music so much, but if we ever have to hear you moan about an imperfect chord again or smash your forehead against piano keys, we might have to rebrand to a purgatory.” 

Eddie’s dark eyes skimmed over the signatures. There were...a lot of them. “How did you have time for this?” he asked incredulously. No way had this been completed in the short time he was upstairs. “Was that you, Bob?”

Bob laughed and shook his head. “Oh no, I’m not that persuasive.” 

Murray’s murderous stare revealed to everyone what he thought of that statement. 

“I’m serious, Eddie. I was working in the tower with Murray and Alexei. But someone else volunteered. Someone who provided invaluable help to our...revival cause.” 

Eddie of course asked who it was, who was the one that decided to give him a second shot at life, but Steve didn’t need the name. As he heard gentle steps behind him, he immediately recognized the pattern that haunted his dreams to this day. He turned towards the sound and felt breath catch in his throat. 

“Hi, Steve.” 

“Hi, Barb,” he choked out and reached towards her, pulling her into a hug. He heard Nancy’s sob near the altar and the sound of her heels. Soon the embrace wasn’t just him, it was the three of them, just like the day of that fateful pool party. 

There was a “I’m so sorry” said, but he didn’t know if it was him or Nancy. Probably both. And Barb was still smiling and stroking their backs, quietly instructing them to breathe. 

“Why can’t you come back?” whispered Nancy, and Steve was stabbed with a new thorn of guilt. In his elation of getting Eddie back, he never spared a single thought to all the people taken before their time. 

But Barb shook her head, hugging him and Nancy even closer. “I’ve never been much of a rebel,” she laughed into Nancy’s hair. “My only regret was that I never got to say goodbye to my parents, never got to tell them how much I loved them for the last time. And with Eddie coming back…well. I hope he won’t be opposed to delivering one letter?” 

Her eyes found the long-haired young man. 

“Of course. Shit, of course I won’t,” he choked out and joined their group embrace, squishing all three of them together. “I mean, I won’t mind. I will deliver anything you ask for.” 

“Thank you, Eddie.” Barb had been detached, almost shy in her life, but now she was relaxed. For the first time that Steve had known her, she seemed to be at peace. 

Nancy held on to her, gripping Barb’s sweater with white knuckles. “B-but! You had so much to live for! Still do!” 

Barb’s pale hand kept patting Nancy’s back, stroking between her shoulder blades just like she had a thousand times before, when her best friend got bullied for being too thin, when she lost an argument with her teacher despite being right, when she dared to think for the first time she might not be in love with Steve despite him being exactly what she should have wanted. The coldness didn’t dull the comfort of the gesture. 

“Nance. I know it hurts, and I’m so sorry I had to leave you. But I need to go. I’m okay with that.” She took Nancy’s face into her hands and wiped away the tears, smiling from behind her glasses. “Hey, don’t be sad. Accidents happen, it’s not fair, I know. But it was only that - an accident. You and Steve did everything you could to save me. I saw you both. You fought for me until the very end and I’m so grateful to have been loved like that.” 

She looked at Steve and, in a very non-Barb fashion, pinched his cheek. “Don’t make that face. Despite what you think, you did enough. More than enough. I might not have seen it that way directly after, but now I know. Neither of you did anything that would need forgiveness, but if it helps you…I forgive you. And I want you both to be happy.” 

She squeezed Nancy, Steve and Eddie one last time and then took a step back. “I think we’re ready to proceed here,” she smiled at Murray. 

The skeleton grumbled in annoyance, but he picked up the old grimoire. “Finally, I was getting worried my bones would turn into dust before we finish this…exceptional resurrection. Now, will the sacrifice come forward?” 

That caught Eddie’s attention. “A sacrifice? What sacrifice?” 

Murray moved to the side and so did the visiting inhabitants of the world of the dead. 

In the middle of the aisle sat Dart. He was impatiently grooming his whiskers. “That would be me. Hi again.” 

The skeleton’s bald spot was about to catch on fire. “Apparently, the tome does not specify a human sacrifice is needed,” he muttered through his teeth. “How original to think of that, Bob.”

Eddie ran to him, kneeled in front of the disinterested cat. He held Dart gently by his sides, as if he’d wanted to shake him by his shoulders.  “Oh no no. Nonono. You won’t. I can’t be responsible for someone’s death. And you…you helped me so much. I mean, you bitched a lot, but I held it together thanks to you and Ozzy. I can’t-” 

Dart pawed at Eddie’s hands, no claws. Yet. “How cute. You really think you can keep a cat from doing what he wants to do.”

“But-”

“No buts, Edward Theodore Munson.” But of course, Eddie had that wounded look that no one, not even Dart, could resist. He sighed and nudged Eddie’s knee as an apology. “How long do you think I have, huh? I can’t even jump on the counter in Benny’s bar without help. I’m going blind. I know that my time is coming. And that brutish ginger asshole is getting closer and closer to my territory.”

“What asshole?” whispered Steve to Barb. 

Barb shook her head. “The cat Dustin’s neighbors have. Garfield’s his name, if you can believe it. He’s not even fat. But he’s been getting more and more control over Dart’s street.” 

Dart disregarded them and continued. “I can just waste away and die somewhere in a ditch, or I can do something useful with what I have left. Something meaningful. But…” he dragged out, nonchalantly wrapping his tail around his front paws, “if you happen to feel slightly indebted, you can promise me this. When I return for my next life - and I will, nine lives and all that - give me a warm bed, good food and all the things that make a cat happy. It would make my departure much easier, knowing I have a good home waiting for me.” 

Eddie decided to break even more unwritten rules and lifted Dart into his arms, hugging him. “Of course. Shit, you don’t even have to ask, I’d do that even without you doing…well. This for me.” 

Dustin once told Steve that cats couldn’t smile, science said so. Still, what was on Dart’s face was definitely a smile. “I know you would, Eddie. This will be the only sentimental thing I ever say, but…I wouldn’t do this just for anyone. So be safe and make good choices before I come back to watch over you.” 

“I will.”

“Good. Now let me down so I don’t spend the rest of my life exchanging pleasantries.” 

As he walked with his fading feline grace towards Murray, Dart looked back at them one final time. “Oh, and a word of warning. If you get me a collar with one of those annoying bells, I’ll scratch you where the sun doesn’t shine. Yes, that will make for good last words. I’m ready now.” 

Steve put his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him close. “See you soon, Dart. Don’t keep us waiting.” 

Feeling Eddie’s skin turn warm again was one of the most joyful moments in Steve’s life. Kissing him properly for the first time on warm lips, through tears, mumbled confessions and shared breath, that was definitely on the list as well. Going house shopping with Eddie with the massive payout from the Carver family - yes, a permanent restraining order was a part of that deal - and seeing Eddie’s excitement (“It has air conditioning, Steve! And a proper shower! Fuck, I feel so rich!”)? That one too. 

But there was yet another moment that competed for the number one spot of instances where Steve’s heart could burst from happiness. 

It was the same day when they ruined Nancy’s wedding. Chief Hopper forced Eddie to go to a hospital for a quick check-up. “You were dead, young man,” he said and his tone allowed for no counterargument. “You’re not dying again on my watch.” 

Eddie was lying in the hospital bed, bitching and moaning about the food, the smell, the feel of the sterile sheets, the atrocious hospital gown. “Imagine this. You die. You don’t eat for a year or something. And the first food your newly resurrected tongue tastes is a hospital meatloaf. Is that the justice I deserve?! I say no!” 

Steve was way too happy to argue against his boyfriend’s misery. He just assured him that the second he got discharged, they would get dinner, his treat. They were listing all of the restaurants in Hawkins and discussing the pros and cons of each one. The meatloaf didn’t count, said Eddie, and Steve had to agree. Eddie’s first meal of his new life had to be perfect. 

There was a knock on the door. 

“Come in!” 

A nurse opened the door and announced that Eddie had a visitor. Steve knew who it was even before she could utter the name. After all, he’d snuck out to use the hospital phone the second he could. And now? He just watched with a smile so wide it hurt his cheeks how Eddie’s face lit up. He committed it all to memory; Eddie’s shaky breath, his hand - ringless for once, doctor’s orders - over his mouth in disbelief. “No way.” 

He saw a flash of flannel in the doorway. A gruff voice said: “I need no introduction, thank you, now let me see my nephew!”

Eddie suddenly didn’t mind being seen in that ugly hospital gown. He jumped out of the bed, much to the displeasure of all the machines checking his vitals, and flung himself at the older man, his words too fast and interlaced with sobs to understand. 

Wayne Munson dropped his bag and pulled Eddie into a crushing hug. 

“My boy.” 

Final chapter here