#but it's going to have to wait hehe

[the-lonelybarricade]

As the River Flows - Acotar Gift Exchange (3/8)

Summary: As Feyre lamented quietly over the misfortune of her life, there, in the marketplace, she heard a merchant instruct to its patron: Place a butterfly wing under your tongue before you sleep, and you will dream of your true love.

Or a Feysand magical regency AU. This is part three of my @acotargiftexchange for the lovely @sideralwriting. This chapter was also supposed to loosely be for the @unofficialfeysandmonth2022 wedding prompt, but the plot's moving a bit slower than anticipated.

Read on AO3・Feysand Month Masterlist・Series Masterlist

-

“What’s happened to your fingers?”

Feyre jolted up from where she’d been half falling asleep in her chair. Across the table, Nesta was scowling over her copy of Letters to Young Ladies on Their Entrance Into the World. Their Father and governess had insisted they each read the marriage manual cover to cover before they made their societal debut.

The sentiment of love will be found to take its colourings from the imagination of the person by whom it is cherished. Virtuous and amiable young women do not often fix their affections on base and unworthy objects; but they may, and most frequently do, fancy perfections and fine qualities in their lovers which no one else perceives, and which too frequently they do not possess.

From the way Nesta had narrowed her eyes at the bandages littered along Feyre’s fingers, it seemed that Feyre wasn’t the only one having difficulty staying engaged with the reading material.

Feyre set down the book so she could duck her hands into her lap, away from Nesta’s scrutiny. “I was sewing.”

“Oh?” Nesta thrummed her fingers against the table, assessing her coolly. “I’ve never seen you sew a thing in your freetime. I was under the impression you weren’t capable.”

Swallowing her outrage, Feyre lifted a hand from her skirt and waggled her fingers with more belligerence than was owed. “Evidently, I’m still honing the skill.”

“What were you sewing?” Nesta pressed.

“Buttons,” she said smoothly. “One of the buttons on my cloak had fallen off.”

“Odd, that you attempted to mend it yourself.”

“I mended it perfectly fine,” Feyre said, crossing her arms. “The only thing odd is your surveillance.”

Nesta shut her book. Feyre stiffened at the flame she saw burning, cold as a winter frost, in Nesta’s eyes. “You know what else is odd?” Her eldest sister raised an assessing brow. “That you’d be wearing a cloak at all, when you’ve never seen a winter chill in your life.”

Her heartbeat amplified, until Feyre could feel each pulse lodge in her throat. Nesta knew. Perhaps not the specifics, but from the way Nesta’s lips thinned into a grimace, she surely guessed that Feyre had been up to something impermissible. The three of them were all allies with each other before they were allies with their father—and if Feyre had done something she feared admitting even to Nesta and Elain, it could only truly relate to one thing.

Magic.

“Girls.” They both fell quiet at the sharp reprimand of their governess, from where she sat in the corner of the library, stiff-backed as always. Even in her leisure. “I hope your conversation isn’t distracting from your preparations for entering society.”

It was perhaps the first time Feyre had ever been relieved to be scolded by her governess. She quickly diverted her attention back to the marriage manual, ignoring the way Nesta glowered in her periphery. She could stare all she liked—it was a secret that would only ever exist between Feyre and her true love.

While the love-sick maiden avoids a clandestine engagement, and continues to employ the greater part of her time in elegant and useful occupations, there is but little danger of her sacrificing either her happiness or her duty to a hopeless passion or an impudent attachment.

Love—in the abstract, imaginative, and romantic sense of the word—is a chimerical passion of which but few young women can form any corresponding or adequate idea, and of which still fewer are in the least danger of ever experiencing…

Feyre suffered through 20 more pages which outlined precisely what a sensible woman should take into consideration when seeking matrimonial engagement. Love, apparently, took minimal precedence. It stuck with Feyre through the remainder of the day, until the sun touched the ground and she couldn't help writing out her thoughts in a letter.

-

My newly acquainted rake,

As the Winter Solstice draws near, my Father’s marriage preparations become more and more extreme. I’ve been made to read a host of manuals to help me achieve a successful married life with my father’s hand picked suitor. Did you know that Elizabeth Lanfear discourages seeking a love match? She asserts that ‘Love Matches, at least those which are generally so called, do not always prove the happiest’. Tell me, for I trust as my true love you will speak plainly, why in a world where finding your true love is as simple as catching a butterfly, we are discouraged from pursuing them as our match? I can understand why my father would discourage such a thing, when he has his own motives for securing me a husband. But Elizabeth’s interests claim to align with the women she advises, and she certainly doesn’t know my Father. Why would she advise against something that is so easily within reach?

It has occurred to me that your interests ought to be considered. As we may potentially be entering a courtship, your insights about my future matches are likely far from objective, regardless of my asking you to remain so. Perhaps I’m seeking your counsel, knowing you will assure me that I’m wise in sneaking behind my father’s back, breaking his strictest rule, and risking severe punishment. All to speak to someone I have been discouraged from pursuing by an alleged expert in marriage. I do not understand why everything I’ve ever been told directs me opposite to you. Why is love such a deplorable thing to desire?

I have always been one for taking risks, you see. I am not daunted by the idea of betraying my upbringing. I only wish to know if you also believe that love is, as Elizabeth puts it, “chimerical”.

Yours, despite the judgment of my Father and Elizabeth,

Feyre Archeron

-

Feyre. My darling, Feyre.

I admit, my opinion on the matter is swayed in knowing that you are the woman I wish to one day call my wife. Yet, I like to believe that I am a man whose heart and mind frequently agree. I can say with sincerity that in advising a woman who was not my true love nor future wife, I would be inclined to disagree with Elizabeth.

Love is not chimerical. I believe Elizabeth errs too heavily on the side of caution. You would be surprised by how easily love is given beyond the confines of your father’s manor. The greater challenge is finding love that agrees with high society’s rigid rules and harsher judgements. I’m certain Elizabeth fears that if she advises young women to pursue love above compatible means, she’ll be held responsible for all the esteemed ladies that suddenly run off with their farmboys. Love is easy to find, yes, but the circumstances for which it is encountered are not always convenient.

Regardless, I believe that when love is found—even outside of the “appropriate” societal bounds—it is worth pursuing at any cost. I hope when we eventually meet, you will find our match worth pursuing. As your husband, it would be my utmost endeavor to prove to Elizabeth that a love match can prove indisputably happy.

With my deepest affections,

Your rake

-

Rake,

Just as I expected, your quill is as honeyed as your tongue. Still, I agree with your observations, and I’ve always found myself exhausted by the endless restrictions of High Society. Though Elizabeth, my Father, and my eldest sister would all deem me a fool in love, I would gladly run away with you, if it came to it.

On a less romantic note, I fear I cannot continue sending these letters. Nesta suspects my bandaged fingers are the product of more than sewing and I fear that if my fingers continue to remain in this state, her investigation will transcend idle curiosity. It’s the fault of a foolish lie, since I claimed I was attempting to sew a button to my cloak. We live in perpetual spring, and to my governess’s behest, I have never taken much to sewing as a hobby.

This will be our last written correspondence before the Solstice Ball. Please, if there is anything I might use to identify you, tell me now so that I can ensure you are chosen as a potential suitor.

Foolishly yours,

Feyre

-

Feyre,

When we we meet, I will look into your eyes, and I will tell you that they are the most beautiful color I have ever seen.

That is how you will know it’s me.

-

Feyre’s true love did not visit in her dreams.

In some ways, she was relieved. The marriage manuals emphasized the importance of modesty, and Feyre didn’t trust that if her rake requested another kiss, or something more, she wouldn’t indulge him.

Still, as the days passed to weeks, she found herself thinking about him often. Imagining what he might look like. Trying to recall the sound of his voice, since it was the only thing she could use to identify him.

The longer the silence lingered between them, the feinter the memory became. Feyre became increasingly nervous that she wouldn’t be able to identify her true love at all by the time the Solstice Ball arrived. If he even came at all.

On the eve of the ball, she caved and caught another butterfly.

“Couldn’t wait to see me?” Teased a voice out of the darkness.

Feyre try to savor the sound, a sommelier searching for every hidden note.

Deep. Sensual. Decadent. Like velvet, or a rich chocolate cake.

Or a warm evening beneath a starry sky.

“Will you be there?” Feyre asked, knowing she was betraying her anxiety. She hoped he would find it flattering. And if he didn’t, well… he wasn’t the one about to be married off for the remainder of his life.

A gentle hand wrapped around the fingers she’d rested in her lap. She couldn’t fathom how he was able to find them so seamlessly in the dark. He lifted her hand into the air, laying a gentleman’s kiss against the back of her hand.

“I will be there, Feyre. I wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world.”

“What will you—”

“Go to sleep,” he chided with a soft laugh. “I’m sure your body will need the rest.”

“I am asleep,” she argued.

He lowered her hand, and she nearly jumped when his lips found her forehead next. “Happy birthday, Feyre darling. I will see you in the evening.”

-

“Remember Feyre—”

“Yes, yes,” she snapped, pushing away her governess’s fussing hands. “Don’t take my gloves off, I heard you the last dozen times.”

“Feyre!” She rolled her eyes at Elain’s feigned outrage. They all shared a mutual contempt for their governess, but Elain, at least, encouraged civility. Their governess bristled, brushing her hands roughly on her skirts, before she turned to fuss over the pins in Elain’s hair instead.

Fine. At least Elain enjoyed being fussed over. Feyre pulled at the hem of her gloves again. Her palms were so sweaty that the fabric was slipping more so than usual. If it were Nesta or Elain, it wouldn’t have been an issue. But Feyre’s tattoo crawled all the way to her elbow, black as spilled ink on a fresh winter’s snow.

“I told Father you needed a long sleeved dress,” Nesta complained, irritation so sharp in her voice that Feyre straightened her back.

They were perhaps all a little high strung that evening.

“The glove covers it fine, Nesta.”

Outside Nesta’s open window, they could hear the guests assembling in the garden. It was the perfect evening for a ball. A warm, cloudless night, bathed in silver moonlight that shone nearly as bright as day. The servants had strung up lanterns alone the stone path that circled their great marble fountain. It made for a pleasant area to take a breath of fresh air between the dancing that was set to take place in the ballroom.

Already, Feyre could hear the drifting sound of violins.

With a long, shaky breath, Feyre pulled the elastic of her delicate mask over her head. Next was the dance card, which Feyre had to hold out her wrist for Nesta to tie. Once Nesta was finished, she held out her wrist wordlessly for Feyre to return the favor. Except wrapping the ribbon around her sister’s wrist felt like slipping a noose around her neck. They stared at one another through masks of swirling gold and silver, words just out of reach to express the emotions they were never quite capable of sharing with one another. She squeezed Nesta’s fingers once the dance card was secure, and that said enough.

If they could depend on no one else tonight, they could depend on each other. Elain managed to escape their governess to loop her arm through Feyre’s and then Nesta’s.

“Shall we?” She asked, with none of the excitement that had been in her voice when she’d talked about this evening as a little girl. Then, their mother had been alive, and talks of suitors and romance had been exciting.

Had their father truly warped this occasion, or had the veil just been lifted from their eyes? Suddenly, Feyre felt guilty for not having encouraged her sisters to try their own hand at magic, to ensure their true loves would be here, too. She had been nervous of the repercussions, and that it was a step of defiance too far even for Nesta, but now Feyre wondered if she had doomed them by withholding this secret.

Not that there was anything she could say or do now, as the three of them descended the steps and the ballroom doors opened, enveloping them in layers of sound—the softly playing orchestra, the idle chatter of the attendees, the sound of glass flutes filled with sparkling liquid. It all quieted the moment they entered the room.

That was when their Father stepped forward from the heart of the crowd. “Ladies and gentleman, may I introduce to you all my three beautiful daughters.” They dropped arms, forcing pleasant smiles toward the curious, near predatory crowd.

“My eldest daughter, Nesta Archeron.”

Chin held high, eyes as cool and unyielding as a winter storm, Nesta curtsied to the room.

“My dearest, Elain Archeron.”

Elain smiled so brilliantly, no one would ever have believed she was standing at the front of the ballroom unwillingly. Feyre could already see the way some of the men’s eyes glazed as they watched her gracefully bow her body. All she could see was a pack of wolves eying a fawn.

Her eyes scanned the crowd. Searching for him. Surely, he would not look like a wolf.

“And my youngest. Here to celebrate her debut into society and her 21st birthday. Feyre Archeron.”

For a moment, Feyre considered standing her ground. It would be delicious to stare her father in the eyes as she refused to bow. But knowingly it would reflect poorly on her sisters, Feyre lowered her body towards the ground and spread her arms just as her governess had made them practice. Again and again and again.

“They’re all staring,” she said under her breath, trying her best not to fidget as they walked with each other through the parted crowd. Their governess said that tonight she needed to emulate perfect, poised Elain.

Feyre noted, with some measure of satisfaction, that perfect, poised Elain was looking fairly pale herself.

“Let them stare,” Nesta said. “They’re to come to us.”

Indeed, they hadn’t made it to the refreshments table before the first bachelor stepped into their path, eager eyes fixed on Elain as he bowed. “Lord Graysen,” he said. A lovely voice, but it wasn’t deep enough. Not at all like being caressed by moonlight.

Soon Elain was sequestered to the dance floor, followed by a brave, darked haired man who dared weather Nesta’s icy demeanor. Handsome, even through his mask, but there was something about the way his eyes wavered over Nesta’s body that made Feyre’s stomach drop into her chest. Lord Tomas. Not her true love.

If he was here, as he had promised Feyre he would be, she liked to believe that he would be the first to approach her. If only to ensure that he could secure a place on her dance card.

“Lady Feyre,” someone said at her back.

She turned, and was met with an exquisite golden mask embedded with emeralds and shaped like whorls of leaves. Jade green eyes shone beneath the twisted metal and his lips were curled into a friendly smile.

She hadn’t imagined the shoulder length blonde hair. But he was certainly handsome.

“Pardon me, Lord…”

“Tamlin,” he supplied with a small, charming laugh. “Duke of Carterhaugh. Please excuse my terrible manners. I was momentarily blindsided.”

His voice was… different. Deep. A bit rougher, less like velvet and more like corduroy. “Blindsided by what, your grace?”

“Your eyes,” he answered. “They’re the most beautiful color I’ve ever seen.”

For a moment, the room swam and all the sound fizzled into a muted buzz. She searched Tamlin’s face, assessing his intention. He was smiling. Smiling knowingly. And truly, what were the chances that any other suitor would be so forward. So shameless?

“That’s an awfully rakish thing to say,” she said, studying every muscle on his face.

Tamlin grinned. “Maybe so, lady.” It was him. It had to be. “But I am only speaking the truth.” Feyre might as well have been floating as he held out his hand and asked, “May I have the first dance?”

He was here. And he was a duke. Surely, her father would be ecstatic at such a match.

“Tell me more about yourself, your grace.”

“Please,” he said, his touch light as he guided her towards the dance floor. “Call me Tamlin.”

Feyre withheld a giggle. Over a month now, she’d agonized over what his name might be. Tamlin. They moved among the other couples, searching for a space in the waltz. His hand was on her forearm, so warm. This close, she could smell him, and it wasn’t quite the same as she remembered. It reminded her of opening the window after a fresh rain. What had he smelled of before? Magic is fickle, and perhaps her dream of him hadn’t been a perfect mirror to reality.

“Tell me Tamlin,” Feyre said as he drew her into his arms. “What do you think of the stars?”

He placed a hand on her shoulder blade, the other clasped hers firmly. “The stars?” He asked as he led them into the flow of dancing couples, graceful as any debutante could have hoped to find in a dance partner. “I think the stars are beautiful. Though I—”

Feyre watched those jade eyes widen. His attention snapped over her shoulder and Feyre whirled in time to watch the doors blow open on a gust of night-kissed wind. The candles nearest the entrance guttered, bathing half of the room in shadow before they flared back to life.

The crowd gasped,some even screamed, as they all scrambled to part way for a figure that strolled in on long, even steps, straightening the lapels of his black jacket as though there wasn’t a single soul watching.

Shadow leaked from him like ink in water. Magic. Magic unlike she had ever seen it. Raw. Powerful. Even across the room, she could taste it in the air.

The masked stranger angled his head, blue-black hair shifting with the movement. Candlelight glowed against his face adoringly, illuminating a pair of bright violet eyes that swept over the room and landed directly on her Father.

“Lord Archeron,” he greeted. “What a charming soiree. A shame my invitation was misplaced.”

Tamlin’s hand moved up until he was gripping her shoulder, pushing her towards the back of the crowed. “What’s going on?” She whispered to him. “Do you know who that is?”

“Prince Rhysand,” he said darkly. “From the Northern Kingdom.”

She’d heard very little of the cold, merciless North. But she’d heard enough to go stiff, watching with horror as the dark prince approached her father, walking almost past him, before he placed a hand on his shoulder and said something into his ear.

Something that made Feyre’s father stumble backward. His face had drained of all color, but she could see him fighting to maintain composure as he said, “My family is honored to have you in attendance, your highness.”

Coward. But she could forgive him for it, on this occasion.

Rhysand was picking a fleck of dust off his shoulder as he said. “I wish to dance with your loveliest daughter.”

There was a moment of silence where Feyre could feel her father panicking. Something gnarled and twisted inside of her couldn’t help revel in it. For once, he understood how it felt to have control taken from him. Her gratification faltered the minute he began stuttering, “E-Elain, darling, come dance with the Prince.”

Sweet, gentle Elain. It was no secret that she was the loveliest of the sisters. Not just in beauty, but in nature. Her heart was good, kind in a way their Father had always declared was rare.

“No that one,” Rhysand said, not even glancing in the direction from where Elain had hesitantly stepped out of the crowd.

“Nesta, then,” her Father said.

Feyre tried not to feel insulted at being declared the least lovely—it was such a vain thing to focus on. At least Nesta, with her steel heart and iron will, would be most likely to weather the conditions of the North. Should it come to that.

“No.” The Prince’s tone was almost mocking. “Not that one, either.”

“Feyre,” her father called, sweeping his eyes over the crowd in search of her.

Tamlin’s hand tightened on her shoulder, but it fell away as she stepped forward. The ballroom was so quiet, the click of her shoes resounded through the room with each step. The world’s most resentful death knell.

The prince turned, violet eyes assessing her approvingly. “Feyre Archeron,” he purred. Her cheeks burned in humiliation at the knowledge that every single person was watching, holding their breaths so they could hear each word in perfect clarity. “The rumors are true, then, that you have eyes like stars.” He leaned in close, so that the next words were but a private secret between the two of them: “They are the most beautiful color I have ever seen.”

[verflares]

just how long is forever? // not long enough, with you

pssst. check this out on inprnt :]

[wtfforged]

i wonder... how the others are doing... i hope no ones been killed. i wish i knew what happened.

[choccy-milky]

congrats on baby #2!🥰👍 part 2 to this post bc seb is a smug ass bitch when it comes to getting clora pregnant. and ty @rednite-dork for sending me the original pic ages ago LMFAO... i knew as soon as i saw it that i had to redraw it eventually 👼

[triona-tribblescore]

IM FUCKING BACK BABYYYY!!!! [Read tags for a lil info!]

(Please accept this silly doodle dump of my brainrot boys uvu ✨)

[hajihiko]

Hold me back 😡😡😡

[14dayswithyou]

Hi, Howdy! Hey! I really love your novel!! I got a little confused by the 4 day, may maybe you help me please? who is it? why we got the bad end staying the night in Ren’s apartment and he disappear of the home screen? I can’t understand “unset memory” game, sorry if I wrote smth wrong or smth sounds rude, I swear that I didn’t mean it if happened, I’m really a fan of the novel, I’ve been playing the game since day 1 or 2 I guess, probably day 1, english isn’t my first language, but I tried lol

⌞♥⌝ I hope you don't mind me answering these as bullet points!! ^^

"It" will be revealed later in the game! So I won't reveal too much right now.

You can only get the Dead End in Day 4 by staying at Ren's apartment — the rest of your choices before that don't matter. I'd also pay closer attention to the black smoke and Ren's reaction towards it!

Ren disappears from the home screen because he promised to help the player out (and stop them from getting the Dead End again). Try replaying the game again from the beginning for a surprise!

"Unsent Memories" was another visual novel (initially being written by @10chimes / @unsentmemory, though the project has since been dropped and handed back to me /pos) and is set in the same universe as 14 Days With You. Its storyline and characters are completely separate from 14DWY, so you don't have to worry about them while playing 14DWY.

[stevebabey]

no one asked but this is the post that inspired this! thank u immensely for the luv <3 number 1 comment was wondering what steve’s bids were & from his pov, so without further ado...enjoy — part one here!

—

Begrudgingly, Eddie has to admit that Robin might be right.

It’s impossible not to be looking for the bids since he brought them up to her. Even though Eddie was fully expecting to tell Robin to suck it, maybe even wager what little money he had against this working out, Eddie can’t help but watch for them in every interaction. And fuck, she’s right.

They’re little, but they’re there.

The first one Eddie would’ve missed if he wasn’t looking for it. Actually, that’s a lie; Eddie does miss it, until Robin points it out, the nosy bitch. It’s minuscule and honestly, it just seems like Steve asking his opinion — which friends do all the time! It’s why Eddie brushes right over it.

“Okay, be honest,“ Steve had said, walking and talking as he entered the living room where Robin and Eddie were sprawled across the couches. They were both waiting on him, the three of them set on heading out to the drive-in to catch a film.

Eddie can’t fathom why Steve felt the need to change his outfit for it, but when he returns, he gets it. It’s not quite the usual polo Eddie had grown to like on Steve, this one hanging a little looser, the colour a bit darker than Steve’s usual choice, the sleeves a little shorter — almost midway to a muscle tee.

Steve’s fingers fiddle with the distressed collar of the shirt, smoothing invisible wrinkles and fussing over nothing. He swishes back his floppy hair with a flick of his head. “It’s a new shirt, I know it’s a little different - but what do we think?”

He says we but he’s looking at Eddie.

Eddie, who has taken to trying to reel in his gawp because what the fuck Steve? It’s like he’s well aware of what drives Eddie insane and has specifically leaned into it. Some evil goblin in Eddie’s brain whispers think how good he’d look in your shirt and he squashes it, giving a visible twitch to shut down that train of thought.

From the other couch, Robin clears her throat loudly and smiles sweetly at her best friend. “It looks great, Steve.”

It’s sincere and Steve’s mouth tugs up, nearly a smile but his gaze fast-tracks back to Eddie. Eddie nods in agreement, a bit sluggish from his distracting thoughts and god dammit, the extra exposed skin of Steve’s arms are so not helping. “Yeah, looks... looks good, man.”

Steve smiles, lips pressed together but his shoulders curl in just a bit, deflating just a tad. From where Steve can’t see her, Robin waves her hands wildly and catches Eddie’s attention. He watches as she gestures wildly and it takes a moment to realise what’s she mouthing — ‘A bid! That’s a bid, you idiot!’

Oh fuck, Eddie thinks. Cos it totally was; the question, the focus on Eddie. He doesn’t even think about the logistics of it, of the fact Robin was right, just jumps right into picking up the bid.

“You trying a new style?” Eddie asks and then thanks whatever god invented the whole fake-it-to-you-make-it schtick because he’s feeling so far from casual or confident. “Going metal on me, big boy?”

Eddie just manages to catch the grin that breaks across Steve’s face as he turns away, giving a scoff — it comes out too soft though, giving away his complete lack of annoyance. He pulls that usual Steve Harrington pose, hands sliding onto his hips, and screws his face into some melted smiley-grimace. “Shut up, Munson.”

Eddie grins and goads on the blush that’s beginning on Steve’s neck, a glorious tinged pink colour. “If this shirt is any indication, you’d pull it off just fine.”

Eddie watches the blush climb higher as Steve ignores the comment, his smile still giving him away. He grabs his coat and pats down his jeans — ridiculous tight acid wash jeans that Eddie hates he’s somehow become attracted to — ensuring he has his keys and wallet. Once assured, he looks up at his two friends again, brows raised, and says, “Ready to rock and roll?”

That comment alone has Eddie seriously reconsidering his type in men.

There’s only a brief moment to talk about it when Eddie and Robin cajole Steve into going and getting them both popcorn to get a moment alone. Steve had scoffed, face twitching in the way it did whenever he tried to hold back a bitchy comment, but he still stomped off in the direction of the snack stand.

The moment he’s out of earshot, both voices explode in the back of Eddie’s van.

“What did I say—”

“Jesus H Christ, you were right—”

“Literally how many times do I have—”

“Oh my god, you were right—”

“ —before you realise I’m always—”

“Robin.” He cuts her off, hands landing on her shoulders. Robin eyes them warily, lips still parted from how her rant had been cut off. “Robin, I’m gonna kill you.”

“What?” Robin’s nose scrunches up. “What the hell are you—”

“Oh Christ, I can’t believe- how long have you noticed those bids?” Eddie’s aware he sounds a bit estranged, eyes probably wide and it doesn’t help when he softly shakes Robin back and forth. She lets herself be shaken, hair flying back in forth. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! You are such a bad gay friend!”

Robin smacks his hands off her shoulders with a frown, her freckly face perturbed at Eddie’s outburst. “Dude, it’s not my fault! May I remind you that until very very recently you were seeing someone else? What difference would it have made?”

Eddie waves his hand, disregarding the point with a shake of his head. His unkempt curls cover his face and Eddie sweeps them back in one motion, “What difference would it have made? Oh my, Jesus—“

Whatever long-winded sentence Eddie was about to spit out is lost by the sound of Steve’s approaching footsteps, effectively shutting both of them up.

Eddie flings himself to the other side of the van, putting an unusual amount of distance between Robin and him like they were being caught doing something they shouldn’t.

Robin frowns at him and gestures wildly with her hands in a way that means what the fuck man? Eddie gestures back, though he’s not entirely sure what his fast hand motions are supposed to mean when Steve rounds the door.

He’s got two buckets of popcorn tucked under each arm and Eddie quickly crosses his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits like his stupid hand motions will somehow give him away. 

Steve looks up, stopping just a way from the edge of the van, and looks at the pair of them. His eyes track from Robin still sitting on one of the old cushions and looking two seconds from burying her face in her hands, across to Eddie. He huffs a laugh and kneels on the edge of the van.

“I know he’s gross Robin,” He begins, tone light, as he holds out one of the buckets for Robin to take. “But c’mon, is the distance really necessary?”

Robin snickers as Eddie makes an appalled noise, both of which make Steve smirk. He holds out the other for Eddie to take and Eddie snatches it, glaring at him over the buttery rim for his comment. Then takes a handful and shovels it in because he can’t think of a witty comment to retaliate. Steve crawls into the van and plops himself between them with a content sigh.

“See? Gross.” He teases, shoving his hand into Eddie’s popcorn bucket to grab a handful. Eddie scowls and chews a little faster when the flavour on his tongue seems to register in his brain.

His eyes stare at the popcorn bucket as he chews, then swallows — up the front of the van, the radio that’s tuned into the correct frequency begins playing the opening credits song as the screen changes. Silence sweeps across the drive-in but despite the sudden hush, Eddie has no qualms about breaking it.

“Sweet n’ salty flavour?” He asks Steve, only half attempting a whisper. Robin shushes him instantly, her focus already on the movie that’s beginning. Steve smiles, looking a bit sheepish beneath the glow of the drive-in screen, but he nods.

“I know you like it.” He whispers with a small shrug of his shoulders. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Fuck, Eddie thinks again and hastily feeds himself another handful of popcorn before he says anything majorly stupid in response to that, like: Oh, amazing- have you noticed the big fat crush I have on you as well?

He doesn’t even need to look at Robin to know she’s smiling, smug as ever.

—

Steve, God bless his oblivious little heart, doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.

Steve likes Eddie. Eddie is— god, Eddie is different but he’s good.

He’s this strange amalgamation of traits that Steve can’t comprehend how they fit together in one body or how Eddie manages to pull it all off completely charmingly.

He’s loud, he says rude things, he’s fucking dorky, and far too sweet on the kids — he likes to tease Steve, and yet somehow, when Eddie calls him ‘pretty boy’, Steve knows he’s not actually making fun of him.

Steve likes Eddie, likes his boyishly endearing charm, likes his touchiness towards Steve that no other boy his age is like, likes his messy curls and his ‘holier than thou’ attitude about metal music even though Steve doesn’t get it, like at all. And fuck, Steve really wants Eddie to like him.

It reminds him faintly of when he first started working alongside Robin at Scoops. That thought tickles in the back of his mind, something along the lines of how he had wanted Robin to like him for other reasons, but he doesn’t delve into it.

To Steve, it’s simple: he just wants Eddie to like him.

After the night at the drive-in, between Eddie acting strangely skittish and Robin giving more amused snorts than usual, Steve knows something is up.

He knows they must have discussed something when they sent him on popcorn duty, the bastards. He tries his best to not feel left out; god knows Robin and he have more than a dozen secrets they’ve sworn not to tell anyone but each other.

Besides, Steve trusts Robin to come and tell him if he really needs to know, even if it does worry him a bit. He bites down his anxious thoughts, even trying for a moment to see if there’s a pattern he’s been missing.

That train of thought gets derailed when Steve recalls instead Eddie’s delightful reaction to his new shirt — that Steve definitely hadn’t bought for that specific reason.

Even though Robin had given him that look when he’d first shown it to her — her bright eyes had narrowed, her smile turning a little more coy, and Steve had felt his ears get a little hotter. She hadn’t said anything though, just suggested that he should wear it tomorrow night when they were going out with Eddie.

God, he was glad she suggested it.

Rewinding over Eddie’s parted lips, the way his brown eyes had drank in the details as they trailed up his body and lingered on his arms— Steve had the sudden thought to flex the muscle, just to elicit some reaction, but it had gone out the window at Eddie’s original dismal reaction.

‘Yeah, looks... looks good, man’. Said all aloof, like he hadn’t really thought it. It was like bursting a balloon hidden behind Steve’s ribs, one he wasn’t even aware was there until it was deflating pathetically, making his shoulders sag.

Then— ‘You trying a new style? Going metal on me, big boy?’ And dammit, it’s like Eddie had clocked exactly what calling him ‘big boy’ had done the first time in the Winnebago.

Eddie had then grinned, done another once over of the new shirt, even as Steve pretended to search for his keys and wallet while saying something snarky to try to cover up the heat crawling up his neck. Yet, Steve found himself smiling too because, fuck yes, Eddie liked it too.

But, apparently, whatever Eddie and Robin had discussed wasn’t considered important enough because Robin never brought it up.

The thought and worry about it melt away in Steve’s mind until the memory of that night is about Eddie’s compliment, about his cat-like grin over the popcorn bucket, and how he had leaned over to whisper every bad joke into Steve’s ear all through the movie.

Some of them had been down-right filthy jokes which Eddie only seemed to enjoy more when Steve screwed his face up and nudged Eddie in the ribs, yet unable to hide his smile.

After the third vulgar joke and subsequent nudge, Steve had chided ‘dude’ with a poorly hidden grin. Eddie, smile all cheeky, had nudged him back with a ‘dude’ of his own.

Which, of course, ensued a nudge competition til Robin had given a shush that librarians all over the world would be jealous of. But Steve didn’t even care because he and Eddie were arm to arm, pressed close together and Eddie…didn’t move. Stayed close, like he wanted the closeness the same way Steve did.

Steve only remembers the strange drive-in moment when Robin brings it up finally, on one interesting Saturday night.

It’s not the usual routine; it’s not very often that the whole group gets together to share drinks and get rowdy.

But it was for Robin’s birthday and she’d been persuasive enough to get even the introverts, like Jonathan, to come along. Though, she was aware he’d probably spend the night on a pool lounger, stoned to high heaven. Whatever floats your boat, she’d said, happy for the company in any form.

There’s enough of them there that it almost resembles some sort of party— and makes Steve try not to think about the last small party he threw here. He can tell Nancy notices it too, eyeing the pool a bit too long in a way he’s very familiar with, then taking a swig of beer.

So, Steve heckles them inside — doing a fantastic mothering impression as he waves the group indoors with a promise of pizza, and that has both Jonathan and Argyle perking up and beginning a fast discussion on the best pizza toppings.

Eddie makes a fuss, because of course he does, and moans terribly when Steve tries to roll him off the pool lounger he’s on. He’s had a bit of a joint and some beer, and Steve’s learned that he gets adorably stubborn after some substances.

“Stevie, this is mean,” he had pouted, gripping the edges of the lounger and staring up at Steve with those big brown eyes. “You telling me I did all that bonding with you for nothing? Can’t even lounge by the pool! I’ve got a couch at homeeeee.”

Steve had sent him an amused look of disbelief, hands on his hips after his first round of flicks against Eddie’s arm were apparently fruitless to get him to move. “Really? Didn’t peg you for a gold-digger, Eds.”

Eddie had snorted at that, one hand coming to slap over his mouth. Steve couldn’t quite hear what he had said but the words pegging and anytime slipped through and Steve thinks he could get the gist of that.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Steve muttered, feeling the tips of his ears turn warm. He didn’t know how Eddie could be such a menace— or why he enjoyed it so much when he was. Steve waved a hand in the direction of the doors, ignoring Eddie’s delighted snickering. “If you go inside now, you can be on music, alright?”

And that had finally got them all indoors, Eddie whooping and skedaddling through the doors in an instant, with a call of ‘no take backsies!’ echoing behind him.

Inside was much cozier, the whole group a little more connected when squished up on the couches together. Eddie had taken Steve’s word and was jamming a cassette into one of the speakers when Steve made it back inside after scouting around the pool for leftover cans and butts to throw out.

He’s just been thinking about what playful jab he could make at Eddie’s music, like Eddie always did to him when Robin hollered at him from the kitchen.

“Steve!” She’d yelled excitedly and he come to find her quick, brows raised as he entered the kitchen. She was grinning, already a bit jumpy as she got when she had a bit of liquor — but apparently not enough because when Steve saw what she’d called him in for, she’d announced, “Tequila shots!”

Which lead to now. A hazy combination of beer, tequila, and a bit of weed, and Steve is feeling good. Robin had managed to hijack the music not too long ago, with a hiccup of ‘it’s my birthday’ that had Eddie surrendering with a pout.

She’d since put on a bit of everything: some Blondie for Nance, Talking Heads for Jonathan, and some Bowie, just so she and Steve could dance along to ‘Magic Dance’ and she could do all the silly little goblin voices that made them both cackle.

Steve realised at some point that Robin was playing their mixtape, the one she’d made for driving in the morning, and nearly tripped stumbling over to her in his excitement. He grabbed her shoulders, not too hard, and squeezed.

“Is it- is this our mixtape?” Steve asked, words slurring only a bit. Robin gleamed, hair bouncing with her excited nod.

“Yes!” She was already dancing, even though the tape was between songs — because she knew what song was coming. “It’s Springsteen time, Steve!”

Right as the drums to Born to Run filtered out the speaker.

And oh, Steve loves Robin so much. He loves having a best friend that knows his favourite song and gets jittery and excited because she knows it’s about to play— that she put it on this mix for him.

“You’re my best friend!” Steve says, the words bursting out like he can’t control them. He doesn’t even feel embarrassed, just happy, just drunk, and overwhelming happy to be able to have this.

And even though Robin knows this, she still beams, feet dancing along and just begins to sing along with the song, “In the days, we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream…”

It’s a brazen drunken performance from the both of them. Steve’s chest is heaving after just one chorus that he’s pretty sure he put his whole soul into and he’s so fucking happy —and it feels like pure instinct to seek out Eddie, his eyes scouring the room for him.

Eddie’s leaned up against the wall, hiding his smile behind a can and Steve doesn’t think twice about it— doesn’t think about why he’s so drawn to Eddie, why he wants to include him in this happiness — just extends his hand out and grins.

Eddie sees the bid coming this time.

Part Three.

— 

yes i saw all ur lovely tags and MAYBE cried about it. but thats none of ur business.

@orangeandthefairroadkill @swimmingbirdrunningrock @sadcanadianwinter @phantypurple @omg-elledubs-things @henderdads @farfaras @mixsethaddams @prismandblue @kerlypride @bushbees @legitcookie @temporalcoffin @callmesirkay @beautifully-useless @millyditty @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @ninjapirateunicorns @darkwitchoferie @vi-the-best-you-can @psychosnowfox @desert-fern @scarletzgo @cr0w-culture @softpink-candlelight @livingforfictionalcharacters @makewavesandwar @kozuuji @rhapsodyinalto @eddiethesexy @cassaloopa @lightwoodbanethings @qu33rcommunist @moonlitkilljoy @starkdusk @theysherobinbuckley @sanguineterrain @loganwright @sillysparrow @hotcocoaharrington @eddie-munson-is-my-wife @she-is-tim @steddiehearts @sideblogofthcentury @sidebarre @corrodedcoughin @stevieclaus

[abigail]

went to a book swap at a cafe and this note was left in one of the books i picked up ♡ cute

[squuote]

there’s probably a reason for why the narrator’s voice is much more monotone in the original mod compared to the ultra deluxe or even the 2013 version, but. i think it is fun comparing the different versions. It almost creates a greater sense of character growth within the narrator. From a less emotive and more cynical other worldly being to an expressive and more humanly being. non human characters growing a sense of humanity over the course of time and whatnot. ngl, it makes me crazy. I think about the comparison so much, it’s just such a fun way to interpret it

[vaperarmand]

just trust me bro you need to watch this show because like. okay so during season 2 the vampire armand wears an outfit that looks remarkably similar to an outfit worn by daniel molloy in the 1994 movie adaptation. right so armand only wears it for a few minutes but it’s huge because daniel and armand are canonically lovers. well not in the show. not yet anyway. but the thing is that. wha- oh you’re getting another call? okay that’s fine we can talk later

[nopanamaman]

In a beginner guide to heresy, why are the human character's names are like... steel... and concrete...

Is there plot significance to it? Or do you think it's just funny to name people related to building construction?

Everything in BGH exists and happens because I thought it would be cool or funny. Also it's a pun on "reinforced concrete", which works better in Russian (сталик + бетон = железобетон)

[roscoehamiltons]

LHFW 2024 graphics: pre-testing at Bahrain

[smalltimidbean]

IT'S THE WORLD'S MOST SPECIALIST GUY, EVERYONE CLAP NAOW!!! (silly!!!)

Satoshi but as a Fake Peppino clone, so no longer Satoshi but still mostly them jlkdfgkj

They do need a different name tho, bc my food-themed naming scheme can not be ruined!!! (silly! I already messed up on that early on, but still jkfdjkfsd) - I would refer to them by number, but I am leaning towards them being one of Mr D'Angiolini's... 'Special Request' clones for 'Personal Use', so they wouold not have a number, but I have not decided yet!

For now; They are here, and ready to get sillay

[souenkun]

My tiny little kantrio besties to keep me company in my journey! Made by the amazing @okiroash 🥹🫶

[tetzoro]

goooood morning and happy monday my friendz ! ! it’s the start of a new week and i am waving my wand + manifesting that we all have a good one ✨🤍🧚‍♀️