#established feelings

[aventurineswife]

Hi! Can I request taking a day off to play in the snow with Gepard? Ik it's a little childish but my school let us out for a snow day after 7 years of no snow and the snow is amazing. Anyway have a nice day 🩷

A Truce in the Snow

Summary: In the peaceful, snow-covered city of Belobog, you convince Gepard to take a rare day off from his duties as captain of the Silvermane Guards. What begins as a playful snowball fight turns into a heartfelt moment of connection, reminding Gepard that even someone as duty-bound as him deserves a chance to relax and enjoy life.

Tags: Gepard x Reader, Fluff, Snowball Fight, Lighthearted Romance, Comfort, Playful Banter, Established Feelings.

A/N: damn what type of school do you go to? I never experienced snow in my entire living life (it never snowed here 😔)

The city of Belobog stood silent under a thick, shimmering blanket of snow. The Fragmentum's gloom seemed far away today, with the sun casting a golden glow over the crystalline frost. It was rare to have a day of such peace, but you had seized the opportunity, determined to drag Captain Gepard Landau away from his endless duties.

Standing outside the barracks, you stomped your boots against the snow, your breath fogging the air as you waited. Before long, the heavy doors creaked open, and there he was—Gepard, clad in his uniform, the silver-blue armor glinting in the sunlight. His fur accessory swayed slightly as he approached, his expression a mix of surprise and amusement.

“You’re persistent,” he said, folding his arms.

“You deserve a break, Captain,” you countered, tilting your head with a grin. “When was the last time you had fun? Come on, you can spare a day to enjoy the snow.”

Gepard hesitated, his eyes scanning the city streets. “I have patrols scheduled, and—”

“—and I’m sure the other guards can manage without you for a few hours,” you interrupted, grabbing his gloved hand. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

He sighed, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “All right, but just for a little while.”

The two of you found yourselves in a quiet clearing near the edge of the city. The snow crunched beneath your feet as you led the way, pointing out the perfect spot for your plans. Gepard followed, his armored boots leaving deep impressions in the pristine white.

“So, what exactly are we doing here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You grinned mischievously, scooping up a handful of snow. “This.”

Before he could react, the snowball hit him squarely in the chest, leaving a dusting of white on his polished armor. For a moment, he stood frozen, his expression one of pure disbelief.

“Oh, you’re in trouble now,” he said, his voice carrying a rare playful edge.

It was on.

Gepard bent down and scooped up a handful of snow, expertly forming a snowball before launching it your way. You ducked behind a tree, laughing as it sailed past, narrowly missing you. The two of you darted back and forth, snowballs flying in every direction as laughter filled the air.

Despite his stoic reputation, Gepard was surprisingly competitive, his precision as sharp on the snowfield as it was in battle. But even he couldn’t resist the lightheartedness of the moment, his usual composure giving way to genuine smiles and carefree laughter.

Eventually, you called a truce, both of you collapsing onto a soft snowbank. Gepard leaned back, his hair catching the sunlight as he exhaled a misty breath.

“You were right,” he admitted, his voice soft. “This was… nice.”

You turned your head to look at him, catching the rare warmth in his expression. “You don’t always have to carry everything on your shoulders, Gepard. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself, too.”

He glanced at you, his blue eyes softening. “Thank you for reminding me. I don’t think I’ve felt this relaxed in… a long time.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, the peaceful stillness of the snowy landscape wrapping around you like a blanket. Then, slowly, he reached out, his gloved hand brushing against yours in the snow.

“We should do this again,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, lacing your fingers with his. “Anytime, Captain.”

And in that quiet moment, under the gentle light of Belobog’s winter sun, it was as if the weight of the world had lifted—if only for a little while.

[stcrfeesh]

a dance and a bouquet of padisarahs

No warnings apply; Safe for work.

Al Haitham x Nilou

Is it appropriate to gift someone a bouquet of their favourite flower as a way to say thank you?

In truth, Al Haitham didn’t really know why he was here. Actually, no. That wasn’t it. Rather, he doesn’t even know what has gotten into him, because for the first time, in all the years he’s been alive, he did not know what he was doing—let alone why he was doing it.

As he silently questions his own actions, he deduces that he could not blame Nilou for staring wide-eyed at him, completely dumbfounded by what he had just said—or asked. Even he, himself, was dumbfounded.

“You… You want me to teach you how to dance?” Nilou asks again, tilting her head to the side. “Uhm, are you sure?”

Was he sure? He certainly was not. Did he want to learn how to dance? Not really. He doesn’t even know why one moment Nilou had been conversing with him about something mundane—he didn’t really mean to, but whatever she had said earlier had already flown over his head—and the next, he had blurted out that he wanted to learn how to dance.

He may not see it now, but he knew somewhere, in a far corner of Sumeru (most probably their shared place), Kaveh was already laughing his ass off at whatever was happening to him—whatever this was supposed to be.

In an attempt to play it cool, he nods his head in reply, confirming. Thus, further and willingly was he dragging himself into something he wasn’t even entirely keen about. To make things much worse on his part, he says, “Yes. I find dancing intriguing, I do not see the harm in learning.”

It was as if he had no control over whatever was coming out of his mouth. This was horrible, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

When Nilou smiled brightly at him, there was this small voice in the back of his head that said maybe, he didn’t regret all his life choices—though, that didn’t really matter. All he wanted to do now was walk away and perhaps never show her his face ever again.

“I’d love to teach you if that’s what you want.” He could practically feel the joy radiate from Nilou. “Just let me know when you’re free. I know it often gets busy at the Akademiya…”

“Thank you,” He tells her curtly—as if it would take him back to before this whole ordeal even started. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

He wasn’t seeing her tomorrow! What in Teyvat has gotten into him?

“Huh?” There was that look of shock on her face again, and Al Haitham couldn’t help but think Nilou looked… nice. Perhaps, decent, and much more tolerable than most. “O-Oh! Sorry. Okay… okay! Let’s meet outside Puspa Cafe, same time tomorrow?”

“That works for me,” Why would you say that?

“I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“Okay.” Was all he said, and then she waved him goodbye.

Dear Archons.

He stands still, unmoving from his place, staring at her as she makes her way towards the Grand Bazaar. As he observes her, he couldn’t help but wonder: Has her hair always been as red as the sweetest Zaytun Peaches?

The sun starts to set, emitting a warm glow, painting Sumeru City in a beautiful shade of gold. He furrows his brows, suddenly realising it was time for him to head back home. As he leaves, he grumbles under his breath. This was all Kaveh’s fault. Had it not been for his constant babbling about Sumeru’s beloved star dancer, the thought of dancing would have never piqued his interest.

   Sometimes, Al Haitham asks himself why he ever allowed himself to decide to take Kaveh in. It’s not that he hated his now-housemate, and yes, it was the right thing to do, what with the architect going bankrupt, but sometimes, the question lingers in his mind. Like now, for example.

His hypothesis—or a simple guess, rather, from earlier was right. Kaveh would be laughing his ass off if he ever knew about his conversation with the dancer; but instead of Kaveh doing it somewhere in a far corner of Sumeru, the man was laughing right at his face.

At that moment, Al Haitham concludes that he never should have told his housemate about it. Granted, telling Kaveh about anything important will never be the wisest decision—It never should be an option in the first place, He thinks—as more often than not, it backfires. But, alas.

In his defence, though, all he wanted to say was that he might be home hours later than usual. But then, one follow-up question turned into two, then into a whopping twenty, and the next thing he knew, Kaveh—this doesn’t happen usually, he swears—has gotten him to spill all the beans.

Which brought him to his current situation. A laughing Kaveh, whom he was very very close to kicking out.

“Just like that?” Kaveh asks, still laughing, much to his great dismay. “You asked Miss Nilou to teach you how to dance…? What even for, Al Haitham?”

I don't know, okay?! Was what he wanted to say—the only rational, albeit seemingly irrational thing he could think of; but no, that won't do. He did not need a laughing Kaveh worse than the one standing before him now, and he most certainly did not need a Kaveh who'd remind him of this situation every other five minutes for the rest of his life. Or at least, for the rest of his life while sharing a place with the (self-)renowned architect. He was bound to move out someday, anyway.

"It’s simple,” Al Haitham starts, making sure he sounded as confident as possible. “As a scholar—something I hope you are still familiar with because Archons knows what you’ve been up to recently—” Yes, his usual jesting would surely make the other buy his next lie.

“Huh? What are you talking about? I’ve been trying to get funding approved, that’s what I’ve been up to!” Kaveh interjects—bingo. “Come on, you, as the scribe should know that.”

“Will you let me continue now?” He raises a brow, and Kaveh, finally, finally shuts his mouth. “As I was saying, as a scholar, life-long learning does not stop with mere academics alone. Learning extends to the arts—what I meant to say is, I find dancing intriguing enough to allot time for it.”

“Hah?” Kaveh asks again, likely still confused.

Al Haitham did not have the time, nor did he have the answers to his housemate’s questions. An act of desperation, “This is none of your business anyway, why do you keep bothering me with questions?”

Though, it seemed like not even desperation could save him as a shit-eating grin appeared on Kaveh’s face—which was growing more and more irritating to Al Haitham as they spoke.

“Ohh. Ohh…” Kaveh says in a sing-song manner. “I get it now.”

“What?”

“I am no expert in this field, my friend,” Kaveh starts, making his way towards him. He places a hand on his shoulder, and Al Haitham could see a glint dancing in the other’s eyes. What it was for, however, he did not know. “But, helping out a friend in need is a just thing to do!”

“I don’t need help with anything.” Al Haitham says. “What are you even going on about?”

Kaveh laughs, “Oh, you poor, poor, clueless man.” Now that was just an insult to him. “You, my friend, have found yourself a certain someone to be smitten with. In other words, you’re growing up—you’re falling in love!”

What in Teyvat was he talking about?

“Where did you even get that conclusion from?” If he had any valuable take-away to whatever insanity Kaveh was subjecting him to, it was that his housemate was a disgrace to the scientific method. “You sound incredibly stupid. Do you even hear yourself?”

Insane. This was insane.

“One, I am not stupid, I’m Kaveh.” Case in point. “And two, don’t think I’ve never noticed it. On all occasions where you’ve met with Miss Nilou—heck, on all occasions when you’ve seen Miss Nilou, you come home in such a good mood, and you’re all chipper. You’re never chipper!”

“You just don’t know me enough.”

Kaveh shushes him, “Three! Your new-found interest in Padisarahs, Miss Nilou’s favourite flower—”

Al Haitham cuts him off, “How do you know that?”

“She has many, many admirers if you would like to know. Some fans, others vying for her hand. How do you know?”

“She mentioned it to me in passing, once.”

“Okay… anyway, as I was saying, you don’t like flowers, man. Now, dancing lessons? From Miss Nilou herself, no less! Now, riddle me this, what do you think of Miss Nilou?”

“I’m not answering any more questions from you. Good night.”

“Not wanting to answer me only proves my point!”

Al Haitham knows he does not owe the architect an answer, or an explanation, but this time around, he needed to be right. “I find her admirable. There. Would you please drop this stupid idea of yours now? You don’t even have a proper hypothesis, let alone data to back such a claim.”

“Not every question should be answered in such a roundabout way. And, see! You don’t simply find anyone admirable.” Kaveh pushes on.

“I find you admirable, but that doesn’t mean I fancy you in that kind of way?”

“Of course you do, I am rather admirable.” His second conclusion for the night was that Kaveh had his head far up his ass. “But this is not about me. We’re talking about Miss Nilou. You’re Al Haitham, the stoic and cold Grand Scribe, someone hard to please, but finds himself weak at the knees for a lovely lady.” Kaveh laughs again, “I never thought I’d ever see this day.”

“If you don’t shut it, you won’t live long enough to see the sun shining tomorrow.”

Kaveh only nods, unafraid. “Good luck tomorrow. Remember to bring her flowers!” Then disappears into his room.

Al Haitham was not in love, or whatever it was that Kaveh had been insinuating since the night before (the morning after was even worse). No, he was definitely certain he was not. It was only polite to bring Nilou something to thank her for all the trouble he has caused thus far. Flowers were a good way to thank people, and gifting the woman flowers she was fond of would further illustrate his sincerity. That was everything there was to the bouquet of Padisarahs he was holding on to.

He stands in front of the cafe’s message board, reading the scribbles of little notes to pass the time as he waits for Nilou.

‘Even the owner predicted I’ll get into the Akademiya this year!’ One message read. Exams were ongoing, and scholar selections were very selective. Sumeru was the land of wisdom, its citizens were free to pursue knowledge, but the Akademiya has its own set of criteria. Though there was one exception years back, when a certain pyro wielder from a noble Liyuen family got in for her peculiar elemental attunement, that was an entirely different situation.

Al Haitham could only hope the best for whoever penned the note.

Below that, was another note in neat handwriting, ‘Hehe… Gata, hehehe…’ Weird. And below that was a reply from the store manager, ‘Gata seems to be really fond of you too, Miss Nilou.’ Oh. Gata… Al Haitham makes a mental note to look into that Gata fellow later.

“I’m so sorry I’m late!” A familiar voice calls out to him. He turns around to see Nilou, and his eyes dart towards the bouquet in his hands, and then back to her. The sooner he gives her this, the sooner they could start, and the sooner he could get this over with.

Of all things Al Halitham could start with, he begins with a simple “Hello.” It should suffice—he hopes it does.

“Hi,” She replies. He stares at her, she stares at him, and it goes on for a minute or probably two. A minute of awkward silence, if you will.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting too long,” Nilou says, flashing him a shy smile. “Something came up at the Bazaar, and I couldn’t just leave it be. I’m so sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” He replies. “I just got here anyway, so I haven’t been waiting long.” Liar. He’d been waiting for half an hour. He clears his throat, offering her the bouquet of Padisarahs. “Here, these are for you.”

“Oh, thank you.” She takes the bouquet from him, and the shy smile that was just on her face moments ago turns into a blindingly radiant one.

The afternoon sun was about to set, painting the city of Sumeru in glimmers of gold, and yet, in his mind, Nilou’s smile bested its beauty. Her smile was akin to that of the rising sun, the early morning rays kissing the land in new hope.

What was he even thinking?

“I did not know what would’ve been appropriate to give you as a token of gratitude.” He half-confesses. On one hand, it was true that he did not know what to give her, and on the other, he had been intending to give her Padisarahs the moment they began to bloom. “You’ve agreed to teach me on such short notice, and I am grateful for that.”

“You really didn’t have to!” She says, bringing the bouquet close to sniff every once in a while. “These are hard to find outside of Pardis Dhyai… it must have been troublesome for you to get these… Being able to teach people how to dance is enough of a thank you. So really, you didn’t have to go through all the trouble.”

I’ve been cultivating them myself, he wanted to say but decided against it. “So… should we begin lessons?”

“Sure!”

In the span of a day and a half, Al Haitham has lied more times than he could count on two hands. Well, it wasn’t a lie so bad he’d put his own reputation and integrity as a scholar in jeopardy. Just… white lies, to escape further embarrassment. He lied when Nilou asked him what enticed him to learn how to dance. His new reasoning was far from the one he had used on Kaveh. This time around, it was because he was bound for Mondstadt. It would’ve been embarrassing if he, as a scholar, was not familiar with the Nation’s waltz.

He lied again, when he said he has never seen the dance live. He has, on multiple occasions. Then, he lies again, when she holds his hand and he stiffens. He felt abashed by the sudden touch, but he told her he was just naturally stiff.

She giggles at him, and he wonders if lying was worth it after all.

“Relax,” She tells him. Believe him, he was trying his best. “Mondstadt’s waltz is like the nation’s element. Freely flowing like the cool breeze of the wind.”

Al Haitham was far from gentle. At least, when ancient relics and texts were out of the question, he was far from gentle. But, miraculously, as he takes her hand in his, and places the other on her waist, he was like a mother to a newborn. Slowly, but with certainty, he followed her lead, and as she had described it, flowed freely like the breeze.

“You’re a natural at this. Are you sure you aren’t a beginner at all?” She asks him, after a couple of rounds of box steps and spinning. He shakes his head no—another lie. He wasn’t a pro, per se, but decent enough to be more than a beginner. “I suppose you’ve got the basics, but I can still teach you if you want…”

He wouldn’t be needing any more lessons, but…

“If you’ll have me, then I see no reason to refuse.”

“Of course! I’d be glad to teach you more.” She pauses, and Al Haitham assumes she was probably choosing the right words to say—something he hadn’t been able to do since yesterday—then she smiles at him again, “It’s nice, being able to freely perform now… but I think, being able to share dances with someone else, I believe there’s more joy to that. So, as long as you’d want me to, I’d be happy to teach you.”

“I would like that.” He says, before realising what his words could entail, so he adds, “After all, being well-prepared is a must.”

She reminds him of a few more points—ones he was already aware of—and then offers to walk her home.

The sun had long set, and there was a moment of comfortable silence between them—completely juxtaposed to the awkward silence they had shared earlier. It was nice if he was being honest. Nighttime in Sumeru City has always been a sight to behold, but being able to share it with someone else… well, everything good becomes better tenfold.

A thought comes into his mind, and he looks at Nilou, “Miss Nilou?”

She hums in reply.

“Are you free tomorrow evening?” Once more, Al Haitham finds himself completely oblivious to the reasons for his actions.

“Would you like to continue lessons then?” She asks him.

“No, not lessons.” Al Haitham glances at the bouquet of Pardisarahs in her arms. “Actually, I would like to take you somewhere. I’d like to show you something.”

“Oh?”

“The Padisarahs I gifted you, those are ones I grew myself—with much assistance from Tighnari, of course.” Finally, a truth from the Grand Scribe. “I remember how you mentioned you were fond of them. Pardis Dhyai closes before the sun sets, and those flowers are much more breathtaking under the moonlight.”

“It’s a shame I never get to see them when they’re supposed to look the most beautiful,” Nilou says, a sad sigh that does not go unnoticed by Al Haitham, escaping her lips.

“Well, I think that will change soon…” He trails off, gauging her next reaction. She looks up at him expectantly, perhaps afraid to draw presumptuous conclusions. “I was able to borrow an old friend’s greenhouse for those Padisarahs… would you—of course, only if you want to—would you like to see them?”

“Would I not be intruding on your friend…? I mean, it’s their greenhouse after all.”

“Of course not.” He says, a little too quickly for his own liking. “He likes showing his greenhouse off. If anything, he’d be ecstatic to know that someone other than myself is able to see how grand his greenhouse is.”

“If you say so…” She starts, “I’d love to see the Padisarahs.”

“So, that’s a yes?” He asks again, and she replies with an enthusiastic nod. “Tomorrow… I’ll meet you at the Bazaar.”

“I promise not to take longer this time!”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He laughs. He laughs.

“Oh! This is me,” She says, coming to a stop, and nodding towards an apartment. “Thank you for walking me home, Al Haitham.”

“Don’t mention it.” Another pause, before he clears his throat. “Thank you again, for the dance lessons… Good night, Miss Nilou.”

“It was nothing… and, good night to you too.” She retreats into her own home, and Al Haitham is left to ponder on his own thoughts as he walks back home.

In truth, Al Haitham does not know what he was doing. Or feeling. Or what has gotten into him; because for the first time, in all the years he’s been alive, he has never felt the way he does now. It was like a push and a pull within him. It was warm and fuzzy in his chest, but he could feel his guts doing summersaults. It was odd, but at the same time, it was a feeling he did not hate.

He silently reflects on his own actions and comes to a conclusion. Perhaps, Kaveh had been right all along. Though, of course, he would never admit that. Kaveh would never let him live it down.

I might have a talent for pulling rare pairs out of my ass. They could like have 0.3 seconds of screentime, but if I see potential, you bet I'll be writing about them.

Anywho, this fic is crossposted from AO3, which you can find here.

Thank you for reading! And, if you like my writing, feel free to check out my on-going Xiaolumi spy series, off the precipice!

GENSHIN MASTERLIST  |  KO-FI SUPPORT

[chloesimaginationthings]

What if Mike and Jeremiah are the guards in FNAF 2..

[akanemnon]

It could get worse and it DID get worse

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[loumandforyou]

proof that they were together in the past or... it could all mean nothing

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Burning Rotten Bridges

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[bacchuschucklefuck]

class swap design masterpost for convenience (from top to bottom: bard!riz, cleric!gorgug, sorcerer!kristen, barbarian!fig, artificer!adaine, and rogue!fabian)

[bloodydeanwinchester]

DESTIEL IN EVERY EPISODE → 8x07 a little slice of kevin

hey, everything isn't your responsibility.

getting me out of purgatory wasn't your responsibility.

you didn't get out. so whose fault was it?

[sincerelybubbles]

"spence?"

"hm?"

"when did you get home?"

a more awake you would be squealing, thoroughly excited he came home early from his trip, but the early hours have hardly begun to bring light and you're struggling to even open your eyes to look at him. your cheeks still widen into a pleased smile though, turning into his warmth and humming, confused, when your hands find the rough fabric of his coat.

"a few hours ago," he says, voice rough, eyes still shut. one arm across his eyes, blocking the minuscule light, the other a vice around your waist. his voice is slow, deep in his chest, caught on the sleep he obviously wishes to keep. but he still turns his face toward the sound of your voice, smile creeping up at the corners of his lips, willing to entertain you despite his fatigue.

"are you still wearing your shoes?" you ask, voice teasing, scooting up in his arm to nudge your nose against the curve of his jaw. you press a kiss there, the point where his bone hits a right angle, lips tingling from the stubble you find.

"no," he says, voice honest, "i know better than that."

"no shoes, but your belt is still on?" you tease, fingers dragging across the leather. you don't care, not beyond a genuine concern for his comfort, but you enjoy teasing him in this way, skimming your lips across the rough skin of his chin in not-quite kisses.

"i took my gun off," he complains in a half-hearted groan, lifting his arm to peek at you out of the corner of one eye. "hi," he says, voice still soft, somehow deeper with affection, dimples the star of the show on his cheeks.

"hi," you say, tilting your head back and lifting your arm to cart your fingers through his mess of hair. "welcome home."

he smiles, reaching around with his other arm to gather you up and drag you across his chest in a bear hug, chuckling at the squeal you let out, sighing against your hair. he presses a firm kiss there, right above your ear.

"we will have to wash the sheets, though. it was really gross for me to not change, i was just exhausted, sorry."

[hitlikehammers]

POV: when you overhear your boyfriend’s bandmates who ⛔️do not like you⛔️ talking to him—about YOU

“Be real though, Ed. Harrington? You can’t actually be serious, here.” Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle. Which is to say he totally does it. He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it. “You got me,” Eddie sighs, longer and deeper than can be taken wholly seriously. “I’m running my longest successful con to date.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: post-s4, established relationship, corroded coffin, as in: the gang’s all here and being VERY JUDGEMENTAL of eddie’s taste in men, and maybe steve had to pick eddie up from practice today so he overhears it WHOLLY WITHOUT INTENDING TO OKAY?, no one ever REALLY want to hear what the people they love really think of them when said people don’t know who all’s actually listening, true love, declarations of feelings, it’s actually really fucking hard to stand up to your friends, happy ending♥️

for @steddielovemonth day ten: "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love." —Dr. Seuss

also! Unnamed Freak is Doug for the purpose of this fic because the book can fuck itself I say so 🖤

“Be real though, Ed,” the voice that filters through, and holds Steve’s hand from pushing the car door shut loud enough to notice, is fairly reasonable, like trying to talk down a suggestion absurd enough to send someone to the ER—which means, of the subjects at hand? It’s gotta be Jeff.

“You can’t actually be serious, here.”

Steve doesn’t like to eavesdrop, like, on principle.

Which is to say he totally does it.

He just doesn’t wholly approve of it, or think it’s a very good habit to have, while still doing it.

“You got me,” Eddie deadpans, but it’s like, venom-laced. It stings just to hear and Steve’s struck with how much his life’s changed since Spring Break, and more still since…well.

Since Eddie.

Because Steve is well aware the man can cut glass with how sharp his tongue can get, they did go to high school together whether they ran in the same circles or not.

It’s just strikes Steve in the moment that not once since Vecna, has Eddie turns that tongue on him.

Now, other uses of his tongue—

“I’m running my longest successful con to date. Yep, totally pulled it over on all you bitches,” and where it could be playful, every single word is sharpened to stab, to pierce, to drag the wound out so it bleeds, like a shiv to remind someone where they fucked up, in perpetuity.

“Please applaud.”

And oh, even Steve flinches at that tone, and he’s not even the target. Hell, he’s still in the driveway—he doesn’t make a rule of crashing band practice, no matter whose parents’ garage they’re using; Eddie’s van is just regularly in the shop for one thing or another, so he’s gotta come get his man. But he doesn’t, like, push his way in. Sometimes doesn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. He knows Eddie would more than welcome him; has the handful of times he’s ventured to step in to apologize for interrupting but remind him they have to pick up the shitheads. But one: Eddie is alone in his welcome, and like, the polar opposite of the other three guys, who range from staring daggers at Steve to sneering so scrunched up to the nose that it’d give Carol Perkins at her snittiest a run for her money.

And Steve wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t know how to recognise where he’s not wanted, and learn how to make the calculated decision of whether to walk or push his way in. And much as he loves Eddie? Steve actually wants his friends to eventually come around from probably, like, muttering ancestral curses under their breaths at him or something.

Plus, from what Steve understands? Jam sessions are personal. Sacred. Eddie had blushes and stammered the first time he let Steve listen in on works in progress; and Steve had rewarded him for the gift of it liberally and with genuine gusto. It’s earned him repeat performances on the regular, but Steve gets it’s a private thing in general. And these guys don’t know him, don’t presently care to—don’t trust him.

He figures it’s like…masturbating in front of someone. The art thing, the depth of making music and stuff. Showing your soul a little bit, losing control for the betterment of the final product.

Now, he and Eddie definitely have masturbated together, it’s actually fantastic foreplay, or even just a deliciously sloppy go on its own. But that’s neither here nor there. And also totally fucking different.

Steve really doesn’t want Eddie masturbating in front of anyone other than him, ever again. Steve’s sure as shit not looking to on his end; definitely not with the other members of Corroded fucking Coffin.

The metaphor might have gotten away from him. But you get the picture.

“No, man,” and that’s, that’s Gareth’s voice, Steve’s almost sure. Sharper. Concerned but also caustic on the undertow. “It’s just,” he snorts, the disbelieving sort: “this can’t be real.”

Okay, yeah. Tone plus actual words add up.

“Yeah, just,” Doug laughs a little nervous, like of all of them, Eddie’s verbal attack had the most weight in tempering his response of the three of them; “blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”

They all chuckle, but it’s toned down the whole way around—even Steve can clock that. These guys are boisterous when left to their devices, Steve’s taken note of that. Mostly watching from the sidelines—almost exclusively when they don’t know he’s there to watch.

Again: does not condone eavesdropping.

Does not try at all to refrain from doing it.

“I mean, you don’t expect us to believe you’re actually fucking him,” and oh, yeah, okay: Steve was pretty sure he was the topic conversation here, and despite some of the setbacks of recent years, he’s not insecure when it comes to relationships especially.

He’s definitely the only one fucking Eddie. And Eddie’s the only one fucking him.

And while he doesn’t really hold it against these guys for being wary of him—he wasn’t really a perpetrator of their high school woes, but he definitely didn’t do anything to make them less…woeful—so he’s mostly bummed about it for Eddie’s sake, and on principle, but like, seriously.

Doubting Steve successfully scoring Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie’s a catch, Steve of ll people is well aware, but. Steve’s also been long past fishing the shallow end of the pond, y’know?

Give him some credit.

“Right,” Steve narrows back in on what’s happening in the garage that he’s definitely feeling less guilty bout, seeing as he’s definitely a subject of the debate unfolding, but Eddie sounds…angry. Pissed off in that way he gets when he’s fed the fuck up.

“I’m out,” Steve hears scraping of equipment, the guitar case flipped open; “can’t actually make it next week,” he adds like a footnote.

It’s clear within a second he’s the only one who takes it with that same…energy.

“But we have to practice before the open mic—” Jeff, ever the voice of reason, sounds baffled; on his way to ticked off but not quite there yet.

Eddie, however—as is his wont in this type of mood—could not give two shits where the people around him land on the anger-o-meter; he’s exceeded them, even if only in his own head, and they are all therefore irrelevant to his very responsible decision to put distance between himself and doing something stupid he can’t take back.

It’s not the nicest way to deal but, honestly? Steve’s mostly just proud of Eddie for sticking with a coping mechanism that, while not without consequences, generally works better than most.

“I’ll see you guys in two, then. Probably.” And the case clicks shut, definitive, and Steve’s proud of that too; that Eddie’s not digging a hole when the guys re trying to bait him, intentionally or not, over Steve.

Steve doesn’t need Eddie to complicate his band, his friendships, over what the two of them have. One, it’s not their fucking business. And two?

Steve doesn’t thing he’s being self-important in saying he and Eddie…are bigger, and more, than even the very beat high school band.

Not that Steve would ever ask Eddie to choose or some bullshit like that. And he really does believe Eddie’s going places, if that’s what he decides he wants. But…there’s that.

Then there is them.

Different, like, stratospheres.

“What the fuck came up that you can’t make it next week? When we’re staring down our first actual shot at Battle of the Bands this year,” and yeah, of course, if anyone’s gonna try to drag the whole thing out, it’s Gareth. Kid’s got a fucking temper.

“Something more important.”

Which yeah, that’s what was going through Steve’s mind, basically, but—

“The hell could be more—“

“I have plans,” Eddie hisses, viper-quick and fucking deadly, shuts them all right up for it, but then he spins a 180–preens so big Steve swears he can hear his shoulders go back and his chest puff out:

“It’s my anniversary.”

So…yeah. Just because it was where Steve’s head had just been at doesn’t mean his whole chest goes all gooey to hear it said out loud.

And in front of Eddie’s band, who…they aren’t hiding from, but they have discussed keeping kinda mum around. For the same kinds of reasons Steve’s been privy to just in the past couple minutes.

But then Eddie’s voice follows the feeling in Steve’s chest like they’re tethered there, and honestly, more times than not?

Steve thinks they just might actually be, and he’s not proven wrong with the way Eddie halfway coos:

“Our anniversary.”

“Your what?”

Jeff, again, is that middle ground: actually confused, laced with being angry that Eddie’s ducking out.

“Six months,” Eddie answers, soft-like, a little dreamy but in this way that’s rooted somehow still, and in being struck all over again by a level of shock Steve understands, sometimes feels in reverse, but still doesn’t understand being felt so deep as it sounds, now, when it’s applied to…him.

It’s wild y’know?

“I’m like,” Steve hears Eddie’s curls brush against something as he shakes his head—Steve’s money’s on him crouched by his case, or having it already slung over his shoulder:

“Never thought I’d get something to celebrate like that in the first place, but get to keep it, that long without fucking it up?”

Steve, again, wants to give up the pretense and walk the fuck in there and kiss the shit out of his boyfriend because one, same, but two?

Dumbass.

Steve goddamn adores him.

“You mean, with Harrington?” Gareth’s spitting and Steve just shakes his head, a little sad—he doesn’t know what’s crawled up that kid’s ass about him, man; he’s not so much younger that Steve never saw him or didn’t know of him but godDamn: the circles he ran in at the time weren’t the ones doing shit yet when they were in the same elementary school, Steve was barely popular in middle school, and come high school the worst anyone he knew did to the frosh was bang them into a locker—not great, but.

Not worth this shit. And the worst part is if he doesn’t know what’s crawled he did to really piss Gareth off this bad? He can’t even try to Harrington-charm his way back into the guy’s tolerable category. Like, even his best fucking not-pot brownie recipe didn’t sway the fucker.

“Yes,” Eddie is answering, the answer emphatic, like he’s brimming with feeling over it, but then clipped too, like demonstrating that he was brimming and is now being forced to clip it all backis very much the intent: “of course I mean with Steve, who the fuck else?”

It’s not lost on Steve how Eddie says his name. Ever. All the name.

But right now, how he’s making a point to say it in that warm, kinda…beloved way, when anyone else uses his last name in a way that’s anything-but.

“You cannot be—” Gareth scoffs, Steve can imagine him throwing up his hands, that sort of deal, but then Eddie comes in, and it’s a tone Steve’s only ever hear when he’s about to run a campaign into the ground where the characters may never recover, and if somehow manage it, they’ll wish they hadn’t:

“Oh, I am deadly serious.”

Because it’s not Steve’s character, but in defense of Steve’s relationship, that tone trickles something molten through his veins and prickles up his spine and…he’s gone have to stick that one in his back pocket to explore at a later date, for sure.

“Six months?”

Jeff—and Steve kinda likes Jeff, and not for the reason his bandmates would like, that he kicks around Hawkins after graduation, too, but more because Steve knows why; that’s to make more money for a college outside Indiana, and Steve thinks that’s fucking cool—but it’s here where Jeff dips fully away from being angry to being stupefied. Steve lets himself smirk at nothing because fuck yes: him and Eddie.

Six whole goddamn months.

“I was actually gonna ask you guys to come over soon, introduce him properly and stuff,” Eddie says, the disappointment in his voice again; Steve’s niggling desire to go and hug him from behind, maybe kiss under his ear a little, back in full force.

“He picks you up from practice, we see him,” Doug pipes back up, likewise confused, but Steve just takes the useful confirmation that no one did catch on that he pulled up ages ago, now.

“We know who Steve Harrington is—” Gareth snaps, protests in the way that betrays his eye-rolling, his thin-wearing patience.

“No!”

And that comes out of Eddie fierce enough to echo down at least half the block they’re on—seems like Eddie’s patience was worn out a while ago.

“You don’t!”

And everyone is silent in that way Steve knows all too well: when shit’a gone down but now you’re waiting in the edge for the worse thing to hit.

Then it does:

“And it’s a good thing I didn’t bring it up because you dipshits aren’t ready,” Eddie snaps, says dipshitso different from how he does with the Party, theirParty, their kids; he says it here with something real fucking close to disgust.

“Asking hostage questions, fuck off,” he huffs, and Steve hears Eddie’s footsteps, can’t tell if he’s gonna leave it at that, come find Steve and know he’s been standing there but that’ll be fine, it’s not like Steve wasn’t going to let him know as soon as they left—but then:

“Look,” and Eddie sounds the way Steve sounds when he’s pinching the bridge of his nose to fight a growing migraine, the sting of tears for all sorts of pain behind his eyes, and that hurts to hear from his boyfriend, like, a lot.

It fucking hurts.

“I am not just fucking him,” Eddie growls through the bridge-pinching pain; “I mean, fuck yes, I am, but,” and Steve hears the way he swallows all the way down the drive:

“I’m in this for the long haul,” Eddie tells his bandmates like throwing down a gauntlet; “and if you can’t respect me enough, and my choices, that stings,” Steve knows Eddie shrugs then: “but I’ll live.”

Steve’s about a millisecond from saying fuck it, opening the door just to slam it to announce his approach, and then going to physically grab his boyfriend, drag him to the car, and park in the abandoned lot down from the Wheelers’ neighborhood to kiss him senseless because that’s the closest place he can think of and he doesn’t think he’ll make it to either of their homes before he can’t fucking handle himself.

“But if you are gonna disrespect the man I love, no. Absolutely not.”

Eddies voice is a deadly sort of whisper. Steve would cower at it, the way it washes through a person, if he hadn’t just…said.

That.

“You love him?”

And for what Steve thinks is the first time since he climbed out of the car and committed to listening where he wasn’t invited, Gareth sounds…muted. Genuinely asking a question.

Steve, for his own part, kinda expected that he’d be more breathless, heart racing and shit, to hear the answer but in reality?

“Of course I love him.”

Steve already knew that in his cells, in his bones.

In his steady, not all-that-fast but particularly-especially-happily beating heart.

“Have you guys, like, said it and stuff?”

And of course Steve already knows that answer, both the literal one and the one that matters more, but he does perk up a bit, curious to hear what—if anything of note—Eddie chooses to give away here.

“He has,” Eddie says, and now…now maybe Steve should stop listening because this part, the way Eddie says that as flat fact—Steve doesn’t knowthis part beyond speculation. But…

“I wanted to, like,” and eddies voice can’t hide the way he’s gotta have that soft smile, the one he used to hide behind his hair before Steve started pulling it back to see in full, so now he only brings his hair out just to tease, to okay.

“I don’t think I’ve wanted much in my whole life, but he’s,” and Steve thinks he hears how Eddie chews his bottom lip for a second, in the subtlest click of how it slips free before Eddie takes a deep breath and—

“He doesn’t know what he’s worth,” Eddie starts, a little mournful almost, even, and Steve is unexpectedly glued to the spot in his fucking Nikes.

“He doesn’t understand that I’d sell the sun and the moon just to keep him,” Eddie’s saying, and with passion. With whole-ass honesty. And here, maybe, is where Steve gets to have some of the heart:fluttery feeling after all:

“He comes out the gate with the whole you don’t have to say it back and I just,” Eddie sighs, sniffs a little before heaving another breath deep enough to stretch his shirt, which Steve’s not imagining or anything, at all;

“I couldn’t say it, not right then, and risk him everthinking it was something I’d done to like, match. Like that I didn’t mean it with everything I’ve got, when I mean it with everything I’ve got and then also everything else. Like, anywhere. Ever.”

Steve realized he’d stopped breathing at some point when the little dots start floating in front of his eyes and he sucks in a shaking breath because: he’s known Eddie loves him. Unshakeably.

But, but all this—

“I couldn’t say it and have him ever wondered if I wouldn’t rip my heart out of my chest just to keep his safe.”

And of-fucking-course Steve’s pulse is running fucking riot about how much he’s in love right now, make no goddamn mistake. Jesus, he—

“Fuck.”

And Steve has never heard Gareth Emerson pushed just this side of speechless but: that’s the best way Steve can describe the kind of breathless wonder he says it with, like watching a rare bird take flight.

“You mean it.”

And Steve can pick out Eddie’s huffs and categorize them, on demand at this point: he doesn’t need to see the eye-roll to know Eddie’s deemed the expression of pure shock to be so beneath him in this specific context that he’s deemed it unworthy of any more attention.

His heart’s not jumping that loud to have missed it. So.

Steve just kinda grins toward the blacktop under his shoes.

“Why didn’t you,” Doug starts, still—usually, really, in Steve’s limited experience at least—the peacekeeper, the one who’s most invested at the human level when he’s not getting swept up in whatever the rest of the gang has deemed the cool thing to laugh at or make fun of at any given moment.

The huff Eddie gives this time is his incredulous one, which allows for just the slightest bit more consideration:

“The fuck do you think?”

The slightest bit, being the operative point.

“I’d hoped you’d take it better but,” Eddie adds, and there’s less drama in it than Steve might have expected. He’s being serious with them, and he sounds…disappointed.

Steve kinda want to make some kind of noise, give away his position, and just…hug Eddie tight from behind, if nothing else. Be there. Solid against him, wrapped up around him. Never wavering. Always at his back as much as at his side.

But Eddie’s not done:

“I’m not even asking you to like him, just be decent,” and it sounds like it hurts him to say as much, and Steve knows why; he genuinely despises when anyone thinks Lea with a the very beat thing about Steve. Steve believes this to be n unreasonable standard, and has expressed as much to Eddie who nods and smiles and kisses Steve’s forehead and does absolutely nothing to change his stance, but deep down?

Steve fucking feels so…loved for it.

“And like I said,” Steve can hear the judgement in Eddie’s tone clear as day; “you’re not ready, and I’m not putting him in that kind of situation.”

Steve sucks on the inside of his cheek, lest his grin at the way Eddie is not just defending him, but…protecting him, not his honor but his heart…

No ones ever even tried that before. Steve may not need it, or maybe he just learned he couldn’t survive needing it.

Getting it now…now it’s just…

Wow.

“And I’m in this for keeps, like, this is a forever type thing, so long as he wants it,” Eddie saying, explaining the color of a sky to a small child like what these words are that fundamental, that unalterably true. “So—”

“We’ve known each other forever, man,” Gareth eventually mutters, sounds indignant, but mostly gutted.

Steve knows before it happens that it’s not gonna make a difference.

“And we can still know each other. Just not everything, anymore,” and Eddie does sound a little sad but he’s…he’s a monolith, unshakable. “I don’t trust you with the parts that revolve around him, yet,” and Steve feels more than hears the ways his friends deflate, maybe shrink for being deemed so…insufficient. In the eyes of their ostensible leader, no less.

“Eddie, we didn’t,” Jeff starts, slow, and he doesn’t sound remorseful but—Eddie has all those coping mechanisms for a reason, right?

Because he’s quick to feeling, good and bad, and sometimes neither is fit to the moment.

Steve can’t help but be kinda glad Eddie doesn’t bother with those mechanisms just now, though, if it means he gets to hear this part:

“I know you didn’t, that’s the fucking problem,” Eddie groans, Steve can see the way he lens, bends at the knees and throws his body around a little in sheer, undiluted exasperation. “

“Because I could tell you he’s changed since school, and that’d be true, but that’s not even it,” and there’s more of the frustrated stomping round, Steve can hear it, but he’s…he’s ready distracted by that thing in his chest that has to has to be tied up in Eddie’s, too, that thing tugging on him to pay the fuck attention.

And who is he to ignore it?

“he was never who we thought he was in school in the first place. He is,” Eddie licks his lips, just to snack them loud:

“He is kind and funny, and goofy, and such a fuckin’ nerd, and he’s smart in these incredible ways where he’s sees what everyone else misses, and he’s protective as fuck and he’s got a heart of gold,” and Eddie’s voice only gets more heartfelt in its own right that longer he goes and Steve just, he’s, it’s—

“And I would tear my skin off just so it doesn’t get so much as a scuff on it,” Eddie ends with the most scathing delivery imaginable: he fucking meansthis shit. And Steve is going o live and die next to this man, scuffed heart still kept safe to the fucking end, he will swear that shit to anyone who needs to hear it.

He is going to have a whole fucking life with Eddie Munson, and love him for every single breath of it.

“And I don’t trust you guys yet not to tempt me to tear off my skin,” Eddie says finally after enough silence to catch his breath, and temper his tone just enough to sound tired; a little dejected. “I don’t trust you with him, and until that changes, we’re still friends,” Eddie sniffs, breathes out long; “you just won’t get to know about that part of me.”

He says it so simple, like he’s not half-cutting off some of the longest, closest friendships he’s ever had, and for Steve.

Steve doesn’t know if it makes him a person, or a really selfish one or whatever, if he doesn’t feel any urge to talk Eddie down, to make him walk it back just a little.

He doesn’t think he cares, though, either way.

“Seems like a really big part of you,” Doug says, deflated entirely.

“It is,” Eddie answers, unapologetic in a way that swells and sparkles in Steve’s ribs. “He is.”

“You’d walk from the band?” Of course Gareth asks, but it’s the first time he sounds small in his words. Like he maybe knows the answer, and isn’t so okay with how he got around to it even before Eddie wishes all doubt:

“In half a fuckin’ heartbeat.” Boom. Done. No hesitation whatsoever.

Less than half-a-fuckin’-heartbeat.

“That’s not what I’m saying I’m doing right now, but,” Eddie laughs a little, and that probably cuts deeper than anything for the boys, Steve suspects, especially when Eddie makes it unquestionable:

“It’s not even a question.”

And…maybe that drives a knife deeper for the band, but for Steve?

Steve kinda wants to…giggle, or some shit. He hadn’t realized just how much he wanted someone who answered a question like that, exactly like that, who talked about Steve exactly like that, without anything to gain, just because they…believed it.

“Jesus,” Gareth mutters, sounds kinda blindsided, kinda thrown and then some.

“If we,” Jeff clears his throat after a long period of quiet; “if we do better, could we meet him someday?” And the way he says it, earnest and shit:, like he wants to at least think about, at least maybe try:

“Like, really meet him?”

Like Eddie means enough that he’ll try, and that sings sweet in Steve’s veins because goddamn straight, his Eddie deserves that from the people hecares about. No matter who or what Steve is, Eddiedeserves that much, and so much more.

But he sounds like even just this is something amazing, Steve can hear the smile in his voice:

“Yeah, man,” he answers Jeff, claps him audibly on the shoulder; “I look forward to it.”

And shit, y’know what?

So does Steve.

“See you in two weeks,” and Eddies footsteps follow, guitar slung over his back for the way his weight falls with each one, but then:

“Eddie!”

That’s Doug; the footsteps stop close to the edge of the garage door as another set rushes to catch up, where he’ll see Steve if he walks much farther, where Steve’s got his hand on the door handle of the car, slowly inching it open to push shut and look wholly-unsuspicious now that Eddie might be followed out to his ride:

“Get him flowers. For your anniversary,” Doug says, tone low like a secret; “I know, like, it might seem like guys wouldn’t want flowers, but,” and Steve actually has to strain to hear the next part:

“My mom gets my dad flowers on his birthday every year, and he lights up like the Fourth of July.”

Steve remembers the first time he ever got flowers. His favorites, even if he thinks he only knew it subconsciously because they were handed to him with the stammering explanation of I don’t even know if you like flowers, or like these ones, but you look at them when we’re out, like, just walking or something and your eyes linger, and these ones just remind me of you and—

Apparently, Steve loves hyacinths. And sunflowers make Eddie think of him.

Because of course Steve’s first gift of flowers came from Eddie.

“Thanks man,” Eddie sounds the lightest, most genuine Steve’s heard him since he pulled up and got out of the car; “they’re already ordered.”

And Doug chuckles, and Steve?

Steve bites down his smile to less exploding-star levels—if he’d just pulled up he doesn’t have a reason, save that Eddie is enough of a reason in Steve’s eyes, his mind, the way his chest expands just thinking on him—as he pulls the car door closed again, loud enough to be noticed.

For Eddie to walk out of the garage fast as anything and meet Steve with a smile of his own that justifies the fuck out of where Steve’s had started, anyway.

All star-bright and everything.

♥️🎸♥️

✨also on ao3✨

btw this is either titled ‘halcyon shoegazing’ or ‘heart in your shoes’ so if you have an opinion you should maybe tell me or something, my brain’s tired and is resisting decisions rn

✨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 @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @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

divider credit here and here and here

[rooolt]

I actually think Freddie’s characters should keep dying every ten episodes and he should keep having to make new guys with stupid accents to the point where it’s just a revolving door of what feel like special guests in the story of two lesbians and their murder son dealing with the horrors. Marbles should stay tho

[chloesimaginationthings]

Michael Afton draws FNAF tape girl for Vanessa,,

[iamnmbr3]

consider established drarry just casually using each other's wands all the time because they are so magically compatible and trust each other so absolutely that they can use each other's wands nearly as well as their own so if it's for something minor they'll both just grab whatever wand happens to be nearest at hand

and like. technically it's not pda. but there's something so intimate in the way they are so intertwined even in this that people around always feel as though they're witnessing something private.

[kwillow]

stupid doodle of a stupid horse.

[thelibrarian1895]

For your consideration

Lucanis proposes to a Mourn Watch Rook, Caterina even gave him the opal ring for the proposal since someone who killed one of the elven gods could be arguably acceptable for her grandson.

Probably

Then it's time to plan the wedding and I would like to offer the idea that Caterina and Teia who, upon learning that Rook has no living parents and was, in fact, found in a crypt in the Necropolis by the undead, might come to the conclusion that since there are no other parental figures involved, they will have full control over the wedding planning as they are grandmother of the groom and groom's basically sister with some input from Rook and Lucanis of course.

Except no

Vorgoth appears in the room that Caterina has dedicated to wedding planning. Vorgoth is there to make sure that the Nevarran and Mourn Watch traditions are also respected. Plus this is their little crypt baby who's all grown up and getting married! Myrna comes in shortly afterwards, it takes her a little longer to travel than it does Vorgoth and now Teia has the bride's basically sister to debate with.

Debates over whether or not skeletons should be ushers or not, picking over every name on the guest list, debates about the size of the guest list, arguing over the location of the wedding (Vorgoth: THE MEMORIAL GARDENS ARE VERY POPULAR FOR SUCH OCCASIONS Myrna: It would be particularly romantic as Emmerich reported Rook would like their remains to be used in the garden after their death Caterina: No, the Dellamortes have been married in the Treviso chantry gardens for generations Teia: will the Chantry be finished cleaning up all the leftover Ventaori things in time? Caterina: I was unaware that we were dealing with any time constraints (Teia changes the subject while they debate whether or not to confess that she suspects Rook might be pregnant and thus they might want to have the wedding quickly since while having a baby first isn't a bad thing, it would make the fitting of wedding outfits difficult (Rook is not pregnant, Rook is throwing up and sickly at the moment because they're trying to develop immunity to common poisons)) catering, discovering that Nevarrans also arrange for the couples' funeral while they're putting together the wedding, determining if one of the couple will be wearing a dress, figuring out who is going to make the outfits for the wedding party (Manfred, who made their own Watcher uniform, is unaware of the careful negotiations and has already measured both Rook and Lucanis and has started to sew a very traditional Watcher wedding outfit that was in style about 2,000 years ago that Manfred thinks it cool/pretty, Manfred started this as soon as Spite told them that Spite, Rook, and Lucanis were officially a thing because I 100% believe that Spite and Manfred gossip with one another and Lucanis figures better Manfred than Spite walking around while Lucanis is asleep and spilling everything to everyone in the Lighthouse, Rook and Lucanis will wear the outfits Manfred makes for the reception), figuring out who is going to be in the wedding party (lots of debating about whether Illario is going to be part of things or not), determining who is going to be walked down the aisle (Rook), determining who is going to walk the person down the aisle (Vorgoth, this is why I say Rook is walked down the aisle), flowers, decorations in general, location for the reception, music, living arrangements in the aftermath of the wedding, conferring about wedding presents so none of them get the couple a duplicate of something, determining who is going to officiate, figuring out who will paint the wedding portraits, whether or not it would be appropriate for any contract to be fulfilled during the wedding (Teia: Unless you refuse to allow guests to bring plus ones, at least one Crow is going to bring a target to the wedding and finish the contract after the vows, it happens every time) what would happen to anyone who might die of "natural causes" during the wedding, wedding favors, Mourn Watch avoiding/ignoring the Crows probing about King Marcus, designing the wedding invitations, scheduling health check ups, seating arrangements, if Antiva or Nevarra have any tradition of dowries or bride prices then Vorgoth and Caterina discuss how that works out, determining where the couple will go for their honeymoon, and of course, determining which side of the family will pay for what and setting a budget, neither side is going to let the other get away with "I pay for it so I decide" though neither side would honestly because while they all have specific visions for their loved one's wedding, they really do want the couple to be happy with how things end up

It's quite possibly the most fun Caterina has had in decades and she and Vorgoth will either best friends or they'll be mortal enemies in the aftermath.

When everything is done, Teia and Myrna will absolutely be exchanging letters in the aftermath and meet up once a month for brunch/gossip that they can't tell anyone in their own organizations.

In the meantime, Lucanis and Rook are debating if they'd survive eloping (they decide no) and Rook is getting Viago to coach them through building up an immunity to common poisons as well as poisons commonly used by the Crows which is not the same thing (resulting in Teia's misunderstanding) and how to best put the fear of Rook into the Crow houses most likely to cause problems/target them as spouse of the First Talon

Edit: No matter what the wedding planning group decides, all the wisps from the Lighthouse are going to be there at the wedding if only because I adore the mental image of the wisps floating around the ceremony. I think it would be pretty.

Edit: One of the wedding colors is absolutely purple

Edit: Manfred measured Lucanis for his Watcher wedding gear while Lucanis was asleep and Spite was in control and further fittings happen in the same fashion so Lucanis is actually unaware of the Watcher wedding gear until much later, Spite gets him to change into it for the reception. Rook didn't know why Manfred wanted to measure them but was willing to indulge Manfred because Rook finds Manfred adorable and is later delighted by the Watcher wedding gear and was quite pleased during the fittings

Edit: Manfred as the flower skeleton/spirit, Assan as the ring bearer, I love the mental image of Assan with a little bowtie