#e rated fic

[affixjoy]

Oh beautiful, doomed Edith Keeler, you deserved the world

And if you couldn’t have the world, you at least deserved some really fantastic sex.

Featuring! Spirk getting together! Edith being remarkable! A threesome! Canon appropriate amounts of sadness because fuck this is a tragic episode!

Thank you @ncc1701ohno and @twinkboimler for beta reading this for me! This is one of my favorite episodes and having you assure me I didn’t fuck up the tone before posting was much needed! ❤️

[skeedelvee]

Not an Easter bunny, but a Wayward Bunny

Based off @bookish-bogwitch ‘s fic Wayward Bun! If you haven’t read it yet, I highly recommend it!

Rated E

Description: Leave it to Baz to be sophisticated, even as a bunny.

[perseidlion]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland Characters: Charles Rowland (DCU), Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne Additional Tags: Established Relationship, First Time, Mutual Masturbation, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne Loves Charles Rowland, Charles Rowland Loves Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Hand Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Non-Graphic Smut, Bisexual Charles Rowland (DCU), Pillow Talk, Cuddling & Snuggling, French Kissing, Sexual Tension, Gay Sex, Love Confessions, Falling In Love, POV Charles Rowland (DCU) Series: Part 9 of Perseid_Lion's Dead Boy Detectives Summary:

Edwin and Charles have confessed their love for one another and had their first kiss. But circumstances of their work have delayed their first time.

Charles struggles with accepting his bisexuality and gets over his nerves to be with Edwin properly for the first time.

--

This fic is more of a hard M or a soft E rather than full-on explicit. But I decided to label it E to be safe.

The title is from this song from Hedwig and the Angry Inch.

[spoofymcgee]

hello! i am here to unashamedly shill for my latest fic, which is rated e so details are under the cut

do you like the martian by andy weir? do you enjoy reading normal porn which is absolutely not just a vehicle to talk about loneliness and the sudden abscence of it, touch-starvation and trust, i promise? do you, too, think mark watney is aromantic and allosexual and should fuck his crewmates in a consensual, ethically nonmongamous way?

boy have i got the fic for you!

check out the lack thereof, fresh to ao3 as of about thirty seconds at time of posting!

and have a great day!

[darke-faerie]

Happy Birthday Jouno!

No new fics but do check out my series - It was only a kiss, how did it end up like this? Jouno x Kunikida (mild spoilers if you are not up to date with the anime!)

It is one of my favourites - even if the main inspiration for this series and pairing didn't make it into the anime, I did really enjoy exploring different ways of describing and doing things to account for Jouno's blindness ^.^ (I will return to these two, hopefully, one day...)

4 fics including:

Of course I'll give you a helping hand... (E)

Hello, I have hands now. (E)

New message from Beautiful Hands (E)

Blind Leading the Blind (M)

(Yes, all the explicit fics feature a terrible play on 'hands' in the title hahaha)

[hypermoyashi]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Trigun Stampede (Anime 2023), Trigun (Anime & Manga 1995-2008) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Meryl Stryfe/Vash the Stampede/Nicholas D. Wolfwood Characters: Vash the Stampede (Trigun), Nicholas D. Wolfwood, Meryl Stryfe, Milly Thompson Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Mashwood Week 2023, Fluff, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, Relationship Negotiation, Miscommunication, Self-Esteem Issues, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, Trans Vash the Stampede (Trigun), Past almost Vash/OC, Swearing, Implied/Referenced Sex, Alcohol, Smoking, Arguable Dub-con touch in one scene (not between Mashwood) Summary:

As a Plant, Vash was born without a soul mark.

He's always been lonely, lonely enough to tattoo a fake soul mark on himself once when he was too drunk to remember it. He almost forgot about it, until he notices, fifty years later, that both Wolfwood and Meryl have very familiar soul marks of their own.

[skrifores]

Near, but not quite the end.

[bamsara]

"why would you read a fic with a scene or something you dont like in it" you see i have this ability called using my thumb to scroll down the phone screen really fast

[goodomensao3tagoftheday]

[perseidlion]

Chapters: 6/? Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV), The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Cat King (Dead Boy Detectives) & Despair of the Endless, Cat King/Monty (Dead Boy Detectives), Cat King & Monty (Dead Boy Detectives) Characters: Cat King (Dead Boy Detectives), Despair of the Endless, Monty (Dead Boy Detectives) Additional Tags: Depression, Jealousy, Loneliness, Shapeshifting, Angst, Pining, Heartbreak, Disguise, Cat King Loves Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, POV Cat King (Dead Boy Detectives), Hurt Cat King (Dead Boy Detectives), Desire of the Endless is Cat King's Parent (Dead Boy Detectives), Bodyswap, POV Monty, Transformation, Animal Transformation, Magic, magic punishment, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Identity Porn, Non-Graphic Smut, Identity Swap, Flirting, Self-Discovery, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Blow Jobs, Mutual Masturbation, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Light Bondage, Schadenfreude, Smut, Crack Treated Seriously Series: Part 10 of Perseid_Lion's Dead Boy Detectives Summary:

NOTE: This was previously a one-shot called Ennui that I have renamed and turned into a multichap. I've also changed the rating to be E, though it's likely to be a soft E/hard M.

In the wake of Edwin's departure the Cat King has fallen into a funk of loneliness and depression. He tries to work through it, but his sadness draws the attention of Despair of the Endless. Cat must get out of his funk and chase away dark thoughts, or he risks a war between the Endless. He decides to take on another form to shake off the dust - Monty's form, and to give Monty his.

Full of Cat's shapeshifting shenanigans and Monty being along for the ride. This fic is tagged Catcrow but the focus is much more on their swap than their relationship.

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 31

part 1 | part 30 | ao3

updating the rating to E. cw: recreational drug use/marijuana, foreplay, mild-to-moderate spit kink

“I feel like a water bottle,” Steve slurs. At some point he wiggled his way between Eddie’s legs to get a better look at his tattoos — starting at his ankles and working his way up, pointing at each piece and asking, "What's this? And what's that?"

Eddie explained each one in turn: the quotes, the lyrics, the silly art. "This one's the Elvish word for friend. That one's from an Iron Maiden song. Oh, the asterisk? It's supposed to be an asshole. No, I'm serious! That's how Vonnegut drew them in his books."

Now Steve’s lying flat on his back between Eddie’s splayed thighs, eyelids heavy, body warm. 'Go Your Own Way' plays softly on the stereo, and Eddie continues his tattoo tour, the fingers of his free hand weaving patterns through Steve's hair — lazy, twirling zig-zags that send skitters of sensation across his scalp and down his spine.

Steve feels like he could die right now. Happy. Held. Content.

Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

“This is fucking awesome,” he hums.

“Good,” Eddie grins at him, “I’m glad.” He scratches lightly at his scalp. “What were you, uh— what were you saying about a water bottle?”

Oh, right. Steve lifts a hand; pantomimes tilting a bottle back and forth. “Like, uh….. Sssloshy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie snorts. “You’re so high.”

“Mmmmhm.”

“And you look like you’re jerking off a ghost."

“I’ll jerk off your ghost,” Steve mutters petulantly.

"I’m sure my ghost would love that.”

Eddie reaches for the joint and takes another drag, and Steve tilts his neck, arching up to look at him. Bites his lip at the pretty picture Eddie makes: the sharp shadows and delicate lines, the shape of his full lips exhaling rings of smoke. Big for a guy's. He remembers thinking that a couple weeks ago. That they were big. That they looked soft.

And now he thinks: Kissable.

Steve licks his lips. “What about your, uh- not ghost?”

Eddie laughs like he’s watching a newborn puppy try to walk. “You want to touch my dick so bad.”

“S’probably a good dick,” Steve shrugs, unashamed.

He probably should be — ashamed. Guilty for the feelings stirring deep inside his chest; feelings weed brings to the surface, sends southbound, turns to need. He can imagine how the good, god-fearing Catholics who raised him would react if they could see him now, how they'd foam and froth and rage, red-faced and covered in spittle as they shouted that he's condemning himself to Hell.

But the thing is, he's already in Hell. He's been here since July.

And anyway, Hell's kinda nice. Gentle and warm, surprisingly kind. Hell smells like leather and tobacco, like weed and aftershave, and it sounds like Lindsey Buckingham, and it likes to braid Steve's hair.

Hell has endless, inky eyes and probably kisses him with tongue.

Heat spreads through him like molten honey at the thought, spilling hot over the edges, curling in his core, and Steve turns his head to the side and drags his mouth over a tattoo on Eddie’s inner thigh — a cartoon cloud over a curled-up snoozing fox. He noses at the edge of Eddie's shorts; pushes them up.

Goosebumps pebble under the warm press of his lips. "What's this one?" Steve whispers, nudging the fabric further up.

Eddie’s laugh is quiet and strained. "Something I don't want to discuss with your mouth this close to my dick. Stevie," he warns, but it's breathless, full of want. There's a wet spot on his shorts.

Steve pushes onto his belly, blows hot breath over the spot, liquid fire coursing through him at he stares at the bulge in Eddie’s shorts. Blistering heat, the sweetness dense, rich and thick on his tongue; in his veins. He mouths at the crease of Eddie's thigh. Eddie smells so good, like skin and sweat and boy, and Steve wants this. Wants it so badly he feels the ache inside his teeth. I dreamed the goddess poured ambrosia...

Steve feels it drip from head to toe.

"Steve." Eddie's voice is sharp this time, commanding and firm as he fists a hand in Steve's hair — not hurting him; not letting him move. Keeping him from putting his mouth just where he wants.

Steve makes a desperate sound and rocks his hips against the bed.

"Steve, stop," Eddie scolds. Pulls his hair a little harder, like he’s tugging on a leash.

"Eddie, please.” Steve’s eyes roll back, and he shifts his hips again. Just once; just a bit. Not nearly hard enough.

"No. Behave. Be good."

Steve freezes — tenses every muscle, holds himself so still, his face flushing with shame, because he didn’t mean to not be good. Didn’t mean to do anything bad. He blinks at Eddie with watery eyes and says he’s sorry, his voice cracking around the word.

"God," Eddie groans. His fist tightens in Steve’s hair, and his hips twitch off the bed, the curve of his cock brushing the tip of Steve's nose. Fuck. "Holy shit. Roll over."

"What?"

"On your back, like you were before." He’s panting when he says it, and Steve does as he's told; flips over onto his back, face bracketed by Eddie's thighs, the tent in his own shorts embarrassingly big. Obvious.

"Good,” Eddie exhales. “That’s- Jesus. Yeah, that’s good." He sinks back against the wall with a winded sigh.

And then he doesn't say anything else.

Doesn’t even move, just slouches down to catch his breath.

Steve kind of wants to cry; feels chastised and stupid, because of course Eddie doesn't want this. He already said he didn't, didn't he? Not tonight, anyway. And now Steve’s ruined things by being high and dumb and selfish, getting himself worked up over nothing and making it Eddie’s problem, and he'll probably spend the rest of this night miserable and blue-balled because he's a horny idiot, but that's—

It’s fine, if Eddie wants to cool things off; if he doesn't want to— he's allowed to not want—

"Here's what's about to happen.”

Steve snaps his head up to listen. Twists his neck around, sees Eddie lounging against the wall like a bored king on a throne, one ringed hand cupping himself loosely through his shorts. He squeezes once, takes another deep breath; lets it out long and controlled. Steve’s gonna fucking drool. "You’re gonna touch yourself for me.”

Steve moans. Guttural and loud, the sound punched out of his lungs, because Eddie’s voice comes out like gravel — husky, deep, the words authoritative and slow; like Steve needs to be punished; like Eddie’s merciful.

“You’re going to touch yourself exactly how I tell you to, and only how I tell you to. If I say stop, you stop. If I say faster, you speed up. If it's too much—" His hand moves to Steve’s cheek, slapping lightly against the bone. “—you tap out, or you tell me.”

Steve nods his head, entranced. Eddie’s thumb moves to his mouth. “And if you’re very, very good…” He tugs his bottom lip; presses in; lets him suck. “…then I’ll let you watch me come. How does that sound?”

Steve whines; hollows his cheeks, sucking harder, flicking his tongue. Eddie’s thighs clamp down around him, and when he pulls his hand away the spit clings to his thumb, a delicate string connecting them before it breaks. “Asked you a question, sweetheart.” He smears the spit over Steve’s chin. “Does that sound good?”

Steve nearly swallows his tongue.

—

part 32

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[desceros]

I gotta request a mating season scenario with Bayverse Donnie X Reader - Mutual Pining and Smut (I love him so much).

[openly weeping] thank you for giving me the excuse to write this anon-chan, you're too good, too pure donatello/reader, EXPLICIT, female reader, 1.9k. donnie's been too shy to take that plunge, but you just smell so good and it's that time of year

You’ve been friends with Donnie long enough to… think about it. What it would be like to let him know how pretty he is. To sit in his lap and press your forehead to his jaw. 

(To unbuckle those suspenders and maybe see what kind of mischief you can get up to.)

To… hold his hand. To… to belong to him.

…But you’ve probably been friends for too long, you think. The relationship would have changed by now if he was interested. He’s not the kind of guy to want something without having it for very long, not without doing something about it. It’s not gonna happen. It’s a wild, hilarious thought—you’ve been friendzoned by a turtle—but that’s just the life you have now, you guess.

So when it finally, suddenly happens, to say you’re surprised is a bit of an understatement.

You’re in his lab, helping him organize his screwdriver collection. Sometimes they get a little mixed up if he gets worked into a frenzy or so tired his eyes start to blur, and it feels good to help him. He likes having your hands for the more boring chores, and you like basking in the dorky little smile he gives you as thanks.

Lost in the monotonous task, you don’t notice him staring, his eyes burning between your shoulder blades, until you feel him in your personal bubble. It’s a blink of time, a breath of awareness, then everything changes.

Donnie tucks his face into your throat, his plastron pressed along your spine as his hands cup your hips and pull them back into his own. Shocked at the intimacy of the touch, you feel yourself go still in his hold, wondering if there’s a gas leak in his lab and you’re hallucinating. 

His mouth parts, his teeth find your pulse, and you decide this is very, very real.

“D… Donnie?” you manage, voice syrupy in your own ears.

“…Smell good,” he murmurs into your skin, pressing into you harder, stepping impossibly closer, forcing you forward until your thighs are caught between his and the edge of the table and you have to smack your palms onto it to keep upright. A cup of screws falls over, spills; but he doesn’t react. Your eyes dart over to the door of his lab; it’s wide open, and you’re not even remotely tucked away back here. 

“Donnie—Donnie, what are you—” you say, though your voice catches in your throat when you feel him turn his head, tucking his beak behind your ear and brushing a long line of claiming kisses down to your shoulder. Your eyes flutter, blood beginning to rush hot in your veins even as you look again to the door of his lab.

Donnie, if he cares, doesn’t show it. Not in the way he slides one hand up your shirt, seeking skin and seeming intoxicated when he finds it. You feel his moan between your shoulder blades as much as you hear it, making your eyes squeeze shut. Oh, wow, that’s—that’s even better than all the times you’ve imagined it, and you’ve maybe imagined it a lot. 

“…too soon,” he mumbles, though how you’re able to catch it when his fingers are fumbling at the button to your jeans, you’re not sure how. 

“Wh… What’s too soon?” you ask, licking your lips and trying to scoop enough consciousness together to talk. “Don—Donnie, you—Did you drink something? Smell something? This is—”

Donnie stops, his forehead finding your shoulder. He’s shaking, you realize, but when you try to turn he presses you harder against the table, pinning you into place. Oh god, oh fuck.

“About two weeks early,” he says through what sounds like clenched teeth. “Shouldn’t—Shouldn’t be happening yet. Normally I can feel it coming on and warn you, but—Have I ever told you you smell really good? You smell so good—”

He shifts his face again, pressing his beak to the corner of your throat and shoulder to inhale deeply. Your hair stands on end, goosebumps flaring down your skin like wildfire. An embarrassing noise catches in your throat. You swallow it, brow furrowing. “What’s early?”

His lips move in a mumble that disappears into the neckline of your shirt. A neckline which, you suddenly realize, is damp from where he’s mouthing at it. Like he’s trying to take it off of you with his teeth. That’s—okay. That’s a lot.

“Didn’t catch that,” you wheeze. 

“…mating season,” he enunciates, igniting every single cell in your body. 

“You… have a mating season,” you choke, staring deliriously at one screw that slowly spins in a circle. He nods. “And you—You’re doing this with—me?” 

“Always you,” he says, starting to ramble as he tugs at the hem of your shirt like it’s offending him. “Every Spring, I feel it coming and you always look so pretty and happy. I’ve been wanting to ask you for years, but I—I’ve never worked up the cour—You smell so fucking good. Can I—I want to—” He whines, trembling, you think, from the concentration it’s taking for him to hold back and speak. His hands are tight on your sides, gripping you, just shy of where it’ll leave a mark.

Your eyes burn as you squeeze them shut. There’s a conversation to be had here, about why he was so fucking stupid and didn’t talk to you, about how much you’ve wanted this too, about what it’s going to mean—but that can be had later, especially considering you’re not completely sure he’s all there. 

“Yeah,” you gasp out, reaching out a hand to snatch at his and bring it to the button of your jeans again. “Yeah, let’s—yes.”

His wrist twists and he’s got his fingers inside your underwear faster than you can suck in a breath at the sudden jolt of pleasure. Beak pressed to your cheek, you hear Donnie chanting thank you thank you thank you, mouth hanging open before he brings his slick fingers to his mouth to slide them inside and wrap his tongue around them. 

“Donnie, fuck,” you breathe when he groans like he took a hit of something hard. It’s wet in your ear, and when he slides his fingers back to your clit and starts to trail biting kisses along your jaw, you can’t help but think about it. Your arms quake where they’re holding you up, helping you press against him, taking the weight of where he’s draped himself like he wants to be your shell.

An impatient noise rips out of his throat, and you feel his other hand tugging at the waist of your jeans. Huffing a laugh at his uncharacteristic ineffectiveness, you grab his wrists to pull him away before you shimmy them down your legs. 

…It’s right when he gets his fingers inside you, stretching you, pretty moans of your name in your ear, when you remember the whole door situation. 

“Donnie—”

“Wanna fuck you,” he slurs against your nape. Your skin stretches too-tight, the bottom of your stomach dropping out in arousal. “Smell like you. Want you to smell like me—” 

He grabs something out of the toolbox, a loud clattering sound, and you feel your panties go slack at your hip, then fall to the floor when he pulls the fabric away. “You—Did you just cut my—”

“In the way. More efficient,” he answers, dropping whatever it was back into place without a care. There goes your toolbox organizing, though it’s maybe hard to care when you feel something slick rub against you, his tail dipping between your legs and pressing close. “Mmm. Spread your legs, pretty. Little more. There, right there.”

He holds you still when he’s happy with your position, one hand at your hip and the other spreading you open in a manner that has the whole door situation falling pretty low on your thinking about this right now list. You’re more interested in the glide of his cloaca against you, the promise of his hitched breath in your ear, the wet kiss that morphs into a low moan as he drops inside of you. 

“Donnie,” you moan, head falling between your rolled shoulders as pleasure makes you tremble. It feels incredible how he fills you, your lungs unable to expand to breathe as it feels like he’s all the way in your throat. His hands grab your hips and tilt them, using them as leverage as he ruts wetly in a filthy glide that makes you mewl and twist. 

Through the fog of bliss, you hear him; he’s babbling, nigh-incoherently. You can just make out a few phrases here and there—so pretty, smell so good, fill you up, breed you full—that make you absolutely incinerate. It feels like he’s consuming you, his whines and moans ringing in your ears. 

The rising tide of ecstasy burns like fire in your veins, your teeth releasing your lip as you’re no longer able to contain the animal noises he’s clawing out of you. Nails dragging along the surface of his table, you come, wailing his name. He presses, making your elbows bend, and you fold into the table as he rails into you with hard slapping hips until he, too, climaxes. His forehead presses hard between your shoulder blades as he fills you, hot and more than you’ve ever taken before, until you feel it running down your legs where you can’t take any more. 

“…Holy shit,” you pant, barking a disbelieving laugh. Donnie, seeming annoyed that you’re able to talk, sinks his teeth into your throat before he kisses it to soothe. 

“Sorry, I, uh. I was hoping we’d talk about that before it happened,” he says once he can breathe again, sounding a little guilty. You shoot him an incredulous look over your shoulder. 

“Are you insane? You just made me come my brains out. How are you apologizing right now? That’s, like, the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.” You glance to the door. “Um. Even if I’m pretty sure everyone else heard it, too.” 

He huffs a laugh, nuzzling his face into your nape. “They’re, uh. Gone. For the week. I’m usually on a bit of a delayed cycle from the others, but I think you being here triggered it. I always love how you smell, and I guess the turtle brain just decided it was tired of waiting on me.” 

Oh, that’s… really sweet, you think, trying not to cry. You lick your lips, opening your mouth to speak only for a whimper to come out instead, forehead rolling on the table’s surface, when you feel his cock start to slide out. 

“Sorry, sorry, it’s—” he breathes, hips pressing a little harder against your own until you feel empty again. As he moves, you hear the wet sound of his cloaca rubbing against you. “Huh. You’re kind of a mess.” 

“Yeah, thanks for that,” you wheeze, trying not to get turned on again when you’d just come. “So, um… season. That’s like, more than once, right?” 

There’s a moment of silence, and then you feel a smile on your back that’s a little shy, and a lot hungry. 

[dangerpronebuddie]

I Can See You Being My Addiction (3k)

“I'd wear a costume for you.” Buck snorts. “You already are. You suggested it.” He reaches over with his free hand to tap Eddie's thigh and then just… leaves it there, the heat of his palm adding to the heat in Eddie’s belly. “Yeah,” Eddie says. “Cause you were excited about it. You should get to be excited about things and- and have someone who wants to see that grin on your face.” “Eddie,” Buck whispers, barely loud enough to be heard over the music, but it drowns out the noise anyway. Eddie cranes his neck to look at Buck, his head landing on his shoulder. Buck looks down at him, his pupils blown wide. His gaze flits down to Eddie's mouth and he licks his lips. “Eddie,” he says, or maybe begs, and then his mouth is on Eddie's.

[Read on ao3]

[darke-faerie]

Happy two years to this fic! Ahh I love Ivan and Fyodor together, especially Fyodor dressed up allll fancy! ^.^

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fyodor Dostoyevsky/Ivan Goncharov (Bungou Stray Dogs) Characters: Fyodor Dostoyevsky (Bungou Stray Dogs), Ivan Goncharov (Bungou Stray Dogs) Additional Tags: Bottom Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Top Ivan Goncharov, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fyodor in lingerie, Happy Ending, Love, happiness Summary:

The sight of Fyodor in lingerie was more breath-taking than Ivan had ever imagined...

[kevindavidday]

You Give Love a Bad Name: Chapter One

Playlist

[steddieunderdogfics]

Take the Money and Run by thisapplepielife

@thisapplepielife

Rating: Explicit

143,931 words, 22/22 chapters

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Tags: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gay Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Recreational Drug Use, Eddie Munson Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Season/Series 04, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Good Uncle Wayne Munson, Cover Art, Canon-Typical Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Road Trips, Internalized Homophobia, Slow Burn, Falling In Love, Top Eddie Munson, Bottom Steve Harrington, Switching, Angst with a Happy Ending, Happy Ending, optional future epilogue with kids, can be read without the epilogue

Summary:

“Rules. Like, there’ll be no eating in my car. You’re not driving my car. No heavy metal,” Steve keeps listing, “you’re not picking up women and fucking them in m-” “I'll try to control myself,” Eddie interrupts with a quip, a smirk. Fucking girls in Steve’s car, or anywhere else for that matter, isn’t going to be an issue, unless something pretty fundamental shifts in him. Steve continues, completely ignoring Eddie, “You’ll wipe your feet. You’re not dragging dirt all over my car. No hitchhikers. No cutesy road games. No smoking in the car. I’m not paying for all the gas.” “Ass, gas or grass, got it,” Eddie says, like he's taking this very seriously. He is not taking this seriously. Or: Road trip!

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