#sometimes they look at you like they’re mourning something

[murdrdocs]

REARRANGE YOUR WORLD. luke castellan

description. as the daughter of the god of dreams still honing her powers, you sometimes found yourself sucked into the dreams of others. tonight, like most nights, you find yourself in the dream of luke castellan. however, his dream seems to be more pleasant than it usually is

includes. SMUT 18+, fem!reader, she/her pronouns for r, consensual voyeurism (luke watches), dub con voyeurism (r watches luke watching…), subby!Luke, dom!reader (dream scape reader), real r and luke r just friends, cliffhanger don't be shocked; title from this must be my dream by the 1975

pt 2

wc. 1.3k+

a/n: the description and warnings makes it sound confusing but its not i swear.

Your dreamscape begins to morph. 

You’re barely allowed to mourn the disappearance of the world you love so much, soft grass that acts as a cushion beneath your lax body, the distant smell of salt water and the soft sound of cascading waves just a little ways away. Nobody else in the world is there with you, yet you don’t feel lonely one bit. 

And then, it’s ripped from under you and you find yourself in a bedroom instead. 

It’s large, warm as if there was previously a source of heat but you don’t find one. You exist solely among furniture, a grandiose bedroom suite, a four poster bed in the center, the shape of what looks to be a couch in the corner. But nothing else is as clear as the bed. 

You take a step closer, preparing for the piece of furniture to be the focus of the dream. 

There’s just a few moments before the subject appears where things start to change. The changes aren’t noticeable, and if you hadn’t been forced to exist in dreams for a while now you wouldn’t have recognized them. The way the air became more humid and a little stuffier. The smell of the air becomes more pungent with a light musk that reeks of human sweat. And then you can feel a presence even before it’s there. 

That’s when they appear. 

One figure sits at the edge of the bed on their haunches. From what you can tell, they’re masculine presenting, the expanse of their back toned and tanned, dotted with a few sparse moles. They’re wearing nothing but dark boxer briefs. 

The other figure sits towards the top of the bed. They’re lounging more so, wearing nothing but feminine undergarments. It takes you a while to notice who it is, and you spend the time analyzing their position. Leaned back on their elbows casually, legs bent and connected at the knee. They hold the position and air of a goddess, but it’s not until the dream clears you that you notice they aren’t a goddess. They’re a demigod. 

They’re you. 

Wearing a confident smile (bordering on a smirk) as well as she’s wearing that underwear set. 

Your eyebrows furrow, you take a step closer, trying to figure out who is having a dream about you. 

You step to the side of the bed and focus on the masculine figure. When your eyes land on Luke Castellan, things start to click into place. 

Usually, Luke’s dreams are nightmares. Many times have you been pulled from the serenity of your dreamscape into the tortuous lands that Luke’s mind produced. You’ve fought off monsters from the deepest pits of the underworld along Luke’s side, only to wake up in the morning bearing the mental scars and smiling in Luke’s face as if you were unaware of your presence within his mind. 

Your shoulders briefly start to tense as you prepare yourself for such. You wait, and wait. Anticipating the ground to open and swallow the scene. Or for a lightning bolt to strike down your surroundings. Or for something to come from somewhere to morph this brief serenity. 

But the nightmare never comes. 

Which leaves you to watch and see what will come. For better or for worse. 

A few moments go by and then Dream You is speaking. 

“Are you going to watch me, Lukey?” 

Your eyebrows raise at the nickname. It’s not one you haven’t called him before, but you usually say it in an egotistical tease, used mostly during intense moments like capture the flag or during training. 

Never with that tone of voice. 

Dream You speaks like a temptress. Her voice is smooth, teasing, and seductive. You don’t even know if your real life voice is capable of sounding like that. 

Luke nods, curly hair bouncing with the movement. 

“Yes.” He hesitates for a second before adding, “If you’ll let me.” 

Her grin grows and it’s not unlike the appearance of the cheshire cat. 

“Of course I’ll let you, Luke. I’m not cruel.” 

Dream You spreads her legs and the wet patch in the center of her panties is so vivid and emphasized. It’s only something that could exist within a dreamscape, a place where everything was emphasized. Desired or not. 

With the way Luke’s breath hitches, you’re sure the sight of Dream You’s arousal is heavily desired by him. 

His fingers twitch at his sides as if he wants to touch you. You notice Dream You’s eyes glancing down to his digits, but if she notices his eagerness she doesn’t say anything. 

She situates herself up against the headboard and uses her now freed hands to touch her body. One hand goes to her chest and the other goes between her legs. She closes her eyes, and begins to touch over her slit. 

“What do you say?” She asks Luke, her eyes still closed as she gets lost in the movements. 

Luke’s reply is nearly instant. 

“Thank you.” 

Dream You sighs, she hums dismissively, and then she hooks her thumbs under the elastic of her panties and slides them off of her legs. 

For some reason, your first instinct is to turn away. It’s only now that you’ve realized that Luke Castellan is having a wet dream about you, and you then realize that this is an intrusion. You shouldn’t be here and you should instead be working on finding your way out. 

There is no reason for you to stay. Surely, Luke won’t be in any danger in this dream. There'll be no variables for you to manipulate or no reason to wake Luke up before he goes too far under. 

But then again … it’s your body. You look at it every single day and that shouldn’t have to change solely because you’re viewing it through someone else’s perspective.  Intrigue preys on you, urging you to get closer and closer until you can feel the heat wafting off of their bodies. 

You take a step closer. 

Since Luke has never seen you naked (from what you know at least), there are a few things that are off. Before you can stop yourself, you’ve blinked and your dream body is as realistic as the one in reality. 

She swipes her fingers through her slit, dragging them up to her clit to rub a few circles, then she goes back down to slip her fingers into her entrance, two at a time. 

Her moan is instantly pornographic. She throws her head back, arches her back, spreads her legs even more as her fingers start to pump in and out of her cunt. The noises are loud and lewd and vivid. They should make you cringe, and if you weren’t starting to be affected by Luke’s dream then maybe you would have. 

Instead, you notice Luke beginning to palm the very prominent shape in his briefs and you can feel yourself falling under a spell of sorts. Everything becomes dreamier. You’re losing your self control. You’re having to fight the urge to kneel on that bed with Luke. 

You don’t know if you expected Luke to ask Dream You for permission to touch himself (the relationship between these two is almost as intriguing as their movements), but he doesn’t. He reaches into his briefs and pulls his cock out. 

You get a glimpse of his head—red and leaking and admittedly enticing—before your moral compass knocks back into place. 

You take one step back, and then another. There really is no reason for you to be in here. Luke is fine, he’s probably having the time of his life, and you no longer have to play the role of the worried friend. You can leave him to his dreamscape, and return to yours where you’ll either try to remember as many details as possible or try to forget it all. 

Either way, you shouldn’t be in here. 

You turn around and a door appears. 

Your foot lands in front of you, and you’re about to make your way to the exit until Luke speaks. 

“Stay.”

[eyesofshinigami]

Boyfriend Privileges

Rating: T

CW: None

Tags: Just getting together, language, fluff

Prompt: For @sparklyslug "Love is letting him pick the music"

WC: 959

Written for @steddielovemonth Day 21

The rules were simple in Steve’s car. Wipe your feet before you get in. No snacks or drinks. And most importantly, don’t touch the fucking radio.

Steve is very particular about his music. He likes what he likes and he won’t hear anything about it. He likes pop music because it’s happy, it’s fun, and it gives him something mindless to sing along to when his head feels too full.

Even when the kids complain, or Robin teases him, Steve is steadfast. Whatever is playing is what’s going to play, and no one is going to be able to say anything about it. 

But then Eddie came crashing into his life like a hurricane. 

Eddie is a lot of things that Steve isn’t. He’s confident and loud, brash and unapologetic in just about everything he does. They’re also the same, sometimes; they’re both scarred, both of them just wanting to be loved, to be understood. 

Falling for Eddie was a quiet thing, for Steve. It crept up on him until one day he looked at Eddie, smiling and laughing as he and the kids were gathered around the table playing their dragons game, and he thought oh. Oh I want to be with this person for the rest of my life. 

That’s where it started, and now they’re here. It’s only been a couple of days since Eddie beat him to the punch and confessed first. They kissed, they touched, and decided that this is something they both wanted. Steve could hardly believe that Eddie wanted him back. 

They hadn’t told the kids yet; not that they were hiding it, but they were both enjoying just being together and figuring out what exactly that meant. But it’s good already, with Eddie giving him a sweet, private smile as he slides into the front seat. Steve had volunteered to pick the whole gaggle of them up from the arcade so he could bring them back to his house for a movie night. 

“Heya Stevie,” Eddie says, pulling his hair across his mouth. It’s enough to make Steve’s heart start beating fast even over the sound of the boys climbing into the backseat. “Happy to see me?”

“Always,” Steve answers honestly. Eddie’s cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink and Steve mourns the fact that he can’t leave over and kiss him. Soon, he tells himself. Once they drop the kids off, they’ll go back to Eddie’s trailer and-

“We’re burning daylight, Steve! I thought we were going to watch a movie or something!” Dustin’s voice breaks through the lovesick haze that had settled over them.

Steve grumbles and turns the car on. “Keep your shirt on, butthead. We’re going now.” That incites another bout of grumbling and arguing from the backseat. “Don’t make me regret offering you guys the chance to use the TV. Or make me consider throwing out all those snacks I bought, or sending the pizza back…” 

Eddie pretends to swoon and presses his hand to his forehead. “Oh no, please, oh gracious King of my Heart! Do not let the ramblings of the peasants cast a shadow upon your infinite kindness and patience!” He looks up at Steve with big, wide eyes that make Steve think a whole lot of other things besides the upcoming movie night. “What can this fair knight do to assuage the slight against your good name?”

“I could think of a few things,” he says, just loud enough for Eddie to hear. It makes a pretty cat-like grin break out across Eddie’s face. Oh, the things they’re going to do later…

Eddie seems to be on the same page, licking his lips as he reaches up to the radio. He pushes the button and pops the tape out, slipping in  the he’d made for Steve the night they decided they wanted to give this a go. It makes Steve’s heart skip a beat. 

It’s probably why it takes him so long to realize that the backseat has gone completely silent. No squabbling, so arguing, no nothing. Dead silent. Eddie picks up on it too, turning around in his seat to stare at them. “Did someone press the mute button? What gives?”

“You touched the radio,” comes Will’s voice from the back, sounding awed. 

“Yeah? And? Steve always lets me put music on.”

That gets a reaction. Dustin and Mike start squawking protests. “What the hell, Steve?? You never let us pick the music? You don’t even let Robin touch the radio! What are the three rules of riding in the Bimmer?” Dustin calls out.

“Wipe your feet. No snacks or food. And most importantly, don’t touch the radio,” the other boys in the back chorus together. 

Eddie turns and looks at Steve, smile getting impossibly wider. “Is that so?” 

He could deny it. He could lie and say they’re just being shitheads about it. It’d be really easy. “Yeah. Yeah it is true. But you know,” Steve stops, reaching over and grabbing Eddie’s hand to press a kiss to the back of it. His heart is pounding, but it’s worth it for the stars he sees in Eddie’s eyes. “You’re the exception to the rule.”

The backseat erupts in a whole different bout of noise, but Steve tunes it out. He’s too busy enjoying the way he and Eddie’s fingers are laced together over the console, the mixtape Eddie made for him playing in the background. 

“Does this mean you’ll let us eat in the car now?” Mike tries, sounding put out. 

Steve shakes his head. “Absolutely fucking not.” Though, he looks over at Eddie, who is still grinning like the cat who got the canary. “Except you. Boyfriend privileges and all that.”

It’s worth the noise coming from the back.

[deadsetobsessions]

Trigger Warning: blades, mild torture, injuries, and what amounts to suicidal thoughts and actions (he lives at the end but he does need a hell of a lot of therapy)

Tim shudders, as best he can while bleeding and bruised and broken.

The Red Hood is above him, mechanical voice melding into the raspy deeper tones of an Older Jason Todd. His voice is hollow and cruel as he digs his blade into Tim’s flesh. It hurts. But, Tim thinks dazedly, having Robin, Tim’s Robin, hating Tim hurts worse.

“Wow, Replacement, no last words for the person you stole everything away from?”

Jason’s mocking him.

“Okay.”

“What’s that, Replacement?”

Tim is so incredibly tired. And the blade held to his neck is starting to look like comfort. Tim thinks-

“My last words. You- You want to hear it?”

His hero’s face tilts, green eyes sparking something deep within Tim’s memory. But he’s so tired.

“Sure, let’s see what kind of recruitment pitch you’ve got for me, Replacement.”

Cruel. So cruel. Mocking him with false warmth. But false warmth is better than the coldness of Drake manor, the coldness of Bruce’s grieving form or Dick’s smile, sometimes when he thinks Tim’s not looking.

Ah, Tim knew it. His Robin will always be better than any other heroes, even if the false warmth makes his heart hurt worse than the broken ribs he’s now sporting. That Hood is pressing a knee down on to keep him immobile. Not that Tim could move anywhere considering both of his legs are broken. Tim wonders what it is about him that makes it impossible for people to muster up warmth towards.

“Do you know why… why heroes are so… so loved?” He wheezes out. He doesn’t wait for a response from Hood. “It’s because… they choose good- they choose to better the world- to save people, even if… even if they weren’t saved themselves. No matter how much- the obstacles, there’s always, an obstacle. But they try anyways.” Tim has to wrap this up. He’s losing coherency. “It’s why… it’s why this is okay. You… you’re choosing to save… to save Gotham from the Joker. Ev’n if you weren’t saved yourself. You’re not… good. You kill.”

Red Hood- Jason, snarls. Tim, blinking slowly, admires the man’s green eyes. “That’s fucking right-”

“But, you can be. Y’re helping.” And because this is important, because Tim has an alter set up to mourn Jason, “You were my hero,” Tim says, and Jason stops short, expression blanking. “So. I’ll help- help remove an obstacle so… so you can keep helping. Helping people like… like me. Or, not like me. Something.”

With that, Tim summons the rest of his strength and presses his neck towards the blade, starting the process to slit his own throat.

Jason flings the knife away, expression crumbling in horror as he stares down at the child he just tortured.

And as Tim’s voice fades, as blood spills out of his neck, as Tim gives him time to retrieve the knife, Jason breaks.

Oh, Tim thinks. His eyes weren’t green. They’re supposed to be blue.

——

Jason sits beside the medical cot, the steady beeping of the heart monitor grounding him as he held two fingers on the kid’s- oh god, he’s a fucking kid, Todd, you monster- pulse.

Jason will grovel when Tim wakes up. Because he turned into the kid’s Joker and Willis and if there’s anything Jason won’t ever allow himself to turn into, it’d be those two. He crossed a line. If Tim wants him to rip his liver out and present it to him, Jason thinks he’d do it on the spot.

Fuck. He fucked up.

[frogchiro]

slasher!graves with muscular, but fluffy dad bod 😞😞 like, he’s in his mid forties, his body no longer like it was in his twenties but it just got a little fluff to it!!

his flannels are fitted well for his built arms, and when they’re tucked into his wrangler jeans, his soft tummy is even more noticeable :((

Fluffy dad bods are something else I swear :(( And yes you're so right!! This is literally Slasher Graves!!

He may sometimes grumble and growl that his flannels are tight across his chest and tummy but it all gets forgotten when he catches you numerous times peeking at him whenever he is without his shirt as he was carrying hay bales or wood. Not to mention how he sometimes teases you that you're 'fattening him up' whenever you bring him cookies or a fresh cake you baked and you're left all flustered and whiny that you'd never do such a thing :((

Sure, he still sometimes mourns that he isn't as fit and well build like he was when he was 25, but ultimately he realizes that it only gives him a more mature and refined look, not to mention a sign of good health and strength, that means perfect material for fathering your baby!♡

[munsonkitten]

They say it’s for his own good. Because he’s dangerous. But Steve doesn’t feel any more dangerous than he did before this whole mess. Like, seriously, he could kill literal monsters with nothing more than a bat covered in rusty nails. He doesn’t feel any more dangerous now than he did when he hit Billy Hargrove with a fucking car or when he held back in all the fights he’s ever lost. Because he could kill fucking monsters. He wasn’t gonna find out if he was capable of killing teenage boys too.

He sees Eddie sometimes.

Eddie looks dangerous, but then he always has. Even if he never was. He always had that look to him, with his leather and chains and heavy boots. Dangerous in a good way.

Now he looks bloodthirsty.

Well, ha, Steve thinks. That’s because he is.

Steve is too, but he doesn’t think that’s grounds for imprisonment. He doesn’t think that’s grounds for being held hostage in the newly reopened and renovated Hawkins Lab.

They say it’s because he’s dangerous, but if that’s the case then they should’ve locked him up years ago. They should’ve seen what was wrong with him back when he was that asshole popular kid at Hawkins High.

Every time he sees Eddie these days it’s when they’re being shoved down hallways. They have Eddie in a mask to prevent biting. Some clear plastic thing that shows his snarling face as he’s pushed. His teeth are sharp and pointed, and he has this wild look in his eyes. There’s blood inside the mask more often than not. Whether it’s someone else’s every time, or if it’s Eddie’s, Steve never really knows. A mix of both, most likely.

They make eye contact and Steve tries to tell him they’ll get out of this mess, and Eddie looks back at him like he wants to believe him, but just can’t.

Steve doesn’t blame him. He’s lost track of how long they’ve been here. He stopped counting after six months, after the lines he carved into his wall with a sharp fingernail — talon, really — became too numerous to hide behind the one pin-up girl poster they gave him for good behavior after the second week.

Weird reward, if you ask Steve. The orderly that put it up for him smirked, said something about tissues in the cabinet in the corner of his room, and then left without another word.

Really fucking weird.

The head scientist comes into Steve’s room. Steve can’t remember his name. Matthews or Mathson or… Something. Doesn’t matter. Not like Steve really needs to know. He’s just called The Doctor and that’s that.

“According to our records, today’s a very special day, indeed. Happy birthday, Steven,” he says, looking down at Steve’s chart.

So it’s February fourteenth… But —

“How old am I?” Steve asks.

“Twenty-two,” the doctor answers.

Twenty two… Which means it’s 1988. Steve’s been here over a year and a half, since June ‘86 when they took him in the dead of night. Things had been weird before that. He’d been having cravings, and Eddie came back from the dead, clawed his way out of the Upside Down all by himself. He came back different, but still the same Eddie that Steve had mourned.

Twenty two years old and he doesn’t even remember turning twenty one.

“Since it’s your birthday,” the doctor continues. “We decided you deserve a reward for being so cooperative during your stay. Something you choose yourself, anything you want — within reason, mind you. Don’t ask to get out of here because that won't be happening. But if we can get it for you, it’s yours to keep.”

“Eddie,” Steve blurts out. “I want Eddie. I want him moved into my cell permanently. Get us bunk beds or some shit.”

“Ah, yes, well,” the doctor sighs. “Mr Munson is quite….”

“Dangerous? Insane? I can keep him in check,” Steve says quickly. “Look, we were friends before all of this and now we’re in the same boat. I understand him. If you want to get through to him, do this for me and I can help.”

None of that is true, of course. He’s not gonna make Eddie do shit, and he really doesn’t think he could if he wanted to. He’s wild, a little more monster than Steve is. It probably has something to do with being stuck in the Upside Down after he died. Different, but still Eddie.

Steve doesn’t blame him for the trouble he’s been causing. He’s seen it firsthand only a couple of times, but sometimes his doctors go missing and never come back. Sometimes they’re covered in blood when they come to see him after being with Eddie.

It’s not hard to guess what happens there.

“We’ll try it,” the doctor says. “But I can’t imagine why that’s what you want.”

He writes something down on his clipboard, clicks his pen with a sigh, and stands.

“I will see what we can do.”

And then he‘s gone.

Steve waits two days. Two days where no one comes to see him, to poke him with needles or flash lights in his eyes. He’s delivered his meals through the slot in his door, but that’s all that happens. He drinks the blood they give him. Animal today, he knows. They switch it up on him, and he’s found he can tell the difference easily now. It’s not the same as human, but it does the job.

It keeps him alive. It keeps him from wanting to tear himself limb from limb because of hunger and thirst. There’s still an itch in his throat and a nagging in the back of his mind saying he’s not satisfied, but it’s better than nothing.

On the second day, he’s told to stand against the back wall, and he complies easily. Complying means rewards — it means he doesn’t get hurt. The first few days he was here he was uncooperative and they beat him. It was too much like being in the Russian bunker beneath Starcourt again.

So he stopped fighting back. He stopped spitting and hissing, he stopped trying to sink his teeth into anything he could reach. And in turn he got rewards. He’s given more time outside his room, more time to sit in a room with a rainbow around the walls and a bunch of old children’s toys.

He knows he’s at Hawkins Lab. He can feel it, can feel something in the back of his head that tells him his family is close. His real family — Robin and Nancy and Dustin and everyone else. He knows he’s in Hawkins Lab and he can’t help but wonder if El lived in the same room as him, if she pushed around the same Hot Wheels car he does when he’s bored.

He stands in his room now, and it’s really a cell, but he doesn’t like to call it that, and he watches as two men carry his bed out. Two more come in with bunk beds that look like two of the regular beds welded together — thin metal frames with thin mattresses. Straight out of a prison.

The doctor comes into the room and he’s carrying a box in his arms. Steve can’t see what’s inside it, but he thinks they might be the few personal belongings Eddie has. The box gets set on the bottom bunk. An orderly comes in with a pile of extra blankets and two pillows. Those get set on the beds, too.

They all leave without a word, but Steve knows he won’t be alone for much longer. He knows that they’re going to get Eddie to him, and soon enough, they’re both going to be able to escape. Together.

Steve doesn’t know how long he sits there on the bottom bunk, but it’s a while. He only spares a single glance into the box, and he sees a spare hospital gown, and some clean underwear inside it. There’s a book sitting on top, tattered and splattered with blood. At least Eddie has that, Steve supposes.

The heavy metal door to Steve’s room opens and Eddie is shoved in, snarling and snapping at the guard behind him, holding his hands in shackles behind his back. They have heavy wool mittens on him, his plastic mask covering the bottom half of his face. Steve’s surprised they don’t just put him in a straitjacket and throw him into a padded room.

They make eye contact, Eddie’s formerly chocolate brown eyes now deep red. His hair is pulled back into a ponytail and shows his slightly pointed ears. Steve’s look the same, and his eyes are still mostly brown, but he can see the red swirling around inside them during the few occasions he can look in the mirror.

Eddie sniffs the air through his mask, bares his teeth. Steve can see the blood in his mouth through the clear plastic.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. What if Eddie hurts him too? What if he’s… What if he’s not Eddie anymore? If the last bits of his humanity have drained out of him, if he’s been forced to let the monster inside take full control… Steve doesn’t know what he’ll do.

I’d let the monster take me, too, he thinks, and then immediately regrets it. He doesn’t want to be that, and in his head he’s holding a snarling beast back with wrought iron bars, in a cell not too different from the one his physical body stands in. He’s gotten this far. It would be a waste to not even try.

The guard leaves Eddie where he stands, still cuffed, and backs away to the door. He slams it shut and locks it, then slides open the food slot. Eddie growls, jerks at his cuffs, trying to get free.

“Munson!” the guard barks. “Back up against the door.”

Eddie backs up until he’s against the door and Steve hears the key unlocking the cuffs around Eddie’s wrists.

The mittens come off next, and both things get pulled through the slot. The guard quickly slides it shut. Eddie is free from his restraints, and now he and Steve are alone.

Read more on AO3

[steviewashere]

Strawberry Jalapeño

Rating: General CW: Alcohol, References to Sex Tags: Established Relationship, Recreational Drinking, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Steve Harrington gets White Woman Margarita Drunk at Mexican Restaurants, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is saving the last bite for them."

💕—————💕

A new Mexican restaurant opens up a block away from their apartment in 1992. Taqueria Las Palomas. They make it part of their date night circle. Tuesday dates are for the queer bar ten minutes sideways. Wednesdays they’d go to the park on a picnic. Thursdays are for non-competitive bowling that Eddie somehow always turns competitive. And Friday nights, well they’re—

“Margarita nights,” Steve had given. His smirk the size of the moon. His eyes glistening in excitement. His body vibrating with it. “Nachos. And margaritas.” He’d done one of his cute little hand gestures. Nachos was his right hand jumping into the air. Margaritas was his left. Funny enough, those are also the assigned hands in which he consumes them at the restaurant.

Point is, it’s a popular date night activity.

And it’s Friday. And Steve is practically bouncing up and down the sidewalk. Drifting from Eddie’s side. Nearly skipping to the destination. Every once in a while, Eddie has to catch up to him, pull him back by his left palm, and hook their elbows together just to maintain the distance. But, somehow, Steve still gets to the restaurant’s door first.

And, somehow, Eddie never gets tired of it.

Five bucks gets them the nacho platter. Three bucks gets them bottomless margaritas. Which, technically, three bucks gets Steve bottomless margaritas. For two bucks less, Eddie settles for a single Miller. He’s got to get Steve back home, alright? Can’t do that if they’re both wasted. (Steve gets especially drunk and ditzy. Who knew he was such a lightweight in the face of greasy nachos and some fruity little drink?)

They share the plate of nachos. Eddie will sometimes get a small bean and cheese burrito. Sometimes he’ll do in for a couple of carne asada tacos. But, typically, it’s just the nachos. He’s got kind of a light appetite all the time anyway. Steve, on the other hand, will get nachos and a burrito (Depends on his overall mood which one he gets. Mad? The steak burrito. Horny? A breakfast burrito. Look, don’t ask Eddie. He doesn’t know why the eggs and potatoes seem to do it for Steve).

But, because of Steve’s heavier appetite, they tend to tear through the nachos pretty goddamn quick. Which, really, is a shame. Eddie really loves the nachos. He’d eat them all day if he could. That being said, however, he usually lets Steve get the last bite. Usually being the key word.

Tonight, though, the nachos go by pretty quick, as expected. Steve’s got his breakfast burrito halfway gobbled through. And Eddie’s leaned back in his sticky booth, Miller up to his lips, guzzling down some lukewarm beer. Steve’s worked his way through three margaritas, his lips stained a deep pink, and he’s not swaying exactly, but he’s definitely a little bit clumsier. His eyes are pointed down at the plate of nachos.

One chip with all the toppings, jalapeños included (Eddie’s personal hell).

Steve’s fingers twitch on the tacky plastic top of the table. His bottom lip is jutted out. And his eyebrows are creased slightly. He’s adorable.

“Eds,” he begins.

“Go ahead, babydoll. If you want it, you can eat it.” He thinks he gets his point across clearly. Sure, maybe his breath does something a little mournful at the last chip being whisked away from him. But, unfortunately, his stomach doesn’t do well with jalapeños. Never has. Most likely never will.

Steve reaches out his right hand, dutifully, and grabs the tortilla chip in his loose tipsy grip. He brings it up to eye level. Eyes crossing at the little slice of jalapeño. Eddie holds back a chuckle.

Well, he tries really hard. Has to snicker into his can of beer. Steve looks like some puppy noticing a butterfly on a flower for the first time. He might eat it. Might.

Then, oddly, Steve brings the chip back down. He takes his margarita hand. Plucks the jalapeño from the top of the chip, places it on his also pink stained tongue, and brings his eyes to stare at Eddie.

He momentarily looks away from Steve’s puppy dog eyes. From his magenta lips and rose petal pink cheeks and his glazed tipsy sheen to his eyes. Tries to hide how hungry he is, not for the nachos, but for Steve’s beautiful face.

“Ed…Eddie,” Steve is whispering, a slur slightly noticeable in his speech. His margarita palm flops onto the table, patting incessantly at the back of Eddie’s right. “Eddie, gotta—I gotta surprise for you.”

Eddie looks back at him and hums. “What’s up, sweetheart? Whatcha got for me?”

Steve holds out the chip. His fingers are loosely grasping it. It could fall at any moment, really. But he looks like he’s trying really hard to just raise it to Eddie’s face. “Made this,” he murmurs. “Took the spicy thing off.” He knows what it’s called. Eddie should probably cut him off from his margaritas in a second. “‘Ts for you, Eds.” And then he’s bringing it closer to Eddie’s face, so much so now he has to cross his eyes, and jams the softened edge to Eddie’s lips.

It really is the perfect chip. Cheese and guac and sour cream, steak and some of the pico de gallo. And, yeah, Steve took the jalapeño off just for him.

“Eds, you gotta open your mouth. Saved it—Made it for you.”

So, he does. Lets Steve feed it to him. Eddie wraps his hand around Steve’s wrist, steadying his hold. His thumb rubs over Steve’s pulse point, it’s fast and warm. And he looks back at Steve, his eyes dilated, yet full of love.

“Thank you, baby,” Eddie says through his mouthful. Steve’s face stretches with his syrupy smile. Gooey with something. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

“It’s cause I—Cause you were sad, Eds,” Steve conspires, leaning in—his hands spread wide and out on the table. “Was thinking of you ‘cause I like it when you’re happy.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he feels the need to say again. “You made and continue to make me very happy.”

“I also love you. Was thinking about that, too,” Steve says.

Eddie snickers a little bit. Steve’s a sentimental drunk, he should’ve pointed out sooner. A very sentimental drunk. His eyes are shiny with tears and his face is wonderfully pink, there’s guac in the corner of his mouth, his breath smells like strawberries and jalapeño. And he’s probably the most beautiful and kind person Eddie’s ever come to know.

“Love you, too, sweetheart. Now, finish up your sex burrito,” Eddie teases a little. “Gotta get you home soon and take care of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve slurs back.

They won’t actually do anything, Eddie knows that. He’ll get Steve some water. And they’ll curl up on the couch and watch reruns of Golden Girls until Steve falls asleep over the length of Eddie’s torso. And he’ll slither out from underneath him, carry his heavy body to bed, and cuddle him with both arms. But in the morning, Eddie will make sure Steve knows just how loved he is.

For now, he just gazes. Lets himself become drunk on what it means to truly and irrevocably love somebody like Steve Harrington.

💕—————💕

[overtake]

grass stains on blue jeans!!

CW: coming to terms with infertility, mentions of crash injuries

Max lays across the grass, panting and red-faced. His niece and nephews giggle as they dart away from him, taking immense pleasure in making their uncle suffer.

Max says something to them in Dutch, curls his fingers into claws like a lion and bears his teeth, and they all break into matching squeals.

While the two boys scamper into far-off corners of the yard and Max takes big, monstrous steps toward them, Hailey toddles up to Daniel and wraps a tiny, chubby arm around his leg.

“Up, please,” she requests. Her English is slow, careful, mostly just tiny phrases she’s learned to demand things from Daniel because his piss-poor Dutch doesn’t cut it for her.

He acquises, leaning down and pulling her up with a small groan to rest on his hip. She sucks her thumb into her mouth and rests her head against Daniel’s shoulder, content to observe her brothers from up here.

Her little face is so reminiscent of Max, Daniel thinks. It’s not as obvious as Luka or Lio, who look like Max was thrown in a time machine and reverted back to childhood. It’s still there though, in her little pouty mouth and sweet cheeks.

Eventually, the boys tire themselves out, and Victoria’s husband comes to collect the kids for dinner. Hailey’s half-asleep on Daniel by then, and he conducts the transfer carefully. She makes the tiniest noise of protest when she realizes her dad is stealing her back, and it’s the same discontent grunt Daniel hears from the other side of the bed every time he wakes Max up before 10.

Something rotten and sad swells up inside his chest then, sticking him in place. Max had moved to follow the boys inside, but he pauses and doubles back to Daniel.

“Everything okay?” he asks. He moves his fingers to catch Daniel’s wrist, holding long enough to feel the pulses that prove life. Daniel catches him doing it often enough that he doesn’t think Max even realizes. He’s not scared — you can’t be, to have gotten back in a race car after it happened. You can’t be that fixated on mortality. Still, since Daniel’s crash —

Daniel swallows, pulls his wrist back to himself and tries to ignore the phantom pains shooting up the right side of his body.

“All good,” he says, trying to force a wobbly smile. He avoids Max’s eyes, redirects his gaze to Max’s grass-stained skinny jeans instead. “Another pair ruined,” he points.

Max shrugs, unbothered. “They barely fit anyway.” He only officially retired a few months ago, but he’s finally eating enough for once, his stomach no longer constantly left with room for more. Anyway, he’d probably ruin every pair of pants he owned to make the kids happy.

They’re silent for thirty seconds, then Max clears his throat. “So?”

Daniel sighs and slumps into Max’s side. Max moves to wrap a hand around Daniel’s hip, easily supporting Daniel’s weight.

“Do you ever wonder what our kids would’ve looked like?”

Max stills.

It’s a touchy subject with them. Not because they don’t both want them — it’s a given, especially with them both officially retired from F1. Max still has other series he’s trying, other projects taking up his time, but it’s etched into the plans. Finish F1, do some endurance racing, have kids. It’s always been the plan.

The plans got fucked up when that Aston Martin crushed half of Daniel’s body three laps into a brave, and incredibly dangerous, overtake in the Spa rain. They saved his mobility, but there are plenty of lingering consequences.

There were other options, of course. Max doesn’t have the genes to carry, but there’s surrogacy or adoption. People with their wealth and status have all the options in the world.

It’s selfish of Daniel to think that sometimes they don’t feel like enough. It’s mean, privileged. He still has a choice when so many others don’t.

Still, he mourns it. He and Max sat in a sterile hospital room and focused on his physio and rubbing scar cream into his skin so they didn’t have to focus on the things they’d lost. Daniel could come to terms with losing F1 — had to even before the crash, back in 2022, and truly meant it then when he said he could live without it.

They left the other part a gaping wound, focusing on the physical ills so they never had to think about the last cut left to be stitched up.

Max still hasn’t answered. He’s buried his nose into Daniel’s neck instead.

“They’d just look like you, I think,” Daniel continues, forging on alone. He thinks he’s more ready to face this than Max is, has had plenty of time to settle a hand over his stomach and acknowledge what will never be. “Those Verstappen genes are terrifying.”

Max huffs out a hot breath, somewhere between a laugh and a tiny sob. His hand remembers how to move again, and he begins sweeping it in tiny circles over the sharp jut of Daniel’s hipbone.

“I’d want a million little Daniels,” Max tells him, his whisper a confession that he still thought about it too.

Daniel lets them sit in their sadness for just a moment longer, then straightens so Max is no longer supporting half his body weight.

“Well, our kids will be very cool anyway,” he informs Max. Max looks at him with suspiciously watery eyes, then reluctantly matches Daniel’s smile when he realizes Daniel’s truly okay.

“Not if they’re anything like you,” Max says grimly. It takes Daniel a second to process the jab, and he yelps and squeezes Max’s side. Max breaks into his relaxed, squinty giggle. His throat is still suspiciously clogged, but he chases Daniel around the yard anyway and gently tackles him to the grass when he catches him. He pulls Daniel’s weight atop him and they both breathe in, then out, collecting their breath until the intakes match.

Their knees are both grassy, green stained on blue denim, but Daniel can’t bring himself to mind.

[bcdwhcre]

“Lifeline,” Armin x Reader

Summary: You were his lifeline, he couldn’t live without you.

Warnings: None just slight angst, fluff, mentions of death and violence.

Armin x Fem!Reader

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The air was filled with nothing but smoke and ash as it rained down on all the scouts. Everyone was growing tired as the fighting continued for far too long, the giant titans continuing their destruction upon the ground and the people who were in their path.

You couldn’t risk taking your eyes off of these gruesome titans, not even for a second to look over to see if everyone else was alright, including Armin.

But as the fighting stopped, the giant titans freezing in their spots, you grew confused until everyone had gone down.

The sight of Eren had sent Armin tumbling to the ground, his screams echoing in the distance. The pain in your chest growing as you stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.

The following few days after Eren had been killed, there was a lingering sadness in the air along with relief. The scout base was entirely empty and quiet which led for you and Armin to leave and stay away from the base because of its faint memories.

The both of you sat on the tree at the top of the hill, something Armin had been doing a lot recently since this was Eren’s burial site.

The both of you stayed silent, you sat beside him, being there for support and to remind him that he wasn’t alone.

It took a big chunk out of him at first, the depression consuming him at the reminder of his best friend being dead. He would sometimes ignore you or hide in the bedroom away from everything and everyone.

You didn’t know what to do at first besides letting him mourn and process the grief. Then he started to come out but only to visit Eren with you following closely behind him.

Armin didn’t want to admit how truly depressed he was but he was grateful for you to be there. You were like his personal lifeline, without you he was sure he would be dead beside Eren.

A few weeks had gone by, the sadness in his chest was slowly lifting off of him as he began to accept the fate that Eren had set for himself, the reminder of his talk with Eren and how he said he would want Armin to be happy.

As the time went on, you had decided to go out of your way to buy something you and Armin had talked about quite a lot when you both had the chance. A home with farmland big enough for any and everything you both would want in life.

You made sure to stay close knowing Armin would want to continue his visits to his best friend for his occasional talks with him. You didn’t want to be the one to drag him away from his life, from his friend, from anything that he has ever known here.

“Close your eyes.” You mumbled, urging him to close his eyes as he placed his large hands over them, a small smile creeping on his face.

“They’re close, I swear.” He said, making you crack a smile and start carefully leading him to the place you have been keeping a secret.

“We’ve been walking for an awful long time, Y/N.” Armin was growing worried, curious as to where you were taking him.

“Shhh, we’re here.” You let go of his arm, walking ahead and turning around to where you were in view for when he opened his eyes.

The excitement bubbling up inside of you, wondering what his reaction would be like, hoping it would be a good one. You knew he needed this, he needed the freedom, needed to step out of his comfort zone. Armin needed to push boundaries and start to live his life the way Eren would want him to.

“Okay, open them up.”

You stood there, awkwardly fiddling with your fingers unsure of what to do or how to stand for when he would uncover his eyes.

His hands moved down, eyes still closed as if he was hesitant for a quick moment until you suddenly saw his bright blue eyes appear. His eyes scanned around the area, the large home in the distance behind you, to the far right was a large barn, fencing, and even a couple of animals you decided to bring in to make it more like home.

The nervous smile was on your face, scared of receiving a bad reactions but you saw the smile creep up on the corner of his lips until it was wide.

Armin felt his heart swell, the memories flashing of the relationship you both have shared the last few years. You both didn’t meet until he had joined the scouts, you were already apart of it, a year ahead of him and even were in a position to help train him.

Then you two bonded over simple adventures you both dreamed of. The nights where you two would watch the stars, the confession of him wanting to see the ocean and even confessing that he would want you to see it with him.

Armin was too shy during that time to admit his feelings for you, so you decided to make the first move which he always liked the most about you, the confidence, the love radiating off of your body more and more as your relationship progressed.

Your love language was gift giving, something he loved and as he looked at this house, at you, he couldn’t help but love you even more.

“You remember what we talked about? Living a life like this once things were finally… normal?” You tried to word it better, your voice trailing off.

“Yes, of course.” He nodded, remembering the conversations.

“I know we also wanted a beach house but you know..” You started to say.

“I didn’t want you to be too far away from Eren.. or Mikasa.” You sucked in a breath, the relief washing over you once Armin had stepped forward and embraced you in a tight hug.

He appreciated everything you always did for him, the support, the love, everything. He hasn’t been himself since Eren died, he felt guilty for pushing you away, for ignoring you, for acting like he didn’t care about you but he was extremely grateful for you being there to hold his hand no matter what.

He knew you were placed into his life for a reason, you were here to help him live his life the way he was supposed to. You were here to make him happy, to push him to be better. You were even here to keep him alive plenty of times, the countless times you had saved him from Titans and even saved him from himself.

You were so many things to him. The love of his life, his savior, his happiness, his peace, his lifeline and he couldn’t help but think about you being his wife, the mother of his kids.

Armin couldn’t help but tear up, the water filling his bright eyes, the feeling of love filling his chest as his arms were tightly secured around your body as if he was afraid to let go.

“Thank you.” He mumbled into your hair, your arms wrapping around his waist and burying the side of your face into his chest.

“I’ll do anything for you.” You replied back, feeling him pull away just a smidge, both of your eyes connecting as his hands cupped your face.

His hands gentle and soft, tracing small circles on your cheeks with his thumbs. He was in absolute awe as he looked over your features, his lips curving up in a smile before leaning down to press a long kiss to your lips just for a moment.

As his body relaxed against you, he couldn’t help but feel that lingering feeling as if someone was standing behind him. The feeling of familiarity as he stood in front of you and in that moment he was convinced that Eren was there with the both of them, watching and smiling at what the both of you had accomplished so far since he’s been gone.

Even though it was a painful reminder that now his best friend wouldn’t be there to experience all of this too or grow old with them and be able to have those dumb cookouts with their kids and talk about lame sports or about their kids achievements, Armin was still proud of Eren and loved him deeply like a brother.

As the week went by, the both of you moving your stuff in, settling in, and even buying more farm animals to fill the farm you both had in the backyard, there was one night where the both of you sat on the porch.

The rocking chair swaying back and forth as you both looked up at the night sky, the stars shining and the moon full.

“Do you think everything that happened was supposed to happen that way?” Armin asked you, the question randomly popping up in his brain.

It had been a busy week and he hates to admit that since before moving in here, he hasn’t thought about those depressing thoughts or about what had happened.

“I’m a believer in everything happens for a reason.” You replied, glancing over as you used your feet to sway the rocking chair back and forth.

You noticed Armin staring up at the sky, his eyes soften but almost looked sad as if he was deep into thought about something that upset him.

It had came to you about what he was thinking about, the obvious coming into mind.

“He’s proud of you, you know.” You simply said, your tone soft, your small hand reaching over to grab a hold of his.

You felt him gently squeeze it, not looking away from the stars that had shined brightly above. He had released a small breath of relief, almost as if he had been holding onto that breath for a while.

“I know.”

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A/N:

short and sweet I don’t know. I just wanted to post something for you guys since you have been waiting and I always love a good Armin short story 😔

• AOT MASTERLIST •

• MAIN MASTERLIST •

[flowercrowngods]

a study in grief, because barb was mike’s friend, too — and steve knows

🤍 also on ao3

November never feels right in Hawkins anymore, and it’s especially bad for the Byers and the Wheelers, with Will‘s Upside Down-iversary and Barb’s death day — except she doesn’t just get a day, she gets a whole week. From the day she went missing to the day that is written on her tomb stone, the day of the lie, the day that will always remind them of the shit they got mixed up with.

The week, really. To some extent Steve feels like this week of grief belongs to all of them, not just Barb — because something died inside all of them, something that sounds and looks and feels a lot like childhood and innocence that could never be restored.

Not like he could — or would — ever say that out loud and burden himself with anymore guilt when it comes to Barb. She should have her week. Fuck, she should have had a life. A lifetime lived, not a lifetime mourned.

God, how she should have lived.

He never even knew her, not really, other than snide and sassy remarks that he would have loved sometimes to acknowledge with a grin or a laugh or even a good natured shove if things had been different. He never even knew her, learned more about her posthumously through Nancy’s and Karen’s and the Hollands’ stories and pictures. And something about getting to know someone rather intimately once they’re dead just never sits right. It haunts you in a way you wouldn’t be haunted had you known them properly.

It’s a different kind of grief, the one that cannot be expressed without the danger of insensitivity. So Steve keeps his mouth shut and visits her grave. Her empty, empty grave. And he listens and he waits and he hugs and he thinks.

He murmurs, sometimes, when nobody’s listening, that he doesn’t swim anymore. That he hasn’t been in the pool in one, two, three years now, and that it’ll turn into four, five, six years. He whispers, sometimes, when nobody’s listening, that he’s made a stone for her in his garden, written on it with black sharpie and trembling hand.

In memory of Barb. 8 Nov 1983

Tells her that it feels dumb, and that he’s sorry, but he can’t remove it because that would feel worse, and that he’s so, so sorry. Because she doesn’t even like him. And he’s kinda come to love her. And because everything about that is wrong, and that she shouldn’t have to be bound to someone she doesn’t like just because she doesn’t have the chance to leave anymore now; because she’s already left, and—

He’s so, so sorry.

And then he leaves. He’s always the first to leave, with Karen’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing as if in thanks or in need for someone to hold her for mourning the girl she’s come to love as a daughter. Steve smiles at her, a sad grimace though it is, and gently squeezes Karen’s hand. Because Karen’s grief is real, and she must feel so much worse.

If he were any younger and had met fewer monsters, had gotten fewer head injuries and near-death experiences, Steve would wonder if worse was even possible. But now he knows. And he squeezes.

In his car, blinking away tears and clawing away the itch under his skin, Steve realises and notices and remembers that only one who never comes is Mike.

So he drives, almost aimlessly; trying not to think of sorries, of empty caskets and lies and NDAs, of murmured comments in the hallways and eyes rolled behind thick glasses and the occasional smile reserved only for Nancy. Trying not to be haunted by could have beens and would have beens and should have beens, and instead remind himself that they weren’t friends. She wasn’t to him what he knows about her now.

He has no right to feel this hollow.

But there’s someone, he knows, who does. Someone who won’t let himself grief, because he was never told how to. Because he was never told it was okay to mourn your older sister’s best friend who practically lived at your house on the weekends for years. Someone who grew up with her, someone who looked up to her, because Barb was a nerd and she was cool!

And that someone can be found sitting on the curb by his house, ripping out strands of grass and littering the street in green blades and clumps. Ted would freak out if the man was capable of one single emotion.

Steve parks the car a good few feet away and walks over — slowly, so it’ll look casual enough to not make Mike suspicious.

“Steve?” the boy says, grimacing up him, squinting against the horrible grey of the sky that is both gloomy and blinding today. “What do you want?”

Steve holds his eyes for a minute, mustering his posture, his chronically horrible posture and the good amount of lawn that’s already fallen victim to his needing an outlet of… whatever he’s feeling.

He nods at the curb, the side where the lawn is still intact. “Mind if I sit?”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I wanna?”

After a while, Mike shrugs. “Not like I can stop you from doing anything ever, so.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all year, man,” Steve says, unable to suppress his grin, and Mike groans beside him, rolling his eyes in a long-suffering way.

There’s something subdued about him, though, something muted. Suppressed.

And he remembers how three years ago Mike went through the end of the world several times. Will disappeared. Will died. Barb disappeared. Barb died. Will came back, but changed, and Mike couldn’t reach him anymore. Not like before. And then El. There and gone. And Mike, among everyone’s grief and trauma with a hefty dose of his own. Steve remembers, right after, doors slamming and Nancy crying, yelling at her little brother that he’s not allowed to be sad, how can he be sad, when his best friend came back! How dare you, Michael, shut up!

Steve’s never seen Nancy like that — and didn’t, after. It was just that one time, but he’s sure that it wasn’t easy in the Wheeler house for a while. Still isn’t, maybe, with how emotionally stunted Nancy has become, guarded and cold and quiet, dangerous, while Mike turned… loud. Prickly. Like a gaping wound, the blood still seeping from it not in a lethal way but steady nonetheless, and ever so painful, because it was told it’s not a wound at all.

He remembers, too, sitting with Mike afterwards as Nancy sent him away, told him to leave, she’d call tonight but she couldn’t right now. He remembers the twelve year-old boy with a frown on his face and angry, sad, confused tears in his eyes.

“She was my friend, too!”

“Yeah?”

Mike nodded, curling in on himself where they sat on the bottom of the stairs. “I knew her! I shared my pizza with her and we watched movies together and she talked to me about Dungeons and Dragons and about how I could join her campaign, maybe, if she ever gets around to be the dm, and— and she knows things! Knew, I mean. We’d do our homework, the three of us, and Barb would help me when Nance wouldn’t and— She was my friend. She liked books but hates the Catcher in the Rye because Caulfield annoys her, and I don’t know what that means but I know that! I know because…”

“Because she’s your friend,” Steve finished for him, realisation and a new understanding for their dynamic dawning on him. And it’s an awful, awful understanding that makes him feel gaping and hollow in a visceral way.

Mike nodded and sniffled, wiping his face on his sleeve that came away wet and snotty, and somehow that sound never made it out of Steve’s head, and he can hear it even now, three years later as they’re sitting on the curb.

And he’s gaping once more.

“Went to see Barb today,” he says, an offering that hangs between them, a truth for Mike to ignore or build on.

There are not many times Steve’s ever looked at someone and thought they withered, but Mike does. Right now, he does. His face falls, his shoulders slump, and he frowns because anything else would lead to tears and an emotional breakdown he’s been holding off for three years now.

“I don’t care.” His voice is pressed, his face halfway buried behind his shoulders as he throws a handful of grass at Steve.

“Mike,” he says, sounding frail even to his own ears. Tender. “She was your friend.”

“I don’t care!” Mike repeats, his voice even worse. Maybe his lungs are withering, too, maybe the air grows rotten with each lie he tells to protect himself from feeling everything he’s been keeping at bay for three years. Maybe denial has an expiration date.

Steve watches. Waits. It’s what he does, the second week of November.

And then, after a few lungfuls of air that looked like they were fighting him for it, hidden in his arms and away from Steve’s gaze, Mike’s voice breaks.

“They don’t care.”

They. Steve knows. Remembers rather helplessly. Still he asks, “Who’s they?”

Another breath, but this time it sounds like a gasp. Like a sob. “Mom. Nance. They don’t— They don’t care! I don’t get to be sad, I don’t get to see her, I don’t get to think of her without Nancy telling me it’s unfair that I do, without mom giving me that… that fucking look! I don’t get to feel, because I’m a boy and because my best friend didn’t die and that just— that feels like an unfair bottom line, but they don’t care!”

Steve wants to cry with him, because he’s right. It’s not fair. None of it.

Mike hides his sobs in his arms, pulling the hood of his sweater further over his face, like he’s scared to find that the world will start caring when he’s at his lowest.

“And, yknow what’s the worst? I hate that you know. I hate that you’re the only one who knows, and I hate that you’re here, and I just… I hate it.”

“Sorry,” Steve offers after a while.

“Shut up,” Mike says. “You shouldn’t know. They should! Why doesn’t Nancy see? Why won’t she let me? Why doesn’t she know?!”

“I don’t know,” Steve offers, a whispered half-truth, because he does know. Because everything Mike feels, Nancy feels, too. But she also feels guilt and a hole in her heart and her life and her future. She feels the lack of teenage innocence because it was ripped from her, stolen and dragged to another dimension before it was brutally executed.

He can’t tell Mike that, though; not right now. Because it’s not a competition, and it’s not an honest question but a desperate, hurting one.

“Talk to her,” he says at last, quietly, when the sobs have calmed down and Mike has gone endlessly still beside him. “Tell her everything you told me. That she was your friend, too, and that you miss her, and that you feel like you can’t and shouldn’t, and how that makes everything worse. Tell her she’s not the only one who lost Barb. I think she’ll listen now.”

At last, Mike looks up, his face still largely covered by the hood, but Steve can see the tear tracks and he can see the wariness. But also hope. Or yearning, a longing for the version of reality Steve’s just opened up to his mind.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because she’s your sister. Because it’s been three years. And because Barb was your friend, too.”

Another tear, two, three, four, before Mike sniffles again. A wet sound that takes Steve back to three years ago, when they were sitting together and he was watching what was still the beginning of Mike Wheeler breaking over loss and trauma he was never allowed to work through.

“Okay.” A sad little sound. It makes Steve smile, because if he doesn’t smile right now, he’ll cry and scream at the world, burn it down and tear it apart so it won’t hurt Mike anymore.

“Good,” he says at last. “Do you wanna—“

“Can we go to the cemetery?” Mike interrupts him.

Steve inclines his head. “Right now?”

A shrug. He waits. Watches and waits and thinks. Allowing him to find his footing.

“Tomorrow?”

He smiles, warmth and pride blooming inside him, slowly stitching together the gaping wound and allowing him to breathe.

“Sure. Absolutely.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Rather abruptly, then, after a beat of pause, Mike gets up and kicks at Steve’s foot.

“Get up, asshole.”

Steve sputters, taken aback by the whiplash and the sudden change in mood and energy, but he does as he’s told. The minute he stands, he finds himself with an armful of a fifteen year-old, holding on like his life depends on it.

“Thank you.” It’s mumbled into his sweater, sounding wet again, but Steve doesn’t care about that as he wraps his arms around Mike’s shoulders and holds him, too, deciding he won’t be the first to let go.

“Anytime, dickhead, you know that.”

Mike snorts, and it’s better than the sniffle, and it makes Steve smile into the hug.

[honeycombclaire]

You know what I need? I need the Marvel time-travel trope, but everyone goes back to the 40s.

(I say everyone, I mean the Avengers pre-Infinity War.)

Because everyone says Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are men out of time (and they’re not technically wrong). But I want to see the Avengers (sans Steve and Bucky) getting sent back in time by some wizard or a freak Asgardian lightning storm or something, and poof, they’re back in the 40s, right smack in the middle of the war.

I want the Avengers to witness what life was like during the war, hiding in bomb shelters and seeing the after effects of the world crawling out of the Great Depression and hurtling into the second World War in twenty years.

Life when Steve really was the weirdest thing science ever created. When he was desperately needed and internationally adored. Because all of the Avengers have PTSD, but Steve and Bucky went through World War II and got spit back out into the 20th and 21st centuries, and that’s a whole different category of PTSD and trauma.

I want the Avengers to actually meet the survivors of Azzano, when Steve marched into the massive Nazi base and saved hundreds of soldiers, part because he could and part because he was desperate to save his best friend, and didn’t think twice about it.

I want the Avengers to see Steve and Bucky thrive. I want them to witness Steve and Bucky with the Howling Commandos. Steve’s first team. I want them to see how Steve and Bucky lived, what life was like, because it was drastically different than the modern world.

I want the Avengers to witness firsthand life on a military base. I want Tony to have to look his father in the eye and pretend he doesn’t know who he is, but get to see all the good his father did because all he remembers is his father being an asshole. How much Steve really did care about Howard (and that Bucky did, too, because Howard made weapons to keep Steve safe).

I want Natasha to see that just because she’s an assassin doesn’t mean she’s a bad person, because there were hundreds of military assassins and spies during the war that did bad things to get information.

I want them to hear about the Tesseract and learn that sometimes Steve’s intelligence should be taken seriously, because he has experience and knowledge that none of the other Avengers will ever have. (“You should have left it in the water.” “This is the guy my dad never shut up about?”)

I want them to see how much Steve loved Peggy, how she and Bucky were the only ones who saw him for who he really was, and realize how awful it must have been for him to come back and work for the organization she created after his death and have to live without her.

I want them to hide and watch as Past Steve screams as Past Bucky falls from the train. I want them to see Past Steve realize he can’t get drunk, and the only way he can cope is to kill the Red Skull and end HYDRA. To avenge his friend. I want them to realize that not only did Past Steve crash the plane for nothing, but that Steve knows, has to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life.

I want them to listen with Peggy as Past Steve realizes he’s going to have to crash the plane. I want them to hear the slight tremble in Past Steve’s voice as he talks about dancing with Peggy, believing he’ll never get the chance, and that he’s going to die alone in the freezing cold ocean. I want them to not get the change to promise him that he’ll survive. I want them to hear the sudden static that cuts off Past Steve’s voice, and the heavy silence that comes after it.

I want them to see the world mourn for Captain America, who died just months before the war ended.

And then I want them to come back to the 21st century and see. I want them to see the way Steve’s eyes linger on pictures of Peggy and Howard, see the rows of records from the 30s and 40s in a whole new light, see rows of 30s-style clothes in his closet that he hardly ever wears because a lot of people will make jabs about it, see the way he always keeps Bucky in his sight, hugs him just a little bit tighter than he hugs everyone else.

I want them to see the bags under his and Bucky’s eyes when they have nightmares. I want Sam to quietly show them Steve’s list, and see that every line on every page is filled because he missed so much. I want them to find two more little books filled up just as much. I want them to realize how lost Steve still is despite how much he’s adapted.

I want them to see the subtle military training still ingrained in Steve’s bones, because any and every war was horrible, but World War II was something else entirely, and so was desperation that existed within the soldiers and the people. I want them to see Steve’s recklessness of jumping out of planes without a parachute, the way his eyes always scan the area when he enters a room, watching ever little detail and listening for any sound that might indicate danger. How he is always, always, on alert, even when he seems relaxed.

I want them to understand why Steve was so against the Sokovia Accords. It wasn’t because he wanted the power to do what he thought was best; it was because he was afraid of the consequences of having too many restrictions. Because even with international laws and the damn Geneva Convention, the Nazis still destroyed half the world, and decades later Nazi HYDRA was still carrying out their mission that Steve sacrificed his life for. Steve was a human experiment. The Serum was a biochemical weapon. The military broke the rules to protect the greater good, and Steve knew that. The war would have gone very differently without him.

Whether he was right or wrong about the Accords, after what Steve experienced, I want the Avengers finally understand where he was coming from. Why he was so afraid of strict regulations.

I want Tony to finally fully understand the significance of Steve giving up his shield in Siberia.

Why he was so determined to protect Bucky from the world. Not just because he was his best friend, or because it was the right thing to do. But also because Bucky was the only thing Steve physically had left of his life before the crash, save for his dog tags, and he was scared of what that would mean if Steve lost him.

Steve Rogers has so much trauma that Marvel completely ignored. They focused on Tony’s and Bucky’s and Natasha’s trauma; and that’s great, that’s important; but so much of Steve’s moral character doesn’t get explained because it gets glossed over with the excuse that he’s “Mr Good and Righteous.” And that’s true, but that’s just scratching the surface.

He’s Mr. Good and Righteous for a reason, and it doesn’t get talked about enough.

[dadsbongos]

perfect blue - s.gojo

part of the jjk movie marathon event / movie selection ... warnings - post-star plasma vessel arc (+minor spoilers), sad gojo :( word count - 1.1 K / rating - PG

Satoru lets the water roll down his back. The warmth grounds him. It lets him forget how chilly the nighttime air will be as soon as he shuts off the pipe. Lets him really close his eyes and take his time absorbing each sensation. As the soap bubbles and pins of white hair flatten to his forehead, he treasures every second that his infinity can be lowered, and nobody can say anything about it.

He’s almost tempted to reach out and skim his fingers against the shiny tiles directly in front of him. Just to see if they’re cold. Would they make him shiver and yank his hand back? Or would they be heated and steamed? He wants to feel them. He doesn’t reach out.

Instead, he shuts the water off; the steel knob is neither heated nor cold under his palm. It simply exists. A shape forming around his fingers that he cannot sense for himself. His clothes aren’t soft, nor are they itchy, when he pulls them on. And he cannot feel the gentle breeze prattling over campus as he shuffles back to his and Suguru’s wing of the dorms.

On the way, he passes the girls’ wing. Shared by you and Shoko. And sometimes him, and sometimes Suguru. On the creaky wooden steps is a figure in black. A shadow cast across the hunched form, drenching it in darkness. A bump rises from the pathetic lump, white sclera with frail red veins at the edges poking through the ink. Hands block the face. He knows exactly who it is.

“Thought you went to bed,” his hands are firm in his pockets, eyes hidden behind a velvet sleep mask.

Your hands tense from where they’re coddling your frosty skin, lowering slowly to clench around your bent knees with your chest leaning fully against the meat of your thighs. Your shoulders scrunch up towards your ears. He steps a little closer, observing through heightened sight how your nose crinkles as you think through every potential reply. Your lips form into a pitiful pout. Your eyes don’t rise to meet his porcelain face. You know there’s no point. He still wants you to try.

Satoru comes down beside you; the space between you both is thin. He’d make it even thinner if you asked. He wonders if you would even notice.

You breathe in, chest rising slowly. Your lips part, then close, then split again before you finally croak,

“I don’t think…”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I was meant to be a sorcerer.”

“Yeah.”

The way you let ghosts haunt you was particularly bad. He’d watched you pray for curses before; even downright mourning the mean-spirited things you’ve had to exorcize. He stopped asking back when you were first-years.

Something something they didn’t ask to be made something they’re wild animals something something.

He’s known since then that you would drop out.

“Can you help me tell Yaga?”

“Yeah.”

But that doesn’t mean he takes any pleasure in being right.

Not this time.

“Yaga will listen to you,” you murmur.

Because he’s the strongest. Normally, Satoru likes that: knowing he can’t be beaten anymore. Knowing he can harbor everyone that matters while protecting those that don’t. The only thing he could call a flaw is how differently his friends look at him. Not even Yaga scolds him the same. Infinity has made him something more powerful than they know what to do with.

He isn’t Satoru. He’s the strongest.

No longer a boy. Not humble enough to be a man.

“You’ll freeze out here, you know,” Satoru pulls the ends of his sleeves over his hands because Suguru once told him the way he didn’t react to the weather was unsettling.

“Whatever,” you dangle your head until it bumps against your knees, reaching over to swat your friend’s arm.

He laughs at you, standing up and bending his neck to give the illusion of two eyes meeting yours. You look up and feed into it before standing on your own, soon after leaning into Satoru’s chest with a groan. He knows, logically, that vibrations are sent through his oversized sleep shirt. He can’t feel them for himself, but he’s sure they ripple through the cloth. He can see the way the fabric craters around your heavy breath.

Satoru wraps an arm around your shoulders like he’s seen Suguru do. He rubs his hand over the plain of your back and rests his cheek against your head.

“Will you keep in touch?” you mutter against him.

“You know my number,” your body isn’t warm against him. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend he was leaning against a vending machine. He’s so tall he can lean against the dusty top and watch the tops of his friends’ heads float around below. He’s so tall he could pick them all up - pack them in his pockets - take them anywhere he wants.

But he keeps growing.

His eyes are open. Your head is a ball against his chest. A ball he could take in his palm and keep for himself. He could swallow it down like Suguru with his curses. Hot in his belly. Packed away.

One day, he may be too tall to reach you all.

“Yeah, yeah,” your arms tense like you’re squeezing, not that he feels it, “Just making sure you don’t forget about me…”

Suguru has lost weight and won't tell Satoru why.

Shoko's smoking has gotten even worse, and she refuses to acknowledge it.

“I’d never.”

You and Suguru and Shoko are sitting around the vending machines on your own now. Satoru’s so high up his feet don’t touch the ground. He can’t feel your arms around his waist.

“Hmph,” slowly, you pull away. He wonders if you feel warmth from his body. If there’s an illusion of his soft skin and beating heart. If you still find something human beneath his hidden eyes, “I guess I should get to bed,” you look back at the old, crackling steps, “You’re busy tomorrow, right?”

“Shouldn’t take too long,” he wishes that was the assumption you made instead.

The ghost of Riko still clings to the gates he wanders under for every mission.

But the ghosts of his friends - far, far under his feet that don’t touch the ground - are worse. How he can almost imagine feeling the impacts of you and Suguru and Shoko’s writhing arms. How he could palm yours and Shoko’s heads like little balls, roll the both of you up and swallow you down and take you anywhere he wanted. Maybe except the beaches of Okinawa.

He wishes he could ball Suguru up, too. But Suguru’s different now. Like Satoru is.

Suguru has bags under his eyes and won't tell Satoru why.

Satoru tilts his head up as you climb the short steps back to your dorm, pretending to watch through the material of his sleep mask - the softness of which, he cannot feel against his face.

in honor of fuckhead’s birthday he’ll get posted first 🙂 for a character he hates, gege really made gojo the most interesting lmao

[lillie98]

How to Save the World—Stranger Things 5

I’ve had some time to sleep on the episode titles and think about them, read theories, etc. and I now believe they might be real.

Hear me out: Stranger Things is all about cycles, parallels, tropes happening over and over again. The Duffers love taking a moment and repeating it in slightly different ways to prove a point. The story started with “The Vanishing of Will Byers” because we needed to place a small, innocent child in the center of our story, something to bring our character together and drive them to action. Well, that child is no longer in danger and our team is ripping apart at the seams. It’s almost like we need something similar to reunite everyone and drive them to action again.

Remember: The Duffers love parallels. Will’s disappearance brought his deeply fractured family together, uniting them for a common cause. It also brought Nancy and Jon together when their families needed them most. Now, the Byers are a united front, ready to tackle any monster that comes their way. They are the glorification of the avant-gard family. Now which family is struggling? The Wheelers. The perfect, All-American Nuclear Family: Mom, Dad, 3 kids, and a picket fence. They look perfect to the outside world, but behind closed doors, they are deeply struggling. They don’t communicate, the parents have no idea what’s happening in their children’s lives, and if they’re not careful, if they don’t come together and form a united front—they’re going to lose everything, potentially causing the end of the world. (Why? I haven’t gotten that far yet!)

Now, how do we inspire them to action? Maybe by taking the child who was born to save their crumbling marriage—the one has seen everything but, up until this point, been too young to contribute. Now, she’ll be the same age Will was when he disappeared and Mike and Will are the same age as Jon and Nancy. The Duffers are trying to illustrate the idea of “The Next Generation.” This evil, this Upside Down dimension is NEVER going to stop until someone from the Wheeler and Byers families breaks the cycle. Children will continue to vanish, the world will continue to crumble, until someone steps up and says ENOUGH. The Wheelers and Byers (parents and children) must step up and face their pasts in order to move forward.

The “Stranger Things” are not only LGBTQ+ matters, they are the skeletons we hide in the closet that literally eat us alive. They are the dark, festering parts of ourselves we don’t let anyone else see. The invisible cancers that slowly and silently kill us. Until we face them head on, until we bring them to the light, they will NEVER die. Stranger Things is about owning your past, facing your fears, and finding the light again.

So yes, Stranger Things will end with Will Byers making it home from Mike Wheeler’s house on November 6, 1983, but not in a time traveling way, in a finally letting go of that scared, pained little boy who thought the world was better off without him. It’s Mike accepting his sexuality and place in his family. His role as a leader. It’s Joyce accepting love from Hopper, who must accept that he is not actually cursed, but that sometimes, bad things happen to good people, even when they think they’re doing the right thing (Vietnam). it’s Karen and Ted falling in love again and fighting to save their family. It’s Eleven discovering that love, not anger, should fuel her powers. It’s mourning your stolen childhood while stepping into the version of yourself that child never got to be. It’s stopping the cycle and creating a better world for the Will Byers and Mike Wheelers and Jane Hoppers of tomorrow. THAT’S how you become a Hero.

[ryuichirou]

Replies

Slowly but surely replying to older asks. I say it every time but I mean it: thank you for being patient.

One ask about Shroudcest and one ask about Rookvil today!

Anonymous asked:

Imagine imagine imagine.

Cause this is funny to me.

Someone's flirting with Idia, yeah? (or just talking to him, not even flirting) (well, I guess it'd be a one sided conversation....)

And Ortho was off doing whatever and he comes back and he notices-

And he gets all angry and whatnot-

And Ortho's got instant connections to the internet-

And he figures out who the person is and basically destroys their social life.

Like, in the middle of this conversation, this person checks their phone and finds out all their friends have ditched them and their entire online life is up in flames.

Simply because Ortho got a little jealous.

Anon, this is so unbelievably easy to imagine lol Despite Ortho really wanting his precious Idia to have more friends and connections, he is much more jealous than he thought! And much more of a little shit than people think… We really love this kind of scenario for them, to be honest.

Ortho is way too powerful for how emotionally unstable he is! Rogue little yandere robot :( His niisan is his and his only! That poor guy probably just wanted to talk about homework or something trivial like that…

Anonymous asked:

the rook hate be crazy, sorry for the nonsense you’ve been dealing with for doing nothing wrong. anyway rookvil appreciation hours. rook is so observant and reverent that he’s always looking out for his queen and vil is just a bit tsun lol but i love how vulnerable vil is with rook. like the lines implying vil has cried in front of rook before, that they sleep in the same bed, rook knows vil’s family situation, vil commenting on rook’s thighs in beanfest implicitly meaning he spends a lot of time looking at them lol, rook has access to vil’s room and waits for vil… as much as i love savanaclaw rook and mourn his loss everyday, he willingly changed himself to be worthy of being by vil’s side via his own free will; vil did not MAKE him do anything they just talked a lot. my mans is more whipped than heavy cream. idk about you but rook mentions he struggled to feel or express emotions before he knew about theater (specifically neige but let’s ignore that for vil’s sanity lol) so it feels significant that rook obviously feels and emotes so strongly over vil (also something something ortho struggles to feel or express himself before movies and acting so what i’m getting at here is they should spitroast vil at least once lmao.) if it was revealed they’re canonically dating the only part i’d be surprised about is that it got through disney’s censors.

It’s okay, Anon. The whole thing kind of made us appreciate Rook and RookVil more, to be honest lol I sketched them for a couple of days nonstop after that whole thing happened.

It also made you write this ask! It took me some time to reply, but every time I was rereading it I smiled because god this is such a good ship. Everything that you’ve listed is just so… wonderful. All those interactions, all this connection, all those moments that imply their closeness that is on a much deeper level than we get to see. Sometimes when these two talk, it feels like we’re eavesdropping lol they just have this vibe to them, as if every dialogue has some additional context that we don’t quite get.

Vil’s comment about Rook’s thighs and him bulking up though lol poor Epel didn’t know what to make of it and probably didn’t want to think about it…

You’ve made such a good point about Vil being more vulnerable with Rook, and I think this vulnerability is very important. Vil feels like someone who probably doesn’t usually allow people to get very close to him, but once he lowers his guard for someone, that person becomes very special to him. Or I guess it’s the other way around… anyways, he trusts Rook enough to always have him by his side, and he probably vents his frustrations with the industry and anything else that troubles him to Rook the most.

And this trust isn’t one-sided: I feel like Rook trusts Vil a lot too. We know that he has a lot of secrets, and even Vil probably doesn’t know a whole lot about his upbringing and stuff, but he certainly knows more than other people + listens carefully enough to understand implications without prying into it too much. They give each other enough space in general, I guess? I know it sounds funny considering Rook’s whole stalking thing but lol their connection is special. They learn from each other and from what they have together.

It makes sense that one person that Vil trusts so much and loves so much is a weird theater nerd who doesn’t quite understand tact, but is very honest, supportive and genuinely passionate and loving. It makes sense that one person that Rook trusts so much and loves so much is an obsessive perfectionist that takes care of him, enables him and inspires him every day. Both of them are kind of insufferable, but they are the perfect type of “insufferable” to each other lol And yeah, let’s not forget about the power of knowing all the obscure theater/film references the other one makes!

I also absolutely agree that it wouldn’t be surprising at all if it was confirmed that they are dating lol The only surprising thing really would be the fact that Disney allowed it.

[fresh-new-yoik-watah]

Seashells I See

Neteyam x Metkayina!Reader

AN: hiii this is my first time writing in literal years 😭😭 I hope you guys like it, and please let me know any improvement tips !

summary: reader is smitten. just can’t help it lol. neteyam asks reader to put shells in his hair

warnings: none. just fluff. maybe angst if you squint

word count: 1,071

___________________________

Weeks had passed since Toruk Makto and his family arrived on Awa’atlu, weeks since you first laid eyes on his eldest son. You remember it just as yesterday, his amber eyes, his sapphire skin. He was beautiful. Oh how you felt you could get lost in him forever. And the time spent together in those weeks did nothing to lessen the feeling. You had believed it was simply your curiosity engulfed in the mystery, that once satisfied, you’d be able to again sleep at night. But you were a moth drawn to a flame; every moment you tried to pull away, there he was shining brighter and you found yourself unable to escape. It didn’t help that you had to see him everyday, helping teach him and his siblings the ways of your people. But that was duty, obligation. It was the interactions outside of lessons that made your yearning grow.

He was somehow everywhere. No matter where you went, he would appear. Not that you opposed his company, it was quite comforting. His aura was soothing; you felt a sense of stillness around him, as if everything was right and perfectly in place. It was an addicting feeling; one you wanted more of, to drink it all up. But at the same time, you wanted to push down how he was making you feel. It made you lose focus. The overconsumption of him in your thoughts. And it was incredibly frustrating. But you couldn’t turn him away no matter how hard you tried. So you found yourself with Toruk Makto’s son more often than not. Outside of lessons he would join you in the water while you fed your ilu. Sometimes you would let him feed her. You would end up sitting together at feasts, much to your mother’s disapproval. You’d force him to try all the foods and laugh when he tried to hide his distaste, assuring him it was okay to not like it, as you yourself weren’t fond of some of the foods either. You convinced him to sneak out most nights. You would show him the reef, swim, and talk for hours, enjoying the solitude night brought you both.

Tonight was no different; you both swam and searched for shells while he told you about the troubles his younger brother would find himself in. You enjoyed his stories, but you could see the pain in his eyes when telling them, the mourning of his home and his life. It was not something you could imagine, having to become a stranger to yourself and your people. You smiled softly as he continued talking while you started sorting through your findings in the sand.

“I think I like this one best,” Neteyam pulled a shell from your pile, holding it out for you to see. It was small, rounded, and slightly chipped with lines of orange and white blending into each other.

You hummed, approving of his pick.

“I have yet to ask, what do you do with all of them?”

You paused to look up at him. “It depends. I make things like bracelets, arm bands, necklaces. I like to braid some into my hair. I give some to mother and Tsireya. They like the bigger ones.”

“I’ve noticed the ones in your hair. They’re beautiful,” he reached over to lightly trace the shells that adorned one of your braids.

Your cheeks flushed as you hid your face away, smiling. “Thank you.”

There was silence. Neteyam’s eyes briefly fogged over, lost in thought.

“Could you braid some in mine?”

You were shocked by the request. It was something so small but grand at the same time. Something intimate. You could feel your heartbeat increase, beating against your chest as you struggled to form your words.

“Of course,” the corners of your eyes creased as you smiled at him.

You crawled over and gently turned his body so that his hair would be accessible to you. You started undoing one of his braids, noticing the difference in hair textures right away in comparison to yours. It was surprisingly fine. It wasn’t quite silky, but smooth enough to unravel and fall into your hands, unlike yours that would stay in whatever shape it was formed in. You could smell the seawater, but there was an undertone of musk and dew. The forest. The ocean couldn’t quite wash it all away.

You picked up the shell he chose earlier along with some other small ones and started separating the hair to begin braiding.

It was silent as you worked. The only sounds were Neteyam’s soft breathing and the rushing of the sea, things you could listen to forever.

“I hope you can return home one day.”

“You want me gone that bad?” You knew he was teasing, trying to lighten the subject.

You stopped braiding and moved to face him, sand sticking to your legs.

“I know you miss it. I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice.“

He sighed, “I do like it here,” he treaded his words carefully, worrying he might offend you. “It’s just not quite the same.”

You reach for his hand, grasping it in yours. The size difference was noticeable as his fingers went past your own. You could feel the calluses and small scars that littered his skin. “There will always be a home here for you, even if you go back.”

“I don’t think your mom would like that,” he flashed a grin at you and you couldn’t help but smile back with a small laugh.

“You have shells in your hair, she won’t like knowing I braided them.”

You both sat, just enjoying the bittersweet and each other’s presence. Neteyam missed the forest, but he misses it a little less knowing if they never left, he wouldn’t have known you, and that was something he could not live without.

He turned to look at you, amber eyes staring into blue. He brushed his hand against your cheek, cupping it gently. “I am happy to have met you. Ewya has blessed me with knowing you.”

You took in the bioluminescent dots that freckled his face. He was beautiful. As beautiful as when you first saw him. And despite it selfish, you were happy he was here and hoped he would stay for just a while longer. Just so that you could hold on to your Neteyam.

[pineappleswithsugar]

My forgotten island headcanon: it’s a desert and very windy, so everyone wears the same sturdy, darkless cloak and hat that Siffrin does. They tend to be crafted by your parent(s), and there are classes on how to craft the thread. And if people just can’t do it, or if someone doesn’t have parents, there are charities that make the cloaks/hats for them.

To counteract how boring that looks, people embroider their cloaks, and have really fancy and elaborate clothes for mellow days/nights and festivals.

Cloak embroidering is done by a mix of you, your loved ones, and tailors. All of your loved ones do at least one thing on your cloak. Like, your kids will often do their very first project on you. Some parents only let them do it when they’ve reached a particular skill level tho (typically not very high, still). Your partner(s) will do embroidery on your cloak once you’ve committed to them (divorce isn’t always grounds to have the embroidery removed, as many still consider that person to be a significant part of their life). Parents usually do embroidery for their kids’ favorite constellations when they’re little, and come up with a design that they think symbolizes their kid once they’ve become an adult (sometimes with the help of a tailor if the design is too lofty, and the kid is okay with it). Instead of friendship bracelets, you instead get friendship embroidery. They tend to be smaller designs until you both decide your friendship is deep enough: in which case you’ll both expand on each other’s design.

Doing your own embroidery is a sign of independence. It’s knowing what you want, and having the means to execute it yourself. Siffrin was about the age when he would’ve embroidered his first design on his cloak. When a parent or someone close to you dies, you embroider a design on your cloak, to honor the life they lived (a typical mourning period would last for however long it takes you to finish the embroidery for each person you lost. Your neighbors would take care of you in the meantime, including bringing you new thread). Its taboo to ask a tailor for help, and none of them would do it anyway—quality doesn’t matter so much as it being YOU who does it, since YOU’RE the one with those memories of them.

Tailors basically take the role of tattoo artists (though, those do exist as well). If you have a particularly grandiose idea, or otherwise have a project in mind that you don’t have the skill for, you’d visit a tailor. They can also help with crafting the embroidery to do something like heal you a little during battle (looking at you, starry hat). They tend to be expensive though, something you save up for. Like a farewell gift for someone heading to a new country for their studies? (*looks even harder at the starry hat*)

Anyway, since the weather conditions are rough, I imagine people keep their most precious embroidery either under the brim of their cat, on the inside of their cloak’s collar, or even inside their cloak proper. Any embroidery done on the outside of the cloak would be made small and tight, or would be from a tailor and made with thread crafted to be sturdy (done by a tailor because that kinda thread would be hard to work with). Well, unless you’re okay with the design fraying within a year. The former is how friendship embroidery is usually done. Upon expansion, people either make a small expansion to their current design at the bottom of the cloak, or they move their design to the inside of the cloak and make it bigger (or both!). It’s possible to make a big design on the outside, but that usually takes a while since you need to make the design thick so it’s doesn’t fray quickly, so not everyone likes to do that. As for the inside of the cloak proper, I imagine it’s typically reserved for depictions of one’s favorite constellations, so they can be as a big as one wants without having to worry about making the design sturdy (cloaks are double lined so you can’t see the back of the embroidery lol).

But we’re done with embroidery headcanons! Now to fancy clothing headcanons. Since their work clothes are so practical, I imagine their festival/chill clothes seek to be as flashy as possible. Bright colors, if those were a thing prior to the island disappearing; midriffs showing; skirts a-flowin; boots with the highest heels you can walk with in the desert! (Or sandals.) Jewelry tends to be limited to festivals, but it’s very shiny and jingley! All jewelry would probably end up being heirlooms, but anything from Ka Bue would be especially precious, cuz it’s probably super expensive (especially since Ka Bue isn’t close to island from what I know).

I keep thinking of Indian clothes tbh, but after looking it up Cuban clothing fits pretty well too. Maybe a mix of the two?

Anyways, here’s a doodle of what everyone’s friendship embroidery might look like, tho it’d probably be smaller in real life (hey, Sif, whatcha lookin at there in your collar?) (it’s everyone’s more detailed family embroidery!)

[lavendermoonlitskies]

Chapter 2 of The Road Less Traveled is up! Here’s a snippet:

Crowley sat speechless, the words on the page scrambling before his very eyes. “Always”, “everywhere”, “forever”— all words that painted the same picture of a mournful existence not unlike his own. An existence where someone’s impact on your life leaves a scar after they’re gone. Not a particularly nasty scar, but one so deep that you cannot go a single day without picturing their face or remembering what it felt like to be in the room with them. The sound of their voice echoes in the back of your mind, and sometimes that voice is shouting at you over the last argument you had. Other times it’s on the verge of tears as you remember the last moments before you walked out the door and didn’t come back.

But sometimes, the voice is happy. It’s laughing, leaving you in a blissful state of mind as you picture their warm smile so vividly. Their eyes shine as they look at you, twinkling like stardust sprinkled across infinite light years worth of space which would be pitch black without it. Maybe you said something witty, maybe the two of you were simply recounting a happy memory spent together over a glass of wine—

whatever the reason may be, it’s those moments that never truly leave you. It was so much simpler back then, and you can’t help but smile upon the memory of it no matter how far behind you it is.

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