#theory ficlet

[blushweddinggowns]

Idea expanded, Rockstar Eddie falling head over heels for Bartender Steve working in a high class club type of joint. He sees him working one night and thinks God damn, he's hot. I'm taking him home tonight.

Except bartender Steve has developed a significant distaste for celebrities and rich people in general because of getting cut off from his homophobic parents for coming out and the general bad way many have treated him at work whilst sloshed. But lucky for Eddie, Steve doesn't recognize him. And even though he started off in a trailer park, the fame has gone to his head a little and he asks Steve out with the full intention of getting into his pants and never seeing him again.

But oh no, would you look at that Steve isn't easy. And what Eddie thought would be a booty call ends up being a ten hour date around the city where he has more fun than he even thought was possible. Just from talking with Steve about anything and everything, flitting to parks and museums. And Eddie doesn't even realize until he's back at his hotel that they didn't even kiss.

And they go out more and more, and Eddie likes him more and more and he finds out where the rich people hate comes from. And it scares him. So he keeps lying. Like an idiot. And he tells Steve a fake last name, he tells him a fake job (which is only half fake because he did used to be a tattoo artist) and he rents an air bnb that he pretends is his own place. And the lies keep getting more elaborate to cover up more lies. And he keeps refusing to meet Steve's friends out of fear that they'll recognize him. And he really just drove himself into a corner here because he is absolutely in love with Steve at this point but how the fuck can you have a normal relationship when you are pretending to be someone else?

Turns out you can't, and Steve finds out the truth despite his efforts. But the twist is, he thinks it's fucking hilarious. After a normal period of What the fuck reaction time he gets over it. But never let's Eddie live it down.

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

6/27 Edit: Welp, now there's a fic.

Two fics actually. The other is by KikiZ on ao3 which is great if you're not looking for an explicit fic! Because mine will be. It's also a bit more introspective than what I got going on, and also thus far, hella romantic.

[writer-in-theory]

Ever since he can remember, everyone has always said Steve looked like his Mama.

He acts like her too—that persistent kindness and protectiveness for the people they love, the ability to talk to people with relative ease, even the propensity for having a bit of an attitude. Even his soft brown eyes and the texture of his hair, all of it was Maggie Harrington.

Maggie always said that Steve was her greatest accomplishment, one of her best friends. She was so proud of her son, first for being Hawkins High's first All-State Champ in swimming and then for being a good role model in town. She'd missed the moment when he began to distance from her, from his parents, until she hardly knew anything about his life. She thinks it might've been because of Robert.

Steve Harrington could only have the best in store for him, which is why she'd allowed Robert to be tough with him. He knew what it meant to build a good future, what it would take to find happiness and stability. So she'd let Robert yell at him for throwing a party at their house and allowing a poor girl to go missing there. And she'd thought it had worked, based on the way Steve started bringing around sweet Nancy Wheeler and stopped hanging out with the Hagan boy. She thought it had worked.

When the Harringtons came home from their last business trip to Chicago, Steve was being dropped off by Police Chief Hopper. It looked like he'd been in a fight, and as much was confirmed when the Chief told him to stay out of trouble. Robert had been furious, ready to lay into Steve about the Harrington name and respectability, but then a group of kids Maggie didn't recognize tumbled out of the car, too, all hugging Steve and thanking him. He was their hero, they'd told the Harringtons, Steve was the best babysitter ever. Steve had never showed interest in babysitting before, but the way all of those kids so clearly looked up to him had Maggie in near tears.

Maggie had a feeling the mall job was a mistake. She'd felt it the moment Robert made the decision, loudly proclaiming that their son would learn what it was like to work a tough job, that he'd realize how lucky he had it that there was a family business he could be hired in. Maggie hated the humiliated look their Steven had given the first time he set out for the mall in that sailor's uniform, but her husband knew what it was like to be a teen boy, surely he had Steve's best interests at heart.

But then she'd gotten the call that there had been a fire, that Steve was involved and they needed to get down to the hospital. If she thought the fight in '84 looked bad, then nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her son in that hospital bed, vomiting profusely into a container and wincing through the obvious pain in his head. The morning after, that same group of kids fought the hospital staff to visit Steve, demanded it. The one with curly hair and the youngest girl loudly proclaimed that Steve had saved their lives, that he'd risked himself to make sure they were safe. Her baby was an actual goddamn town hero and she'd almost missed it, she almost never knew because she was too busy worrying about his future.

Maggie stopped worrying about family names and legacies, after that. She was the first to ask how his shifts at the movie store were and never minded when his talkative friend came over for dinner. Maggie kept waiting for the moment Steve would admit the two of them were dating, but he kept insisting they were friends, best friends.

She never saw Eddie Munson coming.

After the fourth tragedy to befall Steve, Maggie was convinced he needed to get out of Hawkins before it destroyed him. No one could find Steve in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake. He wasn't at the shelter, or the hospital, or with any other search parties. She'd worried briefly that the serial killer had gotten him, too, that they'd have to see what was so horrific about the method of killing that had left the town sparking a witch hunt for the guy.

He was found later at the Munson trailer, wearing military-style gear and bleeding out from his abdomen and neck. Maggie would never understand how an earthquake could cause that level of damage, nor the kind that was found on Eddie Munson just beside him. When Steve had woken up in the hospital, he'd simply told her that he couldn't talk about it, that it was better if she didn't know. She thinks that might be true.

Once Steve recovered, he stayed by the Munson boy's bedside every day. He'd bring a book, or a hacky sack, anything to keep himself busy while Eddie slept off his injuries. And when he came home, Steve was with him constantly. They were volunteering, he'd told her.

Then one day, months after the earthquake, Steve came home looking nervous.

"Mom." Maggie ached for the days when he'd come waddling into the living room screaming Mama, missed when he felt like he could tell her everything. When had that disappeared? "I need to tell you something."

"Of course, Stevie. You can tell me anything." Steve winced in the way she figured he would: they both know that hadn't been true in years.

Steve shuffled on his feet, wrung his hands together and worried them through his hair. Finally he stood ramrod straight, eyes focused directly on hers as he blurted the truth out. "Mom, I like guys. And girls. It's called being bisexual and I'm not sorry for it. I can pack a bag tonight if I have to, but I won't pretend anymore. I won't."

It was supposed to be scary. Maggie knows the version of her four years ago would have been terrified by the statement, angry or upset. Maybe she still is a little scared, only because she knows what the world is like for people who are different. She used to be upset by people who were different. In '83, she might've kicked Steve out for the fear of it all. But looking at him now, she saw the kid who drove those middle schoolers to the arcade because he could, and who saved peoples' lives in the mall at the near expense of his own, the guy who believed Eddie Munson was innocent even when the entire town had turned on him out of fear of the Other. She saw Steve Harrington, her darling son who'd grown up before she even realized it, becoming far greater a man than she could have ever hoped for.

"How long have you two been dating? You and Eddie Munson?" Maggie asked gently, a smile working its way on her face. She'd wondered why he hadn't dated anyone after Nancy, but maybe it was simply that he wasn't telling her about that part of his life anymore.

Steve's eyes widened, lips parting like he was surprised by the response. He floundered a little, looking around for an explanation. "Um. Since last summer, we met at the mall. How did you...?"

Maggie laughed then, far brighter than it ever had been in years. "I know when my son's in love. I just didn't know where to look, didn't notice the answer was right there."

"You're not...mad? Disappointed?"

"Honey," Maggie sighed, taking a few steps forward so she could grab onto his arms. "Steven Robert Harrington, you are my son. I will always love you, no matter what. I'm so sorry I ever ever made you feel otherwise. All I've ever wanted for you is happiness, and if that's with Eddie Munson then that's that."

"Mom," Steve croaked, voice cracking around the word as he pulled her in for a hug. She could feel him shake in her arms, sniffling like he was trying to hide the tears. "Do you want to meet him? Eddie, I mean, do you want to...?"

"He's outside?"

"He came over to support me, in case we needed to, well." In case his parents were kicking him out. God, where had they gone so wrong? "Do you want to?"

"Please," Maggie answered quietly, knowing this wouldn't be enough to make up for the years of wrong they'd done. She wanted to know her son, wanted to know the people who made him happiest. She wanted to hear about his day and know that if something ever went wrong that he would call his parents himself, not wait for the hospital or the police to do so. "Please."

Then Steve was bringing in Eddie Munson, who stood out in the pristine, polished Harrington home but who made Maggie's son's eyes light up in a way she'd never seen them. He was smiling, holding his hand out for a handshake.

"Mama, this is Eddie," Steve was saying, and Maggie could cry because it felt like she'd done something right, because she could see how deeply in love Steve was with Eddie because it was a mirror of her own expression when she looked at Robert. This was her son, and her future son-in-law, and Maggie couldn't be prouder.

[perfectlyfamouscowboy]

That one orange peeling theory except we all know that Eddie WOULD 100% peel an orange for Steve without even being asked.

Steve: I kind of want an orange

Eddie: *throwing himself out of bed* SAY NO MORE

Not only would he peel that orange, but he would go above and beyond by painstakingly picking off all of the white parts too because he knows Steve doesn't like them.

It would get to the point where Steve would come out to check on why he's been in the kitchen for so long and Eddie would just be kneeling in front of the trash with a practically bald orange, inspecting it, and picking off even the tiniest hints of white he sees.

[chronicowboy]

"Hey, Buck, you busy tonight?"

It's just the two of them in the locker room. They'd stuck behind to shower off their shifts whilst Hen had rushed home to relieve Karen of baby duty and Chim had sped off for a cake tasting appointment Maddie has been worryingly strict about.

"Yeah, man." Buck tugs on his jacket, watching Eddie fasten his watch out of the corner of his eye. For a moment, he's back at the tailend of an endless shift, blackout over, watching Eddie piece together a breakup in real time. The image of it sends a thrill through him as confusing as it is satisfying. He bites down on it and tastes blood. "Movie night? Like the old days? Or does Young Mr Diaz have another social responsibility he's abandoning us for?"

Eddie huffs a laugh, but it's wistful. Buck gets it, tries to remember the last time they sat down to watch a movie all three of them. Or, well, just the three of them.

"Nah, not tonight." He grimaces a little like he's been thinking the same thing as Buck. "But, uh, I do."

"Ah, I see." Buck nods as he busies himself with his duffel, it's already packed, neat as can be, but he fusses anyway. He can't face Eddie's gentle expression of apology, a sudden fragility in the way he holds himself. "Babysitting duty then?"

Eddie grimaces agin, his face twisting and scrunching and crumpling into a complicated expression of something to the left of disgust. Buck wants to smooth out all the wrinkles in his face until only the smile lines remain, he wants to revel in Eddie's obvious discomfort for reasons he can't explain.

"I wouldn't really call it babysitting."

"Yeah, you're right. Kid'd probably kill me for calling him kid never mind baby." Buck aches a little as he says it, remembers when Chris was small enough to swing up into his arms and over his shoulders, when he'd giggle til he couldn't breathe rather than complain until his lungs gave out from sheer teen angst.

"No, I mean." Eddie sighs, packing his own duffel now, stuffing things in haphazard in a way that always makes Buck feel a little crazy. But then all Buck can think of is whether Eddie's hiding in his duffel for the same reason Buck had. "Hen didn't rush home to babysit, did she?"

If only his duffel bag was big and sentient and hungry enough to swallow him whole. As it is, he just kinds of stops functioning halfway through zipping it up.

"Whuh, um, what?"

"Fair warning though." Eddie swings his duffel over his shoulder. "He's in a crappy mood at the moment. He told you about the new supply teacher who gave him a C on that short story he was really proud of?"

"Bitch," Buck mumbles, still functioning just enough to hate the woman that made Chris feel anything less than proud of his tale of dragon-fighting knights and best friends who Buck thought might have been a little bit in love—he'd been too afraid to ask, too afraid Chris would shut down and start thinking things Buck had to think when he realised who he was as a teenager, too afraid of what Chris had grown up around. Eddie snorts.

"We'll have a movie night soon though," Eddie tells him, still seemingly oblivious to Buck's pretty spectacular implosion. He looks up from his watch, meets Buck's eyes and winks. "Promise." He's off then, leaving Buck staring off into the middle distance like he didn't just turn the world upside down with one sentence. "Oh, um." Eddie smiles down at his shoes a little, rosy cheeked as he pauses in his stride. He glances up at Buck, another moment of hesitation before he drops his hand to Buck's shoulder. "Don't tell him I tipped you off, but he's got a little surprise." Eddie's eyes, molten vats of chocolate Buck wants to sink into, drown in. He's had the thought before. He doesn't know what it means. (He does, he really does.) "He's pretty excited about it, so..."

Eddie squeezes his shoulder once, then he's gone, and Buck. Buck tries to breathe beyond the burning want in his chest.

He's not going home to babysit. He's just going home to his kid.

[illusionsofdreaming]

birds without feet;

Notes: I return to the blog with this monster of a ficlet. This was actually written for @nin-deer who very graciously allowed me to share it on the blog as well. A small imagine that grew out of control haha... enjoy~ Ft: Beacrox

It was but a subtle shift of air that caused him to abandon his project. In an instant, he whipped around, knife in hand, its sharp blade poised just above the intruder's jugular, ready to cut deep with the slightest pressure.

Despite the threat of a blade at your neck, your smile was relaxed as you lifted the roll of parchment in your hand. “Delivery!”

His eyes quickly scanned the kitchen, noting the shifted curtains he pieced together your point of entrance. Only when you wiggled the paper impatiently did he finally drop the knife and swiped the parchment from your hand, ignoring your huff of laughter as he scanned over its contents.

“It’s nice to see you too Beacrox. How have you been?” 

Your attempts at casual banter were ignored, but the moment you began reaching for the food on the table, his gaze snapped to yours, promising pain should you attempt further.

You were wise enough to heed his warning as you stepped back, hands raised in surrender. “Sheesh, you’re not going to make any friends if you keep acting this way.”

Crumpling the piece of paper, he threw it into the fireplace as you clicked your tongue in mock annoyance.

Had he cared for your opinion, he might’ve been annoyed, alas it was easy to dismiss as he threw a pouch in your direction, the clink of gold muted as you caught it from the air. He watched as you tossed the bag a few times before pocketing it.

You must have caught the confusion on his face as you glanced up with a grin. “I know you won’t cheat me of my payment.”

Though it was the truth—Molan’s motto was always to repay what’s due—such blatant admission of trust from someone working in the dark underbelly of society puzzled him, and without meaning to, he’d let his displeasure slip through. “It could’ve been filled with rocks.”

You blinked, head tilted as if you’re considering the possibility, then you laughed. “Then I suppose I’ll be a few pretty rocks richer.”

He scowled and returned to his work, grabbing his knife to hide the flush of annoyance he felt by your flippant answer. You knew such responses would annoy him, and he refused to give you the satisfaction of being correct.

One does not survive long in the underworld with their morals and innocence intact. Your deliberate pushing of buttons was another tactic to wheedle information from your targets, and he wasn't inclined on revealing anything. You already know far too much as is.

“Leave,” he ordered, his limited patience well and truly spent. 

“Always a pleasure talking to you, Bea~”

He threw the knife in his hand, but by the time he turned around, you were already gone. The only evidence of your visit was the lingering echoes of your laughter and a missing tart from the plate of desserts he'd prepared earlier.

━ ⋅��⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

As you kept the package just out of his reach, he couldn’t help but think: for a grown person jaded by the underworld, you sure liked acting like a child at times.

“You just thought of something rude didn’t you?”

His gaze snapped to yours. “You forget who you’re dealing with.” he warned coldly. The Molan household might have fallen from grace but just because he had traded his daggers for kitchen knives, they were no less lethal in his hands. Was it confidence or foolishness that made you dare to test his patience?

The silence in the kitchens was deafening as your eyes met across the counter. 

“I haven’t,” You said finally, “not once.” Your smile was wry and lacked its usual cheer but the heaviness in your tone bore the weight of many secrets, of someone who knew far more than what they’re letting on. He’s faced with an uncanny sense of unbelonging and emptiness that seemed eerily familiar. 

But with a blink of an eye, the mask that had slipped had righted itself. “I have a change of mind,” You sat on the edge of the counter island, tension and somber mood shaken off, replaced with an all too sunny smile. “I’d like another form of payment for the information I’m selling.”

He felt anger lick up his throat as his fist clenched above the table. “That was not part of our deal.”

“An amendment to the agreement then, if you will-”

“I refuse.”

Your peals of laughter filled the room, “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“I refuse.” He repeated sternly. Knowing your personality, it would be an amendment that would greatly irritate or inconvenience him. 

“I’d like you to cook a dish for me.” You continued, ignoring his words. 

There was a sharp snap as the corner of the table cracked under his hand as incredulity stole over his face. 

To begin with, payment for your services had never been cheap, each bag of gold was worth more than several months’ worth of food. If all you wanted was a decent meal, then you’ve already been charging enough to dine at any of Roan kingdom’s finest restaurants.

“It’s not a dish that can be found on any menu in the kingdom.” You tutted as if you knew the thoughts that were going through his head. “It’s not something that can be bought with gold.” 

You’re pulling his leg. “And why do you think I’d care to create a dish no one’s heard of?” Beacrox asked through gritted teeth.

“I know you don’t.” You laughed, lips slanted with a smile. “It’s something I’ve tasted a long time ago but have no idea how it’s made. I’ll describe what I remember and if you believe it’s impossible to recreate or not worth the hassle,” you shrugged in an exaggerated display of nonchalance, “then I’ll take the usual payment like nothing’s changed. It’s a good deal for you right?”

Nothing about this deal made sense. You’re essentially offering your services for free while he’d benefit regardless of whether he succeeds in recreating the dish or not. His expression was stiff as he crossed his arms.

You set the package down on the table gently and slid a piece of folded paper next to it. “Take your time to think about it.” You offered as you pulled your hood up. You left the kitchens as quietly as you’d arrived, leaving him to brood in the silence left behind.

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

“Here.” he sets the completed project on the table with the reluctance of a person who would rather be anywhere else but in the kitchens at that very moment. He folded his arms, pinning his hands to his chest, resisting the urge to snatch the plate and throw it in the trash, calling off the deal.

Beacrox had no expectations of being able to recreate a dish he had never heard of. Yet, from the moment he set the plate down, you stiffened in place, your pleasant smile melting away, replaced by shock.

“Well?”, You flinched as he prompted impatiently. You pulled the dish closer, your smile weak and crooked. 

“I was just a bit surprised that’s all..” your voice trailed off.

He filed your reactions away in the back of his mind.

Your grip was uncertain but eventually you picked a piece from the plate and placed it in your mouth.

You froze in place, and he immediately slid a cup of water and bowl over. 

But you surprised him when you kept it in and swallowed. “It…” He watched as your face straightened slowly, all visible emotions ironed away into one of careful neutrality. 

“..tastes nothing like it.” 

When vague subjective descriptions on a slim piece of paper were all that he had to work with, he’d expected this outcome. The bag of gold he had prepared in advance was tossed onto the table as he reached to retrieve the dish, only to be deterred when sharp pain sprang across the back of his hand. The surprise he felt from the fact he’d failed to catch your movements was swiftly replaced by irritation when he realised you’d slapped him. 

His eyes narrowed, “What are you-“

“I’m taking it.” you said and to his utter confusion, went on to shove another bite in your mouth.

“You just said-“

“I know what I said.” you huffed, “I never said the dish had to taste right did I? It’s a good first try-“ His eyebrows lifted as you suddenly lost the ability to maintain eye contact with him. “Anyways, I’ll be the judge of what’s accepted and I say this passes.”

You've always been an eccentric character, but just when he thought you couldn't faze him further, you managed to render him speechless yet again. Till now, he’s yet to figure out your intention behind your request, if taste was not a priority then what use was creating the dish you’re looking for? 

“Get out of my kitchen.”

“But I haven’t-“

“Out.”

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

Of all the informants in the kingdom, none possessed skills that could surpass yours. It was why, despite the many headaches you induced, Beacrox had chosen to suffer your pestering for so long.

Not one of his sources has ever confirmed how you acquire your information or seen you in action. Yet the intelligence you provide, which has, at many times, sounded unbelievable, had been proven to be true time and time again. 

Perhaps the strangest thing of all was that, despite the ease with which you uncover others' secrets, the same couldn’t be said vice versa. Little to no information could be found regarding your background, whatever was found was obviously doctored, being far too mundane for someone of your skills. You were either incredibly thorough at covering your tracks or an experienced fraudster, and Beacrox was inclined on believing the latter.  

Your unpredictable behaviour made it hard to judge whether you’re an ally or foe, so it was only natural that he’d sought for leverage to hold against you in case there’ll be a day you’d decide to betray them and sell their secrets to their enemies. 

That was the only reason he would consider playing along with your games.

Though he knew not the significance of these dishes to you, he had hoped they would provide some insight on your background or places you’ve been to where other sources have failed to narrow down. 

But of course even the meals you’d request would be harder if not just as difficult to trace as well.

It was only a matter of time before you caught onto his intentions, after all, he’d never kept his investigations a secret. Yet instead of pulling back like he’d expected, you had become bolder in your requests, eyes sparkling with mischief as if you understood the frustration he was going through and still remain one infuriating step ahead of him at all times. 

He’d considered the possibility that you could be pulling his leg, but there was something about the nostalgia in your eyes as you taste each dish that made Beacrox believe in their authenticity. 

He glanced at a small box hidden by the side, within held a small but steadily growing pile of recipes of unknown origins. Not for the first time, Beacrox found himself questioning if all these peaceful days have turned him soft after all.

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

A familiar, unwelcome figure was sitting in his fresh crate of produce.

A quick scan around the area confirmed that you were alone and he walked over to assess your state. A splatter trail led up to the crate you sat on and his brows furrowed in distaste. The darkness made it difficult to immediately see any obvious signs of injuries and when you made no reaction to his presence, he kicked the crate below you.

“Ow.” you stirred, complaining with a soft laugh. 

Conscious. 

“Why are you here?”

Your unannounced visit broke one of many unspoken rules governing their kind. As people maintaining a delicate facade, unexpected visits were not merely discouraged but deemed perilous. No one would fault him should he choose to silence you then and there - such was the severity of your faux pas - yet he stood, only mildly irritated, at the disruption you’ve brought to a peaceful night.

It took a moment longer than he liked before you gathered enough strength to speak. “Sorry,” you apologised and for once, actually sounding it. “I just need a little rest. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

Your laboured breathing and unfocused gaze suggested otherwise and he folded his arms as the dreadful feeling of his plans for an early night slipped through his fingers like fine sand. 

“How bad is it?” 

Impatiently he waited for you to process his words, your sluggishness a strange contrast to your usually sharp wit and quick retorts. 

“It’s been treated.” 

The smell of blood was sharp and acrid, he would have to clean the stains soon if he wished to avoid its scent lingering in the area. “I will not ask again.” He warned.

You were exhausted, it could be seen from your posture and expression. Though he understood the instinct to hide one’s weakness, from the moment you chose to rest here it wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ the truth comes out but a matter of ‘when’ and Beacrox would preferred if it happened sooner rather than later.

Just as he was contemplating the benefits of leaving you to your fate, your lips loosened. “Stab wound on the left, missed vitals. I’ve been tended to but some of the stitches might have opened up.”

That would explain the bloody trail you left. He should count his blessings that it didn’t sound too bothersome, assuming you hadn't foolishly downplayed the severity of your injuries. Your arms came up defensively as he began moving towards you, eyes widening with surprise, “Wait-“

His arms slipped under and around and with barely a grunt of effort, he lifted you up. The sudden motion drew a muffled groan from you and he allowed you a brief moment to collect yourself before he began moving. From this position, he could acutely feel the heat radiating from your skin and the tremors that wracked your body. 

Your confusion and trepidation were clear and it was with some hesitation before you decided to open your mouth-

“Save your breath.” He advised and you obediently swallowed your words.

He moved you into the storage shed behind the kitchen. Though dark, he navigated through the small space easily, setting you on the surface of several boxes, he stepped back to note that you’ve lost consciousness. The walk hadn’t been far but you must have exhausted your reserves traveling here.

From the darkness he brought out a small knife and paused, looking at your face, sweat slicked yet slack from tension, having found an escape from the worries troubling you - however temporary. He recognised that this moment might be a rare opportunity to unveil the secrets you hide, yet as quick as the notion flitted through his mind, it was dismissed just as quickly. With methodical precision, he cut open the side of your shirt where red had stained through.

The wound was as you’d described, if not a bit irritated and swollen. Basic first aid had been applied, though the messy stitch work left much to be desired, it did its job in holding your injury closed. A few stitches had come loose and will need to be reworked but nothing that he’s not capable of handling even with his limited medical knowledge.

As his gaze roamed to your face checking, yes, you were still unconscious, he left and returned moments later with a candle, clean water, cloth and a clean shirt. 

A dusty shed and mere candlelight were far from an ideal setting to perform any kind of wound care, but he doubted you’d care at this point. Pristine, white gloves snapped on, he made short work of cleaning, restitching and bandaging your wound. 

He was about to tilt a bottle of potion into your lips when you mumbled. He paused, waiting to see if you were regaining consciousness. You mumbled again and he frowned. It took him few moments before he realised two things: you weren’t waking up anytime soon and the words you’re mumbling, weren’t in a language from Roan or even any of the neighbouring kingdoms. 

As a master assassin, he had learned many languages, so the fact that you spoke one that he couldn’t place piqued his interest. He watched your lips, intent on studying and memorising the unique intonations and pitch, however, it seems your instincts finally kicked in, and though still unconscious, you’d stopped mumbling. 

Even out cold, you’d find a way to be bothersome. There was nothing more he could do, he left the folded, clean shirt he brought along by your side and with one final glance at your still form, he closed the doors behind him and locked it.

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

He returned the next morning to a broken lock and an empty shed. In place of where you’re supposed to be was instead a piece of paper and a bag of coins. 

“Thanks for last night. Sorry about your spuds, I’ve replaced them for you :)”

A glance to the side confirmed the presence of a fresh crate of potatoes and a slip of paper containing the description of a dish never heard of before in the kingdom.

And for the first time ever, a name to go alongside the unfamiliar dish.

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

You never mentioned what happened that night and he didn’t pry. Still, something seemed to have shifted between the two of you.

He no longer chases you away the moment you appear, while you've learned to place yourself to avoiding getting in the way of his cooking. He pretends not to notice when you arrive with injuries and you feign surprise at finding mysterious salves appearing nearby. 

“Aw, did you miss my company?” you teased when you caught his gaze assessing you after dropping by from one of your longer absences.

Beacrox made no attempt to conceal the dry scowl on his face. “Like one misses a rat infestation.”

“Charming~” you beamed.

Some things, still don’t change no matter what. 

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

In the end, it was the one question he couldn’t figure out. 

“Why me?”

The dishes you've shared are simple, you could've hired any other chef, given the same descriptions and they would’ve achieved similar results. But you chose to badger him, an unknown chef working for a humble count's family instead.

You paused in your devouring of yet another strange dish, blinking as if surprised that he would be the first to initiate conversation.

“Why Bea! You should have more confidence in yourself, you’re one of the best chefs in Roan!”

It was as obvious a deflection as he ever saw. His fingers tightened around his arms and he took a slow breath. So you’re going to be stubborn. Well, two can play that game. He tried another angle. 

The words tasted foreign on his tongue, but they were something that turned over and over in his mind since that night. He’d probably horribly butchered the pronunciation but it seemed the meaning was successfully relayed from the way your eyes widened and your pupils shook with recognition. 

The utensil held in your hand clattered to the table and Beacrox kept his eyes trained on you, taking in your paling face. When it didn't seem like you would offer an explanation, he continued.

“It’s what you kept repeating that night.“

A myriad of emotions crossed your face: shock, confusion, fear, and finally, resignation. 

In the silence, you slowly repeated those same words. Sharp, crisp and wholly foreign. 

"“Home,” your voice was soft, but it was the loudest thing in the kitchen. “‘I want to go home.’” you swallowed thickly, a wavering smile on your face. “that’s probably what I said.”

There was a lot to unpack from that revelation. 

He was suddenly reminded of how you’d react to the dishes each time, savouring each one, scouring the plates clean despite the differences in tastes. You ate not to fulfil the hunger of the body but to satisfy a craving of the mind. After receiving the recipe with a foreign name, it had confirmed one suspicion of his, that wherever these dishes came from, whether it was a place or a person that you're reminiscing about, they're likely no longer accessible.

You're reliving memories through dishes you barely remember. Chasing ghosts in your memories in search of some semblance of normalcy. 

Trust was a limited and rare currency in the underworld, hoarded jealously and coveted by many. You’d handed him the leash he’d sought since he agreed to your little game yet he felt gutted by the weight of the revelation, his shoulders burdened.

“Why me?” He repeated softly.

You watched him. “I don’t know.” Your voice sounded small and so tired. “I thought maybe, if it’s anyone, you’d probably understand.”

What does the concept of home and person mean when they no longer exist? Who are they but displaced people playing roles too big or small to hold their histories? Bearing memories of a place and person, but unable to find an equivalent?

It was a mistake. He shouldn’t have asked.

“But I wasn’t lying you know?” you added suddenly and he looked up in confusion, the smile you wore was weaker than usual but it was genuine. 

“You are one of the best chefs in all of Roan.” You declared in that same, familiar confidence which you use to share all those impossible, far-fetched sounding intel that always, turns out to be fact. 

For some inexplicable reason, it was that simple statement that dispersed the tempest building within.

Beacrox sighed, ran his hand through his hair, and exhaled through his nose.

And perhaps, there was a small, exasperated chuckle.

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

“Bea please marry me.”

It wasn't often, but on rare occasions, he would nail the taste of a dish right.

He didn’t bother with a response but moved to refill your plate nonetheless.

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━

“Thank you.”

He paused while wiping the dishes. “For what?”

“Just,” Your gaze dropped to the plate before you as your fork tapped lightly against the edge. “Thank you for the food.”

Beacrox watched as you returned to eating, mind filled with memories of all the dishes he's made, of greatswords and bladed edges, and thought of what home and belonging is. 

We’re not so different. The idea of it wasn't as horrifying as he had thought. Once, perhaps he would’ve been unnerved by the sentimentality. There are still so many things that remain a secret when it comes to you, and yet, as you close your eyes to savor each bite, he feels as if he knows you better than most.

You ate in comfortable silence. He rolled his shoulders and allowed the tension in them to drop off. 

This might not be ‘home’ but for now, this moment was as good a resting place as any for people like them.

“You’re welcome.” he said softly. 

━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━━✶━━ ⋅𖥔⋅ ━ 

BONUS:

Once again, it begins with a ridiculous request from you.

“Bea please, you have to prepare this for Choi Han. I’ll even sell you my kidneys, I really need to know his reaction.” 

What value would owning your kidneys have? That you’d blatantly suggest such things to an assassin like himself was laughable, stranger still was his playing the fool and following along anyways.

He didn't question how you knew about their mansion's new guest, though your sudden interest in the visitor when you’ve shown no such interest in past guests was worthy of note. Even he had unconsciously tensed when the young master had introduced him. Something about the newcomer didn’t seem right. They were strong, but their potential was untapped and raw, like an uncontrollable beast on the verge of lashing out at any moment.

The glimmer of something in your eyes further confirmed his suspicions. You knew something about this stranger though you refused to reveal more, only promising that he’s not a threat to him or Ron. 

He frowned at the pot of red he’s stirring, the pungent smell wafting through the room. Footsteps from the doorway had him looking up, but the person that crossed the threshold was not the person he’d expected. 

The young master stepped in with a cautious look in his eyes. 

“I thought I smelled..” brown eyes narrowed at the pot he held. “What’s that?”

Beacrox glanced down at the strange dish he was asked to prepare, wondering why of all people that could’ve come, it would be Cale Henituse. 

“A dish a friend taught me to make.” Then for some reason unbeknownst to him, he offered. “Would the young master like to try?”

Cale hesitated, but eventually slid himself onto a seat, choosing the one farthest away from him. At least the young master seemed sober. Beacrox felt no fondness for the young master he served, even if it was true that he had begun to change recently, raising even the interest of Ron. 

Spooning a small portion, he set the dish and utensils down before Cale, ignoring the young man’s flinch as he gauged Cale’s strange expressions. 

The young master stared at the dish as if it would leap up and attack him, his strange wariness reminded Beacrox of your reaction when he first presented that first unfamiliar dish to you. 

“.. there’s no way..” Cale muttered to himself as he poked and prodded until finally, he tried a bite. 

“What.. the hell?”

Beacrox had never seen the young master's eyes bug out like that, and he decided it was quite an entertaining sight, even if the dish’s original target wasn’t meant for the redhead. Still he stifled an irritated sigh as a thought crossed his mind when the young master exclaimed.

“How the hell did you learn to make kimchi?!”

“What the hell did you make me do this time _______?”

Notes: I've had lots of thoughts while writing this imagine turned fic. Nin-deer gave me a simple prompt of "cooking" and I went and turned it into lore- OTL even I don't understand the intricate workings of my brain. I've had to cut out some chapters details as it was growing out of hand so I hope everything's links together properly. I've reached that stage where I've reread a piece of writing so many times, nothing makes sense anymore. I've deliberately left the dishes 'cooked' vague so you're free to imagine whatever cuisine you'd like that Beacrox helped butcher 👍🏼

[raayllum]

28, rayllum.

Send me a number with a ship and i’ll write it (accepted ships are tdp canon ships + rarepairs (claudiez, sorpeli, corvus/terry, sorvus)

28. no one's mad at you

Rayla wets her lips, thinking as she stands there in the clearing. There must be so much swirling through his mind right now, a haunted storm of searing thoughts judging by the empty look in his eyes, the curved hunch of his shoulders. She almost doesn't go over to where Callum's sequestered himself away from the others, away from the warmth of the fire, like he thinks he's undeserving of it (and gods, if she can't relate).

She does, though, knees knocking together as she joins him on the log, and then places a hand on his shoulder. His eyes dart to her for just a second.

The stars twinkle brightly above their heads. It feels like a taunt.

"No one's mad at you," she says softly. "Ezran and Soren—"

"They should be."

"Callum—"

"Everyone else will be. What if he—"

"We'll stop him," she says, hands moving to grab his arm. Keep him grounded with her. "You know we'll stop him. He can't control you anymore."

He finally looks at her, then, eyes shining like shattered glass. "Can't he?" he says, chuckling mirthlessly, because they both know what he did.

The cube, tossed over, rolling on the ground like a loaded die. The invisible hand loosening around her neck. The rage and fear and terror in her chest, because how could he, and yet—

Rayla does the only thing she can think of, as she leans over and kisses him. She hopes it conveys all she wants it to, concern and anger yes, but forgiveness, too. Understanding. Because hadn't she risked the same by tossing her sword aside, by sparing his life?

They just hadn't been able to escape fate both times.

She takes his hands once they pull away and squeezes, the tremor in his fingers fading. "I'm not mad at you," she says, and watches the way he has to blink back tears, because maybe that's what's been eating at him the most. And maybe she should be, but... She doesn't care. She can't care about it anymore. It doesn't matter; not in the face of it, with what else there is. Everything else she feels. "And I love you too. Always."

His palm cups her cheek as he leans in to kiss her this time, lips warm and lingering.

They taste almost like absolution.

[aardvaark]

expanding on that post about sophie devereaux backstories, grift ones and real ones and the things in between:

a year or two after they meet, tara and sophie are somewhere near drunk in a hotel room after a con, high heels thrown against the wall, dresses unzipped and halfway off. tara asks for her Story. the Story. and maybe she wouldn’t have asked if she were sober or maybe tara is simply a little too bloody brave sometimes, a little too determined.

so sophie tells her about a father in the military, a mother who died young, a family that moved houses, towns, regions, countries, all the time growing up. about lying to impress kids at every new school. about desperately doing almost anything to fit in for the months or year she’d stay in that area. about sweet talking her way out of a few little crimes here and there, cash that she would certainly never steal from her rich friends’ parents’ wallets, some driving rules she broke when she was too young to even have a license, yet old enough for a cop to encourage her flirting. sophie tells tara that her father died when she was 19, and the grief had led to recklessness. she made a mistake on a too-ballsy grift. she would’ve gone to jail. instead, she faked her death (for the first of many times) and never looked back. it’s the only funeral of hers that she didn’t attend.

and then, tara told her an equally untrue Story in return.

when sophie is duchess charlotte prentiss, her husband william asks far too many questions about her past. of course, charlotte has a Story. all of her aliases have Stories, even the ones she only uses for a day - they all have birthdays, childhood pets, first kisses, people they love. so she tells him that her parents died in a car crash when she was 16 and instead of going into the foster system, the authorities figured she was old enough to become an emancipated minor. she tells him how it was difficult at times, incredible at others, and sad and exciting and embarrassing and bittersweet. she weaves a damn good tale about charlottes life, if she may say so herself - one that’s just painful enough for william to stop asking questions. it works perfectly. but when she tucks astrid into bed that night, and the little girl looks up at her with big round eyes and asks if ‘charlotte’ misses her mummy and daddy and says that she’s sad for ‘charlotte’ because she knows what it’s like to miss a mama… sophie freezes. there’s a lump in her throat and goosebumps on her skin. she blinks down the tears and recovers just enough to fake a smile and kiss astrid’s forehead as she leaves the room. lying has never hurt like this before. it takes all her strength to shut it down, shove the emotions in some tiny box in her head that she simply refuses to acknowledge. she decides, then, that she has to leave this house as soon as possible.

the charlotte Story is one of many that hardison finds. it’s inevitable, when he has to cover all their tracks so thoroughly, that hardison would stumble upon various old aliases. he only learns about the charlotte one from the job in england - there’s no links between her and sophie, but he destroys a decent amount of excess duchess charlotte prentiss information just in case, and then looks for any other mysterious women who happened to pop up or vanish around that time. he notices that there are some things that all of sophie’s aliases share: their parents are dead, they have no siblings, and their life changed dramatically somehow in their mid-to-late teens (usually with those parents’ deaths, or gaining an inheritance, or moving far away). he knows that these are all pretty standard, convenient details for a fake identity. but he wonders, sometimes. couldn’t she have made up dead siblings? estranged but alive parents? a dramatic event in her early childhood or in her twenties? he doesn’t know if the consistent parts mean anything. he doesn’t ask for her Story - not outright, at least. though for the first couple months of knowing her, he does sometimes enquire about little things here and there. did she grow up with sisters, what was her high school like - that sort of stuff. information is his thing, sue him! sometimes sophie just smiles. sometimes she answers, and he eventually learns that her truths, at least, are very much relative. when he decides that she is family - which is pretty early on, to be honest - he also decides not to ask anymore. he destroys old aliases when necessary, but he never reads more than he has to. he loves sophie and that is enough.

eliot never asks anything about her life. not even the innocent, casual, unthinking questions that sophie is used to from other people: where’d you grow up? did you ever have any pets? i always had to share a room with my sister, what about you? eliot clearly avoids asking her any of it. she’s somewhat surprised by that. sure, he’s polite, but he’s also suspicious both by nature and due to certain unfortunate experiences, so she sort of expected him to interrogate her when they first met.

one night, they’re the last two left at nate’s apartment. even nate had gone to bed and left them there, long given up on shooing his team out at appropriate times. sophie’s been drinking tea and flipping through a latvian phrase book to refresh her memory for tomorrow’s grift, and apparently that 90-minute-a-day sleep schedule allows for eliot to be doing one-handed push ups in the living room at this ungodly hour. too tired to retain any more information, sophie studies eliot instead. he’s a straightforward guy. she decides to be straightforward too. she breaks the silence of the apartment and simply asks - is he ever curious about her Story? eliot pauses a moment. looks her in the eye, quiet. doesn’t brush her off gruffly like she thought he might. instead, he asks if she’s ever curious about What He’s Done. that is answer enough for the both of them. they don’t talk for the rest of the night, each going back to their own activities, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. on the contrary - the mutual understanding ends up solidifying their relationship.

nate isn’t always so intensely careful about his questions like eliot. well, actually, there were many times back in his insurance days that he very much did ask her questions on purpose. and of course, for five years, he asks after her real name. sophie generally thinks of it as a fun game. she smiles at his useless determination and teases him when he comes back from jail. after a while, though, she realizes that the questions about her Story mostly stopped when leverage formed, and stop completely once he proposed. nate never hears any version of her Story. she’s here now, and that’s all he needs or wants to know - just like how sophie is her real name in any way that matters.

the moment that sophie realizes this is the moment she stops caring about the real Story, the burden of the secret and the guilt and shame of keeping it from her newfound family. in that moment, she understands that what happened back then is just a small drop in the ocean, irrelevant to the life she’s built and come to love. she never tells them the story, and she never needs to.

[symbioticsimplicity]

As much as I like the idea of Steve and Eddie immediately being comfortable around each other, I also really want it to be a progression.

Give me Steve who isn’t used to a lot of physical contact, even though he desperately wants it. He isn't used to just getting what he wants from people anymore. Especially things he wants bone deep. He kind of associates people giving him what he wants with being an asshole which he's trying hard not to be so it loops back around to him being afraid to get what he wants.

Not to mention the very real possibility of internalized homophobia. While Robin and Will being queer is absolutely fine with him, being queer himself is a different beast altogether. He can suspend biases for his friends because they're wonderful and he loves them to the moon and back. But whenever he thinks about how much he wants to play with Eddie's hair or how happy he feels when Eddie calls him by one of his nicknames for him, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Richard Harrington tears him apart over it.

In Eddie's case, he doesn't fully believe that Steve would want any of his usual affection. There's way better people than him that Steve could get that from.

He was mainly invading his space to try to get a reaction out of him before he realized he's actually a good dude. He lays off out of respect, but he hates it. He's always been physical with his friends, and he's come to like Steve a lot. But he sees a divide between them, a social one, despite being out of school. He doesn't want to be the one to drag such a pretty boy down into the muck of his life by being overly familiar with him.

This little dance could go on for months before one of them breaks.

I'd like to think its Steve who asks to be held. Like maybe he's just having a shit day and he's too tired to care about all the reasons he usually doesn't do this. His body aches in that way he knows is from not having had someone touch him in more than passing in a while, and Eddie is right there.

So he breaks down and asks if Eddie would be okay with hugging him.

He sounds miserable and Eddie has never had anyone ask if he's okay with giving them something as simple as a hug. He's not really used to people asking if he's alright with much of anything.

Of course he agrees and pulls Steve in for a lingering hug.

Its clear he isn't used to it, he's so tense and he's not really sure where to put his hands, so Eddie directs him what to do. It takes a few moments but Steve starts to relax more.

So Eddie rubs his back, pets his hair, lets him lean into him more. Its like trying to tame down a hurt dog, and he's sure Steve will bolt if he makes one wrong move. He wants to suggest they lay down, but thinks cuddling might be a little too advanced for now.

So he just holds Steve like that, and when they break away, he hesitates but chooses to be brave and tells him he can ask him for that any time he needs.

It takes a while, Steve has learned to subsist on minimal contact the way camels subsist on minimal water, but he does ask again.

And again.

And again.

Its gradual, but they both begin to gravitate toward one another. Steve no longer gently elbows Eddie away if he gets too close. And Eddie figures out where Steve is alright with being touched and in what settings. He's damn proud of himself for the nuance in that last part.

A few months into this new dynamic sees Steve initiating touches too. He gets incredibly nervous the first time, but Eddie seems happy with it so he doesn't stop himself from doing it again.

Soon they’ve hit the point of nearly always touching somehow. If they're in the same room they're sitting side by side. Steve plays with Eddie's rings almost as much as Eddie does. Eddie's legs belong in Steve's lap and vice versa. Steve is sure if he goes a full day without hugging Eddie he will in fact wither and die.

It doesn't take long after that for them to realize they’ve caught feelings. It does however take an age to talk about. Neither wants to ruin what they have, its so good and it took so much time and work to build. They work as friends and that should be plenty.

It isn't.

This time its Eddie who breaks.

Its during one of the nights Steve has stayed at his place long after sundown. The man is laying on Eddie's chest, legs interwoven, half asleep and watching TV. He's the portrait of comfort and when Eddie cards his hand through his hair, Steve makes this little content noise and it just slips out.

Three little words that make time stand still.

He knows Steve heard him, he felt him tense up. He wants to take it back just for that, but he's long since learned his lesson about being a coward. So he lays still and let's Steve process.

Steve who's mind is on fire right now.

He's sure Eddie couldn't have really meant that the way he wants him to. Its just wishful thinking projected onto platonic affection. Robin tells him she loves him all the time. But Eddie is still rubbing his back and he's gonna lose it trying to figure this out by himself.

So he asks, and they talk and they learn they're both kind of idiots.

They agree to give dating a try.

Its quickly apparent that's what they were meant to be doing all along. At this point it comes easily, naturally even.

Up until their first kiss.

Its not that they don't want to kiss, they definitely do, its that Eddie's never done it before and Steve has never kissed a guy.

Just like everything else, it takes some work to get right. The first time Steve had flinched a little when Eddie's stubble had grazed him, and the second time Eddie got a little overzealous with his tongue.

It takes practice, but they’re willing to put in the work.

Soon they share the kind of kisses that are easy to get lost in. They once spent the better part of a Saturday afternoon just kissing, with Steve sat comfortably in Eddie's lap.

Eventually they build up to more and that's when their patience and the lessons they've learned about each other up until this point really get put to the test.

Once again, Eddie doesn’t have any experience in this arena. He’d had daydreams a plenty, but he’s never actually touched another person intimately before. Steve has, but only girls and only so far. He thinks some things ought to carry over, but when they get to the part that involves stripping off clothes, he panics a little.

The first time they don’t make it very far. They want to, more than almost anything, but their joint fumbling wrecks the mood pretty quickly. They get as far as their boxers before they both concede and let themselves head back to their comfort zone, which is long makeouts. It makes the tension that much thicker.

For a while they focus on getting comfortable with one another in that sense. There’s a lot more times when one of them loses a shirt during a makeout session, more often than not the victim of roaming hands and needy fingers. They map each other out the same way they’ve been doing for months now, until the other doesn’t feel like foreign territory anymore. It helps put them both at ease, but it also makes them both so much needier.

When they finally do end up going all the way, they cling to each other for hours after. Now that they’ve been as close as they can be, it’s difficult to handle being apart. Eddie traces the various moles Steve has, while Steve does the same with Eddie’s tattoos. It’s sappy, and neither of them would give up those details under pain of death, but they tell each other how much it means to be able to be so close to someone else without being afraid. Eddie confides in Steve about how hard it is to be so far ostracized and how sometimes he wishes he were different just so he didn’t have to feel that way. Steve tells Eddie about growing up in a big empty house and how he sometimes feels like he’s just the ghost of an idea his parents had about what he should be.

They agree that so long as the other is breathing, they’ll always have someone who will hold them and remind them that they both have value.  

[shades-o-grey]

GOOD OMENS FICLET- The Origin of the Apology Dance

My headcanon for how the apology dance originated

It didn't start out as an apology, the content of the dance and the song don't come across that way, so my idea is that it started out as something else and was later used as a way to apologize (or rather get the other to accept an apology).

And so my idea is...

It started out as a silly bet,

Honestly, Aziraphale should've known better than to enter a wager with a demon. But the temptation of proving Crowley wrong was just too well... tempting

Not that an Angel can actually be tempted, it was purely for a moral and angelic reason, a feather on his wing, chalk one up for the side of angels, thwarting the wiles of the wicked sort of thing. I mean it was practically his job!

(Pay no attention to the fact that it is indeed his job, one that he tends forget or just not do)

The only trouble was... what did Aziraphale want Crowley to do once he'd won?

"And what should the winner demand of the loser then?"

Crowley asked staring into his 8th cup that he held loosely in his grasp.

"Buying lunch?"

Aziraphale suggested the first thing to pop in his head.

"No no we always do that, besides, I believe I s'still owe you from, from... I don't know such n' such and you had the thing"

He dismissed the absent recollection of when they'd last dined together with a wild gesture of his hand.

"Mmm"

Aziraphale nodded his head in drunken agreement, also remembering that they had indeed lunched together at some place, at some point, and that he did have - the thing.

They both sat silently for a moment pondering. Trying to think what exactly the penalty of their bet should be.

Suddenly Aziraphale shot up with excitement

"I've got it! The loser must demonstrate a grand gesture of defeat!"

He said with the triumph of someone who had just come up with a brilliant idea. Even though his suggestion was missing and important part.

The part where it provides an actual suggestion.

"n-Yeah - Obviously, that's the point of a bet -Angel. Win so you can recieve something from the defeated. Money, property, y'knoe those sorts of things, humans do it all the time"

"No no, you missed the point. A Grand Gesture, you know a gesture that-thats -gratuitous"

Said drunk Aziraphale who had confused the words Gratuitous and Grandiose

"Wot? You mean like the whole "prostrate yourself, kneel at the feet and beg for for absolution" sort of thing?"

Crowley continued, missing what Aziraphale had tried to say while somehow still wandering in the general direction of what Aziraphale had been attempting to suggest.

Aziraphale wrinkled his pert nose in distaste at the idea of what Crowley thought he might be suggesting.

"No, I don't think either of us would enjoy seeing that very much"

"No, WE- would not." -

Crowley paused, recalling someone who would enjoy such a display. He refocused back on Aziraphale.

-"Then what is it you are trying to suggest? Stand on my head and talk in a silly voice? Run around with you on my back like a mule?"

That made Aziraphale giggle

"hehe AHEM m-no. Not quite that either, but I think we're on the right track"

Crowley's suggestion (which was clearly meant to be a joke) gave Aziraphale an idea.

"Oh! I know! how about... a silly dance?"

"A wot?"

Crowley responded, confused as to how dancing had come into the conversation.

"A dance! You do know what dancing is don't you?"

"Nghk*-n-yeah...but, I thought angels don't dance?"

"Oh! It wouldn't even count as dancing, really it's just a *he waves his hand in the air* silly little... dance of sorts."

"Right, and what would this *he imitates Aziraphale's hand movement* silly little dance look like exactly?"

Azirpahale frowned in concentration,

When he'd made the suggestion, he hadn't thought he'd have to know what the "dance" looked like.

"Well...maybe something... something..."

He paced, gestured, and mapped out movements in his mind.

"-something like this!"

*Aziraphale began to sing a song with some footwork in small dance steps*

"🎶You we're right, you were right-🎶"

Crowley interrupts

"you didn't say anything about singing being a part of it?"

"-its part of it!"

Azirphale quipped back, annoyed at having his concentration interrupted

"Now let me start over"

*He starts the dance over again*

🎶"You were right, you were right"

"I was wrong"

"You were right!"🎶

Aziraphale finishes the song and dance for Crowley

"See? I think this will work splendidly, don't you?"

He gives a proud little wiggle.

Meanwhile, Crowley gets an idea...

"Could you do it again? I don't think I get it"

He asks, clearly up to something.

"Look, you'd have to go like this-"

Aziraphale demonstrates the dance a second time.

-"Now, I hope you were watching closely because I expect a perfect rendition from you once I win this wager, no half-ing it!"

He wiggled his finger at the demon, feeling quite plum and pleased at his cleverness. Seeing Crowley do the dance promised to be quite satisfying.

"Maybe give it another go. I really~ wanna make sure I know what I'm getting."

Crowley was laying it on thick, exaggerating his eagerness to "learn" this new dance while a smirk was desperate to escape his face.

Aziraphale goodnaturedly starts to demonstrate for a 3rd time.

"It really quite simple its-

He stops abruptly

Crowley is shaking with the force required to contain his mirth.

Aziraphale has a realization of what Crowley has been doing-

"CROWLEY!"

Azriaphale exclaimed, abashed- A dash of reproach added in his voice for good measure towards the wily demon.

*Crowley burst into a loud cackle*

"AAh hAhA  *snort* haha ha!"

"You were having me on weren't you!"

"hehe -You *snort* caught on a lot faster than *hehe* then I expected"

"Really now? You were just going to make me repeat the dance over and over!? It's supposed to be for the wager!"

"Oh come on Angel-"

"Well you're not getting me to do it again."

Crowley smirked, remembering something Aziraphale seemed to have forgotten.

"Well, once I win, you'll have to do another show of it"

Aziraphale began to pale, turning a similar shade of white to his hair.

Crowley leaned over so his citrine serpentine eyes peered over his dark lenses. His eyes crinkled in amusement at the flummoxed angel before him.

"I'm looking forward to the encore Angel~"

(It would come to pass that Aziraphale would demonstrate the dance many more times throughout their history, much to his chagrin and to Crowley's great pleasure)

FULL FIC ON AO3 HERE!!!

"The Little Dance"- (Origin of The Apology Dance)

VillianousAce (TheSleepParalysisDemon)

[morganski-19]

Some believed that there were invisible strings that tied you to your soulmate no matter where they were in the world. No matter what, you would find your soulmate at some point in your life, and fall in love. No one really believed this theory, until there were enough reports of enough people seeing them. The only catch you could only see your strings when your soulmate died.

Steve didn't believe in them though, he thought it was dumb. After all of his failed dates and relationships, it was easier to believe that soulmates just weren't real. That way he wouldn't get excited when he started dating someone new, and less hurt when it came to an end.

"Maybe you just haven't found the right person yet," Robin would say, secretly hoping that she would find the person on the other end of the string. But Steve still thought it was better to just stop believing.

That was until he saw the strings for the first time. At first, it was so fast that he barely even noticed it. Just a small string of red that showed up on Robin's finger as he helped her down the Creel House stairs. He didn't think anything of it really, until it happened again.

When he, Nancy, and Robin were walking back to the trailer, he saw the strings again, just for a flash. A short red string connects Robin and Nancy's pinkies. Looking down just in time, he saw his own red string tied around his right pinky, severed, before it disappeared again.

Fear built in Steve's chest. He thought he was crazy, that this was just some upside down hallucination. But he can't get rid of the feeling that this is real, that his soulmate is dying before he can ever get the chance to love them.

When the three of them find Dustin crying over Eddie's body, Steve forgets all of it for a moment. Just worrying about getting Eddie out, and keeping him alive.

They get him to a hospital right before he flatlines. Eddie is rushed to the emergency room as soon as he is resuscitated, but not before Steve is met with a sea of red.

String tangled and stretched all over the hospital. Tying themself to people in the waiting rooms, their strings running down the hallways and through the doors. The doctor's red strings leave the hospital doors, making their way down the street. But Steve's is left severed again.

He doesn't see the strings for another hour until he does for a full two minutes. Looking down at the severed string on his finger, he can't help but think that he'll see this string forever. That he spent so long believing that soulmates weren't real, he didn't even notice that he found it.

Glancing over at Robin, he sees her string cross the room to where Nancy is sitting with Lucas in Dustin. Lucas's runs down the hall to where Max is, and Dustin's goes to what Steve can only think is Utah.

Within the blink of an eye, the strings disappear again and stay that way, leaving Steve with the knowledge that soulmate's are real, and his is alive.

if anyone wants to do anything thing with this, be my guest. might do a longer version of this myself, but lord knows when I'll have time to do so.

[infinite-orangepeel]

okay but kas!eddie who is a ruthless killing machine except for when it comes to steve harrington ? that shit gets me every damn time.

[dwobbitfromtheshire]

A/N: Yes, I went through my drafts and forgot about this ficlet. It's a draft pick you could say (that's a sports term, right?). Yes, it's based on that scene from Frozen.

During the final battle with Vecna, Steve was the first to fall. It was poison of all things. Vecna poisoned him, and it was quickly spreading. Everyone was fighting off demobats and demogorgons. They wouldn't even know until it was too late. At least he'll be with Eddie. . . Eddie. . .he never had a chance. Just as thought of him, Eddie appeared in his tattered bloody clothing. No, Eddie was dead.

"Oh, Steve, shit. You don't look so good," Eddie said, crouching down next to him and cupping his face.

"You died," Steve coughed weakly.

"I came back just for you," Eddie said. "I heard an act of true love can save you."

Steve knew he wasn't real. He couldn't be. This Eddie was enjoying this, was enjoying the sight of Steve dying.

"True love's kiss?" Steve scoffed.

Eddie smirked and tilted his chin up with his clawed finger. He moved closer to Steve until their lips were barely touching. Eddie smirked.

"Oh, Steve, if only there was someone out there who loved you," Eddie said, his eyes flashing red.

Well, that fucking hurt. No, Eddie was real, but Vecna was speaking through him.

"Fuck off, Henry," Steve said furiously. "I didn't know Eddie very well, but Dustin told me about him. I know Eddie is the kind of guy who does believe in true love even if he does have a cynical view on it. He told Robin or Robin had guessed. I don't know. She told me that he admitted to falling hard and fast for me. Well, I think that I did the same. Fuck. I'm fading here, Eddie. If you're in there, I really fucking like you and I want to know you. I really want to know you."

Eddie was cupping his face again, but this time, his eyes looked softer. Eddie kissed him softly, tears pooling in his eyes. Steve kissed him back as much as he could, opening his mouth to him. Suddenly, he felt Eddie drip some sort of liquid into his mouth, and he could feel the poison fade away. His energy returned. Eddie helped him up and wrapped his arms around his waist.

"What did you put in my mouth?" Steve asked.

"Worry not, big boy," Eddie said and captured his lips again.

"It's really you," Steve gasped, breaking the kiss.

"It's really me and I am going to fucking kill Vecna for trying to kill MY paladin," Eddie said furiously and flashed his fangs.

"Your paladin, huh?" Steve asked. "I guess that makes you MY vampire."

"You know it," Eddie said and slapped his ass. "Let's kill this bitch."

They rushed into battle, side by side. Eddie brought Vecna to his knees while Steve raised his nail bat and smashed it into his face. Together, they brought down the evil wizard and saved all of Hawkins. . .

And they lived gayly ever after. . .

THE END

[writer-in-theory]

"It's a wonder Steve's survived this long, Jesus H. Christ," Eddie hissed.

Eddie hasn't stopped pacing the hospital waiting room ever since Steve was taken back for 'testing'. The doctors had listed out various scans but there were too many acronyms to keep track of. All Eddie knew was that Steve had been hiding his pain for at least a day, maybe longer, until he collapsed at work with Robin.

That was the second worst call Eddie had ever gotten in his life.

"Harrington?" the doctor called out then, holding onto a metal clipboard tightly and looking around the busy emergency room. In an instant Eddie was on his feet, practically sprinting to where the doctor was standing.

"How is he, doc? Get to keep all his fingers?" He wanted to joke, but the words fell flat in the sterility of the room. The last time he'd been here had been after...No. The Upside Down had long since been closed off from their world and Vecna was disintegrated into that weird otherworldly ash. It was over.

"Are you family?"

Nancy and Robin had prepped him for this one, too. In everything but the law, Eddie and Steve were husbands. They'd had a wedding with Robin and Dustin as their Best (Wo)Men and Wayne as their officiant, in the middle of the night where no one would notice but them. They'd celebrated their fifth anniversary two weeks ago, they were the loves of each others' lives. But to the government, to this doctor, they weren't anything but friends who shared a bed. Fuck the nineties.

"Yeah, he's my brother-in-law," Eddie answered, knowing when Nancy showed up they could pass this lie off decently. "How's Steve doing?"

The doctor gave him a long look, but otherwise nodded and rechecked his clipboard. "Mr. Harrington is getting prepped for emergency surgery, currently, as he's s—"

"Emergency surgery? What do you mean surgery?" Already Eddie could feel the tell-tale warning signs of panic as his heart began to race and his palms got sweaty. Surgery wasn't good. They weren't supposed to do this. No more hospitals, no more surgeries, no more 'wait and see's. They'd promised after last time, Steve promised.

"Sir," the doctor pushed, looking more irritated than concerned. "This is a routine procedure, we see it all the time. Mr. Harrington has a case of appendicitis, pretty bad by the looks of it. Has he been feeling any pain lately?"

"Yeah, yeah the bastard has," Eddie hissed, not sure if he was about to laugh or cry. Appendicitis. Fucking appendicitis. He'd had that as a kid, he still remembered all the popsicles and ice creams Uncle Wayne let him have in the days after, cooped up in the trailer watching boring TV shows while all his friends were at school. "Is he already in surgery? Can I see him?"

"He's being prepped, but you can see him. We gave him some medication to calm him down and ease his pain, so Mr. Harrington may be...out of it," the doctor warned as he led Eddie through the maze of hallways behind the front desk. "Next time, let your brother-in-law know he shouldn't ignore this kind of pain."

"Oh don't you worry, doc, I'll make sure to pass on the message," Eddie answered, practically glaring at the closed hospital room door. Fucking appendicitis and Steve had ignored it, passed it off as a pulled muscle after a run.

Seeing Steve in a hospital bed didn't get any easier, though it was hard to be angry or scared when the man's head lolled across the pillow to reveal a brilliant, out-of-it smile Eddie had never seen before. "Eddie!" Steve cooed, reaching his arms out for the other man.

Eddie couldn't help but laugh, crossing the distance quickly so he could press Steve's arms back to the bed. "Hey, c'mon now, Harrington, don't wanna pull that IV line out."

"Did they tell you they're stealing my organ? They're stealing it, Eds!"

"It's a pretty useless one anyway, you won't even miss it."

Steve's face scrunched up at that, like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "How dare you! Of course I'll notice one of my little guys got separated! What if he gets lonely?"

"You're..." Eddie tried not to laugh, if only because he's sure that'll make Steve fly off the handle even further. He scrubbed a hand across his tired face, sure his expression was full of nothing but fondness now for the man laying in the hospital bed. "You're afraid your appendix will get lonely?"

"I just...they're all meant to be together, you know? You can't separate one and expect it won't get lonely. Don't let them steal my organ, Eds."

"I," Eddie began, unable to help the smile that pulled on his lips. "Stevie, baby, it's not stealing if a doctor does it. They're taking it out because it's being a troublemaker. It doesn't belong there anymore, you can't keep trying to make it fit somewhere it doesn't."

"Never stopped me before," Steve answered with a little slur. "Maybe I like troublemakers." Then, leaning over with his hand by his mouth in a conspiratorial whisper, he said at full volume, "I mean you, Eddie."

There was no laugh like the one Steve was able to pull from him, of that Eddie had learned years before. He laughed until his chest hurt and tears gathered in his eyes, until even the nurse peeked their head in to check on the two of them.

"C'mon, Stevie. You go be a rockstar in there and I'll be right beside you when you wake up. We'll go get so much ice cream you forget about your stolen appendix," Eddie offered, pressing a kiss to Steve's non-IV lined hand.

"I'll be such a good rockstar you gotta put me in the band," Steve answered, blowing a kiss to Eddie as the surgical team came in to wheel him off. "Love you, Eds."

Warmth spread through his chest, warming him from the insides out until Eddie worried he might burn up from the intensity of Steve's love. "Love you too, Steve."

Eddie stands and watches as they wheel Steve out of the room, laughing as Steve yelled after him.

"I can't believe you're letting them steal my poor appendix, Munson! I won't forget this!"

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Everything Has Its Price

It comes to Steve for the first time when all the religious bullshit consumes his town. Eddie is dead, Max is in a coma and the entirety of Hawkins is fucked, no way around it. The ground is split, many dead or injured, fires everywhere and now Upside Down starts creeping into their world. Just peachy.

He listens to Max's song on repeat and thinks how fitting it is. Deal with God, exactly what they need, except the oh so benevolent God his parents pretend to care about couldn't give a flying fuck about them. As far as Steve is concerned, if He existed, he wouldn't just let them go through all of this. The children wouldn't have lost their innocence so soon. Eddie wouldn't be dead. And when he sees all the crap that Jason Carver spouted written on walls as if it was the holy scripture, all the talk about evil and devil and his minions, he thinks - why not. Why the fuck not.

Steve doesn't know if it will work, but he's willing to try. He excuses himself from the volunteer center and breaks into the half-collapsed library, finds some leftover books on paganism, Satanism, whatever he can find. And then he just proceeds to lock himself in the quiet Harrington household, pulls out a knife that should fulfill all the requirements and gets to work.

The first twelve entities he calls on don't answer. Ironically, it's the thirteenth that does. Steve doesn't even know its name and honestly, he doesn't care. He squeezes his bleeding palm more over the poorly drawn chalk symbol and he straightens himself, facing the blurry shape.

"You are an interesting one," it says, its voice deep and hollow. "What do you want of me?"

Steve clenches his hands, ignoring the sting. "I want to fix things," he says simply. "I don't care what it costs, take my soul, body, whatever you want, but all this shit has to go."

There is a booming sound, perhaps a chuckle. "Be more specific. What do you want to fix?"

"Max and Eddie. I want to bring them back. I want to...I want to make sure they live to see today. Not the end of the world today, I want them to live the lives they want. The lives they deserve." His voice is firm and resolute and the entity seems pleased.

"I don't care for your soul," it says with disdain, but Steve can feel it shifting closer, observing him. "End of the world, you say? That sounds promising. I feed on suffering, boy, your pain is what keeps me sustained. What do I have to gain from assisting you?"

Steve frowns and brushes back his hair, dying the front strand in blood. "As if this was a good thing for you," he spits out. "Sure, you'll have a feast now, but what do you think will happen when all humans die out? I've seen the world that's coming our way and let me tell you, it won't be a rich menu when it's all over."

"You make a good point," the entity admits and circles Steve now, interested. "Very well. Let me propose a trade then. I will give you a chance to...as you said, fix things. I will give you an extra day, for as long as you need. You will wake up the day when your world ended and will have as many chances to save your friends as you need."

Steve nods and watches the black mass without flinching. "Deal."

The entity chuckles again and warps, spreading across the once pristine living room. "Why agree when you don't know the price?"

"I don't care about the price. You can do anything you want with me, if it only affects me, it's worth it. It will always be worth it."

The darkness is touching is chest now, threatening to enter him, swallow him whole. "What a sight you are," it whispers. "This is what I want from you. You will be the only one to remember, the only one to know the stakes. You will try and fail, hurt and bleed, and I will be there to consume it all. When you eventually succeed, if it can be done, you will be let go. That is my offer. Feed me, child, and I will grant you as many chances as you need."

Steve musters a small smile, pained and tired, but a smile nevertheless. "Works for me. I accept."

Weeks, maybe months later, Steve upholds his end of the deal. He saves Eddie and Max, falls in love with the metalhead in the process and saves Hawkins. He is the only one to remember all the pain and tears and he's glad he is, no one should go through this because it was his choice, only his.

The night after they defeat Vecna, the whole group celebrates. Steve excuses himself, sneaks outside and draws a familiar symbol on the ground, cuts his barely healed palm again. "Are you satisfied?" he asks the black cloud that forms around him. "Is it over?"

The darkness shifts closer and strokes Steve's cheek, a teasing gesture from far beyond. "You kept your word and I will keep mine. Live your life, you earned it. As for me...this was the most exquisite meal I've had in ages. Thank you, boy. Your pain was delicious." And with that, the sign crumbles and disappears, blown away by the March wind.

Steve comes back inside and decides to grab a glass of water, his throat is suddenly dry and burning. He meets Eddie in the kitchen and they just relax against the counter, Eddie sipping beer and Steve his water, sharing comfortable silence.

"I still don't get how we survived that," Eddie whispers. They still have a long way to go, they need to clear Eddie's name, but they take it one step at a time. "So many things went just right, even thought it was a proper suicide mission. It must have been a bloody miracle."

Steve smirks into his glass and gulps down the rest of it. "Who knows?" he grins at Eddie, his heart light for the first time in weeks. "Maybe someone took Kate Bush's advice and made a deal with God."

[raayllum]

She should be furious with him.

And she is, Rayla knows. There’s a tight ball of rage and regret and fear bundled up in her chest all because of him, because how could he just do that? How could he hand over the Key just like that, just because she—and it had all only spiralled out of control because of his good and noble heart had let itself be corrupted by dark magic, to free her parents, and now Aaravos is—

Yet Rayla plants herself between them, glowering at her father when Runaan lifts Callum up by the throat with his one good hand. “You dare free the Fallen Star?” Runaan hisses, almost spitting while Callum grabs at his wrist; he’s not being choked, but it still isn’t pleasant, scarf pulled taut around his neck.

“I—” Callum says, but Rayla already knows he won’t defend himself. He never does. Not for dark magic. Not when he knows something is wrong and does it anyway. 

“He did it to save me,” Rayla says, pushing at Runaan’s chest, because that’s the context Runaan doesn’t have, of course.

Her guardian squints, then drops her boyfriend. Callum lands on his feet and massages his neck. “He—” 

“I couldn’t let them just kill her,” Callum says, eyes a bit watery, and Rayla takes his hand.

She’s still furious but... Going to dark places and making hard choices is an act of love. She blew up their world to try and keep him safe. She refused to kill him when their world was at stake. And she’s so tired of being scared and angry. And he loves her. She won’t take that for granted. They’ll just have to live with his choice. Together.

Runaan frowns, still not satisfied, but cowed, for now. “There were still other options,” he says, huffing and stomping away, and Rayla squeezes his hand.

But then Callum looks at her, eyes glimmering, and she exhales, resting her forehead against his, and she knows he can tell he’s forgiven. The tension eases out of his shoulders.

Because no. There wasn’t.

Not really.

“I love you, Rayla,” he murmurs. “I really do.”

She pulls him forward into a hug. “I know,” she promises.

[dinogoose]

i know now that you understand

“You want to help me pick out a new couch?” He asks, now this question would seem mundane and possibly boring to an outsider, but Eddie knows. He knows exactly what Buck is truly asking.

And so, with a fond smile, Eddie nods, “Yeah.”

(or, a short re-write of the balcony scene in 6x18)

“There’s nothing you can do?” Buck asks the man currently trying to get amniotic fluid from his couch.

“We could carry it to the curb for you?” One of them suggests.

Buck nods appreciatively, “Yeah, sure, thank you.”

“Sorry for your loss, man.”

While Buck appreciates the sentiment, he himself isn’t all that sorry. The couch was uncomfortable at best and quite frankly an eye sore, so Buck can’t say he isn’t glad it’s gone. He’s honestly just happy he isn't losing any money on the thing.

Plus now, he gets to find his own couch. One that is truly his.

He nods at both of the maintenance men, thanking them once more for their work, before he steps outside, a mug of coffee in each hand.

The sun is shining out on his balcony, the weather is nice, and Buck can’t help but enjoy the view. Of course, he’s not talking about the cityscape, no, he’s talking about the beautiful brunette who looks perfectly sleep rumpled and is grumpily waiting for his coffee.

“Hi.” Eddie greets as Buck walks over to him.

Buck grins, “Hi.” He responds back lifting the mug full of black coffee (With a splash of half-and-half. He knows his man.) up towards Eddie.

Eddie grabs it greedily, causing Buck to shake his head before sitting down next to the man, plastering their bodies together. Eddie leans into him, humming as he takes the first sip of his hot beverage.

Then the brown-eyed man sets down his drink, turning to face Buck, “So, what do you want to do today?”

Buck smiles at him bright and wide, “Well I had a few ideas,” He says leaning in for a kiss.

Eddie immediately reciprocates leaning in with a practiced ease that shouldn’t exist because of how new this is, but does because they’re them.

Buck breaks the kiss but doesn’t go far, wanting to stay as close to the love of his life as possible.

“You wanna help me pick out a new couch?” He asks, now this question would seem mundane and possibly boring to an outsider, but Eddie knows. He knows exactly what Buck is truly asking.

And so, with a fond smile, he nods, “Yeah.”

It’s taken them a while to get here, both of them needing to deal with a lot before they could make that jump together. But they did, and while it was- is -terrifying, it’s absolutely worth it, and Buck wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“Yeah?” Buck can’t help but ask again, giddy with what all of this means. In awe at what they have built together.

Eddie laughs, the sound filling Buck with warmth, “Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.”

Then he rests his head on Buck's shoulder, looking out at the city.

Buck looks at him, at his beautiful face, and his tousled hair. His cheeks begin to hurt with how happy he is.

He made it, he’s at ease, and he finally, finally knows the secret to achieving happiness.

(I will fix the couch theory and this finale one scene at a time. it is my god given duty. hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading!)