#I FORGOT I WROTE THIS

[treeezyparadise]

In quiet French Kevin said, “I think he’d take me.”

It hurt Jean to think about, both Kevin leaving him here all alone and the jealous rage that there was a parent out there who would love him.

Kevin had a mother who loved him and the possibility of a father. It was more than Jean could imagine hope for.

“Then leave. I don’t care.” He said. Both of them knew he didn’t mean it. Kevin returned a broken look, there was no future for him outside of the nest. There was no way to escape anyways.

[beautifullymacabre]

spring has come back,

and so has my smile;

i haven't seen either

for quite a while

in life, as in nature,

seasons come and they go;

but believe me, your spring

will come after your snow

•March 2023•

[awyeahitssam]

Stiles crochets magic shit. Fluff. 

His mother made cards, his father carves, and Stiles crochets. 

At first it’s just something to keep his fidgety hands busy, and by the half dozen wonky scarves and blankets it’s clear that it’s more for mental preoccupation than making something nice, but then Stiles discovers that you can actually make creatures with yarn. There are free online patterns for superheroes, Pokemon, video game characters—all of which he already likes. 

Also, some people sell that shit, and he’s been looking for a source of side income on top of babysitting and selling essays to high school kids.

So Stiles is twelve when he starts. And he’s a damn perfectionist, hiding all his first attempts away until his stitches are even and his embroidered features precise. 

It’s something to help him unwind. He can binge watch and crochet at the same time, or listen to music and audio books. Eventually the motions are ingrained enough that he only has to keep half an eye on whatever he’s doing to push his hook through the proper stitch, and the rest of his attention is devoted elsewhere. He’s even managed to read while he’s at it, going down a rabbit hole of loosely connected wiki articles. 

Stiles is 13 the first time he makes Batman, his long time favorite hero. After he’s finished sewing all the pieces together and adding the bat emblem, he holds it up to the light to inspect with a proud grin and yelps in surprise. Because the tiny arms reach out, seemingly of their own accord, and wrap around his hand in a soft hug. Stiles hadn’t used posable wire. It shouldn’t be able to bend that way and stay. 

“What the fuck,” Stiles mumbles, confounded. The doll’s embroidered straight mouth curls into an impossible smirk, and the amigurumi falls limp in his hold. The only way Stiles knows he hadn’t hallucinated it all is because the upturned lips remain instead of the straight, serious line he had embroidered. 

Stiles blinks. Tries to write it off. 

But he’s always been overly aware of mental illnesses - it comes with the territory of loving information and having a clinically insane mother - so he starts selling his creations. They’re cute and niche enough that he gets $25 to $40 a piece, and considering that the activity relaxes him and only strains his wrist… Well, it’s better than them just collecting dust in his closet. He still writes essays, and instead of pitching in on groceries he shops cheap with what his dad is willing to spend. 

Eventually he has enough for an MRI, $1,372.00 without insurance, plus a signed consent form from parent or guardian. He goes a couple of towns over, outside of Beacon County, unwilling to let the gossip reach his dad’s ears. The bill never comes - he brings a cashier’s check, less suspicious than cash - but a letter does, confirming the doctor's original findings. 

He keeps the clean bill of health tucked at the bottom of his yarn stash, and pulls it out whenever he needs reassurance. So really, whenever he finishes making something and it begins to move.

His Harry Potter tends to end up pitched off the bookshelf or in Voldemort’s lap. Don’t look at him--he has no control over them once he’s tied off the last bit of yarn and tucked it away. 

He never gets super into anime, but he does end up watching a few. And Alphonse Elric cookie jar becomes one of his proudest creations. And then of course he can’t leave Al without his older brother, plus Ed is a complete badass. Stiles is in awe of him. Someone who does that kind of alchemic calculations on the fly just to add skulls to shit is a dramatic hoe, and Stiles can respect that. Tom Riddle sits next to him on the bookshelf, because that’s where the dramatic hoes live. If Stiles ever made a Peter doll, he’d have earned his place there. 

Once werewolves become a thing, Stiles can’t help himself. He makes a Remus Lupin, and then gives him a pack of wolves in gray, black and white. They trot around his nightstand, tugging impatiently at his sleeve every time he’s assembling another packmate.

They understand, just as Stiles does, that pack is important. Scott couldn’t get that lesson through his head, but Stiles knows it to his core.

…

Stiles slips off his shoes and curls up in the nook, grabbing a 3.50mm hook and two skeins of yarn. He connects to the Wi-Fi and puts Parks & Rec on while he crochets, occasionally remembering himself enough to reach out and sip at his slowly melting blended mocha. He’s just finished Deadpool’s body when somebody sits across from him, and he pulls one earbud out with a scowl, glancing up.

Peter Hale sits across from him with a small smirk and a hot drink, eyes meeting his for a moment before he cracks open a book. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Stiles blinks at him, the intrusion hardly registering as an annoyance because Peter hasn’t started talking, and stares for another bemused moment before replacing his ear bud and hitting play.

He was relaxed in minutes, movements smooth and practiced as he started the head. He felt eyes on him, but they only stayed long enough to catch Stiles’ awareness but not make him self conscious. 

He finished off his drink and another was set in its place by the barista, who met his eyes and winked. Stiles blinked back, then smiled warmly in thanks and stopped reaching for his wallet. 

He finished off Deadpool's head and shuffled for some more materials. The small red coffee mug filled with dark brown yarn and a little extra fiber-fill to imitate steam is quick work, only the size of his fingernail and fiddly enough that he had to focus. 

He waits until the two people in line have their orders, then goes to pass off the bauble. 

The barista gasps. Her name tag says Aria, but she always takes a beat too long for it to actually be her name, so to him she’s simply the barista. 

“This—is worth more than a free coffee,” she says, not exactly a rejection. She’s clearly enchanted by the tiny piece, which is nice. Stiles does like to be appreciated, even if his talent in this is the only thing that ever seems to earn it. 

“Pretty sure you’re up to around six free coffees now,” Stiles countered with a bemused little smile. 

The barista huffs. “Don’t tell the boss,” she mumbles, taking his creation at last. 

Stiles laughs at that. The boss—Rachel Zohinder—was absolutely besotted by the barista, and wouldn’t say a word against it. “Our secret,” he agrees. 

She tilts back a smile, small but true. “Show me if you finish before you leave?” she requests. 

Stiles shrugs. Nods. 

He ignores Peter’s eyes when he slips back into the booth, gnawing at his lip absently as he feels around for his wire.

Cheers to Hook, Yarn, Sinker by pprfaith that started my crochet journey in 2016. A truly gorgeous Steter story.

[bowiesversion]

Dog's have teeth for a reason, and that's why Sirius Black draws blood after every kiss.

[gimpwithoutorgans]

Louis really taught me that good dick and hole won’t save you from suicidal ideation and depression. No matter how excellent. He’s really the character of all time wow

[dreimehrparsec]

inspired by an illustration from a 1950 magazine

*** [we'll sit by the window...]

we'll sit by the window

we'll watch the storm coming

the darkest skies open

the strongest wind blowing

we'll see it take over

the world as we know it

we'll be left with nothing

but each other's hoping

for the days to come after

the days of redemption

to finally bring forth

our longed-for salvation

and yet we'll be crying

and yelling, denying

for no one has taught us

how to handle dying

i wish i could stop this

and hold you forever

but this very moment

is worth more than ever

we'll sit by the window

and watch the storm coming

once we had a future

soon we will be nothing

Arial B.

September 2023

[space--rat]

the bees monologue:

"i hate writing. here i am, with every word in the english language, and i'm supposed to put them down on paper. what is this. who tricked me into this. how did i get here. there is something in my brain, a very scary thing, and it must be on paper. why is it in my brain and not somebody else's brain. i could be an artist. i could be a scientist. i could sit in a chair. instead my brain is full of bees whose only desire is to be on paper. how do i put you on paper i ask the bees. they don't answer because they're bees. now it's MY job to figure out how to put the bees on paper. that's fine right?? no because if i put the bees on paper in the wrong way the bees revolt. simply expel the bees i hear you say. impossible. the only way to dislodge them is to write them into paper. But exterminators exist, you say. Yes. However you must understand that in order to exterminate the bees you must exterminate my brain as well, and I need that to do things that are not dealing with the bees. once the bees are dealt with, you may think, i can then do those things that are not dealing with the bees, but you are once again a fool, for A DIFFERENT HIVE OF BEES is now in my brain. i am only bees."

ah. this

[maternalcube]

fourteen............ well, they had a conversation

"You asked me to give you time to stop seeing me as a threat," she says, very deliberately, and I have the distinct impression she rehearsed this. "I did, and you have. You can't expect me to avoid you forever." Maybe not, but I was hoping she would. I swallow and the determined mask of her face cracks. She looks… scared. "I—I'm not going to push you, but I am going to talk to you," she continues, regaining her momentum. "I fight for the things I want, Della." She pushes each word out and then falters a little on my name, but she keeps her eyes on mine the whole time.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Bruce: Attention, please. I understand a majority of you had plans this weekend. I want to be considerate of your time, so I'll make this brief. Lex Luther has hired a boy to seduce Wayne Enterprise secrets out of Tim. I need you to be weary at the gala. Dismiss.

Tim: Hold on hold on. I'm going to need a LOT more information than just that.

Bruce: I said dismissed Tim. Your siblings have plans.

Dick: *Raises a hand*

Bruce: Yes?

Dick: I can tell this approach is from the parenting books Uncle Clark got you, which is great. Thank you for trying, but we really need more details B. You can be considerate of our time by properly using it.

Bruce: hmmmm. Alright, if everyone feels this way. I suppose I can explain

Batkids: *Nodding*

Bruce clicking on the computer to show a picture: This is Daniel Fenton. His family used to own Fenton Works until the unfortunate loss of Mrs. Madeline Fenton in a car accident. Mr. Jack Fenton was convinced a ghost killed his wife. He was arrested after he crossed state borders chasing it and went on a rampage in downtown Gotham. He was deemed mad with grief and has been in Arkham for the last four years. Neither Jasmine nor Daniel were able to keep the family business afloat and were eventually bought out by Luthor.

Steph: I remember Mr. Fenton. He made that weird ray that was just throwing green goo on people. Besides scarying a few civilians, he didn't do anything bad. No one was harmed.

Bruce: That was the Fenton children argument as well. They were unable to get Mr. Fenton out of Arkham and into a different institution. I fear corruption is at play. During his stay in Arkham Mr.Fenton, has continued to create inventions, though no patent has been filed. All funds from said inventions are being made by local Mafia families instead.

Jason: Those thieves are preying on a grieving man. Rumors has it, Mr. Fenton isn't even aware his wife is dead. His mind blocked it, but he's slowly deteriorating. They're trying to squeeze out every drop of cash they can from him before his mind is completely gone.

Bruce: Exactly, and his children know it. Recently, Clark overheard Luthor offer Daniel a deal. He steals Wayne Enterprise secrets from Tim - probably got the idea after reading the article of Tim coming out, no doubt - and Luthor pulls enough strings to get Mr. Fenton out.

Tim: That's horrible. Is there any way we can help the Fentons instead? Move Mr. Fenton to a different place?

Bruce: I'm working it, but I believe Luthor is blocking my attempts. He did the same to Miss Fenton's college and loan applications. The pair are in a finical crisis that does not seem to get better no matter what they do. Luthor has employed similar tactics before.

Damian: Thus trapping the Fenton siblings in a box, unable to defy Luthor. They may be so desperate they would agree to anything after this many hardships.

Bruce: Exactly.

Tim: Alright I'll sleep with him

Cass: Literally, no one said you needed to sleep with him.

Tim: It's will be tough but I'll take one for the team.

Duke: Tim, that's not what B is saying at all.

Bruce: Wait, wait. I think Tim wants to sleep with Daniel Fenton. Hold on, let me consult the experts *opens parenting book*

Bruce: This isn't covered in the book. I don't know what to do.

Dick: I do. Tim, you're not sleeping with Daniel Fenton, but you are going to pretend his seduction is working. We're going to stop Luthor and the Mafia families controlling Arkham. We need to buy time to do that.

Tim: Kisses and over clothes stuff only. Got it.

Damian: Life has been hard for you since Dowd left you, hasn't it Drake?

[mewo777]

various contextless doodles i did at 5 am when i could actively feel my brain frying

will probably not be elaborating on whats going on in any of these so good luck figuring out the inner workings of my mind

[enviedear]

maybe i should write more soft!dom rem

oh my good i had an awful dream i kept trying to get off and i just couldn’t and i was achy and wanted to cry and needed someone so maybe strawberry wine with remus finding his best friend in that position and helping the poor baby:( my brain is short circuiting thinking of this

18+ nsfw content. minors dni. respect my boundaries or get blocked.

omg this >>>> yes. i agree.

indulge in my self care sleepover !

"what's wrong, lovey?" remus asks, voice tinged with something animalistic.

you can't stop your tears as you look at him, laid messily on your bed, "i can't— can't get it."

remus slides in beside you on the bed, "can't get what, love?"

you pout, tears still inching down your face, "i can't finish. i wanted to before you came over because i didn't want to while you're here."

remus chuckles, "everyone does it, love. no shame."

you curl into yourself, embarrassed. remus notices and lifts your chin to look at him, "i can help you. would you like that, love?"

you forget words, instead nodding, nervously bringing your lips to your best friends'.

remus' hands are gentle and assertive, sliding from your chest to your hips. his kiss is enough to leave you seeing stars, and when he begins to kiss along your neck you can't force away your moans.

he feels perfect.

"c'mere love," he requests, forcing you to look into his eyes, "tell me what you want."

you shudder at the eye contact and direct his hand to your wetness, silently requesting. remus assumes your notion and slips a finger into you, causing you to arch slightly.

"that's right, lovey." he praises, kissing your stomach.

his finger feels much superior to your own. it hits all the right spots— and yet, you want more.

"more." you request, voice barely there.

you watch remus smirk before adding another finger. he stretches you out perfectly, fingers curling, and pace leaving you yearning.

you're a mess below him, moaning and begging for more. you want him. you want to finish with him inside of you. between moans you let this thought slip, making remus stop.

you stare up at him, eager. his eyes match yours, maybe more eager.

"let me wreck you, darling." he whispers, sliding his fingers out, and spreading your legs. his grip on you is firm.

he aligns himself with you before gently sliding into you. he groans as he buries into you, and you can't help the way you respond.

he fucks you with care, assuring that you feel good.

"gonna make sure you come this time, love." he ushers out, deep within you.

his words, thrusts, and moans have worked you up considerably. the familiar presence of pleasure isn't far from you now. you try to tell him, tell him that you're close, but he places a kiss to your lips instead. his thrusts rock the bed and your moans build— you can feel his hands sliding over your body hungrily.

lips still attached to his, pleasure finally takes over. your body finally eases as you come, eyes shut and hands buried in remus' hair.

your friend follows soon after, shooting stripes on your stomach, head thrown back.

when he finally comes down, he looks at you, "feel better, love?"

you hum, head cuddled into your pillow.

"let me clean you up— then you can take your nap." he whispers.

[deikshen]

Shen Qingqiu who, while Shang Qinghua is recovering from some random poisoning (that demon has already died at the hands of Mobei, don't worry), is forced to spend time with Mobei-jun.

At first it's tense. He arrives, a mandatory tea out of politeness. It's usually frozen. They don't have much to talk about or anything in common except their concern for Shang Qinghua.

Except they do have in common. At some point, perhaps, Shen Qingqiu mentions some rare beast, and Mobei-jun comments that he killed a couple of those. That leads to the first long conversation the two of you can have.

The next time, Mobei-jun brings back the beast's fangs. The two return to their conversation about monsters. Mobei-jun speaks little, concisely, but he talks about how to kill those beasts, the properties of their organs, the functioning of their poisons. Shen Qingqiu shares his bestiaries and provides additional information.

Then, even when Shang Qinghua improves, Shen Qingqiu usually takes advantage of the time when he has to stay in the northern palace with his husband to, well, expand his bestiary. Mobei-jun also seems to be passionate about flora that can kill, or anything huge and dangerous. Shen Qingqiu enjoys their conversations and learns to get more than just a few words out of Mobei-jun's sullen mouth.

Of course, he actually tells Shang Qinghua:

"When your husband isn't being monosyllabic, it's a good conversation" he says simply. "I didn't know he knew so much about flora, monsters and strange beasts. When I find a rare flower and can't remember its name, I'll ask Mobei, not you."

Shang Qinghua laughs a lot at that.

"Ah, I think that's because, well, you know, inspirations and all that..."

Shen Qingqiu looks at Shang Qinghua very curiously.

"Inspirations? You created your perfect husband from scratch. Who did you get your inspiration from, Airplane bro? Spill the tea, let's see the vicious tastes of this shameless author."

Shang Qinghua laughs a little foolishly.

"Well, you see, I had this classmate in college. A very rich guy" Shang Qinghua makes a funny face as he buries in the past. "He was cold and monosyllabic, even hostile to those who were rude, but hey, he could give you an infodumping of all the monsters in The Witcher without even doing research. I heard him do it once and, man, that guy was crazy" and Shang Qinghua continues talking while, as if by omen, Shen Qingqiu begins to feel a strange sensation of vertigo. "He was kind of cute, well, not exactly my fully type, he was very tall but lacked many muscles, but he had the biggest and prettiest resting bitch face I've ever seen on anyone even my king. He always wore all those fancy clothes that cost the same as my apartment rent, those silver accessories, rings, necklaces, bracelets... His hair was also kind of long, now that I think about it, and when he wore it down it was, god, a delight. I liked him a little. He was my college crush." and Shang Qinghua shrugs, laughing. His cheeks are red and Shen Qingqiu feels that his own ears are red, too. "Cucumber bro, it's actually a bit silly. I remember this boy's last name was also Shen."

That... That's the last straw.

"You-!" and Shen Qingqiu finds himself hitting him with the fan before he realizes it. "How-? What the hell!?"

"Ow, ow, OUCH, Cucumber bro!! What's going on?!"

Shen Qingqiu feels his face burning. His hands tremble over the fan. What the fuck!?

"... Bro?!"

"That classmate of yours" Shen Qingqiu hisses, just to confirm "His name was Shen Yuan?"

Shang Qinghua blinks, confused, recalling his thoughts. Suddenly, his entire face lights up with a wide smile.

"Oh, I forgot!! Yes, that was it!!" and his gaze becomes mischievous. "You met him, too?! He was a delicious little thing, honestly, a nice round butt, he... OUCH-"

"He was me" Shen Qingqiu hisses, opening his fan and hiding behind it. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. Of all the people in the world...!

Shang Qinghua gasps, looking like he was given some vital information. His face, contrary to what Shen Qingqiu expected, does not change into horror, but into mockery.

"Oh, bro" and starts laughing out loud "BRO"

"Damn fourth-rate author, what the hell is wrong with you!!!"

"Bro, BRO, I created a part of my husband based on you!! And you're married to my son self-inserted in a power fantasy!! It's like we're indirectly married!!"

"Fuck you!!"

"Ohh, how cute!! Do you want to jump to the honeymoon already?!"

"Get away!!"

Shen Qingqiu doesn't visit Shang Qinghua again for over a month. However, he does spend some time talking about monsters with Mobei-jun while his husband takes care of the demon court (in the time he would usually use to gossip and fool around with Shang Qinghua), it's just his thing.

[secretly-a-trekkie]

[miiilowo]

Help an audhd + disabled trans dude move out and get away from his violent unstable mother (please)

pre-tldr: i need help with funds for moving into a new place, my mom is very violent and irrational, constantly yelling/stomping, i feel very unsafe and uncomfortable, we have over 15 cats she refuses to get rid of and its a huge drain on my mental health. its filthy here and i NEED to get out. ok full post now

-

Hi 👋 my name is Milo. I'm 19, american, transmasc, audhd, got severe chronic pain and no medication for any of it. makes finding suitable jobs very difficult unfortunately

I currently live in an RV with my mom and have for around a year and a half after being homeless for about a year before that. We have a genuinely ABSURD number of cats (over 15 couped up in this tiny space), which is not only terrible for the cats, its terrible for my mental health, my moms, and is a big drain on our funds. We can barely afford to take care of them and no matter how much I plead with her to take some of them to a shelter or do SOMETHING she refuses to, so that should start painting a picture of the type of person I'm dealing with here.

Her temper is incredibly, INCREDIBLY short. She's impossible to be around, refuses to improve, is physically violent to our general surroundings / herself / occasionally the cats. She has thrown things at me before and threatened me. I generally dont feel safe or comfortable, and most times Ive tried getting her to stop any of the aforementioned behavior, she guilt trips me and things never change. Literally as I'm typing this she's been caterwauling, stomping and throwing things. What prompted this? No idea! This happens genuinely every single day. This is not an exaggeration. It's destroying my brain and I can't handle it anymore. This is going to sound particularly pitiful (sorry) but I do have capital T Trauma related to someone breaking into our house when I was home and loud noises / stomping / yelling does make me INCREDIBLY anxious, and no matter how many times I tell her this she doesn't give a shit. or if she does give a shit she doesnt give enough of a shit to change her attitude

She won't let me learn how to drive and (whether intentionally or not) obstructs any attempts I make to function as an adult. I'm currently self-employed on commissions, but it's not a living wage or something I could make into one (and remain sane. or keep up with). I'm actively searching for a job and have applied to several (fingers crossed) (will update this post when I get one) and, ideally, will be moving in with a friend of mine sometime in the late summer, but I need help with funds for moving in/covering rent for a bit/etc.

Since I do take commissions, if you want one of those and want to help with funds that way, that'll be an avenue for giving me money. I won't have them open 24/7 just to make things more manageable, but that'll be an option some of the time at least.

COMMISSION INFO (tumblr post link). Currently closed!

Otherwise, if you just wanna chip in (it would be VERY. VERY VERY VERY APPRECIATED):

Payp4l: millowo <- preferred

Venm0: miiilowo

GOAL: 720/4,000

see this ^^^ ? thats my art im gonna have comms open soon ooh ahh HERES A BUNCH MORE TO LOOK AT IF YOURE INTERESTED BELOW THE CUT

[doodledrawsthings]

HAPPY NINE SOLS ON CONSOLS DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YIPPEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

[stevebabey]

pre-steddie (its rly scratching the itch atm), steve harrington being a sad drunk :(, angst with a happy ending, 1.4k

If you asked him how it transpired, Eddie couldn’t tell you — but somehow, there’s a drunk Steve Harrington on the Munson’s couch.

Physically, he’d hazard a guess Steve walked all the way from whatever party he’d been at. Which is a concern in itself—either Steve wandered through the woods or he wandered quite some way, but that’s a whole other can of worms.

The why of why Steve’s here—why he chose to sought out Eddie in particular—is another mystery altogether.

If Eddie had to guess, he’d say somewhere between the commonality of crashing at each other’s place to keep the nightmares at bay and a night of drinking is how Steve ended up here.

It��s nearing midnight the clock tells him, blinking red from the microwave. Steve’s holding a glass of water that he’s sipped from only once.

And he’s sad.

Considering it, Eddie hadn’t thought Steve would be a sad drunk. Especially if you consider the sheer amount of parties he threw as a teenager.

It just doesn’t quite fit into his ever changing picture of Steve Harrington. Like a puzzle piece the wrong shape that doesn’t fit with the rest. Happy drunk? Horny drunk? Those made better sense than this.

But then again, Eddie stopped trying to make sense of Steve a couple months after the Vecna-episode of their lives.

(It’s sort of something he really likes about Steve, that he can’t ever really pin him down — that he’s always surprising Eddie.)

Either way, the fact remains that Steve is drunk and Steve is sad.

Eddie just doesn’t know about what.

“C’mon,” Eddie nudges the glass in Steve’s hand gently, the second time tonight. “Gotta drink up, Stevie, lest you risk the wrath of tomorrow’s hangover.”

Steve’s slumped sideways on the couch, not too drunk to be out of it, but evidently rather physically beat. He’s leaning his head up against the ratty leather of the couch, his eyes closed.

Eddie sits opposite him, enough distance to keep it friendly, but close enough to catch the glass if Steve suddenly decides he doesn’t feel like holding it anymore.

He wants to sit closer, wants to maybe even hold Steve’s hand. Cup his face and murmur sweet nothings until sad drunk Steve is replaced by someone happier.

Eddie swallows the desire down, away.

By all accounts, there’s nothing Steve’s said or done to give away his sadness. Eddie only knows he’s sad from that slight downturn of his mouth — the slight jut of his lip. The world’s most adorable pout if it wasn’t being caused for bad reasons, Eddie thinks.

He knows what it looks like because it’s what Steve looks like when he wakes from a nightmare. When he’s properly distressed, thrust to the verge of tears. Eddie knows the sight well. (And Steve knows his.)

On the couch beside him, Steve makes a little noise in response to the nudge. His eyes crease open.

He looks tired. It’s not the exhaustion that comes with terror, with having sleep chased from you, but… bone-deep tiredness.

Eddie’s lip part, unsure if it’s to urge Steve to drink some water again or just to ask what’s wrong when—

“No one wants it.” Steve says, in the smallest voice. It’s barely a whisper.

Eddie’s brows draw together. The sadness in Steve’s words travel out, pushing an ache into his chest.

“Wants what?”

Steve is silent. He’s not looking at Eddie — he wasn’t before, but now his gaze is downcast, studying the glass in his hands. His finger traces the rim.

“Wants what, Steve?” Eddie tries again.

This time, Steve sighs and it looks like it takes the wind out of him completely. “My…”

There’s a crack in his voice. Steve clears his throat and closes his eyes again, this time scrunched up as if he’s resisting the emotion that tries to take over.

“My stupid love. Keep… keep tryna give it, but no one wants to take it.” He inhales jaggedly, turning an inch and pressing further into the couch, like he’s hiding. His voice is muffled and wrecked. “No one wants it.”

Something splinters in Eddie’s chest, slivers of agony burying beneath his skin. He’s speechless.

How can Steve think that? How can he believe that?

“I do,” Eddie says, before realising what’s he’s saying.

Steve stiffens on the couch, tentatively digging his face out from hiding. His downturned eyes still have that warbling sadness and Eddie just needs to make it better — even if it means throwing his pathetic crush under the bus.

“Eddie-” Steve says, wary and tired all at once, as if he’s saying don’t do this, don’t lie to me.

“I do. It sounds lovely,” Eddie insists, completely truthful. “If you want someone to give it to, I’ll take it. I want it.”

Steve eyes him. Some of that melancholy in him has turned to apprehension. He sniffles a bit and sighs again.

“Not- not like that.” Steve murmurs, eyes falling back to the glass in his hands. He speaks with a lilt of embarrassment, as though he thinks it’s shameful to care this much. “Not as a friend, Eddie.”

A stone grows in Eddie’s throat. It’ll hurt like hell to swallow it, to speak, but Steve has always been worth it.

“I know,” Eddie breathes. He can’t quite keep all his nerves out of the words and they jam up in his mouth for a moment. “Not like that, Steve.”

He desperately wants to grab his own hair, to fiddle with it, release some tension, but he also doesn’t want to break the quiet softness between them.

The fridge hums in the silence. The clock on the microwave blinks back midnight.

Wishing hour? Maybe in some myths and stories. Eddie clings it anyway.

Steve’s hazel eyes are a little wider now. A little more awake. He’s picked his head up, no longer leaning against the couch cushions.

“You…”

Freak. Fag. Eddie’s brain helpfully supplies every awful way this could roll, entirely too late. He tenses up, shoulders curling in, a minuscule motion.

But Steve doesn’t look disgusted, he looks a little in disbelief.

“You… want it?” He asks, that same quiet whisper.

And that does a number of Eddie’s heart—the enormity of Steve’s disbelief that someone would want his love, that the rest of it—the semantics, the fact that boys can’t kiss boys—doesn’t even matter to him.

“Yeah,” Eddie croaks. He nods jerkily, the nerves still there, even with Steve’s easy acceptance. “I do. I’d love to have it.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He’s laid his head back down, his hair scrunched up against the leather, but his eyes are still on Eddie. Not scrutinising, just studying. There’s still that hazy look to them, no doubt the alcohol still in his veins.

“I never… didn’t think…” He’s murmuring more to himself. From the concentration of his gaze, he’s thinking hard. He sniffles again, nose twitching and then frowns, eyes cast to the side, before,

“Okay,” Steve says finally, voice quiet. “If you… if you mean it.”

Then he unfurls his hand, the one that had been tracing the glass, and puts it forward. Between them on the couch.

Eddie eyes it, stomach swooping, pulse thudding, and then does what he does best; throws caution to the wind. Steve might hate him tomorrow but tonight, Eddie won’t hide.

Their fingers slot together easily, two perfect puzzle pieces.

Eddie wonders if him in Steve’s life, him like this with Steve, is one of those things that would work—would make sense. If he wants to make sense with Steve or instead be another surprising thing about him.

(That Steve Harrington might like boys. Might like Eddie.)

Steve is gazing at their joined hands. For the first time since he got to Eddie’s trailer, his lips turn upward, a very small yet happy smile. He gives a very light squeeze with his hand, the lack of strength evidence of his sleepiness. Eddie squeezes back nonetheless.

Then Steve’s eyes are closed and in a few deep breathes, he’s out like a light.

It’s a careful process to extract the glass of water from Steve’s clenched hand, but Eddie manages it. It sits on the edge of the coffee table and when Steve wakes up, mouth dry and in need of water, it will be there.

And so will Eddie.

The burning possibilities of what happens come tomorrow—when Steve’s sober and actually thinking straight (ha)—filter through Eddie’s mind, but he can’t find it in himself.

There’s no regret of he’s done. What he’s said, what’s been revealed.

It’s tomorrow’s problem (or tomorrow’s fantasy come true…?), but til then, Eddie burrows into the couch and readies for a sore neck tomorrow morning.

He should really get up and turn the lamp off, Eddie thinks to himself. Then Steve snuffles in his sleep, uses their intertwined fingers to bring him closer, and he forgets all about it.