#this was supposed to be a short ficlet

[cable-knit-sweater]

Maybe I’m too busy (being yours)

Pairing: Chris Evans x Sebastian Stan

Word count: 3.3k

Rating: T

Summary: based on this prompt/headcanon by @sparkagrace and inspired by late night evanstan conversations with @musette22 💖💖💖

A couple of years after Chris & Sebastian end their relationship, they run into each other on the streets of New York. Sebastian invites Chris over for dinner at his place. They talk, but it takes a while for them to hear what the other is saying.

Or, idiots in love, fried chicken, tearful kisses, reunions.

Read on AO3 or below

The first days after New Year's Eve always feel a little strange. He spent Christmas with his mom, went to a NYE party at a friend’s place, and now he’s recovered - which, unfortunately, is taking a little longer, now he’s getting old - Sebastian kind of feels like the first days of the year are just as weird, with time not making sense, as those days in between Christmas and New Years.

He guesses it’s different for people with a 9-5 job, who have no choice but to go back into their normal routine. He’s mostly glad that’s not him - he loves his job, loves the freedom it provides him too - but on the other hand, it kind of makes it harder to get back in the swing of things and not just laze around.

His friends would laugh at him, if he told them, and so would his mom, who’s always telling him “Sebastian, you never relax, you should take a break, you work too hard,” while pinching his cheeks like he’s still a little boy, and not a 40 year old man. He loves it. She also may have a point. Maybe.

But Sebastian loves to stay busy. He loves what he does, has grown to love it even more over the years, with more opportunities coming his way, allowing him to take on projects he feels more passionate about or that allow him to flex different muscles. The only thing is that he won’t have a project to start on for a little while, so work-work is out. What he can do though, is get back into a healthy routine in other ways. Maybe go to the gym again. Don has been asking him about his workouts…and he hasn’t been the best at sticking to them recently.

He takes the 2nd of January to just hang around his apartment, catch up on some shows and movies he missed, but on the 3rd he gets up early, puts on running clothes and a beanie and hits the pavement. He’s spent so much time in LA recently, he’s happy to be back in his own little bubble, even if that bubble is him and dozens of other people jogging down the West Side Highway.

It’s cold, but not too cold, the gentle breeze in his face more energising than it is bothersome. When he gets back home, he feels good about himself, having gotten some fresh air and his muscles pleasantly aching, which a hot shower eases to the point it’s no longer uncomfortable. That’s one thing down, a bunch of things on his list left to tackle.

Sebastian spends most of the rest of the day at home, cleaning up his apartment, doing paperwork, reading some scripts and replying to some emails, and it’s a good day, productive, and he aims to keep that feeling going for the rest of the week. He’ll be flying to LA on Sunday anyway, and from there on he’ll have enough work related obligations to keep him busy, so he intends to make the most of those free days he has now.

He goes to the gym the next day, bringing the very late Christmas presents he got Don and the rest of the crew with him, and they joke around for a bit before Don decides it’s time to get back to business, and puts Sebastian through his paces like he usually does. He says his goodbyes just before lunch time, dropping by his apartment for a shower and a change of clothes before going to his favorite coffee place and spending the afternoon working on his writing. It’s a short story, for now, but maybe, if he gets the courage, he’ll try and turn it into something else one day. A script, maybe, he hopes.

When he looks up from his notebook, it’s already starting to get dark outside. It’s been gloomy all day, but still, it’s now noticeably getting late, and he barely even realised. He packs up his things and takes the last of his coffee to go.

He’s not paying too much attention as he makes his way home, thoughts still on the story he was writing getting jumbled up with thoughts of what to have for dinner, when he walks into a wall. It wouldn’t be the first time, he thinks, self-deprecatingly, but then the wall moves, and it’s actually a human being. Sebastian goes to frantically apologise, only for his eyes to meet a pair of surprised, green-blue eyes he knows, knows so well, and never, ever, expected to see here, right now.

“Seb,” Chris breathes out, the surprise on his face making way for a beaming smile. “I- what are you doing here?”

Sebastian chuckles, even as his heart is beating out of his chest. “I- hi, Chris, I-uhm, I live near here?”

Chris ducks his head, blushing a little. “Right, I knew that, of course.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Sebastian can’t believe they’re being this awkward, with how long they’ve known each other. He can’t bear for this conversation to end just here. “I- what are you doing here?” he asks, then curses himself silently for not asking him something better.

Chris scratches the back of his neck, a nervous gesture, Sebastian knows. “I uhm, I was supposed to have a business dinner, came all the way out here for that and another meeting tomorrow, but they just cancelled,” gesturing with the hand holding his phone. “I was just trying to find somewhere to go for dinner. They uhm- the place they wanted to meet is a little fancy, I think they wanted to wine-and-dine me or something, but now it just seems silly so-”

Sebastian realises Chris is rambling, and will continue to, and because he wants to help him out, and his brain is no longer connected to his mouth, he says: “Oh, I know a place. I was just going to get some take-out, you’re welcome to join me?”

The look on Chris’s face is one of pure surprise, and Sebastian hates it. It should be normal for him to invite Chris to dinner. It might have been, he knows, years ago, when they did more than text twice a year. So much more.

“You-are you sure?”, Chris says, and Sebastian can feel Chris’s hand on his arm as he pulls them a little out of the way of oncoming foot traffic. “You- if you just have a suggestion that’s okay too, I didn’t mean to invite myself, I’m sure you have plans.”

It’s hard to concentrate. Looking into Chris’s eyes, having his hand on his body. It takes a moment for Sebastian to respond. “No-no plans, I’d love for you to join me.” He’s worried for a second that Chris now feels obligated to join him, but before he can back track, Chris responds, relief and excitement clear on his face.

“I’d love that too,” he says, voice soft. “You lead the way.”

Sebastian nods, only mourning the loss of Chris’s hand on his arm for a second. Maybe two. “I uhm, what if we just go to mine and I order in? Might be easiest.”

Chris smiles. “Whatever you want, that sounds good.”

They make their way to Sebastian’s apartment. He’s glad he cleaned up his place the day before, so now the only thing he has to worry about is…Chris, and the conversation not becoming too stilted. Luckily, Chris takes the lead, asking Sebastian about what he’s been up to. It’s just small talk, but at least it’s no longer awkward.

When they get inside, Sebastian offers Chris a drink and tells him to make himself comfortable. Sebastian is decidedly not freaking out about Chris going through his bookcase, about Chris lounging on his couch, about Chris putting a bottle of beer to his lips.

Eventually, Sebastian can’t put off joining him on the couch much longer, and he makes his way over.

“It’s changed,” Chris says, something in his voice Sebastian can’t quite place, but he’s right, it has.

Chris has been here before, in his apartment, but it’s been years. The last time was almost 5 years ago, when Chris was doing a play in New York, and things were different between them. Sebastian had gone to support him at the opening night of Lobby Hero, so proud of Chris for finally doing this, filled with excitement about seeing him in a role like this, up on the stage. He’d kissed away Chris’s nervousness about it the night before, tried, at least.

They’d been okay, that night. Good even. Chris had been happy about how it went, Sebastian had been happy for him, they had drinks with family and friends after and celebrated opening night until the early hours. Sebastian had felt so grateful that he got to be there to witness this, see Chris shine and get his well-deserved praise.

And then two days later, it all fell apart. Chris had come by, sat on Sebastian’s couch - his old one, he got rid of the one that had been there before, too many memories - and panicked. He was just going to be out of Marvel’s grasp, just going to gain some freedom in his work again, and he cared about Sebastian, cared so much, he’d said, but it just wasn’t the right time. He’d hoped they could stay friends.

Sebastian understood. He’d hoped…he’d hoped they’d be something more, some day. Something more than a casual hookup. He thought they had been, maybe. It had stopped feeling casual to Sebastian long before. But he understood. The attention on Chris was overwhelming. If they ever came out, it would be his career that would be impacted the most, and there was so much Chris still wanted to try, Sebastian knew, and he never, ever, would’ve wanted to get in the way of that.

If he’s really honest with himself, it’s only recently, in the last couple of years, that he’s really come to understand why Chris did what he did. His own star has been rising, slowly, steadily, and with it…he learned that the cruelty of people really knows no bounds. Chris, sweet, anxious, in his head Chris…it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he backed away from whatever could’ve been.

Even if that meant Sebastian having to put on a brave face like his heart wasn’t breaking into a million pieces. But he’d never expected to get to keep Chris anyway.

“Yeah I- I think it was time to move on from some things, spruce the place up, you know?” Sebastian says, immediately regretting it when he sees Chris’s face fall at that. What did he even say that was so wrong?

Chris doesn’t say anything for a moment, then turns to Sebastian, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I like it, it suits you.”

Sebastian just nods, taking his phone out. “Let me just- I’m just gonna order some things okay?”

He maybe over-does it. Probably. He can’t be blamed; his mind and his heart are all over the place, and if that results in Sebastian ordering fried chicken and sides enough to feed a small army, well, things could be worse.

They talk for a little while, Sebastian trying to hold back from sounding too eager at getting little nuggets of whatever is going on in Chris’s life. It’s been so long since they talked, and even if he’s going to have to recover from whatever this is for a while, will go back to thinking about Chris every single night, when he thought he was almost over it…it’s nice, to hear he’s doing well, to hear his excitement about his upcoming projects, to hear him gush about whatever new trick Dodger learned. Even if it makes this ache in his heart that’s always there grow and grow.

It’s only half an hour later when their food arrives, Sebastian putting the bags down on his coffee table. He looks up to tell Chris to dig in, but he has a strange look on his face. It goes from surprise to confusion to his lips curling into a small smile.

“What?” Sebastian asks, when Chris tilts his head, studying him like just staring at Sebastian will give him the answers to a question Sebastian wasn’t aware fried chicken would bring up.

“Blue Ribbon,” Chris says, amused, fond. “This is from Blue Ribbon.”

“Yeah, I guess?”

“You ordered from them before?”

If only he were a better liar. “I-uhm…”

Chris bites his lip, but it does nothing to stop the smile on his face or the fact that his eyes are crinkling a little. “You know that’s my favorite place?”

“I-oh?” Sebastian feels his cheeks heating up at having been caught out.

“It’s so good,” Chris says, and for a moment Sebastian thinks he’s gotten away with it. They settle in, unpacking the boxes and spreading them out on the table, and right as Sebastian is about to take his first bite, Chris leans back on the couch, grinning.

“It’s also soooo good to know there are people that watch my interviews so I don’t go through that torture just for nothing, you know.”

“I hate you, you know that?” Sebastian says, blushing furiously now. Chris just cackles. Sebastian missed that sound so, so much. His heart skips a couple of beats at them finally seeming like them, for what it feels like the first time tonight.

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t, I really don’t,” Sebastian says, not expecting the look of surprise on Chris’s face.

“I really don’t,” he repeats, meeting Chris’s eyes again. “You know that right?”

“I- yeah, of course,” Chris swallows visibly.

They’re both quiet for a while, the only sounds in the apartment those of take out bags rustling and food being consumed.

“Moved on from what?” Chris suddenly blurts out.

It takes Sebastian a minute to realise what he’s referring to. Their conversation about that stupid couch. He has a fleeting thought about too many people in his life being obsessed with what kind of couch he has, even if he knows Chris is really referring to something else.

“Chris…”

“I mean, moving on is good. I just…I didn’t know.”

Sebastian takes a napkin to clean his hands a little, then turns around on the couch to face Chris. “You didn’t know that I redecorated?”

Chris looks a little pained. “I- I didn’t know you moved on. I mean, I should’ve known, it’s been years, you- of course you have, I just hoped, I-”

He puts a stop to Chris’s rambling, placing a hand on his arm. Chris’s eyes dart to it immediately. For a moment Sebastian thinks about pulling away, but he’s selfish, and he leaves his hand where it is. “Chris, I’m a little lost here,” he says, and honestly, he is.

“I just- I missed you,” Chris whispers.

Sebastian tries to process that statement - he isn’t sure what to say in response. He missed Chris too, so much it hurt. But he can’t let himself think about this conversation going where he hopes it’s going, wouldn’t be able to bear the crushing disappointment if it doesn’t. And why would it? He’s not heard from Chris in months, hasn’t seen him in person in years. When they broke up, if you can even call it that, he figured that would be it. Chris could have anyone he wants, and without the complications and eccentricities that Sebastian brings.

“I-I’ve been thinking a lot recently,” Chris starts again, “about how I handled things. About what I’m doing with my life, where I’m going, what I’m missing.” He takes a deep breath. “And I may- I realised a lot of things, and I know that sounds lame, but I did and, and- fuck, Sebastian, I just miss you.”

“I-”

“I know, I- I get it if you don’t, I know I handled things badly, you didn’t deserve for me to just…” Chris blows out a harsh breath, closes his eyes. “I just, I haven’t seen you in so long, and you have a new couch, and I miss you, and I know you’re busy, but I just hope we’re still friends? Can we still be friends?”

“Chris…of course we can be friends, of course I miss you too,” Sebastian says, feeling even more all over the place.

“You do?” Chris asks, with his sad puppy eyes and Sebastian’s heart breaks all over again.

“Of course I do. Why- why wouldn’t I?” he rubs his hand up and down Chris’s arm in a soothing gesture. He’d never be too busy for Chris. He’d just have to call or text and Sebastian would jump at the chance to see him, talk to him. Even if he knows that’s sad, when all Chris clearly wants is to be friends, and Sebastian…Sebastian will settle for being friends, if that’s all he can have.

“Because you moved on?” Chris asks, voice smaller than Sebastian ever thinks he’s heard it.

He hates it. Chris always was the confident, decisive one. His anxiety is clearly getting to him and Sebastian wishes he had a way to stop him from spiralling.

“I wouldn’t- I shouldn’t have expected- I…maybe I should go.”

Wait. “Wait, what? Chris, I think we’re having two different conversations here. Why don’t you pretend I’m stupid and spell it out for me? Please?”

He can see Chris clearly trying to calm himself down, taking a couple of breaths before he speaks again. “You- I’m getting older Seb, and I’ve been thinking about what I want. What I want…my career is great, wonderful, I love my friends and Dodge and my house, but I just feel like something is missing, someone to share it with, and I can’t- no one…I know I’m too late, but Seb, I just miss you, miss having you in my life, and when I think about who I- it’s always you.”

As rambling as Chris’s answer still is, Sebastian can feel his heart beating faster and faster the more he says, his words making Sebastian feel like his head is spinning.

He’s not sure what to say to all of that, thoughts of confessions, proclamations, forming in his head, none of them feeling like they suffice, none of them feeling like they’ll be an answer that will bring a rambling, anxious Chris out of his head. They’ve both been dancing around it, he realises, all evening, words said and questions asked just shy of what they really want to know or voice, a fear of unrequitedness, threaded through it all.

So he just acts. Cups Chris’s face in his hands, stares into slightly wet green-blue eyes looking for an okay, presses their lips together in a soft kiss he hopes answers it all when he sees them sparkling with something like hope.

And just in case, he says in words what he hopes he conveyed with that kiss too, concise, impossible to misunderstand. “It’s you, too, for me,” he breathes against Chris’s lips, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed. “It’s always been. I missed you, I love you.”

In return, a hitched breath, Chris murmuring “I love you too, I’m sorry it took me so long, I love you,” and Sebastian feels like he’s in a dream, but it’s real and it’s true and he knows they have things to figure out, that it’s not always gonna be easy, but this time, this time he’s not letting go, not giving up without a fight.

From the way Chris topples him over on the couch, covers his face in kisses, sweet words being whispered in his ear, hands tightly gripping his body, he’s pretty certain he’s not the only one that feels that way.

[saturnneedsspace]

After Cas confesses his love, but before he pushes Dean away, he pulls something out from his trench coat and slips it into Dean's pocket. Cas pushes him down and gets taken by the Empty, followed by Billie, leaving Dean alone on the bunker floor. As he cries, he feels something push into his chest, so he reaches his hand into his flannel pocket and pulls out the mixtape. The one he had given Cas as a gift and a secret sort of love confession of his own, thinking Cas wouldn't understand it. But as he stared down at the tape over top that read 'Dean's top 13 Zeppelin traxx', he knew that Cas understood. And he feels his heart break even more. Cas knew. Cas knew how he felt, yet he never said anything until it was too late. They were both too stupid to understand and just tell each other.

As Dean held the mixtape firmly in his hands, shoulders shaking with his sobs, he noticed that something felt off about it. The texture was different. He would know. He had flipped the cassette over and over and over in his hands before giving it to Cas, trying to decide on what to say to the angel.

Dean used his sleeve to wipe the blurriness from his eyes so he could see what was wrong with it. It still took a few seconds to adjust, and when he saw the large crack down the center of the tape, he gasped and brought it closer to his face. More tears spilled down his face. Cas' last move was to give this back to him, to show him that he understood their love and reassured Dean that, though he never said it, he knew how much he had meant to him. And Dean had broken it. The last thing Cas had ever given him besides the bloody handprint forever imprinted on his coat.

But as Dean's hands held on, finergrtips rubbing over the surface again and again, desperate to feel some kind of comfort in his hopeless situation, he noticed something attached to the back of it. He sniffled, wiped his eyes again, and flipped it over. On the backside, there was a piece of paper taped there with his name written on it. He quickly ripped it off, causing the cassette to re-split in half, obvious that the piece of tape being all that held it together, and opened the note.

Hello, Dean.

I just wanted to write you this before I give back your tape and apologize for breaking it. I'm really really sorry. I know I'm not super good at apologies, but writing makes it a lot easier, so I'm writing it for you. I hope you'll forgive me. I didn't mean to break it. I know you spent a lot of time picking the songs specifically for me because you knew I'd like them, though I had trouble understanding some of the parts. I'll never understand why humans love music so much. It's so much noise and there's so much going on, but I know it's important to you, so I will learn to like it. I'm very sorry for breaking it. I don't ever take it out of my trench coat, just in case I need to listen to it during an emergency, and I fell onto it. :( Please forgive me, Dean. I'm very sorry.

As Dean read, he watched tear drops stain the paper. He laughed a little as he continued to cry, noting how the letter was the most characteristic Cas letter he could think of. And he was happy. So happy that he didn't break it himself. It was already broken.

Cas knew how much the weight of handing over a mixtape was, especially a Zeppelin one for Dean, and he acknowledged it. Dean squeezed the letter to his chest as he leaned back against the wall and continued to cry silently.

[walkingstackofbooks]

A 9-year-old Julian Bashir who has had nightmares about evil doctors in an alien hospital for as long as he can remember. He doesn't tell his parents though because "he's a big boy now" and nightmares are for little kids, so he knows he should deal with them alone. And even if he'd like a hug sometimes, his mum only gives him hugs for doing well, not for doing badly, so he figures there's no point bothering her

A 15-year-old Julian Bashir who realises that the nightmares he used to have were based on the apparently very real alien hospital his parents had taken him to as a kid, and spends hours trying to figure out what were real memories and what his mind had made up over the years as he slept. The nightmares come back with an intensity, but they're nothing compared with how he's feeling when he's awake, and pretty soon they become a normal background noise of his life.

A 19-year-old Julian Bashir who's finally been moved into a solitary room after his third roommate in as many weeks complained about the almost-nightly screams. His advisor asks if he wants to speak to anyone: he claims they're just night terrors and he doesn't actually remember them. Besides, even if he could talk about what was in them, he probably wouldn't, because he's fine - he's used to them by now.

A 24-year-old Julian Bashir who gets woken from his nightmares by warm hands and gentle kisses, and learns what is like to be soothed back to sleep by the soft voice of Palis Delon

A 32-year-old Julian Bashir who has a different nightmare every night. The last year's been difficult. But then, it's been difficult for everyone, and he knows he's far from the only one to be suffering from nightmares at the moment.

A 34-year-old Julian Bashir who can't stop dreaming about the torture he went through four weeks ago, who's missing Ezri and who Miles is increasingly concerned about. When the O'Briens offer him their spare room for a while, he warns them multiple times about his nightmares, and is pathetically grateful when that doesn't change their minds. "We have nightmares too, Julian," says Keiko. "We can cope with yours."

A 34-year-old Julian Bashir who is confused when, three days later, Miles remarks, "You are having a bad run of those nightmares, aren't you?"

"They've been better than usual, actually," he replies awkwardly. "It's been really nice being able to go back to sleep afterwards, for once -- you and Keiko have been so generous in coming and checking on me."

"Course we're gonna come and check on you," says Miles gruffly. "You woke up terrified. We're not letting you do that alone."

"I'd be fine, Miles," Julian reassures. "I'm hardly going to expect one of you to come in every night."

Miles pauses. "...How long are you expecting to have them 'every night' for?" he asks, with some concern. "I mean, after a thing like this, how long does it usually take them to settle down?"

Julian stares at Miles. "I... have nightmares, Miles," he replies, frowning. "Just like you. Nightmares happen every night."

"No, they don't," says Miles, equally confused. "Don't get me wrong, they can do: after something big then sure, they're like that for a few weeks - a couple of months, even. But eventually they fall down to once, twice a week..."

Julian is looking at Miles incredulously. "That might be how it works for you," he says. "I guess my brain's different to yours. Mine don't stop, they just... mix. Change. Get confused with one another, eventually. I've had more dreams about being genetically modified by Sloan in the Dominion camp than I care to remember, you know?"

Miles' concern has turned into abject dismay. "You're saying you've had nightmares every single night since the Dominion took you?" he exclaims.

"Well, maybe not every single night!" retorts Julian, a little unsure what Miles is getting so het up about. "I do have some days when I don't... But yeah, pretty much. I've had nightmares most nights since I was fifteen, it's just how my brain processes stuff."

"Fifteen?"

...

A 34-year-old Julian who finds out that having nightmares every night for two decades is, apparently, "not normal" and something he should be seeking help for.

If Ezri comes back alive, he supposes he might take it up with her.

[dodger-chan]

Based off of this idea, originating with @rogueddie (also on ao3)

Steve was looking at Eddie. He had to. There wasn’t anything else worth looking at in the theater.

That sounded weird.

Steve was looking at Eddie. Because unlike Steve, Eddie was not bored out of his skull by the music, the overacting, the complete absence of story.

That last complaint was unfair. There was a story. Eddie’d summed it up for him on the drive over. Steve just couldn’t follow the story with all the singing being in Italian. Or German. Maybe.

He’d gotten used to hearing a bunch of different languages living with Robin, and being able to tell them apart, but everything sounded different when sung. And everything was sung.

Eddie, who only spoke English and nerd, didn’t seem to have any trouble following the opera. Or if he wasn’t following it, he didn’t care. He was clearly having the time of his life, his joy reflected in the smile on his face and the sparkle in his eyes.

So yeah, Steve was looking at Eddie.

Steve looked away quickly when the music stopped and the lights went up. It would be weird if Eddie caught him staring.

“Is it over?” he asked hopefully. It sure felt like they’d been sitting there for several hours.

“It’s intermission.” Right. Halftime. Or, no, the program said there were two intermissions. So one third of the way. “You’re not enjoying it?”

“It’s not my thing, but it isn’t so bad.” Steve lied. He could get through this. He’d survived worse.

It was a good thing no one had told the Russians about Wagner.

“Want to walk around for a bit? Stretch our legs?”

----

Walking around made Steve feel like he was doing something. Something other than staring at Eddie. Though with Eddie bouncing on his toes and excited hand gestures as he gushed about what they’d just seen Steve couldn’t keep from staring a little.

“Is this your first opera?” An older woman in evening wear asked Eddie. She was smiling kindly, but Steve knew how fake those kind smiles could be. He took note of the wrinkles around her eyes, the graying roots of her hair, any flaws she might be sensitive to, in case she was about to bring up the worn knee in Eddie’s best jeans.

Not everyone could afford a tux like her escort.

“Second, actually. Steve and I saw Don Giovanni here about four, five months ago.” That had been boring, too. But Eddie had loved it, even though he’d been a little embarrassed at enjoying a snobby, rich person kind of thing. So Steve had bought tickets to another opera as soon as he’d saved up enough for two. “I’ve heard Tristan und Isolde before, but it’s different live.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

And then the two of them started talking way, way above Steve’s head, with musical terms he’d have sworn were made up. Like, harmonic was a music thing, sure, but suspension had to do with cars.

It was so much like when Dustin and Eddie talked about Dungeons and Dragons that Steve had to smile.

“And they’re off.” The woman’s escort was smiling, too. He jerked his head in the direction of the bar. “C’mon. Let’s you and I get drinks while my wife and your boyfriend talk shop.”

Steve took three full steps before the words sank in.

“Shit,” he breathed. That was why he’d spent months setting aside money for opera tickets. And why he’d needed two. And why he’d spent all of act one entertaining himself with Eddie’s facial expressions. He was in love with Eddie.

Steve turned around.

“I’m very sorry,” he interrupted the woman. He was a little sorry; Eddie seemed to be enjoying her conversation. “I need to borrow this guy for ten seconds.”

“What the hell?” Eddie asked as Steve pulled him away from any potential eavesdroppers.

“Do you want this to be a date?”

“Um, what?”

“Tonight. This. A date.” Maybe Steve wasn’t making a lot of sense. He tried again. “That woman you were talking to, her husband called you my boyfriend-”

“Oh, shit, Steve, I’m sorry- '' Eddie started.

“Don’t be. Unless, you don’t want to be. My boyfriend, that is.” Steve looked directly into Eddie’s eyes. “Because I’d really like it if you’d be my boyfriend.”

“I’d like that, too.”

They couldn’t kiss in such a public place. But once they were back in their seats and the lights went down, no one would be able to see if they were holding hands.

Steve was suddenly looking forward to act two.

[kittycatcorner]

shows up to give you the coffinchain challenge

Please be more careful when you cross the road You’re a perfect arrangement of rickety bones

Stray cats.

Peter had always likened the apprentices to a group of stray cats, in his mind.

At first it was out of distaste. They were a nuisance; a band of drifters slinking around the alleyways, catching their quarries unaware. The quick, sharp jab of a hypodermic needle might as well have been the efficient killing bite that a cat might deliver to the throat of its prey. They worked in the shadows, occupying all of those lonely abandoned buildings and reworking them for a new, twisted purpose. 

Then, begrudgingly, he’d found himself wrapped up in Mark Hoffman. Chasing him, hunting him, hellbent on bringing him to justice, then on killing him, then on understanding him, then…

Well, Peter didn’t know what he was doing now. 

All he knew was that sitting in his apartment, in varying states of composure, were three of Jigsaw’s disciples. 

Dr. Gordon sat on his couch, eyes trained down as his hands worked on bandaging a fresh wound on the arm of his younger accomplice. Stanheight sat quietly and allowed for the medical attention with little fight. Hoffman himself sat on the floor, back leaned against the couch close to the other two. 

Peter remained standing, trying not to buckle at the absurdity of his situation. In true stray-animal nature, he had made the mistake of allowing Hoffman into his home once, twice, thrice, and now he’d come back with friends. 

‘Don’t feed the strays’, indeed. 

Accept that he did know the other two, at this point. The polite Dr. Gordon was well-spoken and direct; Peter had found him infuriating in the beginning. He was a hard man to interrogate and an even harder man to intimidate, as level and unflinching as he was. Unlike Peter, he never seemed to let his anger get the best of him, and he seemed to know that. Dr. Gordon was a man who always seemed very aware of how much more control he had in the conversation. It was enviable. 

Then there was Adam Faulkner-Stanheight. Mouthful of a name. It was strange enough for Peter to wrap his head around the fact that the kid was alive, let alone working with Jigsaw. He was angry- had more rage in his scrawny little body than what felt possible. Stupid and impulsive, Peter had found him annoying. Just a petulant adolescent who had gotten himself into bigger trouble than he yet realized. 

They’ve come a long way since then. Both apprentices had grown on him, maybe because they reminded him of himself in their amalgamate qualities. The cold, callous bluntness of the doctor. The white-hot temper of the kid. The way he had never seen the former so gentle nor the latter so complacent until now, as they patched themselves together on his bloodied furniture. 

Peter had been reluctant to welcome them all inside. It was bad enough to shelter one serial killer, but now three? It reminded him that everything he’s been doing as of late is against what he once stood for. Fuck, it would solve a hell of a lot of his own problems if he didn't care. If he’d let them all rot, make them regret thinking that Peter would risk his own hide just because he's been friendly with them. Dr. Gordon and Stanheight had seemed to understand this too. Their expressions had been apprehensive, looking ready to flee like the animals they were. Peter wonders how long ago he would have given chase. 

Hoffman had spoken, then. 

“I didn’t-” His voice was shot and exhausted. “I didn’t know where else to go, Strahm.” 

And just like that, Peter took them in. Those words were all it took. Hoffman limped inside on a bad leg and described some sort of police-raid, premature. John Kramer and Amanda Young hadn’t even been there, so it had just been the trio, and they were forced to flee. Unable to go far on foot in their current state, Hoffman had brought his injured companions here. To Peter. 

Why did that make something strange stir within him? 

The three of them were soaked to the bone from the rain. Peter watched Hoffman sluggishly attempt to remain alert, but every so often his head would lull and come to rest against the soft thigh of Dr. Gordon. If the doctor noticed it, he didn't say a word as he continued to diligently work. He looked tired. Stanheight was putting on the best brave face he could manage, but Peter’s keen eyes caught his shoulders trembling, only eased when Gordon’s hand came to rest on one and rubbed gently. They all looked so tired. 

Unable to watch any longer, Peter finally broke the silence. 

“So why are you still doing this?” It took everything in him to not fidget idly as he spoke, brows furrowed at the three men. 

All eyes were on him quite suddenly, sharp as they regarded him. Three clever pairs of observant eyes that all screamed out ‘I know more than I’m letting on' to Peter. He held their gazes, muscled arms crossed over his chest. 

“You know what I’m talking about.” He scoffed, lip curling. “What’s the point of doing the old man's dirty work when he just lets things like this happen to you?” 

Silence.

Hoffman broke first. He laughed, eyes closing as he rested more fully against the couch. It was good-natured but ultimately dismissive. 

Dr. Gordon frowned at Peter, one brow quirked as if he had asked them something incredibly naive. Like he expected Peter to know already. 

Stanheight didn't react. Not outwardly, anyways. He only stared, something new and strange glittering in his eyes that Peter couldn't place.

“What,” Peter grit his teeth, an edge to his voice. Less of a question and more of a prompt. 

“Nothing, nothing. Apologies, Mr. Strahm.” Gordon sighed, turning his attention back to his handiwork. He appeared to nearly be done with the worst of Stanheight’s injuries now. “It’s just… not that simple.”

“Not exactly the kinda job you can put your two weeks in for.” Hoffman corroborated, a smirk tugging at his full lips. 

Peter felt his face burn hot, and he huffed in frustration. “You fucking- Don’t play dumb. Don’t act like it’s a stupid question. I’ll throw you back out onto the fucking curb.” He jabbed a finger at Hoffman in particular, who for his part did indeed shut his mouth. “You listening? Good. What I’m saying is that John Kramer is one demented old man. What is actually stopping you?” 

This time, the quiet was punctuated by Hoffman and Gordon exchanging an uncomfortable glance. After a moment, Hoffman shrugged and ran one hand through his damp, messy hair. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept of, uh, checks ‘n balances.” 

Peter raised an eyebrow skeptically. Hoffman continued. 

“Information is power, etcetera. Kramer keeps basically everything on a need-to-know basis. Including, I dunno, who you’re workin’ with half the time. Hell,” He rolled his eyes, and lazily raised a hand behind his head to pat Gordon’s arm. The doctor made an annoyed noise in response, shifting away from him. “He only told me about these lovebirds when he needed help lookin’ after ‘em.” 

“I’m still mad about missing out on a trip to Mexico.” Stanheight quipped. His voice was softer than normal, but Peter supposed it was a good sign that he was speaking at all. He wasn’t used to the younger man being so quiet. 

Gordon straightened up a moment later, gently patting down the new bandages and brushing some of the hair from Stanheight’s face. “There you go.” He sighed. The warmth in his tone was so palpable that Peter had the distinct feeling it wasn’t meant for his ears. Despite being in his own apartment, he somehow felt he was intruding. “Get comfortable, alright?” 

Peter watched as Stanheight pulled himself to his feet, stopping short just a little ways away from him with an awkward shuffle. Gordon patted his thigh and spoke his next words like they took all of his energy to say. 

“Your turn.” He didn’t even bother to look at Hoffman. The detective grinned anyways, wasting no time in clamoring up into Gordon’s personal space and slinging his leg across the man’s lap. Gordon shook his head disdainfully, but carefully began rolling back Hoffman’s torn pant leg anyways. 

Peter guessed he wasn’t the only one that Hoffman lived to irritate.

“Christ, Mark.” Gordon sucked in a sharp breath, and Peter’s shoulders stiffened as he took a step forward to look. His stomach sank despite himself; from where he was standing Hoffman’s calf looked like a bloody mess. Peter’s a man who’s seen more gore in his line of work than anyone should hope to see in their lifetime, and yet here he is, staring in alarm. It was unlike him, and woefully he could only attribute his own uneasiness to the owner of the calf. 

As if he could read his mind, Hoffman looked up towards Peter. “Hey, it’s just-” He winced, hissing in pain as Gordon began to clean the wound. “It’s no big deal- no bullet inside. Just grazed me.” 

“You were shot?” Peter balked.

“Grazed,” Hoffman corrected. 

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in a quick-rising frustration. Hoffman was impossible. 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Gordon’s voice was little more than a growl as he spoke through gritted teeth. “You took an unnecessary risk. Do you think I enjoy patching you back together? Honestly, if I didn't know any better I’d assume you were trying to get your sorry self killed.” 

Dr. Gordon’s tone left the detective bristling. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.” He scoffed. “Hell, I don’t bother you when you’re workin’ in the sickbay. Why don't you just- fuck!” 

Hoffman yelped at the unceremonious splash of disinfectant. Gordon gave him the sort of well-practiced fake smile that only a doctor could.

“My bad,” he murmured, unapologetic. 

Peter decided he’d seen enough. He turned on his heel and walked into the kitchen, telling himself that he was just stepping aside to get ice in case the doctor needed some. He knew it wasn't the truth, though; he scolded himself quietly as he leaned against the wall and ran a hand through his graying hair. 

The truth was that he couldn't keep standing there, staring at Hoffman’s leg injury. 

It’s ironic, because it feels like not too long ago that Peter would have done anything to put a bullet in Hoffman. Now the thought makes him feel… queasy. And a bit confused. 

Peter found himself comparing the apprentices to strays again.

He couldn’t get the image of roadkill splattered on the side of the highway out of his head. 

From what he knew of John Kramer and his cult, the apprentices were expendable parts. It doesn't even sound like they can trust each other half the time. One wrong move or fatal mistake would be all it took. Peter wasn't even sure how long it would take him to know something had happened. 

His thoughts were interrupted by footsteps so quiet that he knew exactly who they belonged to before turning around. Stanheight stood at the entryway of his bare-bones kitchen, watching him. He’s probably spent the least amount of time alone with him. 

“What is it?” Peter’s frown deepened.

The kid didn't answer immediately, instead coming to lean against the wall beside him. He was quiet for a moment, and then shrugged. 

“Wanted to check on you, I guess.” He answered simply. 

“Check on me? In what way do I need checking on?” Raising a brow, Peter gestured towards the living room. “Look at you three, for fuck’s sake.” 

Stanheight held his hands up defensively. “Hey, hey, I just- I get it, alright?”

Peter didn't know what that meant. He stared down at the shorter man, scowl ever-present, silently prodding him to elaborate. Stanheight’s expression was… almost sympathetic, but his eyes had that same strange look from before: the one that Peter couldn't place. 

The kid was easy to underestimate, Peter knew it from his file and from his current involvement. He wasn't about to make that mistake with him. 

“Sucks, doesn't it?” Stanheight finally said. He was muttering now, glancing once over his shoulder to ensure they were still alone. “One thing to know what they're doing and another to see them come back with blood and bits of their skin hanging off.”

Peter felt his stomach turn. “No,” he lied. “If Hoffman’s gonna be reckless and get himself killed then so be it.” 

“No matter what you or anyone else thinks, I’m not stupid.” Stanheight laughed dryly. “You don't gotta lie to me, okay? I’m on team Peter here.” 

“Are we forgetting that you’re one of ‘them’ too?” Peter steeled his gaze, unamused. 

Stanheight grimaced. “I mean- kind of. Not really.”

“‘Not really?’ What’s that mean?” 

“I- like- like I’m with them but I’m not one of them. Old Johnny-boy has never and will never give a shit about me. Not exactly in the running to be his heir or whatever the others think will happen.” Stanheight huffed, rolling his eyes as he explained. “Pretty sure he wouldn't even notice if I went missing if it weren't for the pictures ‘n schedules I go and get for him.”

Peter is quiet for a moment. 

“Why stick around?” He asked softly, already knowing the answer. 

The kid just snorted in lieu of answering, and the two fell into silence once more for a couple of seconds. 

“Glad that Mark has you.” Stanheight suddenly murmured, thoughtful. 

“He does not ‘have me’.” 

“Maybe you can knock some sense into him.” 

Peter scoffed, looking elsewhere. “You’re frustrating, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” Stanheight laughed, “I’m not kidding, though. It always freaks me out how Mark gets when he’s like…” 

Raising a brow, Peter waited for him to sort out his thoughts. 

“Like, when he gets hurt, right? He just- just runs off. Or he’ll go and get hammered on the other side of town and when we find him he’s a mess.” 

At that, Peter’s shoulders went rigid. He was aware of Mark’s habits, his unhealthy coping mechanism. He hadn't thought about who else might know, how deeply it might run. He hadn't thought about how often Mark must be alone. 

When he looked back at Stanheight, he realized the kid was staring at him intently. There was concern in his expression, but also something fierce. 

“John’s really messed him up. Worse than he was before all of this.” His voice was low, almost cautious. “All of them. Lawrence, Mark, Mandy, none of them deserve this. You know that, right?”

Peter’s mouth felt dry. “I…” 

Straightening up again, Stanheight stepped closer to Peter. Before he could see it coming, a smaller hand took his own and held it, inspecting it. “I think Mark needs you.” He said, “maybe all of us do. So you gotta take care of yourself too.” 

Something confused seemed to bloom in his chest then, an uncertain warmth that he could feel rise up to his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when he couldn't decide on anything to say. 

“Just think about it, ‘kay?” Stanheight let go of his hand again and started to leave the kitchen, pausing for just a moment to look back at him. “Oh, one more thing.” 

“What is it?” Peter’s voice was hoarse. 

Stanheight gave him a grin that didn't meet his eyes. “Welcome to the family.” 

Then he was gone, Peter’s protest to that statement dying on his lips, and Peter was left to think on everything he said. 

Hoffman needing him. Hoffman hiding himself away in dark corners to nurse his wounds. Improperly set bones and too much bandage. 

Stray cats.

Peter’s family used to have cats. His sister’s cat had been an old, white, raggedy thing that she named Alfredo. When Alfredo passed away, he had hidden under the bed and refused to come out. Peter thinks he remembers reading somewhere that pets do that on purpose, so their humans don't have to see them die, but it's been years and his animal knowledge is limited. 

Peter wondered how hard it is to socialize a stray cat. To reintroduce it to domesticity. 

He stepped out of the kitchen, lingering at the entryway, and watched the apprentices from where he stood. Gordon seemed to have finished with Hoffman’s leg, speaking to him in a quieter tone than before. To his surprise, Hoffman looked like he was listening. Stanheight was on the couch with them now, leaning his head onto Gordon’s shoulder. 

Peter found that he wished he could freeze this moment with the three of them in it. The bubble of safety that was his living room felt far away from everything Jigsaw. Maybe they were always meant to be here, on soft furniture, and not crouching amongst rusted pipes and jagged metal. 

Tamed. Domesticated. 

He sighed through his nose and walked around the couch, three sets of clever eyes on him again as he caught their attention. Now that he was there, he could see that Dr. Gordon had just begun to wrap up Hoffman’s leg and he silently motioned to ask for the gauze, kneeling down between them.

Understanding the gesture, Gordon handed it over, smiling at Peter warmly enough to raise his body temperature by a degree. 

“Strahm-” Hoffman started, bewildered, but Peter simply began wrapping his leg neatly. 

“Shut up.” He grunted. “Let me help you, stupid.”

[varpusvaras]

Bail stares up at the sky and looks his death in the eye.

He wakes up with a start and almost falls down, but his descent is stopped by the edge of a desk that is suddenly right in front of him. He grabs at it and stops himself from hitting his chin on it, and stares, with his arms shaking and his breath caught up somewhere in his throat.

He is not sure how long he stands there, staring at the desk which sudden existence he cannot comprehend, when there is a sound somewhere to his left and footsteps coming closer.

"Bail?" It's a woman's voice, so familiar but one he knows he shouldn't be hearing speaking to him. "Sir?"

Bail lifts his head and looks over at the voice.

He looks right into Sheltay's face, currently laced over with thin worry.

Bail stares at her. She has been gone for so long, but her face is now clear in his mind and she stands there, just like she was back then, just like she was before they had lost her. He had almost forgotten how much Winter looks like her mother, but there is no doubt of it now.

A new fear grips him. Was Winter off planet, when it all happened? He is not sure suddenly. She must've been, because Bail isn't sure what he is going to say to Sheltay otherwise. He focuses on her again, and thinks, frantically. Shouldn't she know it already? If Winter is also gone, now, shouldn't Sheltay know it by now, shouldn't her daughter be here with her? No, no, Winter must've been off the planet, just like Leia, otherwise he-

Bail looks at Sheltay again. No. No, something is not- something is not correct. Sheltay had cut her hair, just a couple of weeks before the accident, but it is now long and tied high up, like she used to style it when she was still working on as his aide back in the Senate. Bail looks at her more closely. It has been so long since he has last seen her, but...

Sheltay looks truly concerned now.

"Sir?" She calls again, and takes a step closer. "Is everything alright?"

Is everything alright? Bail thinks, almost hysterically. Is everything alright? You are dead. I am dead. Or at least we both should be.

Sheltay doesn't look dead, though, and Bail certainly doesn't feel like dead, either, as he draws in a breath to his now burning lungs. He draws in another, then another, before he feels like he knows again how breathing properly works. Breathing shouldn't feel necessary for someone who was dead, and Bail does feel the instant relief in his body with every breath he takes in.

"I", he starts. He what? He doesn't know what to say. If this isn't what comes after death, what is supposed to happen when one becomes one with the Force, then what is this?

He breathes in deeply again, just to ground himself further. He looks down on his hands, still holding onto the desk. He recognises the desk, now. It's his desk, the one he used to have in his office back in the Senate. He looks furher down, towards his feet. He recognises the carpet beneath them, as well.

He lifts his head and looks around once more. He is in his office, back in the Senate Building, but something is not correct with it either. Leia had been the one using the office more often now, and she had changed some of the decorations and brought in things of her own, and none of those were there now. The place looks just like it had back when Bail had been the only one to use it, back in the days when the Republic had still been standing.

"Bail", Sheltay is now standing right next to him, and reaching out towards him with her hand. "Are you not well? Do I need to call someone?"

Bail looks at her again. Yes, he can now see it. She is younger than what she had been at the time of her death. She is not wearing any of the gifts her husband would so often give to her. She looks just like she had back then, back when the Republic had still been standing, back when the War had been ripping the Galaxy apart.

Bail turns around. He has a row of glass cabinets situated behind his desk, and he looks at himself from the reflection of them.

He had already expected it, seeing himself with all the years gained during the reign of the Empire taken away. There is not even a hint of grey in his hair, and there are so many lines missing from his face that he almost thinks it funny for a moment. Then Sheltay is grabbing his arm, forcing him to look back at her.

"I'm serious", she says. She is looking him over now, her eyes racing over him up and down. "Do you need a doctor?"

Bail shakes his head.

"No", he manages to say. "No, I- I just need to sit down for a moment."

He really does. He takes a step forward, to walk around his desk, and Sheltay guides him over to he couch and quite firmly sits him down.

"Do I need to call someone else?" Sheltay asks again. "Breha?"

Bail looks out of the window, at the pale colours of Coruscant's morning sky. He then glances at the chrono on the wall. It's still early on Alderaan, too early. Breha is not getting up usually until two hours later, earliest. Bail doesn't want to wake her.

It hits him then that in this place he is now, Alderaan is still there. Alderaan and Breha are still there-

-and Leia is not.

It's a strange type of grief he feels then, not one he had thought possible to even exist before this. Leia is not dead, but she is still gone just the same.

Sheltay probably sees him look at the time, as she nods.

"Later, then", she says. "Fox?"

Bail stops breathing.

He stares at Sheltay, because he had been looking at her and cannot make himself move now to look anywhere else.

How could he have forgotten? If Bail is here, if Sheltay is here, if Breha and Alderaan are here, then Fox is here as well.

"Fox", He tries out his name out loud, and Sheltay seems to take that as a confirmation, as she takes out her commlink and starts typing on it.

Bail manages to move, and takes the moment to look up the date.

It's- he is barely second year into the War. It doesn't seem logical, for him to be put in here, in this time, if he truly is dead, not if not for some kindness from the Force, giving him a glimpse of a time when he truly thought there was still a possibility for a brighter future to be right around the corner, when most of the people he loved were still there with him.

It's just strange, to have only him be aware of it all, and not Sheltay. Bail doesn't remember a day like this ever happening before, not that it matters, if this is just some illusion before he finally ceases to exist completely. It's strange, to make everything appear right like it was so long ago, and not like it had been just before his death. It was strange, to make himself feel so alive, just to have him be dead.

Perhaps, a thought enters his mind and doesn't leave. Perhaps you really aren't dead. Perhaps you're here because of all the mistakes you made, and you need to repent for them, before you can let go and move on.

It almost makes him laugh. That, he thinks, that he can do.

Sheltay puts her commlink away, and sits next to him on the couch.

"He said that he will be here as soon as he can", she says. She puts her hand on top of Bail's, and it's warm.

Bail breathes in and nods.

"Thank you", he says, and then it hits him that Fox is alive.

He had thought of it just a moment earlier, but now it truly realises for him that Fox is alive. He has been gone so long as well, so long, too long. Bail has already grieved him in his heart, to a point he has almost stopped hurting so much. Bail had thought, briefly, during his last moments, that perhaps they could still meet before the very end, if he just hadn't already crossed over to where there was nothing left, but this-

This is an entirely different thing.

He needs to call Breha and tell her, he thinks, briefly, before he has to wonder if Breha remembers either. If it's really just him. That does make the most sense, as Bail is the one who had done all the mistakes, not Breha.

Perhaps he's in his thoughts for longer than he thinks he is, because suddenly the door is sliding open, and Fox is stumbling in, his hands already pulling his helmet off of his head.

"I'm here", he says. He's breathing hard, like he had just been running. "What's going on?"

"I'm not sure-" Sheltay starts, but Bail doesn't hear what she is saying. He stands up, and walks towards Fox. Fox, who is hurrying to put his helmet down on the desk, in order to get his hands free, and then walking towards him.

Bail looks at him as he walks. He remembers it all now, how Fox used to look back then during this time. The way his hair curls over his forehead, where the silver strands are on his temples, how his eyes shift from dark brown to golden when the sliver of sunlight from the window hits them just right. There are a few things missing, things that Bail knows only came later. The way his skin would be bruised just from pure exhaustion. The way he would be tense, even when he was trying to relax, just for a moment. This was, is, before all of that. This is before that one night, when everything had started to unravel. This is before Fox had started to cry himself to sleep every night, calling himself all the horrible names there existed in the Galaxy.

This is before all of that. Fox still looks just like he had when he had still looked at Bail and Breha with wonder in his eyes and a smile on his lips whenever they would say I love you.

He looks just as beautiful as Bail remembers.

Fox opens his mouth to say something, but he is so close already, and Bail cannot wait for anything. He pulls Fox into his arms and holds him, trying to feel him through the armor. He buries his face into Fox's neck, not caring about the cold, hard alloy of his pauldron digging into him, and thinks he can hear his heartbeat beneath the warm, tan skin.

There are hands on his back, then one at the back of his head.

"Bail?" He hears Fox's voice clearly from this close, even though he is speaking quietly, almost whispering. "Are you alright?"

Bail breathes in Fox's scent before answering, a mixture of regulation soap, bolt residue and armor polish and just him beneath it all.

"Yes."

"You're crying."

Oh. Bail lifts his face up, just a bit, and blinks. There are tears stuck to his eyelashes, heavy and warm, and he thinks he can see some having landed on Fox as well, if he looks closely enough.

"I'm sorry", he mumbles. It has been a while he has cried, or been overwhelmed like this. He had not given himself permission for being nothing else but calm, when he had heard about Leia being captured. He had not let himself cry when he had held Breha as they awaited for their death, no matter how much he had wanted to do so. Breha had needed him too much for him to fall apart even more.

"It's okay", Fox says. He is carding his fingers through Bail's hair. "What's going on?"

So much. So much is going on, and Bail doesn't know where or when to start.

He knows he needs to decide on those, sooner or later, but before any of that, he has one thing to say.

"I love you", he whispers against Fox's skin.

Fox stills, just for a moment, a moment long enough for Bail to wonder if the version of him Fox had known before in this time had even gotten to say it yet.

Then he continues, running his fingers up and down, his other hand on Bail's back holding onto him just a little tighter.

"I love you too", he whispers back. Bail closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he's ready to take on the Galaxy, once again.

[penny00dreadful]

Eddie would sing Fat Bottomed Girls to Steve every chance he got.

On stage in front of thousands with grabby hands.

In the kitchen when Steve was "just trying to cook, Eds, for Christ's sake" giving his ass a few taps in time to his singing just to see it jiggle.

In the car where Steve had literally no escape and had to put up with it with a little frowny frown because he was trying so hard not to smile.

And when Robin had suspiciously been trying to keep his attention away from the stage at their wedding, Steve knew something was coming.

Steve had been expecting something to happen because Eddie was nothing if not a performer and to have an event centred around the two of them with their closest here to celebrate, he'd be more surprised if nothing happened.

But when whatever had been playing in the background faded out and he heard Eddie's voice boom out through the speakers-

Are you gonna take me home tonight?

Steve's eyes and Robin's grin grew wide at the same time.

Oh, down beside that red firelight

He hid his face in his hands, there were already whoops and wolf whistles from their gathered guests in his direction.

Are you gonna let it all hang out?

"Oh, don't pretend to be going bashful." Robin shouted at him, to be heard over Eddie's singing. "I've had to listen to too many horny thoughts from you about this song, you're so fucking in love right now, aren't you?"

Fat bottomed girls

You make the rockin' world go 'round

Steve lifted his face, unable to hide his huge smile any longer. Robin gave him a shove in the direction of the dance floor where the crowd parted for him with nudges and slaps on the shoulder.

Hey, I was just a skinny lad

Never knew no good from bad

But I knew life before I left my nursery, huh

Eddie was in his fucking element, bouncing around the small stage like it was Madison Square Garden.

He finally caught sight of Steve, who was red faced but couldn't stop grinning as he watched his now husband wave one hand down like he was mapping out curves.

Left alone with big fat Fanny

She was such a naughty nanny

Hey, big woman

You made a bad boy out of me

He fought the urge to hide his face again, especially when he remembered just who was here.

Hopper, Joyce, Mrs. Henderson, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, fucking Wayne was here watching him getting sexually serenaded.

Eddie continued to sing while the Corroded Coffin boys played through with matching exasperated but delighted grins, obviously having a great time simultaneously playing and embarrassing the shit out of Steve.

He was drawn to Eddie like a magnet. He didn't even remember stepping closer but next thing he knew he was in front of the stage, a one man recipient to a show just for him.

Eddie reached out and for one terrifying moment, Steve thought he was going to touch his hair.

He did not spend hours on it this morning only for it to be messed up before one of them got to be bent over their honeymoon suite bed later that night.

Eddie seemed to have realised that too, at the last second redirecting his hand to stroke over Steve's cheek.

Oh, but I still get my pleasure

Still got my greatest treasure

Hey, big woman, you gonna make a big man of me

The stage was low and it wasn't huge so Steve was only really at chest height, but he could tell in that moment and with those lyrics, all Eddie wanted to do was thrust his pelvis in Steve's face but thankfully he kept himself on a leash even though everyone behind Steve was still whooping and hollaring.

When the song finally closed out, Eddie threw the mic behind him, not much caring where it landed. Luckily for everyone's eardrums Grant managed to snatch it up with a scowl before it clattered to the ground.

Eddie wasn't paying attention though. He'd planted one hand on either of Steve's shoulders and jumped down from the stage, trusting that he'd be caught.

Which he was.

Eddie wrapped his legs around Steve's waist and Steve had to try very hard to not let his hands wander, so instead he locked his wrists under Eddie's thighs, maybe, just maybe getting away with a little pinch to the ass that only the Corroded Coffin boys could see.

They were extremely unbothered. They'd seen it all before. They'd seen much worse before.

"You're a menace." Steve grumbled, still unable to keep his smile away.

Eddie hummed in agreement, looking down on him from his higher position. "Your menace."

"My menace."

[starryeyedjanai]

Fake title ask!

I’m A Dirt Road

bestie, I did not mean to write 1.3k about this. But it happened anyway, so here you go:

I'm a dirt road

The government uses NINA to wipe everyone’s memories of the last few years and replace their memories of the Upside Down with mundane events where the party and the older teenagers don’t really know each other outside of school. And Steve and Robin are the ones who help bring them all together.

Because after a couple months, Steve starts having dreams. Weird dreams and nightmares that feel real. He’s waking up with feelings in his chest that don't make sense, for people that he doesn't remember. He’s grasping at straws, trying to piece together what the hell is happening to him and he runs into Robin, who’s only a few weeks out from her starting her freshman year of college. And he feels like he knows her.

She brushes him aside because she only knows him as King Steve who lost his crown after being hit in the head too many times, so of course she doesn't believe him when he says they know each other.

But after she brushes him aside and sees his shoulders slump, she feels it deep in her chest that something is off about this situation. She watches him walk away and instinctively calls out, “Hey, dingus?” and when he turns around all perked up, she knows something weird is going on. She knows him. Somehow, she knows him and forgot.

So they hunker down and try to piece together what they can and turns out, she’s been having dreams too, but she just thought they were pre-college nightmares. But they’re the same ones Steve has, of this dark, cold place that has a, “Red sky,” they both say at the same time. It’s so weird.

“There are others,” Steve says, sure of it. There have to be. "I feel like we’re missing a group of people. And-" he cuts himself off.

“What is it?” Robin asks, the tight feeling in her chest returning, because she feels like she knows what he’s going to say.

“I feel like I should be mourning someone,” Steve says, running a hand down his face. “We lost someone. And I don't remember who.”

Robin feels it too. She feels like there’s a weight in her chest that shouldn't be there. She’s felt it since she woke up in March with a killer headache and missed school for a couple days because of it. She didn't know what to call the feeling, but she knows now that it’s grief.

Anyway, they find Dustin wandering around skull rock and ask him what he’s doing there and he tells them about the dreams he’s been having and surprise, surprise. Same dreams! And Dustin found a partially destroyed polaroid in his bedroom after tearing the place apart trying to make sense of what he was feeling and it was of him, Mike Wheeler, Lucas Sinclair, and some kid Dustin doesn't know dressed up for Halloween and he didn't remember taking that picture.

So he knew something was up, so he went looking in the place where it feels like something important happened. So with Dustin’s help they rally together Mike, Nancy, Lucas, and Erica, who insists she has to be a part of this after eavesdropping on the conversation.

It still feels like they’re missing a bunch of people and Dustin figures it has something to do with the kid whose name none of them can remember. They scour through old yearbooks and pictures, but can’t find anything, not even a name.

It’s Steve who runs into Hopper, who’s a mess, drinking and angry all the time again. They bump into each other and they both stop short and Steve takes a leap of faith and pulls Hopper into a tight hug and Hopper crumbles, falls apart. He tells Hopper about the group - the party, he says and doesn't know why - and their dreams, says he has a feeling Hopper has been having dreams too.

And Hopper has, because he’s lost two daughters now. And he can feel it, in his heart, that she’s out there somewhere, but it doesn't make sense. His only daughter is gone. He didn't have another, right?

They work with Hopper to track down the kid in the photo and Hopper finds a police record of a domestic disturbance that he doesn't remember happening involving a 'Joyce Byers' and he knows it’s them, the Byers family, they’re involved in this too. So he tracks them down in California somehow and convinces them to come to Hawkins, a town Joyce insists they’ve never been to.

But she also feels it, and her kids feel it, that something isn’t right, so when a sheriff from some random town in Indiana calls her and tells her he has a police record of her family in Hawkins, she believes him somehow.

So they make it to Hawkins and the reunion is tearful, even though Joyce is sure she’s never met these people. El, no, Jane - why did she think of her as El? - and Hopper hug each other and everyone is teary eyed about it for some reason.

It’s the kids who unlock some memory in El, Jane, and she’s convinced she has some kind of power, some kind of something that can fix this. She can take them to the place where they need to be, she’s sure of it.

So she leads the way, takes them to the place where he died, Steve realizes. It’s where he died, whoever it is that’s carved a gaping hole in his chest, in all of their chests.

There’s still debris from the earthquake that happened a few months ago here. But she leads them to a crack in the ground. It’s red and pulsing and alive.

And none of them know what the fuck is going on, and this isn't normal, but it validates every one of their fears that they’re not all just making shit up, some group psychosis or something.

Steve is relieved to see it, weirdly enough. Because something in him is telling him that the person who they thought died here didn't.

So maybe it takes months of Jane, El, practicing honing her powers, maybe Robin and Nancy reluctantly go to college and the kids go back to school, Will and El enrolling in Hawkins High.

Maybe Hopper finds a house that was abandoned after the quake for Joyce, Jonathan, Will, and El to live in. It’s a little worse for wear, but the banks aren’t running to collect a mortgage on it right now at least. And Will finds a drawing on the wall in his bedroom after they move in. It’s one he drew. How is it one he drew?

There are so many unanswered questions and Steve is going out of his mind waiting, waiting, waiting for Jane or El or whoever she is to be ready for whatever it is she’s preparing for.

He keeps visiting the place where it happened. He doesn't know why because he knows whoever the guy who died, or didn't die, was- he doesn't think they were very close. But he remembers feeling terrified and still being able to laugh with him, he remembers the ache in his heart later. He doesn't remember his face, but he remembers blood. He remembers telling him not to be a hero and remembers being angry at him for not listening.

He remembers, but not enough.

And when the time finally comes, months later, when El channels her powers and the crack in the ground splits open more, when Steve insists he’ll be okay if he drops into it, he finally sees him again.

He’s crossed over into this place, the place from their dreams, cold and red, but it’s like taking a breath of air so cold he’s choking on it. He walks down the path, down the road, looking.

He finds him.

Perched on top of a van, picking notes on a guitar, is him.

Steve’s shoes sound loud on the gravel beneath his feet and Eddie’s head whips around toward him when he hears him coming.

He smiles.

“I was wondering when you’d find me.”

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Love Langauge

There was something about the way that Harry always knelt down to greet Scorpius with a hug that Draco couldn't take. It was too much, too precious, it made him feel like his whole world was narrowed down to just two people, heart too full.

“Daddy told Auntie Pansy that people getting shit done is his love language.” Scorpius informed Harry primly and Draco promptly wished that he could just sink through the floor as Harry’s eyes, twinkling with mischief, found his over his son’s shoulder. He knew he shouldn't have had that floo call with Pansy about work while Scorpius was in the house.

“Did he?” Harry asked, before turning his attention back to Scorpius. “Sounds like acts of service is it for your dad.”

He shook his head, "Scorpius, it's your bedtime."

His 4-year-old turned and pouted at him, "But Harry just got here."

"I know," he said, understanding completely the desire to simply exist in the other man's orbit. "But it's past your bedtime already."

"Can I see you tomorrow?" he asked Harry, turning his pout on the other man, whom, Draco knew from experience, had no defenses against a pouting Malfoy.

"I would like that very much," Harry said sincerely, looking up at Draco, "if it's alright with your dad."

They didn't do this. Harry didn't stay overnight, he wasn't there in the morning when Scorpius woke up, as far as Scorpius was concerned, they were just friends. He'd been too afraid of his son getting attached, and how it would affect him when (if) Harry left. "Maybe Harry would like to meet us for ice cream at Fortescue's," he replied.

Scorpius spun around to look at him, literally jumping for joy, but Draco didn't miss the way that Harry's face fell before he caught himself.

"That sounds great," he said, smiling at both of them.

"Do you want to give Harry a hug good night?" Draco asked.

Scorpius nodded and Harry knelt down again, wrapping his arms around Scorpius. "Night, buddy," Harry said.

"Night, night, Harry," he replied. "I love you."

"Love you too, bud," he responded easily, and Draco's heart shattered in his chest.

He cleared his throat, "Come on, Scorp," he said softly, "bedtime."

His son's arms wrapped around Harry's shoulders tighter for a moment, then he was off, dashing toward the stairs. "I'm gonna beat you!" he called to Draco over his shoulder.

"Be right there, teeth first," Draco called back. He turned to Harry who was standing from the floor once more, "Hey," he exhaled.

"Hi," Harry replied, smiling at him and leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"I'll be back soon. Sorry that nothing went quite according to plan tonight and he's not down yet."

"It's fine," Harry said, shaking his head, "You don't have to apologize. If you'd wanted an extra set of hands, you could have owled and asked me to come earlier."

"That's not your job," he protested. "Harry, the lines-"

"Daddy!" Scorpius called, mouth sounding full of what Draco suspected was toothpaste.

"Coming!"

"Go," Harry said, nudging him toward the stairs. "I'll be here when you're done."

Draco nodded and turned, leaving everything with Harry until after bedtime. Bedtime was his favorite time of day, stories and singing, quiet reflection, cuddles in the rocker, before tucking his child in for the night and stroking his hair until his was fast asleep.

He lingered for a few extra moments in Scorpius' doorway, watching his son sleeping. He planned the whole speech in his head: Scorpius was the most important person in his life, his world revolved around his child, he wanted Harry but he couldn't put Scorpius' heart in danger. Bad enough to be putting his own heart in such a precarious position, he thought as he closed the door and headed downstairs again.

When he reached the living room, Harry was nowhere to be seen, so he wandered through to the kitchen imagining that Harry might be uncorking the bottle of wine that Draco had seen tucked in his coat pocket.

What he found instead, was Harry standing at the sink, up to his elbows in water as he washed the veritable mountain of dishes that Draco hadn't had the time or energy to take care of. That seemed to be the case with more and more things lately, he just didn't have the capacity to work and be a single parent.

"You don't have to do that," he said, embarrassment flooding his whole body.

Harry glanced over his shoulder and smiled at him, "I don't mind." Before Draco could protest, he continued, "I'm almost done anyway. Do you want to pour us some wine? I picked up that Merlot that you were fond of at that Italian place we ate at last month."

"I can't do this," Draco breathed, feeling like the air had been punched out of him. He stumbled back to lean against the doorway.

"Draco?" Harry said softly, voice full of concern, and Draco looked up to see him drying his hands on the towel as he looked at him.

And Draco wanted to cry. The image of Harry standing there, sleeves rolled up from washing the dishes for him, brows drawn in concern, was burned into his brain. Because this was it. It had to be. "I can't," he managed, shaking his head.

"Can't what?" Harry asked gently, moving a few steps closer but leaving space in between them.

Space that Draco wished he would close, wished that Harry would crowd him into the wall and make him forget everything else.

"Sweetheart," Harry murmured, "tell me?"

"I can't do it," he said and a tear slid down his cheek. "I'm so fucking tired," he added. "I can't be a good dad and run a business when no one is doing what they're supposed to be," he shook his head, "I'm a complete shit boyfriend-"

"You're not-" Harry started to protest.

"I am!" he exploded, throwing his arms in the air. "You're here and you're cleaning my house for me, and you brought me wine that you remembered that I enjoyed a month ago! And what have I-"

"Draco," Harry said, voice very calm as he closed the distance between them and cupped Draco's face in his palms. "Take a breath, love."

He shook his head, hot tears spilling down his cheeks.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, pressing kisses to Draco's forehead, his nose, his cheeks.

"I don't have anything to give you," he said, closing his eyes so he didn't have to watch the realization of that truth dawn on Harry's face.

"You are not what you do," Harry said softly. "Your value as a person isn't defined by what you give."

"But I can't give you anything."

"That isn't even true," Harry argued, pulling Draco into his arms. "Choosing to spend your free time with me when you could be doing a thousand other things is a gift. You give me your affection. You make me laugh, and you tease me, and you listen to me rant about my day. You open your home to me, your bed to me," he added softly, voice wrapping around Draco's fragile, bleeding heart. "You give me yourself, you let me see you, let me touch you, and hold you. You accept me in return. Circe, Draco, what more could I even ask for?"

"Harry," he whispered, wanting so badly to believe him.

"Your love language may be acts of service," he said, laughing a little and Draco huffed and rolled his eyes, "but mine isn't. Mine's quality time," he added. "And your secondary love language might be gifts, but my second is physical touch. We aren't the same," he said. "And that's a good thing," he added.

He gave in and wrapped his arms around Harry's waist, dropping his head to his boyfriend's shoulder. "I'm afraid," he whispered.

"Of what?" Harry asked, letting his hands slide up and down his back.

"Of getting in too deep," he said. "That I'm going to fall for you completely and I won't be able to recover when you leave."

Harry hummed and kissed his temple, "Who says I'm going to leave?"

"It's hard to imagine that you want to stay when I'm such a mess, when I'm too afraid of you leaving to let you spend the night, when-"

"Draco," he tried to interrupt, squeezing him.

"-when I am constantly pushing you away," he finished.

Harry was quiet for a minute, then he said, "you aren't really pushing, you know." He let his fingers tangle in Draco's hair, "I hear what you're saying, but I'm not going anywhere, Draco. You can push and I won't leave."

He laughed, short and bitter, "You say that now but you haven't seen me at my worst."

Harry laughed at that, "I think we both know that's not true." He pulled back, "Sorry, but pretty much nothing you can do now will compare to the time you smashed my nose with the heel of your boot and left me under my invisibility cloak. And," he added, "there's not really much that I can do that would be worse than literally cutting you apart with my magic-"

"Because I was trying to crucio you," he inserted.

He shook his head, and pressed their foreheads together, "If you want me to leave, now or ever, you will have to say the actual words. I won't read those words in your actions or in your other words. You pushing right now actually just feels like you're trying to love me, so," he shrugged. "I'm pretty stubborn." He nudged Draco's nose with his, "I'm here for good."

"Do you promise?" Draco breathed before he could stop himself.

Harry pulled back, just far enough that he could look Draco in the eyes. He reached up and tucked Draco's hair behind his ear, "I love you," he said softly. "We've been together for over a year," he said, "but Draco, I've loved you for so much longer. I fell in love with you over pub nights, and consults for work, and watching you with your child," he shook his head. "You're amazing and I don't want to go anywhere." He cupped Draco's face in his palm, stroking his thumb over Draco's cheek, "I promise, love. I'm in this."

He exhaled, closed his eyes, and tried to let himself believe that, believe that he got to keep this.

"Draco," he said softly, "I," he swallowed, "I want to give you stability, whatever I can to show you that I mean it. I've wanted to ask you if you wanted to move in together," he said, sounding nervous. "But it seems presumptuous since me moving in with you makes the most sense logistically. And I've wanted to ask if you wanted to get married, but I know you've said-"

"You want to marry me?" he interrupted, eyes flying open to search Harry's face.

He nodded, earnest and dear, "Of course I do. I just," he shrugged, "you said marriage was the worst thing that ever happened to you and that Scorp was the only good thing-"

"Stop," he said, kissing Harry because he couldn't quite help himself. "Harry, I meant political marriages," he kissed him again because this felt like a proposal, like a huge declaration. "My marriage to Astoria where she just fucked off after she got her inheritance that had been contingent on having an heir, that marriage was shit. And I wouldn't trade Scorp, but I wanted a partner-" he broke off.

"Draco, I-" he broke off, shaking his head, "I want to be your partner, I would do anything for him, I would be anything-"

"Harry," he breathed because this couldn't be real, this couldn’t be happening.

Harry shook his head, "I know that I can't just jump in and be his dad, but Draco I love him so much, I would do anything."

He stared at Harry for a long moment before he leaned in and kissed him.

The other man kissed him back, pressing him back against the wall and caging him in with his body.

"I love you," Draco managed against Harry's mouth. "Salazar. Yes, Harry," he gasped. "Yes to any of it, to all of it. Whatever you'll have of me."

"I'll have all of you," he murmured, "Any bit that you'll give me." He pulled back and Draco almost tipped over. Harry steadied him with his hands around his waist, "Stay right here," he murmured, giddy and breathless, dimpled-smile so bright that Draco was nearly overcome. "Don't move," he repeated before leaving the kitchen.

Draco heard the closet in the entry way opening, then Harry was skidding back into the kitchen. He fell to his knees in front of Draco, opening a ring box and displaying a simple silver band.

"Marry me?" Harry whispered, eyes wet and smile bright.

Draco nodded and Harry's trembling fingers held out the band to him, slipping it over Draco's ring finger. Once it was in place, Draco fell to his knees in front of Harry and cupped his face in his palms.

"Thank you," he whispered and Draco found himself wiping the tears spilling from his eyes.

"I think I'm really getting the better end of the bargain here," he whispered back with a little laugh.

Harry shook his head and more tears spilled out, Draco's heart felt like it was bursting in his chest. "This is everything I've ever wanted," he replied.

Draco wrapped him up in his arms and hoped that he'd be worthy of that love, worthy of that claim. "Stay," he whispered.

Harry nodded back, "Always."

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

written for the @hdcandyheartsfest prompt 'love language'

Read more of my 2023 hdcandyhearts ficlets here.

[messrsbyler]

byler headcanon where…

mike, who loves writing as we all know, also loves to read (duh) and one of his favorite books is the hobbit and, well, he kind of loses it when will confesses to him he hasn’t read it yet. so next day at school mike shoves his copy into will’s hands and tells him to read it so they can talk about it soon. and will reads it… but he’s not as fast as mike and he kind of dozes off the pages a lot when a scene gets really stuck in his head. next thing he knows he’s doodling in the margins of the book whatever just happened in the previous chapter with a pen nonetheless.

ofc will panics bc he knows mike loves to have his books in pristine condition and will didn’t mean to basically deface mike favorite book? so as soon as he’s back home he rushes to his room to check his savings and see if he has enough money to get mike a new copy. he doesn’t. maybe jonathan could help him out, or his mom, but it feels wrong to make them responsible for will’s mistake. besides, that would be lying to mike, and that’s something will won’t do.

next day mike is waiting for him at the school’s entrance with a bounce in his step and vibrant eyes. he wastes no time to ask “so? did you read it? did you like it? what was your favorite part?”.

will bites his lip and mike’s eyes drop to the book he’s holding in his hands. “uhm, mike. i-"

“yeah?”

“i sort of got distracted… while i was reading and i… uh-"

“hey” mike smiles at him and bumps their shoulders together. “it’s not big deal if you didn’t finish it yet. it’s a long book, after all. sorry, i didn’t want to pressure you.”

“you didn’t!” will rushes to say and mike’s brows spring up in surprise with a curious glance. “i mean, i haven’t finished it. but that’s not what i wanted… to say.”

“oh.” mike frowns. “so… you haven’t liked it so far? you don’t have to keep reading if-"

“i am liking it! a lot. but i also… i just… uhm, here. it’s better if you look by yourself.” will hands mike the copy did the book and glues his eyes to his shoes. his neck and cheeks prickle with heat at the same time something cold pools in his stomach. “sorry.”

“why are you-"

“just open it, mike.”

mike keeps quiet for a second and will can feel his eyes roaming through will’s body. and will knows mike is probably biting his tongue not to ask if he’s okay, if something happened, if it has to do with the upside down. he doesn’t ask, though, and will breathes a little better like that.

“okay, then?” and mike opens the book. and there, on the very first page at the title there’s nothing. mike keeps thumbing through the pages, probably confused. and then, “oh.”

yup, there it is. between the ending of a chapter and the beginning of another, will’s first doodle in the margins of the page. an illustration of what is happening in the pages with some of the blue ink smeared where will’s hand hovered too close to the paper and the smell of his ballpoint impressed on the page.

will looks up with his bottom lip still stuck between his teeth. mike’s eyes are pinned to the page, mouth barely parted and a frown barely hiding under his bangs.

“i’m so sorry, mike. i know you like to have your books as they come from the bookstore.” that is true. mike is the type of guy that rejects things like dog ears for marking a page or a broken spine. let alone a drawing in fucking blue ink in the middle of the book. “i- i kinda dozed off while reading? and i started doodling without noticing and then i saw what i did and it’s ink so i can’t erase it and- i thought on getting you a new copy. maybe next month? i probably can save enough by then-“

mike’s steady hand on his shoulder shuts will right up. he freezes under mike’s touch until his body recognises mike’s shape, the curve of his palm and the length of his fingers right where will’s neck connects with his shoulder. mike’s hand has been a constant weight there throughout their friendship. an anchor and a comfort, and so after the initial shock he gets whenever someone touches him (a little thing the upside down left him), will melted under the touch. his muscles go slack and he breathes out.

“will, i’m not mad.”

will blinks. he didn’t think mike would get mad. it’s hard to make mike mad, after all. well, no. that’s not true. it’s extremely easy to get mike worked up, but not for will. it’s as if mike has a few extra doses of patience reserved only for him. so, yeah. will didn’t expect mike to be mad, but he also didn’t expect to see mike smiling at him in that soft way of his, with a faint blush creeping up his neck and cheeks.

“you… are not?”

“of course not! are you kidding? will, this is so cool!” mike looks down at the drawing and his hand leaves will’s shoulder and a cold spot behind. mike’s fingers trace will’s defined lines in blue ink and it looks so… intimate. hell, is the sun suddenly hitting will with all its might? because he’s feeling a bit too squirmy and tickly on the back. and also a bit hot on the face. maybe he’s coming down with a fever. or maybe mike wheeler is being a menace to his health as always. “this drawing… it’s exactly what i see when i read the book.”

“really?” oh, great. just fantastic. more blushing.

“yeah. did you draw more?” mike thumbs through the pages and finds other two doodles, and he looks equally fascinated with both. “i… i love them, will.”

will could basically be classified as a new type of tomato right about now with how hot his cheeks burn. “you do?”

mike snorts and nods, looking up at will. “of course! why wouldn’t i? you know i love all of your art.”

deep breaths, byers. it’s not a good idea to hyperventilate right in front of your best friend you are in love with just because he loves your art. will clenches his hands and hides them in his pockets.

“uh, well. i just- i know you like to keep your books like brand new so- and that’s your favorite book too.”

“it for sure is my favorite one now.”

“huh?”

mike tilts his head and his eyes narrow to block the sunlight coming from will’s back. “well, because now you are in it, of course.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“that’s- cool.”

“yeah. cool.” mike smiles and will smiles back, feeling like he’s standing on air, as light as the clouds and about to float away at any second. but, well, even if he did, will knows would be there to keep him grounded and next to him. the thought is a bit dizzying and will pushes it away. “so… i’m guessing this is why you didn’t finish it? spent all the time doodling the scenes?” mike lifts the book and wiggles it in front of will.

will sighs. “yeah. maybe it was that.”

mike considers this for a moment and… okay, will isn’t sure what mike is even considering. next thing mike is snapping his fingers and giving the book back to will.

“tell you what. why don’t we head to mine after school?”

will tilts his head. “to read?”

“just trust me.”

the day comes and goes and before will knows it the last bell is ringing and he’s pushing his bike out of school and down the street to mike’s house with mike right beside him. will notices not lucas nor dustin follow them beyond their own houses. will also notices mike stops at lucas house for a few minutes before coming back next to will so they bike to his home. oh, okay. so this is a mike and will thing, and not a party thing. cool. that’s cool.

will isn’t sure what mike has in mind as they climb down to his basement. they slump down in the couch and mike opens his backpack right away.

“get the book,” he tells will and will does.

when he sits back up and look at mike, will is surprised to find another copy of the hobbit on mike’s lap. that one looks more worn down, with a broken spine and yellow-ish pages. definitely not mike’s.

will tenses and then melts when he feels mike’s thumb running up between his brows.

“stop with the growing,” mike laughs. “you are going to start to look to much like me.”

will rolls his eyes but can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “and what a tragedy would that be.” mike snorts and mike points at the book on mike’s lap. “where did that one come from?”

“i borrowed it from lucas.”

“oh. uhm, why?”

“so we can read! well,” mike gestures with his hands on the air like he does a lot when trying to get his point across. it’s a cute gesture will always notices. “so i can read while you draw.”

“huh?”

mike looks down at the book and there, again, there’s a faint shade of pink crawling up his neck and cheeks. mike shrugs and takes a breath in, looking back at will.

“i just thought i could, you know, read the book to you. out loud. i love the hobbit after all and a reread was long overdue. besides, like that you can keep drawing on my copy while i read to you.”

will’s eyes go a bit wide and he blinks in surprise. will knows mike as well as the palm of his hand, but there are moments when his best friend still manages to throw him out of balance in surprise.

“you want me to… keep drawing on your book?”

mike shrugs. it’s shy and contained, as if he was trying to make the gesture as small as possible. “if that’s okay with you.”

“is that okay with you?”

mike nods. “hell, yeah. like that, next time i read my copy i can see your drawings. i just… i don’t know… i think that would be pretty… cool.”

“cool?”

“yeah.”

will stares into mike’s eyes and goddamnit his heart better not throw him under the bus by jumping out of his mouth directly into mike’s lap. “okay. yeah, let’s do it.”

they find a comfortable position on the couch that ends up both of them laying on it in opposite directions, each of them resting their head on a couch arm and getting a pretty good view of the other. it’s a bit of a tight fit, especially since they aren’t little kids anymore and the couch didn’t care to grow along with them during all these years. but will is comfortable right where he is, with his hip pressed against mike’s hip, his legs being mike’s arm support, and just having mike this close at all.

it’s also not the most comfortable position to draw and will’s hand is about to cramp like hell, but he’ll choose to be haunted by another demogorgon before suggesting to move even an inch from where they are.

so, with his blue ballpoint in hand and both books opened at page 64, mike starts reading and will sinks into the melody of his voice, butterflies flapping against the edges of his stomach when mike makes voices for each character and when he sings under his breath the songs in a made up melody. mike’s voice wraps around will and guides his strokes on each page. will absorbed every word, every sentence, each one being carved in his brain with mike’s voice. his heart is pounding behind his ribs, fast but gentle at the same time, and soon he is dragged into a world of fantasy where the only ones from hawkins who remain to exist are him and mike.

they keep going like that for about a hundred and something pages and before they notice it a couple of hours have gone by.

“stay for dinner? we can keep reading after,” mike says as he stretches his arms up. his feet push against will’s shoulder.

“doesn’t your throat hurt reading for that long?” will asks, noticing mike’s voice as turned a bit raspier in the last hour. not something he hates, by any means. but, yeah. will notices.

“nah, i’m good. so, do you wanna?”

will smiles and nods. “yeah, sure.”

they don’t finish the book that night, but will doodles on many pages and by the time he gets home, he can still hear mike’s voice bouncing inside his ears, comforting and soft and just so… mike’s.

will slumps on bed face first and smiles into his pillow like the idiot in love he is. his fingers ache for keep drawing, but he doesn’t want to keep reading what’s left of the book without mike. this is their thing now, something they share and will wouldn’t have it any other way.

[p1nkcanoe]

where is his head?

[ aether x rain smut ]

something something, aether likes rain’s hands a little to much, yada yada yada…

warnings: 18+ please, public handjobs, hand kink, clothed sex

word count: 1586

Rain’s just holding his hand. It’s nice, and it’s warm, and Aether’s hand is slightly clammy, but it's good. He’s holding his hand because he wanted to–reached out and intertwined their hands on the bench that they share in the chapel. It’s a nice gesture that he appreciates. Copia’s message has been going on for a little too long and the feeling of Rain’s thumb rubbing along the back of his own is something else to focus on while he drones on for another hour about something neither of them really care about. It’s such a simple gesture… So why is Aether getting all worked up over it? 

It started when Rain reached between them and laid his hand over the top of his own, covering him in gentle warmth and offering him a moment of companionship. Then he’d carefully pried his fingers from the edge of the wood, rolling his hand so it faced the sky and pressing their palms together. Their fingers had lined up as they wordlessly compared the size and the shape of their hands. Rain’s always had longer, more slender fingers compared to Aether’s strong hands. But his own palms are wider, rougher. They know each other’s hands by memory–each line and mark and print–but there’s something so intriguing about how different they are compared to each other. Rain’s hands are pale blue, almost transparent at the thinnest areas of his flesh stretched taut over bone, and slightly webbed in between each digit. Aether’s skin is deep violet and ashy gray, spattered with freckles that form complex constellations across his arms. If they weren’t supposed to be paying attention Rain would trace them all the way up to his cheeks like an artist studying his muse. Perhaps he’d explore even further up to where they disappear into his hairline. Instead, he fits his slender fingers into the gaps between Aether’s and the quintessence ghoul gets caught up in the way that his tendons flex and shift as he intertwines their hands to become one. He gets so distracted by it that he almost forgets that it takes two to properly hold hands. He closes his fingers over the top of bony knuckles. Rain squeezes at him lightly and turns his head back forwards towards where Copia is speaking. Aether never looks away. 

They’re just hands. Nice ones, yes, but they’re hands. There’s no reason why Aether should be chubbing up behind his zipper over them but he is. The realization turns his cheeks hot and he prays to Lucifer that Rain is actually paying attention and won’t notice. Oh that would be mortifying–if Rain found out that the sight and the feeling of a simple hand hold alone was enough to make him hard. What the fuck is wrong with him? He swallows so hard his throat clicks. Rain continues to rub absentmindedly at his skin and Aether forces his gaze away from where blue and violet meet. Gentle. Innocent. Oblivious. 

His pants are starting to get tight… This isn’t good. 

The quintessence ghoul does his best to mask his scent, stay composed and undetected, but he slips when Rain starts to roll his metacarpals, pressing with the pads of his fingers against his knuckles, and it makes his stomach twist. It’s only for a split second but the air gets tinged, sweet and syrupy, and Aether thinks it goes unnoticed… Until Rain’s ministrations come to a halt and suddenly he feels like his ears are filled with cotton. He watches from the corner of his eye as Rain looks down towards their hands, then at his lap, and finally at his face. He can’t look at him, not now, but he knows there’s the faintest trace of a smirk upon his lips. He knows. He’s been caught. 

Aether feels like he’s been simultaneously doused in frigid water and tossed into a fiery pit of lava. His skin burns with red hot shame and begins to itch when Rain starts rubbing at his skin again and giving him little squeezes as if to remind him that he’s still there. And for a while, it’s just that. Aether thinks he might be allowing him a moment to collect himself. He tries to not focus on the feeling of his hands, definitely doesn’t look at them or think about how pretty his skin looks pulled thin over his knuckles, and wills his erection to go down. He breathes slowly, in and out through his nose, and wills his blood to flow somewhere else, glues his eyes to Copia’s lips and listens to the jumble of words coming out of his mouth. He isn’t sure if the pressure against his zipper ever actually gets better, but at least it doesn’t seem to be getting worse. 

When Rain ultimately decides to pull his hand away Aether thinks he’s made it into the clear. Though he does mourn the weight of his hand in his own. He pulls his hand back into his lap, clasps his hands in a loose hold and settles back into the back of the pew to relieve some of the pressure against his crotch–and Rain plants his hand onto his thigh. 

He can’t help the way his neck snaps downwards and sure enough Rain’s pretty hand is high on his thigh, rubbing mindlessly at the inner seam of his denim with his index and middle finger. He’s dangerously close to where his cock is trapped. He could touch it if he wanted to with ease; he’s teasing. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Aether’s mouth goes dry. He casts his eyes back up to Rain’s and finds that he’s focused in on Copia– acting as if he wasn’t touching him at all. This is a risky game he’s playing. They’re surrounded by their entire pack, albeit spread far and throughout the rows of pews, but surrounded nonetheless. Dewdrop shares the bench with them about fifteen feet down. He’s hunkered against the end, his head resting tediously in his palm where his elbow is propped against the thin wooden arm. His tail is curled up under the front of his shirt. Asleep. Aether has no idea how long it's been since he closed his eyes but the slight slack in his jaw tells him it's been a while.

If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now. 

Rain leans forward slightly to peer over Aether down at the sleeping ghoul, and when he sits back with a quiet hum his hand shifts to rest directly over the head of his cock. He’s too wound to care anymore. 

He really tries to listen to Copia’s message when Rain begins to stroke him through his pants. He keeps his head up and facing forward as his breathing gets heavier and he’s letting out breathy puffs through his nose with every press. The fabric is rough against his skin, even with his boxers, but it adds an element of pleasure to the way Rain rubs his thumb against the bottom of his head on the top of every slide. He starts with his fingers, feeling him and mapping out his shaft with his fingertips, then moves on to palming him with a heavy pressure that has Aether groaning through gritted teeth. He’s suddenly very glad that all of the ghouls are so widely spread. 

He can’t help himself; he looks. 

He looks and is flooded with mental images of Rain’s gorgeous hands, long fingers, soft palms, wrapped around his cock like he’s done so many times in the past. He remembers how it feels when Rain runs the tip of a claw right over the slit, makes him shiver, and remembers how his balls sit nice and heavy in his palm. He imagines how pretty his fingers would look, flexing and gripping him while properly jerking him off in the privacy of their own rooms… He’s beautiful even when he’s working him over through thick denim, pressing and rubbing and sliding his masterful fingers over the outline of a shape that he’s memorized time and time again. 

Aether unclasps his hands and lays them against the edge of the bench when the coil in his belly starts to tighten. He wraps his fingers around the wooden edge, spreads his legs a little wider and never tears his eyes away from his lap. When Rain pays special attention to the sensitive tip he knows he won’t last much longer. A strained moan escapes past his lips that he quickly covers with a cough. Swiss side eyes him from a couple rows up. Rain lets out a chuckle. He speeds up, puts his wrist into it, slides his palm hard and heavy over the shaft one last time and Aether braces himself against the bench as he cums. His leg shakes. His bottom lip is sucked tight between his teeth until it stings. His orgasm rushes through him violently in waves and Rain works him through the entire thing until he’s slumped practically boneless against the wood. He doesn’t think he’s ever struggled so much to stay quiet in his existence. 

And when it’s all over and there’s a dark spot soaking into the fabric of his pants, Rain pulls his hand away just to place it over his own again. He taps on the back of his hand, pries it from its hold on the edge, and intertwines their fingers like nothing ever happened. 

Rain and his stupid, gorgeous hands will be the death of him.

[skywriter97]

Happy Birthday?

He could do this. He'd built a battle mech into a biplane, created a false Chaos Emerald, built a TV out of paperclips, and reprogrammed a super computer using dishwashing detergent and toothpicks...so baking a cake? Pfft.

Amy had given him a dubious look and asked if he was sure he didn't need help, but Tails waved her off. Oh, she of little faith. It was just a cake. What could go wrong? The pink hedgehog insisted he call her if he needed her help, and Tails rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mom." He'd groused. Amy had stuck her tongue out at him but finally left, and Tails marched to the tiny kitchen nestled in the corner of he and Sonic's home.

Tails had several hours until the surprise party that afternoon, and Shadow had been tasked with keeping the birthday boy distracted until it was time. Nothing could go wrong.

...Famous last words.

HP?

"Getting slow in your old age, faker?"

"You're one to talk! How old are you know, Shadster? Pushing the 90s, aren't we?"

"Don't call me Shadster, and I'm immortal; I don't age, rat!" Shadow grabbed Sonic's wrist and flung him towards the nearby tree, momentarily forgetting he wasn't supposed to actually be fighting his rival, just distracting him. Ridiculous. Shadow snorted. The things he did for the pink hedgehog...

Sonic used the motion to his advantage, curling into a Spin Dash around the trunk and tackling Shadow on the rebound. The pair rolled in a tangled mass of blue and black fur, trading blows back and forth. Shadow paused, fist raised, but ruby eyes focused on something beyond the clearing he and Sonic had demolished in their spar. "Hedgehog, is that smoke?"

Sonic shoved Shadow off him and rolled up onto his knees to see the black pillar raising into the sky above the treeline. "Yeah, looks like it. Someone must be starting a bonfire."

Shadow gave him an unimpressed look. "Correct me if I'm wrong-,"

"Which you usually are." Sonic cheekily interrupted. Shadow rolled his eyes and punched him.

"But that smoke is coming from the area where you live with the fox, is it not?"

Sonic did a double take and his stomach dropped. "Oh, Chaos, not again." The blue hedgehog complained, shooting to his feet. "That kit is so grounded." He grumbled and gave Shadow a two-fingered salute. "It's been fun, Shadster, but I gotta juice." The Hero of Mobius was gone before Shadow could respond.

He could head back to his apartment. Technically, his task was complete, and Amy never specified he had to attend the party itself. He could deal with her and hee swinging hammer later.

But...Amy had said that she was going to ensure the fox knew what he was doing...and if there was a fire...

Shadow groaned. "She owes me." He dusted himself off, sighed, and relucantly followed the smoke pillar still rising, cheering himself with all the ideas thought of for the pink hedgehog to pay her debt.

When he arrived at the house, it was miraculously still standing but still yet smoldering, and Sonic stood with his arms crossed over his chest, foot tapping impatiently on the ground, and the sternest glower on his muzzle directed towards the fidgeting two-tailed fox kit in front of him, his hands behind his back...with slight tendrils of black smoke wafting out behind him.

"I'm waiting, Miles Prower." Sonic reminded the fox.

Tails gulped, ears flat against his head at the use of his birth name. He was really in for it now, but his self-preservation ran away with his mouth. "At least the house isn't completely destroyed! And it's just minor damage, I can fix it easy-,"

"Miles."

Tails bit back a whimper and nodded in defeat, then reluctantly presented the smoldering pan of black brick to his brother.

Sonic blinked. "Is that supposed to be a cake? You nearly burned down our house and got yourself killed for a cake?"

Tails tried to smile. "Happy Birthday?"

[scottishaccentsareawesome]

Buck and Eddie have trouble getting engaged because Buck is going to Chimney for advice, and Eddie is going to Hen for advice. And Hen and Chimney (without consulting each other) tell them not to worry because Hen is 100% sure Buck is going to propose to Eddie, and Chimney is 100% sure Eddie is going to propose to Buck.

So it’s just this awkward standoff every day, where Eddie is waiting...and Buck is waiting...

And Hen and Chimney are in this endless cycle of “What do you know?”-”I don’t know anything! What do you know?”-”I don’t know anything either!”

And it finally gets so stressful that Ravi, being the World’s Best Middle Man, finally goes to Bobby about what he’s been observing (because as the Youngest Child, Ravi observes a lot).

And Bobby just says “I’ll take care of it.”

And he makes a call to Athena...who makes a call to Maddie...who makes a call to Karen.

(suffice to say, both Hen and Chimney gets smacks on the head by their significant others, and Athena invites Buck and Eddie over for dinner).

When Buck and Eddie arrive at the Grant-Nash household (with Christopher), they notice that the inside of house, and the patio, has been adorned with fairy lights, candles,  and flowers.

Athena, dressed much fancier than to be expected for a small dinner, approaches the three of them as they reach the bottom of the stairs and come into the living room.

“Eddie Diaz,” she begins, looking Eddie in the eye “ - do you want to get married?”

Eddie is SO confused. So is Buck.

“Uh, I mean...” he looks over at Buck “...yeah, yeah, I do.”

“You do?”!” Buck exclaims.

“Well, yeah - “

“Well, then why - ?”

“ - Evan Buckley,” Athena interrupts, now looking at Buck. “D you want to get married?”

Buck glances over at Eddie. “Yes,” he says, ”yes, I do.”

“Well, good, cuz we didn’t all get dressed up for nothin,” says Athena. “Out on the patio, all of you.”

Athena ushers all three of them (Buck and Eddie are still confused, but Chris is beaming) out onto the decked-out patio, where most of their loved ones are gathered.

Bobby, dressed to the nines in his formal Captain’s uniform, beckons them to come over to where he’s standing, at the head of the group.

“So, are we doin’ this?” he asks with a smile, as they walk over to stand in front of him.

“They both said they want to get married. and I would assume that meant to each other,” Athena told him.

“ - It does!” Buck, Eddie, and everyone else shouts.

Bobby laughs.

“OK then - dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...”

[matchingbatbites]

“What, am I not allowed to look at you?”

For the prompts?

It's one of those rare mornings where they have nothing to do and nowhere to be. Steve woke up over twenty minutes ago, and where normally he would be up and about already, making coffee or throwing something together for breakfast, today he lounges.

Eddie is still asleep, stretched out on his stomach with his face turned towards Steve. He always looks so soft when he sleeps, all of his excitable energy laid dormant, his features smooth and careless.

Steve's been watching him for a while now, has raked his eyes over bare shoulders and traced the curve of Eddie's back, traced his lips and the way his lashes fan over his cheeks.

It's a rare opportunity he has, getting to observe his boyfriend without him bouncing off the walls, and he intends to spend as long as he can doing just that.

"You're starting to creep me out, Harrington."

Eddie's voice is rough from sleep, and Steve huffs a laugh as his boyfriend cracks an eye open.

"What, am I not allowed to look at you?"

"Watching people while they sleep tends to be reserved for stalkers and serial killers, babe."

Steve grins and moves closer, draping his arm across Eddie's shoulders and bumping their noses together gently.

"Oh? What about people who have super hot boyfriends?"

A soft hum.

"I guess we can make an exception, if this guy is as hot as you say he is."

"Oh, he definitely is. Even with morning breath."

Eddie grins before blowing air directly into Steve's face, and the younger rolls his eyes as he closes the distance between them to press a brief kiss to Eddie's mouth.

"Coffee?"

"Fuck yes."

Send me a prompt!

[actual-changeling]

can i interest the people in some heartbreaking angsty hurt/comfort? post season 2? no? yes?

[esswantspez]

Steve talking Italian headcanon that got out of hand

Steve used to have a housekeeper that was around far more than his parents and she didn’t speak very good English, but Steve was lonely and longed for a connection so he attempted to teach her all the English that little Stevie knew and for every word he taught her in English she’d teach him the same in Italian. Steve is fluent in Italian, no thanks to his parents, but because he wanted someone to talk to. And Robin finds out sometime after the whole Vecna debacle after hearing him speak with the former housekeeper over the phone (he likes to keep in touch with her and it’s a great opportunity to practice his Italian). Robin, already fluent in said language, is thrilled by this revelation. Flash forward a bit and whenever the two of them wanna talk about something private they can do it in front of other people and they love it. The first time the others catch them talking there are jaws dropping, because everyone knew Robin was smart as fuck and that she knows like five languages, but for whatever reason everyone had just assumed that Steve knew English - and that was it. They ask him about the story, but he tells them it’s a secret and they think he’s just trying to act mysterious and be cool, but Robin knows. And really, the reason he doesn’t immediately want to admit the real reason to the others isn’t because he’s ashamed or wants to tease them (even if it comes across like that), it’s because he doesn’t want them to pity him.

Eddie noticed whenever Steve looked down, of course he did. As much as he tried to hide it, his mask always fell the moment he thought no one was looking. Robin obviously wasn’t that blind and she’d get right to the point before Eddie could. And that’s how he’d found out several heartbreaking facts about Steve. Though he didn’t catch all of their conversation, since they were talking pretty quietly, he could make out enough words to understand that Steve’s parents were home and that they… didn’t treat him well. He heard Robin mention bruises, how she offered Steve to stay the night at hers and he’d declined because “it’d only get worse”.

As soon as Steve’s parents left again he was back to his own self. Did this mean his parents were usually not home? Or had something changed recently? Eddie didn’t know how to approach the subject, especially because he wasn’t supposed to know. This was something Steve had told Robin, and only Robin. Except he overheard. More like eavesdropped, but that’s besides the point. He mulls over what to do, but is completely caught off guard when one day he catches them talking about him. Intrigued, he tries not to let it show that he’s listening. Steve is recalling their conversation from earlier, telling Robin about how close they were standing and that all he wanted to do was grab him and… kiss him? No, he must’ve misunderstood. Robin snorts as a retort and tells him to relax, and make a fucking move. Steve states he’s tried! (What the fuck???) But that maybe Eddie’s just not into boys like that. Eddie hums at the mention of his name, purely out of spite and to see their reactions. To his amusement Steve’s cheeks taint pink while Robin just shrugs and states that it was nothing.

Eddie knows that Robin is a lesbian, and she knows that he’s gay - they had that conversation ages ago. But Steve??? Liking him back? For real? Not just teasing him by flirting back… the simple constant contact between him and Eddie… He feels stupid. For just assuming that Steve was straight and for not believing Robin the million times she’d said that Steve was “safe”.

He waits a few more days, not quite knowing what to do, but then they all hang out again. And Steve is rambling to Robin, and Eddie’s not really listening all that much, too many thoughts swirling around in his head. But then he realizes that Robin’s just sighing and telling Steve to stop and shut up, to “not think like that” and he realizes that Steve’s just talking down on himself about all sorts of things. Not being enough, being stupid and a burden, and- Eddie, just like Robin, has enough and tells Steve to shut the fuck up and not to talk like that about himself!

And everyone freezes. Robin and Steve stare at him wide eyed and there’s a dark pink creeping up Steve’s neck.

“H- what?” Steve gets out.

“Don’t say that,” Eddie answers simply and Robin replies by asking how long he’s known Italian, to which he just responds, “a while”.

They gape at him, Steve looking down at the table, as if embarrassed.

“It was supposed to be a surprise…” Eddie mumbles.

Steve nods and leaves the table. Robin and Eddie sigh in unison as the rest of the group looks at each other in utter confusion.