#developing relationship fics

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi Steph! I am here to submit a new fic I write to you! It's called 'Understanding'

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58727923

I hope you have a great day!

Understanding by avalanching effect (T, 2,465 w., 1 Ch. || POV John, Kissing, Aftermath of a Case, Love Confessions, Developing Relationship) – After a case that nearly goes wrong, John and Sherlock come to a new understanding in the foyer of Baker street.

=====

AMAZING! Thanks Lovely! I'm honoured to promote your story! Everyone go give this one some love!!!

[lucyllawless]

[hitlikehammers]

Early November, 1984 and all Eddie wanted was to light up behind the Byers' place in peace🚬

he went all that way and all he got for it was a maybe-dead💀-but-definitely-unconscious-king👑-slash-maybe-babysitter(?), plus some shithead children directing his van🚐 to those fucking abandoned labs that may as well be lit up in neon lights screaming 🚨THIS IS A FUCKING TRAP🚨

Eddie shouldn’t be here. Like, not in a it’s forbidden kinda way, but more in a, there’s no real reason for him to fucking be here.

Save for the obvious.

It’s just…after the whole dead-not-dead thing with the youngest kiddo, the property around the Byers house has kinda turned into no-man’s-land; easy place to get high when Eddie wants a change of scenery, basically, with no one trying to break his nose, or call the pigs.

Or snatch his supply.

But when he hears that fuckface Hargrove call out, the tone on him—and Eddie’s real sensitive to tones, he can guess between the lines for everything he can’t read—he perks up; listens in. Stays put out of sight.

(And no, he does not cream his pants when Harrington calls back, Jesus; taunts like the cocky prick that he is—

And no it is not a close thing or…whatever.)

Point being: he hears more than sees what happens. Up to and including a gaggle of literal fucking children dragging Harrington toward wha Eddie thinks is Hargrove’s eyesore of a car, one of the sheepies crossing around like they’re planning on driving it, and Eddie’s not one for the rule of law or anything—definitely not if it’s Hargrove’s property that’s on the line—and fuck yes Eddie’s driven without a license, and far below the age to get one, but, but—

He’s tripping over himself to turn the keys in his own ignition and swinging the van around quick enough to kick up dirt before he leans over and throws open the passenger door.

“Hey,” he hisses, low but not quiet, he needs them to hear but he doesn’t know if Hargrove’s gonna storm out any second, it’s a delicate balance; “hey, get in,” and he’s crawling over the seat to open the back, too, to push things to the side to mostly leave it flat, tossing blankets to the middle with no care for their cleanliness because there’s no time for that shit, there’s no time and then he’s grabbing the hinges of the doors and flinging his whole top half around to eye this hoard of strange ankle-biters and what’s revealed quickly to be their still-weirdly-attractive-when-beat-to-shit charge in Steve Motherfucking Harrington, trying to project some degree of meaningful trustworthiness, because he is trustworthy, here and now, but they’re kinda in the fucking clock of crazy-eyes-Mc-West-Coast stumbling out of the house, so Eddie’s kinda gotta urge these rugrats with real feeling, waving his hands to the point where his fucking wrists hurt:

“Get in.”

And of course these little urchins still and just, raise a fucking eyebrow at him. Like they’re not working on an inexact sort of fucking timeline—

“Who the fuck are you?”

Yeesh. He wasn’t off when he said they were ankle biters; the little lambies have teeth.

“I just wanna help,” Eddie tries to say it with as much of the genuine concern that he really and truly feels, and not get weighed down with the probably-suspicious-off-the-bat vibe of pulling up in a random van just to start the exchange out with waving some strange kids into the back of it.

Jesus, that sounds terrible, wow, okay.

He gets it.

“No,” oddly, not the ringleader girl who eyed him first but it’s the curly headed boy now who stands up, squares his shoulders, and stares Eddie down with an only-slightly-less-menacing glare. “No, you’re not gonna hurt Steve.”

“I don’t want to hurt him, I swear,” Eddie’s honestly surprised by how unmuddled his tone bleeds put as desperate, versus irritated by this motley crew of munchkins trying to fight him when he is risking his own neck to help them.

And…King Steve, but then: can he be that motionless, hanging awkward from the noodles limbs of a handful of preteens (at most)?

“I just want to get you out of here, somewhere safe,” Eddie bites his lip, wonders where the fuck he intends to go and realizes he was probably just going to drive toward his home and hope for the best; “Er, somewhere safer than here,” and they don’t fucking budge, little assholes, and Harrington doesn’t fucking twitch, and just, just…

Ugh.

“Come on,” he urges them again, just shy of begging; lets how fucking nervous he’s getting seep clear into his tone a little, but he honestly doesn’t think he’d have convinced them to move if not for the crashing of something in the house behind them, and—well.

Nothing like impending doom to speed shit along.

“I wanted to drive,” the redhead’s muttering with a scowl as they heft the body they’re barely keeping off the ground and awkwardly feed Harrington head-first up to Eddie where where he’s crawled properly into the back of the van to help, and Eddie thinks these little fuckers just might be more wild and feral and insane even than he originally would have guessed for how they make to scramble behind their Steve; only just manages to steady and lower the royal body as careful as he can before the hoard clamors in and denies Eddie so much as a moment to press his finger under Steve Harrington’s flop of bloody hair and touch below his jawline where those stupidly infuriating moles of his speckle his skin, marks that Eddie’s hasn’t ever really paid attention to ever, nope, Eddie only needs now to assess whether he’s just accepted a dead fucking body into his van but: no.

Maybe a little sluggish, but pulse’s strong. Which: Eddie doesn’t care about past the legality of it all. Beyond getting saddled with a murder charge or some other bullshit.

No other reason. Of course. Yeah.

The only thing that floors him more than the Hardy Boys-plus-Girl on steroids tearing onto the cushions around where their unconscious charge is laid out, as Eddie shifts into gear and makes to get the fuck out of dodge, like, yesterday, is the even-louder voice in his head that asks probably the most pressing question:

The fuck did the King do, and how, and why, to make these children this loyal?

What follows all that is quite arguably—actually more than that; definitely a strong contender for—the most surprising thing that’s ever happened to Eddie. That could maybe ever possibly happen to Eddie, in any circumstance for any reason within any universal construct or reality. And he’d been really marinating in his Munson Doctrine this year, too, having been forced to reevaluate some shit after the letter arrived to hammer the most disappointing nail in the coffin of Eddie’s first senior year, but then…fuck everything, then there were the stupid little sheepies and their stupid gorgeous goddamn babysitter—which still, still: what the fuck was that, who the fuck even was Steve Harrington?—and Eddie’d barely even put the ink down to dry before all of them banded secretly together and shredded that motherfucking document before it could even properly take root in Eddie’s brain.

All while something else entirely started to take root in his chest, in his hea—

Well. Something. Something that wasn’t even remotely recognizable inside his most recent—and most polished to date, if he does say so himself—draft of the Doctrine like, at all.

Which is the point.

Because Harrington was indeed alive, and did indeed wake up, and clocked Eddie quicker than expected, even by name—Munson? What the fuck?and hell if that hadn’t fluttered between Eddie’s ribs an indefensible amount that no one would ever know about ever, thank you very much, but still: Jesus H. Christ—

But all his own humiliating discombobulation at the not-even-hands-just-voice-and-presence-of-the-golden-boy aside: it’s a damn good fucking thing Harrington wakes up, and is definitely not dead, because Eddie knows where the King lives, and he knows he’s not driving in that direction but had instead been foolish enough to give these shitweasel munchkins the benefit of the doubt here, like that there maybe was a safe house or some shit, fucking sue him, he was a little prepccupied, yeah—by the threat of a chase with that Hargrove fucker and then by the absolutely spectacle of Harrington screeching at the wayward waifs like a harried mother at the stovetop, because fuck, but Eddie nearly crashes them into three ditches and at least five trees for for trying to watch and he can’t even pretend otherwise—but the end result is definitely not a fucking safe house, and these little asshats have directed him in the wholeass wrong direction, if the undeniable fact of the old abandoned labs at the edge of town looming big through his windshield, looking at least slightly less abandoned (as if that’s not goddamn terrifying in and of itself), what the fuck has he literally driven into, is he an accomplice, and to what, and just, just Jesus—

“Hey.”

Eddie is honestly wholly jolted out of his spiral for a lot of reasons, here. The low tenor exhale of a sound in a voice too kind and open and invested, to much like music given what it does to Eddie, what music means to Eddie and what this voice shouldn’t fucking mean too straight out the goddamn gate. The proximity of a body close enough to feel the warmth of each breath. The indefensible feeling of it being nearly erotic out of nowhere and with no justification at all—just the reality of Eddie’s world right now, to feel the barest brush of the side of a body alongside his, leaning forward where he’s still in the driver’s seat. All of that would tip his world at the very least into a different sort of spiral pattern, breathless in a completely other way.

But.

What knocks Eddie hardest and most effectively in one go is the hand on his shoulder, braced to comfort and steady, and the realization in the flesh of how fucking big it is, how the span of that palm, those fingers, because Eddie knew those hands looked big, not that he’d studied them with any real…attention or anything but feeling them was something entirely other, and the touch, the touch is…is—

“Hey,” and Harrington’s breath is close enough then to tickle Eddie’s hair, goddamn: “breathe.”

And where Eddie hadn’t been wholly aware that he wasn’t, y’know, doing the breathing thing so well, either for the absolute insanity of the evening or the ominous spread, all proper D&D-style foreshadowing of nope don’t go there not now not ever waiting where these menaces had directed him to drive; but whatever the reason, where Eddie now takes a gulp of air in now that fucking burns, there’s Harrington, leaning over a little more, a second hand on Eddie chest to steady him as he falls all while he’s fucking squeezing Eddie’s shoulder, only a second before he’s getting ready to jump out of the van like he wasn’t just beaten unconscious like, five fucking minutes ago.

What the actual flying fuck.

If Eddie weren’t a goddamn idiot, he’d put the van in reserve before anyone could get out the back, fuck the way they’ll be thrown against the sides, at least they won’t be walking—willingly—into whatever the fuck’s waiting, all angry red and kinda…pulsating in the distance in a way that may or may not be a trick of his own paranoid mind, and then spewing little glowing motes into the air like lightning bugs.

Which could be charming, if it weren’t way fucking past the season for that shit.

And in fairness, the whole experience of Steve Harrington touching him and leaning close and breathing near him and telling him to breathe? That shit does carry him through—mostly—the hours that will follow, cliche and genuinely fucking embarrassing as it is, as it will be, to acknowledge at all.

But in the now—

“Thanks, man.”

And…oh, well, fuck.

As in point number one: that hand—bothhands—really are distracting as all hell but then also, simultaneously, very much point number two:

What the actual fuck.

“What?”

Apparently sending Eddie-usually-eloquent-enough-to-spin-some-pretty-bullshit-on-demand-Munson reeling outta nowhere is this fucker’s MO. Probably for the best that Eddie’s been writing him off as a pretty airhead for years now—if for nothing more than his own sanity.

Or else, like…relatively speaking.

“You got us here,” Harrington gestures out the window and…yeah.

“Here?”

That’s the relative part. And the insane part to be thanked for. Because where they’ve ended up is definitely the DoE labs that were supposed to have shut down or whatever, after people disappeared and came back and disappeared again and also didn’t and were never gone and fake bodies and whatever.

No one thanks anyone for bringing them to a place like this.

“And it’s more than I could have asked someone to do,” Harrington’s going on like it’s a casual thing, a favor like walking his goddamn dog and not more like what’s actually staring them down inside the fencing, namely the building that doesn’t look as abandoned as advertised by half, and definitely doesn’t at all look like the only thing it’s missing is a big neon sign blinking TRAP! FREE TRAP! IN THE MARKET FOR A QUICK PAINFUL DEMISE AT THE HANDS OF THE WORLD’S SHITTIEST TAINT FACTORY EAST OF ARMPIT-IAPOLIS? STEP RIGHT UP! ALSO REMINDER: CLEARLY A TRAP!

“Harrington,” Eddie doesn’t love the way his voice trips over a bonafide gulp. “Steve.”

He also doesn’t love how much feeling sneaks into that part because one, where the fuck’d that even come from and two, he…

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever said this guy’s first name out loud. As in…ever.

He doesn’t love how nice it feels, how scary but bubbly-warm it tingles at the base of his throat and the pit of his stomach.

So there’s all of that.

Still set inescapably under the threat of the non-existent-but-no-less-real-neon-sign-of-death and…stuff.

“We know what we’re doing,” Steve’s pats Eddie’s shoulder again, moves the hand from his chest like he’s pulling away, like he’s leaving to go toward the trap and Eddie whips his head around just in time to catch Steve shrug sheepishly and add:

“Like, mostly.”

It is not at all lost on Eddie, how Steve doesn’t even try to sidestep that he’s walking into the gaping maw of probably death, here.

That might be the most terrifying part of this yet.

“I could,” Eddie’s voice is a crackle, so he tries clearing his throat, licking his lips; “I could at least try to help.”

That comes out a little stronger, but not steadier, and he doesn’t really think he’s making his point very well at all.

But then there’s Steve, and his hand back full on Eddie’s shoulder, saying:

“You could,” like he believes that; “and we’d be grateful,” added in like he means that too.

And most unbelievable of all of it, what he tacks on last with a squeeze of his hand and a lower pitch for no reason Eddie can figure save to catch inside the clench of his pulse so it takes to jittering like fucking mad as the King himself exhales:

“I’d be grateful.”

And what the fuck does that mean, said with eyes so bright when the night’s so dark?

And what the fuck does it mean when Eddie’s heartbeat starts jittering, a butterfly between cupped hands, until:

“I need you to be safe though,” and the words have physical form, brush Eddie’s frizzled curls straight behind his ear like…tenderness, delicate.

What. The. Fuck.

Eddie blames the way his heart goes form butterfly to battering ram, ready to crack through his ribs for no reason save a feeling he can’t justify, but’s too real to pretend away as less when he half-fucking-moans:

“What about you?”

Because Steve’s shepherding the kiddos. He’s keeping Eddie on the sidelines, safe. He’s charging into battle with a handkerchief and a bat and a goddamn pair of rubber gloves found from somewhere, sticking out his back pocket like he’s flagging in day-glo, holy hell—

But who takes care of Steve?

“I’ll see you at school,” Steve winks, leans this time to bump one shoulder straight to Eddie’s and then he’s jumping out the back of the van, and he’s moving too fast and—

“Harrington,” Eddie calls, suddenly forgetting he’d ever been trying to keep quiet, to avoid attention of whatever they’re going out to face, Hargrove or harbingers of worker fates, or both at once; “fuck, fuck,” he hissed as he trips over shit that got shifted back in his way as he stumbles to the doors and yells:

“Steve!”

And it’s like maybe saying his name does something to Steve himself, too, because he pauses, and even for the distance, the little curve of his lips isn’t a smirk, it’s a smile.

It’s fucking beautiful.

And then he’s saluting cockily before he turns on his heel with just one last parting shot;

“See you on the other side, Munson.”

And the tunnels beyond only let him watch so long, see so far. The weird shit in the air, and the bandanas he can see a scuffle over, to make sure they’re tied over noses and mouths, lit by weird pulsing colors, obscene squelching noises he can hear the echoes of even this far back and just, just…

Typical eldritch fuckery from a monster manual.

That doesn’t belong in real life.

It’s a fucking trap, Admiral. Good fucking god.

And Jesus H. Christ, but Eddie hadn’t even had the chance to light up tonight as he’d planned, as he’d explicitly driven out to do.

For fuck’s sake.

>>>part two 💚

For @miraculousmultifan, who requested Post-S2; 'Now, I’m not going to deny that I was aware of your beauty. But the point is, this has nothing to do with your beauty. As I got to know you, I began to realise that beauty was the least of your qualities. I became fascinated by your goodness. I was drawn in by it' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—very late, obviously, and MID-S2, rather than post but it ENDS UP being post-S2, promise 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here

[maraudersidk]

Albus 'daddy's boy' potter you will always be famouse to me.

[graciereadshannigram]

re: sex, power, and hannigram (the bees in my head have struck again)

y'all know the quote, everything in the world is about sex, except sex – sex is about power? Will, someone who has been consistently denied agency and power in his life especially by Hannibal, and Hannibal, a man who has kept himself under such strict control around other people, despite desperately craving true connection to another person – sex would be a natural extension and exploration of these pre-existing dynamics. 

Will and Hannibal’s entire relationship is based on their emotional and intellectual connection as they play this cat and mouse game where the power dynamics are fluid and unstable! the mental arousal they provide one another is an integral part of their connection. and that’s what attracts and excites them! and you know what increased psychological arousal leads to (or at the very least, enhances)? physical arousal!! 

which brings me to my next point: we know that Will is mentally aroused by the prospect of both saving and taking lives (s/o to our boy Chilton, man was a rat, but he was right!) because doing bad things to bad people feels good. 

so when Will finally Becomes by killing the dragon with Hannibal and they start exploring how they kill together, of course bloodlust and regular old lust are going to start blurring. not because either of them are sexual sadists who get off on the act of murdering someone, but instead on the power they each hold over death, the thrill of being truly seen and accepted by the other. 

not to mention the fact that sex provides an outlet for some of their more destructive urges, as well as a way to rebuild trust and psychological safety, two things they haven’t really had much of?? which is not to say that i believe everything they’d do would be safe, sane, or consensual, but i do think they’d be providing each other with what they each authentically need to move forward with one another. 

basically, i'm trying to say Hannibal tried his own brand of therapy on Will and look where it got them. i think the next logical progression would be sex as therapy and therapy as sex.

[serenashido]

shipping renkaza fucking sucks because you either get people who hate real enemies to lovers and call it toxic or pr*ship because they actually are enemies who want to kill each other instead of friends who bicker sometimes (these people are the weakest link and will not survive the winter)

or you get people who do ship it but only in the gooner dumbing-it-down-to-hardcore-porn way where they romanticize and get off to abuse and r*pe (these people are just gross sick individuals and i hope they go extinct)

and the few people who do see the emotional depth in the homoerotic minutes renkaza spent together and the potential in that for top tier doomed yaoi are few and far in between and i rarely find good fics that aren't just insanely ooc porn

[vinelark]

i’m giving the chapter 6 doc a beat to marinate before i jump back into wip wednesdays, so in the meanwhile here’s a snippet from my extremely self-indulgent side project:

“Tim!”

The shadows dissipate all at once, Tim yanking his magic back like he’s nine and just laid his palm flat on the stove. Light returns to the chamber, and he sees Bruce in the doorway—Bruce, not Batman—as a silhouette first, features coming into focus a moment later. His gaze rakes over Tim and then lands on the form hunched in the corner.

“Conner,” Bruce says in a blank, bemused sort of way, crouching down. The person lifts their head and Tim gets his first look at his attacker. And—

Oh, Tim thinks. His instincts definitely guessed wrong.

Superboy—because that’s Superboy there on the stone floor, leather jacket and curls and of course, the brightness makes so much sense now—sucks in a breath, one hand braced on the floor, face gray. “What,” he wheezes, raising a trembling finger to jab in Tim’s direction, “is that?”

[kakooshi]

I feel like enough time has passed...

[inevitably-johnlocked]

My NSFW request was something of John and Sherlock getting together/being together and Sherlock is quiet, or shy, and John is worried/tries to get Sherlock comfortable, or vocal.

I saw one where John and Sherlock got together drunkingly, and John moaned Mary's name somewhere at the end, and so Sherlock thought he was "filling in for Mary". So he would be quiet but still invite John for sex, and John thought they were dating for each other and was worried and wondered why Sherlock would hide under the blanket, or be quiet, or wouldn't actually touch himself.

So he would try to google or learn on how to be better at sex or other ways to get Sherlock vocal or at least more open/less shy, but couldn't figure it out. They eventually talk and John finds out it's because the first time, and they go to bed properly and start their actual relationship.

The Mary stuff made me sad, I would prefer something of John wanting to help his shy boyfriend Sherlock but without the sad misunderstanding of Mary. I really like the idea of Sherlock being shy or quiet, and John wanting to help Sherlock be more confident or loud. If you know anything like that, I'd love them.

(referencing this post)

Hi Nonny!

Oh!! Yes, I have two similar fics, and one of them is the one you're referencing:

Acceptable Behaviour by bbcatemysoul (M, 3,449 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Developing Relationship, Miscommunication, First Time) – Sherlock isn't really sure why John wants to shag him, but he's certain that if he's careful to behave properly about it, John can be persuaded to keep doing it. In other news, John is a good boyfriend and Sherlock is an idiot.

On the Losing Side by missselene (E, 8,210 w., 1 Ch. || Anal / Oral, First Kiss / Time, Angst, Misunderstandings, Mild Dub Con / Drunk John) – After Mary's death, John moves back into Baker Street, but is still upset at the loss of his wife and child. Eventually, he and Sherlock stumble into a sort of relationship, but it's more physical than anything and they don't talk about it. They especially don't talk during sex. If they are going to have sex, Sherlock notices the signs hours beforehand, and he prepares carefully. The lights are off, they're under the covers, he prepares himself using lots of lube so he can make it feel as much like a woman as he can, and he doesn't let himself make any noise so that, if John wishes, he can pretend that he's still with Mary.

====

Otherwise, you might find more fics to the genre you're looking for on my Communication list. I know I've been recced similar in the past, and would love my Lovelies to help me out again. I should really make a specific list for "Learning Together" or something, yeah. 🙃

[steddieunderdogfics]

D&D rec: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56414623/chapters/143347438

A fix-it fic in which Steve approaches the whole post-s4 situation by stubbornly doubling down on the idea that if he’s going to be forced to deal with the horrors of the Upside Down, he should also be able to game the system. Pretty sure there’s a rule book somewhere…

hitlikehammers is one of my favorite authors in this fandom - this fic in particular is a gut punch that balances humor and angst and complicated pining beautifully. I also love the play on the trope of “Steve plays D&D.”

if you can’t write your own necronomicon, store-bought is fine by hitlikehammers

@hitlikehammers

Rating: Mature

14,421 words, 3/3 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: Temporary Character Death, (TEMPORARY being the important part; I mean: that IS the orienting concept of the story), Pre-Relationship, (but won't stay 'pre' if these crazy kids succeed in their crazy plot!), Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Necromancy, Dungeons & Dragons References, (as in: HEAVY Dungeon & Dragons References), Grief/Mourning, But Then: What If You Interrupted Your Strange Process of Grieving/Feelings Realization, By Putting All Your Eggs In The ‘What If It All DOES Match D&D?’ Basket, Including but Not Limited To The 'Raise Dead' Spell?, The Adventures of Platonic Soulmates Trying to Understand the Nerd Game, Specifically to Try and Resurrect a Certain Dingus' More-Than-A-Crush, Resurrection, (and its consequences), The Dungeons & Dragons References Work With About As Much Leeway as Show v Game Demogorgons, So: Stretchy Like Gumbo, And Then All Of A Sudden:, confessions of feelings, Feelings Realization, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Happy Ending

Summary:

Steve gets stuck in his head about it: the fucking gravestone they’re putting up. He hates the idea of it being installed over nothing, just plopped on grass and dirt and just, just…nothing. Almost like they’re saying Eddie was somehow nothing, and when the overall notion hits on that thought specifically, Steve has the simultaneous urge to break a window and vomit, and it’s just, it’s not— He needs to find a way to curb that feeling. He hates it enough to mention it to the others, who don’t get it. At all. Maybe because it’s Steve, and they don’t think he knew Eddie enough to be this…this. If Steve was in a clearer frame of mind, maybe he’d be able to wonder, too. But he’s not. In a clearer frame of mind. He can’t process all that much beyond the all-consuming need to not bury nothing under Eddie Munson’s name. Which doesn't even touch yet on the way it also sticks in his head that, if they were going to name half of the Upside Down bullshit after the nerd game, if the parallels were gonna be just, accepted as a rule? Then why shouldn't the existence of a spell in the nerd game called 'RAISE DEAD' be accepted, too?

Thanks for the rec!

This rec is a part of Theme Weekend. The theme this weekend is Dungeons & Dragons Fics.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[hitlikehammers]

Seriously though, ALL THAT EDDIE MUNSON WANTED in Early November, 1984 was to get a little high and maybe make it through senior year this time 🎓

...but if by mid-November of 1984 he maybe felt a little more strongly about wanting something someone else because 👑Steve fucking Harrington💗 is maybe his surprisingly (?) squishy heart's 🫀 fucking kryptonite🧪 and maybe, unthinkably, impossibly 🚨THIS IS NOT A FUCKING TRAP?!?!?!?!??!?!🚨 What THEN?!?!?!?!?

<<<last time:

“See you on the other side, Munson.”

And the tunnels beyond only let him watch so long, see so far. The weird shit in the air, and the bandanas he can see a scuffle over, to make sure they’re tied over noses and mouths, lit by weird pulsing colors, obscene squelching noises he can hear the echoes of even this far back and just, just…

Typical eldritch fuckery from a monster manual.

That doesn’t belong in real life.

It’s a fucking trap, Admiral. Good fucking god.

And Jesus H. Christ, but Eddie hadn’t even had the chance to light up tonight as he’d planned, as he’d explicitly driven out to do.

For fuck’s sake.

Eddie’s fingertips are numb from drumming the steering wheel so long, cuticles biting from biting too hard for too many minutes, maybe even hours. He can’t turn on the van, can’t risk the noise.

Wishes like hell he could, to drown out the stray growls, the screams, the howling, the definite fucking explosions of something, the…ripping.

He doesn’t know how he knows that’s what the sound is, the low screechy rumble. But he knows.

So he’s about three gasps of too-shallow breath from sicking up whatever he ate today when he hears something else.

Footsteps.

Motherfucker.

His legs are half-numb, asleep from staying so still, so unobtrusive for so fucking long, but he dives for the still-half opened back doors, doesn’t bother with the windows because part of the whole production was being able to hear something, no matter how sick it sloshed around his veins every time there was anything to hear, and he scrambles blind for something to swing, to hit with, whatever’s finally coming to his door but then it’s too late, the the hinges are creaking and—

His intruder’s just as struck dumb as he is, but Eddie has pure fucking adrenaline on his side, so he pants out while he crumbles like a string-cut puppet, so much for that tattoo idea—

“What,” Eddie spits, shaking his head more like a spasm, hair going everywhere and catching in his mouth; “and I do not ask this idly, Harrington,” then he’s wheezing kinda humiliatingly; “but what,” and he gestures wifey at the still crimson-tinged woods beyond, now lit brighter with actual fucking flames farther back, plus the not-dust clusters floating on the breeze and that’ll definitely be what Eddie blames for the way he coughs out hard:

“Actual fuck?”

“Munson?” And the way Steve says his name sounds like it should be accompanied by a frown, or at least more confusion, but what Eddie seesinstead is something like the…good sort of surprise.

Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever been even just a part of anything like a good sort of surprise. The suggestion of it alone here any nows heady as all fuck.

“What are the hell are you still doing here?”

And, well. He, that’s…

That’s a very interesting question.

“Umm,” and holy fuck, is Eddie glad it’;s as dark as it is, it has to be impossible to see proof of how hot his cheeks have gotten.

“Well, it seemed pretty intense, whatever you were,” he clears his throat, tosses his wrist again at the still-very-glowy maybe tunnels or maybe rips in spacetime, fuck if Eddie even knows.

“Wanted to try and come help but,” he shrugs, hides a little behind his hair; “not really my forte, but getaway car,” he reaches and knocks on the wall of the van, a little proud: “that I am a sought after professional so, I figured,” the he shrugs again because…what the hell did he figure? What the fuck use is he in whatever the fuck this actually is, which, which…

“But I’m gonna ask one more time,” because Eddie is nothing if not obnoxiously curious, so:

“What the actual fuck?”

And Harrington? Steve?

Motherfucker just snorts, and grins a little, despite the soot and blood and the swelling from the whole getting beat unconscious not so long ago.

“Gas leak, I guess,” Steve huffs something like a laugh that’s not actual funny, but feels more like an inside joke Eddie doesn’t get, but desperately wants to; “probably what’s been causing all the weird shit around here.”

“Oh, wow,” Eddie covers the weirdly gnawing ache to know, know, know this man and his little secrets; fuck, also his big ones, all his secrets, all of him, what the fuck. “Didn’t know you were a goddamn comedian, save some for the rest of us,” he rolls his eyes when Steve frowns a tiny bit, tips his head like a puppy who doesn’t understand and good fucking god is it adorable.

Eddie’s so fucked, isn’t he, and out of nowhere.

“King can’t also be the jester, man,” Eddie takes pity on him, explains, wonders if giving his secrets will merit him the pleasure, the privilege of learning Steve’s the way he wants, or finding something in the inklings he’s feeling that are real and not just wishful thinking or heightened emotions in an impossible night that makes no sense so maybe any possible future for what Eddie’s got sparkling at the edge of ever single one of his veins is just as nonsensical too, and fuck—

“You mentioned a getaway car.”

Eddie stills; and that’s not mean feat.

“And seems like I was maybe a little incapacitated in the way here so,” Steve leans in, close enough that Eddie smells smoke, and sweat, and might fucking faint because it’s fucking intoxicating. Eddie’s not even mad he didn’t get a joint in before the night went to shit in the maybe-best-and-most-fantastic of ways.

If it’s not just nonsense, and a blip of the impossible on the radar of Eddie Munson’s deeply unimpressive life.

But Harrington’s eyes are twinkling, and when Eddie gets over the thumping of his heart and hears the squabbling of tweens approaching, the question Steve’s teeing up comes straightforward, but then full of layers all at once.

“Up for giving us a lift, then?”

If Steve’s involved?

Is he fucking ever.

—

Dropping the little barnacles off doesn’t take long, even if they’re kinda scattered around town. Eddie gets an earful and a half about D&D, which isn’t the worst thing, though he mostly relishes see Steve’s reactions, listening to his little interjections for the shitheads to can it. It’s…there’s just something about it.

Something about him.

“My house isn’t this way.”

Eddie…realizes that.

“Yep.”

So fucking eloquent, Munson. Jesus.

“Pretty sure yours is, though”

Oh, look. All this time Eddie’s tried to write him off as stupid and pretty and he’s actual a paladin fighting dragons with an actual brain under that gorgeous hair, son of a goddamn bitch.

“I’ll sleep better,” slips out of Eddie’s mouth without thinking, because of the two of them left in the van, seems like Eddie is the one who’s fucking brainless.

“What?”

He really wants to bang his forehead into the steering wheel but…that would be a good chunk of what’s driving Eddie, literally, toward Forest Hills.

“Your head,” Eddie taps his own temple, keeps driving, keeps his eyes on the road because he thinks he won’t be able to look away if he even gives himself the slightest taste in this moment.

“You look alright now but like,” Eddie sucks a sharp breath through his teeth, because:

“Not gonna pretend you didn’t scare the fuck out of me, not to mention your brood,” because that’ll soften the really fucking telling confession, obviously, score one for Eddie not being a whole-ass sap about someone he barely knows and—

“Oh.”

Eddie breaks his own rule not to look in a fuckking instant, because that single word, more a breath exhaled, is…wondering.

“Oh, you’re,” and Steve looks like he’s working from something bigger than just Eddie making a fool out of himself for worrying over Steve Harrington’s wellbeing. “You wouldn’t sleep well because,” and Jesus H., Eddie stepped in this shit because now Steve’s spelling it out, but then at the same time…he’s spelling it out like he wants to see all the letter laid plain to…

Marvel at.

Almost like…almost like he doesn’t know what to do with it. And if he doesn’t, if he didn’t know what to do with being cared about, what the fuck did that mean for Steve fucking Harrington—

“Sure,” Steve finally says, pulls Eddie from his thoughts, his wonderings, the way he’s fucking appalled at the implication that maybe no one’s ever shown Steve enough regard to fucking care.

“Sure I can,” and Steve’s feeling the words out like they’re precious and not just…basic; like maybe he’s afraid they’ll go away:

“Stay.”

Eddie shifts into park and runs around to open the goddamn door before he can think twice of being that absolutely and indefensibly insane, makes sure Steve steps down from his seat without incident, without a single bump of scrape.

Holds himself back from guiding him with a hand at the base of his spine to the door but like…only just.

He throws a pair of jammies that look like they’ll fit and pretends to take time in the bathroom that not mostly just freaking the fuck out about the wave of, like, just…feeling things about the fact that Steve Harrington is in his house. In his room. Will be in his clothes when he convinces himself to breathe, and walk out of the safe space near the shower.

“Okay if I wake you up,” Eddie makes himself enter with words, lest he get caught up in just staring, and never find his way back out. “I think that’s what they say you gotta do for hits like that to the noggin.”

Steve snorts, but nods, and only winces for the motion a little.

“Yeah, dude,” Steve says, and it’s…fond. Good god.

Addictive, more than anything Eddie’s ever sampled, and he’s not as experienced as he talks a game for, but like, he’s had his share.

“What are you doing?”

Eddie looks up from where he’s shaking a blanket out to stretch across the floor. It’s cold enough that he’ll need it, is all.

“My uncle sleeps on the couch,” Eddie says, because it’s really that simple.

“Then let me,” Steve reaches for the threadbare blanket, grabs at the corner and scrambles up from where he’d sat on the bed like he damn well was supposed to, because he’;s got a fucking head injury.

Also he’s a guest, even if kind of a…guest brought here under some degree of duress. Eddie didn’t exactly give him too much of a choice. But he doesn’t, can’t dwell, because Steve grabbed for the blanket.

And his hand touched Eddie’s hand in the process and made it inconveniently accurate that now they both have brain injuries of one kind or another, goddamn.

“Get the fuck up here,” Steve finally sighs, but again, like it’s fond, and how, and why, as he pulls Eddie up by where they’re both holding the blanket still; “not kicking you out of your own bed,” he mutters, shifting to the side that Eddie doesn’t use. Like he knows.

Eddie’s maybe vibrating from the fucking cells of him until sleep finally comes in the form of Steve’s steady breathing, and the warmth of him inescapable and so fucking like comfort, wrapped in the worn blanket Eddie’s mama made when he was still small.

—

Anyway. That’s how it starts. Being anything, in the vicinity of Steve Harrington.

Waking him up dutifully four times before it makes sense to get up and go about the day; or else, for Steve to. Eddie isn’t into mornings.

But he does tail Steve out the door before realizing that Steve doesn’t fucking have his own car here, and then he’s shoving bare feet in his Reeboks and taking Steve to Loch Nora, where he’s still sleepy enough—probably, or at least it’s a decent excuse—to ask if Steve’ll call him a couple times today, just to make sure his head’s still okay.

And Steve does the…fond-marveling look that skips in Eddie’s chest, fuck all, and agrees. And waves at him with a secret little grin—and Eddie wants all the more to know those fucking secrets—and then, know what that fucker goes and does?

He calls. On the hour, every three hours until they both agree to go to bed. Like he knew somehow that Eddie was waiting, the whole goddamn day. Even if he doesn’t wholly understand the why.

But then of course Eddie can’t leave well enough alone, even after the sees Steve off that next morning and through the calls that follow after; can’t fucking sleep in the days that follow, not like he managed that first night, when objectively he should have been freaked the fuck out the worst, given even the hint of what he thinks maybe he saw in the woods—but whatever. Point is, he realizes real quick that he needs to know if Harrington is alright, with his own two eyes. Under his hand when he dares touch his skin just a little to see if it’s still warm and…stuff.

And yeah, okay, he might not know all the details or the context, but he’d picked up enough to know things were peachy in the most wholly fucking sarcastic sense possible, and the idiot is in fact at school that Monday when he absolutely should not be, if the state his face is still in is anything to go by, but…yeah.

Eddie corners him in the locker room, where Eddie doesn’t go because he cuts gym like he gets paid to—wouldn’t that be nice, he’d be rich—and he’s gonna call it a public service more than a vaguely stalkery act because hey, he’s a super senior but he thinks, just maybe, that sport-ing with what’s undoubtedly a concussion isn’t the best idea.

He pops out in front of Harrington before he makes for the back entrance after coming from his car between classes for fuck knows what reason, maybe cleaning his goddamn pulverised face a little, and shimmies him closer to the tree-line where Eddie’s storefront sits and its weird, or maybe concerning, because Harrington lets him with just the slightest sounds of protest—maybe he’s worse off than expected if he’s this willing, fuck, and what’s Eddie gonna do if the Golden Boy passes out in the middle of the woods, way to think this through—

“Any reason you kidnapped me from phys ed?”

Eddie startles at that voice. Remembers vividly—inconveniently—how broad the hands that the voice comes with are. How arm. How—

“You shouldn’t be having balls throw at you,” Eddie answers, more petulant that’d be planned. And wholly unprepared for the curl of a smirk he gets in return at the wording.

Jackass. His majesty’s just fine, Eddie should have left him. To—

“Knight in shiny armor again, Munson,” Harrington tuts at him, but…once Eddie processes and accepts the flush he knows is on his cheeks, he can actually look at the guy, who’s taken a seat now on Eddie bench, thighs thick how he spreads them wide across the wood.

Wood, Jesus, thank fuck he didn’t say that out loud to make it two-for-two.

“Gonna give a guy ideas, if you keep at this.”

And Eddie’s jaw drops a little at that tone, lewd little, taunting but not for the cruelty of it, more the playfulness like somehow the world’s tipped on its axis and up is down and Steve Harrington can make weirdly-close-to-come-ons in the presence of Eddie Munson. Or, fuck. Not just in the presence of.

Clearly directed at and to, in the absence of literally anyone else.

And he can’t know it, not then, not yet: but giving Eddie Munson an in, giving him the ideas?

That’s a fucking dangerous game.

And the wildest part of all of it is that smirk, that glimmer in those eyes.

Like Steve goddamn Harrington knows it, and—somehow, unthinkable—wants dealt in to play.

>>>part 3/3

For @miraculousmultifan, who requested Post-S2; 'Now, I’m not going to deny that I was aware of your beauty. But the point is, this has nothing to do with your beauty. As I got to know you, I began to realise that beauty was the least of your qualities. I became fascinated by your goodness. I was drawn in by it' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST—very late, obviously, and MID-S2, rather than post but it ENDS UP being post-S2, promise 🖤

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here @pukner @ravenfrog @sadisticaltarts @samsoble @sanctumdemunson @shrimply-a-menace @slashify @stealthysteveharrington @swimmingbirdrunningrock @theheadlessphilosopher @theintrovertedintrovert @themoonagainstmers @theohohmoment @tillystealeaves @tinyloonyteacups @tinyplanet95 @warlordess @wheneverfeasible @wordynerdygurl @wxrmland @yesdangerpls @yourmom-isgay @1-tehe-1

divider credit here and here

[setmeatopthepyre]

Family

[@118dailydrabble day 2] [part of my tommy begins snippets]

When the 9-1-1 operator asks him for his location and emergency, Tommy almost gives her his call sign first.

Being back has been... an adjustment.

He catches himself, tells her, “There's been an accident on 6th street bridge. Two cars.” Tries to make out shapes in the dark. “There's- there's a whole family in one.”

Realizes she's asking him something as he pries the driver's side door open. “What?”

Her voice gentles. “Your name?”

“Tommy.”

“Alright, Tommy. I'm Abby. Help is on the way. Were you in the accident?”

“No, I-” Can't begin to explain. “No, I just saw it happen. Abby?”

“Yes?”

“I don't think the driver's breathing.”

“Ok, Tommy. I'm going to talk you through this.”

[incandescentflower]

The episode 6 "don't follow my speed" comment is definitely a prelude to the more internal difficulties Thame and Po are likely to face in the back half of this series. In Po's past relationship he dedicated himself to his ex's professional goals, this time Po is already dedicated to Thame's goals, first by way of his current job and then by teaming up to help him reunite the band. He's basically reverse engineered his past relationship. And although I am sure eventually the story this time will go differently, I think even the fact that on the surface it might feel similar is going to be a challenge for Po.

How do you stand firm in who you are when the person next to you takes up most of the space in the room? But honestly, I think for Po that was never really the problem, as long as the person who was next to him actually saw him. And Thame shows over and over that he pays attention to Po in a different way.

[sapphicwiles]

I just don’t think I’ll ever get over the way Juno and Phil understood their roles for That Scene.

Every ounce of bitterness and anger that’s rolling in waves off of Keeley while she sits in her bed just MELTING out of her when Jamie tells her it’s not her fault and then assumes responsibility. Everyone has told her how much it sucks, but no one has told her it isn’t her fault. Keeley Accountability Jones, just so angry that this ISN’T her fault and everyone wants her to admit it is, and here comes Jamie telling her it’s not her fault and apologizing. Granted, not something he needs to apologize for, but he tells her HOW the leak happened and that he’s sorry and he takes accountability. And the way Juno just floods the viewer with that relief. Incredible.

And Phil??? With the nervous energy and the guilt (facing AWAY from the door when he’s always been facing it when he shows up to her house) and the over explaining and apologizing followed by HIS relief at the forgiveness and the ACCEPTANCE OF HIS ACCOUNTABILITY and the hug he thought he would never have again.

They did such a good job, I’ll never get over it

[tyrrible-twos]

Jayce shares a well-kept apartment just off campus with two of his closest friends, Caitlyn and Mel. It’s a far cry from the Zaunites’ place—cleaner, quieter, maybe a little too polished at times thanks to Mel's influence—but it’s home. The three of them ended up together mostly by circumstance, but at some point, they stopped feeling like just roommates and started feeling like family.

Caitlyn has been in Jayce’s life for as long as he can remember. Their families have been tied together for years—her parents’ investments helped keep Talis Stringworks running, and in return, the Kirammans have always had access to the best instruments money can buy. That arrangement extended to Caitlyn’s education, too; her family is the reason Jayce can even afford to go to school, something she waves off every time he brings it up. He pays her back in small ways, maintaining her violin for her while they sit around talking about nothing, falling into the same easy rhythm they always have. Caitlyn is sharp, steady, and has always been in Jayce’s corner. She was the first person he told when he first questioned his sexuality, and she just rolled her eyes and said, “Yeah, I know. You didn't know?”

Mel is their other roommate, though calling her that feels weird—she’s too vital to just be a third name on the lease. She’s a fine arts major, mostly oil painting, though she dabbles in everything. Her mother, Ambessa, wanted her to go into politics, but Mel chose passion over practicality, throwing herself into her work with the kind of self-assurance that makes it impossible to imagine her doing anything else. She and Jayce had a fling once, back when he was nude modeling for the art department to make some extra cash. It was fun, and the sex was great, but they weren’t in love, so they called it for what it was and stayed friends. Now, she loves to torment him in the way only a best friend can—specifically by keeping a few paintings from his nude modeling days and conveniently leaving them out whenever she knows guests are coming over, just to watch him blush and stutter.

The truth is, Jayce has always had the strongest women in his life. Caitlyn, who has never let him feel alone for a second. Mel, who has always seen him for who he is and never let him run from it. His mother, who taught him the value of hard work and how to be proud of the things he builds with his own hands. Every step of the way, the women around him have been his foundation, the people he trusts the most, the ones who hold him up when he starts to doubt himself.

Between the three of them, the apartment is full of music, the scent of oil paint, and the kind of friendship that makes everything else a little easier.

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi! A bit of a specific ask so no pressure! I absolutely the Mystrade series At Least There's The Football by sheffiesharpe. It shows the progression of their relationship from getting together, all the milestones they pass, to feeling settled. I'm just wondering if you or your followers know anything like that forJohnlock? Where the development of their relationship and how it builds and grows is the focus, rather than a fic that ends with them getting together? Thanks for everything you do!

Hi Nonny!

First off, the fic you suggested for the few Mystraders who do come here:

At Least There's The Football Series by sheffiesharpe (G to E, 192,753 w. across 15 Works || PODFICS AVAILABLE ||  Post-TGG, Mystrade & Johnlock, Relationship Building, Assorted Tags) – Lestrade arrives at the pool after the explosion and finds someone else is already there.

That said, hmm, I am CERTAIN that I've read fics similar to what you're describing, but probably not EXACTLY??? Best I can do at this moment is offer you my Developing Relationship fic lists, which focus on, obviously, the slow build of their relationship :)

Love Confessions / Slow Burn / Dev. Rel. (Fluff Version)

Falling In Love / Slow Burn / Dev. Rel. || [MOBILE POST] (April 2019)

.../ Love Confessions, Slow Burn & Dev. Rel. Pt. 2 / ...

Slow Burn / Dev. Rel. / Falling in Love Pt. 3 (Nov. 2019)

Slow Burn / Dev Rel. Pt. 4 (Apr 2020)

Slow Burn / Dev Rel. Pt. 5 (Jan 2023)

Medium Burn Fics (Slow Burn Under 25K) (Oct 2023)

Burn So Slow it Hurts

Burn So Slow it Hurts Pt 2

If anyone has something that they would like to suggest for Nonny, please do!!

That said, I hope that you enjoy these lists, Nonny <3