#IS THIS SLOWBURN?

[chichayuen]

I'll be there, Always.

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🍰PAIRING: [LADS] Caleb x fem!reader word count: 3.5k 🍓GENRE: Slow-burn, Angst, Hurt/Comfort 🍎SYNOPSIS: A slow-burn of childhood friendship, unspoken longing, and bittersweet of growing up. 🎀TAGS: Unspoken feelings, frustration over mixed signals, unspoken insecurities, drifting away, mutual but unconfessed feelings 💌A/N: I used the 3rd perspective just to make the story more emotionally convincing. This is mainly focused on Y/N... She/her pronouns too! Sorry :( I decided to post this first part since I have already proofread it. Grammars still suck though :( AND CALEB might be OOC, but that's how I imagine him in a situationship haha FIRST FANFIC BTW!! LET'S GOOOOO ALSO!! Listen to Niki's version of "You'll be in my heart" (in loop) as you read this first part. This story was inspired by it!

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The rain kept pouring, hitting against all the windows they had in their home. The rain’s patter was as soft as a wish fading before it was spoken. What wishes could be made though? They’re already living a life filled with contentment. Y/N never wishes to change something. She already has a home, a meal to eat every day, an old woman to look after her… and better, Caleb. It wasn’t that long enough to have him for herself. In some ways, he was always there- like an overworked, lone officer on duty, protecting her as if she were his last safe place.

Soon enough, a deep, rolling growl rumbled from outside, making her whimper softly in fear. There was no way that she could be facing the thunder- she was still just a little girl... Who would stand up bravely before the wrath of the gods?

Those sounds made it seem as if the gods hated her, causing her tears to fall out of her eyes. “Come on, N/n,” Caleb looked at her with worried brows and a small smile. His patience never wavered when it came to her. “You have to face it again.” He turned away slightly, worry flickering in his eyes as he glanced toward the door. He could hear his friends being loud outside on the street, caught in the rain.

Y/N felt her soft cotton sweater tugged by the hem of her sleeve. “I’m here this time, okay? If you want to come with me and play outside, you have to face the thunder,” he encouraged her while focusing back on her, giving her another slightest tug.  “Trust me pip, we may be small… but we are here to conquer the world! Nothing can stop us, remember?”

She was still pouring tears, sobbing as her mouth quivered, letting out soft gasps that should have been words meant for him instead. She could only utter, “The thunder can stop me, Caby… I-I’m still scared.”

Caleb winced internally in response. He hadn’t meant to accidentally trap her in the attic weeks ago while he was out there protecting her… or rather, forgetting to let her out while having his own adventure with his supposed “bullies”. His hands reached out to her chubby and soft reddened cheeks, with traces of tears on them.  “You were brave, Pipsqueak. Even if I found you curled up in the corner, you managed to protect yourself without me.” Caleb then wiped her tears. “You’ll be okay. Caleb trusts you more than himself.”

Then, Y/N embraced him slowly, hooking her arms firmly from below and over his shoulders, pulling him in as if he might disappear. Caleb is slightly taken aback, yet his gaze softens from familiarity. He buried his face into her hair, his hands steady there as well, vowing to the universe to protect her. That’s all he needed to prove his enduring love for her.

From that embrace, he found himself with a determined resolve. He slowly leaned back, his hands slipping to her shoulders as hers fell limply to her sides. “Listen, Pip,” He grinned, showing his missing tooth. “You don’t have to force yourself out there… If you need me beside you, I’ll guarantee to keep you safe.” Caleb took a step back and lifted his hand for her. “But if my pipsqueak needs me now and forever, then… the mighty Caleb chooses to be with her.”  When Y/N placed her palms on top of his, he continued, “After all, I promised to be there for her.”

“And… I won’t go outside this time, well—for now. You don’t want me getting sick from the rain, right?” He said with a chuckle, pulling Y/N alongside him as they went further back into the house, ditching his friends who were still playing outside in the rain.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

The rain had long passed, but Caleb never did. Even after all these years, he was still her protector, her best friend— the same boy who once held her close during thunderstorms, whose hands wiped away her tears, and whose presence made the world feel a little less frightening. Yet, somewhere along the way, he became more aware—more cautious as soon as it was about Y/N. It didn’t feel right to her at least, he was never the type of guy who would isolate himself. Even if he was, she couldn’t figure out the reasons why he would.

In the classroom, his voice blended with the buzz of laughter and casual banter. His placement was 2 columns apart, with two chairs sharing one table at every column for seating arrangement. Y/N glanced at his desk, surrounded by a familiar crowd, who were the same people who sought him out for jokes, favors, and companionship— in short, he was quite well-known.

Y/N sat on her chair, her eyes drawn to him as if he were the only light in the building. He shines so brightly like the sun, making his presence impossible to ignore. It was the same light he carried as a boy, the one that had never dimmed, no matter how much he grew.

She watched the way he leaned against his desk, crossing his arms, flashing a grin that pulled at the corners of her memory. There he was—the boy who once smiled through missing teeth. Funny, isn’t it? Back then, he would grin without a hint of shame, gaps and all, while never caring what anyone thought.

She sighed, propping her cheek against her palm, her eyes narrowing with a deep, aching sense of yearning. How could he be so painfully close, yet so distant when he was with others?

Then, Y/N saw the way he casually brushed his hair back— a small, thoughtless gesture that somehow made her heart tighten. She was used to seeing him loud and carefree with everyone, brimming with confidence, especially with her. But watching him grow shy over something she couldn’t even hear from afar made her feel as though she was missing out on a part of him.

Y/N tucked her hands beneath her desk, clenching them slightly as if she could hold on to the version of him she once knew… the boy who shielded her from everything. But now, whenever his eyes met hers, they were filled with different kinds of worrying ones she couldn’t quite understand. How was it any different from the way he looked at her when they bantered at home? Why did it suddenly feel more hesitant? Was she… someone to be ashamed of?

But she shook the thoughts away with a sigh, all conflicted again. She knew better than to assume so quickly.

“Y/N,”

Zayne’s voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to the earth. Thank God for making him her seatmate. Zayne was also her childhood best friend, having to grow up with her and Caleb. Although he appeared later in their lives, he fit in effortlessly. He brought his wit, aloof demeanor, and sharp-minded seriousness into their little trio.

Y/N turned her head toward him, raising a brow in confusion as to why he called her name. “I’m already sensing something,” Zayne muttered with a sigh. “Something you need to address.”

And she knew exactly what he meant.

Zayne had always seen through her; he knew about her longing for Caleb. He had heard it all: the times she missed him, the way she gushed about how cute he looked whenever he bragged about her, and how she wished they could go back—back to the days when they were just kids. Back when Caleb’s attention felt different... much warmer like he was shielding her from the entire world’s coldness.

But now, even when Caleb offered her extra care, it no longer had the same spark. He was still there, but he no longer held her like she was his only princess.

He simply stared at her for a moment before adjusting his glasses. “I heard he’s planning to become a pilot,” he said casually, but the weight of his words hung between them. It was a reminder of the inevitable that soon enough, they would separate and go their own ways.

Y/N always hated the thought of it. She never wanted this to end, never wanted him to leave.

She slowly lifted her head once again, unable to resist stealing another glance at Caleb. And by chance, their eyes met.

For a fleeting moment, her breath caught in her throat. She expected him to smile—to flash her that familiar, easy grin he always saved just for her. The one that felt like home. But this time, he didn’t.

Instead, his gaze faltered, dropping down to his desk. His brows furrowed in some sort of regret while his fingers absently traced the edge of his notebook as if he were suddenly too restless to meet her eyes. The friends chattering near him faded into background noise, yet he paid them little attention.

That stung more than it should have been.

Because in that brief exchange, she felt him slipping away, and she didn’t know how to hold on.

Will he still protect her like he always wanted to?

Y/N turned back to Zayne, her eyes clouded with disappointment and a deep sense of failure. “Zayne…” she murmured, her voice trembling slightly, thick with hurt and longing.

He met her gaze with his expression softening. Without a word, he gave her a reassuring nod as his hand gently patted her head. His small gesture was meant to ease the ache he knew too well.

“We still have time,” he whispered softly. But even if he said it, neither of them was sure if they believed it.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

During lunch, Caleb casually made his way to Zayne and Y/N. After all, they were his original friends. He grew up with them, so it was normal to join them from time to time despite being popular. The surroundings were lively and bustling, filled with laughter and cheerful conversations.

Caleb noticed that one stood out, which was Y/N’s downcast look.

She sat there, unusually quiet, with her eyes staring absently at her lunch.

“So,” Zayne began calmly, his gaze cutting towards Caleb with subtle curiosity.

Y/N, still seated beside Zayne, stiffened slightly when Caleb slid into the empty chair in front of them. She perked up the moment she caught Zayne’s voice and attention—it was her cue. He was lowkey eager to hear her continue the conversation.

Taking the chance, she said, “I almost forgot,” with a soft chuckle, though her voice held a faint strain. She placed her lunch aside, reaching into her bag for her notebook.

Once the notebook was in her hands, she turned to Caleb as her eyes turned slightly hopeful. “Caby, I need some small lectures in this… particular—” she flipped the pages open, revealing a mix of notes from other subjects. “…lesson,” she then finished softly.

Caleb’s curiosity was piqued as he glanced at her with his brow slightly furrowed. Then, Y/N slid her notebook close to him, her fingers pointing at a familiar physics lesson.

“That one? Sure, when we get home,” he replied with a casual shrug, though his face was casual, nothing to offend or doubt her thoughts of him.

Y/N nodded subtly in response, a small smile tugging her lips. “I still remember when you taught me the different units of measurement.” her voice mixed with fondness and her eyes softened with nostalgia as she reminisced about the times he tutored her in middle school, particularly about numbers.

“Yeah, I remember that clearly, Pip,” he replied softly. At first, she thought she had it… until she noticed his little amusement in his tone and reaction.

He shifted his focus back to the pages she had shown him. His eyes skimmed the notes with a distant air, a chance for him to be detached from the moment.

Her chest tightened at his lack of response. She couldn’t help but look at him with her eyes drooping slightly, filled with disappointment. Usually, he would light up with the brightest grin, like a dog receiving its favorite treat. He would also carry on with their memories, eagerly describing his side of the story—or adding little details about their shared adventures.

But this time, he didn’t.

He just didn’t.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Caleb waited at the gates, leaning against the wall with his eyes fixed on the pavement. His friends had already left, and the lingering silence was beginning to weigh on him. Going home together was a part of their routine… familiar comfort he quietly counted on.

When Zayne and Y/N finally emerged from the main entrance, his posture straightened slightly as the faint flicker of energy returned to his eyes.

But when they drew closer, he didn’t greet them with his usual joyous smile. Instead, he simply watched them approach, his expression calm but distant.

Caleb’s fingers tightened around the strap on his shoulder, while his other hand hung loosely by his side.

The three of them eventually stepped through the gate and turned to face one another.

“See ya,” He casually murmured, raising his hand slightly in farewell to Zayne. The latter simply nodded in return, his expression stoic as ever.

When his eyes shifted to Y/N, Caleb caught the glance they exchanged. The way Zayne’s gaze lingered on her face made him forget to breathe, a dull ache of bitterness pooling inside him. There was no possessiveness in it.

He wasn’t jealous… just envious. Though he wasn’t sure if there was any much of a difference.

Zayne nodded at Y/N once more, and she offered him a soft smile in return. With a casual gesture, he patted her head, his expression giving no effort.

“Cheer up,” Zayne muttered flatly, his tone lacking any real conviction.

She chuckled softly, her eyes brimming with faint warmth before she gently pushed his hand away. “Yeah, yeah…” she teased lightly, though she couldn’t help but find it amusing. His reassurance always meant something, even with a face that didn’t look the slightest bit convincing.

✿　.　˚　. 　 ˚　✿.

Y/N kept walking, but her thoughts grew heavier with every step. Doubt and questions clouded her mind, blurring the edges of her resolve. Caleb, however, lags slightly behind, breaking the familiar rhythm of walking side by side. The distance between them, though small, felt unbearably vast.

She couldn’t take it anymore, at least… not without her heart feeling like it might cave in. But still, she kept her head low, unwilling to meet his eyes or face the heavy, humid air that lingered between them.

Did Caleb even realize how much his avoidance weighed on her chest? Why was it painfully quiet now as they walked together?

And when, exactly, had it become this way?

As she walked, Y/N caught a glimpse from the corner of her eye, his hand subtly lifting beside her wrist. It might seem odd and almost out of place for a fleeting moment. Yet, she recognized it for what it was—a fragile attempt to reach out and a quiet plea for her to notice him.

But just as quickly, his hand retreated, and she heard him wince from behind. The faint sound confirmed that she wasn’t imagining or hallucinating it. Without a second thought, she halted, her sudden stop causing Caleb to stiffen in surprise. He came to an abrupt pause, and his eyes snapping up to meet hers.

When their eyes finally locked, his eyes were wide and startled. But hers were weighed down with sadness, worry, confusion, and that small unmistakable trace of longing.

Caleb froze, his breath catching. She had never looked at him that way before. But if he could see into her heart, he’d know that was exactly how he looked at her too.

His brows slowly knit in concern, mirroring the sorrow in her eyes. Even his chest was tightened with yearning, but he forced himself to bury it. Caleb tried to mask it with indifference, but it was painfully too obvious. No matter how he tried,

He couldn’t hide the way he ached for her, too.

He even tried to find reasons why he couldn’t fight the inevitable for her. When he once could so easily as a child where he would stand tall without fear, protecting her from anything with unwavering confidence. But now, he felt so small and unsure, afraid that if he reached for her, he might end up losing her completely in the process.

Y/N sniffled softly and stepped closer, reaching for his calloused hands with both of hers, wrapping around the hand that had longed to reach hers earlier. Their eyes locked, and for a fleeting moment, it was enough. Caleb never realized his avoidance would only deepen their longing and it would make it harder to ignore. But he knew he was still strong enough to hold back, convincing himself that Y/N no longer needed him the way she once did as a child.

With a shaking breath, she slowly lifted his hand to her temple, her brows knitting tighter with the weight of everything she couldn’t say to him. She couldn’t speak now—instead, this gesture was her silent plea, a reminder that she still needed him just as much as before.

That simple action alone made his chest tighten with regret, and before he knew it… he was pulling her in—gently, but with aching desperation. His arms wrapped around her, holding her as if he could shield her from everything. He buried his face into her hair, his breath shuddering as vulnerability clung to him and the fear of loneliness engulfed the both of them.

“Don’t look at me like that, Pipsqueak…” his voice fractured with emotion, barely above a whisper. His arms tightened around her, with him trying to keep her from slipping away.

The ache of unspoken feelings hung between them, it was the kind of longing that seeped into their bones… a familiar pain of loving someone so deeply, yet being too afraid to admit it.

They both knew that they should risk it. They absolutely wanted to. But why does he hold back? He was confident—confident enough to make her his. Yet questions linger within him..

If only he knew what held him back.

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1/3 P2 [SOON trust..] plspls tell me how did I do

[redzombie]

Mensis

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

decided to get started on the fanfiction oh/OH. print design. This one is getting released November 6. Selected chrysanthemums because of their meaning and cus they're pretty

there are

SO MANY FUCKING PETALS

i am going to BED

[bimo8tf]

First meeting between D-16 and Pax in my au. Next

[retquits]

caldarus x ciro dynamic in a nutshell 🫠👍

[tanukicutie]

Another sneak peek of chapter 2 of my first novel, "Three-Course Romance." In this chapter we meet Asher's boss, Lawrence York, and discover that he's a bit of a thorn in Asher's side. They don't along, and later, we discover that a certain someone (obviously it's Levi...) also doesn't get along with Mr. York. Tell me what you think! Have you read the free preview chapters yet? You can always go and find them here if you like.

[sunderwight]

I think that one of the things I like about Liushen is how on Shen Qingqiu's end, that's his relationship with the least amount of baggage, and on Liu Qingge's end, it's got the most.

Shen Qingqiu: good old reliable Liu-shidi!

Liu Qingge: we were enemies for decades, I thought you tried to kill me, you saved my life, now I'm questioning everything I ever thought I knew about you, it's like you're a completely different person, or maybe I just never understood what was really going on, who are we to one another now, I wouldn't dare to dream of kissing you under the moonlight except maybe I would

[angelwishess]

tfw your own mom tells u to lock in

[crypticscarecrow]

Do yall have that fic you just gotta-

yeah

[abbotjack]

Booked for One

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader

summary : A black-tie charity gala in Chicago. One bed. Months of tension. And a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

warnings/content : 18+ content, explicit sexual material (fingering, penetrative sex, condom use), strong language, emotionally repressed characters, unresolved sexual tension (resolved), jealousy, mutual pining, power dynamics (attending x resident), one bed trope, clothing sharing (his hoodie/boxers)

word count : 4,850

18+ ONLY MDNI, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : This is me projecting every inch of tension into one hotel room and letting it burn. Robby is so done pretending he doesn’t want her. She’s so done pretending it doesn’t wreck her. No further questions.

The Chicago skyline glittered beyond the ballroom windows like something out of a dream, but the room itself was thick with too much perfume and performative laughter to feel romantic. Somewhere between the crystal chandeliers and the overpriced floral centerpieces, you remembered: this was a charity gala, not a fairy tale. Not that you’d expected it to be one.

Your heels clicked confidently across the marble as you stepped into the crowd, the sound sharp and unapologetic. The red dress did exactly what it was meant to do—stop conversations mid-sentence. Backless, sculpted, slit high enough to make someone drop their champagne. Almost inappropriate. Almost. But cut with just enough class to keep mouths shut and eyes glued. You didn’t stumble into this look—you chose it. Every inch of it said exactly what you needed it to.

And beside you—silent, composed, unreadable—walked Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

Not behind. Not trailing. Beside. Step for step, shoulder to shoulder. Close enough that your perfume reached him, close enough that his silence pressed against your skin like static. The air between you practically hummed. No words were exchanged, but you felt his presence—intentional, sharp, heavy. Not accidental. Never accidental. He wore that tux like a threat and walked like he already regretted coming.

You didn’t blame him. He’d hated the idea of this from the moment the assignment hit both your inboxes. He spent most of the flight to Chicago muttering about schmoozing donors and dressing up for people who’d never seen what a ruptured spleen looked like in real life. Said if AGH wanted charm, they should’ve sent a PR team—not a trauma attending and a second-year resident.

But for all his complaining, he showed up anyway.

Beard neatly trimmed, jaw tight, suit tailored to the exact width of his frustration. He hadn’t bothered with a tie—left the top button undone and rolled his sleeves up in the car, like he couldn’t stand the performance of it all but still dared anyone to question whether he belonged.

Classic Robby.

All precision. All control. Except, maybe, for the way his eyes kept drifting back to you like he hadn’t meant to.

You’d felt it before you even got here.

The moment you stepped out of your hotel room earlier that evening, still adjusting the strap of your dress, you felt the air shift. His gaze had dragged down your spine like heat—slow, reluctant, and absolutely devastating. He hadn’t said a word. No compliment. Not even a grunt. Just stood there in the hallway, watching you like a problem he didn’t know how to solve.

Then you got into the car.

And now, here you were. Walking beside him like none of that tension had happened—like it wasn’t still buzzing under your skin.

He said nothing.

So, you flirted.

You’d barely handed off your coat when a man caught up to you. Mid-thirties, polished, expensive suit, and the kind of grin that usually came with a boarding group upgrade and a trust fund. His eyes dragged over you—slow, practiced—and landed on your badge.

“Emergency?” he asked, matching your stride.

You didn’t break pace. “That a problem?”

“No,” he said, trailing beside you now. “Just wasn’t expecting it. Not in that dress.”

“Guess I don’t dress for your expectations.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly intrigued. “Wasn’t trying to offend. You just... don’t look like you’ve pulled a chest tube.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You don’t look like someone who’s coded a patient without crying, but I’m not holding it against you.”

He blinked, thrown for half a second—then smiled, slower this time, like the game had just gotten interesting.

“Alright,” he said. “I deserved that.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “Probably.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Should I try again?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—cool, steady, unreadable. Not interested, but not walking away either.

“If you want,” you said finally.

And then you turned, letting him follow you into the crowd. He kept close, too close, like he wasn’t used to being dismissed.

“I’m Lucas, by the way,” he said, offering it like a favor.

“Of course you are.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly not sure if it was a compliment. Robby was across the ballroom, watching it all.

You watched him back. The way his jaw clenched every time you touched Lucas’s arm, the way he barely blinked when Lucas leaned too close.

"You here alone?" Lucas asked.

"That depends," you said, voice light.

"On what?"

You looked past him. Past the buffet table. Past the sea of donors and old-money medicine. Straight into Robby’s eyes. And you smiled.

“On whether he comes over here or not.”

Lucas turned, confused. “Who?”

You just tipped your glass toward Robby.

Robby didn’t move. He just stared back—still, unreadable, drink untouched in his hand like he wanted to throw it at something.

You turned back to Lucas. “Nevermind.”

You ended up pressed against the gold-veined marble counter in the bathroom ten minutes later, Lucas’s mouth hot and insistent on yours, his hands already on your hips like he’d earned the right. The chill of the marble cut against the warmth pooling low in your body, but you didn’t stop him.

Outside, rain had started to streak across the windows—steady now, soft at first and building. You barely registered it. All you felt was Lucas’s palm dragging slowly up your thigh, slipping beneath the slit of your dress, fingers skimming skin like he expected you to beg for it.

He kissed like a man used to being told yes. Confident. Greedy. A little too practiced. His teeth grazed your lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low hum as he pushed closer, like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted.

You let his hand slide higher. Let him mouth at your neck, at the soft line beneath your jaw. Let him tug the strap of your dress down far enough for the fabric to slide off your shoulder.

Your lipstick smeared between you. Your breath came faster than it should’ve. And all you could think about—even now—was how Robby hadn’t said a single goddamn thing about the dress.

Lucas tasted like champagne and ego. His hands were good. His mouth was eager. His knee pushed between yours and your back hit the mirror with a dull, aching thud.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered against your collarbone, breath hot, hand skimming the edge of your breast now. “Jesus.”

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Pretending it was enough.

Pretending it didn’t burn.

Then, gently—too gently—you pressed your palm against his chest.

“I should go.”

Lucas blinked. “Seriously?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him, steady, breath catching, lips swollen from someone you didn’t want.

Then: “Yeah. Seriously.”

Not cold. Just done.

You slipped out before he could say anything else, smoothing your dress and swiping your thumb across your mouth.

Outside, rain ticked louder against the glass.

And just a few feet down the corridor, exactly where you didn’t want him to be—was Robby. Like he'd positioned himself there on purpose. Like he knew exactly where you’d be. His eyes tracked you the second you stepped back into the ballroom—sharp, steady, and unmistakably furious.

“Was that worth it?” Robby’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom, low and sharp like a scalpel slipping beneath skin.

You froze mid-step, spine straightening. “What?”

He pushed off the column, slow and measured, like he’d been holding himself still for too long. “Lucas. From Hopkins, right? He’s been at a few of these things.” Robby’s voice was low, sharper than it had any right to be. “In the bathroom. That's how you planned to go about your night?”

You crossed your arms. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said, stepping in closer. “I’m pissed.”

You lifted your chin. “Why? Because he touched me, or because I let him?”

His jaw flexed. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’ve been watching me all night, Robby. If you had something to say, you could’ve said it before I walked away.”

“I didn’t think you’d let someone else touch you first.”

You laughed once, dry and humorless. “That’s on you.”

“Don’t twist this.”

You held his stare. “Don’t try to control something you keep pretending you don’t want.”

He stepped closer, voice rough. “You think I don’t want you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient. I think you want me more when someone else does.”

His eyes darkened. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it.”

He shook his head. “You walked out of that bathroom looking wrecked—and all I could think was, I should’ve been the one to ruin your lipstick.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, almost ragged. “I stood here like a fucking statue while he got to touch you. Got to taste you.”

“Then do something about it,” you snapped, the air between you flaring hot.

“I can’t,” he said, jaw tight. “Not here. Not when I’m still trying to be the version of me that’s good for you.”

Thunder rumbled outside, closer now. A gust of wind rattled the balcony doors, and someone across the room shut one with a sharp bang that turned a few heads. Staff began to move like shadows between tables, and the string quartet shifted into something slow.

“Why not?” you whispered.

“Because the second I touch you,” he said, “I won’t stop.”

A waiter brushed past with a tray, and the spell broke—the quiet clatter of silver on porcelain snapping the air between you.

You stepped back like it burned. “We should go.”

Neither of you said another word.

Minutes later, you sat stiff in the back seat of the Uber, arms crossed tight, trying not to look like your heart was still somewhere back in the ballroom. Robby stared straight ahead, one hand flexing on his knee, the other resting uselessly between you. The driver didn’t ask questions. Neither of you offered answers.

By the time you stepped back into the hotel, the lobby was chaos—umbrellas dripping onto the tile, soaked coats draped over chairs, luggage leaving wet trails across the marble.

You were halfway to the elevators when the concierge spotted you.

“Miss?” she called out gently. “Room 124?”

You turned, already bracing.

“There’s been a situation,” she said. “A pipe burst on the first floor. Maintenance was able to shut it off, but your room was affected.”

Your chest tightened. “Affected how?”

“Flooded,” she admitted. “We pulled what we could from your room and sent everything to the laundry department for evaluation.”

You blinked. “Evaluation?”

She hesitated. “Some items were soaked. Our team is assessing what’s salvageable.”

You didn’t need her to spell it out. You could picture it already.

Your suitcase—soaked through from the bottom up, clothes clinging to the lining like wet leaves. The silk sleep set you packed on a whim, twisted and ruined. Your toiletry bag overturned, mascara tubes and tampons and a busted travel-size mouthwash bobbing in shallow water. Your heels wrapped in white hotel towels like they’d been injured. Your charger? Fried. The paperback you'd half-finished on the plane? Warped and curling at the edges like a dried flower.

You didn’t want it assessed. You wanted it not to have happened.

“We’re also fully booked due to the weather,” she added, almost apologetic now. “We’ve had cancellations, stranded travelers, local walk-ins. There’s a waitlist, but we can’t guarantee anything for tonight.”

Of course not.

You stared past her, toward the barricaded hallway at the far end of the lobby. Caution tape. Industrial fans. A sign printed in sharpie: FLOOR CLOSED FOR CLEANUP—1st. You could hear the low, constant roar of air pushing moisture out of drywall.

“Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your phone. “I’ll find another hotel.”

You had barely tapped the screen when Robby spoke.

“She’s with me.”

You turned your head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You don’t have a room,” he said, measured. “You don’t have clothes. You’re not getting another hotel this late.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“I’m not offering help.” He looked at you then—just once, jaw locked, eyes hard. “I’m not letting you walk around Chicago at midnight with a dead phone especially during a thunderstorm.”

That shut you up. Not because he was angry.

Because he was worried. And trying not to show it.

The concierge handed over a second keycard.

Robby took it before you could say anything.

Just like that.

Final. No discussion.

He didn’t even look at you as he turned toward the elevators.

You followed him.

The click of your heels echoed against the tile, sharp and precise. Rain streaked the windows behind the lobby seating area, lightning flashing faintly across the marble floor. Neither of you spoke.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you said finally, your voice clipped.

“I’ve got boxers and a hoodie,” he answered without looking back.

You stopped. Right there in the middle of the lobby.

“Oh, perfect. I’ll just wear your hoodie like this is totally normal and not weird at all,” you said, tone sharp.

He turned—slow, deliberate. Shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“What’s your move, then? Wander around downtown at midnight in heels that are cutting off your circulation, soaked through, no phone, no plan?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

His jaw ticked. “It’s a hoodie and boxers, not a wedding dress. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You blinked, slow. “Oh, I’m not. I just prefer not to sleep in something that smells like you’re still wearing it.”

He stepped in—closer than necessary. “You didn’t seem so bothered by that smell earlier. In the elevator. Or at the event.”

Your pulse jumped. You hated that it did.

You crossed your arms. “I’d rather not spend the night with someone who can’t stand to look at me.”

His eyes didn’t move from yours. “You’re not upset about me glaring.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” he said. “You’re upset because the wrong man undressed you with his eyes—and made a move before the one you wanted ever did.”

Your stomach dropped.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He didn’t move. He didn’t smirk. He just let the words sit there between you, heavy and sharp and so goddamn true you wanted to slap him for it.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he said.

The elevator dinged.

You turned and walked in first.

He followed.

The doors slid shut behind you with a hush that felt like it should’ve echoed.

You stood a little too close to the mirrored wall. He stayed behind you, angled slightly off to the side. You watched him through the reflection. He wasn’t watching you, but he wasn’t relaxed either. His jaw was locked. His hands were in his pockets, knuckles tight enough to show through the fabric.

His chest rose slow. Measured. Controlled.

The air between you wasn’t just tense—it was alive. Like it had heard every word back in the lobby and didn’t believe either of you were done.

The elevator climbed.

At floor ten, your arms were crossed so tightly your shoulders ached.

At floor eleven, your pulse jumped just from the space between your hands and his body.

At floor twelve, he looked at you in the reflection—just a flick of his gaze—and your breath caught.

“We’re both adults,” he said.

Your voice barely made it out. “Barely.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out before he could say anything.

His footsteps followed—steady, patient. The hall was quiet except for the distant hum of the rain hitting the windows at the end. The carpet muffled everything but your heartbeat.

He unlocked the door with one swipe of the keycard, then held it open. You didn’t look at him as you walked in.

You flicked the lights on.

And there it was.

One bed. Big. White. Obvious.

Robby walked in behind you, shutting the door with a soft click. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly, like this was any other night.

You stared at the bed, then at him. Your voice was dry.

“Of course it’s one.”

He didn’t flinch. “Wasn’t expecting company when I booked it.”

You crossed your arms. “But when you offered to share—”

“I knew,” he cut in, voice smooth, unreadable. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that part?”

He turned to face you fully, one brow lifting just slightly. “I had a single room. Why would it have two beds?”

You blinked at him, but he kept going, tone low and infuriatingly rational.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask the hotel for the ‘in case my coworker gets drenched and stranded’ package.”

You scoffed. “A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

He tilted his head, eyes skimming over you. “Right. And if I’d said, ‘It’s one bed,’ you’d have said what? ‘No thanks, I’ll sleep in a puddle’?”

You didn't answer.

He smirked. “Exactly.”

The silence stretched. Long enough to make the storm outside feel closer. You peeled your clutch from under your arm and set it on the dresser like it gave you something to do.

He crossed to his bag. Pulled out a hoodie and a pair of boxers, both folded with the kind of care you recognized in him—practical, precise. He set them down at the end of the bed.

“They’re clean,” he said. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at the bed again. Then at him.

He hadn’t looked away once.

You took the clothes in one hand.

“So,” you said slowly. “We’re just gonna sleep next to each other like none of this ever happened?”

His voice didn’t waver. “Is that a problem?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if I wear this?” You lifted the hoodie an inch.

His gaze dropped for a single second. Just one. Then back up.

“Especially if you wear that.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

The moment hovered—thick and heavy with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then you turned toward the bathroom without responding.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you swore you could still hear the sound of him exhaling—low and rough, like he was trying not to want something he didn’t have permission to reach for.

The bathroom was quiet except for the faint hum of the fan and the thunder outside.

You reached behind you, fingers brushing the zipper. It slid down with a soft sigh, the dress loosening around your frame. The straps slipped off your shoulders, and the fabric followed, slow and heavy, like it didn’t want to let go.

It fell in a hush against the tile—crimson and careless at your feet.

You stepped out of it without hesitation.

His hoodie came next. It was oversized and warm. The sleeves hung past your hands, the hem grazing your thighs. You pulled on the boxers last. Loose, low, unfamiliar. You kept one hand on the waistband, like that might anchor you.

In the mirror, you didn’t look like the girl who’d worn that dress. You looked like someone else entirely—bare legs, messy mascara, lips still parted from things unsaid.

Like someone who’d made a choice.

Even if you hadn’t figured out what it meant yet.

When you opened the door, the lights in the room had dimmed. Only one lamp was still on, casting a warm glow over the bed and wall. The storm outside had deepened to a constant rhythm—rain tapping like fingers against glass, thunder slow and low in the distance.

Robby had moved. He was no longer standing.

Now he was sitting in the chair by the window, already in his pajamas. But the second you stepped out, he looked.

And stayed looking.

His gaze dragged from your legs to the oversized hoodie, to the hand resting at your hip like you didn’t quite trust the boxers not to fall. Then to your face.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

The air in the room changed. Tightened. Coiled.

You walked past him in silence, slid into the bed slowly—like you weren’t listening for the hitch in his breath, even though you were. The sheets were cold. Your skin prickled beneath the fabric, awareness spreading like a pulse.

You heard him stand.

Not right away. Not fast.

Just... eventually.

The creak of the chair. The soft thud of his steps against the carpet. The flicker of the switch. Then the dip of the mattress behind you.

He pulled the blanket up slowly. Settled on his back. Close, but not touching.

You stared at the ceiling. Felt the heat of him beside you—close, steady, impossible to ignore. Six inches of space. Maybe less.

And then you moved.

Not much. Just enough for the blanket to pull tighter across your hips, for the edge of your thigh to graze his under the sheets. It was barely contact.

But it felt like heat.

You knew he felt it too—because he stilled.

His breath caught, just slightly, like his lungs had registered something his mouth hadn’t been cleared to speak on. You could feel the way he was holding himself back. The way every inch of him had been still and disciplined until now, and now… now he wasn’t.

"Robby," you whispered.

He turned his head toward you.

Just a glance. But in it—everything. The tension. The ache. The silent plea for permission. Or for you to stop him before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached out—slow, careful—and let your hand find his forearm beneath the blanket. Warm skin. Solid muscle. He tensed at your touch, but didn’t move.

So you let your hand drift down, sliding along the inside of his wrist until your fingers brushed his.

He hesitated.

Then laced them through yours like he couldn’t help it.

That was all it took.

His fingers slipped free again, and his hand moved—up your arm, slow and deliberate. Not over the fabric. Under it. He pushed the hoodie up just enough to touch your bare skin, his palm dragging heat along the dip of your waist, the soft slope of your stomach. He moved closer, his leg brushing yours beneath the blanket, chest barely grazing your shoulder.

Your breath caught.

He heard it.

He hovered above you now, weight on one elbow, eyes locked on yours in the dark.

You reached up and found the side of his neck. Warm, tense, familiar.

That was enough.

He kissed you—deep, slow, but hungry. Not rushed. Just built-up control finally cracking. His hand slid higher beneath the hoodie, fingers spreading across your bare ribs, then rising to cup your breast—skin to skin. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you gasped, the sound catching between your mouths.

He pulled back a breath’s distance, just enough to look down at you.

“You knew,” he said roughly.

Your lashes fluttered. “Knew what?”

His eyes dragged over your face. “That I wouldn’t stop if I touched you.”

You didn’t answer. You just arched into him, hips tilting, hand reaching for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers found the edge and pushed up, knuckles brushing his stomach.

He moved to help, lifting his arms, letting you tug the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then he leaned back, one hand tugging the blanket down from both your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

His chest rose and fell—slow, deliberate, barely in control. And he was still watching you like he hadn’t even started.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of the boxers.

You gasped—quiet, sharp—and he froze.

“Okay?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

“Yes,” you said. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned—quiet, guttural—and kissed you again, his fingers sliding through you slowly, then sinking deep. One, then two.

The hoodie stayed on.

But everything underneath it was his now too.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I think I do,” you said, breathless.

He kissed you again, but this time deeper—tongue sliding against yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like restraint finally breaking. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, slow and deliberate, as if he was testing how far you’d let him go.

You didn’t stop him.

You tipped your chin up and gave him more.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice dark. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I’ve been like that all night.”

His hand moved in slow circles over your clit. You arched into him.

“Robby—”

“Fuck, you feel—” He cut himself off with another kiss. His forehead rested against yours, breaths coming fast now. “Don’t rush me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re making me.”

He added another finger. Your hips jerked, and he caught them with his other hand, holding you still while he fucked you slow with his fingers—deep, steady, curling in all the right ways. You whimpered into his mouth.

“Look at me,” he said roughly.

You did.

His pupils were blown wide. His jaw tight. His fingers still moving, still coaxing, still building the ache that had started the second he offered you this bed.

“Tell me when.”

Your breath broke. “Almost—don’t stop.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, just enough pressure to push you over. You came with a gasp—hips trembling, body curling into his. He kissed you through it, slow and open-mouthed, like he was breathing you in.

When your body stopped trembling, you reached for his waistband and pulled it down. He was hard. Thick. Heavy in your hand.

You stroked him once, twice—slow, just to feel the way his body jerked under your touch. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenching hard as your thumb teased the underside of his cock.

“Condom?” you asked, voice low.

“Top drawer,” he said. “I checked earlier.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Hopeful?”

“Prepared.” he muttered.

You fished it out and handed it to him. He rolled it on with shaky hands, then settled between your legs again—his hips aligned with yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other curling under your thigh.

He paused. “Last chance.”

You locked your eyes on his. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He pushed in with one slow, smooth thrust—stretching you open inch by inch, until your back arched and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel like—”

“Move.”

He did.

Long, deep strokes that built slow—his body pressed against yours, breath hot against your cheek, the bed shifting beneath you. His hips rolled just right, his rhythm steady but desperate, each thrust dragging a sound out of your throat you couldn’t have silenced if you tried.

You wrapped your legs around him, ankles hooking behind his back, dragging him deeper. His hand slid under the hoodie, found your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you cried out.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come again.”

He angled his hips and thrust again—harder now, rougher, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing at his back as your body built again, tighter, hotter.

Then you broke.

Your climax hit fast—sharp, shattering. You buried your face in his neck and held on as he fucked you through it, thrusts stuttering, voice breaking on a groan.

“Fuck—I’m—”

He followed you over the edge with one last deep thrust, his body shaking above you, hips grinding into yours as he spilled into the condom with a low, guttural noise that sounded like surrender.

When it was over, he collapsed half on top of you, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

Neither of you spoke.

You lay there tangled in each other, his hoodie bunched around your waist, your breathing slowly syncing with his. His hand rested on your thigh—still, warm, unhurried. Gentle in a way that felt unfamiliar for both of you.

The storm outside had quieted to a hush, rain tapping a soft rhythm against the windows like it was trying not to interrupt.

Minutes passed.

Then, quietly—like it had been sitting on his tongue all night—he said, “You looked really beautiful in that dress.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I should.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just watched him, his features softer now in the dim light, his usual armor cracked wide open.

After a moment, you whispered, “I waited for you to.”

His fingers flexed lightly on your thigh, like the weight of your words hit somewhere deep.

“I know,” he said again, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t forgive him out loud. You didn’t need to.

You just shifted closer, let your leg hook over his, and finally let yourself exhale.

Not everything had to be said right now.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like something had changed.

And neither of you reached to undo it.

[oneforblu]

romance as a subplot is SOOOOO GOODDDDD because 98% of the time it's an intense slowburn that develops over several chapters. the story focuses on the plot or character development more but somehow it makes the romance SO MUCH BETTER!!! idk how to explain it it's just so good...like when an author's focus is more on characters and plot it gives you as the reader a deeper connection to the characters which makes the romantic/platonic aspect so much better

[likeatattokiss]

EXCUSE ME?????? EXCUSE THE FUCK OUT OF ME WHAAATTT???

[zorangezest]

I recently read The Fall (but slower) by @smatterbrained and predictably fell in love with soundwave’s scenes…I just had to draw some art for it, here’s a lil scene from the most recent chapter!

[kiashieart]

you find new ways to drive me to madness

[timeskip!diego - ^_^ happy a day late 5/7 godonaru day!]

[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.

[tiarpopdind]

When he gets mad he unintentionally points his wand at her (something he never fixed since their first meeting )

Tris, unfortunately, finds it extremely rude (that's one of the reasons why she disliked him in the beginning)

But let's say she's found a way to work around it :)