#be quiet for me fic

[stevebabey]

part one here. ze part two to touch-starved stevie that absolutely no one requested hehe <3 but i gots to let my boys have a wee kiss :")

So, hugs with Eddie become… well, a thing.

Not a thing. They’re not a thing, Steve and Eddie. It’s totally the same as when he gets hugs from Robin. Eddie’s doing him a favour as a friend. It’s got the 100% platonic energy of getting a hug from a friend — a hug that usually melts into some form of a cuddle, limbs all tangled together until they can’t tell whose are whose.

Except, Steve doesn’t really do that second part with Robin. Like he hasn’t done it ever with Robin.

So, it’s an Eddie thing.

But they’re not a thing. Not matter how much Steve would actually very much like for that happen. Okay, maybe Steve’s overthinking the whole thing a bit, but he just can’t tell.

Where’s the line? It’s infuriating not being able to discern between platonic and more, just because Steve wasn’t held enough as a fucking baby. Out of all the things he resents his parents for, Steve’s surprised that this is so near the top.

Because, sure, Steve’s had more than his fair share of hookups. He knows that sort of touch. He knows the shape of lust; the scrapes of fingernails down backs, the tight grips over skin, the push and pull of the heat of the moment.

And this thing with Eddie… is not that.

So, really, Steve knows that it’s all friendly. Eddie is just being nice. He’s being a decent dude and helping his friend out — by catapulting himself into Steve’s arms at every opportune moment.

(Steve’s only dropped 3 mugs of coffee because of this so far. It’s only because Eddie says good catch, big boy with a devilish grin every time that Steve manages to catch Eddie that Steve hasn’t completely told him to knock it off. Just yet, at least.)

And he’s different in other areas. He’ll always seem to choose the seat next to Steve on movie-nights now, content to snuggle right up to him. They get thigh to thigh, arm to arm — and Eddie only needs to get about 20 minutes in for him to do a big sigh, like an old dog, and slump over, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve notices though. He always notices.

It’s impossible not to— the skin, even if there’s 3 layers between them, burns blazing warm. Eddie’s hair drapes over his arm, a curl inevitably tickling along Steve’s collar. He can feel the rise and fall of Eddie’s breathing, the little shake of when he laughs.

It drives Steve a little insane— insane in the way that makes him think about burying his fingers in those curls again, about pressing his lips against Eddie’s pretty mouth just to feel the smile against his skin, about digging into his chest so he can climb into his chest and live there.

Yeah, it’s— well, it’s safe to say that the effect of Eddie’s touchiness has sent what was once a fleeting thought of a crush into mind-melting levels of affection.

But he can’t fucking tell.

-

To Steve’s credit, neither can Eddie.

Which is not surprisingly considering sometimes he catches himself wondering how the hell he ended up here; in a close-knit friendship with band-geek Robin Buckley, princess Nancy Wheeler, and King Steve Harrington.

Okay, the Robin one sort of makes sense. He thinks that if no matter when their paths crossed, he and Robin would’ve always even some sort of strange friends - her snark complimenting his bitchiness. Also, the whole super queer thing helps too. Even the friendship with Nancy works, in its own weird way.

Steve though? He’s the fucking curve ball.

It works though, the two of them. Surprisingly well, actually — the two of them get on like a house on fire, bitchy quips back and forth. Even better, is the quiet that they can share. Steve loves to come around and do… nothing. Do nothing with Eddie, though.

So, even though Eddie had noticed the tension in Steve with touch, little moments where he turned rigid when Eddie’s usual wandering hands got too comfortable — Eddie chalked it up to the usual. Guys bring too uncomfortable with him, too weird about another guy being touchy. It didn’t matter than Eddie wasn’t even out to Steve yet, he was still might be that type of guy.

Well, Eddie had certainly thought so. Sure, Steve might not be one of those jocks who smacked around boys who looked too long in the locker room, but if he knew a smidge of the truth, who really knows. It would explain the tenseness at least.

But then— ‘Can I… have a hug?’ There had been a dozen things Eddie was thinking that Steve could’ve asked for but that? Wasn’t even in the ballpark. It was so left-field it left Eddie speechless for a whole moment. And Steve had been staring at the ceiling, his hands curled up tight again like- like he thought Eddie might say no.

A ridiculous thought, honestly. Anyone who knew Eddie well enough knew he was touchy; loved giving it, loved getting it. Like an overly affectionate cat, Wayne had once called him, just 11 years old, because Eddie’s need for affection seem to never be sated.

After that night, Steve’s lack of touch became far more obvious. It’s always hair ruffles or high-fives, yet never hugs. Normally, Eddie would keep to that boundary; some people are less touchy other than others, he knows that.

But… “Sometimes I realise it’s been awhile, since I’ve had some touch.” That’s what Steve had said, his words. Eddie doesn’t even think he meant to say something so heartbreaking. In fact, the guy seemed embarrassed.

It had thrown Eddie for a loop— because Steve gets around. He’s nearly notorious for one-night stands and failed flings, as Robin loves to drone on about considering she’s subjected to all the flirting. What had originally been a point of envy for Eddie, just saturates the bleakness of Steve’s words. Sex but without a moment of intimacy.

So, while Eddie is miles away from being the person who gets into Steve’s pants — not for lack of want, mind you — he does try hike up the touchiness. Little things. Lingering when he taps him on the arm, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder to peer over it, leaning up against him when they’re side by side watching a film.

It’s good. It helps Eddie release the pressure of his stupid monumental god-awful crush he has. Yeah, yeah, it’s laughable, even to Eddie. It’s like Gay 101; don’t get crush on straight dudes, especially the ones you’re friends with. And yet…

Steve lets him. He lets Eddie give him touch, more than he lets anyone else. He still tenses; there’s still always a moment before he can remember to relax, like he’s trying to shake off bad thoughts but then he melts. He always melts into Eddie’s touch eventually — in a way Eddie knows Steve actually loves it, drinks it up as much as he can.

And maybe, Eddie is the biggest fool to grace the Earth to let that fact give him some hope. Sue his gooey heart, he’s a romantic. It’s a quiet hope but, it’s there.

Tonight, it seems relaxing for Steve is been harder than usual— several times has Eddie traced a quite long along Steve’s arms, a subtle point that they were far too tense for someone who was wrapped up in cuddles on the couch. ‘Cos that’s 100% what they are now. Eddie will still call them hugs, but usually, when it’s just the two of them, it becomes this.

Steve, tucked up into the corner of the couch, one leg flush along the back of the couch and one hanging off the edge. It’s the prime position for Eddie to crawl up, wind his arms around Steve’s middle and give him a good squeeze and then settle there. Head on Steve’s chest, lying in the cradle of his hips. Safe. Warm.

It makes him warm, oh very warm to know that he gets this. That Steve doesn’t give this amount of trust to many, if any, other people but Eddie — he trusts Eddie.

“Y’know,” Eddie says, cheeks smushed against the plain of Steve’s pec. It feels deliciously warm and Eddie’s fairly sure he can feel how toned it is just through his cheek. Hot bastard. “I’m actually real glad you asked for that hug all those weeks ago.”

He leaves it there ‘cos he knows Steve will ask. Eddie’s eyes stay on the buzzing tv-screen even as Steve’s head shifts, turning to peer down at the boy slumped on his chest. Eddie’s pretty sure he can see Steve’s mouth twitch up into a smile.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie affirms, giving a nod and his eyes flick up to meet Steve’s for just a moment. “Think I’ve had some of the best hugs in the world.”

Okay, that was maybe more honest and sappy than Eddie was going for. He is just letting Steve know he isn’t just doing it for Steve — that he enjoys these moments just as much. He lays it on thick, tries for a smarmy angle.

“Swept up in these pillowy arms?” He croons, giving Steve’s bicep a quick squeeze, making the other chuckle softly. “Who wouldn’t think so? I’m a lucky guy.”

Despite the joking tone, there’s no quick comeback from Steve. That’s alright. Eddie’s quite happy if this is one of the times Steve just takes the compliment; let’s the word sink in and hopefully, believes them, even if it’s just a little bit. He watches the film and doesn’t read into the silence.

Not even when Steve says, “Eddie?” all soft. Nearly shy sounding. It doesn’t quite register to Eddie’s ears.

“Mm?”

“Eddie.” Steve says again, a little firmer and that catches Eddie’s attention. He turns his head and rests his chin on Steve’s chest, his brows drawn together in silent question.

But the moment he makes eye contact, Steve’s doing that scrunched up face again. Is studying the ceiling instead of facing Eddie. And just like all those weeks ago, his hands clench up tight. Twists up the fabric of Eddie’s sweater in between his fingers and uses it to ground himself.

Last time, he asked for a hug. Considering he’s currently just about squishing Steve beneath his body weight, Eddie can’t fathom what he might be worked up to ask for. Unless he was going to ask for something more than a hug— which, well, just wasn’t going to happen, even if Eddie really wanted it to.

“Can I-” Steve starts. He sucks in a breath, almost like he’s gathering courage. But he’s not, because he’s not about to ask for what Eddie hopes for, he’s not, he’s—

Unless…?

“Can I… have a kiss?” Steve asks, barely audible. The sentence is murmured, soft words that hit Eddie like a gentle kiss in itself — imprinting right onto his heart. Steve Harrington wants a kiss — from him!

“Oh.” Eddie says, in a breathy delightful way. He’s fairly certain the little monkey in his brain is clapping its cymbals at double-speed as the words process; or maybe it’s his heart, which feels like it’s leapt up his throat.

“Oh?” Steve echoes, a smile already playing at the edges of his mouth, because he can see Eddie’s want. Because he knows him.

“Yes.” Eddie says suddenly, with a frantic nod, pushing up closer so their faces are aligned. “Yes, absolutely, you can.” He affirms.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh at the eagerness and then his arm that had been slung around Eddie shifts. It moves up til his hand caresses along the line of Eddie’s jaw, tilting him just how he likes.

Eddie holds his breath. Counts the freckles he can see this close. Tries to feel Steve’s heartbeat through where they’re pressed so closely together; can Steve feel his? Thundering and hurried, beating so hard Eddie thinks he might bruise the inside of his ribs.

Then Steve kisses him. And shit, Steve’s lip are better by ten-fold than every daydream Eddie’s ever had about them. They’re warm and so soft — plush and pressing against his own and Eddie is freezing. Fuck, wait, how does this go again? Right, Eddie’s never… well, kissed anybody before.

Steve pulls back and Eddie screws his eyes up — not ready in the slightest for the disappointment of his own shoddy kissing skills. Fuck, did he really just freeze? Steve — Steve Harrington — asks for a kiss and Eddie decides to stab himself in the back by not figuring out how to fuck to kiss back.

“You call that a kiss?” Steve teases and Eddie’s well aware of the parallel — of the irony of Steve repeating his own words back at him. But he can’t make himself laugh even though it’s funny. Instead, a little groan wiggles out his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says, earnest. He forces his eyes opens — he needs to see what’s Steve’s thinking. Where he’s expecting disappointment or perhaps regret, is only patience. Maybe a touch of concern. Eddie continues, despite the humiliation that makes his throat sticky.

“I haven’t- I don’t do this often.” He coughs awkwardly clearing his throat and hoping it hides the next word. “Ever.”

There’s a jump in Steve’s eyebrows, a moment of surprise in his eyes that lets him know he did, indeed, hear that final word. It makes Eddie feel… well, it’s nice that Steve had expected him to have been kissed by now. Even if he hasn’t. He tries to take it as a compliment.

“That’s okay,” Steve assures. Absentmindedly, his thumb rubs soothing along Eddie’s jaw. It makes Eddie shiver, some outrageous amount of joy clawing into every nerve. Steve likes Eddie. He wants to kiss Eddie.

“Do you want to try again?”

Eddie nods before the questions even out of his mouth. Steve smiles, all sunshine. This time when he draws Eddie in, he notices the way Eddie holds his breath — the rigidness in his body.

Steve kisses him again, another short and soft one and then whispers against his lips, “Relax.”

‘Cos isn’t tonight just full of the parallels, Eddie thinks. He listens, tries to focus on how sweet Steve’s kiss is than his panicky heart, forcing out a breath between the kisses. His hands along Steve’s sides find a grip, grounding and good, and by the fourth kiss, he begins to feel a bit melty.

It’s good. It’s really good. Kissing Steve is top 5– nay, the top moment of his life so far. Somehow, it’s made all that much better knowing the build-up behind it. Knowing that Steve knows he isn’t just kissing him for a heat of the moment — that Eddie wants kisses here, kisses before bed, in the morning, on dates. Eddie wants Steve.

And with the way he kisses, Eddie’s pretty sure Steve wants him just as bad.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to reach what Eddie decides is an ultra pretty fuckin’ state; lips swollen from kisses, cheeks flushed, hair a little mussed up. He bets he looks no better. The thought makes him grin, enough they have to break the kiss ‘cos Eddie can’t stop his stupid happy grin ‘cos shit— he actually gets to have this Steve.

“What?” Steve asks, somehow half heart-eyed and half suspicious at the mischief in Eddie’s eyes.

“Can I... have a hickie?”

now with a part three !

[halflifebutawesome]

movie night

[xxplastic-cubexx]

cant stop thinkin bout charles and erik readin together on the couch but instead of reading with him charles is listening to eriks thoughts while he reads. Live mind commentary ……..

[slutforsilverfoxes]

Imagine…

BAU!reader being married to Hotch but keeping her maiden name in the field to avoid assumptions and judgment. The team knows, obviously, but then a former colleague of Aaron’s from the Seattle office happens to be in town for a conference and wants to catch up over a drink. You can’t help but tease him, of course:

“Knock, knock,” you murmur, leaning against the doorway to your husband’s office. With a glance at your watch, you ask, “Y’gonna be late for your date?”

Aaron looks up at you with a frown before returning his attention to his case file and mumbling, “Not a date.”

“Mm, my apologies,” you respond with a twitch of your lips as you approach his desk. You lean your elbows on the dark wood and rest your chin in your open hands. Batting your eyelashes, you amend, “It’s a meeting betwixt old coworkers.”

Aaron rises from his chair, pressing his fists against the desk opposite you and positively towering over your smaller stature. He meets your fiery gaze with equal defiance, then leans forward to press a kiss to your lips and murmurs, “Are you our resident Reid while he’s with his mom? Who says ‘betwixt’?”

“Oh, shut up, nerd,” you taunt back between kisses of your own. “You collected coins; I played Scrabble. Now get going! Can’t leave a lady waiting for the Aaron Hotchner.”

—————

But WAIT! There’s more! Said agent gets a call while they’re out for a drink and asks Aaron and the BAU for help on a new case. Naturally, you all have to fly to Seattle together…

“Mama, you know this cabin is pressurized, right?” Derek teases with a nudge of your shoulder.

You mumble back around a sip of coffee, “Yeah, so?”

“So if you glare any harder, you’re gonna burn a hole through the jet and we’re all gonna die up here.”

Emily snorts out a laugh and you steal a Cheeto from JJ’s snack (for which you’re met with a stern, “Hey!”) to throw at her. Emily collects the offensive projectile from her lap and pops it into her mouth with a ferocious chomp in your direction, receiving an, “Oh, bite me, Prentiss,” in response.

“Just find a way to slip in that you’re married,” JJ counsels, moving the bag out of your reach to avoid further retaliation.

“Or accidentally fall into his lap. Turbulence can be nasty, you know,” Emily offers as a follow up.

“Like that?” you deadpan, jutting your chin toward the scene at the back of the jet. Aaron and Agent Brandt are over by the coffee, and she’s just steadied herself using your husband’s broad shoulder.

“Or,” Derek counteroffers, tugging at the chain around your neck that holds your wedding and engagement rings while you’re out in the field, “put this rock on and go claim your man!”

“This is dumb. I’m being dumb,” you grumble, flipping open the case file and burying your head in it. “Can we get back to talking about this sociopath and not my high school-esque jealousy?”

“What’s happening? Did I miss anything?” Garcia’s blonde curls bounce up on the monitor before your group, ready for the next installment of this evidently riveting saga.

“Nothing is happening, Pen,” you respond with a sharp look her way, “and y’all need to get out more. Watch a romcom or something if you need some angst.”

“You all completely suck,” Penelope sighs dramatically. “My cup runneth empty in my lair!”

“Then go get yourself another cappuccino, baby girl,” Derek answers smoothly with that dazzling smile of his, perched on the armrest of your seat.

You feel his presence before you hear his voice, every atom in your body suddenly on high alert and keenly aware of everything that is Aaron. “Hey.”

You look up at him with an easy smile, determined to not let your unwarranted bitterness reflect on your work. “What’s up, Hotch?”

He squats down in the aisle beside you so he’s not looming over you and brushes his knuckles across your cheek in an uncharacteristically tender touch, given your current audience. “Do you have that travel bottle of Advil? Brandt may have been overzealous with the margaritas last night.”

“Yeah, it’s… in the side pocket of my bag,” you answer, brow furrowed because he tossed it in there this morning to ward off your inevitable headaches during the coming late nights.

“You’re the best, honey,” he murmurs, standing halfway to press a kiss to your forehead before returning to his full height and going off in search of the pain killer.

“‘Overzealous with the margaritas’, huh?” Emily teases, then starts singing the viral song about just how many margaritas are needed to perform certain acts that shan’t be discussed in polite company.

From across the plane, Dave glances at Aaron who’s rummaging through the overhead luggage bin, then turns his attention to you with a knowing gaze. You avert your eyes, feeling a blush creeping across your cheeks, and settle back in your seat before flipping through the case file in front of you. “So crime scene photos would suggest we’re dealing with a disorganized killer…”

—————

But WAIT! There’s even more!

AH tags 🖤 @gothwifehotchner

[feroluce]

I've only recently started having my own thoughts about Emanator!Sampo and I think my favorite version of this is that he is technically an Emanator, it's just that he doesn't talk about it because Aha is a dick who only blesses people that don't want it and Sampo hates it here dkjxkdkdck

Aha blessed the Mourning Actors! A whole faction of people who have specifically made it their life's mission to resist Elation! THEY made a literal worm THEIR Emanator just to see if it would be accepted into the Genius Society! And when it wasn't, Aha just as easily killed it and tossed it aside! So I feel like there is a good possibility that Aha looked down at Sampo, this little oddball who doesn't seem to even like Epsilon or a lot of the Masked Fools and was like.

Hey.

You know what would be really really funny.

And I feel like being an Emanator wouldn't even be a plus for Sampo, because of how he operates. Sampo excels at blending in; he managed to smuggle himself onto a planet

that had been isolated for 700 years,

with only one (1) single city on it,

and going even further, he snuck himself into the Underground,

where the population is even more sparse,

and STILL. Not a single accusation of him being an alien! Not even after the Astral Express lands and proves that interstellar space travel is possible! Sampo is so thoroughly ingrained into Belobog that yeah, some people admit they don't know his origins, but none of it ever comes with the question of whether he actually is a Belobog native or not. Sampo knows exactly how to blend himself into his surroundings in the most subtle way possible. And being an Emanator, something far more powerful than any normal human or Pathstrider could ever hope to be, would only throw in a massive extra variable for him. Sampo would have to be so so careful to keep a lid on his Emanator traits, to keep up the appearance of being totally normal and average at all times. It doesn't help him at all.

And this part is pure indulgence, but I love taking Aha's closeness with mortals, and THEIR tendency to take human form, and twisting it into a case of THEM using Sampo as a vessel.

I want Aha to look at Sampo the same way all of us look at Sampo. A chew toy. A plaything. Something to shove through the meat grinder. Aha thinks Sampo is hilarious and a funny, silly little guy, and THEY want to put him in Situations just to see what he does. Sampo is not a fan.

This though, this is what makes Sampo so wildly entertaining as a vessel. Because Aha knows that Sampo does not want to be a vessel, does not even want to be an Emanator, and THEY find it SO much fun to watch the mental gymnastics he has to pull to convince himself he's ok with it, this is fine actually, because he's not exactly about to tell off a literal god. He doesn't feel like getting a smiting today, please and thank you.

Because squeezing yourself into a human vessel is so different than merely adopting a human disguise, there's already a human soul in there, it's kind of a tight fit. If Sampo doesn't make room, doesn't all but dissociate right out of his own body, it could cause. Consequences.

And so, Aha always gives a warning, just to watch him squirm.

It begins with the sound of bells.

Just little ones, at first. Small, clinking little sounds that could even be considered nice. Something almost gentle, like a wind chime in a pleasant breeze on a warm day. This is the signal for the countdown.

Sampo breathes in, breathes out. Makes himself as small as possible within his own body.

The bells rise and multiply, tinkling wind chimes give way to sleigh bells, to shopkeepers bells, the sound of something inevitable approaching, something entering.

Sampo breathes in, breathes out. Dilutes himself, weaker and weaker concentrations.

The bells rise and rise, multiply and multiply, celebration and tragedy resonating in the sound of church bells, ringing bright and loud, the sounds of weddings and funerals both the same.

Sampo breathes in, breathes out. Becomes like smoke, like vapor. Hollows himself out.

Empty, empty, empty until he echoes, like a bell, like something with the sole purpose of being shaken and rattled around, a thing to be struck, the sounds jarring and punched out and gasping and piercing the air, the lung, the eardrum.

Sampo breathes in.

Beaten he rings, bashed in he sings.

Aha breathes out.

[h-didanart]

I have not gotten over the fact Bloodmoon apparently took the licensing test??? I don’t know how many licensing tests there are so I might be wrong in this assumption, but I take it as they took the driver’s license test

so of course I had to draw something about it, enjoy this silly drawing of a not-silly-at-all AU of mine

[midnightdemonhunter]

But don't worry. By then, he wants to.

(@romanromulus :D )

[pkaykim]

Oofurixmas2022 for @meela-31

[vinelark]

hello! was thinking of, sunday snippet. mayhaps?

sunday snippet!

——

“And even that is an exaggeration; it’s not like we were going steady, this isn’t the 1950s,” Tim continues, cool gaze locked on the reporter. “Honestly, Vicki, I’d expect this gossip-hungry lack of tact from the Weekly, not from someone who claims to be a serious journalist.”

There’s an indignant Hey! from one of the nearby reporters. The one from the Gazette—Vicki—gives Tim a tiny, razor-sharp smile. “It’s hardly gossip when there’s potential danger involved. I’m just doing my job, Mr. Drake.”

Tim responds with a sharp smile of his own. He must be wearing makeup—the cut on his forehead is barely visible. He still hasn’t looked at Kon.

[thegrimreaperisanerd]

On a lighter note somebody on A03 just dropped this comment on Chapter 15 of DUCKLINGS THAT DROWN with a fan comic???? They gave me permission to repost it here and I had to because I'm obsessed!

Dolores Dei in her waiting outfit? The black speech bubbles for (real) Kim contrasting the white, pure, *fake*, speech of dream Kim?? How they're all drawn in general???

THE GAME MENU AS THE DREAM ENDS AND HARRY WAKES UP ALONE IN THE DARK???

I have been looking at this for hours.

[stevebabey]

oh hey gay people in my phone.....

introducing steddie bb project 025 !

what's this.... gasp ! all my quietness and lack of posting hasn't been for naught!? why yes i actually have been quietly ticking away on project 025 for @steddiebang2024

i'm very excited to be able to share a glimpse of it here with you all <3 i'm also so v chuffed to be working with @callunavulgari and to have @roomwithanopenfire helping make this the best possible version it can be <3 i hope to share a little more soon......

[lunarspacez]

Thinking about Lucy still being pretty upset and staying quiet at the beginning of her and the Ghoul's journey in season 2. The Ghoul's kinda used to her being a talkative person so her silence is surprisingly starting to make him uncomfortable. So to make things less awkward he tries making conversation with her, which is kind of a first. It's not like he actually likes hearing her yap, no not at all. He just can't stand the silence, especially her silence, and if they're going to be traveling together for a while, he might as well break the ice and get to know her a bit

[escapingarchives]

Consider:

Nureyev’s going undercover as a hypnotist for a show at a grand party of the wealthy (somewhere in the estate is a safe with some very important schematics he'd like to get his hands on).

He researches extensively, first pouring over books and then spending hours choosing outfits, rehearsing flourishes and precise movements. He’s also researching the heist itself, of course. But this time, Juno seems more annoyed with all the time he spends on his research. Juno lounges on the bed watching his boyfriend practicing his entrance over and over, only interrupted by occasional dives to double check his books.

Juno huffs and breaks the silence.

“What a bunch of bullshit, can you believe people actually think this hypnosis shit works? Controlling other people with your voice, my ass.” He rolls his shoulders, they've been tense for days, and the pain is worsening his mood.

“Oh now, it’s a performance like any other,” Nureyev replies, “but my research shows people can be put in a trance, can be hypnotized, provided they want it themselves. One cannot make someone do something against their will. They must want to be hypnotized, to let go and be open and obedient. It's quite interesting."

“Can’t see why anyone would want that at all.” Juno says in a snappy retort, but he considers it in his head. Being in a trance, mind blank, just floating and being open to... whoever’s in control. He’d hate it, of course, he’d feel way too vulnerable. Even more so in front of a crowd, at a show of all things. He needs to always be alert.

But…

Sometimes he just wants a break from it all, even his own head. Especially his own head. To relax and leave himself in the hands of... well. Maybe he can see the appeal, just a little.

He doesn’t say any of this out loud, of course. Nureyev just hums, practising how he'll pick his pendant out of his front pocket.

“Juno,” he says after a while, “since you’re not receptive to actually being hypnotized, can I test the act on you? Then you can tell me how it looks, without being distracted.” He smiles, one of his canines peeking out.

“Yeah, alright,” Juno replies, trying to sound nonchalant. He sits up at the edge of the bed, stretching a little, ignoring the little jump of excitement he feels for a brief moment. “But I’m still gonna tell you whenever you sound way too ridiculous.”

Nureyev's smile widens, and Juno's eye focus on his sharp teeth. “Wonderful, Juno.”

Nureyev starts with his grand entrance, speaking to the imaginary audience. Juno’s both in awe at his confidence and ability to glide seamlessly into the role, through the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

He resists the temptation to make a snide remark when Nureyev adresses an invisible audience member with the tales of his past deeds.

“… and I shall do it all, with this!” Nureyev reveals the crystal pendant he’s fastened to a chain in a dramatic flourish. “Now, esteemed audience, please quiet down so I can demonstrate my abilities on this lovely lady.”

He sits on a chair in front of Juno. “Now please Juno, focus on the crystal. Let your thoughts clear. All that matters is to keep your eye on the crystal, and listen to my voice…”

Juno rolls his eye, but still leans forward. Nureyev holds the crystal up by the chain so it catches the light, and starts swinging it slowly back and forth.

"That looks really stupid," Juno remarks.

Nureyev shushes him.

It’s a pretty jewel, probably worth quite a lot. Juno wonders where Nureyev stole it. It’s a deep violet that shifts from a sparkling, deep blue, into a gold-speckled pink. It naturally grabs his attention, swinging back and forth. The swinging part still looks stupid. But maybe it would be nice to...

The pendant swings, and Nureyev keeps talking in his smooth voice. This might not be so bad, after all. Juno doesn’t feel vulnerable, there’s nothing to be worried about, he knows he’s safe with Nureyev. Who’s currently speaking, but Juno can’t recall what he’s been saying. He focuses on Nureyev’s steady voice again; he loves listening to that melodic voice.

“You feel the tension leave your jaw, your neck, your chest, arms, that’s it, relax…”

It’s surprisingly easy, Juno thinks, to relax. Usually it’s hard to let go of all the tension that sits in his body. It's such a constant part of him that it almost feels strange how easy it melts from his limbs.

“… your stomach, your legs..."

He's breathing more deeply now, he notices. It's comfortable where he sits on the bed, letting his eye follow the pretty pendant that catches the light. He's safe here.

"...very good, relax for me, you're doing so well."

Juno feels warm at that. He's glad he's doing well. Nureyev's voice really suits this kind of thing, he thinks. Smooth and low and inviting. Juno wants to tell him he sounds nice, but he's so relaxed. It can wait. He struggles to keep his eye open.

"... even more relaxed and sleepy, and you'll only let go on my count - wait, Juno?"

The pendant stops for a moment. Juno lets out a low, protesting sound. It's very hard, but Juno lifts his heavy eye to Nureyev's face. He was doing well, wasn't he?

"Are you really -?" Nureyev says softly.

Juno's so relaxed and comfortable, he felt so close to letting go and now he's confused about what Nureyev's even talking about. He manages a questioning "hmm?"

Nureyev stares at him for a long moment, considering, and then he smiles again, showing his sharp teeth. He cups Juno's face, and it feels nice, so Juno leans into it.

"Oh Juno, you are too lovely, " Nureyev says and holds up the pendant again, swinging the beautiful crystal. "Look back at the crystal and keep listening. That's it, well done, and you feel yourself gliding back into the comfortable feeling. Just focus on my voice and how good it feels."

Juno's eye is following the jewel again, how it catches the light, his breathing evening out. He feels like he's enveloped in a soft blanket.

"When I count down, you will feel even more relaxed at every step. When I reach zero, you will sleep for me. You'll be fully under, open, and relaxed. No need to be distracted, just be in the moment, no need to think of anything else..."

Distantly, Juno hears Nureyev speak for another minute, then he starts to count down from ten. For every number, he feels heavier, and more and more comfortable. It's so easy to let go. He wants to let go, to let Nureyev take care of him. Vaguely, he realizes he's wanted it ever since Nureyev introduced him to his newest con. Blank, soft, mindless. Quiet. Juno wants that, and he trusts Nureyev. Of course he does.

"Zero. Sleep for me, Juno."

Juno does.

[sukibenders]

The Bridgertons definitely give me the vibe of the type of family to be competitive when it comes to spoiling children, but this becomes especially prevalent when Kate and Anthony reveal they are expecting and baby Eddy is finally born. There's a score sheet for who brought the most items, who receives the most smiles and laughs (when Colin is in the lead, Eloise proclaims that baby Edmund is just suffering from gas because she's totally not a sore loser) and so on so forth. Benedict lets him play with his paint sets, much to his parents and Violet's dismay. One time he commented, jokingly, that he saw baby Edmund being a great painter and a vein nearly burst from Anthony's forehead.

When Daphne catches word of this competition, she quickly drags Simon into it, spending more time carrying her nephew than his own father (who is totally not jealous and seeks every opportunity he can to steal him away). Imagine the family's surprise when a crate arrives from Prussia thanks to aunt Edwina, filled with an arrangement of toys and fine clothing from different parts of the world, supplying baby Edmund (more so his parents) with an endless selection than what he knows what to do with.

(Kate and Anthony quickly put forth boundaries, attempting to halt any further attempts of their family's splurging and excessive spoiling. The rest of the Bridgertons, however, add another opponent to their list. Baby Edmund is just happy for the ride.)

[akai-akai]

Quiet of the Mind

a tiny 141 poly drabble— slightly price/gaz centric but not really.

***unedited***

✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿

It's rare that they're granted this kind of peace.

The sun's just beginning brush against the treeline, the gentle lapping of water against a rocky lakeshore mixing with the hum of cicadas and birdsong.

John's old blue truck— the same once he's had since his beard was no more than some scratchy stubble on his chin— was backed up near a dock, a bright red cooler filled with beer and other drinks and lunch meat sitting on the bed of it and the tailgate flipped down.

Up a wooden plank staircase, a fair-sized cedar cabin sat on structural stilts, not far from the water's edge. The boys had rented the thing for the entire 2 weeks, per John's suggestion.

"We're out in the bush all the time as soldiers," John said when he spoke of the trip. "Never get to really enjoy nature, too busy watching our arses out there."

So here they were. A quiet, private lake spanned out in front of them, surrounded by lush green forest and the only other civilization being the cabins on the far side, far enough that the early morning fog that settles over the crystalline waters completely hides the cabins from view.

Simon and Johnny stand on the cabin's deck above, Simon manning the grill while Johnny spears darts into a dartboard fixed on the side of the cabin. Below, Kyle rests, sitting on the open tailgate with a cold can of coke next to him and a maplewood guitar sitting in his lap, his fingers deftly plucking away at the strings. It's a lulling sound, soft dulcet chords vaguely reminiscent of western folk music. John leans against the tailgate beside him, eyes fixed on the far shoreline as he watches a small herd of deer travel through the grass towards the trees. He's quiet, his mind is quiet. For once.

"What song?" He mutters to Kyle as he glances over to him, only to find Kyle's warm eyes already locked onto him through his pretty eyelashes, head tilted with the way he holds his guitar.

Kyle shrugs slightly, continuing to strum. "Just wingin' it."

John smiles at him fondly, but says nothing more. Just turns back to the lake and listens. Even the sound of Johnny cursing at the dartboard and Simon griping at him for putting a dart-sized hole in the wood siding of the cabin can't interrupt his peace. If anything, it's a comforting sound.

There's several plates lined out on a foldable table next to the still-smoking grill— bratwursts, burger patties, hotdogs, grilled cob corn, potato wedges, macaroni courtesy of Johnny, who nursed the pot over the cabin's stove for 15 minutes and fished the ripped up box from the trash 3 different times because he kept forgetting how much milk, butter, and water to add. (Simon told him multiple times to just leave the bloody thing on the countertop until the mac was done.)

The sun's shining bright gold and orange through the gaps in the trees when Simon lets out a whistle signaling the barbecue's done, and Kyle slides his fingers down the strings, stopping the vibrations as he carefully sets his guitar back in his case behind the cooler. He dutifully fishes more beers from said cooler for the other 3 men, favoring another coke for himself. John's hand brushes over his affectionately as he takes the glass bottle with a soft murmur of "thank you, love."

They each carry their full plates back down the stairs and take their seats at the old picnic table at the bottom as the sky paints itself purple and pink, and John's unusually quiet. Content.

His eyes rest on each of his boys in turn as he eats, Johnny and Kyle bickering good-naturedly about the best time of day to go fishing while Simon glances between the two, subtly eggs them on with a quiet "the best time's midnight" and suddenly they've both turned on him, allies against a common enemy. Simon must feel John's gaze on him— he has a knack for that— because he glances up at just the right moment as Johnny and Kyle move on to their favorite fishing lures.

Simon's lips quirk into the smallest crooked grin, an equally fond look in his eyes as the two speak without words.

Price just takes a swig of his beer and pushes all other thoughts from his mind. Averts his eyes to the sky.

A pretty sunset, he thinks.

✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿..•..✿

*bites hand and screams* I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

honorable mentions: I think simon would secretly have a nice, velvety singing voice, johnny is wicked on a drum set, and john is scarily good at whistling.

[flowercrowngods]

in which they lie on the floor and take care of each other, falling in love somewhere along the way between music and silence

🤍 also on ao3

When Eddie makes it to Steve’s a few hours after the others because he sort of got lost in that song he was working on and completely lost track of time when the words finally cooperated with him and the chords, he is not surprised to hear the sound of laughter and chaotic conversation, accompanied with the upbeat pop music Steve likes so much. What does surprise him, though, is the picture presented to him once he reaches the spacious living room.

The group is sitting in a circle on the luxurious sofa and on the plush carpet, talking and laughing and throwing the occasional pillow. So far so normal. What’s decidedly not normal is the fact that Steve is lying a bit away from the group, still included in their circle from the way they’re sitting, and he is absolutely still.

Eddie’s first instinct is to panic because surely Steve is having a flashback, an episode of some sort, maybe he’s been possessed, maybe he—

No. No, the others wouldn’t let that happen, wouldn’t let him lie there like that if it were at all concerning. Eddie tries to calm himself, to breathe away the panic and just be fucking normal.

He catches Dustin watching him and clears his throat, willing an easy expression as he asks, “Hey, uh. What’s up with Harrington?”

“Oh, he’s having floor time,” is what Dustin tells him like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. Like Eddie is supposed to know what that means.

Except, he does. Sort of.

And now that the panic is gone and he looks closer at Steve, he sees that his eyes are open but not unseeing as he is staring at the ceiling. He looks calm. That crease between his brows his gone and everything about him seems relaxed.

Floor time.

Of all the things Eddie could have imagined learning about Steve fucking Harrington, nail bat swinging national hero and hair care extraordinaire, this wouldn’t even have made the list.

And so, with a careful eye still on the boy starfishing on the white carpet, Eddie goes to sit down beside Dustin.

“So. Floor time, huh?”

The boy gives him a sideways glance and nods. “Yeah, it’s sacred. We used to do that at my place all time, it’s strangely calming. It’s kind of our thing.” And he says that with such pride in his voice, stage whispering like he is letting Eddie in on this huge secret, he can’t even find it in him to tap into that jealousy that always used to accompany every mention of Steve Harrington coming out of Henderson’s mouth.

Eddie bumps their shoulders together gently and promptly joins in on the discussion over whether or not it was boring to choose the human race in Dungeons and Dragons, which then turns into explaining to Jonathan why a paladin and a wizard are not the same, until everything derails completely and there are five discussions at the same time and Eddie is having a wonderful time keeping up with all of them.

All the while, though, he lets his eyes wander back to Steve. To the steady rise and fall of his chest, to his hands where they are still relaxed and twitching, not clenched, knuckles white, bracing to fight for his life.

He does feel oddly protective over the boy who usually does all the protecting, at least in that moment. Part of him wants to cross the distance and lie down beside him. Not to talk, not to touch, just to be there. Just so Steve doesn’t have to be alone.

It’s stupid. Steve’s not alone. He has a house full of his closest friends who let him lie on the floor and don’t ask for his attention until Robin grabs the phone to order some pizza. When Steve is back, he looks… Well, he looks good. He always does, sure, but this time he also looks like he feels good. And Eddie stares a bit before Will and Lucas vie for his attention again.

It does indeed become a Thing, like Dustin told him, because the next few times they’re meeting – sometimes at the Byers’, sometimes at the Wheeler’s, but mostly at Steve’s – Eddie will find him lying on the floor at some point of the evening. Not always quiet and zoned out, sometimes he’s actively participating in whatever conversation is the loudest, sometimes he’s watching with a smile on his lips.

Eddie has stopped watching him. Or at least that’s what he’s trying to tell himself. But Steve is okay, it’s his Thing, there is no need to worry, no need to watch. Even when sometimes Steve needs several tries at finding his words again, Eddie has stopped worrying.

It’s a Steve Thing. And it’s really fucking endearing.

He tries not to watch.

But then one day, after a really rough week and one too many threats directed at him, Eddie just… Doesn’t feel like talking. But he doesn’t feel like being alone, either, his hands still slightly shaking from running into Tommy H and his goons that seem to have missed the memo that high school is over and they can start behaving like adults now.

And so he finds himself standing in front of Harrington’s house, bracing himself for the noise, the questions, the demands, the stories, for all the words he really doesn’t want to say today. It takes him another five minutes to ring the bell.

Robin lets him in, and Eddie feels overwhelmed already, but it’s too late to turn around now, so he swallows and heads inside. His heart sinks further when he finds Steve walking around, joking, chiding. Chasing after El when she steals a cinnamon roll that just came out of the oven. Eddie’s heart sinks and it flutters at the same time, and it is that sensation that makes him crumble.

He lies down on the living room floor and hopes that it’s enough, that he won’t have to explain, that he can just… exist.

The noise around him doesn’t stop, but he finds that he doesn’t need it to, because they leave him alone, don’t try to talk to him, give him time to breathe, to gather himself, to be okay. The world fades a bit, but it doesn’t turn upside down.

Floor time is sacred. And he’s starting to understand why. There’s something oddly calming about feeling the hard floor beneath him, about watching everyone from this angle, about staring at the ceiling with no thoughts in his mind.

And he understands why Steve does this so often. Where his hands have been shaking just moments prior, they are calm now. Where his mind revolved around the Upside Down and Tommy H and run, run, run, now they are quiet. Dulled. Like they can’t rech him, like he is safe here. On the floor.

The only thought that comes to him is that everything would be even better with a weight on his body. And for a moment, he imagines Steve lying down on top of him, to ground him some more. Or Nancy or Robin or Jonathan. Hell, even Eleven would do. Maybe one day. It’s about time they implement cuddle piles into their weekly routine, but Eddie doesn’t feel like opening his mouth and asking for that right about now.

He zones out. Lets the magic of the Sacred Floor wash over him and thinks how that would actually make a fine addition to his campaign. Maybe another riddle for Dustin to decipher.

By the time he hears the music, he feels like a completely new person and it takes him a while for the fog to life enough, but then—No way. His eyes widen and immediately find Steve’s where he’s leaning against the doorway to his right with a gentle, knowing smile on his lips.

���It’s always better with music,” he says, almost sheepish, like he’s worried he maybe crossed a line. “Hot chocolate is coming up right away. Leave it if you don’t want it, Dustin will also drink it cold.” Definitely a smile now, fond this time as Steve’s eyes wander to where Eddie assumes he can find Dustin.

He doesn’t look away from Steve, the expression on his face probably still somewhere between disbelief and wonder. And he’s staring. He knows, because Steve gives him that sheepish smile again and starts to speak after a moment.

“I hope Twisted Sister is okay? I actually quite like this album, but I can go see if I can grab something from that Sabbath band you were talking about, or… Metallica? Something like that. Sorry, uhm. Metal is not really my strong suit, as you may have noticed.” He laughs almost nervously and Eddie just melts.

Steve, worried about his music choice for Eddie’s floor time, which he is absolutely ready and willing to go out of his way for as it seems, laughing and rubbing the back of his neck as We’re Not Gonna Take It starts playing is not what Eddie expected of his day when he woke up this morning.

He might actually have a little crush on the Harrington boy, he realises in that moment, as he smiles up at Steve in a way he hopes is reassuring. It’s perfect, he thinks. Like your stupid hair and your nervous little smile.

Steve seems to understand as he answers with another smile of his own, though all traces of nervousness or worry are gone now, replaced with patience and kindness and understanding. It’s almost too much for Eddie to bear and he looks away.

Moments later, Steve reappears in his line of sight and places a mug of hot chocolate well within his reach but still safe from overly energised teenagers.

Eddie is hesitant about it, but in the end it’s the best hot chocolate he has ever had, not even ruined by the smug grin on Steve’s face that said something along the lines of, ‘I have been babysitting this bunch of teenagers for three years now. I know how to make damn fine hot chocolate and you cannot deny it.’

Eddie just shakes his head in dramatic exasperation and hides his smile in his mug.

Eddie tries not to think too hard about his little crush on Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington. It’s probably nothing but a trauma-related attachment anyway, just like he has with all the kids, with Robin and Nancy and Jonathan. It’s nothing. It’s stupid.

But then one night there’s a thunderstorm rolling over Hawkins and everyone’s probably having a shit night, but Eddie? Oh, Eddie is a mess. Every noise is a bat ripping into his flesh, every time he wants to open his mouth he feels like he’s choking on his own blood. He can’t breathe, can’t drink, can’t eat, can’t stop fucking shaking. Pulling his hair has stopped working a while ago, and he wants nothing more than to go over to Steve’s stupid big house and feel safe again.

Before he knows it, he’s in his van waiting in front of Steve’s house, the lights still on, always on, holding his walkie talkie in shaking hands.

“Hey Stevie?” he finally begins, just as a particularly loud crash of thunder makes him gasp, but he bites his lip desperately and braves on. “You there?”

The answer is immediate and it makes Eddie breathe a sigh of relief. “Eds? Yeah, I’m here. Are you okay?”

It’s past 1:30am, but neither of them are surprised that the other is still awake.

“Yeah,” Eddie laughs, but it’s too shaky to be anything but pathetic. “Sure am. Was just… thinking, y’know.”

A silence follows and Eddie cringes at himself, at his words, at his presence. Why did he think it was a good idea to come over here again without so much as a plan? Oh right, he didn’t think. At all. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

“Hey, listen, man, do you wanna come over? I mean… Is Wayne home? Stupid thunder, right? I’m… I’m here if you wanna talk, yeah?”

“I don’t wanna talk,” is all Eddie says, his eyes clenched shut as another bolt of lightning lights up the night sky and he counts twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, until he hears that dreadful thunder rolling above.

No, he doesn’t want to talk. What he wants is to just not be alone. To be in the same room, lie on the same floor and share the same air as Steve. The thought of talking while thunder is rolling above them makes his skin crawl, and he deosn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to speak, just wants to— Steve.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay, right? Eds? Hang on, is that—Oh Eddie.” Steve sighs, but it’s not exasperated, not annoyed, not angry. It’s fond. Kind. Patient. And Eddie wants to cry.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at the curtain moving behind the window before Steve spots his van. Eddie lifts his hand and just says, “Surprise?”

And then there’s a bit of static on the other end of the line before Eddie is only met with silence. The sudden moment of complete silence is a stark contrast to, well, everything, and Eddie panics for a moment. But then he sees the front door opening, Steve illuminated by the lights he always keeps on. He looks like an angel, even through the curtain of constant drizzle between them. Eddie’s treacherous insides melt some more when he sees that Steve is coming over with an umbrella in his hand. When he opens the driver’s door with that gentle little smile on his lips and simply offers his arm to Eddie in a gesture so chivalrous that the metalhead cracks a laugh and considers swooning for all but one second before he realizes that his laugh sounded more like a sob of relief.

Gods, but he is a mess.

Whether that is because of the thunderstorm that seems to creep closer and closer, or because he has just compared Stevie to an angel, and now here he is treating him like a gentleman, at ass o’clock, with a look in his eyes like there’s nowhere he would rather be, well. That’s between Eddie and his stupid heart.

Steve leads them inside, shutting and locking the door like he always does before turning back to Eddie. He takes one look at him, enough for Eddie to want to apologise for dropping in like this, but he can’t get the words out before Steve’s already asking, “Metallica or Motörhead?”

And Eddie wants to cry again. Because maybe Steve knows. Maybe he understands.

“Metallica,” he rasps and Steve nods. Smiles. Turns around to head into the kitchen and leaves Eddie where he is, allowing him to follow along or to find his own way, trusting him with that big empty house.

That’s when Eddie realises that he’s never been alone with Steve. Not here, at least. And he kind of wishes that he had come over in a better state, not quite this much of a wreck. But then he wouldn’t have gotten to see the kindness, the patience, the ‘We’re all fucked up here but you’re family so let me take care of you, dammit’-look that Dustin had to suitably dubbed.

Standing in the entry hall, feeling a bit lost and small, Eddie realises that he wants to follow Steve into the kitchen. Wants to stay close, touch him, drape himself over his back and just exist there, in silence and mutual understanding. He doesn’t. But it takes great physical effort to go find his way into the living room instead, sitting down in the white carpet where he had first seen Steve lying on the floor all those weeks ago. He breathes easier now as he runs his hand over the soft, plushy texture and finds himself unwilling to stop. He’s always had a knack for sensory stuff, and touch was by far the most intense, so he splays his palm over the carpet and moves his hands back and forth.

Then the music starts playing and it’s the rather slow first notes of “Fight Fire With Fire” that make Eddie look away from the white plush and back up at Steve, who is standing and watching with a barely-there smile.

The music isn’t very loud, just enough to create a comfortable atmosphere and drown out the rolling thunder. Just for him.

His heart is doing the traitorous shit again where it thinks it’s only beating for Steve Harrington in that moment. He doesn’t have the strength or the will to stop it, though.

And Steve, angel that he is, looking down at him in the dim, warm living room light, puts the two mugs of steaming hot chocolate on the coffee table beside Eddie before promptly sitting down beside him. He meets Eddie’s eyes with all that patience, all that compassion that it gets kind of heavy after a while.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve murmurs, barely audible over the music, and Eddie just shakes his head. There’s nothing to talk about, just stupid thunder and lightning making his brain feel like it’s being fried and splintering.

“Alright,” Steve whispers and falls back, lying down beside Eddie, who doesn’t have it in him to follow quite yet. His eyes sting. He will not cry in front of Steve fucking Harrington! But then there’s a hand brushing lightly over his back and his voice, so impossibly gentle, telling him, “C’m here, Eds.”

And who is he to deny, to resist, to refuse Steve ‘Kind Eyes’ Harrington?

Eddie slowly lets himself fall backwards, and they just lie there for a while. Not touching, not talking, not moving.

But this time, Eddie’s mind isn’t quiet, because Steve, Steve, Stevie is so close. So gentle. He’s there, he’s here, he understands, and he doesn’t judge. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t question. How can his mind be quiet when Steve is perfect?

How can his mind be quiet when his heart is racing as he slowly, achingly slowly like they do in the stupid movies Nancy loves to watch, moves his hand closer to Steve’s. He’s powerless against the pull of the boy beside him. His heart is beating in his throat when Steve meets his hand halfway, wrapping his pointer finger around Eddie’s pinkie. Their feet find their way to each other, just resting there, basking in each other’s warmth.

He is weak when his head lands on Steve’s shoulder. His eyes close and he breathes — quietly, shallowly, for fear of breaking the moment.

He doesn’t break it. In fact, the moment lasts far longer than the record Steve had put on – because of course he had to play a Metallica record instead of a cassette like normal people would –, and then it is quiet. The soft lights fill the room with warm, indirect safety and finally help his mind quiet down.

Of course, the realisation that he’s maybe a little bit in love with Steve Harrington had to be a quiet one. Soft, gentle, kind, and definitely far from what he ever would have expected. Just like Steve himself.

Of course, where everything else in Eddie’s life was loud — from his music to his kids to the thoughts in his head when he can’t sleep at night —, this one had to be different. Quiet. And when Steve begins to draw patterns into his back where Eddie is now essentially lying on top of him, Eddie dares once more to reach for Steve’s unoccupied hand, tangling their fingers. Not to hold him, because Steve isn’t going anywhere, but simply to touch.

Steve understands, Eddie realises, because he brushes his lips over his temple and then leaves them there. Not to kiss, not really, but simply to touch.

And while Eddie’s heart is busy feeling like it’s going to burst from these sudden realisations, from how quiet and how safe he feels, from how utterly, indescribably right this feels, Eddie just closes his eyes and accepts the fact that he is actually, absolutely, irrefutably and completely in love with Steve ‘Floor Time’ Harrington.